HARM (3 page)

Half-waking, Fremant found himself again dragged to his feet. A hood was tied over his head and he was taken before another interrogator. To be totally deprived of sight was a terror in itself.

“You lived with a whore?” he was asked.

“No.” He was led to a backless chair, terrified. “For Allah’s sake, tell me where I am!”

A kind of chuckle from the interrogator. “You’re far from home, prisoner. You’re in Uzbekistan, well away from EU law…”

“Not Syria?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Spare me. Have pity on me! Please tell me the date and where we are. I—I’m lost. Please! I have personality problems.”

He produced a much-folded letter from a psychiatrist he had visited at the Maudesley Institute which suggested that his sense of isolation, of not knowing where he was, or when, reinforced a dissociative disorder, causing alternative personalities to emerge. A course of treatment was recommended.

The interrogator glanced at the letter, then refolded it and tore it to pieces. He tapped a note into his laptop.

“You’re having a stay in Hotel California, and it’s fucking Christmas!” The questioner then repeated his question. “You lived with a whore?”

“I live with my wife. She is a good woman, not at all a whore.”

“She is a white woman. To marry you, she must be a whore.”

The interrogation chamber held an evil stink, a cocktail of fear, blood, sweat, and malice. There were no windows to open for fresh air. Fresh air represented freedom.

He was struck in the ribs by a club and gave a cry of pain.

“Tell me her name.”

“You must know her name.”

Again a blow to his ribs.

“Name, you bastard.”

“Doris.”

“She was your cover while you planned the destruction of the state.”

“She is my wife, whom I love. I planned no destruction. I lived the life of an ordinary Englishman, except I was Muslim.”

“You shit, you married a decent Englishwoman under false pretenses. Admit it…Fucking admit it!”

“No, no, it’s not true. Doris and I love—arrrhh! Oh!”

The blow landed across his spine. One of the guards brought up his club and, jerking Prisoner B’s head back, pressed the club against his windpipe, so that he could scarcely breathe. Blood surged before his eyes in the darkness of his hood. He scarcely heard what the interrogator was saying.

“You made the bitch turn Muslim, didn’t you?”

“It was”—he could hardly speak—“voluntary.”

“Your whore hates you. She says you met with members of Hamas when you were in the mosque at Qem.”

“No, no, not true…”

“Oh yes, it fucking well is true. Listen!”

The interrogator was playing back a recording. Prisoner B heard his wife’s cries of pain. She begged them not to apply the burning electric currents again, not
there…
Then she screamed again. In a faint voice, she said the words,
I hate Paul.
She was prompted, “And he met with members of Hamas?”
…Oh, yes, yes,
she said. She was in tears now.
He met with members of Hamas.
“Where did this take place? It was in the mosque at Qem and elsewhere.”
…Oh, all right, it was in the mosque at Qem.
“And elsewhere, you cow!”
Yes, okay, and elsewhere. Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry…Owwww…Not again, please…

Her cries of pain were switched off. Amid his dismay he thought, She could not help betraying me. The pain was too much for her. I understand, Doris, poor sweet darling. I do understand. He tried to believe the recording was a fake. He did not think the voice was his wife’s. All was uncertain.

“You can stay here and think about it, you little fucker.”

The guards strapped him to the chair, with ties around his ankles and chest, securing him tightly until every breath was a labor. He heard the interrogator walk off. The guards remained. Although they were silent, he felt their presence. One of them rubbed the stubble on his cheek, the other scratched his balls.

Prisoner B waited, trembling with fear in anticipation of the next punishment, although little could be worse than listening to his wife in pain. The knowledge that they were torturing Doris as well as him was unbearable, a poison to the system. He thought what a little worm he was. Time passed. He could not estimate how much.

His grip on himself had loosened. He had entered a new region, where things were probably not what they seemed, where distinctions between day and night had been lost. No longer were there normal patterns of meals. Wet and dry, clean and dirty, truth and lies, all had been terminally disheveled.

His head throbbed noisily. Gradually, pressure in his bladder increased. He tried to deflect all thought of the need to urinate. Perhaps they intended that he should piss himself, thus adding to his degradation.

Blackness inside the hood was complete. It was hard to breathe. He feared a heart attack.

It was a relief when a guard grabbed his arm, saying, “All right, get up.”

As the straps were released and he struggled to his feet, he gasped, “I need the toilet, please.”

