The Book of Accounts: a novel

My first novel was published in London in 2000. It was nominated for a couple of awards including the Guardian First Novel Award. I will be serialising it here as it is out of print.

AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

The Book of Accounts is a work of fiction and imagination. The inspiration comes from the many Iraqi friends and refugees with whom I have worked, who have endured the hell of torture.

Although this novel is fictional many of the events described — including the gassing of Halabja, the hostage-taking incident and the Muhyi-Ayash conspiracy — are historical facts. The organisations mentioned: al Amn al Khas, Mukhabarat, Estikhbarat and Jihaz Haneen are real. In the case of Jihaz Haneen very little is known of the organisation even within Iraq, and therefore any description of its structure in the Book of Accounts is based largely (but not entirely) on speculation. These organisations are integral to maintaining Saddam Hussein’s and the Ba’ath Party’s grip on the Iraqi people.

Other than Saddam Hussein, Muhyi Rashid, Mohammad Ayash and ‘Chemical’ Ali, and one or two very minor personalities, all characters in the book are fictional, though some have been based on historical personalities. All revolutionary parties, including the People’s League, are also fictional.

The historical context of the novel is the recent past of Iraqi history from the late 1950s to the late 1980s. Unlike the characters almost all locations in the book are actual villages, towns and neighborhoods. I have provided a historical timeline of the major events referred to in the novel as well as a glossary at the end of the novel.

For the reader who knows Iraq and who may find some of the liberties have taken for the sake of the story irksome, I beg your indulgence.

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PROLOGUE

He lay shivering on the stone floor in a cell in Baghdad that had become colder as the storm outside built in intensity. He hugged himself tightly and let out a sharp sneeze.

‘Oh! Lucky boy. Someone is thinking of you!’ laughed the guard.

For two nights no one had bothered him. But on night number three as he lay sleeping, pushed up against the stone wall, they called his name. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘it is very cold,’ but the words were lost somewhere between his mouth and the wall. Two men in grimy uniforms pulled him from the cell; one of them held him tightly while the other tied a band around his eyes then reached down to secure the young man’s hands behind his back. When he was pushed forward into the corridor, a lady guard stepped towards him and whispered, ‘This way. Your time has come.’

The small party made its way through the building. He tried to imagine the surroundings. When they didn’t leave the building he thought, Executions must be carried out inside. I only wish I could see. Why stop me from seeing if I am to be killed? I am glad they didn’t give me any warning. I wonder if this is how everyone feels. He felt calm. He did not feel self-pity. Thoughts of his family, and of picnics and parties, of books unread and questions unasked, seemed tiny and hard to pick up. He remembered the soft fullness of his lover’s breasts, and for a moment he even thought he caught her scent.

The lady guard pressed the prisoner’s shoulder as a signal to stop. A door opened and the prisoner was nudged forward. He thought he

saw a room with no back wall. A line of men with rifles stared straight ahead with dull eyes. White billowy clouds and a blue sky. He felt the wind on his neck as he took up his position against the openness. Each man raised his rifle but he saw only one; an eye squinting, a finger resting against the trigger. An arm wavered slightly as the marksman took aim. The bound man stared directly into the one open eye and for a second the executioner hesitated, then a bullet shot forward. The prisoner watched as it spun through the air. The woman guard wore a crooked smile. Suddenly the prisoner felt warm.

‘Sit down here and wait. Do not try to see anything.’ It was the voice of the lady guard, who pushed him firmly into a chair and removed his blindfold; a cloth hood fell over his head as a substitute. She squeezed the prisoner’s shoulder then left him alone in the room.

The hood over his head was damp and stank of fear. He stared at his feet on the floor until the opening of the door diverted his attention. Footsteps on one side of the room. A chair scraped against the concrete. Must be the man with the gun.

As the newcomer came in, did he even notice the shivering figure tied like a rabbit to the chair? Or did he see him and feel only scorn? What was he thinking? This is him. Disgusting dog. His mind was already familiar with the territory ahead. The map was drawn.

The newcomer, the invisible one, was eager to proceed. He lifted his head and stared at the hooded prisoner in front of him. He sized him up like a chicken in the market. They shared the silence and the relief an actor feels when the curtain goes up on the last night.

The chair scraped across the floor again and the hooded prisoner’s muscles tensed involuntarily. His saliva tasted sweet and cool. He sensed the other behind him and waited. But for what?

A blow?

A shot?

He was lost without a compass. Is he still behind me or has he moved to my right? The hood was hot and suffocating. He was being stalked by a lion and prepared his body for the pounce. But nothing happened. The beast was examining its catch. Admiring another fish in the net. The big one at last? But after what seemed an hour, the hunter still had not slapped or even clawed his captive. Slowly — he was back behind the boy again — the invisible man lifted the bloodstained woollen hood from the prisoner’s head and let it drop to the floor.

He had decided that his prey deserved to see his tormentor from the beginning. And he was determined to enjoy the young man’s fright