The Blasphemer by John Ling Page A

quivered. In the name of God, what had he gotten himself into? He could feel the van turning, rolling over a bump. He heard a metallic clang, and the van pitched forward. The sounds of traffic dimmed. They were on a ramp. Spiralling. Going down.
    ‘Where...? Where are we?’ Yusuf asked.
    ‘Where no one can pry into our business,’ Magellan said. ‘And where you will perform your favour for me.’
    Favour.
    Yusuf swallowed. He found himself wishing he was back at home. Back with his grandmother. Yes, the old woman grated on him. Always badgering him to study English and to get a job. But even her tedious ways had to be better than being in the company of this strange man.
    Soon the van touched bottom, its tyres screeching on concrete. It coasted to a stop. Its side door swooshed open.
    Yusuf could feel his seat belt being unclicked and unfastened. Then two pairs of hands seized him and heaved him out of the van. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. Bile spiked at the back of his throat, and he fought the urge to vomit as they pulled him along, his feet swimming. Hollow echoes everywhere. Somewhere ahead, a door swung open, its hinges creaking.
    Yusuf was hustled through before being released. Dazed, he just stood there, swaying awkwardly. He felt vulnerable. So terribly vulnerable. Right here, right now, they could pump a bullet in him, and he wouldn’t even see it coming. Or perhaps they would use a knife. Yusuf flexed his jaw. Painfully aware of the veins in his neck throbbing.
    What does Magellan want with me? Why am I here? Why—?
    His hood was ripped off, the action sudden and sharp. Yusuf gasped. The harsh glare of fluorescent light stabbed his eyes, and he threw up his arms to shield them, blinking hard. Whispers and footsteps trailed off behind him, and the door banged shut.
    Slowly, surely, his vision adjusted, and everything came into focus. They had place him in a tiny, featureless room. Grey walls. Grey floor. Grey ceiling. One door behind him. One door ahead of him. And before him was a table. On it, a pistol, a box of ammunition and several magazines had been laid out. The pistol looked brand new, its nickel-plated shine beckoning him. Breathing shallowly, Yusuf reached out to touch it.
    ‘Load your weapon.’
    Startled, Yusuf cowered and whipped around, searching the room. Magellan’s voice had come from his left, just over his shoulder. So close. So intimate. But how could this be? Magellan was not here. And there were no speakers. Not on the walls. Not on the ceiling.
    Now Magellan’s voice came from Yusuf’s right. ‘Get on with it. Load your weapon. Perform your favour. Then you can have khat .’
    Yusuf shivered, feeling faint. What manner of sorcery is this?
    ‘My friend, get on with it. The sooner you do, the sooner you can have khat .’
    This time, Magellan’s voice seemed to float directly in front of him. Breathing shakily, Yusuf turned back to the table. He couldn’t afford to offend Magellan. True, he had not used a gun since he left the old country, but it was one of those things you never forgot. Much like riding a bicycle.
    Yusuf unboxed the ammunition. They were nine millimetres, he could see. He got down to work. The rounds felt slippery in his sweaty fingers as he inserted them into the magazines. More than once, he dropped a round and had to fumble for it. Choking back dizziness, nausea, he loaded all the magazines, then slapped one into the pistol, racking the slide, chambering a round.
    ‘Good,’ Magellan said. ‘Now take the gun and the spare magazines and go through the door in front of you.’
     

CHAPTER 26
     
    Beyond the door lay a maze. Its walls stretched out, built from old tyres, huddled and stacked, and a red line had been painted across the floor. The smell of gunpowder clotted the air, and the lighting was dim and yellow and flickering. Yusuf felt as if he had stepped into a ghoulish haunted house.
    Snot dribbled from his nose. He wiped it on his