Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘Listen-’

‘Shut up!’

The younger man was pointing a pistol at him. The older one, who must have been in his mid-thirties, lifted one of the skewers and showed it to Orville. The sharp tip gleamed briefly in the light from the halogen lamps on the ceiling.

‘Do you know what this is?’

‘It’s a skewer. They cost $5.99 a set in Wal-Mart. Listen…’ Orville said as he tried to sit up. The other man put his hand between Orville’s fat breasts and made him lie down again.

‘I told you to shut up.’

He lifted the skewer and, leaning heavily, drove the point right through Orville’s left hand. The man’s expression didn’t change, not even when the sharp metal nailed the hand to the wooden table.

At first Orville was too dazed to realise what had happened. Then, suddenly, the pain ran up his arm like an electric shock. He squealed.

‘Do you know who invented skewers?’ asked the shorter man, grabbing Orville’s face to make him look at him. ‘It was our people. In fact, in Spain they were called Moorish skewers. They invented them when it was considered bad manners to eat at a table using a knife.’

That’s it, you bastards. I have to say something.

Orville was not a coward, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew how much pain he could bear and he knew when he was beaten. He took three noisy breaths through his mouth. He didn’t dare breathe through his nose and make it hurt even more.

‘OK, enough. I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll sing, I’ll spill the beans, I’ll draw a rough diagram, plans. There’s no need for violence.’

The last word almost became a scream when he saw the man grabbing another skewer.

‘Of course you’ll talk. But we’re not the torture committee. We’re the execution committee. The thing is that we want to do it real slow. Nazim, put the pistol to his head.’

The one called Nazim, his expression a complete blank, sat down on a chair and placed the muzzle of the gun on Orville’s skull. Orville went still when he felt the cold metal.

‘As long as you’re in the mood to talk… tell me what you know about Huqan.’

Orville closed his eyes. He was scared. So this was what it was about.

‘Nothing. I’ve just heard things here and there.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the short man, slapping him three times. ‘Who told you to go after him? Who knows about the thing in Jordan?’

‘I don’t know anything about Jordan.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘It’s the truth. I swear to Allah!’

The words seemed to set something off in his aggressors. Nazim pressed the muzzle of the gun harder into Orville’s head. The other one placed the second skewer against his naked flesh.

‘You make me sick, koondeh. Look how you’ve used your talent – to drag your religion to the ground and betray your Muslim brothers. And all for a handful of beans.’

He traced the point of the skewer over Orville’s chest, stopping for a moment on the left breast. He gently lifted the fold of flesh, then let it drop suddenly, making the fat ripple across his belly. The metal left a scratch on the flesh, the droplets of blood mixing with the nervous sweat on Orville’s naked body.

‘Except that it wasn’t exactly a handful of beans,’ the man went on, sinking the sharp steel a little more deeply into the flesh. ‘You have several houses, a nice car, employees… and look at that watch, blessed be the name of Allah.’

You can have it if you let go, thought Orville, but he didn’t utter a word because he didn’t want another steel rod run through him. Shit, I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this.

He tried to think of something, anything, he could say to make the two men leave him alone. But the horrible pain in his nose and his hand screamed at him that such words did not exist.

With his free hand, Nazim removed the watch from Orville’s wrist and gave it to the other man.

‘Hey… Jaeger LeCoultre. Only the best, isn’t that right? How much does the government pay you for being a rat? I’m sure it’s a lot. Enough to buy twenty-thousand-dollar watches.’

The man threw the watch to the kitchen floor and started stomping as if his life depended on it, but all he managed to do was scratch the face, which made his theatrical gesture lose all its impact.

‘I only go after criminals,’ Orville said. ‘You don’t have a monopoly on Allah’s message.’

‘Don’t you dare say His Name again,’ said the short one, spitting in Orville’s face.

Orville’s upper lip began to shake, but he was no coward. He suddenly realised that he was about to die, so he spoke with as much dignity as possible. ‘Omak zanya feeh erd [4]’ he said, looking straight into the man’s face and trying not to stutter. Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. It was clear that the two men had thought they could break Orville and would watch him begging for his life. They didn’t expect him to be brave.

‘You’re going to cry like a girl,’ the older man said.

His arm went up and came down hard, driving the second skewer into Orville’s right hand. Orville couldn’t help himself and let out a scream that belied his daring of a few moments before. A spray of blood landed in his open mouth and he began to choke, coughing in spasms that wracked his body with pain as his hands jerked away from the skewers that pinned them to the wooden table.

Slowly the coughing lessened and the man’s words came true as two large teardrops rolled down Orville’s cheeks onto the table. It seemed to be all that the man needed to free Orville from his torture. He raised a new kitchen utensil: a long knife.

‘It’s all over, koondeh-’

A shot went off, echoing from the metal skillets that hung on the wall, and the man fell to the floor. His partner didn’t even turn around to see where the shot had come from. He leapt over the kitchen counter, scratching the expensive finish with his belt buckle, and landed on his hands. A second shot splintered part of the door frame a foot and a half above his head as Nazim disappeared.

Orville, his face smashed, his palms run through and bleeding like some strange parody of the crucifixion, was barely able to turn to see who had saved him from certain death. It was a thin blond man of about thirty, dressed in jeans and what looked like a priest’s dog collar.

‘Great pose, Orville,’ the priest said as he ran past him in pursuit of the second terrorist. He hid behind the door frame and then suddenly leaned out, holding the pistol with both hands. The only thing in front of him was an empty room with an open window.

The priest came back into the kitchen. Orville would have rubbed his eyes with amazement had his hands not been pinned to the table.

‘I don’t know who you are, but thank you. See what you can do to let me loose, please.’

With his damaged nose, it sounded like ‘led be looze, bleaze’.

‘Grit your teeth. This is going to hurt,’ the priest said, pulling on the skewer in his right hand. Although he tried to draw it straight out, Orville still screamed in pain. ‘You know, you’re not easy to find.’

Orville interrupted him by raising his hand. The wound on it was clearly visible. Gritting his teeth again, Orville rolled to his left and pulled the second skewer out himself. This time he didn’t scream.