Zero 22, p.6
Zero 22, page 6
part #8 of Danny Black Series
Hamoud’s night terrors had haunted him ever since the blessed day he had left Guantanamo Bay. During his two years as an inmate, he’d never dreamed at all. The horrors had happened when he was awake. When he was asleep, his mind blocked them out.
Now a free man, he relived them every night. This time it had been the salt water. In his dream, as in real life, rough men had woken him in his cell. That cell! Empty but for Hamoud, the flies and the two bowls in the corner. One bowl was his toilet. The other contained dirty water to wipe himself clean. They changed the bowls only every three or four days. He slept on the hard floor and the flies would crawl over his waste and drink at the foul water and then settle on his face. In the early days he would flick those germ-ridden insects away. As time passed and his spirit broke, he lacked the motivation and the energy even to do that.
The men had arrived in his cell without warning. Perhaps it was midnight, perhaps midday, Hamoud had no way of knowing. There were four of them. Two carried five-gallon containers full of water. Two carried a piece of apparatus that resembled a child’s see-saw. He knew what it was for and he panicked. He tried to fight the men, but he was thin and malnourished, and they were burly and strong. One of them hit him. He fell and hit his face against the raised end of the see-saw. It collapsed under his weight, but the corner was sharp and it cut him badly. He could still remember the agony of the skin tearing in a line up his right cheek, over his eyelid and up over his right eyebrow. He could feel the hot blood stinging his eye, and the panic that he might be blinded.
They strapped him to the see-saw. They pivoted the see-saw so Hamoud’s feet were higher than his head. They placed a bucket under his head and a thick, wet cloth over his face. Hamoud’s eye was agony and he found it difficult to breathe. He strained against the strapping and emitted a muffled cry. He knew what was coming.
They had waterboarded him before. They had poured fresh water over his covered face. That was bad enough. Within seconds he had been screaming at them to stop. When they repeated the process, he had shouted at them whatever he thought they wanted to hear. Yes! He was a jihadist! Yes! He had come to America from his native Mauritania with the express intention of murdering American citizens! Yes! He could name others! Mohammad! Ahmed! Kalil! Never mind that these so-called accomplices were entirely made up. Never mind that Hamoud would never hurt another living creature, let alone murder an American. If they needed to hear these confessions to make it stop, he would say them.
This time was worse. The five-gallon containers contained not fresh water but salt water, which burned his throat as well as the wound on his eye. It made him want to retch, which only made him ingest more and increased the terrifying, paralysing suffocation. And when the sluicing stopped, although he tried to gasp for breath, his burning throat was so full of salt water that he could do nothing but splutter and choke. And then, after only a few seconds, they started again.
Hamoud would never be able to say how long the torture lasted. He only knew that, when it was over, his throat and lungs throbbed with pain, that he was dizzy and nauseous and disoriented, that the wound on his eye had been numbed into insensitivity. In the brief intervals when they had removed the cloth, he had rasped information at his torturers. Any information. Names, made up. Places, invented. Plots, fabricated. All now forgotten, by him at least.
He had shivered in the corner of the room as they silently removed their equipment. When they’d left, he had noticed through his good eye that the bowl of dirty water had been upturned and was spreading across the floor of his cell, and a fly was circling the rim of the toilet bowl . . .
Hamoud had dreamed vividly about that torture last night. For a moment, in the twilight between sleeping and waking, he thought his salty sweat was the salt water from the five-gallon containers, and that it was all happening again. Even as he woke more fully, clutching his right eye, he thought he was lying in his cell. It was only the calming voice of Rabia, and the touch of her cool hand on his brow, that told him he was safely at home. The memory of Guantanamo Bay was just that: a memory.
