Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding) Page 3

  ‘Sorry, boy. No buckets or mops available today. Just do your best with what you’ve got. Come on, lad. Lost your tongue? Lick it up. Down on your knees, son. Lap it up. You’ll soon get a taste for it, if you live long enough. Good boy. Good boy. Try not to vomit till you get outside. You’ve missed a bit, look, over there. Thank you ever so much. Mr Jones will be pleased.’

  Outside in the yard the remaining prisoners stared disbelievingly at the body of their companion.

  ‘Any of you want anything? Boots? Clothing? No shops here lads. Just strip him then you can decide who has what later. Come on, get a move on. No? Nobody? Right then. See that hole in the wall there? Drag him across and slide him in. The inside team will deal with him. That’s right, you’re getting the idea. Oh, look who’s here! Feeling sick, lad?’ The cleaner rejoined the group and they gazed in disbelief at the bloodstains round his mouth. ‘Take no notice. He’s done as he was told and he’s alive. You’ll learn, if you live long enough. Now, get in line again. Breakfast. Follow Mr Jones.’

  Fortunately, Ed didn’t know who, some one had the sense to obey. The group moved away from the stench of the hole in the wall and shuffled back to the open doorway which led towards their cell. The men tried to avoid looking at the stained floor and were directed past the stairs and into another room. There was a serving hatch on the far wall.

  ‘Sorry we’ve not had time to issue you with eating irons, but then we wouldn’t, would we? Course not, we’re not stupid. We don’t want any nasty accidents; one of you might cut himself. Cuts can turn nasty. So, listen. You’ll get a thick slice of bread. Whatever’s for breakfast or supper is served on the bread. Saves on washing up as well as nasty accidents. You just eat the bread. Today it’s porridge. Enjoy.’ As they approached the hatch each man was given a thick slice of bread onto which a measure of almost solid porridge was poured. They ate standing up, except for the bloodstained man, who seemed to be in a perpetual daze. He held his food and was about to drop it when his neighbour seized and ate it. A guard noticed, and nodded. There was a bucket of water, from which each man drank before the group was shepherded out into the yard again.

  ‘Work begins. It is the right of each and every one of you to earn your keep. No work – no food. We’re going to remove your handcuffs, not your leg-irons, of course, and you’re going to tidy this yard up, nice and clean, for inspection. Do it well, and you’ll earn your supper. Do it badly and you won’t need a supper, or anything else. Simple. Get to work.’ Handcuffs were removed and the men stood, massaging their wrists, looking around at the empty yard. How could it be tidied?

  The bloodstained man dropped to his knees and started to lick the ground. The nearest guard kicked him, so hard he collapsed, gasping. Mr Jones laughed.

  ‘See, he’s a keen one, isn’t he? But he’s a bit confused. You lick it clean after you’ve removed all the dust. Scrape up the dust with your hands; dump it through the hole in the wall where you dumped your rubbish friend. Then, when all the dust is gone, every speck of it, mind, then you can lick it clean. Got it? As it’s your first day I’ll give you a clue. Start scraping over there, then when it’s a dust free area, you start licking. Keep close together, work as a team. You don’t want to make mistakes. Of course you don’t. Off you go.’

  They moved, like robots, to the far side of the yard. On their knees they crawled, scraping the yard with their fingernails, standing as one when they each had a tiny handful of dust. Shielding the cargo carefully from any stray draft, they carried it to the opening in the wall. Taking careful turns, they brushed the grains of earth and sand off their hands and, as automata might, resumed their labour. The guards sat and watched, chatting and laughing together, moving their chairs when requested to do so, only occasionally stepping on fingers or delivering a kick to a helpless victim so as to make the time pass more quickly. Slowly the sun moved across the sky. When it seemed that every mote of dust had been removed the men sank again to their knees and gagged as they engaged with the final stage of their task.

  ‘Dry work, lads? Here, this will help moisten your throats.’ The guard who spoke stood up.

  He walked to the front of the line and opened the zip of his trousers.

