10

  Chad had become a regular at the Referrals Cell, sometimes sitting in for hours. On one visit, a Thursday morning in mid-April, he witnessed an extraordinary episode.

  In an otherwise empty office, his three friends sat in the common room, Larry obliviously surfing the Internet at a desk, Jamal standing at an open window, smoking, and Bashir at another desk. The office was almost silent. They ignored Chad.

  Sitting opposite Bashir, a meek looking young Arab man pleaded softly, moaning and shaking his head slowly from side to side. Bashir sat bolt upright in his seat, his eyes unyieldingly on the pathetic Arab. “Yes or no?” he demanded in Arabic, which words were among the dozen Chad had picked up. Chad wordlessly took a seat. Let them do their work, he thought.

  The meek Arab looked desperately around. “You were my friends,” said he haltingly, voice breaking, large tears rolling down his face, looking imploringly at Bashir and Larry, though Larry kept staring at his computer. “Please, I beg you on my knees, help me. I will be in a good position in some months. There is no need to do this.”

  “Tell the shit to shut up,” said Larry, without looking up. Chad realised then that the room was extremely tense, and that Jamal and Larry, as nonchalant as they appeared, were actually concentrating on the young man in his misery.

  Bashir made a great show of signalling Larry to hold his peace. “I am your friend,” he said. “Do you not understand how bad your position is? I’ve been pleading your case the last ten days. My friend, if it were not for me, you wouldn’t ever have got a second chance. I have convinced my boss that, as you are young, your life should not be destroyed, so he has been kind and given you a way out. Take the opportunity. We don’t want to treat you like a criminal, but if you do not agree, you return to jail.”

  “Forever,” said Jamal, turning around at the window. “Forever in jail, huh, not very clever. What will happen to your little family then?”

  “But please, please,” begged the sobbing man, “I have never missed any repayment installment. I have money for the next one, and even two or three installments I can arrange. It can be deposited today, in advance. In advance. Please, please don’t do this. Have mercy, please, in the name of God. You are Arab, I am Arab, please, please find some pity in your heart for me.” He spoke haltingly, his voice breaking often, sobs convulsing him.

  It was eerie. Here, on a bright pleasant morning, in Citizenbank’s smart offices, some form of manipulation, degradation and extreme domination was at play. Somehow this was not work. Chad experienced an ill-defined sense of pleasure and excitement, an undercurrent of anticipation, a nuance of great perversity and cruelty, in which he was included. These were his best friends, his gang, and he was a participant in delivery of suffering to the wretch. The victim was so completely devastated that his demeanour could have been no better than of a man being taken from his cell to the gallows.

  “Enough,” barked Larry. “Send him back to jail. Let him rot in hell.”

  “Boss, please.” Chad could see that Bashir was faking. “He is our friend, a good man, a young man, but confused. He must understand how serious it becomes when we take a final position on recovery. Let him think a moment more.” He addressed the broken man again. “It’s not the end of your life, and you are young. We are asking, and in return offering. That’s how deals go. We’re taking a big risk to help you. Why can’t you see that? Please, my friend, I will be very sorry to see you make a wrong decision and go back to jail. What will there be for you if and when you get out? Job? No. Wife? Probably lost to someone else, or maybe become a prostitute to support herself. Career? Over. You’ll be deported. What is there back in your home country? Opportunity? Ha. We’re not forcing. The decision is entirely yours and yours alone, but we can help if you allow us to help you.” While the humble man wept, his tormentors became silent, exchanging quick meaningful glances.

  “Thinking time is over,” said Jamal, after a couple of minutes, as the hopelessly trapped man sobbed. “You know the deal. Yes or no. One word only.”

  The broken man wept bitterly and nodded, yes. It was a deal.

  Larry wagged a stern finger. “No games. We’ve spent enough time on your case. I’ve been watching you trying to wriggle out. Bashir, tell him in Arabic so that he understands every word. Can’t have him saying later he misunderstood something I said. We threw him into jail, and he’d better know we have the power to do it again. He will stay there forever. Jail is where he’ll return in two weeks, and there’ll be no grace period. We’ll have the key thrown away. If he makes us send him in again, he’s never coming out. Tell him.”

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  Bashir translated to the weeping man. The poor chap nodded, yes, yes.

  The room relaxed a bit, and they took notice of Chad. “Welcome, welcome,” said Jamal. “Let’s have tea. Where’re the downstairs office boys?”

  “You go now,” said Bashir, to the shattered one. “Two weeks to perform on our agreement, no more. Two weeks to convince. You cannot travel, but you already know that. Any escape attempt is a violation of our deal - and not even God will be able to save you after that. Got it?”

