Page 191 of Never

Kiah did not struggle. They would only hold her harder. She knew she could not escape. They took her to the guards’ compound. The sentry at the gate opened it for them and locked it after them. They took her to the light-blue house they called the makhur, the brothel.

Kiah began to cry.

The door was barred on the outside. They opened it, marched her in, released her, and left.

Kiah wiped her eyes and looked around.

There were six beds in the room, each with curtains that could be drawn for privacy. Three women were there, all dressed in humiliatingly skimpy clothing, Western-style lingerie. They were young and attractive but they looked miserable. The room was lit by candles, but was not in the least romantic.

Kiah said: ‘What will happen to me?’

One of the women said: ‘What do you think? You’re going to be fucked. That’s what this place is for. Don’t worry, it won’t kill you.’

Kiah thought about sex with Salim. At first he had been a bit clumsy and rough, but in a way she did not mind that, for it told her that he had not been with other women, at least not often. And he had been thoughtful and caring: on their honeymoon night he had asked her twice whether it was hurting her. Both times she had said no, although that was not really true. And she had soon learned the joy of giving and taking this pleasure with someone who loved her as she loved him.

And now she had to do it with a stranger who had cruel eyes.

The woman who had spoken was reprimanded by another, who said: ‘Don’t be horrible, Nyla. You were upset when they dragged you in here. You cried for days.’ She turned to Kiah. ‘I’m Sabah. What’s your name, dear?’

‘Kiah.’ She began to sob. She had been separated from her child, her hero had failed to protect her, and now she was going to be raped. She was in despair.

Sabah said: ‘Come and sit by me, and we’ll tell you what you need to know.’

‘All I want to know is how to get out of here.’

There was a moment of silence, then Nyla, the woman who had spoken first, the mean one, said: ‘There’s only one way I know. You leave when you’re dead.’

CHAPTER 27

Abdul’s mind was in a ferment. He had to rescue Kiah and flee from the camp, and he had to do both immediately, but how?

He divided the problem into stages.

First, he had to free Kiah from the makhur.

Second, he had to steal a car.

Third, he had to prevent the jihadis following him and catching him.

Considered like that, the challenge seemed three ways impossible.

He racked his brains. The others went to the cookhouse and got plates of semolina and stewed mutton. Abdul ate nothing and spoke to no one. He lay still, making plans.

The three adjacent compounds that formed one half of the camp were each fenced with stout steel-framed panels of galvanized wire mesh, standard for security barriers. The pit fence also had rolled barbed wire on top of the fencing panels, to discourage both slaves and jihadis who might try to steal gold. But Abdul did not need to get to the pit: Kiah was in the guards’ compound and the cars were in the vehicle park.

An armed man guarded the vehicle park. Inside the fence was a small wooden hut where he spent most of the cold night. No doubt the vehicle keys were kept in the hut. The cars were fuelled from a tanker next to the hut; when the tanker was getting low, another arrived.

A plan slowly took shape in Abdul’s mind. It might not work. He would probably be killed. But he was going to try.

First he had to wait, and that was hard. Everyone was still awake, slaves as well as guards. Al-Farabi would be with his men, talking and drinking coffee and smoking. Abdul’s best chance would come in the middle of the night, when they were asleep. The hard part was that Kiah had to spend several hours in the brothel. There was nothing he could do about that. He just hoped al-Farabi would be tired from his journey and retire early, postponing his visit to Kiah until another night. If not, she would suffer his attentions. Abdul tried not to think about it.

He lay in his place in the shelter, refining his plan, foreseeing snags, waiting. His companions lay down. Naji kept trying to leave the shelter to go in search of his mother, and Esma had to hold him down. He cried inconsolably, but eventually dropped off, lying between Esma and Bushra. The night became cold and they all wrapped themselves in blankets. The exhausted slaves went to sleep early. The jihadis probably stayed awake longer, Abdul guessed, but eventually they, too, would go to bed, leaving just a few on guard.

Tonight Abdul would almost certainly have to kill people, for the first time in his life. He felt surprised that the prospect did not dismay him more. He knew the names of many of the guards at this camp, just from listening to their conversations, but that did not make him feel any empathy. They were brutal slavers and murderers and rapists. They deserved no mercy. It was the effect on himself that worried him. In his fighting career he had never inflicted a fatal blow. He felt there must be a big difference between a man who had killed and one who had not. He would be sorry to cross that line.

Deep sleep, during which it was difficult to wake the sleeper, generally occurred in the first half of the night, he knew. The best time for clandestine activity was around one or two o’clock, according to his training. He lay awake until his watch said 1 a.m., then he quietly got to his feet.

He made little noise. In any case, there were always sounds in the shelter: snores, grunts, incomprehensible phrases muttered in dreams. He did not expect to wake anyone. However, when he glanced at Wahed, he noticed that the man was fully awake, eyes wide open, lying on his side, watching him, his cigarettes on the ground beside his head as always. Abdul nodded, and Wahed nodded back, then Abdul turned away.