2024

THE LAST REVOLUTIONARY

FORWARD

JANUARY 2015

After the staggering amount of 3 requests I am now putting this novel back online. Some of the storyline has been superseded by events. However in the light of the increased pressure to reduce civil liberties and freedom of expression I believe it still has some pertinent things to say.

THE LAST REVOLUTIONARY

When did England become like this, an authoritarian democracy? I ask the question of the shaving mirror.

It is difficult to pinpoint a particular point in time. There certainly was no single event, though there were many signposts. The increasingly sweeping terror legislation following the outbreak of the ‘war on terror’ in 2001, The Civil Contingencies Act, the abolition of the House of Lords and its replacement by an elected senate which, to quote a newspaper article at the time, had less power than your average House of Commons Select committee; the compulsory carrying of ID cards, the repeal of the Human Rights Act, the Street Disorder Act, the introduction of Travel Control Orders and the introduction of summary justice powers, each development signposted the way, but there were always real freedoms left and after all this was England.

There were protests too of course, indeed there had been increasing opposition and protest, but these had tended to be by the ‘usual suspects’ and on the margins. The arguments seemed to pass most ordinary people by.

 All along it seemed that the direction in which we were going had become unstoppable, like a juggernaut whose brakes had failed. Perhaps the final nail in the coffin had been the Regulatory and Administrative Powers Act, which ended any form of parliamentary scrutiny for ‘emergency’ legislation. This was quickly followed by the 2015 Terrorism Act. This is the act under which I was sentenced.

Around about the autumn of 2016 when I started to become really politically aware I would regularly listen to the radio and watch TV, waiting for news of some sort of determined and organised resistance to what was going on.  But every time I thought that they had gone too far, that there was bound to be a backlash, nothing happened. More legislation came, more freedoms were eroded, so that we have ended up like this, living in an un-free democracy where elections change nothing and real civil liberties are becoming little more than a memory.

I switch on the radio. Radio 3 and Sibelius takes command of the bathroom. I no longer listen to the news radio stations which depress me too much with there regular news reports from the ‘war on terror.’

 Today is Election Day, offering a ‘choice of three political parties, Centre Labour, New Tory, Progressive Democrat, all operating under the rule of law, having registered under Prevention of  Political Extremism Act, each Party offering the same phoney choice, after a phoney campaign, culminating in the same compulsory vote with its guaranteed phoney high turnout; the ‘triumph of democracy.’  

And now I must not only cast my vote but go and help my mother to cast hers since she does not understand the electronic voting system. This of itself is not difficult except that she lives in Greenwich and I live in Brent and I am currently subject to a two year Travel & Curfew Control Order, imposed after I was arrested on an ‘illegal protest’ and sentenced by The Metropolitan Police last year. This excludes me from travelling in the boroughs of Kensington & Chelsea, Westminster, Camden, Lambeth and the City of London. If I am found in any these boroughs at any time during the period of the order the order can either be extended for a further two years or I can get 6 months imprisonment, all at the discretion of a senior police officer. This makes my journey somewhat circuitous, since I will have to travel via Richmond, then by a series of trams and buses across South London to Greenwich.

Outside it is a beautiful day as I make my way from Craven Park toward Willesden Station. I already have my identity card out and am fingering it nervously long before I reach the station. It being election day there are even more police on the streets than usual and a positive phalanx line the walk up to the station, including the fearsome looking Anti Terror Squad, covered in armour, thick padding and helmets with bullet proof viziers, all armed to the teeth and looking as if they would give anything for a little action.

Ever since the mass suicide attacks of over a decade ago they have become notorious for their trigger happy reactions. You had to approach them slowly making no sudden movements. A few poor sods had paid the ultimate price for ‘inappropriate, threatening or reckless behaviour.’

I approach the end of a long line of people waiting to enter the station, each with their ID card in their hand. Failure to produce legitimate identification is an arrestable offence and produces in the crowd that strange buzz of anxiety that now feels ingrained in daily life. Suddenly there is a commotion in front of us and a young black man is being led away, I catch his pleading tone, as he tries to imbue his reaction to being manhandled with at least a modicum of dignity. “This is a mistake!”

I am nervous now. I know how much will depend on the whim of the individual officer. As I approach I see that here are two heavily armed policemen standing beside a third who is inserting the ID cards into his reader. A young woman has her card returned to her and she is waved on as I approach.

I am briskly frisked then gaze into the iris scanner, he inserts my card into the reader, a device about the size of a man’s palm and I wait for the usual reaction; and sure enough here it comes.

“You’re on a two year TCCO.” He informs me, as if I didn’t know.

What I also know is that if I am to continue my journey I must be polite and obliging, making it clear that I understand he is only doing his job.

“Yes officer, you will see my travel restrictions allow for travel outside of K&C, Lambeth, Westminster, Camden and the City.”

“Where are you travelling too?” He asks making eye contact. He must be at least two years my junior, keen officious, his young face already carries that look of assured authority. I keep cool.

“I am travelling to my Mothers in Greenwich to help her vote.”

He looks dubious, so I pull out an e-message she has forwarded to me containing her address and voting instructions. He examines it then hands it back to me. “Make sure you’re back home by nine.” He then waves me on through.

That little unpleasantness over I swallow my anger and switch off my deep feeling of resentment to make the journey. I deliberately haven’t brought a book with me, since the last two times I have been stopped they have given themselves permission to inspect and comment upon any reading matter I’m carrying. This more than anything else has pushed me close to the edge and I have almost burst wanting to tell them to fuck off!

The rest of the journey, broken as it is by numerous changes of transport, is uneventful and I get to Mum’s a little after a quarter to one.

I can guess that Mum has been too and from the window many times and she looks relieved to see me. She always works herself into state when she knows I am travelling across London, afraid that I will be arrested again. She has lived in a state of low level anxiety ever since my father died of cancer five years ago. My younger brother Malcolm is in a work camp sentenced to a three year Rehabilitation Order, for anti social behaviour. My relationship with Mum is now heavily tinged with guilt.

I notice that the flat next door is empty, painters are busy inside. “What happened to the Barnes’s?” 

 “Deported,” my mother’s voice is lowered to a whisper as we make our way into her little one bedroom flat, “sent back to Jamaica.”

I am astonished and think of the boisterous though friendly black woman and her two sons David and Keith, both in their mid teens, who obviously were something of a handful, though they had never been anything other than polite to Mum. “Good god why, how is that possible?”

“David breached his third ASBO; apparently the police can do this now!” I am genuinely shaken.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes thanks Mum.” I collapse into the armchair thinking about David Barnes. He was about sixteen, cheeky, streetwise, but with a sharp sense of humour. I had spoken to him only a couple of months ago. He had talked to me about moving to Harlesden where he had friends in the music business. Now presumably he would have to make his way in Jamaica.

“Alex,” for some reason my mother has lowered her voice to the level of a whisper again. “Do you think they can deport us?”

“Oh good God,” I can’t help but give a low laugh, “is that what you’ve been worried about? How can they deport us, we were all born here in London? Where could they deport us too?”

“Well,” she hesitates, and then commits to disclosing her fears, “There is Irish blood on your father’s side.”

This time my laughter is real. “Oh Mum, put these silly thoughts out of your head. Even the government of this country hasn’t yet begun dividing people up on the basis of the blood in their veins.” She looks moderately reassured and hands me a mug of tea. I drink slowly as my father picture looks down mournfully at the state of affairs that has led to this.

It is now overcast, threatening rain, as we make our way down to the library to vote.

I knew of course that there would be police checks but my heart sinks as we approach the library, armed police stand on either side of the doorway and a police officer is checking ID’s. I know how the coming conversation is going to upset Mum.

