Jinniyo Cad

Soliman sat patiently in the waiting area with the other candidates. Everyone was avoiding eye contact, mostly staring straight ahead or distracting themselves with tech magazines from a pile on the long coffee table. No mobile phones were allowed, they’d been handed in at reception in exchange for a docket.

No one knew exactly what the position was; they’d all responded to the same simple ad:

‘Good pay, occasional travel, amazing prospects. No qualifications, just resilience and some life experience.’

The job market was not bad but Soliman had no qualifications, having survived a war in East Africa as a child. He’d come to the UK via the Libya-Italy route, surviving several close calls with slavers, robbers, the sea, angry European youth, the Italian and other national authorities and, finally, the sea again; across the English Channel in a tiny dingy with ten, solemn Iranians.

He’d managed to get leave to stay but not permission to work. He figured he had a one in a hundred chance at this job, with false identity documents, but that was good in his book.

His turn came and he followed the receptionist down a corridor and to a door where she stopped and gestured for Soliman to enter. Once inside the plush office, on the far side of a large desk, were a young, smiling man and a frosty looking woman who gestured for him to sit opposite them.

‘Hello Soliman, how are you today?’ It was the man. ‘I’m Ken and this is Kelly.’
‘I’m fine thank you, pleased to meet you, I trust you are both well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ The woman said, ‘we need to ask what might seem like some odd questions. We need to assess your attitude to see if you’re suitable for the position.’
Soliman nodded.
‘Great, so do you have family in the UK?’
‘No, the remaining members of my family are in Tanzania and Germany.’
‘Remaining?’
‘Most have been killed in fighting or while trying to escape fighting.’
‘I see, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ken jotted something down on a piece of paper.
‘Tell us about your life experience?’
‘I grew up in war, I was a refugee, it’s been quite an experience.’
‘Quite, quite,’ Ken agreed, ‘it’s the kind of thing we’re looking for. Would you be averse to telling your story?’
‘Now?’
‘No, in general.’
‘Not really, I could.’ Soliman was trying to work out what all this meant.
‘What if you had to tell it time and time again?’
‘Why?’
‘You know how people pose for artists?’ Kelly interjected. Soliman nodded.
‘Imagine the same job except people listen.’ Soliman looked at the woman, remembering the words of his mother:
‘These Jinniyo Cad are crazy. They do things no one in their right mind would do, you need an open mind to survive in their world.’

‘I need a full time job,’ Soliman said.
‘This would be full time for five years,’ Ken replied smoothly.
‘Five years…telling my story?’
‘Pretty much.’ Ken said.
‘Except you wouldn’t have to tell it, you could just think about it,’ Kelly said.
‘Think about it? What kind of job is this?’
‘Our clients are interested in the experiences of a variety of different people, something like anthropologists.’
‘What is the pay?’
‘We can’t give an exact figure, but at least one hundred thousand pounds a year.’
Soliman was stunned. He thought that he would no way get away with fake ID for this job.
‘I’m not qualified to work in the UK, I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’
Soliman made to get up.
‘The work is not in the UK, you qualify, don’t worry.’
‘But one hundred thousand pounds! What is this job?’
‘It’s a condition of our clients that the job not be revealed until after acceptance.’
‘That is…unusual, surely.’ Soliman said.
‘It’s an unusual opportunity.’
‘Would I be able to stay in touch with my family?’
‘To some extent, sending messages. We can forward some money for you. We can offer you an advance of fifty thousand for covering your affairs and for some supplies.’
‘Supplies?’
‘It’s very remote, so anything you might miss. New supplies will arrive every six months or so.’ Kelly said.
‘How do I know this is real?’
‘Would we give you fifty thousand pounds up front?’ Ken asked.

The next day Soliman waited, half unbelieving, constantly refreshing his bank account on his battered laptop. The money arrived on the dot of midnight, as promised. After making the necessary transfers, Soliman met with Ken and Kelly. They drove him to a four star hotel in the West End of London.

‘You’re leaving in the morning. Be ready early.’ Ken said through the car window as they dropped him off.
‘Can’t you tell me what the job is now?’
‘Not yet I’m afraid.’
Soliman shook his head, rubbed his hands to combat the cold air, and turned to the hotel.

