When they push him into a dark room, so cold that even the man in the black suit in the corner is hugging himself for warmth, Khalid knows something’s up. The room’s so dark and gloomy, he can barely locate the slanting plank behind him, an old cloth slung on top, let alone the tap on the wall.
The suited man glances at Khalid as if he’s scum. Khalid raises his head to stare back but his eyes soon close, his mouth runs dry and he can’t stop shivering. Then a burning sensation starts up in his stomach. What the hell are they going to try now?
The sound of gurgling water from the tap echoes round room. On the floor, a dirty glass jug stands beside a stinking drain. They’ve run out of toilet buckets, Khalid guesses.
Get on with it, he thinks, as they rip off the shackles and tear off his crumpled T-shirt and navy trousers, stripping him naked. The full force of the freezing temperature throws him into such a shivering fit, he can hardly cover himself with his hands.
Suddenly wide awake, Khalid’s shocked by the steely gaze of the suited man, who clearly means business of some awful kind.
‘You spoke in a secret code when online?’ he says.
‘No, it was normal computer chat,’ Khalid says. ‘We were playing a stupid game.’
‘Ah, so you did communicate by code?’
His mind is so scrambled his words come out slowly and exaggerated. ‘We all talked in text lingo. Don’t, please stop. I can’t take it.’ Khalid shudders, remembering so many past conversations just like this. ‘Please.’ He stares up at the man, his eyes red raw from lack of sleep.
‘Who’s “we all”?’ the man says, ignoring his pleas.
‘You insist on dragging this out,’ the man says, casting a shadow over his ugly face with a fat
hand. ‘Unless you start talking now, we have no choice but to take stricter measures to loosen your tongue!’
‘Help me,’ Khalid whimpers.
Three guards shuffle closer to Khalid. In this state he can barely stand up, but he knows the guards are baiting him in the hope he’ll lash out and they can have some fun ‘restraining’ him. The sudden whiff of body odour makes Khalid want to heave, while something worse than fear lodges in his chest. Quickening his heart. Crushing him. Emptying his mind, while his teeth chatter noisily on and on.
‘Don’t. Don’t.’
All it takes is a nod and the guards reach for him. Their sudden warm breath prickles the hairs on Khalid’s neck as they shove him towards the plank, which they straighten with a kick. Then remove the cloth. Taking either end of him, they lift him up and hold him down until his feet, neck and hands are straight.
Gasping, Khalid cries out, ‘What are you doing? Don’t hurt me. Don’t . . .’ A smiling guard slaps his face with the back of his hand.
They don’t need to use the ropes to keep him on the plank thanks to the built-in straps underneath. They unfasten them like leather belts before throwing them over his body to bind his forehead, chest and feet with clamp-like force.
When they tip the plank back, Khalid’s thrown upside down with a sickening thump. Blood rushes to his head, cold feet in the air.
‘This is your last chance,’ the man says, standing over him, holding his ankles. ‘Tell us what you know and we’ll let you go home.’
‘Please. There’s nothing . . . Don’t.’
Eyes closed, their hands pressing down on his shoulders, Khalid hears the jug being filled with water at high velocity. A cloth lands on his face. More hands hold it down, so that he breathes in the smell of gauze bandages, and at the same time a trickle of cold water pours through the cloth and down his nose and mouth.
At first, Khalid coughs and splutters, gags, sucks the cloth into his nose and mouth, which suffocates him. Struggling, his hands jerk and tremble to get away from the straps and he tries to vomit. Groaning. But the rough hands clamp him down more. A split-second memory of Dad’s ghostly face passes through his dying mind as water floods his face.
Dad, help me, help me. Don’t let them kill me.
A flicker of breath sits there – just that bit out of reach. His mouth opens to grab it, battle for it. Spitting. Gurgling the pouring water, but his neck goes rigid with the effort to breathe – with the effort to cough. A slush of water hits his ears.
‘Tell us what you know!’ the mad man shouts.
Dad, they’re killing me. Help me. And still the water comes. Drowning him in slow motion. Choking him. Suffocating him. His swelling, bursting lungs force his neck muscles to go limp and he swallows and swallows.
‘Are you ready to admit your involvement with al-Qaeda? That you and others planned to bomb London?’ The man’s voice sounds a million miles away.
With a clack, the plank straightens. The water stops and Khalid spews violently, coughing up his guts, spluttering for breath, opening his sore, bleary eyes. Through the gauze, he sees the suited man standing over him.
He leans down right into his face, his stinking warm breath washing all over Khalid. ‘Admit your part in the plot and we’ll let you go.’