He knew it was a mistake. Something like a chuckle in the man’s voice sounded as he said, “You’ll have to wait a bit…”

They stood him against a wall. He was still in the interrogation room. His hood was removed. He gasped in the fresher air, feeling his face drip sweat. The faces of the guards were familiar. One, the taller of the two, with odd, reddened cheeks standing out like buns and a nose little more than a blob; the other, younger, with a long, dim, sallow face, expressionless, with narrow dark eyes.

Prisoner B felt that the older of the two was not sadistic, merely doing his job within the cruel machine of interrogation and the dictates of the old CIA “Kubark Manual.” He supposed this man was English. With the other, it was hard to tell.

He addressed the older man, as possibly the less cruel of the two.

“Oh, please, the toilet. I’m bursting.”

“Hang on.”

“I’m bursting. Is this Guantánamo? Are we in Guantánamo?”

The younger guard, the one with the sallow face, punched him in the stomach.

“Don’ ask questions.”

They led him into the corridor. Such was his agony, he could not stop himself. Rather than wet himself, he wrenched out his penis and urinated in a burst against the wall. The liquid poured from him, splashing the guards. The relief was so immense, he scarcely felt their blows, until a fist, catching him behind the ear, sent him reeling.

He fell, still urinating, and lay there sobbing in a pool of his own piss.

TWO

A
WHILE LATER,
he realized he was swimming in a small lake. He had to adjust to the reality of it. Warm though the water was, cold was in the air and a speckled darkness spread overhead. The Shawl was passing, that sheet of dust and debris in near-space which brought Dimoff. He and Duskshine were taking advantage of the Dimoff to cross the lake and visit some associates of hers.

Duskshine still wore her all-concealing veil. She swam confidently beside him. Eventually, his feet touched shingle. He vaguely made out a shoreline with small hills beyond, although all was featureless at this period. When Fremant began to tread sand, he turned to assist the woman.

Their clothes dripping, they gained the shore. Once out of the water, the cold got to them. A challenge was called ahead. She answered. A man came up to them, leading them to a path. Some men came close, silent, showing no light. He felt their hostility.

He was intimidated. The long, coarse grass of Stygia brushed their legs. They were guided to a hut behind a ridge and ushered in. The men followed, closing the door. They negotiated an insect-screen. Then a lamp was lit. They were in a long room, furnished with benches and tables.

To one side stood an iron stove. A woman opened a door in its belly and warmth filtered into the room. Duskshine and Fremant were brought nearer to it, in order to help them dry off. They were glad of it and stood shivering, hands extended to the flames. Her fingers were long and pointed.

A tall old man with a mane of silver hair came forward and clutched the hands of both of them in welcome.

“My name is Habander. I am one of the Clandestine Order. We welcome you here. But we need to search you.”

While the search was in process, Habander raised an interrogatory eyebrow at the girl.

Duskshine prompted Fremant to introduce himself.

“He’s here secretly,” she said, her gesticulating hands also trying to explain the situation. “He is one of four of Astaroth’s guards. He must return to the Center before the Shawl passes. Astaroth shuts himself up all alone when it is Dimoff. He comes out afterward and checks that all is as it should be.”

“How do you know he’s alone? Completely alone?” Habander asked. “And the—er, the wife?”

The hands fluttered. “Ameethira? They are rarely together…”

She sighed and looked away.

Tension mounted in Fremant. There was something here he did not understand.

Words of welcome came from the throats of many of the men and women assembled in the long, drab room. They had recognized Duskshine. Fremant looked about him. The place reeked of sweat and food and piss. The men here appeared anxious, not of fighting quality. Much like himself, in fact.

“What’s all the secrecy about?” Fremant asked.

Habander replied. He had come with his Clandestine companions to Stygia on the starship. The captain, Captain Calex, had been a wise and compassionate man, a great thinker. He had hated the confusions and terror of Earth cultures and had sought out the planet Stygia like a pilgrim, to build a more just world. Many of those who voyaged, as essence, on the ship felt as he did. Many, but not all.

When the colonists had been reconstituted and the ship finally made landfall, Captain Calex gave a moving speech, according to Habander.

“He said that we would build a single gentle culture, without the divisions that troubled Earth, with its poisonous history. Our first big effort must be to make friends with the native peoples who lived on this world. There must be no sexual reproduction until we have peace. Peace is paramount. They are strange to us—he said that—but we must face that strangeness and prepare. Any remaining weapons must be destroyed—”

While Habander was reporting on this noble speech, with an eloquence of his own, Fremant was saying to himself with equal passion, “Who are these crazy people? I prefer working in the Center. Overbearing though Astaroth is, he is at least a reasonable man. Well, with some eccentricities, and of course that poisonous creed. Why did I allow Duskshine to bring me here to this gang of loonies?

