to say. I did nothing wrong.”
Duffy walked around the boy, slowly, and then leaned in close. “You took part in an armed assault on an Iraqi civilian installation. My colleagues have evidence to suggest that the operation was organised by the Promised Day Brigade. That’s a terrorist organisation , Faik. You know what will happen to you if you are found guilty of being a member of a terrorist organisation, don’t you?”
“I am not . . .”
He shouted over him: “It’s time for you to shut your mouth, open your ears and answer my fucking questions.”
The boy shrank away from him.
“Why were you and your mother protesting, Faik?”
“Because it is not right what they do.”
“They?”
“The people who run Energy City.”
“And what do they do?”
“The jobs at the oilfields—those are Iraqi jobs. They have always been Iraqi jobs. Why do they bring in foreign workers when it is Iraqis who should be doing the work?”
“That is a matter of economics. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“We are hungry. We have no money. All we want to do is work.”
“You are a terrorist, aren’t you, Faik?”
“No,” he said.
“Tell me about the Promised Day Brigade.”
“I know nothing about them.”
“You’re lying, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re lying!”
“No,” he said, “I am not.”
He took the photograph that was clipped on top of the list of prisoners and showed it to him.
“That there is Mr Muqtada al-Sadr. We know he’s been behind the attacks on foreign companies. What I want from you is where you met him and where I can find him.”
He paused.
Faik said nothing.
“Feel free to chip in.”
“I don’t know him.”
“You do. I know you do. If you tell me where to find him, I’ll make sure you get a cell to yourself tonight. A shower and a hot meal, too. You just have to tell me where he is.”
“I do not . . .”
Duffy shook his head. “This is a real shame. I’ve been doing this awhile and it’s always better if everyone is on the level, cooperating with each other. I was hopeful you might want to get yourself out of this mess. I’m disappointed in you.” He straightened out the ski mask. “Alright. Have it your way. Next question: Why were you carrying an AK-47?”
The boy looked up at him with stunned eyes. “I was not.”
“That’s not what your file says. It says you were arrested with an AK and two full magazines.”
“That is a lie. They are fabricating it.”
“Do you want to think about my questions again? Tell me about the Promised Day Brigade. Tell me about al-Sadr.”
“I know nothing about them, I swear it.”
He sighed expressively. “Fine,” he said. “I tried my best. Have it your way.”
He nodded at the two Iraqi policemen, and they quickly moved from the back of the room to where the boy was seated. The boy tried to stand, but they were at his side, each taking him by an elbow an d a shoulder and pushing him back down onto the floor. Duffy took a t owel from the floor and draped it over the boy’s face. He reached over to the tap on the wall, twisted it on, and took the hose just as the tepid, dirty water was starting to dribble out. He held the hose over Faik’s face and the towel quickly became heavy and sodden.
“Muqtada al-Sadr is responsible for the attacks on foreign oil workers in Basra. You know where he is.”
“I don’t!” the boy said, gasping for breath.
He lowered the hose so that the water fell directly onto Faik’s nose and mouth. “Tell me where he is and this can all stop.”
“I don’t know him!”
“Why are you protecting him?”
Faik tried to speak, but he could not.
“Where can I find Muqtada al-Sadr, you piece of shit!”
The boy coughed and spluttered again, and Duffy ripped away the sodden towel. Faik gasped for air.
“Pick him up.”
The policemen did as they were told.
The boy’s face and hair were wet. He looked much younger than before.
He coughed helplessly. His eyes
Duffy walked around the boy, slowly, and then leaned in close. “You took part in an armed assault on an Iraqi civilian installation. My colleagues have evidence to suggest that the operation was organised by the Promised Day Brigade. That’s a terrorist organisation , Faik. You know what will happen to you if you are found guilty of being a member of a terrorist organisation, don’t you?”
“I am not . . .”
He shouted over him: “It’s time for you to shut your mouth, open your ears and answer my fucking questions.”
The boy shrank away from him.
“Why were you and your mother protesting, Faik?”
“Because it is not right what they do.”
“They?”
“The people who run Energy City.”
“And what do they do?”
“The jobs at the oilfields—those are Iraqi jobs. They have always been Iraqi jobs. Why do they bring in foreign workers when it is Iraqis who should be doing the work?”
“That is a matter of economics. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“We are hungry. We have no money. All we want to do is work.”
“You are a terrorist, aren’t you, Faik?”
“No,” he said.
“Tell me about the Promised Day Brigade.”
“I know nothing about them.”
“You’re lying, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re lying!”
“No,” he said, “I am not.”
He took the photograph that was clipped on top of the list of prisoners and showed it to him.
“That there is Mr Muqtada al-Sadr. We know he’s been behind the attacks on foreign companies. What I want from you is where you met him and where I can find him.”
He paused.
Faik said nothing.
“Feel free to chip in.”
“I don’t know him.”
“You do. I know you do. If you tell me where to find him, I’ll make sure you get a cell to yourself tonight. A shower and a hot meal, too. You just have to tell me where he is.”
“I do not . . .”
Duffy shook his head. “This is a real shame. I’ve been doing this awhile and it’s always better if everyone is on the level, cooperating with each other. I was hopeful you might want to get yourself out of this mess. I’m disappointed in you.” He straightened out the ski mask. “Alright. Have it your way. Next question: Why were you carrying an AK-47?”
The boy looked up at him with stunned eyes. “I was not.”
“That’s not what your file says. It says you were arrested with an AK and two full magazines.”
“That is a lie. They are fabricating it.”
“Do you want to think about my questions again? Tell me about the Promised Day Brigade. Tell me about al-Sadr.”
“I know nothing about them, I swear it.”
He sighed expressively. “Fine,” he said. “I tried my best. Have it your way.”
He nodded at the two Iraqi policemen, and they quickly moved from the back of the room to where the boy was seated. The boy tried to stand, but they were at his side, each taking him by an elbow an d a shoulder and pushing him back down onto the floor. Duffy took a t owel from the floor and draped it over the boy’s face. He reached over to the tap on the wall, twisted it on, and took the hose just as the tepid, dirty water was starting to dribble out. He held the hose over Faik’s face and the towel quickly became heavy and sodden.
“Muqtada al-Sadr is responsible for the attacks on foreign oil workers in Basra. You know where he is.”
“I don’t!” the boy said, gasping for breath.
He lowered the hose so that the water fell directly onto Faik’s nose and mouth. “Tell me where he is and this can all stop.”
“I don’t know him!”
“Why are you protecting him?”
Faik tried to speak, but he could not.
“Where can I find Muqtada al-Sadr, you piece of shit!”
The boy coughed and spluttered again, and Duffy ripped away the sodden towel. Faik gasped for air.
“Pick him up.”
The policemen did as they were told.
The boy’s face and hair were wet. He looked much younger than before.
He coughed helplessly. His eyes
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