Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding) Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the yard. On their knees they crawled, scraping the yard with their fingernails, standing as one when they each had a tiny handful of dust. Shielding the cargo carefully from any stray draft, they carried it to the opening in the wall. Taking careful turns, they brushed the grains of earth and sand off their hands and, as automata might, resumed their labour. The guards sat and watched, chatting and laughing together, moving their chairs when requested to do so, only occasionally stepping on fingers or delivering a kick to a helpless victim so as to make the time pass more quickly. Slowly the sun moved across the sky. When it seemed that every mote of dust had been removed the men sank again to their knees and gagged as they engaged with the final stage of their task.
    ‘Dry work, lads? Here, this will help moisten your throats.’ The guard who spoke stood up.
    He walked to the front of the line and opened the zip of his trousers.
    The bloodstained man charged at the urinating guard, making him stagger and wet himself. Another guard fired, and the prisoner collapsed, holding his hands to his belly. The man who had fired walked closer, watched his victim writhe, than fired again, killing him.
    ‘You know what to do, lads,’ he said. The body was picked up, carried to the hole in the wall, and pushed through; but not before some one had removed his boots.
    They were handcuffed, shackled together and dragged back to their cell. This time the manacles were not removed. Most managed to use the toilet bucket and then collapsed against a wall, too shocked to speak. There seemed no point in exchanging names.
    Ed was too tired to think. Thought was alien to this place. Time crawled. Some one sobbed, quietly. The air was too sodden with violence to breathe comfortably. They choked, gasped, vomited. Their stench filled the room. Ed tried to count the days, and failed. How long was it since he had been living a happy, loving, carefree life?  He had been secure; his wife-to-be, Jane, where was she now? Would she have had their child, his child, yet? Surely that would be some comfort to her. Their life together had seemed so safe, solid, and, that word again, so secure. Please God, let her parents take care of her and the child. God? Where was God in all this? If the worst happened she would have the insurance money, the value of the house. His own father had built a life on the ruins of disaster, and lived a happy life with Sirra, his mother. Surely Jane could do the same? His child would be deemed black. What would happen to her, or to him? If these doors of hell opened for the child’s father, what might become of the child? If Jane could get to Malinding, his home village in The Gambia, there wouldn’t be a problem. Africa had accepted his father. It had accepted and loved his children. Somehow it must be possible for Jane to make the journey. It must be. He stared into the darkness. His neighbour was mumbling prayers, over and over, to himself. Night thickened around them, cold, comfortless.
    The Watcher smiled as he observed them through the night vision cameras.
    ‘Softening up nicely. Soon be ready for the games.’ His companion nodded.
    ‘Another twenty-four hours, without food?  Kick the water bucket over, perhaps? They’ll be well ripe by then.’
    Morning crept like a traitor, slowly, secretly, into the cell. He had slept. Such a stupid thing to do, he thought, waste his remaining hours in sleep. Death would come today. They were in hell, their lives already forfeit, breathing borrowed air, counting borrowed hours, minutes, seconds. Life could not go on in this manner. Each of the survivors would make some unknown mistake and die for it. The only doubt possible would be the order of their deaths.
    The guards entered the room. Mr Jones, the only one known by name, smiled.
    ‘Time for a shower, lads; that’ll set you up for the day. Nice shower, hot water, soap, dry in the sun. Sounds good?  I said, sounds