Although all the information is available for him to read on the screen, I again, in my most reasonable tone, explain my awareness of the restrictions attached to my order.

He hands me back my card with a smirk, “you’ll find no terrorists on the ballot.”

I try to think of a suitable sarcastic response but it is Mum who speaks first, “ignore him son.”

He flashes a dirty look at us but we are in the polling station before he can say anything. I quickly run through the process with my mother for the umpteenth time and still looking less than confident she makes her way to one of the booths. She never used to be like this. She has lost so much confidence since dad died. Now I need to cast my own vote.

I enter my ID code and my constituency code and the ballot comes on the screen, Liberal Democrat, Progressive Labour, New Tory and a new party, somewhat to the right of all the others, Free Democrat. There is no facility to indicate none of the above. Despite knowing what will happen I wilfully tick all boxes as a way of spoiling my ballot, however as I know it will, INVALID VOTE, comes up on the screen, YOU MUST RE-SUBMIT YOUR VOTE, PLEASE INDICATE ONE PREFERENCE ONLY. I know that this will be the response until I place the cursor on one preference alone, so indifferently I indicate Progressive Democrat and leave the booth even before the screen lights up: YOUR VOTE HAS BEEN CAST, THANK YOU FOR VOTING.

Back at Mums I eat a pasta salad feeling unaccountably depressed and daunted by the tedium of the journey back to my flat.

“Do you want me to sort out those old papers of dads?” I ask, suddenly I would welcome any distraction.

“Oh yes love, if you would, I keep putting it off and I could do with some extra space.”

There are four boxes in all. The first three stuffed full of papers of all sorts, mostly material from his time working for the planning department in the town hall, the fourth packed with books.

However amongst the papers that need throwing out there are several notebooks full of jottings, ideas that my father has committed to paper, even some poetry. ‘Jesus I never knew my father wrote poetry.’ I am fascinated.

You must not speak above a certain level now.

I hear whispers,

But afterwards only the deafening silence.

Another bomb goes off. 

I feel uncomfortably confronted by the unfamiliar image of a man, who also happens to be my father.

Now we are told the rules have changed.

Over coffee we discuss the efficacy of torture.

Later that same day the flight landed,

 Shackled for two hours at Prestwick its mute human cargo.

It is difficult to reconcile these lines, clumsy, but full of an obviously felt passion, with the image of my father, quiet, apolitical, anxious, I always thought, to dispel any possibility of drama.

I rescue a paperback book from under a pile of official papers that seem to relate to his work on the 2012 Olympics.

‘MAY 1968

Politics in the Streets’

It seems to be a collection of short articles, photographs of young people throwing bricks and stones at the police and whole pages of graffiti.

‘Meanwhile everyone wants to breathe and nobody can
and many say, “We will breathe later.”

And most of them don’t die because they are already dead.

Don’t beg for the right to live — take it.’

‘In a society that has abolished every kind of adventure
the only adventure that remains is to abolish the society.’

And my favourite, the one that sends a shiver down my spine.

‘If we only have enough time . . .

In any case, no regrets!

Already ten days of happiness.’

I am overwhelmed by feelings of excitement and sadness, how long ago how far away, how much I envy them.

I catch a glimpse of the time, shit, it is half past five; I must start to make a move if I am to be home before my curfew.

“Listen Mum I’ll have to finish sorting this lot out another time, I need to make a move.”

“Ok love,” she kisses me on the cheek, “make sure you get home in time.”

I stuff the thin paperback into my jacket pocket; I’ll risk getting stopped with it.

I end up having to wait for the bus for over twenty five minutes and miss my tram connection. I am aware now of the clock, just beginning to work against me. The next tram is not until 7.00 p.m.

 There are only two others at the stop, a young woman with a baby and an elderly white man. I sit inside the air conditioned shelter and flick through the pages of the book. Some instinct makes me look up. A police car has pulled up across the way containing two young policemen. They look over in our direction. I put the book back in my pocket and get ready to show my ID. However they drive off and as it begins to rain the tram pulls slowly in.

There is a police cordon outside Richmond station holding back a crowd that has congregated in the street. I check my watch; it is a quarter to eight.

“What is going on?” I ask a young woman holding firmly onto a small child, a boy of about seven who is wriggling furiously in her firm grip. “Suicide bombers, apparently they have blown themselves up in the ticket hall.”

“Shit,” I lower my voice, “I have to get back to Willesden.”

She shrugs her shoulder, “I have to get to Hampstead.”

“Do you know when they are likely to resume services?”

“I don’t have a clue. You could ask that man over there.” She indicates a man standing close to the police cordon in a navy blue uniform, who obviously works for the rail line.

I push my way toward him but in the process catch his reply to someone else.

“It is not very likely that we’ll have any more services tonight, you’re better off finding an alternative route.”

The possibility of my getting home before curfew is now zero. I’ll just have to hope that I’m not stopped.

There is a bus to Hammersmith and from Hammersmith I can catch a bus to

Scrubs Lane

. I can walk from there.

The bus is packed and I am forced to stand crammed amongst a mass of individuals anxious to get away from Richmond and the proximity of sudden death. Behind me is an obese man in his sixties giving of un unpleasant odour, to my right an attractive young black girl struggling to avoid both eye and physical contact with her neighbours, including myself, whilst to my left a woman in her twenties is struggling to create enough space for her young boy to breath as he stands, his head at knee height, at her feet. She smiles good naturedly at me. “Isn’t it awful? They should put on more buses when there are incidents; it’s not as if this is the first time!” I return her smile but feel no inclination to engage in conversation.

“I know darling,” she addresses her little boy, “we’ll soon be home.”

However the bus crawls along and is finally trapped in traffic somewhere along the Chiswick High Road.

Despite the air conditioning the atmosphere now in the bus is unbearable, I can barely breathe and the smell is awful, so that when the doors are finally opened, along with a number of others, I am happy to escape out into the open.

It is now nine o clock and if I am stopped I will probably get six months, especially given that it is election night. The trick is to get back as quickly as possible without drawing attention to myself. I need to get to Stamford Brook tube.

 As soon as I turn into Goldhawk Road I know there is something wrong, there is a  group of police is straddling the street about two hundred yards away, directly in front of a polling station, whilst just in front of them stands a group of young Asian men and women, a false air of indifference about them. The women are dressed in Burka’s, the men in western dress, jeans and black smock tops, the ‘uniform’ of militant Islamic youth.

‘This is going to kick off.’ I turn on my heels praying that I have not drawn attention to my self. I slowly begin making my way back in the direction of Chiswick High Road. From behind there comes the sound of someone running. ‘Shit,’ I know enough not to look around but to start running, running as fast as I can, looking to either side of me for a bolt hole, a side alleyway, anywhere where I can take refuge. But I am soon passed by one of the young men, a mask of cloth covering his mouth and nose, but I have barely time to register him when I feel myself struck by an iron hurricane that slams into the back of my head and my world goes black.

I am aware of a shuddering rattling noise and darkness, I am definitely moving, inside some sort of vehicle; I can feel a thunderous movement under my body.

 I open my eyes feeling a trickle of liquid over my face. I try to wipe it away from my eye and see that it is blood, it is my blood.

I try to adjust to my surroundings. There are about half a dozen of the young men from Goldhawk road surrounding me, two are talking rapidly in a language other than English. Across from me is a young girl, clutching at the torn remnants of face covering with a grim determination as if it has the power to wade of this reality. She looks to be no more than fourteen and looks terrified. She is looking at my head wound sympathetically.

“The police,” I ask redundantly, trying to pull myself erect, feeling a sudden sharp pain in my head and down the side of my body.

“Yes, she says, “the police,” looking even more terrified at this reminder of her predicament.

“Don’t worry,” I try to reassure her, “when they see how old you are they will probably only give you an ASBO.”