  The bloodstained man charged at the urinating guard, making him stagger and wet himself. Another guard fired, and the prisoner collapsed, holding his hands to his belly. The man who had fired walked closer, watched his victim writhe, than fired again, killing him.

  ‘You know what to do, lads,’ he said. The body was picked up, carried to the hole in the wall, and pushed through; but not before some one had removed his boots.

  They were handcuffed, shackled together and dragged back to their cell. This time the manacles were not removed. Most managed to use the toilet bucket and then collapsed against a wall, too shocked to speak. There seemed no point in exchanging names.

  Ed was too tired to think. Thought was alien to this place. Time crawled. Some one sobbed, quietly. The air was too sodden with violence to breathe comfortably. They choked, gasped, vomited. Their stench filled the room. Ed tried to count the days, and failed. How long was it since he had been living a happy, loving, carefree life? He had been secure; his wife-to-be, Jane, where was she now? Would she have had their child, his child, yet? Surely that would be some comfort to her. Their life together had seemed so safe, solid, and, that word again, so secure. Please God, let her parents take care of her and the child. God? Where was God in all this? If the worst happened she would have the insurance money, the value of the house. His own father had built a life on the ruins of disaster, and lived a happy life with Sirra, his mother. Surely Jane could do the same? His child would be deemed black. What would happen to her, or to him? If these doors of hell opened for the child’s father, what might become of the child? If Jane could get to Malinding, his home village in The Gambia, there wouldn’t be a problem. Africa had accepted his father. It had accepted and loved his children. Somehow it must be possible for Jane to make the journey. It must be. He stared into the darkness. His neighbour was mumbling prayers, over and over, to himself. Night thickened around them, cold, comfortless.

  The Watcher smiled as he observed them through the night vision cameras.

  ‘Softening up nicely. Soon be ready for the games.’ His companion nodded.

  ‘Another twenty-four hours, without food? Kick the water bucket over, perhaps? They’ll be well ripe by then.’

  Morning crept like a traitor, slowly, secretly, into the cell. He had slept. Such a stupid thing to do, he thought, waste his remaining hours in sleep. Death would come today. They were in hell, their lives already forfeit, breathing borrowed air, counting borrowed hours, minutes, seconds. Life could not go on in this manner. Each of the survivors would make some unknown mistake and die for it. The only doubt possible would be the order of their deaths.

  The guards entered the room. Mr Jones, the only one known by name, smiled.

  ‘Time for a shower, lads; that’ll set you up for the day. Nice shower, hot water, soap, dry in the sun. Sounds good? I said, sounds good?’ He stamped on the foot of the nearest prisoner. They nodded, ‘Yes, sirred’ him and he smiled again. ‘Right, let’s get these chains off you. Back up stairs, second door on the right. Take as much time as you like. No hurry today.’

  Suspecting a trap, a trick, a cruel death, they waited their turn to be released from their chains and made their way slowly up stairs. The second door on the left stood open and a smiling guard waved them inside.

  ‘Strip off your clothes, gentlemen, and put them in this laundry sack. Then through those swing doors into the shower room. There will be clean clothes waiting for you when you’ve had a good wash. No rush today. Expecting a hail of bullets, praying for a quick death, Ed stripped and pushed his way through the swing doors.

  The room was warm. Steam filled the air and he could hear the sound of running water. He walked on, found a shower cubicle, and stood still while the water rushed over him. There was a bottle labelle
d ‘shampoo’ which contained shampoo. Slowly, like someone who showered for the first time, Ed washed himself clean. Somebody, in a neighbouring cubicle, sang. He stood under the stream of water, closed his eyes, and thought of sharing a bath or shower with Jane. The flow of water ceased. He looked for a towel but there was none. Shyly he left the cubicle, hands covering his genitals. His remaining fellows stood in a line outside their respective showers, similarly covering themselves. They looked at each other, and laughed. ‘Better find those clean clothes’ said one.

  There were none to be found. The men stared at one another.

