Free Guantanamo Boy by Anna Perera Page A

which he locks the second they’re inside. The man looks him over for a second with a shocked expression that proves Khalid’s face is badly swollen and bruised. He can taste the blood from his lips as it dribbles into the corners of his mouth. The throbbing under his eye is so painful Khalid has to squint to take in the gray room, which smells of dog biscuits. It’s empty apart from two chairs, a rug and small black table with a wodge of loose papers on top.
    The man points Khalid to one of the chairs, then bends down to unclick Khalid’s ankle-cuffs, which he kicks across the room. He gives the impression that Khalid’s ordeal might soon be over. But then he takes a moment to twist the chrome watch that Dad gave Khalid for Christmas from his wrist and it becomes clear that it won’t. The man squirrels the watch away in his pocket before sitting down opposite him.
    “Name and address,” he says in perfect English, pen poised.
    He speaks so beautifully, Khalid begins to doubt the man’s from Pakistan at all.
    “Give me back my watch,” Khalid croaks.
    “You’ll get it later,” the man answers.
    “Is this a police station or what? Why did those idiots beat me up?”
    “Just answer the questions,” the man says sourly. “What are you doing in Pakistan?”
    “Doing in Pakistan? I’m here with my family on holiday. Then I’m going back to school in England, where I come from. My name’s Khalid Ahmed. You’ve just been to my aunties’ house. You know my address.” He can’t believe this is for real.
    “England? University school? Your name’s Khalid Ahmed?”
    “I’m at a school for kids. Teenagers. I just said my name.” Khalid sighs. “Who are you? Let me out of here.”
    The man tilts his head to one side to get a better look at him. “Where have you been since you arrived in Karachi?” hesays, as if he knows something Khalid doesn’t.
    “Nowhere. What are you on about?” Khalid’s even more confused when he takes a small photo from his back pocket.
    “Who is this man?” He points angrily to a blurred photo of someone in a brown shalwar kameez jumping in the air with arms outstretched, surrounded by hundreds of similar-looking men. This guy could be anyone.
    “Dunno. How would I know?”
    “What’s his name?”
    “I don’t know him, mate. But do you know where my dad is? What’s all this for? Why am I here? And give me my watch back.”
    The man stares at him, uninterested. Clearly this is a one-way conversation and Khalid gets angry. He’s seen enough kids round his way being stopped and searched by the police to know what his rights are.
    “I’m saying nothing until I get a lawyer. That watch cost my dad thirty-five pounds. Give it back.”
    “This is Karachi, not England,” the man says. “You don’t have any legal rights here. Tell us what you know and you can go home.”
    “I’ve told you the truth. Get me someone from the British Embassy. They’ll help me out. I haven’t committed any crime.”
    “You don’t understand. You are wanted. We can’t intervene. I’m sorry.” For a moment the man does seem genuinely sorry, which surprises Khalid.
    “Someone wants me? Come on. I haven’t done anything. Are you crazy?” Confused and nervous in equal measure, Khalid quickly tells him about himself, about his family and Dad going missing. Everything about Jim and looking for the flat. “I’m only just fifteen,” he adds.
    “We are living in terrible times,” is all the man says. As if his hands are tied and the truth’s unimportant. “You look much older than fifteen. It’s late. I’ll see you in the morning.” He gets up to leave.
    “You can’t leave me handcuffed like this!” Khalid shouts. “My arms hurt!” The door slams. “You stole my watch!” The lock snaps.
    Baffled and shocked, Khalid’s no closer to understanding the reason for being kidnapped, beaten up and brought here, and the more this goes on, the weirder and sicker he feels. The