“Yes,” she says looking if anything even less reassured, “but I have no ID!”

“Ah yes, I see,” I think the bleeding has now stopped, “that is not so good.”

2

Inside the cell I am able to think, to collect my thoughts for the first time. I feel the hardening scab of blood on my forehead. I asked for medical attention, this was refused, a fact I asked to be recorded, which it almost certainly will not be. They took my money, my watch, my ID card, shoe laces, belt and of course dad’s old book. I stayed cool calm and polite throughout, signing the portion of the form stating that I understood and agreed that my arrest had been correct, that I was guilty of an offence and that my arrest and detention had been carried out correctly.

I am hoping against hope that if I cooperate completely I will avoid prison or work camp and instead merely get my TCCO extended for a couple more years. Though it is Mum that I am now most worried about. I promised to call her as soon as I got home.

A couple of the young Asian men made a fuss at the desk and were given a very hard time, I saw one of them being pinned to the floor by three policeman, his hands twisted behind his back, screaming in pain. I was quickly moved away.

Physically I am a coward and will do whatever it takes to avoid physical pain, including swallowing copious amounts of pride and anger.

Lying here in this timelessness, the snow blinding whiteness of the walls, the CCTV camera, hidden, watching me from somewhere in the room, the fierce unforgiving lighting, I think of my fathers book. For a fleeting moment the underlying self pity I have been feeling ever since I arrived here, the feeling of the unfairness of it all, disappears. ’I am,’ I think with pride, ‘a political prisoner.’

When the door of my cell is finally opened it is not, as I had expected a uniformed officer but a man about six years older than myself in civilian clothes. He is smartly dressed in a very fashionable 1940’s style dark suit with a white shirt and satin blue tie. He carries a small black canvas bag and is accompanied by a uniformed policeman whom he indicates to leave and close the cell door behind him that it is safe to be left alone with me.

“Mr Mournay”, he addresses me in a tone that is authoritative, though not unfriendly, “you are in a lot of trouble.”

“I know, I gave my self a good three hours to get back before my curfew, but there was a terrorist attack in Richmond and I was trying to find an alternative route home when your guys jumped me. By mistake I’m sure.” I immediately regret this little aside since it comes across as sarcastic.

“I’m afraid your breach of curfew is the least of your worries. Tell me what is  your connection is with Jihad Now?”

“With whom, I have no connection with Jihad Now or any other Jihad! This is crazy; you think am linked with the Islamic Militants. Do I look like an Islamic militant?”

He doesn’t answer but turns on his wrist reader flashing up several pictures on the wall of me amongst the crowd at Richmond, walking toward

Goldhawk Road

and then clearly running alongside several young Asian men.

“We tend to be very judgmental on the TAS, tend to judge people by the company they keep.”

The TAS, he is from the Terrorist Action Squad, my God they think I am some sort of terrorist. “I was on my way home; I got caught up in the middle of something. I know nothing about Jihadi groups or Islam or any terrorists. You can check I had just been to my mothers in Greenwich. I simply went to help my mother vote. You can check my ID card; it was read at the polling station.”

“Yes, as you can see we know exactly where you have been. How long you lingered at Richmond Station. Maybe you wanted to see something of your handiwork?”

“This is completely insane. You cannot be serious. I want to speak to a legal representative. It’s obvious to anyone that I am completely innocent of anything.”

He laughed and switched of his wrist reader. “Now my friend, its time you woke up to reality. You’ve been arrested under the Terror Prevention Act 2015, we can hold you as long as we like, and you don’t have any rights. As far as the outside world is concerned you just became a non person. You have been caught associating with known Islamic extremists, you have a history of taking part in illegal demonstrations and we have caught you in the possession of subversive literature. It’s time you got a grip and realised just how much trouble you are in! You may be many things, foolish certainly, self important, naïve, but innocent, no.”

I can’t believe this happening, it’s as if reality itself had suddenly turned fluid, unmanageable, my reality now having all the solidity of mercury.

“Interesting reading matter,” he pulls out dad’s old book, open at a page where young men and women are throwing rocks at the police.

“It belonged to my father. I found it among his papers; it is a history book, I was taking it back to my flat as a reminder of my father. It’s a history book that’s all.” I feel that my voice betrays weakness, a degree of fatalism, the hollow sound of defeat. I want to be defiant but fear is pushing out all other emotions.

He gets up from of the bunk where he has been sitting. “Remember, if you don’t cooperate, I can’t help you.” With this he leaves the cell, leaving me to a solitude altogether too crowded with anxiety.

3.

Time seems to alter its very nature, change the very quality of the space around me. I inhabit hours or minutes, I have no idea which, interrupted from time to time by raised voices, shouts from the corridor outside, the slamming of cell doors, the turning of keys in heavy locks,  in this strange echo chamber world of light walls and empty confined spaces.

I try to analyse my feelings. The passage of time has significantly reduced my anxiety. After all they seemed to have monitored all my movements and must know everything about me. They must know I have done nothing wrong.

For the first time since the sale of cigarettes was made illegal I feel like a cigarette. I remember those last few frantic days, the queues of people stocking up. There had been far more fuss about the loss of the right to kill yourself with tobacco than the introduction of compulsory ID cards or the loss of numerous other rights and liberties. In the end though people had adjusted and in the immediate aftermath a feeling of anti-climax prevailed. People were simply not willing to go to the wall for Imperial Tobacco or Rothmans and anyway it did not turn out be such a terrible loss, you could still go abroad to buy them and everyone knew someone or knew someone who knew someone; whilst I, like so many others, had simply taken the opportunity to quit. I get up and pace the cell, four paces end to end. I determine to do a hundred, to keep active, to keep alert.

Hours pass, how many I have no idea, no idea if it is day or it is night. A tray of mashed potatoes and indifferent looking sausages is brought in for me by a policewoman in her fifties, who refuses to respond to any of my questions.  However I am grateful for her arrival for it breaks the monotony and more importantly for the food, for I am now very hungry.  The sausages turn out to be some sort of vegetarian substitute with a taste like a mixture of rubber and spinach, the mash potato tasting stale and reconstituted. The hunger pangs are replaced by a feeling of dissatisfaction, of wanting the taste of real food.

The crazy thing is the fact that since last year my interest in politics, after being arrested and given the TCCO, had fallen away. The order and the incredible stress of that period had taken away my appetite for activism. I  now just wanted to get on with my life.

Paul who had been identified as the organiser of our group and who also had previous ‘security offences,’ had got five years for ‘activity threatening national security.’ As an Australian Louisa had been deported and Eliot like me had been given a two year TCCO; all for what, the circulation of some electronic flyers and stopping the traffic for five minutes on

Kensington High street

?

The whole campaign had been unbelievably amateurish from the beginning, emerging from ideas bounced around in Paul’s apartment. We had met after Liberty was declared a prescribed organisation, an act of spite after it exposed the case of the Watford Three. I had searched the mainstream news for any mention of either the Watford Three or the prescription of Liberty and all we had found is one short piece on Reuters.

It had been this silence that had frightened me most of all, that had spurred me to want to do something. I had suggested an electronic leaflet bomb, whereby everyone’s attention would be drawn to what had happened, switching on their readers, shopping in Tesco City, reading the news, travelling the tube, a sudden newsflash to shock people awake. Paul had the wherewithal whilst I flattered myself that I had the literary ability. Louisa, Paul’s girlfriend, had helped me with the design. Eliot a friend of Paul’s from university was really just in for the ride. 

