Carstairs Of ArabiaChapter 19: Cooling Down In Riyadh free porn video
They waited until her heart stopped pumping blood, which took about twenty seconds or so. Then the pressure got too low, and the trickle stopped. Two men dressed more like medics than soldiers came out of the main building with a stretcher. They wore gloves and aprons. Hurriedly they placed the body on the stretcher. The executioner helpfully placed the bag with the head above the neck, but only after he was done wiping down the blade and carefully sliding it back into its sheath. The Imam was mumbling something. Praise to Allah, no doubt.
“I don’t like this either, Mr. Carstairs,” said Omar. “But we must obey the will of Allah, and the law. Sit down. I don’t want you to faint from the heat.”
I put my hat back on and had a sip of water. This was one of the most shocking things I had witnessed in my life. But let’s be honest: by then I was no stranger to death. I had pushed a man in front of a train. I had fed someone into the gaping maw of an escalator. I had kicked one down the stairs. I had smashed a man to death with a rock. I had let one burn to death in his house. I had slashed one’s throat, as I forced him to hold the knife in his own hand so it would suggest suicide. And I had yet to lose a single night of sleep over any of these executions. In fact, I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
A man with a sanitation department uniform came out with a hose, and rinsed the blood away. It diluted easy enough and soon every last drop had been washed down the drain. Tap water in Saudi is about thirty to forty degrees Celsius, depending on the time of day. There are times where you can’t actually shower even if you only turn on the cold tap, because it will scald you. I no longer had this problem in the Guest Palace, because they had some large water tanks in the basement, where the water was brought down to about twenty degrees. It didn’t need to be any colder, because nobody would actually drink it. Rinsing lettuce was a bit of an issue, though.
I brushed my teeth with tap water, but most people even used bottled water for that. For a while I thought the word for bottled water was ‘Tanuf’, but it turns out that’s just a brand name. It’s from Oman, but Asim preferred it and some supermarkets carried it, even though the big local brands are Aloyoun and Zamzam, and the palace ran exclusively on Volvic.
The water from the hose evaporated within a minute, resetting the stage for another round of gruesomeness. And that was the end of an abused mother, long ago abandoned by any God.
Next up was another beheading. This man was convicted of murdering a little boy, by driving around drunk as a Lord and plowing into the kid, who was playing outside. Omar summarized the executioner’s proclamation for me, but I was still thinking about Ruya. I can’t imagine Saudi prisons are very nice, so at least that suffering had ended. But she hadn’t seen her little boy for years. I hadn’t seen Edwin in about a month and a half, and I found I couldn’t even allow myself to think about all those precious moments from his first year without choking up. I cry a little too easily anyway, although that had gotten a bit better of late, but it took effort to suppress those thoughts. And I had stuff to do. Imagine being locked up for years, knowing your child is growing up thousands of kilometres away, supervised by your mother who is also slowly ageing and no longer getting money orders from you. Oh, man...
So I didn’t even pay all that much attention when the second head rolled, to be honest. I certainly didn’t stand up. It was hot as balls here, even in the shade. The family of the little boy, represented by two men, were allowed to witness the execution up close. Omar told me they had been offered the chance to perform the execution themselves, but had declined. He even told me why, a few seconds before the head rolled:
“When family members perform the kill, it always goes wrong. They are emotional. And unlike the executioner, they don’t practice. And so it becomes a blood bath. Very traumatic. Usually the victim bleeds to death, because they can’t actually cut off the head in one move. This executioner, his father was also an executioner. He first saw his father at work when he was seven years old and took over when he was twenty-five. These men are professionals. One blow with the sword is enough.”
I just nodded. If a drunk ran over Edwin, I don’t think I’d want to kill him myself. Maybe if I caught him, but not once he’d been arrested. In fact, I’d plead to get his (or her) sentence commuted to life. If I’m going to have to suffer for a few more decades, so is he.
The thing about live executions, as opposed to the dramatized ones you’ll have seen in movies such as The Green Mile or Dead Man Walking is that it’s all over a lot quicker and there’s no dramatic music. Once they walk ‘em out, it’s done in a matter of minutes. No somber violins, no close-ups, no speeches. Just the din of traffic, and a Saudi prince chatting to you like you’re in Fenway Park, hoping not to end up on the Kiss Cam. That happened to Wayne and me when he insisted on taking me to Dodger Stadium. He was up for a joke, but I was just working out how to negotiate getting a beer with ten people between me and the beer guy, and I hadn’t figured out they only sell one item each so he was angry at me for also insisting on ordering a hot dog. That must sound dumb to you, but I’d never been to a game before, and so I looked very dismayed when I found out we were on the big screen and Wayne ended up sort of kissing my shoulder while I searched my wallet for a fifty cent coin. By the way: SIX dollars for a hot dog?
