Dead Centre

We stepped into the burning sun so they could pass us in the shade. The boys were well into the Wahhabi way of things. They didn’t even acknowledge us. I kept looking down into the dust, where we belonged.

When they’d gone, I moved nearer to Awaale again. ‘What the fuck is happening? What does that bit of paper say?’

‘I’ll translate it for you, but not now. They could be moved any minute. You need to see them while you still can.’

He shuffled on and I followed. Babies cried in the buildings either side of us. We reached the end of the alley and emerged into what was clearly the older part of town. Plaster over stone or brick, the buildings looked like the colonial, Italian area of Mogadishu, but on a smaller scale. They had seen better days, but looked habitable. Most had first-floor balconies. Many boasted parapets; they looked like small medieval forts.

We were in a square, in the middle of which stood an octagonal obelisk that resembled a small lighthouse. Each face was painted alternately black and white.

A gaggle of kids dressed like miniature al-Shabab, but so far without weapons, ran into a building to our left. Facing us, the other side of the obelisk, was the largest of the buildings. It might once have been the town hall, years ago, when the Italians ran the place and there was law and order. The sun bounced off the ocean a couple of hundred metres down the avenue to its right. I could see what looked like old harbour walls.

Awaale paused for a moment. ‘You see the red gates, Mr Nick?’

I followed his gaze to the left of the town hall. Solid metal at the bottom, vertical bars at the top, they were set into a low, once-whitewashed wall, topped with a security fence. Behind it was a single-storey colonial building that might have been a coach-house.

‘They’re in there, Mr Nick.’

‘That’s what the paper says?’

‘They’re being put on display. AS — the fighters, the mullahs — they live in the big building. It is now the Islamic Sharia Court. Not a good place.’

A gang of kids had stopped just to the right of the gates. Some were so deformed they were almost unable to function; some were being dragged about by the others. They were peering through the bars as I approached. I didn’t know if Awaale was behind me or not. It didn’t matter.

A couple of bodies moved around inside the compound: AS, armed and smoking. They picked up their wooden chairs and shifted them to a new vantage-point now the sun had moved. The kids shouted angrily, pointing down into the dead ground the other side of the wall. Locals lined up on both sides to get a better view.

To the right of the kids, close to the wall, a row of holes had been dug. The spoil was piled up alongside them. Arc lights had been mounted on the court-house walls. The wiring hung loosely from windows at the top of the building.

Five Somalis, three men and two women, were in the compound. But all eyes were on the three white prisoners.

24

Tracy, BB and Stefan were huddled in the shade of the wall to our left. They looked exactly as they had in the video. Tracy was wearing the same hijab. It was grimy and covered with dust. She lay on her side, Stefan in her arms. She stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. His eyes were closed. His legs were raw and red with the insect bites.

The three Somali men were in rags. Two lay down; one sat back against the wall. Their faces were blank; the abuse from the kids no longer registered.

BB sat on the far side of them. He also had his arse in the sand, his back to the wall. Elbows on his knees, his head rested on his hands.

The two Somali women were stuck in the corner, on their own, squatting on their haunches. One of them was crying. Her head jerked with every sob. The other, sobbed-out, simply looked down at the ground.

I moved along the wall to get closer to them. I was soon only a couple of metres away from Tracy. I could hear her singing gently to Stefan. ‘Three Blind Mice’. He still had his eyes closed. She sensed somebody above her. Maybe she’d become aware of my shadow on the sand. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes.

‘Help us … please … help us …’

Her tears carved tracks through the layers of sand and dust on her face. Her lips were cracked and baked, but she was still beautiful. ‘Please … help my son …’ She reached up towards me.

All I could do was look. I turned my head towards BB. Was he in any condition to fight his way out?

He looked at Tracy as he heard her begging, then stared straight at my blue mesh.

The kids found something new to howl about.

He stayed completely focused. ‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up?’ he said to them. ‘And what are you looking at, you fucking bitch?’

Tracy struggled to her feet. Her hands gripped the bars less than a foot away from my face.

‘Please help us … my baby … my son …’

I didn’t want to look at her directly. We were too close. She might see my white skin through the mesh. As I looked away I could see why the kids had gone noisy again. Ant and Dec were being dragged out of the building to be put on display with the rest of them.

Both had just a day or so of stubble, and were in much better condition than the others. That said, they’d still had a good kicking. Ant had cut and swollen lips. Dec had a black eye.

Their AS escorts pushed them hard into the dust. The kids laughed, then screamed like banshees. The older locals were silent. I had the feeling they’d seen it all before.

Tracy’s hands reached through the bars to try and grab me. I jerked back. She missed me by a couple of inches, then turned her attention to Awaale.

‘Please help my son … please …’

She collapsed sobbing as the truth dawned. We weren’t going to help. Nobody was. Her hands slid back through the bars.

The two AS hard men had had enough. They got to their feet and shouted at the kids to fuck off. Then they headed our way. They grabbed Tracy and flung her back onto the ground. Stefan was curled up in his own little world. It was like he’d pulled the duvet over his head and was praying the monsters would go away.

BB couldn’t seem to decide whether he hated the AS or the audience more, so he turned on both of us. ‘Yeah, go on, fuck off! Cunts …’

One of the AS lads picked up a handful of sand and stones and hurled it at us.

We got the message. We moved away. The kids ran off to join the others going into the madrasah, dragging their deformed mates with them. Hundreds of years before the Christian West switched on to the possibility, Muslims had figured out the world was round. They also knew the distance to the moon, and that the earth moved around the sun. Islamic schools were set up to teach mathematics, astronomy and philosophy as well as the Koran. I somehow doubted that this particular school was keeping up the good work. Judging by their performance a few minutes ago, they’d had the Koran drummed into them word for word, and been taught the hard-line AS interpretation of the text. Their generation of Somalis would know nothing else.

Awaale followed me past the court-house and down towards the harbour. Once I got there I’d turn left, back to the skiff. I needed to gather my thoughts.

It had all the makings of a weapons-grade gang-fuck, but at least BB sounded up for a fight.

25

The skiff was still where we’d hidden it. There were no new footprints coming towards it or going away. The surf had washed away the drag marks.