It was dark in their tiny bedroom. They couldn’t afford curtains, let alone blackout curtains, so he knew it was before dawn. He crept out of bed and pulled on his plain white robe. He had to wear loose clothing because anything too tight hurt the scars on his abdomen. But even the robe clung to his sweaty skin and he winced with discomfort. He tiptoed sideways round the bed because there was so little space, and walked lightly so he didn’t disturb the two children who shared a thin mattress on the floor in the next room. Rabia kept the bathroom scrupulously clean even though the constant condensation made the walls sweat even more than Hamoud. Here, he splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror. There was enough moonlight for him to see his reflection. Hamoud was only thirty-two but he looked at least ten years older. His skin was dark but the rings around his eyes were darker. His beard was flecked with grey. It was long and soft. The children liked to put their hands through it. Hamoud would have preferred to shave it off because he knew that it made him look more Muslim, and that could be difficult. But Rabia persuaded him to keep it. She liked it, she said, and he should not be ashamed of who he was, any more than he should be ashamed by the scar on his eye. He looked at it now. It was white and embossed. It stretched in a straight vertical line from his right eyebrow, over his eyelids and down his cheek. It made him look like a criminal. People stared at it, at him, and he knew what they were thinking: that his appearance indicated a hatred of America.
The dream had stayed with him as he sat at the table in their living space. He could almost taste the brine in the back of his throat. He scratched his palms. It was a habit of his from his time in Guantanamo. They were red and inflamed. The more he scratched them, the sorer they became, but he couldn’t stop doing it. He poured himself a glass of water and drank deeply. To Hamoud, who had spent so many days in prison starved of water, this was a real luxury. He felt much better when he’d finished it. Calmer.
Hamoud owned a box. It wasn’t a special or expensive box. Just a plywood thing that he’d bought in a thrift store. He kept it on the top shelf of the bookcase, out of the children’s reach. Rabia had wanted Hamoud to dispose of the contents, but they were important to him. He fetched the box now, placed it on the table and opened it up. It was brimful of newspaper clippings, neatly trimmed and folded. He removed the top clipping. A face stared out at him. A man with brown skin, like Hamoud. He looked sinister. Scary, almost. The caption under the photograph read: ‘Former Guantanamo Bay inmate Ahmed Kenan’. Hamoud had never met Ahmed Kenan. They had segregated him from all other prisoners during his time in the camp. He had never met any of them. He didn’t know whether Ahmed Kenan was falsely accused, like him, or a violent terrorist. He would never know. They would never meet. But he felt a connection with the man who stared out of the newspaper clipping. He felt a connection with all the former inmates whose details he had meticulously collected and stored in this cheap box. He selected another picture, a more friendly looking fellow with an unnaturally long face and a beard that seemed to elongate it even further. Hamoud liked looking at this man. There was something appealing about him. He thought in a different life they could have been friends.
It grew light outside. He could hear Rabia moving around. He folded up the clippings and returned the box to its place on the bookcase. He knew she would tell him off for looking through it. Why are you looking at those pictures? she would say. How many of those men are criminals? It’s almost like you want to be back in that cursed place! There was nothing Hamoud wanted less and he couldn’t explain why he found the pictures such a comfort. Perhaps it was just the thought that there were other people who knew – who truly knew – what he had been through. He worried that she would one day throw them out, but for now she at least seemed to accept that they were important to him, even if she didn’t like it.
He heard her enter the bathroom. Soon she would leave for work, cleaning houses, and she would not be back until it was dark. Hamoud would take the children to school and return to the apartment, where he would remain until it was time to pick them up. There was no question of him getting a job. His nerves were not up to it and his wife would never allow it. Not until he was ‘better’, whatever that meant. And anyway, at some point he would have to let an employer know where he had spent two years of his life, and who in their right minds would give a job to a former Guantanamo inmate? It would make no difference to them that he had been released without charge. It would make no difference that he was a US citizen. Nobody wanted Hamoud to help make America great again.