So anyway, I got with the program when I saw a black football rolling away from a body that hit the ground right away and observed it as dispassionately as everyone else in the crowd. The finale was a series of fifty lashes for a guy who had stolen a Lexus off of some minor prince. The total sentence was for two hundred lashes, but as you don’t survive that many they dole it out in smaller portions. This was the last set and he had been ‘allowed’ to recover for two weeks. In prison, obviously. He clearly knew what was coming, because he pissed himself as he was dragged out and his cries could easily be heard over the sounds of Riyadh. He got to keep his shirt on and they don’t break the skin, but even one of those lashes would take you out of commission for the rest of the day. To be honest, this was a lot more intense than the beheading. It took a while, too. I saw a wet spot appear on the executioner’s back after about ten strikes. He used a long cane and picked a fresh spot for every blow, from the neck to the legs. The prisoner was welcome to lay on the ground, but given that those paving tiles would be hot enough to fry an egg, he chose to remain standing. At least for the first twenty-seven of ‘em. When he fell over, Omar had enough. Not of the cruelty, but of the heat. He stood up without a word and went inside, where it was air conditioned. The Imam and I followed. We all drank water as we just stood around and cooled down. I took off my hat and dabbed my head. Muted cries were still heard at ten second intervals.
“He should wear a guthra, it’s more respectable,” burbled the Imam through brown, crooked teeth. It was obvious Omar didn’t like his new job as a translator, but clearly respected the old guy too much to tell him to speak English.
“And you should see a dentist,” I growled, having lost all sense of decorum. Omar admonished me:
“Mr. Carstairs, I understand you are upset, but do not be disrespectful to the Imam.”
“Yes, Yowrihnes.”
“You never watch man die?” asked the Imam, now in English. “Westerners, they are weak. That is why their countries are full of rape and adultery.”
“So that’s just us, then? In that case, why do you have executions and corporal punishments here every week?” I shot back. “What did these people do, park on a double yellow?”
“We have not so many criminals as you. Because we are strict. In the West, you think murderers can go home after five years in comfortable prisons. They play computer games. They order alcohol. You should have death penalty, like us,” argued the Imam. I think he just wanted to annoy me, as I hadn’t just collapsed in a heap of tears as he had clearly been hoping.
“You know, I have nothing against the death penalty. I’m all for it. And chopping off hands. Absolutely fine with that.”
Four eyebrows shot up.
“Really?”
“Oh yes. But here’s the thing: only for the guilty. And sadly, far too many people get handed unjust punishments. The British legal system is rife with errors, bias and police corruption. Ask the Birmingham Six. Or Donna Anthony. Or Ched Evans. And that’s the BRITISH legal system. Heaven knows what kind of kangaroo courts you guys are running. I wouldn’t trust one of your lot to judge a knobbly knees contest, never mind try a murder case. That woman you made me sit with, Ruya? That was self defence! She was imprisoned, no ENSLAVED for YEARS. Nobody lifted a finger. Then she lashes out at her tormentor and it’s all over for her. That was a TRAVESTY back there. The drunk and those thieves? Fine. Whatever. IF, and it’s a mighty big if, they were actually guilty. But that woman? That was murder. Murder by the state.”
“That was God’s will!” thundered Omar. “Carstairs, I took you here to show you how we deal with crime in this country. Because you have a VERY big mouth and it annoys me. But clearly, you haven’t learned from this, so I will tell you outright. Be very careful here. With my family and with your opinions about our country and our faith.”
“I don’t recall having expressed an opinion on either.”
“Not to me, directly. But to Asim. And to the princess. You use polite words, but I see the disdain in your eyes. And the way you speak to ME is just ... Sometimes I think you don’t even hear what you say out loud! Just then, about our court system! Consider this a warning. Show us the proper respect. And don’t ever speak like that to the Imam! He is a man of learning, a man of God! You should show him respect. You should show ME some respect!”
Well, this was not the time to go and pick a fight. I bit my tongue, figuratively of course, and said:
“I will do my best, Your Royal Highness. And thank you for allowing me to pray with Ruya in her hour of need. I’m glad you brought me here, so I could be with her. Thank you very much.”
I didn’t actually mean that, but there’s this psychological trick where you ask people who don’t like you to do you a favour. Ben Franklin discovered this one. Surprisingly often they will oblige, because you’re acknowledging that they can do or get something you can’t. And then, after they did you this favour, which needn’t be all that grand, they start to think you’re probably not that bad. After all, they did just help you and they wouldn’t have if you weren’t worth it.
In this case, helping me or Ruya had been the farthest thing from Omar’s mind. He just wanted to scare me. But now he could be seen as compassionate, and he liked that.
“Okay. Good. Unless these are just polite words again. We shall see. You know, the Imam says you should not even be allowed in the country. You worship Jesus and Mary as well as God. But there is only one God, and he is not a father. He is bigger than that.”
The Imam nodded. Apparently this was a really big deal to him. Islam does not acknowledge the Trinity. Allah doesn’t have family. Personally I could not care less. If it weren’t for my interest in art, years if not decades would pass without me ever giving even a passing thought to God, Jesus or Mary. They are about as relevant to my life as Tony the Tiger.
“I’m afraid I’m rather ill equipped for a theological debate. Particularly in a country that hands out the death penalty for voicing an opposing view. For now I am here to help the Princess get her diploma. That is all. I did not need to see this.”
The Imam piped up again.
“You are man who sings. Who dance. You work for a woman. You know punishment for this? For sodomy?”
“Excuse me, what now? SODOMY? Because I worked for a woman? How does that work?”
“I think the Iman means that...” began Omar.
“You don’t take wife. You sing. You work for woman. It is very clear.”
“My wife DIED, you miserable old sod. God gave her a disease. And yes, I worked for Ms. Keller. But every single man in the British Army and government works for a woman, did you know that? THE QUEEN. That and being able to carry a tune doesn’t make us all queers, you know!”
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