I had known Paul ever since my first year at the Tesco Academy in Southwark. We shared an interest in modern American fiction and Buddhism. The same age as me, tall and wiry with a thin nervous face, Paul was always much more knowledgeable and serious than I, driven by idealism and a passionate sense of justice. Consumed by outrage he could at times be fearless to the point of recklessness. I on the other hand had always felt driven by fear, by an acute anxiety. I always hoped that someone else would take a stand that others would start fighting back allowing me to join in at a later stage.  It was only when it was clear that this was not going to happen that I felt compelled to act; indignation finally overcoming cowardice.

I am not brave, all my life I have had to live with the knowledge that I am, at base, a coward. It has been the shaming fact that accompanied me always. Yet here I am, now truly in danger and yet it seems I feel no fear, only curiosity.

Hours pass, with nothing to read, nothing to do but pay attention to the flow of thoughts, of memory and imagination. It does not feel unpleasant, I cannot remember when I had last had time to really think, daily life seemed to consume me these days, days passed full of nothing but busyness an accumulation of pointless activities.

 I have been working part time for just over two years now, the work at the Greensboro Consumer Corporation involving the compilation of consumer profiles from data about patterns of individual consumption. These profiles can then be input into a persons home organisation system and do everything for them, from ordering their favourite wine, cheese, chocolate biscuits, books, their favourite holidays and programme their home entertainment system, pays their bills and does just about everything bar wipe their ass for them. Anything they were unhappy about could be corrected at the push of a button. The work was soulless, dispiriting and not particularly well paid, but did allow me time to read and was sufficiently undemanding to allow me the energy to enjoy my free time.

They wouldn’t be that concerned about my failure to turn up for work, it had happened before and they would soon replace me. I had little contact with my work colleagues or for that matter the neighbours in my block. There were few people who would notice my absence. My mother would however be worried sick. I hoped that they would either have enough compassion to inform her of my arrest or that she would quickly put two and two together and work out that I had been picked up. My fear was she might think I had been caught up in the Richmond bombing. 

The cell door is opened and a young policeman enters. He orders me to follow him.

3

Memory of the last time floods back, similar room, similar atmosphere and similar stench of coercive authority.

The room is naked but for a small table four chairs and screen set into the wall. He tells me to sit down and wait, then leaves me to silence and the warm glare of the strip lighting.

There is a brief period of silence and solitude. I can’t believe how calm I feel. Maybe it is simple, the worst thing has happened it is no longer imagined, concretized it no longer has any power over me.

There are three of them, a woman and two men, one of whom is uniformed. The man in civvies is tall, around six foot, in his mid thirties, cropped hair and a small elongated face, serious, almost intellectual. He pulls back a chair and sits down. The woman is in her early forties, attractive in a sort of officious, fascist mistress sort of way, slightly built with an attractive face she sits down opposite me. The uniformed officer takes his seat alongside the woman.

“Well Alex, you have been a very stupid young man and now we have to make a decision about what to do with you.” Her voice has the tired, patronising, more in sorrow than in anger tone that infuriates me. I am gripped by a surge of anger and frustration.

“What to do with me? Whatever happened to the idea of innocent until proved guilty, to the quaint idea of trials and evidence and due process of law?”

The shock when he hits me is intense; the blow to the side of my head knocks me off my chair. The sudden violation is all the more shocking for its alien unexpectedness; I have not experienced physical violence since I was in school, primary school at that. In the Tesco academy I had always managed to avoid violence.

“You little prick,” the police constable is screaming at me, “do you think we are playing some kind of game here? You fuck around here and we’ll drop you so hard you’ll have to be scraped off the floor!”

I feel a strange mixture of fear and outrage, outrage at being violated, I want so bad to hit him back but I am also acutely aware of my powerlessness and the fear I experience is a fear of the presence of such powerlessness. It was unclear for a split second which emotion would gain ascendancy.

I manage to climb back in my chair. Now feeling humiliated and ashamed, someone has permission to strike me whenever he felt like it, for the panel look on impassively.

 “You are a very silly young man,” she speaks and stares at me with an intense and penetrating interest, “this is the second time in less than a year that you have been picked up for a serious offence.” She places Dad’s old book on the table,” what is all this nonsense? You think we can allow this sort of stupidity? Fifty or sixty years ago such adolescent nonsense could be tolerated as a rite of passage, young men like you could play at being revolutionaries, before growing up and getting  on with their lives.

However anyone now engaged in your kind of low level subversion only provides cover for those seeking to destroy democracy and the rule of law. We haven’t got time for this sort of stupidity that only serves to divert resources from where they are more urgently required.” She asks the police officer to turn on the wall screen.

 “Its time we started fighting back, their democracy, it’s a joke,” the screen is blank but it is my voice, in conversation with Paul about fifteen months ago.  “They decide who can stand for election, we have lost the right to protest and freedom of speech is becoming a distant memory. We need to fight fire with fire people need a wake up call, something really spectacular……” The screen is switched off. “Denigrating democratic values, incitement, are both serious offences under the 2015 Terrorism Act; we could be considering a minimum fifteen year sentence here.”

I am aware that this last sentence is supposed to freeze me with fear; however what I am starting to feel is contempt. “You’ve made your point,” I finally find a voice and am surprised that it is my own, “you can do whatever you like. You can hit me, lock me up and throw away the key. You have the power, what you do not have is the authority.” I wait for the blow, but it does not come.

“You are not doing yourself any favours here Mr Mournay. We are not interested in your adolescent political views. We are here to make sure that people live safely, to see that the public enjoy the ability to go about their daily lives without being blown to pieces. And we will do everything in our power to keep them safe.”

“Do you really think,” it is the man in civvies now who breaks in “that all this playing at politics, this adolescent political posturing cuts any ice here. Let me tell you son you need to wake up to how much trouble you are in.”

I do not have any idea what is expected of me but lack the courage to attempt any further dialogue.

 She whispers something to the uniformed officer then turns to the uniformed policeman standing at the back of the room. ”Take him down; we will adjourn to consider sentencing.” 

This is not the result I was expecting, I should have been sentenced, told I had the right to appeal. They had not followed the same procedure as the last time, but before I have the chance to say anything the panel is leaving the room.

We seem to be following a different route back. I am led down a cool grey corridor lit by ugly globes of artificial light, with tile floors that produce a sinister echo. I am led down a flight of steps and told to wait in the corridor outside a room marked IN5.

“Put your hands out.” His instruction is as crisp as it is surprising.

“What, what for?” I am hit for the second time in one day, the blow to the side of the head temporarily unbalancing me. He picks me up by the collar of my shirt and forces my hands in front of me; in jerky violent movements my hands are handcuffed. The speed of the violence is faster than my ability to comprehend what is happening.

I find myself shaking nervously from the sudden turn of events when the scream cuts through the air. It is unlike anything I have ever heard, neither human nor animal, it has the quality of the primeval, a call of pain from the very depths. I feel frozen, unable to speak, aware of the tall young policeman standing beside me, he is unblinking and capable I know of great violence. I am hidden in the bowels of this building somewhere in central London. We might just as well be on Mars; nobody knew where I am or what is happening. I am most angry at my self,  for the dumb naiveté of a stubborn mindset that still believes in something of England and the rule of law. What a stupid fuck!

I need to empty both my bowels and bladder at the same time. Then it comes again, only this time it is longer and if anything even more inhuman. The fear and panic courses through me and I piss myself.

The door of the room is opened and two policeman drag a young man, their arms linked under his armpits, from the room. His face and body seem undamaged though the look in his eyes is that of a dead animal, and I notice a trickle of blood coming from his ears.

The young policeman now grabs hold of me and tries to pull me into the room, but I am really frozen now, encased in icy fear, I am surprisingly strong, my mind is blank, my heart is stopping and I black out.

