Carstairs Of ArabiaChapter 28: All Out Of Gum And Ass To Kick free porn video
Darkness had come and gone. Musa and I had worked all through the night. When I had answers to all the questions I could think of, and had copied the contents of the SD-cards to my laptop to make space on one of them, I had written a script for him to read. It was based on what he had told me, but we still went through it line by line. By that time he was struggling to stay conscious. The wounds on his wrists in particular hurt terribly, so much in fact that I had to cut him loose and bandage them. I also gave him some water, and some crackers.
He didn’t understand that I wanted him to check the script I was going to make him read. He’d have said absolutely anything, but I wanted to get the facts right. If I made him say that he recruited young men during the Hadj, that had to be true. But when I asked him to confirm anything, he would only ever say yes. He no longer believed I would not be angry or hurt him if he changed something, that what we were doing now was more akin to a journalistic interview than an interrogation.
When he heard the mosques calling the faithful to morning prayer, he asked to be allowed to pray. By that time he wouldn’t even be able to get down the stairs by himself, so I allowed it. I wondered if he would be able to locate Mecca from inside this box, but he resolutely picked an angle slightly askew to the wall and then gingerly took a water bottle to wash himself.
“If you clean your nose, I’ll shove this up it,” I warned, waving the Picana at him.
“No, no...”
I watched him pray. I didn’t understand a word of it, because it’s not even modern Arabic and I don’t understand half of that. Like Catholic prayers, they’re convoluted, stale sentences. I don’t know if they speak of peace, or compassion, or if they contain a request for guidance, but if they do then the meaning has long since been lost on those who speak them.
Seeing him there, on his knees, reminded me of Sinterklaas. That’s a Dutch celebration, involving a bishop. I’ll have told you about that at one point. In fact, I once played Sinterklaas. That was a day to remember! Kate loves telling that story. I told her to write it down, but I’m not sure if she has. It’s a bit raunchy, here and there.
Anyway: I believed in Sinterklaas wholeheartedly, up until about six or seven. I wrote letters to him. I sang songs. I actually behaved a bit better in November and December, or at least until December fifth. And I was convinced he knew who I was, too.
That is the only experience I have that helps me understand religion: I was told something as a child by people I trusted implicitly, and saw it confirmed throughout the entire country. Family members, teachers and people on TV all said the same things. There were books about Sinterklaas, and audio cassettes with songs about him. I had no reason, none whatever, to doubt his existence. He was as real to me as Allah was to Musa, or God to Melody. And even so, by the time I was eight I fully understood how ridiculous it was to think that a man who was apparently hundreds of years old would ride the rooftops on a white steed and give free presents including personalised poems to a few million people. And I had SEEN Sinterklaas, mind you. I had pictures of myself on his lap. I’d seen him on TV. He’d written back to me! That’s a hell of a lot more evidence than any Catholic or Muslim ever got, and yet I saw through it even as a child. But it was nice, I will admit, to believe in him. I missed that, the first couple of years, even though I was now a part of the conspiracy and a few years later I would be playing my part around Kate. I wanted her to have that feeling for a few years as well. The feeling that there’s a nice man with a beard and a golden staff, who keeps an eye out for you, and who hopes you’re doing well. I have embraced science instead of faith, but I will readily admit it’s like hugging a lamppost.
Sensing that it was best not to annoy me, Musa kept the prayer noise to a minimum. He hummed a few discordant lines in that awful Arabic scale, but didn’t go full Freddy Mercury on me, as he did when he was leading the prayer, or calling the faithful from atop the minaret.
“I am done. But I cannot get up,” he said.
“Good. I’ll need a few minutes to set up the camera, so you can stay there and rest. Then I will need you to read this script to camera, and were done.”
“And then what we do?”
“Then I have a plane to catch. Now shut up. Think about the Christian evangelist who was beaten to death last week in Uganda, by muslims. Or the three dozen people hacked to death in Niger, by muslims. Or the two young Iraqi boys who had their throat slit for taking cell phone pictures in Mosul. That was yesterday.”
“How you know this?”
“There’s a website. Thereligionofpeace.com. It explains about Islam and it keeps track of all acts of Muslim violence since the 9/11 attacks. Day by day. I have a browser window open on my laptop. Here, pick a date. Any date.”
“Uhm ... No. It’s good.”
“PICK. A. DATE.”
“I don’t know the Western calendar! Uhm ... uhm ... two weeks ago?”
“Let’s see ... Oh, that’s a beauty. Twelve Christians are tortured and murdered by the Islamic State for refusing to embrace Islam, including a 12-year-old boy who had his fingers chopped off, three women who were raped and three others who were crucified. That was in Aleppo.”
“That is not true...”
“Yes it is. That’s the truest Islam there is. How DARE you distance yourself from that, when you had a fucking BOMB stored in your mosque. Now shut up.”
