Hostage Three by Nick Lake

Author:Nick Lake
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2012-11-29T05:00:00+00:00

Later that day, they made us come out on to the deck.

I was watching a film in my room, I don’t know where everyone else was. Mohammed came to get me. When he entered the room he gave me a kind of sickly smile, then he pointed his gun at me.

— Out, he said. On deck. There will be a die.

I stared at him. Everything below my pelvis disappeared, and my stomach fell through space.

— I’m sorry?

— A die. On deck.

— A death?

— Yes. Now.

Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, I thought. I remembered him mock-slitting his throat, telling me we would die like animals. I tried to push past him, to rush, but he gripped my arm. It was like being held by a bear. I stood very still, the skin of my arm smarting.

— Where is watch? he asked. You have? He was too close and his breath was sour against my face.

— Watch? I don’t know what –

He raised his other hand, as if he were going to hit me, then he scowled and lowered it again. Mohammed might be the son of someone important, I realised, but Ahmed was still chief. He could get fined for striking me.

But what if a fine wasn’t enough to –

He dug his fingers even further into my arm and took a deep breath. Then he leaned in close, and as he did so, his hand, the one he had been about to hit me with, brushed against my chest, sending a shiver of horror across my skin.

An awful, awful thought occurred to me then, appalling as eyes outside your window in the dead of night. I’d only worried about him hitting me.

What if he . . .

I mean, we were alone. He was a strong man. I was a girl. There would be nothing I could do, nothing to stop him. He had a gun! I felt like a mouse in a trap, like I could spin around and run in circles, but wouldn’t go anywhere. I felt like energy was blazing inside me, even though I stood very still. It was like I was a furnace, bolted to the floor and roaring inside with flame.

I thought, I have to do something. Mohammed leered at me and I saw the khat in his mouth. On an instinct, I pointed to it.

— Can I taste some? I said. Some khat?

Mohammed looked mystified.

— Taste?

— Try.

— Try?

I took a breath. I mimed chewing, pointed to his mouth again, then to me, to show what I wanted.

He gave a surprised laugh, then reached into his pocket. He took out a cloth bag, from which he drew a little handful of leaves. He gave them to me.

— There, he said. Try.

I packed the leaves into my mouth and started chewing.

Oh, fuck.

It was awful – it tasted bitter, and kind of hurt my cheeks and tongue. It was astringent, too, pulling my mouth inwards, as if my cheeks and tongue wanted to fold themselves around it, bury it, stop me tasting it.

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