“Why do I trust this bitch when I can’t even see her face? Why do I always play subordinate roles in life? What a pathetic loser I am! And then these nightmare episodes I have, when I seem to be a prisoner somewhere and have to undergo a series of tortures…I’m in my twenties still—I should see someone about all this. Habander is probably another figment of my hallucinations.”

But Habander was concluding by saying that even before the captain finished his address, a figure jumped on the platform holding a knife.

The crowd watching gave a great cry. They recognized Astaroth as the attacker. On the ship, after reconstitution, Astaroth had been the leader of the clique known as the Waabees, which had developed in opposition to the Calex party. The Calex party, in the furtherance of peace, had destroyed all weapons on the ship. Astaroth alone had concealed a weapon.

The knife came down. Captain Calex raised an arm against his attacker. The knife plunged into his heart. He fell at once.

Many in the crowd gasped in horror, while others of the Waabee party cheered. The assassin shouted, “I am Astaroth! You’ll get to know me better! This dead man misled you all. He was the fool captain who destroyed our weapons. These natives here, these primitive dog-owners, are going to rise and kill us all if we don’t make a show of strength. We are a mere handful of humanity. There are who-knows-how-many millions of
them
! We must fight them, and no nonsense about it!”

So it was, said Habander, that Astaroth had come to rule with his stern ascetic creed, calling himself the All-Powerful. He claimed to have secret orders from distant Earth, in particular from WAA. It was on these orders, he claimed, that he and his men began the killing of natives. Task forces were sent out from the city.

“We Clandestines seek to overthrow Astaroth. We want to make peace with the natives—those who survive.”

Habander fell silent. He then spoke quietly to Fremant. “So this woman you call Duskshine brought you here. We know who she is. We know you are a guard of Astaroth’s. Why would we trust you?”

Looking into Habander’s face, Fremant felt some compassion. Here was a man wanting to be liked—in fact, a loser. A loser, yet correct in rejecting Astaroth’s policy of genocide.

“In another life, I was peaceful, Habander. I was a writer. I wrote comic novels. The only job I could get here was as a guard. I assure you I have no affection for Astaroth.”

Several Clandestines had gathered to listen, suspiciously, to the conversation. One of them, bearded and as pale as paper, now asked, challengingly, “What is the name of your god?”

“Believe me, I’m too poor to afford a god.”

The group muttered to itself at this answer. “So what about god?” Fremant asked, impatiently. “Who is your god?”

The pale man now pushed himself forward, pointing a grimy finger at Fremant. “We have all been reconstituted. It is a resurrection. So we know our god is great and rules this insect-ridden world. His name may not be spoken—certainly not to you, a stranger.”

Habander spoke reprovingly. “Please do not offend this man whose help we need.” Turning to Fremant, he said, in a lowered tone, “We do not dare mention the name of our god in case the insect world hears of it and so takes power over us. But you must believe, our god is great and rules the clouds and the seas of Stygia.”

Fremant was tired of all the oratory and wished to get back to the Center before the Shawl had passed.

“What’s all this to me?” he asked contemptuously.

Duskshine touched his arm. “We need you to kill Astaroth,” she said. Her frail little hands made a downward chopping motion.

The small community started clapping and cheering.

Fremant took a deep breath. “Haven’t you Clandestines got the guts to kill Astaroth yourselves?” Later he reflected that it was at this moment that he ceased to be a loser and became something more formidable. He had fallen into the servitude of a man he hated and despised—yes, and feared. Astaroth was a dictator. Yes, it would purge his soul to assassinate him.

A small bald man with a meager mustache answered him. “Three of our number tried to kill the hated Astaroth the All-Powerful in the past few months. All died trying. But you get close to him in your duties all the time.”

“Yes, for that reason you are ideal,” another chimed in. “Ideal!”

“Okay,
you
deal if you like, but
I
don’t play cards,” Fremant said, but no one present understood puns. “What’s your secret god doing about all this?”

“Please,” said Duskshine, clutching his arm. “You are so brave, Fremant, dearest. Strike for being free of tyranny. Then I will be yours.”

“All right. I’ll do it. I will kill him. I need no nameless god! I’m no coward.”