  ‘OK. Service is a bit slow today. Can anyone remember where the canteen is? Spot of breakfast, maybe? I’ve not noticed any women round here so we won’t be offending any. Then back here to check the laundry then back to our room for a spot of shut-eye before the chores begin?’ Ed had taken the lead. They found the canteen. The counter top held six thick slices of wholemeal bread spread with butter and orange marmalade. There were six large plastic beakers containing sweet, strong, black coffee. One by one they ate the bread and drank the coffee. They carefully placed the empty beakers back onto the counter top, then left the room, closing the door behind them. They looked at one another then returned to the shower room. It was locked. They stood, waiting for the guards to collect them, to give them orders, to kill them. One by one they shrugged, muttered something to themselves, then turned and walked slowly back to the only place they knew, back to their cell. The toilet bucket had been emptied and rinsed clean. The water bucket was full of clean water. The chains were nowhere to be seen. Six thin mattresses lay on the floor, alongside the walls.

  ‘Guess we’d better wait for room service to be resumed’ said one man. ‘My name’s Henry Benjamin Whipple, by the way. I’m a reverend. Just call me Ben.’ Cautiously, it seemed, they introduced themselves. They were all professionals; apart from the priest and Ed, the lecturer, there was a medical student in his final year of study, a journalist, a head teacher and an author. Not one of them mentioned family, not one of them spoke of their arrest. Conversation failed, died. The men found a mattress, looked at it, slowly sat down, lay full length, dozed, and waited for something to happen.

  The Watchers watched.

  7

  Jane woke up in bed in her parents’ house. Whatever drugs she had been given had caused her great memory loss. Ed was missing; why didn’t he come to her? There had been a baby, or at least the dream of a baby. She was sore; had she had a baby? She couldn’t remember. Sleep was good, but when she slept she dreamed strange dreams, dreams about men in uniform and someone screaming, screaming. Something was missing. Somebody was missing. Ed, Ed-Lamin; why was he not with her? Had he been just a dream? She tried to remember his voice, and could not. Perhaps she was dreaming, but if this was the dream how would she know when she was awake? Her mother was there; all the time she hovered, adjusting pillows, offering glasses of water and these nice pills the doctor ordered. From time to time her father would appear in the doorway to her room; standing, fidgeting, trying to communicate with her. Days and nights crawled or scurried by. Karen helped her to the toilet, mother caring for child. Weight had been lost, too much weight. A doctor came to stare at her; she shrank from his touch. More pills were prescribed; more glasses of water were sipped and dribbled onto her nightdress. A beautiful summer day passed un-noticed. Slowly, boredom emerged from indifference. A therapist convinced her that there had been an accident and she had been hurt, unconscious for a long period, her memory had been lost and her parents, such lovely people, had feared she might die. There would be false memories, that was only to be expected. Her dreams of a child? False also – she was still a virgin. But there was hope, of course, there was always hope. A lovely young woman like her? Sure to fall in love and live happily ever after. Her parents would give her the best possible care and she was still young; of course the right man would come along. Naturally, it was just a matter of time. Rest, that was what she needed now, rest and care. And sleep. Lots of sleep and lovely dreams. The drugs helped, of course they did. The dreams still troubled her.

  Safe in her father’s desk, securely locked away, was the birth certificate of her son. Hopefully, her parents thought, never to see light of day. They were convinced their daughter had no memory of that terrible day when they had had to change her world. It turned out to be a lovely summer. Jane sat, in the shade, on the sun lounger and learned to do very little. Karen tended to her every need, secretly alarmed that her daughter showed all the get up and go of a brick. Her father stared at her from the lounge, relieved that at least his only child was free of the threat of disgrace. It would have been a risk to a man in his position to have a mixed race grandchild and a daughter living with an African immigrant. Now, although the price paid was a daughter with the apparent mental capacity of a butterfly he could breathe a sigh of relief and hold his head high as he stalked the corridors of power. It had been a close thing though. The Watchers were everywhere. Would it be enough that she looked good in a bikini? Her conversation was limited, but she had a nice laugh. She could smile at most things. Karen coached her to a standard where she could be trusted to pour a drink and hand round plates of nibbles. Maybe in time some older man, desirous of appearing younger and virile, would, for the sake of a good dowry, marry the girl and father children on her? Given time, all things might be possible. He turned from the window and activated his laptop.

