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‘Ihad a child like that in my class last year,’Jesssaid. ‘ShespokePolishat home with no problems and she could understandEnglish, but just didn’t like speaking it in school.Oneday she said hello to me andIwanted to scream it from the rooftops.’
‘Yeah, nothing feels as good as making a difference to someone.’
Jess’sthoughts turned toGabriel.Hisinvitation to join him on the flight definitely made a difference to her.Shewished she knew how to return the favour.
‘Anyway,’ saidElodie, ‘I’mmeeting my girlfriend and some friends for an afternoon of too much wine and good food.You’remore than welcome to join us?’
‘Thankyou, butI’mgoing to do some touristy things.’Temptingas the offer was,Jessneeded some time alone to process everything that had happened in the past 72 hours.Thebest therapy is a long walk, her father always said.Also, she had monopolised enough ofElodie’stime.Asmuch as she enjoyed her company,Jesshad the same feeling that had niggled at her earlier atGabriel’s, that feeling of being an interloper in somebody else’s life.Jesshad to remember how to live her own for a while.
ElodiegaveJessinstructions on how to get to theEiffelTowerand waited with her until her bus came along.Withan affectionate hug and a kiss on each cheek,Elodiesaid, ‘Well, ifIdon’t see you again, have a lovely life,Jess.Andthank you again for taking pity on my brother.Ifanyone needs a good lay, it’s him.’Shewinked andJesswas glad to disappear into the bus, soElodiecouldn’t see her sad frown.
Regrethad already started to make a home inJess’sheart.Notregret that she’d slept withGabriel—nothing could make her feel remorseful about that after how much she enjoyed it.No, the only thing she regretted was that they might not get to do it again.
9
Thedreamalways started the same way.
Gabrielwas lying on the dusty floor, blindfolded, his hands secured so tightly behind him with plastic zip ties that his circulation was practically cut off.Hisveins burned.Heflexed his fingers trying to regain some feeling.Itwas no use asking the guards to loosen the ties.Fromexperience, he’d found that requesting help only inspired further cruelties.
Outsidethe window, he heard the sound of children playing, the thump of a ball as it hit a foot, or a wall, or the ground.Theyoung voices gave him hope, reminding him of a world that existed beyond this claustrophobic, airless room.
Oneof the villagers had thrown a rock at him yesterday, cutting him across his eyebrow.Nowthe blindfold stuck to his skin where the blood had crusted.Heavoided thinking about the bacteria probably infecting his wound.
Itwas afternoon.Theircaptors had already led them on their daily parade, their hands at the end of rough ropes tied to the tail of a cantankerous donkey.Ifthey didn’t keep up with the donkey, the rope pulled its tail and it’d buck at them.Fatimahad barely avoided having her knee kicked out.
Everyday, the soldier moved the three prisoners through the village to a different hole in the wall.Ormaybe it was the same one.Gabrieldidn’t know, nor did he care.Hejust hoped that among the villagers there might be somebody who sympathised, who might either tell somebody higher up, or in the best-case scenario, get word to theAmericanarmy, that there were three journalists in captivity in theHinduKush.
Itwas his fault they were captured.Itwas him who thought the story they were chasing—of a big explosion somewhere in aTaliban-controlled area—was worth pursuing.Andthen as they got closer and some well-intentioned locals shared conflicting rumours about where they should go, they continued on, even thoughGabriel’susually infallible gut warned him that perhaps it was time to turn around.Hesaid as much.
‘Areyou losing your nerve?’ jokedFatima.Heshould have insisted.
Theirdriver, a young man in his twenties, accidentally drove them straight into an ambush.He’dpaid for it with his life.NothingtheTalibanhated more than otherAfghanishelping out the heathen journalists, especially since theTalibanliked to control their ownPR.
Outsidethe wooden door,Gabrielheard two voices.Hecalled themCheechandChongbecause they were always stuffingnaswar, a local type of addictive powdered tobacco, into their lower lips.Theacrid smell was even stronger than their body odour.IfGabrielhad anything of note in his stomach, he’d vomit it up.
Butthe dribble of water and the hard bread they were fed each day hardly touched the sides.
‘Youguys all right?’ saidGabriel, his voice scratchy.
‘Yes,’ saidFatima.
‘Topform,’ saidJohnsonLee, a photojournalist fromLondonthatGabrielhad known for years.Justlast week, he had watchedJohnsonchallenge and beat an arrogantUSsoldier in a push-up contest.Amazinghow easily evenJohnsonhad been subdued by their captors, his muscled arms useless in their plastic-tie handcuffs.
Oneof their captors shouted something inPashtoand the door creaked open.Gabriel’sbody trembled, a newPavlovianresponse he’d developed to the sound of that door.Itseldom meant anything good was going to happen.
Heheld his breath.Whichone of them would they beat today?Hedidn’t want them to chooseFatima.She’dalready had more than her share of physical abuse from these men.Nothingsexual, thankfully.Butwhen they’d taken the blindfolds off of the three of them earlier for the donkey parade,Gabrielhad seen the bruises on her usually beautiful face.Oneof her cheekbones had caved in.Shewould need a plastic surgeon when they got out of here to rebuild it.
Ifthey got out of here.
Wantingto draw the soldier’s attention away from her,Gabrieltried to sit up.Hewould rather they beat him than her.Withinseconds, he was rewarded with a swift kick in the ribs.
‘Youfilthy dog,’ saidCheechin heavily accentedEnglish.Aball of the man’s pungent spit landed onGabriel’sforehead.
Good,he thought.Comefor me, you asshole.
AndthenFatimascreamed.
Usually, that’s whereGabrielwould wake up, but tonight, maybe because it was her birthday, the nightmare’s coils tightened around him.
