An Evil Cradling

  What is this illness? How will it affect me? Will it get worse? Such questions were insistent. But there were no answers, no reassurance.

  Not knowing was more frightening than the pain itself.

  For several days this pain attacked me, moving from one ear to another. The night was torture. I had either to be on my back or on my face, smothering it in the pillow. For long periods I was deaf. The inside of my ear was fat and swollen. John’s comforting reassurance that I should not worry and everything would be all right did not calm me. Was I becoming deaf? A deaf man cannot teach. He is locked in a world of silence. The comfort of companionship is removed. The world is a silently moving image which he can only stare at and half understand. Such was my panicking thought, as if rocks were being piled on my chest, holding me in this silence. I tried to calm myself by saying it would clear up in a few days. But instead the pain grew worse and the deafness more complete. I complained to the guards. They listened and left. Their lack of interest compounded my panic. John too was becoming anxious. I could barely hear him speak. I tried joking ‘At least I won’t have to listen to your bloody idiocy.’ He would crack a barely audible joke in response. ‘See, what splendid relief not to listen to you.’

  My complaints became more earnest. I now wore twists of tissue permanently in my ears to protect them from the dust and irritating heat. When the electricity was turned off we lay, unmoving and in silence, our bodies glistening with sweat and grime in the rising temperature. My deaf ears pounded and throbbed. I tried to imagine my life in this shroud of silence. What would I do without music? I could never speak to anyone because I would not know if they heard me. All the insignificant noises of humanity would be denied me. This self-pitying introspection annoyed me as much as it worried me. I needed some medication but more importantly I needed someone to tell me what was wrong with me. Fear is diminished when we give something a name. By simply naming it we take possession of it. I needed knowledge to break me out of fear. I resolved I must have medicine.

  Every time the guards entered and tried to speak to me I sat in silence or asked John what they were saying. He answered me loudly, his face close to my ear. Again I told them I needed medication. One of them sat close to me and said ‘What is your problem?’ I shrugged, John again spoke loudly in my ear. In detail I outlined my ‘problem’, making a point of blaming the radio for damaging my ears. He listened in silence and then rose to leave. ‘I will speak with my chief,’ he said and left. Two days passed and nothing happened. The routine of complaint and silence continued.

  On the third day I waited for John to return from the toilet. He returned and I was taken. In the small washroom, which contained only a wash hand basin and a shower head over the hole in the ground where we squatted and defecated, I washed slowly, careful to keep the water out of my ears. Having finished, I knocked on the door to leave.

  Slowly I walked back to my cell led by a guard. Inside it was strangely silent; my hearing was impaired, but not absolutely. I felt the emptiness rather than silence. I lifted my blindfold. John was gone.

  One mattress, one urine bottle, one bottle of drinking water remained. Each object emphasized the emptiness. To my surprise I did not feel shock or fear. The sudden vastness of the tiny cell hypnotized me. But slowly the emptiness pressed in on me; what would I do? How would I pass the days on my own? Quickly, almost instinctively I jumped up and began running on the spot. It had been weeks since I had exercised. Faster and faster I ran then slowly trotted myself to an exhausted collapse. I lay sweating and panting, my mind still racing, seeking some resting place.

  When lunch was brought I asked where John was. ‘I do not know,’

  came the reply. ‘If you have hurt him…‘The door banged shut before I could finish my intended threat. I passed the day thinking of our time together. Occasionally I stood, hauling myself up to look over into the cells opposite. Nothing, no movement, no noise. I called out his name softly, then louder, fearless of the consequences. Still no answer. That night I prayed for my companion’s safety and comfort as I knew he would be doing for me. We were apart but somehow we were in communication. A compassion greater than our need for each other created an invisible presence, shared experiences and memories filling the cell. I slept alone yet somehow not alone. One question preoccupied me: what would I do if I learnt John had been executed? I remembered the words of the guard as he walked me into this prison many months ago. ‘Your friends have gone to their home.’ I know he was referring to Peter Padfield and Leigh Douglas and I was beginning to suspect that their ‘home’ was a final and not a family one. My prayers were no longer requests. I demanded his life and safety.