When I come around I am soaked in icy water lying on the metallic floor in a white tiled narrow room. In the middle of the room there is what looks like an operating table. A man wearing a white coat, in his early fifties is looking at me with amusement. “Stand up,” he orders me.  “You’re a fit young man, half my age; you should be ashamed of yourself.” I am aware of another, much younger man in the room as I struggle to my feet, my hands still handcuffed together. “It seems that the sight of one of your Muslim friends frightened you.” He laughed and moved to a cupboard on the left hand side of the room. I am standing, freezing cold, aware that I have soiled myself, in a pool of water.

He takes a small bottle of liquid and some cotton wool from out of the cupboard and walks toward me. ”Put your hands behind the back of your head, like this.” He demonstrates the action I am supposed to make. I do as I am told. He soaks the cotton wool in the liquid and dabs either side of my forehead. His movements are slow and gentle, like a kindly dentist. He attaches two metal strips, held in place by rubber suction pads to either side of my forehead. The policeman then approaches and places a heavy metal bar against my knee joints, my handcuffed hands are pulled backwards and placed on the back of my neck.

“What do you want; do you need to know from me?” I ask weakly feeling faint, giddy, and sick. They do not answer but the policeman pushes my head down and my knees are bent with the iron bar pushed against the joint. This position places great strain on my back, calves and arches of my feet. I am only there for a few moments and it is already painful. Before I can say anything else a soft sponge, that tastes of rubber and chemicals that make me feel sick is placed inside my mouth.

The elder man stares into the flickering screen of a large hand held reader. “I doubt that there is anything of interest you can tell me.” He informs me in a slow casual manner. “You are a very silly young man but I think you are very likely to behave yourself somewhat better in the future.” He places the reader down upon the table and there is a slight movement of his hand.

My body is torn in a multitude of directions, the pain slices into heart, liver, cuts into my legs, stabs me in the back of the neck, in an instant I am in unbearable indescribable agony. I try to scream and bite into the sponge which emits poisonous bile. How long this lasts is obscure; momentarily I am shot into a timeless hell.

As soon as the sponge is removed my stomach heaves and I throw up which is both difficult and painful trapped in this position. The Iron bar is removed and I am helped to my feet my body still wracked with pain and nervous aftershock. I am shaking all over. As soon as I attempt to stand erect unaided I collapse onto the floor and my stomach contracts again and vomit pushes from my mouth in uncontrollable convulsions.

“You mucky little fucker,”I hear a low laughter as my body shakes and my head feels like a numbed fog of pain and exhaustion. “We barely touched you; little more than a wake up call.” It is the older man again. He speaks in an amused tone. I stare at the white tiled floor and little pool of vomit; a moment of low desperate sickness, of being hot, then cold then wanting to lie to close my eyes and let the darkness swallow me.

“Get him out of here.” The door is opened and soiled and shivering I am dragged from the room.

4

For the first few hours I am immobile, grateful for the absence of pain, gripped by primitive emotions and debts to be paid to the gods. If only I can just stay still I will feel no pain. 

How incredibly naive and foolish of me, can I really have said that the worst thing had happened to me? Much, much worse is happening in this very building and what makes me so afraid is the reality that they don’t need anything from me. I have nothing to trade. In all the time spent in their presence they never asked me a single question.

Hours pass and I am left alone with a growing feeling of shame and humiliation. I know that I am empty of any substance, weak and insignificant in the face of the supreme confidence, competency and solid logic of good order.

There is no night or day only the unblinking light of the cell. At last I am able to move, each movement is painful but my disgust at my soiled clothing and the smell impels movement. But there is nowhere to go and no fresh clothing. I move into the only place available that is inside my head.

The thing about being a Millennium baby is that chronology is made simple, ask most people what was going on in the world when they were seven and they would have to work it out, for me it’s easy, I am as old as the century. In the year of my birth the war on terror did not exist, no one carried ID cards and Docklands was the scene of New Year celebrations. The Anti Terror Action Squads were not even an idea in someone’s head.

In my early years I was happy, I felt as safe and secure as is possible in the minefield of early infancy and childhood. My first memories are of Greenwich Park, the river, a day spent down in Brighton. Then there were holidays in Portugal, playing on the sand in the warm sunshine, being held naked by my father in the sea, the water breaking gently around my feet, tickling my ankles; A world as innocent and charming and just about as durable as a sandcastle.

School held no terrors for me. I was popular and enjoyed lessons, particularly history and English. I was good at keeping the bullies onside and also developed a strong coterie of friends.

By the time I was ready to start secondary school life had slipped into a comfortable groove. I played football every weekend with Michael Conner, Errol, Serge and Joe Whelan, had a terrible crush on Sandra Hutchinson and was getting good marks in everything except maths.

The year of the 2012 Olympics was the happiest of my life. Sandra and I had become close; I was enjoying secondary school even more than junior. Joe Whelan and I became close. A tall wiry boy he had all the makings of a good centre forward. Wiry gingery hair and a freckled face, snub nosed, he was an ugly kid but he made up for his shortage in other areas on the football pitch. My own interest in playing had begun to wane as my interest in Sandra increased, but I was happy to tag along, to cheer him on from the sidelines.

Dad was very involved in the planning of the Olympics and was able to get tickets for the opening ceremony. The school was also involved and the fourth and fifth years provided volunteers during the games. As the date for the opening ceremony grew closer the excitement grew, combined with a feeling that the world was changing for the better. London at Its Best was the unofficial slogan and indeed I remember feeling that London was the centre of the world, the whole world in one city.

The period of the games itself was magical, we all threw ourselves into a whirlwind of boxing, rowing, cycling, fencing and best of all the track and field. I wanted it to last forever. I was in the third row with Sandra watching Eleanor Truman take Gold for Great Britain in the 800 metres, the highlight of a time that, even then, I knew, would never come again. Eight months later came the Docklands dirty bomb.

I move more easily now still painful, my body exercises a will of its own, struggling to regain the flow, the movement of normality.

The light wearies me it is like a stream of pure shame illuminating my shabby fearful existence. That I have been reduced to this!

All love is perhaps doomed to an inevitable fall, a loss of innocence, but the shock, the sudden violent rupture of the world! Even after the passing of ten years it is difficult to overstate the impact.

There is a cliché, ‘a climate of fear’ and that is how it is, it descends, like the weather. Looking back now I can see how much it changed my father. The death toll included some very good friends of his. Whole swathes of Docklands, including some of the Olympic sights became uninhabitable, were cordoned off and suddenly became dead, diseased land, saturated with radioactivity. We lived only two miles from the exclusion zone.

As the weeks passed and the death toll mounted the government passed more and more laws. From that point on it became an offence not to produce a valid ID card when requested.

Some of our school friends were suddenly no longer around. The Muslim kids who had always been given a tough time of it; they used to be called Osama’s took the brunt of our little local backlash. One that I knew quite well, a shy kid called Hammed, got killed, knifed on the Parkside Estate. It didn’t get much publicity. Some of the other Muslim kids were taken from school. The BNP began to gain serious electoral strength in areas of the south east and parts of the North East. The following year they were all but outlawed by the Political Extremism Act, this also outlawed the spreading of religious hatred and the defamation of democracy. Of course I took little of this in at the time.

What I remember most from that period was the intolerable fear, it gnawed away at you day after day.  I was terrified of radiation sickness and for a few months became neurotically hypochondriac.

Sandra’s parents left London taking her to live in Kent. A year later I applied to attend the Tesco Academy and sat my GEC. I passed with distinction.  My mother was particularly proud. My father seemed distracted,  I think the first symptoms of his illness, long before any diagnosis, where beginning to be felt by him. For whatever reason my success felt tainted, soiled overshadowed.  After that things started to go badly wrong, the bomb set in motion a recession and dad had problems at work, eventually having to take early retirement through illness. My younger brother Malcolm began to act out.  It was as if the lights had been dimmed in my world. I think I was aware of other unpleasant things happening, but these were always happening to others on the margins, they didn’t impinge on our lives.

