Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

Tariq nodded.

“Blythe wanted your father to surrender. He sent out humvees with loudspeakers, telling him to give himself up. But of course your dad was planning a rescue.

“Anyway, Blythe gathered his prisoners in that courtyard and had his men fix big wooden stakes into the ground. Then he tied them up, stood each one in front of a stake, and told your father to surrender or they would be impaled.

“We just didn’t believe he would do it. But Blythe killed Jim himself. Grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down, looking into his eyes as he did it. When he stood up his face was splashed with blood. Your dad immediately put down his gun and walked out there, hands in the air.

“The Yanks tied him up, forced him to sit on the ground and made him watch as they impaled the rest of the prisoners anyway. Just because they could. The one who betrayed us, an American called Matt — barely nineteen, always scared — he begged and screamed. But Blythe showed him no mercy. Then they left. That was two days ago.”

“THEY’VE BEEN QUESTIONING me ever since. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Dad shrugged, trying to make light of it, not going into detail so he wouldn’t terrify me. But I looked at his sunken, haunted eyes and I felt more anger than I’ve ever felt. It was amazing; I didn’t know I could want to hurt someone so much. I hadn’t even wanted to kill Mac as much as I wanted to take a knife and shove it into the hearts of the men who’d tortured my dad.

“They want me to betray my friends,” he said. “The ones who are still free. I won’t do that. They can’t make me. I’ll die first.”

I let that lie there for a moment and then I said what we were both thinking.

“But now they have me.”

The look on his face said it all.

We heard footsteps in the corridor outside, then the cell door slammed open.

“Get up, kid,” said the soldier silhouetted in the doorway. “General Blythe wants a word.”

“HAVE A SEAT, son.”

The general’s voice was deep and warm, and his tone was friendly. He sat in a plush, red leather chair, the kind you expect to see in front of roaring fires in the libraries of grand houses. It looked out of place behind the huge black marble desk. But then, this whole place was absurd.

I’d been brought out of the filthy underground cells, up into the great entrance hall with its amber mosaics, gold lined ceiling dome and intricate pine balconies. It seemed like something Disney would have built. I was marched up the sweeping staircase, where the enormous windows gave stunning views of the Shatt-Al-Arab waterway as it meandered through the various mansions and gardens that made up Saddam’s old palace complex. White stone bridges arched across the slow flowing water. It looked like paradise outside, and all I wanted was to lie in the shade beside the cool water and feel the wind on my face.

Matron would have loved it here, I thought. She liked lying on the soft earth and closing her eyes. But I was glad she wasn’t with me in this cold stone building; it wasn’t a friendly place.

The general had set up camp in a cavernous, empty ballroom on the first floor. His desk sat in front of double doors that led out to a balcony. The doors stood open, and white gauze curtains billowed into the room, bringing the scents of jasmine and orange blossom from the gardens below. Beside the desk was a huge flatscreen telly on a big stand, hooked up to some sort of computer equipment with wires snaking out the back of it; they ran outside through the balcony doors, presumably to a generator.

He was about 50, at a guess. His black skin was lined and weathered, and his close cut hair almost entirely grey. Barrel-chested and broad shouldered he gave an impression of contained physical power, and his voice reflected that. He was exactly what I would have expected an American general to be; all he needed was to start chomping on a cigar and the picture would be complete.

I shuddered as I imagined that weighty frame leaning into me, pushing me down on to a sharp wooden stake.

He gestured to a metal and canvas chair on my side of the desk, and I sat down.

“Dismissed,” he said. My escort saluted crisply, turned on his heels with a squeak of rubber, and stomped away. The tall doors, made of elaborately carved dark wood, slowly swung shut behind him. We were alone.

General Blythe regarded me curiously and I could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching as he did so. I met his gaze and held it. Not too defiant, but trying to seem confident. I’d looked into the eyes of madmen before. There’s a feral quality they have which, once seen, is impossible to forget. I searched the general’s eyes for signs of madness.

He narrowed his eyes and smiled.

“Yes, I think I believe you, son,” he said.

“I’m not your son.”

“Well, we’ll come to that in a minute. I believe your story, though. That you flew here from the UK looking for your dad. Gutsy thing to do.”

“Didn’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice, son. You could have left him behind, grown up on your own, become your own man.”

“Is that what you did?”

He laughed. “I’m asking the questions.” There was a flash of warning in his eyes that hinted at all sorts of unpleasantness. “Drink?”

He reached across the desk and poured me a beaker of water from a tall glass jug that was frosted with condensation. I took it and swallowed it at once.

“Thank you,” I gasped, wanting more but not willing to ask.

“You’re welcome. So what’s it like in Britain now?”

“Chaos, what else?”

He considered this and then said: “But you’ve got the arms, right? I mean to say, when our British allies pulled out of Iraq they had a plan to restore law and order. Must have started to work by now.”

“Not in my part of the country.”

“Fancy that. And what part of the country would that be?”

I don’t know why I lied, it was just instinct I suppose. But I didn’t want to tell this guy a single true thing.

“East Anglia. Ipswich.”

He nodded. I couldn’t decide which was odder: his interest in British internal affairs, or the fact that he’d heard of Ipswich.

“And that’s where you flew from?”

“Yes.”

“Hell of a thing, kid your age. But you’ve got plenty of scars, I can see that. Fresh too. You ever killed anybody, son?”

“If you were listening to my conversation with my dad, then you already know the answer to that question.”

He nodded, conceding the point.

“You knew I was listening from the start, didn’t you?” he said with a smile.

“No.”

“Liar. Otherwise you’d have told your old man about meeting up with his buddies.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The playful smile vanished from his face and he became impassive, his eyes dead and cold.

“Let me put you straight on a few things,” he said. “Prisoners have rights. Many checks and balances exist to ensure those rights are protected. You are not a prisoner because you don’t exist. Ain’t nobody looking out for you. I could kill you now with my bare hands and nobody but your daddy would give a damn.”

“You forgot to say ‘In this place, I am the law!’”

“It goes without saying.”

“Why?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “Excuse me?”

“Why? To what end? For what purpose?”

“There has to be law, son. Chain of command is the only way I know of running anything, and this place needs running.”

“But why?” I pressed him. “I mean, shouldn’t you be back in the US, shooting looters on Capitol Hill or something? Why are you here?”