Men.
Women.
Children.
Found, mutilated and hanged without a moment’s hesitation. The stories were so horrifying, Qadir remembered tales in his playground that spoke of The Hangman as if he were a real life bogeyman. Now, as the chain slowly lowered, and the leather strap that comprised the noose slid gently around his neck, he realised that some legends were indeed true.
And in that truth, his horrifying destiny lay.
Qadir shook with fear, his already drenched trousers filling with urine and the pungent smell wafted through the heat to Farukh.
The Hangman turned and looked at Qadir with a disappointing shake of the head.
‘In death, one will be remembered in one of two ways,’ Farukh said, his Arabic slow and purposeful. ‘Either as a coward or as a conqueror.’
Qadir felt the tears flooding down his cheeks as the noose rested on his collar bone, the cool leather pressing against the blood that had trickled down to his chest. As he finished his prayer, he turned to face his executioner. Qadir’s wavy black hair was matted to his head, thick with sweat and blood.
His left eye was swollen.
His right was shut; the blood gushing from the wound dripped from his lashes.
His lips were split, and blood seeped through them from the teeth that Farukh had removed with the rusty pair of pliers that were tossed lazily to the side of the room. The man had no fear of covering his tracks.
To the rest of the world, he was a ghost.
An urban legend.
A bump in the night.
Now, as Farukh lit a cigarette and let a plume of smoke casually lift from his mouth, Qadir saw what he truly was.
Evil.
Weeping as quietly as he could, Qadir shut his eyes and took a deep breath. All this for doing the right thing. For doing his best to tell his people what was truly happening with his government. That they would pay a man such as Farukh to erase people like they were mistakes.
To make them disappear.
Farukh watched with a perverted pleasure as his latest victim shook in his chair, praying to a god that Farukh knew had long since abandoned him.
Abandoned them all.
It was why men like him survived.
Were a necessity.
He rested the cigarette between his lips, careful for the end to not singe his thick, greying moustache. He wrapped both of his war-torn hands around the chain and with his vast might, heaved the chain.
The leather tightened.
A few small bones in Qadir’s neck cracked as it pulled tight.
A feeble gasp of air was soon shut off as Farukh heaved once more, crushing the man’s larynx as he lifted the man from the ground, the metal chair accompanying him as he ascended towards the heavens.
Not towards the grateful arms of Allah.
But towards an agonising end.
With one final yank, the chair lifted to eight feet, the weight of it pulling Qadir towards the ground. The man shook, the noose claiming his final moments in the world.
Farukh stared at his latest victim, taking a long, satisfying pull on his cigarette.
In an instant it was over.
The chain stopped swinging.
The chair gently swung from side to side.
Qadir was dead.
As casually as a jolly punter lifted a pint, Farukh lifted the small bottle of gasoline which he’d placed on the side, popping the cap and he carelessly sloshed the petrol across the dusty floor, the liquid covering the stone and surrounding fixtures.
The smell wafted through the suffocating heat, trying its best to mask the stench of death.
Farukh slid the apron over his head and tossed it into the puddle.
Taking one final drag of his cigarette, he flicked the butt towards the petrol. Flames shot up like the bowels of hell themselves, quickly spreading across the gasoline trail before consuming the nearby equipment. The heat rose quickly, but with calm steps, Farukh walked towards the exit to the fresh air and beating sun outside.
As he stepped out, he lit another cigarette, before cupping his murderous hand across his brow to shield the sun.
The historic landscape of Hasankeyf was a beauty to behold.
He smiled, taking another drag before heading towards the Jeep parked half a mile down the road.
Behind him, the factory fell to the relentless fire and inside the terrifying blaze consumed the motionless body of Qadir.
Within moments, Farukh would be gone.
Once the authorities had extinguished the fire and realised what had happened, there would be two names they would confirm.
Abdul Qadir. Deceased.
Aljulad bin Baghdad.
The Hangman of Baghdad.
‘I don’t like it.’
Sam crossed his arms across his broad chest, his recently healed bullet wound causing his shoulder to ache. As a light drizzle sprinkled the Italian evening, he looked out of the window of the small flat to the street below. A few hours before, gridlocked traffic had brought the city to a crawl as everyone returned to their homes. Their normal lives.
A world away from where he was.
Now, a few cars glided up the wide roads, their lights cutting through the rain as it splattered from the skies above.
Behind him, Alex rolled her eyes, slightly limping as she walked to the small rail where they hung the few clothes they owned. When she’d taken Sam to the veterinarian to save his life, she also had the young vet treat the bullet wound in her own leg.
Growing up in the Bronx in New York, Alex had been in her fair share of scrapes, especially as she ventured into the world of street racing. There had been a nasty collision when someone tried to run her off the road as she hurtled towards the finish line, sending her careening into a parked truck. The impact had sent a shockwave through her body and the whiplash was immense.
But the pain of being shot was unlike anything she’d ever felt, and she was grateful it had been a flesh wound.
Sam had applied a makeshift tourniquet at the time, which the young vet had told her had probably saved her life.
An act she’d repaid
