Contents ( 84)
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- Acknowledgements
Mansour had ignored it all. They meant nothing, he reasoned. Just the words of a man who believed his prisoner was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people. If anything, Mansour understood both the guard’s hatred and his need to voice it.
And so they had spent the entire journey facing each other across the gangway, with the guard baiting and Mansour refusing to bite. A battle of wills that Mansour was determined to win.
The vehicle picked up speed, which meant the traffic must have eased off.
Mansour’s first reaction was relief. It suggested that they were finally out of London. Which in turn meant they could not be far from their destination. His ordeal was almost over; soon he would be in Belmarsh, away from the abusive guard.
But that relief was misplaced.
Almost immediately the prison van took a corner at speed. Fast enough that Mansour was thrown repeatedly sideways in his seat with much more force than before. The uncontrolled movement caused his restraints to bite deeper into his skin. It felt like they were rubbing against his bones.
If the first turn could be dismissed as accidental, by the third Mansour had no doubt that the driving style was intentional. That the unseen driver was doing it to show their disgust with the ‘criminal’ the van was carrying. Exactly as the guard had been doing throughout the journey. Only now the torment was more than words. The memory of the last hours of cold, impatient discomfort were dismissed, replaced by pain and anger as his wrists burned.
And all the while the guard watched, his free hands steadying him against the worst of the van’s movement and his smirk growing with every painful turn.
‘FUCKING . . . FUCKING . . . FUCKS!’
It was all Mansour could think to shout as the van turned again and caused his left wrist to buckle. Like any joint, it could only go so far in the wrong direction.
‘YOU . . . YOU WILL BREAK MY FUCKING WRIST!’
He shouted the words through gritted teeth, fighting to keep his body rigid and still. For an instant he was sure that effort would fail. And then it was over. The corner was turned, and the speed of the van decreased.
Somehow, his wrist – bloody and bruised though it was – was unbroken.
A fact which did not make Mansour any less angry. After everything he had been through – his sister’s kidnapping, finding himself under the control of Romeo and his friends, the bomb on the plane, his brother’s death – the intentional physical pain being inflicted on him was more than he could tolerate.
Enough was finally enough.
‘FUCKING ARSEHOLES!’ he shouted. ‘EMAK DLALE!’
‘HEY!’ The shouted interruption came from the guard. His smile was wide but grim. He was enjoying Mansour’s reaction. It was the satisfaction he had been seeking since the beginning. ‘Watch your language, sunshine.’
‘Fuck you.’ He spat the words in anger. ‘Your fucking friend driving, he try to break my fucking wrist.’