Free Guantanamo Boy by Anna Perera Page B

thought of how Mum will cope when they find him gone in the morning crushes him. He feels guilty even though none of this is his fault. All of it on top of Dad disappearing is too strange and mad to take in. How can something of this sort happen to an ordinary family like his?
    Now there’s a horrible pain in his side which makes him think they’ve shattered one of his ribs, and what with his aching arms and shoulder, the throbbing pains in his chest and legs, his stinging face and sore eye, he’s so tired and weirded out he can hardly think.
    Too messed up to sleep, Khalid shouts out a list of vile swearwords as he walks around the room. Magnifying them in his mind as he yells. Stabbing the air with them. Angry beyond belief with himself for not keeping his mobile phone in his pocket, even though they would have taken that too. Picturing it beside the computer in the cupboard where he left it, he wonders whether it’s worth trying to kick the door in with his bare feet before he lies down on the cool, concrete floor. Within minutes, he’s asleep.
    A while later he wakes suddenly, due to the unbearable aches and pains throbbing in every part of his body. The ceiling light is blazing down on his eyes. He turns to face the door, gazing at the bleak shadows of the table and chairs, and cries his heart out.
    In the morning, still half asleep, Khalid settles into an upright position, determined to stay clear-headed enough to get himself out of here. Believing these people, whoever they are, must know by now they’ve got the wrong person. Khalid Ahmed isn’t such an unusual name, he reassures himself.
    Listening to footsteps approach the door, Khalid decides to do as Jim advised him, to cooperate as much as possible. He knows he was reasonable last night, but things might go better today if he’s more helpful. Calling the podgy guy “Uncle” will show respect. Khalid smiles, now feeling confident he’ll be out of here within hours.
    When the lock turns in the door, Khalid’s ready and smiling. But instead of the guy from last night another younger Pakistani comes in with tea and flat bread to tempt him.
    “Where’s the other man?” Silence. Khalid tries being friendly. “What’s your name?” Silence. Then the man leaves without saying a word, clearly unable to speak English, taking the tea and bread with him.
    “Bye,” Khalid calls. No response. The door clicks shut.
    A few minutes later, a woman with straight brown hair, about thirty-five, in a gray suit and white shirt, comes in with a clipboard. Two men in navy trousers with blue and white pinstriped shirts accompany her. Standing at the door, they say nothing while she pulls up the other chair. Then another guy in a black suit slips in behind them.
    “Hi, Khalid,” she says in a friendly American accent, as if she’s going to help him. “I’m Angela and this is Bruce.” She points to the man in the suit. The other men she doesn’t bother introducing. “Now, what exactly were you doing in Afghanistan last week?”
    Khalid’s mind is scrambled again. “My name’s pronounced Haleed ,” he says, surprised at himself for mentioning it, some-thing he gave up doing years ago in infant school. “I’ve never been to that country!”
    Angela smiles sweetly at him. “Come on now. We know you were there. We have your passport.”
    This was getting ridiculous.
    “That can’t be true. My dad keeps all our passports. How come you’ve got mine? Have you got my dad?”
    “Your father? Why do you keep talking about him?”
    “What? I told that other guy—he’s missing.”
    “Your father works for al-Qaeda?”
    “What? No! He’s a chef in Manchester. Don’t be daft. You can phone the restaurant. They’ll tell you. Ask my aunties, my mum.”
    “You have no idea where your father is?” Angela frowns.
    “Don’t you?” Now Khalid’s getting really confused.
    “Why would we?” Angela leans back in her chair, exchanging glances with the men at the