I remember I’m now ashamed to say, being quite pleased when I got my first ID card. It was a rite of passage, my coming of age. It was Paul who politicized me.

It was in my second year at the Academy that I really got to know Paul. Up until that point he had rather frightened me. He was seriously clever and in debate was remorseless. He also had a reputation for being something of a political bore. However I found we shared a mutual interest in Saul Bellow and Philip Roth and that his tastes ranged pretty wide, from football to early twentieth century blues music. To my surprise I found him extremely easy to talk to and we soon became close friends.

Paul had just got himself elected to the Student Union. It was a weak and feeble affair and he started to stir things up. It was an exiting and fearful time, Paul said we were being watched; I did find this difficult to believe at first, I put it down to paranoia and a desire to appear romantic. Then came the clear evidence that our readers where tapped. Fearful too as I became gradually aware of just how much liberty had already been lost.

In the summer of 2019 Philadelphia and Munich both got hit, TAS were created and given massive powers and operated with complete operational autonomy, a law literally unto themselves. People we knew were starting to be picked up. Anyone with a dissenting opinion seemed fair game.  Both the New Statesman and the Guardian were prosecuted and closed down in the case of the former and was castrated in the case of the latter.

Paul downloaded some material from an ‘illegal’ Australian site campaigning on behalf of British political prisoners. Two days later he too was picked up.

For me it was like stepping into an unreal world, despite everything that Paul had taught me I couldn’t believe what was happening.

Paul’s solicitor got him released after two days, shaken, angry, if anything even more determined. We met in Kilburn, drinking in the Electric Bar; I remember it so sharply, though it seems like a hundred years ago now. Retro music from the 1990’s playing in the background, Paul talking incessantly about the need to get the public stirred up about what was going on.

That weekend Paul and I had attended, what turned out to be the last, Truth to Power rally in

Red Lion Square

. There was something depressing and oppressive about that night. The police presence both uniformed and ‘undercover’, was no more than on previous occasions, but we all now seemed to know of someone who’d been picked up by the police and numbers were lower than expected. There had been the usual defiant and uplifting speeches and then dispersing into the cold night air.

Four days later came the chemical attacks in Manhattan. The speed which the government responded took us all off balance. Overnight TTP was proscribed, David Hinchcliffe the Chairman, along with countless others was arrested, and the Regulatory and Administration Powers Act was passed. What little parliamentary opposition still left was extinguished. Even Paul Howe the newspaper columnist and media pundit was placed under house arrest after publishing information on the activities of TAS.

It was as if all the doors had closed and that we were now on our own.

5.

Isolation and timelessness creates a dizziness of perspective. The pain is lessened now and I move around the cell impatient and growing stale with an insipid boredom interlaced with moments of fear and chronic anxiety. 

My waking hours are spent constructing mind games, words with two meanings, Capital cities of the world, history tests.

Sometimes I try a meditation technique I learnt a few years ago, but given so few distractions it proves remarkably difficult to sit still. Indeed it is the very lack of distraction that is so distracting, so disturbing, that and the odd sounds that drift into my cell from time to time.

Meal times provide little real structure, they seem to come at odd disjointed times, with little order or regularity. Sometimes an age will pass between meals, between a breakfast or possibly evening meal of toast and some foul tasting coffee and lunch consisting of a heap of mashed potatoes and veggie burgers, at others it feels like I have only just finished eating when the next meal arrives. Time itself seems to have collapsed.

I am shaken fearfully awake by the banging and shouting,” Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar! “Then piercing screams followed by a deathly silence. I lie gripped by a terrible fear, a consuming sense of impending disaster. Hours, days pass in just this way.

6.

I am startled awake by the sound of my cell door being opened. He is in his early forties, in plain clothes with a handsome, even kindly face. “Come with me!”

“What is happening?” I ask following him into the corridor, dreading what might be to come. He does not answer and taking my cue I follow him silently along the corridor up a flight of stairs and once again into one of the seemingly infinite number of rooms.

I am ordered to sit down and sit facing a raised platform on which sits three chairs fronted by a long table. On the wall behind the platform there is a large picture of the King. 

I recognise these surroundings from the last time; surely now I am now to be sentenced. The door opens and a uniformed policeman enters behind me, he stops and stands to attention and is immediately followed by an obviously very senior police officer and the woman who was involved in my interview.

“Stand up!” the policeman barks at me and I slowly I rise to my feet. For a brief flickering moment I am just able to take stock of who I am, what it is that I am experiencing, this turns out to be a kind of dull robotic numbness.

The panel take their seats. “You may sit.” I am instructed by the duty officer and notice a fly edge its way nervously across the surface of the table. 

The Chief Superintendent and the young woman surf through the information set in front of them. He looks to be in his early sixties, handsome with a good head of steel grey hair. He takes out an electronic pen and begins entering something on the screen in front of him.

“Mr Mournay you have admitted to breach of curfew, unlawful association and possession of seditious material in breach of Section Two of the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2015,” he speaks without raising his head. “These are extremely serious offences that would normally attract a custodial sentence. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

The frozen emptiness of powerlessness grips me, I ought to protest, make a defiant point, at least sarcastically dismiss these farcical proceedings, but I remain mute.

The face of the of older man looked irritated as if the  silence was a rebuke to him, he paused for a minute or so then making further notes continued to speak, addressing not me but some invisible presence in the room. “Your silence will be recorded as a failure to make a statement of defence.”

“Under the powers bequeathed by the secretary of state under the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2013 I am sentencing you to two years imprisonment. However I will be suspending this for the further five years duration of your Travel and Curfew Control Order, I am also extending the restrictions placed upon you, you will now be restricted to the London Borough of Brent and will be subjected to an internalised tag. Any further breaches of your order will result in the immediate invocation of a term of imprisonment with any added provisions as may be required under the Terrorism Act 2021. This hearing is now closed.”

“Stand Up,” the voice barks behind me and I bring myself to my feet. The inspector and his female assistant leave the room. “Come with me,” the young policeman indicates that I need to leave by another door at the far end of the room.

To my surprise we now enter a room lit by daylight and it takes me a moment to adjust to the different quality of light. I manage a glance through a small window on my left that looks out onto a small courtyard. This is the first time I have seen daylight since my arrest.

The room too is in brighter colours, a cool yellow and red foam chairs. I am told to sit in the corner and wait. There is a picture on the wall, a country scene, a young man chasing chickens as the sun sets. It looks remarkably incongruous after my recent experiences but I am deeply grateful for the attendant feeling of peace. For the first time since the night of my arrest I feel relaxed. It is over.

A young woman in her early thirties enters carrying what looks like a medical bag. She indicates for me to come and sit by the window. Mutely I follow these instructions. “Put your arm out, like this, palm upwards.”

She holds my hand in a firm, almost painful grip, and takes a silver object from her bag, somewhat similar to a hypodermic. Pressing this against my flesh I feel a sudden stab of pain, like a bee sting. She laughs as I wince,” don’t be such a baby.”

This is the implant monitor; with this they can record all my movements.

She begins to close her bag. “What happens now?” I ask, aware of a slight tingling sensation in my arm.

She shrugs her shoulders.  “Wait here, someone will be with you shortly.”

I am left alone again and I am aware now clearly of something that up until now has only teased me. My memory is faulty, my thoughts often not just ill focused but my mind emptied of solid content in a way that is both frightening and deeply disorientating. It as if a black hole suddenly opens up and I momentarily fall in.

The door opens and a police officer enters. In his mid thirties his face is disturbingly disfigured. He is carrying a small blue canvas bag and a police reader.

“Mr Mournay,” he addresses me as if unsure of my identity.

