26 Zain

26

Zain

“What other crimes have you committed?” I asked, the dim light of the prison casting a yellow shadow on Hamid Elbaz’s bruised face. The stench of sweat, blood and something rancid coated the air, making it hard to breathe. These dungeons, under the palace of Azmia, were used by our ancestors during the wars to keep the prisoners, and we had kept them just in case we had to use them again.

Khalid didn’t want him to sit or sleep, but I had been merciful to allow him a chair and sleep and food.

“I already told you,” he rasped, his voice scratchy. He tried to move, but his hands were tied behind the chair and his ankles to the legs of the chair.

The interviewer shuffled forward, scared of me and my brother more than the person who sat in the chair. “Right.” The man cleared his throat and fixed his tie. “Can I start now?”

“He is all yours,” Khalid drawled, sliding his hands in his pockets and watching the interview take place.

It had been four days, six hours and forty minutes