  Morning came. This time I walked awkwardly to the toilet, the calves and muscles in my thighs screaming from the punishment I had subjected them to the previous night. I entered the tiny shower exhausted from the short walk. My ankles felt as though they had been smashed with a hammer. I waited for the pain to ease, looking up at the bulb that lighted the toilet. Suddenly it hit me. Without thinking what I was about to do I committed myself to it.

  I turned on the cold tap of the shower and cupped my hands under the spray filling them with water, then threw the cold water against the hot bulb. Explosion and darkness. Hot pricks burnt my shoulders and feet as the glass fell around me. I stood motionless, waiting and afraid to move. Would I be trailed out of this place and beaten again?

  The door opened slightly, a hand reached in with a small piece of candle burning on a saucer. I set it on the shelf above the grimy wash hand basin. As the door closed a voice spoke ‘Douche, quickly.’ So far I was safe. I looked about me. My eyes fixed on a piece of shattered glass. I picked it up and placed it inside my cup. Quickly I finished washing and folding the glass inside my towel, knocked on the door, informing the guards I was ready to return. I was led back to my cell.

  Crouching in the corner I felt excited by my scheme. A long day and night passed, my mind turning over what I was going to do and what the consequences might be. Early in the morning before the guards arrived with breakfast I took the glass fragment in one hand and with the other spread my toes open. Wincing and hesitating I cut the flesh until it bled. Hurriedly I took the twists of tissue with which I plugged my ears and dabbed them in blood. I set them on the stone shelf. I put more pieces of tissue between my toes to staunch the bleeding.

  Carefully I placed the glass into a tear I had made in the mattress. By the time breakfast arrived the small wound between my toes had stopped bleeding. As the guard set the food in front of me I took the pieces of tissue from each ear and showed him the bloody ends. He took them from me asking ‘You have blood?’ I pretended not to hear him. He held the twists of tissue under my blindfold. ‘Blood?’ he said inquisitively. I simply replied ‘Medicine; Doctor!’ As I expected he took both my hands in his, turning them over and scrutinizing them.

  ‘Okay’ he said and left.

  Each night and morning I carried out the same routine. After a few days, one of the guards who spoke good English informed me he had told his ‘chief of’my problems’. His chief had told him that after one week if my ‘problem’ continued he would come to see me. I knew now that the ball had started to roll; where it would stop I did not know. I only knew I had to go with it. I continued my ritual incision, daily becoming more worried that the glass might be discovered. I knew that there were days when my cell was searched as I showered. I could not explain or lie my way out of the severe consequences if it was found.

  After five or six days of this game I sat one afternoon, trying to calculate mathematically the sum total of all the chapters and verses in the Bible, which had been given to me some days before after repeated pleading for books. Suddenly the door rattled open. I sat unmoved. I had always, in the presence of the guards kept up the pretence that my deafness was worse than it really was. A man whose voice I did not know squatted in front of me. He took my hand and shook it. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  I leaned forward
, lifting the blindfold from my ear, gesturing that I could not hear him. He said something in Arabic to the guards who stood behind him. He put his face close to my ear and asked ‘What is your problems?’ I explained the great pain in my ears and that I had difficulty eating because as I chewed the pain became worse. I showed him the bloody tissues and told him I could hear what he asked me but his voice seemed to be far away. He asked me what medicine I needed.

  I answered that I did not know. I had never had such problems before, ť. m and emphasized that the noise from the radio had caused this. He listened, asking me if I had other problems. I told him that living like an animal was a problem. He spoke to the guards, then, patting my shoulder and again shaking my hand, got up and left. I had no idea of what would happen next. The longer I persisted with this gamble the greater the danger of them finding the sliver of glass. Worse still, what if I got an infection in the cuts in my feet? How could I explain that? I could only wait and see, but the waiting was agony.

