The Invisible Crowd. Ellen Wiles
running off!’
Gebre jerked upright, then they both scrambled to their feet. ‘Osmaaaaan!’
‘He can’t hear. But they might hear us at the factory if we yell any more. We’ll never catch him and get back on time…’
‘Donkoro. I knew something like this would happen,’ Gebre groaned. ‘We shouldn’t have let him come.’
‘Maybe he’s got the right idea,’ Yonas said. ‘Come on, let’s go too – screw it!’
‘We can’t. We agreed two weeks. And my photo’s still in there.’
‘What? The one of your parents? Why didn’t you bring it?’
‘It’s all I’ve got left. I have to get it.’
Yonas reached into his pocket and ran his finger over the crown of his wooden rooster. ‘It’s just a piece of paper,’ he protested weakly. ‘And if we go back without Osman, Aziz will go nuts…’
‘We’ll get back in time – he won’t know we left. And Osman will turn around any minute. Come on.’
Gebre set off. Osman’s figure was already just a speck on the horizon. Yonas followed.
When they slipped into the factory again, there were a few raised eyebrows among the other workers but nobody said anything. Aziz re-emerged from his nap, dinner preparation started as normal, and nobody seemed to notice anyone was missing. But then Rashid came up behind Yonas. ‘Where’s Osman?’ he whispered. Yonas mimed zipping his mouth.
It was only a few minutes before Aziz clocked his absence. ‘Osman!’ he bellowed. He looked around and turned on Rashid. ‘Where’s the boy?’ Rashid shrugged, and Aziz spat at his feet. ‘Fetch him now. I need my laundry.’
‘Sir – I think he’s on the toilet,’ Yonas improvised. ‘I’ll check and get your laundry.’ He went outside, ran around the side of the building and peered up the track. No sign. It was starting to rain. Of course Osman wasn’t coming back. Yonas felt a burn of envy. If he’d been stronger-willed, less sentimental, and said he was going to leave regardless, maybe Gebre would have followed. His friend’s photo, a small sepia one of his parents on their wedding day, was about to disintegrate anyway – it’d got all damp and bent in its ripped plastic wallet so that you could barely make out their faces. Yonas had to stop himself kicking the bins in frustration. He walked back inside. ‘The laundry is still wet,’ he said to Aziz. ‘I couldn’t see him out there.’
Aziz pursed his lips, and looked around. ‘If he is not back soon, there will be trouble. If anyone knows anything, they need to tell me. Right now.’
They all feigned concentration on their tasks.
‘Nobody?’ Aziz’s tone was cajoling. Then he slammed his hand down and roared, ‘ENOUGH. Stop what you are doing, all of you. Look at me.’
They all looked. Aziz pivoted his head like an owl, meeting every set of eyes in turn. Fatally, Rashid scratched an itch.
‘You,’ Aziz barked, and grabbed him by the hair. ‘Where – is – Osman?’
‘I don’t know. I think… he might have gone for a walk,’ Rashid croaked.
‘A walk? Where? When?’
‘Not long… I am not sure, I did not see… I know nothing.’
‘You obviously do know something, dog breath.’
Yonas nearly laughed, despite the situation; that was a new one.
‘No, not me, sir.’
‘Who is going to tell me, then?’ Aziz said, looking around.
There was no response.
‘Right, Petros. Go and hunt for him. If you do not find him in fifteen minutes I will tell Blackjack to get his men on the case.’
Petros nodded and went out, while Aziz stayed, glaring, as if he could shoot truth-forcing rays at them from his pupils.
After a while, Petros returned, shaking his head, which prompted Aziz to go into his den and make a phone call to Blackjack in such a loud, portentous voice that Yonas reckoned it was fake, but couldn’t be sure. They ate dinner in silence. Cleared up in silence. It started to rain. Yonas wondered if Osman had found a town by now, a friendly English person to talk to, a bed to sleep in. But rain was now battering the windows. He was more likely to be shivering under a tree. He’d survive though, wouldn’t he? If anyone from here deserved to, it was that kid.
But just as they were about to roll out their sleeping mats, the door squeaked open, and there he was. What are you doing? Yonas wanted to shout. Turn around, run away! But Osman stood still. His wet hair glistened and his eyes were black mirrors. It might have been a trick of light and water, but he seemed to be standing in an aura, like an icon.
‘Osman,’ Aziz said, his voice all smug, the purr of a cat dangling a mouse.
‘I… I am sorry, sir, I just wanted to have a walk, to get exercise, I got lost…’
‘You know the rules, Osman.’
‘But sir, I just went out because it was free time – I was always going to come back…’
‘Come here.’
Osman walked forward, then stopped a couple of metres in front of Aziz, looking down at his shoes. Rainwater dripped around his feet. Yonas saw Aziz’s arm tense up, ready to swing, but then he seemed to get an idea.
‘Please,’ Osman said, hopefully.
Aziz bent down to pick up a metal bucket, grasped it with both hands, and slammed it down hard, on each of Osman’s feet, so that he yelped with pain, crouched, then fell heavily.
‘That will teach you to go walking,’ Aziz said. ‘Now, you four,’ he said, pointing, ‘pick Osman up and carry him outside so he can think about what he’s done. Everyone else, stay where you are. Samuel, bring that rope. Tie up his ankles, then string them to the tree, from that fat branch.’
Yonas screwed up his eyes. Rashid had told him just the other night how Aziz and Petros had threatened to string him upside down once, because he’d demanded to know when his debt would be paid off. Yonas had seen the technique used in prison; when they did it to Abraham, another political prisoner, it made all the veins explode in his eyes and forehead, turning him into a bloodthirsty monster. More memories bubbled up. Being whipped like an ox while lugging stones in the heat; his head being pushed into a bucket of water until he saw sparkles and was sure he was drowning; and, the worst, the helicopter position…
‘I am sorry, I will never do it again, please, I am sorry,’ Osman was sobbing, even as the rope was being tied, even as his thrashing body was left to swing from the branch like a pendulum.
Aziz barked to the rest of them to get to bed, and walked implacably towards his den, as if they’d all just wish each other a pleasant good night and settle down.
‘You’re not just going to leave him there?’ Yonas said. He dumped his sleeping mat and ran towards Aziz, grabbing his arm. ‘Look at him, he’s only a kid, he’s been punished enough – you’ve probably broken all his toes!’
‘Get. Off. Me.’ Aziz snarled the words, wrenching away. Then he plunged his hand down into his shirt, fumbled awkwardly for a minute somewhere above his gut, his face reddening with the effort, until he pulled out a pistol, black and shining. So, it did exist. He lifted it slowly, and advanced a step towards Yonas. ‘You do as you’re ordered,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who decides punishments around here.’
Yonas stayed still a moment, feeling oddly calm. This was it, one way or another – there was no way back now. No way he could live any longer under this bastard’s orders. Torture was the main reason he’d fled all the way here – it wasn’t supposed to happen in the UK! And he wouldn’t take it. If