He was made to swear on a homemade wooden sword. Anger rose in him. These poor homeless people hid out on this island. Although Stygia was no Paradise, they should be able to lead quiet, ordinary lives. That might come about if he killed Astaroth. In his mind, he saw himself doing the deed—and winning glory for it…

He and the hooded woman swam back across the lake. All the way, ferocity boiled up in him. As they climbed the shore, he demanded to know why she had not warned him what he was in for. She said she trusted him but needed secrecy. She loved him.

“Love? Love? You don’t even trust me to see your face!”

“It’s the rule here, dearest…You know Astaroth insists women go veiled.”

“Astaroth!”
Another Ramson…
Ramson, Ramson? Who was…But the thought darted away like a small fish among reeds.

In a rage, he flung her down on the bank and sat astride her. He tugged and tugged at her hood, tightly tied about her neck. He ripped it off, to stare down at the face, gray in the pallid light, of Aster, the wife or the mistress of Astaroth.

“You, you brazen bitch? You’d kill your man for love—not for principle? What sort of a woman are you?”

“Let me go! I hate him, I hate the bully—you have no idea how greatly!” Her face became a mask of loathing.

“You vile scheming insect! You tricked me into this! Why couldn’t you be honest?”

“You don’t know what I—”

“You don’t know what the word
honest
means! I’ll show you what it means!”

He stifled her words. He tore off her clothes. She fought him in silence, trying to bite and scratch as they rolled in mud. Still he held her down, growling with rage and lust, finally ripping off her undergarments, tearing them from her legs. The animal scents of her body maddened him. He forced his flesh into her, with a savagery and bitterness that held no joy—a victor’s act. Aster ceased struggling and gave a groan between pain and pleasure, though her face remained distorted with anger.

The Shawl slid over to the western sky, revealing a sickly dawn.

Not speaking, they made their way back to the Center, she clutching her torn clothes, sobbing as she went.

O
NCE THEY GAINED THE STREETS,
they parted without a word, only a bitter backward look. In his billet, clothes still wet, he flung himself down on his mattress, to dive as into a cold, dark pool of exhaustion.

He was coming before the All-Powerful when the nightmare overtook him, and the two guards were pulling him to his feet. The room was in darkness, made more shadowy by the lantern one of the guards had set on the floor while manhandling him.

“Treat for you today. Extra-special interrogator here. Better watch your step, matey!”

“Who is he?”

“Santa Claus. Get moving and don’t ask questions.”

Prisoner B was helped along the corridor, his feet sliding on the floor. The floor of this corridor was covered by a coarse carpeting of sorts, perhaps coconut matting; it was not the usual corridor down which he had been dragged before. They propelled him into a room he had not been in previously. He was strapped into a chair, and his head was wedged so that he was unable to move it. The older guard brought up two wires from a nearby machine and attached them with a clamp to his temples, one on one side, one on the other.

Then they stepped back and sat on a dusty sofa, to wait. They muttered to one another in tones of complaint. The prisoner heard one say to the other, “After all, the Yanks are the only friends we’ve got.”

“What about the French?”

“The
French
? Ferget it!”

Part of the terror regimen was to keep prisoners waiting for whatever was to come. Dread and the imagination worked further to undo them.

Slowly, Prisoner B took in his surroundings. He was waiting in a small part of what had once been a much bigger, grander room. Partitions cut off all but a small portion of the old room. Through one partition, a man’s voice could be heard saying, sobbing, “I admit I did it. I know I did it. I admit I did it. I must have done it. I didn’t realize. I admit I did it. Spare me,” over and over. The repetition drained the words of emotion.

One feature of the magnificent scale on which life had been lived in this grand mansion was a bust set in an alcove in the wall at just above eye level. The bust was surrounded by a frame of carved stone laurel leaves. The bust itself was of white marble. It commemorated an elderly man with curled hair and a prominent patrician nose. The dead lips were pursed. His stony gaze, directed down at the occupants of the room, expressed contempt.

Below the bust was his name and his titles. He was a general, a leader of armies, who had been knighted.

Now a spider’s web was woven across the raised lettering. It was clear that he had been responsible for the deaths of many men—both the enemy and his own compatriots, who had had no choice but to follow him. For this carnage he had been celebrated by a grateful nation.

The prisoner regarded this relic of the good old days with a dull wonder. It could be, he speculated, that this bust indicated that he was imprisoned in a building, palatial and grand, which had once served as the British Embassy in some foreign capital. In Baghdad? In Damascus? Someone had told him that he had been moved to Syria. The speculation was far from encouraging.