  Two nights later my cell opened. One of the guards handed me my clothes. Trousers, shirt and shoes. ‘Quickly, put on,’ he commanded.

  There was laughter in his voice. I remembered to play deaf. He tugged at my shorts. ‘Dress, dress,’ he said and left. I dressed and sat, again waiting. After about ten minutes the door opened and several guards led me out. As I passed one of them said ‘You have ID?’ I answered that my passport was in my apartment. He laughed and I laughed with him.

  I was ushered along the prison passageway and hoisted up through the hole I had been dropped into, seemingly so long ago. Out into the warm night air. Things were happening fast. I was surprisingly calm.

  They jostled me into an old van. Several men were there and I was pushed onto the floor. The van stank with the smell of sheep or goats.

  A gun was placed at my temple. The thought of the dark tunnel when I was first taken came rushing back to me. The filth and stink of this van was such an undignified place to die in. I wondered where and by whom my body would be found. Then strangely I thought perhaps it would be better for my family if I was buried here. Having to go through the suffering over my death and then dealing with the agony of bringing me home and burying me would be too much for them.

  For a moment I despised these men for the anguish they had visited on my family. The great wellspring of compassion I felt for them drowned my fear.

  We travelled bumping and jostling for fifteen minutes and then came to a halt. The men in the rear jumped out and I was taken from the van. Quickly my blindfold was removed. ‘Close eyes,’ a voice said as two men took me by the arm and walked me into a lighted building.

  I was walked swiftly along a corridor and into what was obviously a doctor’s surgery. I squinted about me. My guards pushed me onto a chair. Another man, presumably a doctor, addressed me. He was extremely nervous, speaking quickly, his voice shaking. I described my condition and before I had finished he placed an instrument in my ear. I flinched with the pain. He spoke in Arabic and was gone. I sat with the guards’ hands clamped on my shoulders. A few minutes passed then I was taken back to the awaiting van. Another journey. To where, I wondered? Again I felt myself being dropped through that hole in the ground. Quietly I was walked back to the same cell. I sat again where I had always sat. My plan had failed. But I was untroubled. I felt only a great relief that a doctor had seen me. Now they would do something about my ears. One of the guards entered.

  With real surprise he said ‘Why are you here?’ I shrugged, then asked him about what the doctor had said. He did not know. ‘Sleep,’ he said, and left.

  I was too excited and too relieved to rest. When I was sure the guards had settled themselves in their own room I stood and peered over the top of my cell door. To my astonishment I saw in the cell opposite a man staring back at me. Only half of his face was visible.

  We stood transfixed by each other, entranced and silent as though watching a miracle performed. I came to my senses and gesticulated with my hands telling him to wait. Rapidly, I dropped to the floor and grabbed one of the tissues. There had been a pen in my clothes, which they had given back to me. Quickly I scribbled on a piece of paper in large capitals ‘i am irish. I scrambled up to the door again. The other prisoner was standing, waiting. I held up the tissue for him to read. He signalled that he could not read it from his cell. I knew it would be extremely dangerous to cry out to him. Instead I thrust my hands and arms outside the bars and held the note to him. It seemed he was taking an eternity to read this simple message.

  My legs ached and trembled with the effort of standing so long on my toes with my arms outstretched. ‘Hurry up, you fool; if the guards see this we will both be in trouble,’ I said quietly to myself. Then I saw his face change. His eyes seemed to light up. The frown from the effort of reading vanished. His eyebrows raised and his forehead wrinkled with surprised delight. Suddenly, ecstatically he was throwing me kisses and shouting in his old squeaky voice ‘I love you, beautiful, beautiful, I love you,’ his strong French accent betraying his nationality. He continued blowing kisses and exclaiming his devotion.