So, he would spend today, as every day, alone in this tiny apartment with its musty carpets and patches of damp, provided by the American government as a meagre acknowledgement that they had inflicted two years of horror on an innocent man. And when his family returned from their full days, he would be diminished. Less of a man than he had been when he’d said goodbye to them. Each day chipped away at him. Soon, he thought to himself, there would be nothing left.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, he heard something. Footsteps in the corridor outside. The walls of this apartment block were thin. Sound travelled. No doubt his neighbours heard his regular night-time screams. It was unusual, however, to hear footsteps at this time in the morning. He checked his watch. Two minutes to six. Normally he didn’t hear anybody until six thirty. The footsteps stopped outside the door to the apartment. An envelope appeared under the door. Hamoud, sitting cross-legged on the threadbare sofa they had salvaged from a street corner, watched it with quiet astonishment.
He stood up, hurried to the door and opened it, peering outside to see who the delivery person was. The corridor was empty. The door at the end which led to the stairwell slammed shut.
Silence.
Hamoud picked up the envelope. It was addressed to him, and there was a stamp and postmark. It felt heavy. Distracted, he closed the apartment door with his foot and walked back to the sofa where he opened the envelope and emptied out its contents.
There was a letter inside, and a brochure for Walt Disney World in Florida. His eyes lingered on the brochure first. There was a boy and a girl on the front cover. Each had pale skin, blue eyes and blonde, tousled hair. They were hugging Mickey Mouse and they looked so happy that Hamoud smiled. Then he felt sad. He wished his children might one day look as happy as that. It seemed unlikely. They were only eight and ten, and already they had the tired expressions of the world-weary.
He turned his attention to the letter. At the top, beneath a letterhead that depicted the Cinderella Castle showered in fireworks, was the word ‘Congratulations!’ in a big, cheery typeface.
It was just a piece of junk mail. On another day, Hamoud might have chucked it in the bin. But this morning he felt like reading. He’d loved to read as a child, but since Guantanamo he couldn’t hope to focus on something as long as a book. So he read on.
Congratulations!
You and your family have been chosen, in our special summertime bonanza, for an ALL EXPENSES PAID trip to Walt Disney World Florida!
He blinked, then glanced back at the brochure. A tiny flame of excitement ignited inside him. He snuffed it out quickly. There was obviously a catch. He read on.
As part of our special promotion, you will receive complimentary flights and $2000 spending money, to ensure your family has the trip of a lifetime! Just call this number to claim your prize!
There was a 1-800 number at the bottom of the page, and a pre-printed signature. Hamoud read the letter again and then, when he heard Rabia coming, stuffed the envelope and its contents under the cushions of the sofa. He didn’t quite know why he wanted to hide them. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want his family to get their hopes up. Perhaps it was because he felt embarrassed at the idea that his wife might think he believed this was anything but a scam.
‘Was there someone at the door?’ Rabia said as she entered. Her hair was tied back and she looked very beautiful. Hamoud shook his head. ‘I thought I heard it,’ she said.
The family always spoke English together, rather than their native Arabic. It helped Malick and Melissa to integrate and was a symbol of their intention to forgive the Americans for what they had done to Hamoud. Rabia walked over to him and put a hand on his cheek. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
He knew she was talking about the dream and nodded. ‘We should wake them,’ he said. ‘They’ll be late for school.’
Their morning routine was the same as ever. Sleepy children, reluctantly dressed. Bowls of Cheerios, slowly eaten. Hamoud made little jokes with the kids and gradually their sleepiness was replaced by smiles. They were so different from each other: Melissa boisterous and loud, Malick quiet and reserved like Hamoud. But both kind and sensitive. Occasionally Hamoud caught them glancing at him with concern, because they knew that sometimes their dad was sad even when he pretended to be happy. But they didn’t say anything and soon they were kissing their mum goodbye as she left for work. Hamoud urged them to pack their schoolbags and hurried them out of the apartment.