“And so I urge all my muslim brothers and sisters to lay down their weapons. If our God is worthy of our adoration, he should not want us to commit any acts of violence. If he does, he is ... not worthy.”
Musa looked up from my laptop screen and tried very hard not to collapse as he looked straight into the lens. It was very clear this man had received a savage beating, and was at the end of his tether.
“Aaaand ... cut! Well done. You wouldn’t think a muslim cleric would have any practical skills, but you’d have done well as a radio presenter, Musa.”
“What will you do with this?”
“I’ll edit a nice little video and give it to the media in due course. You’ll be famous! Posthumously, of course. Speaking of same: it’s time to wrap. And I do mean that in a very literal sense.”
He started crying again. Shivering, in fact.
“What ... will you do?”
“Oh, don’t you worry. It won’t be anywhere near as cruel as what devout muslims have done to children, women, journalists, the disabled, the pregnant, the innocent ... Now stand still. Hands behind your back.”
I picked up a few tie rips.
“NO! Not these!”
“Sorry. I’m self-funded, you see. I don’t have a global network of mosques that raise money for me. Or a government that sponsors me. Not for this, at least. There ... nice and tight. Now, this is new. You’ll love this. You like it when people are dressed in black from head to toe, don’t you?”
I’d bought a few rolls of big, shiny plastic trash bags and some packing tape and began to wrap him up like a mummy. I’d put on gloves again, because plastic loves finger prints, which made it a much harder job than it needed to be. That and the wailing. He promised me the world while I made him spin around, unrolling the plastic. I just ignored it. It took fifteen minutes to wrap him from his feet to his neck. He looked like an extra for a really low budget S&M-film by then. I then put an old canvas shopping bag over his head, tied it up and took him on my shoulder. A minute later he was in the back of K-T.
“Scream all you want, old man. It’s not going to make a blind bit of difference.”
“Is there a person in my cargo space?” asked K-T.
“Call that a cargo space? Yes, you have a passenger.”
“You have four messages.”
“I’ll bet. Look, I’ll need half an hour to clear up. He can scream as much as he wants.”
“Do you want me to monitor his vital signs?”
“Not particularly.”
“I am unable to...”
“NO.”
“Understood.”
Cleaning up took a bit of doing. I ended up with three full trash bags. Then I mopped the floor with diluted bleach. I could have torched this place, but that would draw attention to it. Right now, hardly anyone knew I was here.
I packed all the hardware and briefly regretted the fact I was going to throw a perfectly good video camera away, without even recycling it. I’d never have done that at home. The Picana and the power supply would be discarded, too. Shame there was no river nearby to toss it in to. My laptop was fully encrypted, so I’d keep that. Booting it up the wrong way would take you to a barely used Windows installation, so I felt safe travelling with it.
I’d have preferred to do this next bit at night, but time was against me. I really wanted a shower, but there just wasn’t time. Half an hour after I had loaded Musa into the car, we took off.
“Destination?” asked K-T.
“Riyadh gallery. I’ve got some trash to get rid of.”
“Understood. You have four messages.”
I sighed. This wouldn’t stop.
“Play in reverse chronological order.”
“Message four. Received two hours and sixteen minutes ago. Audio only.”
Peter’s voice surprised me.
“MARTIN! For the love of Christ, would you call us back?! Girls are going spare up here. Call the office. Fuck, call anyone. Your mum, for all I care.”
“Message ends. Message three. Received four hours ago. Audio only.”
“This is John Stein, just trying this number. I am hoping to reach ... Reginald. It is urgent that he contact me. My number is 011-207-8111. That’s in Saudi Arabia, country code 966. It is very urgent. Call me day or night. Thank you.”
“Message ends. Message two. Audiovisual file. I cannot play back this file.”
“Why not?”
“I do not have the required codec.”
I sighed.
“Does it have audio?”
“Working. Yes.”
“Play back.”
I heard an unfamiliar but excited female voice.
“ ... like and subscribe! Now, the disappearance of the actor Martin King has been causing quite a stir on social media. Even though his agency and his family claim he is alive and well, not even Kelly Newman was able to tell reporters what her friend is up to, and shied away from the camera when asked. The hashtag #doctorwhere, inspired by the front page of the Sun newspaper which featured a picture of Mr. King and the caption ‘Doctor Where?’ has been trending in the UK and in Germany for the last forty-eight hours. Martin King is seen as the best candidate to replace Peter Capaldi, who has indicated he is ready to hand over the role. Well, it seemed like Mr. King has already found his way to the Tardis and escaped to a new reality, but now his showbiz friend Phil Smith has tweeted about the matter! In a recent tweet he wrote ‘My boy Martin King is working with me and Wayne Johnston on a great new project and has taken some time to write a script. Please don’t disturb him: work in progress. PS he may bite if found.’ The message has been retweeted over seventy-thousand times, with many finding it strange that not even Kelly seems to be aware of this, as she and Martin are known to be very close friends. The Metropolitan police has received several missing persons reports, but has responded that only Mr. King’s family is able to report him as missing and that they have no reason to believe he is in any danger. What do you think? Is King in trouble? And should he be the new Dr. Who? What is he working on with Phil and Wayne? Leave a message in the comments below. If you like our channel, please hit the...”