They came in the night; three men dressed in black. They were foiled by Soliman’s habit of sleeping on the floor and his unique sensitivities. He disliked mattresses because he felt exposed on a mattress after a war torn childhood. He never slept deeply, and the moment the locked clicked he was wide awake.

Soliman had also chosen a spot on the floor near the french windows that led onto the third floor balcony. He’d kept them ajar for fresh air and, half unconsciously, as a route to escape. By the time the men entered his room Soliman had slipped out and was over the barrier to the next balcony. He hid behind a fake wicker sofa, fearing he would be seen if he tried to climb to the next balcony.

After a minute or so the men checked his rooms balcony and looked over to the one where Soliman was concealed. He watched the faint shadow of two of the men’s heads as they peered intently up and down. Soliman held his breath, and waited quietly until they’d gone. His mind was calculating furiously. What is this about?

After an hour, Soliman was getting cold. He decided to return to his room – cautiously. He crept in using the skills that had kept him alive through the many life and death moments he had faced over his 27 years. His clothes were gone, everything was gone. The ruffled bed clothes were the only clue anyone had been there at all.

Soliman thought they might have someone outside the room waiting for him to return. Probably armed. He needed a distraction. He thought hard, then went to look over the balcony. Below was a quiet street with parked cars filling either side. There were balconies below but the climb down would be very tricky because of an overhang in the design. Soliman dismissed it as a last resort.

Then he had an idea. He went back into the room and took three heavy cushions and the two pillows. He stuffed a kettle into one pillow case and the room’s telephone into the other. He threw the cushions and pillows onto the cars below, triggering three vehicle alarms. The sound pierced the night and began a barking contest between several dogs.

French windows began to slide open and lights began to flick on in the victorian apartment blocks opposite the hotel. Soliman waited about five minutes, then burst from the room into the corridor, aiming for the nearest staircase – he’d mapped the exits automatically on his way in.

He met no opposition as he ran silently down to floor one where he walked quickly and breathlessly along the corridor to the staircase on the far side. From there he went to the lower car park and slipped between cars, heading for the exit ramp. He heard voices nearby and stopped dead, listening. He realised they were coming from a black van two vehicles away.

Soliman crept closer, moving like a panther stalking it’s prey.
‘….the client is a fucking cartel boss. There’ll be hell to pay.’
‘It’s a total fuck-up! We need to find another donor.’
‘Too late, it took a year to reel in this slippery fucker.’

My organs! Soliman felt sick. He’d barely avoided organ thieves in Libya. Then he became furious, then confused. Why did they given me the money? They could have kidnapped him and paid nothing. Now they were fifty thousand pounds down. Still, Soliman burned inside. All he’d been through, and now this!

He memorised the registration number before creeping away. Soliman walked back to Shepherd’s Bush, keeping to side streets and staying alert. He entered a tower block that his residence – a room in a run down building. He walked wearily up to the fourth floor and looked out of the dirty glass across to his building.

A black van was parked nearby, the same model as the one in the hotel. Soliman nodded to himself.

He went to the all night shop and bought liquid lighter fuel and a lighter. The van was parked in front of a truck, under which Soliman crept before sliding under the van. He carefully sprayed lighter fuel onto the underside of the vehicle, sliding back under the truck as he went. He emerged feet first from the other end of the truck, looked around and picked up an old plastic dolls head, it’s plastic hair worn and matted, from the gutter.

After dousing the head in fuel he held it by the hair, lit it and quickly rolled it under the truck towards the van. The fuel caught fire with a ‘whoof!’ Soliman had slipped away by the time the van’s two occupants leapt out. Moments later the van’s fuel tank blew with devastating power. The two men were knocked down violently by the blast wave. Soliman ran out from cover to the first man, took his gun from an underarm holster then moved quickly to his colleague. This time he flung the weapon aside and searched the unconscious body until he found a wallet in an inside pocket of the man’s black gear.

The men’s short, military-style hair cuts had not gone unnoticed by Soliman. The wallet had an ID card. ‘Blackthorn Security.’ Soliman thought he’d heard that name before somewhere. He shot both men in the head.
‘That’ll make them think again,’ Soliman said to himself, ‘you had that coming, Jinniyo Cad.’

The next day Soliman began to investigate the organ trading organisation that has almost taken him. There were mysteries, like the money to uncover. The ‘Jinniyo Cad’ had picked up a tough, unwanted and coldly dedicated enemy…