Page 157 of Never

He shouted at Mohammed in fluent Arabic. ‘Get the other men working,’ he said. ‘And stop fooling around.’ Then he shouted: ‘Akeem!’ and beckoned a heavy-set worker with a baseball cap on a bald head. The man came over and took the drill from Abdul. The geologist said to Abdul: ‘Watch Akeem and learn.’

The newcomers got down to work and the mine settled into its routine.

Abdul heard someone shout: ‘Nugget!’ One of the men with hammers held up his hand. The geologist examined the rock debris and, with a grunt of satisfaction, picked up what looked like a dusty yellow stone: gold, Abdul presumed. He guessed that event was rare. Most alluvial gold was not so easy to extract. Periodically the debris on the concrete apron was swept up and dumped into a huge tank, presumably containing cyanide salts dissolved in water to leach the gold flakes out of the rock dust.

Work resumed. Abdul studied Akeem’s drilling technique. When he was moving the drill to a new area he supported it on one thigh, taking the strain off his back. He did not immediately go deep into the rock but first made a series of shallow holes, and Abdul guessed this would weaken the rock so that the blade was less likely to get stuck.

The noise was oppressive, and Abdul wished he had some of those foam-rubber earplugs the cabin crew gave out in business class. Such things seemed a world away. Bring me a cold glass of white wine, he thought, and a few of those salty nuts, please, and I’ll have the steak for dinner. How had he ever regarded flying as a hardship?

But Akeem had something in his ears, Abdul saw, coming back from his fantasy. After a moment’s thought he tore two little strips from the hem of his jalabiya, balled them up, and stuffed them in his ears. They were not very effective, but better than nothing.

After half an hour Akeem handed the jackhammer back to Abdul.

Abdul deployed it carefully, not rushing, copying Akeem’s technique. He soon felt he had control of the drill, though he knew he was not breaking up the rock as fast as Akeem. However, he had not anticipated how quickly his muscles would begin to fail him. If there was one thing he felt confident about it was his strength, but now his hands seemed reluctant to grip, his shoulders shook, and his thighs felt so weak he feared he would fall over. If he carried on he might drop the damn thing.

Akeem seemed to understand. He took the drill back, saying: ‘You’ll get stronger.’ Abdul felt humiliated. The last time someone had told him condescendingly that he would get stronger had been when he was eleven years old, and he had hated it then.

However, his strength returned, and by the time Akeem tired, he was ready for another session. Once again he did not last as long as he hoped, but he did a little better.

He thought: Why do I care how well I perform for these murdering fanatics? It’s my pride, of course. What fools we men are.

Some time before noon, as the sun was becoming unbearable, a whistle blew and everyone stopped work. They were not allowed to leave the enclosure, but rested in a shelter under a broad canopy.

Food was brought by half a dozen women. It was better than what had been served to the migrants the previous day. There was an oily stew with chunks of meat – probably camel, which was popular in Libya – and large helpings of rice. Someone had realized that slaves would dig more gold if they were properly fed. Abdul found that he was very hungry, and he shovelled the food in greedily.

After eating they lay down in the shade. Abdul was glad to rest his aching body, and found himself dreading the moment he had to go back to work. Some of the men slept, but Abdul did not, nor did Akeem, and Abdul decided this was an opportunity for him to learn more. He opened a conversation, speaking quietly, not wanting to attract the attention of the guards. ‘Where did you learn to operate a jackhammer?’

‘Here,’ said Akeem.

It was a curt reply, but the man did not seem hostile, so Abdul persisted. ‘I never touched one before today.’

‘I could see. I was the same when I got here.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘More than a year. Maybe two. It seems like for ever. It probably will be.’

‘You mean you’ll die here?’

‘Most of the men who arrived with me are dead. And there’s no other way out.’

‘Does no one try to escape?’

‘I’ve known a few to walk away. Some come back, half dead. Maybe some make it to the oasis, but I doubt it.’

‘What about vehicles coming and going?’

‘You can ask a driver to take you. He’ll say he doesn’t dare. They think they’ll be shot if they do. I expect it’s true.’

This was as much as Abdul guessed, but nevertheless it disheartened him.

Akeem gave him a shrewd look. ‘You’re planning your escape, I can tell.’

Abdul did not comment on that. ‘How did you come to be captured?’ he asked.

‘I’m from a large village where most people followed the Baha’i faith.’

Abdul had heard of it. It was a minority religion in many parts of the Middle East and North Africa. There was a tiny Baha’i community in Lebanon. ‘A tolerant creed, I’ve heard,’ he said.