  Larry butted in. “Listen, asshole, stop crying, and wash your face in the bathroom, on the left when you exit. Don’t go wandering around as if we’ve been torturing you. Be happy; we’re giving you back your life.”

  The miserable one sniffled and rubbed his eyes, attempting to compose himself, and, in what would turn out to be the most perverse deed of the morning, mechanically shook hands with Bashir before stumbling out of the office.

  “Be happy, my friend,” said Bashir, to the departing Arab’s back. “When you barter with the hyena, he deeply thrusts the knife, but even the harshest bargain is better than loss of life. Old jungle rhyme.”

  The three deliberately changed the subject to other more regular things, and it was not until Chad was halfway through his coffee that he thought fit to question his friends. “What the fuck did that Arab guy do?” he asked.

  “Changing jobs,” replied Jamal.

  “Changing jobs?” Chad was incredulous. “That’s a crime?”

  “Can be, Chad,” said Larry. “It’s we who decide what’s crime.”

  That evening, Chad went to the Cyclone with Larry and Jamal. They had been going out regularly as a group, though Bashir’s attendance was occasional. He was the sole properly married man in the team, the only one with a regular home life, and he drank no alcohol. The other two, like Chad, were practically drifters. Chad had been surprised to find Larry quite a fun chap at night, feeling up a slut here and pricing out another one there.

  Jamal was a maniacal party animal, though, as Chad had discovered, he was married and had a child. His wife, unable to accept his lifestyle, had returned to her parents’ home in Sharjah, and Jamal lived alone in an apartment in Dubai.

  Larry, too, lived mostly alone. He had had an occasional steady girlfriend, but his brooding nature, compounded by a sense of injustice at his damaged left leg, had driven all away. Now, for at least a year, he had managed no relationship.

  Whenever Chad went out at night with his friends, they invariably took home a whore each. It was one of the great bonuses of Dubai – young, good-looking, ready-to-fuck sluts, from practically every country on earth, were always at hand.

  Early in their friendship, one night Larry and Jamal had gone home without a girl. Chad had asked why, and Jamal, who was really pissed, had said, “Don’t need. We belong to the Little Sheikhs’ Club.” Larry had instantly shushed the drunken Jamal, who had actually sobered a bit, as he had shut up. When asked by Chad about his reference to a club, Jamal had said, “Nah, nothing, just a joke.” Chad had not pressed further.

  They had become so regular together that, whenever Chad went out alone, bouncers, bartenders and waitresses would all enquire after his friends.

  “Hey, man,” said Jamal, “we haven’t had a group session in ages. Let’s take one apiece and share. Chad?”

  “Good idea,” agreed Chad.

  And so for the first time they fucked together. The Referrals Cell boys took him to an apartment they jointly maintained in the residence wing of a hotel, and they took turns at having the whores.

  They sent the whores away before dawn, and sat drinking and indulging in idle talk. Breakfast was ordered, and when it arrived they nibbled a bit here and there, drank some more, and became absolutely quiet. They lounged around and assessed each other, Chad and the boys of the Referrals Cell. Time hung around, as the sky began to lighten outside the 30th floor apartment. Still, they sat silently, expectantly.

  Finally, Jamal cleared his throat. “It sure feels like he’s a member,” he said.

  “Of the Little Sheikhs’ Club?” asked Chad flippantly.

  “That’s no laughing matter,” said Larry sternly.

  “Sorry, I’m not laughing, just nervous. Sorry, Larry. I spend all my free time with you guys, and I’d love to join your club, whatever it is.”

  The sun had begun peeping over the horizon, on what would prove to be yet another bright day, but their windows faced west, and the light scarcely changed.

  “Maybe, maybe. It’s possible. We must discuss with our other members,” said Larry.

  “Is it a big club?”

  “No. It’s probably the smallest club in the world.”

  “So, when?” Chad hoped he would pass scrutiny.

  “You will know,” said Jamal softly.

  They slept then, sprawled over bed, sofa and floor. Chad slept soundly on the carpeted floor, drunk, a cushion under his head. When he woke, he found the other two had gone. It was mid-afternoon. He let himself out of the apartment, made his way home, drank again and sat thinking.

  He was almost ready with the Credit Shield Insurance scheme. Almost, because one aspect still confounded him. He searched for a way through, his mind occupied with its introduction process. How on earth could he get it to slip past two million people? How the devil to conceal it, to make it invisible?

  But he did find time to wonder about the Little Sheikhs’ Club.