Hassan al-Muhdri looked at his feet as the queue shuffled forward. His Converse all-stars were battered and frayed, but putting them on had been like slipping his feet into normality. He looked forward to re-discovering normality after the last few months.
Someone gripped his elbow.
“Come with us please, Mr. al-Muhdri.”
He looked into the face of a police officer. A second officer stood a little to the side, ostentatiously gripping the machine-gun clipped to his chest armour. Other people in the queue moved away, creating a small bubble of space. Hassan glanced round. Everyone stared. The air was thick with their unspoken speculations.
He had expected something like this. The authorities were getting tougher with returnees, and last weeks double car bombing near the Palace was always going to make it even harder. Without speaking he nodded and allowed the officer to guide him by the elbow, accepting the grip as the start of a penance he was unsure would ever be completed. They walked a short way down the terminal concourse, through a set of doors, and out of sight of the rest of the airport.
They stopped outside a room. Hassan was shoved inside and the door closed.
Stumbling a little Hassan gripped hold of a chair tucked beneath a plain table. A woman in dark blue jacket and pale cream blouse sat opposite.
“Sit down, Mr. al-Muhdri,” she said.
He pulled the chair out, looking from her to the paper file near her elbow.
“Enjoy our little spot of jihad did we? Time for a little rest and recruitment now is it?” she asked.
Hassan remained silent, biting his lip. He shook his head with slow deliberate movements and eased himself into the chair.
“Ah, having to speak with a woman. How galling for you.” The woman slid the file in front of her and opened it. She lifted a photograph and inspected it. “With those straggly wisps you all cultivate I find it hard to tell one terrorist from another. But I have reliable confirmation that this is you-” She flipped the photograph so that it landed before Hassan, “-in the area where the most recent massacre of the innocents occurred.
“I had nothing to do with that,” said Hassan. His Liverpool accent was broad.
“But you were there. So we’ll need to deal with that.”
Hassan looked up, his thick eyebrows creased. “What do you mean?”
“It means that we can’t have zealots, genocidal killers, wandering about these green and pleasant lands setting off car-bombs - or inciting others to do so.”
“But, what about—“
She cut across him. “Your rights? Your civil liberties? Above my pay-grade. Maybe you should have contemplated that before.”
It wasn’t what he was going to ask.
She stood, the chair scraped noisily. Hassan waited for her to say more, to provide detail. She said nothing. As she left the room the two policeman came back in.
“Stand up!” One of them ordered.
He complied. His arms were twisted behind his back and cuffs snapped over his wrists. A cloth bag was slid over his head. He jerked with surprise and one of the men struck him. A sharp jab which went straight into his side, crunching his ribs. He called out in pain and surprise.
“Shut your face, or there’ll be more.”
“The woman, bring back the woman. I can tell her important things,” he beseeched.
“If she wanted to speak to you, you’d be speaking. Now, shut it.”
He couldn’t tell which of the policemen spoke, not that it mattered.
He was taken to a vehicle, there was a long journey, then more walking. Finally the cuffs were removed. He was shoved forward, still hooded. Tripping, he just managed to break the fall before his head struck a wall. Behind him there was cruel laughter, and the door slammed.
He took the hood off.
A bare room with floor, walls, and ceiling of unfinished concrete. Apart from the door the only other breaks in the concrete were a strip-light on the ceiling, and a grate in the floor. The only noise was a faint hum from the light, and an occasional clunk and gurgle from the grate.
Hassan lowered himself to the floor and sat against the wall, facing the door. He turned the fabric hood over in his hands. Five months ago he had been a simple mathematics student. Even now he couldn’t trace when he was convinced that going to fight was a sacred duty. But he knew exactly when he realised it was wrong. The massacre he was accused of being party to. There was nothing holy in the casual slaughter he had seen. Certainly not in the sadistic delight some of the soldiers had displayed. He had killed himself, of course, but only other soldiers. But the things he'd seen others do with glee, they haunted him.
Hassan closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer. He would do whatever it took to prevent someone else experiencing the unholy barbarity.
Standing, Hassan went to the door and banged. “I gotta use a lav,” he shouted. No one came and the desire became desperate. He stood over the grate, hoping he wouldn’t spray too much.
Before he could unzip smoke began to spiral upwards. He jumped back and banged on the door again. “Fire! Fire!” Fumes continued to fill the room, and Hassan realised it wasn’t smoke. He took a shocked gasp. They couldn’t do this. It was murder. He closed his eyes and tried to filter the air through the cloth hood he still held. Tears forced their way between his eyelids. Both from fumes, and from fear as the poison began to attack his system.
Had the people his comrades executed suffered the same fear?
He vomited, splashing his Cons. The bile foamed and fizzed as it ran towards the grate. He collapsed to the floor convulsing, and wondered if this was his path to redemption.
An original story and photograph by Stuart C Turnbull.
For most of these stories I'm happy to let them stand alone with no explanation. This one I feel requires a note.
I forget the exact prompt for the story but I developed it along the lines of a British person who has been convinced to go abroad and fight for his religious brethren, but in the situation fails to tally his beliefs and what he is experiencing.
Feeling he has been deceived he returns home, where he is picked up on arrival by the security services.
And this is where, it is hoped, reality is left behind. For our character is half-heartedly interrogated, & then summarily executed.
It is a dark and unpleasant story. I hope you enjoyed it.
