Hamlin didn’t want to. He enjoyed nothing more than talking through new technical matters. But this one was of much greater personal interest to him. ‘Supposin’ we could get through that door. I’m into the whole mutual support thing but only so far. I’d wanna do my own thing. I wouldn’t want anything to do with your problems - or your plans.’
‘I would neither expect nor want you to. No disrespect but you’re no spring chicken any more.’
Hamlin rested back against the wall, still eyeing Stratton suspiciously. ‘I don’t know about you, my friend . . . It’s still the missing part-death side of you that bugs me.’
‘Maybe you haven’t been around a true optimist for a while.’
Hamlin was not sure why, but he was beginning to trust Stratton.
‘Tusker?’ a voice boomed over a speaker in a grille beside the air duct.
Hamlin got to his feet and turned down the tape player. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘How you feelin’, Tusker?’
‘Not too bad. I’m still gonna sue, though.’
‘You know I’d be a witness for yer if I could, Tusker.’
‘Generous of you to consider it, anyhow.’
‘You feel up to doing some work? We got a torn filter on number two scrubber.’
‘I warned you about that one a week ago.’
‘Yeah, well, now it’s torn. You wanna take a look at it?’
‘Where’s the engineer?’
‘He’s not feeling too good.’
‘And if I don’t?’ Hamlin said, winking at Stratton. A short silence followed. ‘He’d have to get his drunken ass off his mattress, wouldn’t he?’
‘You gonna do it or not, Tusker?’
‘I’ll do it for a cup o’ one of them fine clarets the warden always has for dinner.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Come on, Busby. You can do better’n that.’
‘OK,’ the operations officer agreed.‘I’ll send someone down to escort you in five minutes.’
Hamlin looked at Stratton as a thought struck him. ‘Hey? Busby? Those scrubbers are a bitch to pull and, well, I ain’t feelin’ all that good. How ’bout my cellmate here givin’ me a hand?’
‘Not a problem. Maybe you can teach him a thing or two for when you’re too goddamned old to do it any more.’
‘That’s thoughtful,’ Hamlin said, making a lewd gesture. He slumped back tiredly and looked at the door again, studying the frame around it. He got to his feet and felt the area where Stratton indicated the sensor lay beneath the rubber. ‘We’re gonna get ourselves a pump and open us a door,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But not this one.’ He looked at Stratton. ‘I’ve got me a door that, I admit, suits me very well, but I think you’ll find it’ll also suit you better’n this one.’ Hamlin went back to the door and his own selfish motives. ‘Then I’m gonna show those motherfuckers that Tusker Hamlin still has a few tricks up his old sleeve.’
Stratton watched as the man’s faced cracked into a strange smile and asked himself who was manipulating who.
Durrani was kneeling on the bare floor of his cell, sitting back on his heels, his palms flat on his thighs, his back to the door while he prayed towards the far left corner of the concrete room. He had been told by fellow Muslims when he’d first arrived that the apex of the angle of the corner pointed in the direction of Mecca. With no way of ascertaining the accuracy of the claim he took it as fact. He was not permitted a prayer mat and his copy of the Koran had been confiscated for reasons unknown to him the day before so he uttered what chants he could remember, praising Allah and leaning forward to kiss the floor at intervals.
Durrani had never been particularly religious but since his incarceration in Styx, with encouragement from his colleagues, he had found the incentive to at least go through the motions of daily prayer. This kind of prison, without sunlight, a view of his beloved landscape or even the smell of it, was like a living death. He found it ironic that having never seen the sea until the boat ride to the surface ferry platform and coming from a country that was landlocked he now lived deep inside an ocean. Even if he could escape the walls he would be unable to swim.
But despite his past and present circumstances Durrani was not entirely convinced of the rewards that the Koran promised its followers on the other side of the grave. Praying did, however, break up the day: it gave him something to do and if God did turn out to be all he was cracked up to be then at least Durrani was hedging his bets. On completion of each prayer session he mentioned to Allah that he would forgo the promised paradise if he could see his homeland one last time. It was all about maintaining a level of optimism. But deep down Durrani feared his lifelong trend of general misfortune would persist until the end.
One of the difficulties with praying, however, was working out the timings of the five different prayer sessions each day since he was not permitted a timepiece and there was no rising or setting of the sun. Trying to divide the day into five equal portions did, however, confirm his suspicions that the guards were messing with his head beyond what one might expect from the normal rigours of prison life. He received three meals a day, occasionally in the mess hall although most often a tray was brought to his cell. But the periods between meals varied between what seemed to be a couple of hours to five or six or more. The cell lighting worked hand in hand with the feeding.The lighting programme was supposed to simulate sixteen hours of daytime and eight hours of night but Durrani was convinced that some cycles were at least twice as long as they were supposed to be while others were only half the ‘official’ duration.
There was never a period when he felt completely well, either, although he was not the only one. He was always getting coughs and throat and lung irritations and, like most prisoners in Styx, had developed horrible sores and rashes all over his body. But then, living under constant pressure, far greater than anywhere on the surface of the planet, was not normal and it undoubtedly did strange things to the body as well as to the mind.The temperature also varied greatly but on average it was far too warm and the ambient atmosphere was always humid. Mould and fungus built up quickly in his cell and the guards often failed to provide enough disinfectant to kill the bacteria that thrived in such conditions.
Another source of suffering was the poor air quality. Durrani would sometimes wake from a deep sleep unable to breathe properly, as if there was not enough oxygen in the air. At other times he would feel intoxicated and experience blackouts, unable to remember what he had done only hours before. According to colleagues these were the symptoms of oxygen poisoning and, again, he reckoned it was due to deliberate manipulation by the guards.
The combinations of these physical and mental assaults were gradually wearing him down but the most significant change in his state of mind, and one that probably went unnoticed by his jailers, was his attitude towards his fellow Afghans. Having spent all of his life deliberately avoiding close human contact, with a couple of notable exceptions concerning the fairer sex, he now cherished the rare occasions when he was allowed to mingle with his colleagues. He was still aloof and distant, never discussing his personal history and certainly not his lineage. But he looked forward to the gatherings with anticipation. It was not so much the physical closeness that he sought, nor his compatriots’ advice or encouragement. It was simply the direct experience of seeing them there. Durrani sometimes woke up in the darkness with the fear that he was the only prisoner left in Styx.
He suddenly stopped in mid-prayer, his senses, which had become highly tuned, warning him of a sudden drop in pressure. He felt a burning sensation in his lungs and his face reddened as his heart rate increased significantly. This was the third attack since he’d been returned to his cell after the mess-hall incident. He dropped to the floor and lay on his back, complete lack of movement his only defence against the drastic reduction in the amount of oxygen he was able to extract from the air.
The small light bulb on the wall above his bed suddenly went out and his cell was plunged into total darkness. Durrani concentrated on remaining conscious, calculating by estimating the duration of his prayer sessions how long the day had been. He heard the door seals hiss and knew why the air had been thinned and what was coming now. It was barely hours since they’d last come for him. He had hoped they had finished with him. How foolish of him. It would never end.
The door opened with a loud creaking sound and the beam of a sharp blue halogen light searched the room until it rested on his face. ‘Stay still!’ a voice commanded in heavily accented Farsi as two figures moved inside. He was grabbed around the arms, raised to his feet and held as a sacking hood was placed over his head.
