He looked around.

There was no Ahmed.

Had he been successful?

Where was he?

A guard was sitting in a chair in the corridor, a shotgun resting across his lap. He was snoring lightly, his sleep untroubled by the muffled cries of pain that could occasionally be heard from the direction of the interrogation block.

A group of six men sat together, and Faik eavesdropped on their conversation. They were talking about Ahmed, and he gathered that they were among the prisoners that he was representing. They noticed that he was listening, and once he had explained that he was one of their number, they invited him to join them. He picked his way over the out-flung limbs of prisoners who passed the interminable time in sleep and sat down amid them.

They introduced themselves: an oil worker, an accountant, a shopkeeper, two engineers and a driver.

“What do you do?” the accountant asked him.

“I am trying to find work.”

“What does your father do?”

“He was a soldier.”

“And you don’t like the idea of that?”

“No,” he said.

The men laughed.

“No indeed. A most dangerous profession.”

“I was at the oilfield. I want to work there.”

They scoffed.

“Good luck. Those jobs are not intended for Iraqis.”

The accountant indicated the busy cell. “We were wondering where our advocate has gone.”

“Maybe he has negotiated his own release and forgotten about the rest of us.”

Faik’s eyes went wide. “Do you think he . . . ?”

“Relax. It was a joke.”

“He is an honourable man.”

“Do you think he will be able to get us out?”

“I don’t know. But anything is worth a try.”

The guard outside the cell was listening to their conversation. He opened his eyes, stretched and yawned. “I wouldn’t set too much hope in your friend Ahmed,” he said. “He won’t be able to help you.”

“Why not?” asked the engineer.

“Because he’s not coming back, friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“The governor doesn’t take kindly to be lectured by criminals.” He spat the last word with eloquent distaste. “He sent the good lawyer to the interrogation block before lunch. I heard he had a heart attack and, well . . .” He allowed his tongue to poke out of his mouth and angled his head to the side.

“They killed him?”

“His heart, like I said. Tragic.”

Faik struggled to his feet and ploughed through the others to the cell door.

“Let me out,” he yelled at the guard. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I shouldn’t be here.”

He wrapped his fingers around the bars and started to rattle the door.

The guard rose from his chair. “Get back, boy,” he said.

“I’m not a criminal. They shot my mother!”

He shook the door again, the metal clanking loudly.

The guard reversed his shotgun and drove the butt, hard, against Faik’s fingers. His right hand flashed with sudden pain, and he let go of the bars.

The guard spun the shotgun again and pointed it at him. “Sit down, boy,” he said with naked menace. “You don’t want the same thing to happen to you, do you?”