“Stop playback. Next message please.”
Good God, the front page of the Sun?! They didn’t even like me! But perhaps they thought I was getting surgery, or recovering from an addiction. In that case flushing me out would be a treat for them. Never assume the red tops are looking out for anyone but themselves.
“Message one. Audio file. Received nineteen hours ago.”
Caroline. She sounded agitated.
“Martin! We just received word about a large explosion in Riyadh. I know it’s a big city, but your vehicle was pinged in the vicinity and your phone seems to have been turned off. Given your propensity for attracting disaster, please put our minds at rest. As I understand it, you were about to leave anyway. It would be great to know the details, so the nation may receive you in a becoming state. I’m sure you’ll have ignored all about it, but right now everyone seems to think either our agency had you killed or that you cheated on your wife and have gone into exile. Kate is working on some mitigating measures, but the fun has worn off. Your family needs you here, Martin. Urgently. Call Alice direct, please. Thank you.”
The roads of Riyadh were busy as always. Old trucks loaded with building supplies for any of the dozens of building sites fumed and belched their way through the city. Saloon cars with deeply tinted windows and Pakistani drivers behind the wheel were urged by entitled Saudi passengers to either cut off or in front of everybody else. Gaunt Pinoys and Indians riding around on 125 cc motorbikes, often with a passenger, weaved through all that. They were actually feeling the heat, breathing the fumes and having to squint through the dust. How these guys managed to wear impeccably clean and dry shirts was beyond me. I guess they were used to cities and temperatures like these.
We weren’t making much headway, because K-T did most of the driving and she was very careful. Right now we were at an intersection, which was being closed off by a motorcycle officer. No doubt another urgent ministerial convoy was on its way to a jewellery store. Plenty of time for a call. Within thirty seconds I had Caroline on the phone.
“MARTIN! Thank goodness! Are you well?”
“Well enough. Sorry I’ve not been in touch. I’ve been busy.”
“I’d ask you more about that, but right now I’d prefer to have the details of your return flight. I take it you’ve booked?”
“Well, actually, I was going to drive to the border crossing. The one with Qatar.”
“Whatever for?!”
“Well, I’m not sure if it’s safe for me to fly. I’ve had a bit of trouble with the religious police. So I’ve gone underground, so to speak. Left the palace. Turned off the phone. I was going to book a ticket and then not show up, but try to make it to Doha. Which will take me an extra day, as I’ve been given an electric car.”
“Martin, how much trouble are you in, exactly?”
“I don’t know. But enough not to want to fly out of here.”
“...”
“Are you there?”
“Martin, I’ve just been informed that the border with Qatar has been closed. Saudi Arabia is not pleased with the fact Al Jazeera is freely reporting about all the incidents of late. They blame the Qatari government for allowing the station to operate unchecked.”
“Oh. Shit. Well, then I’ll have to try the border with Bahrain.”
“Border? Isn’t that an island?”
“They’ve built a bridge.”
“Ah yes, of course. But wouldn’t it be easier to find out if you’re actually wanted?”
“How? Anyone I can ask will want to know why I’m asking. I certainly can’t ask the Saudi authorities, and my MI6 and CIA contacts aren’t expecting me to leave.”
“Surely they can help you smooth over any problems with the religious police? How much trouble are you in, exactly?”
“Two dead, mutilated officers in the desert kind of trouble ... You still there?”
She sighed. I’ve heard that particular sigh before, when she found out I’d been involved in the death of US Customs officer Ames.
“Yes. I will make some enquiries on your behalf, Martin. As as soon as I have confirmation that it’s safe for you to fly, I’ll have a ticket booked.”
“As Carstairs. Don’t forget. Not King. Carstairs.”
“I know, dear. We have a copy of your passport on file. I’ll let you know as soon as I can, via this number. Are you ready to leave at a moment’s notice?”
“I just have to take out the trash and then I’m good to go.”
“Good. I can tell you now that you are committed to Wayne’s new film. Consider it penance for your sins. Phil will also be in it, so at least you’ll be with your buddies. I will be in touch.”
Libbie
- 15.11.2020
- 22
- 0
Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 6 Something in the Air
- 2 years ago
- 24
- 0
Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 7 Miles from Home
- 3 years ago
- 25
- 0
