have broken a rib. I motioned to the man and waved an inquisitive hand. Omar took the hint. “They were beating him in Tahrir, you remember any of that?” I nodded and he went on. “We dove in, they didn’t beat us as much. Most of that,” he motioned to me, or more accurately the tattoo of bruises covering the visible areas. “Was one guy, the guy you shoved. They tried to get at him again though, we barely got out. Sabah found a friend of hers, he had some guys. They got us out. Amm Attia’s getting us bandages and stuff.”
He was interrupted when I winced audibly, caused by the crushing pressure of Youssef’s arms around my neck. He’d snuck in and hugged me from behind, and I felt the back of my destroyed shirt moisten.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry for bringing you. This never would have happened if I hadn’t brought you, you don’t deserve this.” He whimpered a while more, all of it incoherent. I shrugged him off, vaguely insulted at how fragile he perceived me to be. He too, looked pretty much untouched except for an ugly bruise marring his neck.
“What now? Tell me something about this guy. Has he woken up?” I inquired. All three of them, save Ismail, shook their heads.
“His name’s Benjamin Underhill,” said Youssef. “We found a press pass in his wallet. He works for the Daily News. He’s English. The fucking primates.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s not a spy,” said Ismail. In a heartbeat, the room went from silent to cacophonous. Youssef and I, we called him every name under the sun and then some. We called him a fascist and a nutjob and a paranoid pawn of the Islamists. Sabah called him an insult to their upbringing. Omar was silent throughout.