“Yes,” I hesitate as to whether to remain seated or not but before I can make a decision he has sat beside me.

“Your TCCO restrictions have all been entered on your reader, I suggest that you familiarise yourself with them.” He takes my reader out of the bag and hands it to me. “As you have been found guilty of offences under the Terrorism Act 2021 you are being issued with a class C identity card, your passport and travel rights have therefore been rescinded until 2030 when you may request a review.” His tone like the words that flow from his mouth is robotic, completely devoid of emotion, of threat, menace or even the malign satisfactions of the exercise of power. He empties the remaining contents of the bag onto the table, my comb, my credit and cash card and some pocket tissues.

“You are now subject to electronic monitoring and any attempt to breach your TCCO conditions will be immediately notified to your nearest police station and you will be re-arrested and have to serve the suspended custodial part of your sentence with what other provisions may be appropriate. You are now free to go.” He stands up opens the door and indicates that I am to leave.

I stand up and follow him out of the room. We are now in a brightly lit reception area. Two young men are sitting huddled together in front of the reception desk, they are quietly laughing and joking with each other under the disapproving eye of the desk sergeant. Outside I can see trees. Everything feels alien disorienting. He points to the door. “Ok, you can go.”

I hesitate for a moment unsure as to whether it can really be true that I am free to go. Nervously I move forward and open the door to be blinded by late autumn sunshine. I turn out of the courtyard and in a state of shock discover that I am on the busy intersection between Paddington Village and the

Edgware Road

. People are shopping eating leading normal lives. All this time I have been a little over two miles from my flat! It is now 3.30, I am suddenly back in the world of time again.

The sudden presence of so much activity, of so many people, of so much raw sound is terrifying. I feel almost paralyzed by fear. I have to get out of here, to get home as quickly as possible. I make my way toward the nearest tram station at the corner with Marble Arch

The journey, crammed against the doorway is a nightmare I can only cope with so many people by closing my eyes and thinking of my flat and safety.

The flat is cold and feels alien, a time capsule of the morning before my arrest. I start to tidy up a little putting some dirty cloths in the laundry box when I start to feel my body shake, I only just make it to the toilet in time heaving violently into the basin my body suddenly ice cold my head an eerily silent dizzy void.

It is all I can do to pull my self onto the bed and cover my fully clothed body shaking violently, my eyes closed I see only the lights of a police cell.

7.

In the days that follow I am like a ghost, the objects that surround me seem unreal, my days lacking in either meaning or substance. Sleep provides little respite, my dreams are tortured, my sleep disrupted, I lie awake for long periods during the night and feel exhausted throughout the day. The greatest shock is that I was only held for a little over four days. Time has now become wholly dislocated for me.

It is with a supreme effort that I call Mum.

“They wouldn’t confirm whether you had been arrested or not. I was worried sick. Your work hadn’t heard anything; I rang around all the hospitals. Mary used all her connections but even she couldn’t find anything out. Thank God you’re ok. I’ll come on over.”

“No, no I’m fine, please; I’ll come over to see you soon.” The bastards, I must have asked a hundred times for Mum to be called, gave them her number, begged for them to call her, the bastards! She had such touching faith in her friend Mary, who still worked in a very junior capacity for Greenwich local authority. “Give me a couple of days to sort things out and I’ll give you call, I’m fine believe me, they’ve added a few extra restrictions to my TCCO but nothing much. Just give me a day or two; I will see if I can put things straight at work.”

I check my account on my reader, just over a three and a half thousand Euros. I will be lucky if it last until the end of the month.

I call work.

“Hello Mr. Collier, I haven’t been able to call, there was a bit of a mix up with the police and I got caught up with a lot of Muslim protesters, they kept me in whilst checking out my story.”

“Yes I know. The police have been in contact with us.”

“Oh,” he obviously didn’t think it important enough to inform my mother, with an effort I try to subdue my anger, “well what I want to know is my job still open?”

“No, I’m afraid we have now filled this post. You also need to understand that the nature of your offence would anyhow have prohibited your being re-employed by us. I hope you learn from this experience and change your ways before you get into really serious trouble.” The line is dead before I can respond. I am filled with impotent rage. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he had obviously been kept far better informed than my mother. And what was all that about ‘the nature of your offence?’ Christ what a fucking country. Fuck and now I will have to register for compulsory work. My impotence and rage soon exhausts me. I pull on my coat with the intention of getting very drunk.

The Goats Head bar is nearly empty, I take a bar stool and order a rum. I used to drink here with Paul.

As the rum hits I feel my nerves calm down, for the first time since my release I feel les edgy, the pure untreated anxiety sitting in the pit of my stomach is abated. I move over to a table, flick up a screen and surf through the hundreds of channels. I watch one of the BBC news channels dedicated to the war. A self assured minister spouting success stories, explosives found, terrorists arrested, extremists deported.

I switch over to my bank account and start to do some sums, I can survive, just, for about another two weeks. After that I will have to register with the Community Support Agency for compulsory work.

I remember Dad’s book, he might have some other stuff like it amongst the papers I’ve still not sorted. I order rum and start to feel a growing glow of defiance. There must be ways to fight back.

My daydreams are interrupted by the arrival of four police officers who have entered by the side door and are now asking to see peoples ID cards. I switch off the screen and steel myself for the usual humiliation.

As one of the young policeman approaches I have my ID card at the ready. He seems to be the youngest of the group, about the same age as myself, blonde hair and blue eyed he is absolutely secure in his uniform and the power it gives him. I hand him my card. “Hey Dave we have a class C here.” He then turns to me, “you’re getting close to your bedtime.”

“As you can see I live just around the corner, I have plenty of time before my curfew.”

The young man is joined by his older colleague. He hands him my ID card which he places in his reader. “We have a terrorist wannabe on our hands, only just re-classified.” He turns back toward me.” Remember we can pick you up any time we like. Now drink up and go home.” 

I am perfectly within my rights to stay here, but of course insisting on my rights is both pointless and dangerous. They have all the power. I empty my glass and get out of my chair filled yet again with humiliation, rage and impotency; it is a cocktail I am getting used too.

Exhausted and humiliated I throw myself onto the bed, aware now that my life has changed for ever. I can never go back to a normal life. The realization is both bitter and frightening. I fall into a semi drunken sleep

A dull apathy fills my days, an overwhelming desire to do nothing, to speak to nobody and for nobody to speak to me; nobody comes and nobody goes, I stay in the safety of my apartment. My apartment consists of a lounge, two bedrooms, a small bathroom and a kitchen just about large enough to turn around in, though cat swinging is out. The lounge is overstocked with furniture, stuff from the old house bequeathed to me after Mum moved. There is a large dining table, two leather armchairs and a large and extremely comfortable sofa bed.

But I can neither sit still nor concentrate on anything for more than a few moments. I try to read but retain nothing; I reach the bottom of the page having no sense of the meaning of what I have just read. I cannot listen to music; its play upon my emotions feels unbearable. My sleep is invaded by nightmares, horrific sensations of suffocation and drowning and so that my nights are restless and I lie awake gripped by anxiety and fear. At times and for no apparent reason I am gripped by nausea and have to run into the toilet to vomit violently. I try to eat but waste most of my food, no sooner do I prepare a meal than my appetite is gone.

At other times I am gripped by an overwhelming tearful self pity, crying for no reason as I stare out the window; and all the time the paralyzing anxiety, an insidious threatening presence invading every thought, every action.

Periodically my arm throbs and aches where they have placed the implant monitor, it’s presence in my body both angers and disgusts me. I want to rip this violation of my body from me, its presence is a daily humiliation.

 I make my money last as long as possible, each day is an exercise in frugality. But the time is coming closer when I must present myself to the Community Support Agency. It is something that I dread. It feels like a final confession of defeat.

