Ali stared at the floor. ‘So I have to bargain for my basic human rights?’ He cackled.
Henry looked at him, his hairy body, genitals hanging loosely, thick-muscled legs, trying to convince himself that, even though nothing had yet happened to him and this man was probably responsible for butchering two of his colleagues, this was completely wrong and went a hundred per cent against his beliefs. And yet, did he deserve to be treated this way?
‘You have no human rights, Ali. Just like those two innocent people you murdered today. What happened to their rights?’
A sneer morphed on to his lips. ‘I demand to be taken to hospital.’ He glowered defiantly at Donaldson. ‘I demand the rights of any prisoner held in Britain.’
Donaldson gave a short laugh. ‘Bad news, old buddy … because you ain’t in Britain anymore … right here, right now, just think of this place as a little piece of America — like Guantanamo Bay — and those rights you’re bleating about just don’t exist.’
For the first time, Henry saw a glint of doubt and fear in Ali’s eyes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, that as if by magic carpet, you’ve been transported to hell and yes, you’re looking right into Satan’s eyes.’ Donaldson pointed the first two fingers of his right hand towards his own eyes, then pointed the same two at Ali. The words in themselves were comical but the way and the context in which they were said were terrifying, even to Henry who was now seeing a dark side of Donaldson that, yes, he’d suspected existed, but deep down in his soul he’d wished didn’t.
Ali squirmed uncomfortably against his shackles, then farted and excreted a vile, almost green-coloured shit, the stench of which immediately filled the room. Then he urinated a stream of thick yellow piss in an arc into this awful mess underneath him.
‘That’s the drugs and fear combined,’ Donaldson said brutally. ‘And we haven’t even started yet.’
Henry shot a worried glance at the two-way mirror, but all he saw was a reflection of himself, beaten and bruised.
‘Like I said, simple question,’ Donaldson continued. The pool of shit and urine had collected underneath Ali’s chair and his bare feet slithered in it. ‘What are Akbar’s plans for today and also, how is Mansur Rashid involved?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You are Akbar’s right-hand man.’
‘I don’t know him. Never heard of him.’
Donaldson smiled. ‘OK, Fazul, those were the denials. Those were the formalities. We ask, you deny … you now have no need to keep this up … we’ll let it be known that you did your best before crumbling … your bravery will filter through the grapevine — and unless you do wish to suffer further, please tell me what I want to know … next step, electrodes to testicles.’
Ali winced as a surge of terrible pain arced through his shattered shoulder.
‘Karl, that’s enough,’ Henry whispered behind Donaldson, who did not even acknowledge him as he eased on a pair of latex gloves from out of his pocket and made a show of pulling them on to his hands with a snap.
‘I have no time for subtlety, Fazul,’ the American said. He walked behind the prisoner, ensuring he did not step in the mess. ‘That takes far too long.’ He came up behind Ali and peeled off the blood soaked bandage that had been applied to his shoulder, tossing it on to the floor where it landed with a wet slap.
As Henry suspected, the wound was awful. The bullet had entered the shoulder blade, then deflected upwards into the shoulder joint, destroying it before exiting and making a huge, shredded hole, in which Henry could see splintered bone and gristle, blood oozing.
Donaldson squeezed Ali’s shoulder between his fingers and thumb.
Ali screamed.
Henry cowered back.
Donaldson leaned in close to Ali’s right ear. ‘Tell me. Stop this pain.’
‘Fuck you,’ he uttered with a gasp, spittle flecking out of his lips. A torrent of sweat poured from his hairline. His eyelids fluttered and his head rolled as he slid towards a merciful unconsciousness in default to the pain.
Henry now saw his friend clearly. Donaldson’s face was showing no emotion as though he was totally untroubled by what he was doing. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. If Henry had to make a guess, he’d say that Donaldson was actually enjoying himself in some perverted way.
Then, Henry noticed something in Donaldson’s right hand and wasn’t sure where it had come from.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Donaldson said to Ali, tapping him on the cheek, bringing him back from the edge of oblivion. Ali looked desperately up at him, then at Henry with eyes that pleaded for help.
‘Karl,’ Henry said warningly.
Donaldson sniggered. To Ali he said, pointing at himself, ‘Bad cop’ — then, indicating Henry — ‘good cop. A winning combination.’
‘Karl, this has to stop,’ Henry said.
But the big American did not seem to hear Henry, as once again, he walked behind Ali and raised his right hand, gripping the instrument Henry had noticed him holding: an expanding baton, which he wrist-flicked to shoot it out to its full length, then smashed it down on to Ali’s shoulder.
It was like hitting a tomato. Blood flicked everywhere.
And Ali’s scream of agony rent through the fetid air.
‘There’s no one to hear you,’ Donaldson said when the sound had died down and Ali sat there sobbing and moaning, rolling his head and eyes, his face contorted with sheer agony. ‘So tell me — now!’ It was the first time Donaldson had raised his voice.
He laid the baton gently across the wound so that Ali could see it from the corner of his eye.
Then he raised his hand once more — at which point Henry could not stand it any more. Ashamed he had let it go so far, he moved and took hold of Donaldson’s forearm.
‘No,’ he said through a short breath. His head shook as he stared into Donaldson’s blazing eyes. ‘No,’ he said again.
‘Good cop, eh?’ Donaldson sneered.
Clearly the American was on another level of consciousness. The red mist had truly descended to cloud whatever judgement he had. Henry had experienced something like this on many occasions when he wanted that result, or was under real pressure, but never to this intensity.
‘Time for you to speak to him,’ Donaldson said.
‘What?’ Henry said, realizing that Donaldson believed Henry was about to play his part in this scenario. ‘No — I mean it, Karl. This whole thing has to stop. Can’t you see how wrong it is?’
Donaldson shook himself free from Henry’s grip and raised the baton.
Henry pushed him away and stepped between him and the prisoner. The two men stood like statues for several beats until Donaldson growled, ‘You’d better get out of here, Henry.’
Henry regarded him for another brief moment of contempt, then strutted out of the interrogation room.
He needed air, to escape the reek of the room. He clattered down the wooden steps to the ground-floor corridor and stumbled to a fire exit, ignoring the fact that a notice on it declared ‘This door is alarmed’.
Not as much as me, Henry thought as he crashed through it and found himself in a high-fenced courtyard somewhere down the side of the industrial unit. He fell against the fence and listened to the high-pitched alarm he’d just activated.
No doubt a soldier would come out and shoot him now. It would be a blessed relief, he thought.
The air tasted sweet. Beyond the tightly meshed fence was an expanse of wild moorland which Henry could smell.
He took in deep breaths, trying to slow his body down. His head ticked nervously and his heart pounded.
A man with a gun drawn did appear at the door. One of the ‘Bobs’: the soldiers-cum-pseudo-paramedics.
Henry raised his hands defensively. ‘It’s OK — I needed air, fast.’
‘OK, pal.’ The soldier muttered something into a discreet radio mike secreted somewhere on him and the alarm came to a sudden halt, its echo lingering. He looked curiously at Henry, then withdrew, leaving him alone.