They lived in a poor area, here on the outskirts of Cincinnati. They weren’t the only brown-skinned people, but they still drew stares from some of the passers-by, many of them unfriendly. Hamoud and his family were used to it, or so they liked to pretend. The children were clingy at the school gates, holding on to their dad for a few seconds longer than most other kids, unwilling to say goodbye. Hamoud stayed at the gates, one hand raised in farewell, until they were out of sight. Then he returned home.
The apartment was so quiet without them. Ordinarily he hated this moment, facing a day enclosed by the walls and his thoughts. As usual, he locked himself inside. When you’d been a prisoner, some habits were hard to shake. Normally he would now sit in front of the TV and watch the shopping channel all day in an attempt to distract himself from his worries. But not today. Today he felt a tinge of anticipation.
He removed the letter from under the cushion and read it again. Then he pulled his cheap, scuffed, second-hand cell phone from his pocket. He keyed in the 1-800 number, but his finger hovered over the dial button for several minutes. Anxiety burned in his chest. He wasn’t good at making phone calls at the best of times. He put the phone to one side and scratched at his palms so hard he thought they might bleed. He breathed deeply. His gaze fell on the Walt Disney World brochure, and the smiling children on the front, and that gave him the courage to pick up the phone again and press call.
It rang four times.
Five.
Nobody was going to answer. He should just hang up . . .
‘Hello, Walt Disney World, where all your dreams come true!’
A cheerful female voice.
‘Uh . . . Hello?’ said Hamoud.
‘How may I help you sir?’
‘Well, you see . . . it’s probably nothing . . . I mean, it’s probably a hoax. But I received the letter about a special summertime offer . . . an all-expenses paid trip . . .’ It sounded ridiculous even as he said it.
‘Of course, sir. May I take your name please?’
‘Hamoud . . . Hamoud Al Asmar.’ He said it apologetically.
‘And your address please, sir?’
He gave his address.
‘One moment please, sir.’
There was a click. A swooning orchestra played ‘When You Wish Upon A Star’. It continued for perhaps a minute, then there was another click and the voice returned. ‘Mr Al Asmar?’
‘Uh . . . yes?’
‘Congratulations! You and your family are going to Walt Disney World for five magical days and nights, starting Wednesday! . . . Mr Al Asmar? Mr Al Asmar, are you there?’
‘I’m here, yes. I’m here. It’s just . . . I don’t understand. Why are you giving us this? Why . . . why us?’
‘Your names have been chosen at random, sir. All we ask in return is the opportunity to take a few pictures of you and your beautiful family while you’re enjoying the magic of Walt Disney World. We’ll be FedExing your plane tickets today!’
‘But, can’t we choose when to go? My wife has to work and the children are at school.’
‘I’m afraid the dates are fixed, Mr Al Asmar. Your flights are booked for Wednesday and we have rooms booked for you until Sunday night.’
‘Wednesday? But that’s tomorrow.’
‘The dates are fixed Mr Al Asmar. But if you’re unable to take advantage of the offer, we do understand and will find another family who have more flexibility.’
‘No,’ said Hamoud quickly. ‘No, we’ll go. Uh . . . my wife can ask for some time off.’
‘That’s great to hear, sir. Everything you need will be with you first thing in the morning. You’ll be flying from Cincinatti to Orlando. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
Hamoud shook his head even though there was nobody to see it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Then you have a great day, sir. Thank you for choosing Walt Disney World for your vacation.’
The line went dead. Hamoud stared at the phone for a little while. I didn’t choose Walt Disney World, he wanted to say. Walt Disney World chose me. His hand was trembling. That was nothing new. But this time it was out of excitement rather than stress. He flicked through the Walt Disney World brochure and, instead of the happy American children screaming with joy on Space Mountain, he saw Malick and Melissa. It brought a smile to his face.
He dialled Rabia’s number to tell her the good news but hung up before the call could connect. Better to tell her tonight, when she was not distracted by her cleaning job.
The days passed slowly for Hamoud. He prepared himself for today to pass more slowly than most.
