would make up for all the holidays that they had never had…
Martin’s arm muscles spasmed, yanking him from his recollections into the present. He twisted his body, trying to get comfortable on the mattress. He saw the irony that he now longed for the monotony and fatigue of life in camp. Whatever it threw at him, it was one million per cent better than where he was now, wherever the hell that was.
There was a sudden surge in his bowels. ‘Oh no,’ he howled, louder than he had intended, ‘please, I need a bathroom! I need to move, please…’ His begging fell on indifferent ears.
Two silent guards, as yet unseen by Martin, sat either side of the door with their guns in hand. They had, only hours before, dumped a decapitated body at the gates of the base. A note with their demands was stuffed inside the mouth; the release of four hundred prisoners loyal to their cause, incarcerated across three continents, in exchange for the soldier they had in their possession . The British government had twenty-four hours to respond. The couriers, sitting with their feet on the bundle in the back of a car, had cared little for the twenty-one-year-old father of Joel, whose corpse they had hauled inside a rolled carpet for most of the journey. Long sausages of ash from their cigarettes had fallen onto his remains. They cared even less that Martin Cricket needed the loo.
It was another couple of hours of watching Martin lie in his own waste before his captors were convinced he wasn’t much of a threat. An unseen hand cut the plastic tie around his neck, easing the cloth over his head. The skin of his chin was nicked by the knife that freed him. Martin could feel the warm trickle of blood running down, but with his hands tied, there was very little that he could do about it.
His breath came in large bursts, dry sobs of relief as he blinked without hindrance or the musty smell that had been his companion. He was inhaling air that was thick with a particularly male aroma, a combination of sweat, piquant breath and musk. It was the stale atmosphere of a fetid room, but compared to having to draw each breath through the filthy sack cloth, it was wonderful. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to seeing without their filter, they darted everywhere, trying to establish the environment.
The room was approximately a fifteen foot square. The walls were whitewashed with the lower half painted an orangey-brown. They were pitted, damaged. Chunks of plaster had fallen away beneath the unmistakable peppering of bullet holes. On the far wall, someone had scrawled some Arabic text in a sloping hand.
Martin would over time study the loops and lines, trying to decipher the dots and dashes of the ornate script. He would, however, end his days without ever interpreting the ancient phrase or appreciating the irony of, ‘The secret of happiness is freedom. The secret of freedom is courage.’
A trailing loop of electrical flex hung ominously from the ceiling, a reminder of the electricity that had been promised by benevolent benefactors, but never materialised. A small, high window had been shuttered with the remnants of an old wooden crate. The cheap slats were nailed randomly across its frame, in the same haphazard way that a cartoon character might bar a door in haste, only to turn around and find their nemesis already in the room. Martin studied the square eighteen -inch opening. Could he fit through? How would he reach it and remove the wood? What was on the other side?
Apart from the bed, the only other furniture were two plastic chairs, the kind you find stacked in DIY hypermarkets at the start of barbecue season. They were positioned either side of the door frame, both empty, their occupants standing in front of Martin. When his eyes stopped running, he was able to study the two men. Their identical garb meant they looked similar at first, but were in fact quite different. ‘Thank you.’ It was the first time he had spoken
Martin’s arm muscles spasmed, yanking him from his recollections into the present. He twisted his body, trying to get comfortable on the mattress. He saw the irony that he now longed for the monotony and fatigue of life in camp. Whatever it threw at him, it was one million per cent better than where he was now, wherever the hell that was.
There was a sudden surge in his bowels. ‘Oh no,’ he howled, louder than he had intended, ‘please, I need a bathroom! I need to move, please…’ His begging fell on indifferent ears.
Two silent guards, as yet unseen by Martin, sat either side of the door with their guns in hand. They had, only hours before, dumped a decapitated body at the gates of the base. A note with their demands was stuffed inside the mouth; the release of four hundred prisoners loyal to their cause, incarcerated across three continents, in exchange for the soldier they had in their possession . The British government had twenty-four hours to respond. The couriers, sitting with their feet on the bundle in the back of a car, had cared little for the twenty-one-year-old father of Joel, whose corpse they had hauled inside a rolled carpet for most of the journey. Long sausages of ash from their cigarettes had fallen onto his remains. They cared even less that Martin Cricket needed the loo.
It was another couple of hours of watching Martin lie in his own waste before his captors were convinced he wasn’t much of a threat. An unseen hand cut the plastic tie around his neck, easing the cloth over his head. The skin of his chin was nicked by the knife that freed him. Martin could feel the warm trickle of blood running down, but with his hands tied, there was very little that he could do about it.
His breath came in large bursts, dry sobs of relief as he blinked without hindrance or the musty smell that had been his companion. He was inhaling air that was thick with a particularly male aroma, a combination of sweat, piquant breath and musk. It was the stale atmosphere of a fetid room, but compared to having to draw each breath through the filthy sack cloth, it was wonderful. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to seeing without their filter, they darted everywhere, trying to establish the environment.
The room was approximately a fifteen foot square. The walls were whitewashed with the lower half painted an orangey-brown. They were pitted, damaged. Chunks of plaster had fallen away beneath the unmistakable peppering of bullet holes. On the far wall, someone had scrawled some Arabic text in a sloping hand.
Martin would over time study the loops and lines, trying to decipher the dots and dashes of the ornate script. He would, however, end his days without ever interpreting the ancient phrase or appreciating the irony of, ‘The secret of happiness is freedom. The secret of freedom is courage.’
A trailing loop of electrical flex hung ominously from the ceiling, a reminder of the electricity that had been promised by benevolent benefactors, but never materialised. A small, high window had been shuttered with the remnants of an old wooden crate. The cheap slats were nailed randomly across its frame, in the same haphazard way that a cartoon character might bar a door in haste, only to turn around and find their nemesis already in the room. Martin studied the square eighteen -inch opening. Could he fit through? How would he reach it and remove the wood? What was on the other side?
Apart from the bed, the only other furniture were two plastic chairs, the kind you find stacked in DIY hypermarkets at the start of barbecue season. They were positioned either side of the door frame, both empty, their occupants standing in front of Martin. When his eyes stopped running, he was able to study the two men. Their identical garb meant they looked similar at first, but were in fact quite different. ‘Thank you.’ It was the first time he had spoken
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