  I panicked and gestured furiously for him to be silent. But he continued, oblivious of the danger. I dropped to my knees in desperation. ‘The crazy old fool,’ I muttered, excitement and fear filling me. I thought if he did not see me he might shut up. I stretched out on the floor and looked through the fan at my new-found friend’s cell. He was silent now but still watching.

  Again I stood, signalling him to be silent. He blew me kisses and I returned them. The pathetic foolishness of what we were doing made me laugh, nodding and waving and blowing kisses to this old man. I was beginning to feel tears forming in my eyes.

  I suddenly saw in the cell next to this old Frenchman’s, a figure move and another face appear. I had always known there was someone in that cell but had never seen him. Perhaps he had been too frightened to look out. It was obvious that the old man’s cries had caused this other prisoner to look when he thought it safe. I looked at this new face. He looked back. Then he raised his hand and waved it slowly like a metronome. I waved back. Three of us like silent marionettes waving and blowing kisses, caught in an awful wonder. I signalled to the old man that the person in the cell next to him was waving. He nodded and clasped both his hands over his head in a victory salute. I gestured to the other man to wait. I repeated what I had done with the message I had held up to the Frenchman. He nodded and began spelling the word ‘American’ with his finger, tracing the letters in the air. As he was doing this another face appeared alongside his. We exchanged waves. On another tissue I wrote ‘My friend is English.’ Again they nodded and began to spell their surnames. Sutherland and Anderson. The old Frenchman, understanding that I was communicating with the cell next to his, began crying out again, ‘Beautiful, beautiful.’ I watched the two Americans rapidly disappear at the sound of his voice. I laughed loudly. It was like watching coconuts knocked from their stands at a fairground. I signalled the old man to be quiet and waved to him as if to say goodnight. I signalled goodnight by resting my head on my hands, and sat down knowing there would be little sleep. My cell was filled with invisible strangers.

  Next morning I breakfasted with my secret knowledge. I knew John was in one of the other cells. I wondered if my new comrades might know if he was near them. I was anxious to communicate with them. When my turn came I washed quickly. I had counted the number of doors opening and closing before the guards came for me.

  It seemed that there was one more door banging closed than had been the case before John’s move from my cell. I was sure he was still here, though the appearance of two Americans in one cell cast some doubt on my assumption. I stood waiting as my cell door was unlocked. I walked in and heard it bang behind me. I lifted my blindfold and saw the smiling face ofjohn McCarthy. ‘Couldn’t stay away, could you!’ I said with smiling nonchalance. John returned my greeting. ‘I was convinced you had gone home, I recognized your shoes passing my cell door.’ ‘Peeking through t
he fan again, naughty!’ I joked back.

  I told him the events of the night before, my visit to the doctor and my contact with the other captives. John knew they were Americans.

  He had been kept in the cell next to them and heard them talking to the guards. ‘I have some bad news for you,’ he said slowly. ‘We are with Islamic Jihad.’ We both knew the consequences of this knowledge but chose not to speak of it.

  I continued to complain of my hearing. I knew that the visit to the doctor must have some outcome. I was sure the doctor was terrified but believed that he would at least provide medicine. Three days after we had made contact with the Americans one of the guards came to our cell. He presented me with a course of very strong anti-biotics and promised to return in some days with ear drops. It was ten days before they arrived. However the penicillin and the companionship of near , faces worked their own magic.

  The next days and weeks were spent signalling to the Americans. It was a long and difficult process, spelling out words letter by letter, but we persevered. The need to communicate was greater than the risk involved. After a few days of this laborious activity I suggested to John it would be less complicated and no more dangerous to secrete written messages in the toilet overnight and the Americans could pick them up the next morning. We conveyed this to the Americans. There was a hole in the wall high above the sink. We would leave messages there for collection. We would also leave the pen so the Americans could return a message. They had told us that they had no news of events outside since their capture. We had lots to tell them, too much for hand signals.