  He sent an email: Girl still has memories; suggest drug increase? He waited for a reply.

  In her bedroom his wife took out a treasured folder of documents, normally hidden under the mattress. Certificates of birth, of baptism, of education. A degree, Second Class Honours in PPE from an Oxford college. A few photographs, childhood holidays and friends. Two official pictures, Mother and father and daughter, and daughter with boyfriend, at a Degree Ceremony. Everybody was smiling. She failed to recognise the image of her daughter as one and the same person who languished on the patio at the back of the house.

  8

  A night passed, uninterrupted by any activity other than their own. Morning came and found them all awake, waiting. Their routine had been disrupted; there were no guards to order them, to drag them out to feed or wash or defecate. They were naked. They had become accustomed to being chained together; there was safety perhaps, in numbers. They were, in a way, a team, a chain gang. Now they felt isolated, vulnerable, exposed to the consequences of their own actions and so afraid to take any initiative. By noon hunger drove them to action. The priest discovered that the door to their cell was unlocked. The journalist opened it and peered up the staircase. Ed cautiously ventured to the foot, then to the top, of the stairs. He waited, dreading hearing some sound which might herald his death. Only silence threatened him. He walked along the corridor to the canteen, and pushed the door open. The table was bare. His cellmates followed him into the room.

  ‘How we supposed to survive if they don’t feed us?’ one complained.

  ‘Maybe it’s time for God to provide’ said another, looking at the priest.

  ‘God has provided an open door.’

  The Watchers sniggered. The prisoners moved out of the canteen and along the corridor, away from their cell. Every door was open, every room was empty. The shower room was open but the water was turned off. Next they ventured out into the prison yard. There was a shutter fastened across the opening in the wall, but the large double gates stood slightly ajar.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Trust me, it’s a trap. We should go back to the cell and wait. It’s the only safe thing to do. I’m going back.’ The medical student turned back, then stopped at the first door. ‘They've shut it. It’s locked. I can’t open it. I want to go back; it’s not safe out here. Let me in’ he screamed. The others gathered round him; the door was firmly fastened against them.

  ‘Maybe,’ said one, ‘there’s been a revolution and the guards have run away. They did that at Belsen, I think, when the war ended.’<
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  ‘If the guards have gone, who is locking the doors as we go through them?’

  ‘It may be an automatic system of some sort – how should I know? Let’s see how far we can get.’ They turned round, marched back across the prison yard and pushed open the other pair of double gates. The found themselves in another, smaller yard, open to the sky but surrounded by more high walls. They faced another pair of tall gates. As they walked across the gates behind them closed. They heard locks fasten.

  ‘I really don’t like this.’

  ‘I do. We’re being given a chance to escape.’

  ‘Escape? Stark naked black men? Bare-footed? Some chance.’

  ‘It’s a chance, and the only one we’ve got. Trust God, brothers. Follow me.’ The priest strode confidently into the outside world where the sun shone brightly. One by one the others followed him. The final pair of gates closed against their return. They stopped and surveyed their new world. A dusty unmade road, flanked by deep ditches, stretched for about half a mile across empty stony fields to a pine forest, where it disappeared between thick trees.

  The first shot killed the priest. The others ran. Ed zigzagged crazily, praying to a god he didn’t believe in. He stumbled and fell, saw the dust rise inches from his body, indicating where a shot had struck. He hadn’t heard the report. He rolled, ran again. Another fall, into the ditch this time, and this time a shot grazed his arm. The ditch was deep and dry. He scuttled along on all fours as fast as he could. He heard more shots but none came near him. At last he reached the shelter of the trees. His comrades had disappeared; he had no way of knowing if they still lived. A road or track crossed the ditch by way of a low bridge. He considered sheltering here but decided it was too obvious a place. He crawled on. His ankle throbbed. Somewhere, back there, he must have twisted it. He cautiously felt the joint. It was swollen.