The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

Fudail cursed. ‘Hayawan qadhar.’ Filthy animal. Their predecessors should have taken better care of him. Fudail poked the lump. He still looked strong and moneyed.

‘He can handle it.’

They’d inherited him in this shit state. Besides, they’d been warned that the boy might try to form bonds with them, as he had apparently done with an old man who’d fed him. An old man who had outlived his uses.

‘What should we do?’ Nizam asked. His agitation was verging on hysteria, and Fudail threw him a threatening look.

‘We give him a shower,’ he said.

Fudail poked Hakim again, and he stirred a little.

‘Get up, you need a shower. We have water and some new clothes.’

Hakim’s eyes flickered open, but they were stuck half-shut with mucus, oil and skin cells, accumulated due to the lack of care. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the light coming in from a lamp. Fudail strode across the room and flicked it off. He cocked his weapon towards the boy.

Hakim strained his eyes and lifted his head. Fudail instructed Nizam to offer him water. He baulked but did so, cautiously.

The boy gulped greedily and spilt much of it, attracting curses from the men. Hakim stared at them with fresh strength, and Nizam panicked.

‘Calm the fuck down,’ Fudail told him.

Fudail knew that Hakim sensed the inequality between his captors and he was incensed further. He felt like bashing his rifle butt into his head, but talked himself out of it. That wasn’t the brief. Oh, how he wished it was though.

‘Thank you,’ Hakim said. Fudail tightened his grip on his weapon. The lad knew what he was doing, and Nizam fell for it by nodding his acknowledgement of the sentiment.

They watched as their hostage gulped and coughed through another drink. Nizam took the bottle away and offered him a bar of chocolate. He cooperated and took a bite. Fudail watched closely as the sugary treat rushed through his blood vessels and alerted his senses further. Chewing was clearly hard work. It was repulsive watching him masticate.

The boy was able to sit up.

‘Come on, you need to wash,’ Nizam said.

‘Your name is Fudail,’ Hakim looked at the man who seemed the more in charge of the two.

‘No, it’s Princess Leia. Shut the fuck up and stand up so you can take a shower,’ Fudail said. Nizam helped him, but gagged at the smell as the blankets were pulled aside.

Finally, he was up, and they both had to help him walk to the bathroom in the next room. Hakim was given a bar of soap and told to wash himself. Fudail pulled a curtain around him, but made it clear that the door was to remain open.

Long minutes passed as the two men stood in the doorway.

They heard prayer.

Fudail banged angrily on the open door and told Hakim that his time was up. Nizam brought fresh clothes from a bag in the other room and threw them on the floor, alongside a towel. Minutes later, Hakim emerged from the bathroom, clean and semi-human.

‘Could I have more of the chocolate bar, please? I feel as though I might fall down.’

Fudail nodded and instructed Nizam to get the chocolate, but the boy’s manner wasn’t lost on him: he was trying to provoke empathy.

‘Go and wash the floor and get rid of the bed,’ Fudail said to Nizam, never taking his eyes off Hakim.

‘Where do I put it?’ asked Nizam.

‘I don’t care. Be imaginative,’ Fudail answered. He motioned for Hakim to go back to the living area. Fudail slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and followed him. He found new blankets and gave Hakim a fresh bottle of water. Nizam tutted as he rolled up the soiled bedding and gagged as he put it into bags. A thin mattress was laid down and Hakim instructed to sit. He did so.

‘You fought, and we struggled,’ said Fudail, his face not moving.

‘What?’ Hakim replied, puzzled.

But before he was able to say any more, the rifle butt was rammed into the side of his head and he fell sideways.

Chapter 41

‘What’s on that ship?’ Helen asked Grant. She stood still, with his arm remaining on hers. His grip was tight enough to hold her there if that’s what he wanted, but Helen could have pulled away if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

‘I have no idea, and neither does Khalil,’ he replied.

A few people looked their way. Dock workers weren’t the type of people to allow the rough handling of a woman on their watch.

‘We’re causing a scene,’ she whispered. Helen gestured to onlookers that she was all right and leant over the table. Their faces almost touched.

‘I have to call the port authority to get the ship seized,’ she said.

‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Helen. That boy will die, I guarantee it.’ He looked into her eyes, and they lingered there, motionless. Finally she sat back down. He held on to her wrist and she laid her hand flat on the plastic top. His touch turned to a caress, his hand on hers.

‘I’m begging you. Give me time. Let’s find out what’s in it together. The minute you bring the authorities descending down on something imported by Fawaz Nabil, the boy dies. Think about it, Helen.’

‘And what if the cargo of that ship is to make drones? Armed drones? How many people might die then?’

She looked into his eyes and recognised the familiar manner of his face when he was thinking about a solution. He was a problem solver and that had been part of their break-up: he always wanted to fix everything. But some things couldn’t be fixed.

‘So, let’s follow the cargo and find out where the target is,’ he said.

His eyes beguiled her. It was too much and she looked away. She acquiesced.

The labourers went back to their conversations.

‘Let’s get some air,’ she said. Grant agreed and went to settle the bill.

When they were outside, they walked towards the quay slowly, and they talked about Sir Conrad.

‘I tried to phone his private line this