8.

WE NEED YOUR EYES AND EARS

REPORT ANYTHING SUSPICIOUS

The words flash up upon the screen as I wait in the queue, ID card in hand. Now that I am actually here I feel surprisingly calm, a sort of subdued acceptance has entered my life. The queue edges forward slowly and I approach the reception interface.

Before me is a small console into which I place my ID card into a credit card sized slot.  “You have 5 employment credits and are entitled to the minimum employment allowance, please take a seat in room 2 and wait to be called.” The monotone robotic voice instructs me as it returns my card. I look around me and to my right are two doors marked 2 and 3. I leave the console and enter a large waiting room. I count six people three men and three women waiting on the red metal seating. I sit down at the back of the room and observe both my surroundings and the other occupants of the room.

The walls are a pale blue; there are pictures on the wall, rural scenes, not unlike the picture I had seen in the police station. The room is clean, functional, wholly lacking in soul or character. Two places away from me sits an older man, in his late forties, he looks anxious, is unshaven and has the eyes of a drunkard, his clothes look unkempt and his receding hair is greasy. He is nervously turning his ID card over in his hand and is startled when the voice calls out “Mr. Blakely.” A young black man rises to his feet; he is wearing jodhpurs and a cavalry jacket, all the latest fashion.

A woman sits in front of me, she looks to be in her twenties but I cannot see her face, only a curly mass of peroxide and the smell of cheap scent. An older woman stands up in black skirt and blue top and begins to walk to another seat. A young girl, barely out of her teens cradles a baby that gurgles and chuckles, noises out of place in this cool and calculating space. 

I stare at the floor wishing I had brought something along to read. I try flicking through the news pages on my reader, glancing at the weather page. Bangladesh is flooded again; there are fears for another tsunami in Japan, record temperatures in Moscow. 

The world is disintegrating but I cannot concentrate. “Ms Bradshaw,” the woman in the blue top heads for the cubicle. She opens the door and is swallowed by the machine. I long to get this whole business over with, to get away, to be anywhere but here; a young woman in a hijab enters and the automatic voice calls out “Mr. Calder.”

When the young woman with the child is called I know that if the system works on a first come first served basis, of which there is of course no guarantee, I am next.

Behind me a middle aged black man has begun talking to himself. I, along with everyone else in the room pretend that this is not happening.

When my name is called I move forward and enter the reader booth. In front of me are a television screen and a reader insert point. “Please insert your Identity card into the console. If you possess an Intermaton compatible reader please place your reader into the insert point, now place your left index finger onto the screen and look directly at the green light in the centre of the monitor. Thank you; please wait for an employment advisor to see you.” I feel like a cigarette.

The screen lights up and a middle aged Asian man appears sitting against a pale yellow background. “Hello Mr. Mournay I see that you are currently geographically restricted? This will create some problems in placing you particularly as you have a cat C ID card.” I say nothing; the same heavy defeatism pervades my being. My fate is no longer my own.  He is busy scanning some sort of screen.

He brings the brief silence to an end. “I have a placement in Kilburn, clearing up old church property. However it may involve some travel outside your current restrictions for this you will need to get police clearance. I will advise the local supervisor. You start on Monday, I have entered all the details onto you reader and it also contains both your entitlement and obligations. If you fail to report for work at any time without good reason your entitlement will stop and you will have to re-apply. Unless you have any questions you can go.”

Happy to be free again I leave the booth and am soon out in the crisp autumn air. The sun is shining brilliantly over a city that has so very suddenly become alien to me. I make my way amongst the afternoon shoppers toward the High Road, I still feel like a cigarette and a drink of something that will put fire inside me, rum or tequila. My funds are really low; it’s a drink or something to eat. Though I do have some potatoes back at the flat, I can eat these with some onions and a sachet of that spicy sauce. I opt for a drink.

The tequila hits the spot.  I am aware now that I am drinking too much, that the only time I now feel even remotely at ease with myself is when I have spirits inside me.

The sun is setting against a cool blue. A brilliant blood red sky illuminates the High Road. All over London the lights are going on and the air is penetrated by the steady bee like hum of a sky drone watching over us all.

9.

The weather turns wet and windy and Monday comes all too quickly. I dress in old jeans and an even older sweater for what I expect to be dirty manual labour. 

A steady niggling rain is falling. I re-read the instructions loaded into my reader. I have to report to the supervisor at 10.00 a.m. at St Mary’s Church in Kilburn. I know the church well; it is just around the corner from Carol’s flat. As I pass an advertising screen flashes up my name ‘Hi Alex, need new working clothes check out the Mattock range of working overalls, boots and outdoor protection? I still find this form of advertising embarrassing.

The drizzle stops as I enter

Abbey Road

, the church is on the right hand side. I see a group of individuals standing beside the wall; it is just after ten minutes to ten.

The superintendent stands out clearly, detached from the rest of the group he is sitting on the wall, entering data into his reader. “Excuse me, my name is Alex Mournay I was told to report here for my Community Service. “

He looks up from the screen, “yes I have you down on my list. I need an Iris scan and your ID.” I give him my ID card and I stare into his reader. “Go and wait with the others.”

Rather shyly I approach the group standing beside a pile of spades and a large wheel barrow.  It is a very mixed group, two young black men, a bulky muscular white man in his thirties, a young man who looks to be of mixed ethnicity and an older man around forty who is standing slightly aloof from the rest of the group.

Reluctant to join the others I too stand to one side. “Okay” the supervisor breaks in, “let’s get started. “Alex is joining us this morning.” He indicates me and the group breaks apart. The supervisor throws a hoe in my direction. “You can work with Errol and Sam. “

“Peter and Lucas can come with me to pick up the dumpster, Colin,” he looks at the older man, “you can keep an eye on these two. I want that side verge cleaned up before lunch.” I am joined by the younger of the two black men; in his early twenties, good looking sure of himself, he is wearing multiple crease jeans and a black and gold anorak. Following behind him is the half Chinese man, a little older, with bright intelligent eyes and an air of self assurance. Colin the older man looks uneasy at being left in charge. He is clean shaven with a thin face, sunken cheeks and is balding; his clothes are ill fitting and he has the appearance of an educated man fallen upon hard times..

“Hi I’m Sam,” the Chinese man introduces himself “and this is Errol.”

“Hi I’m Alex, have you guys been on CS long?”

“Too long,” Errol replies, he smiles and his features assemble into something more friendly and welcoming. “This is your first time on CS?”

“Yes, I lost my job a couple of weeks back.”

“Well you certainly drew the short straw here,” Sam informs me picking up a black canvas sack and a spade. “These shit jobs are normally given to people who have fucked up a couple of placements already either that or politico’s!”

Errol laughs, “That’s it, you’re a politico aren’t you?”

 I am not sure how to react.

“Don’t worry about it, “Sam chips in, “Colin over there is a politico too, he used to work for the BBC.”

“What you do to upset them?” Errol’s tone is more amused than hostile.

“I went on a demonstration and then got busted for breach of curfew.”

“Well we’re all in the same big heap of shit here. Once they get you on manual placements you’re fucked!” 

“Let’s make a start.” Colin calls over and picks up a shovel himself. 

I spend the morning tidying the grass growing alongside the wall. Sam and Errol cut out the circular shapes of the bedding in which we are to plant bulbs. I find this undemanding labour surprisingly relaxing a sort of mindlessness takes over and the time passes quickly. By lunch time I am aware that for the first time since my arrest I have a serious appetite, I’m really hungry.

“Are you coming to the café?” Sam calls over

“I can’t, it’s to do with my TCCO, I am restricted to Brent, unless on the worksite.”

“Don’t worry we won’t grass you!” Errol cuts in with a smile.

“No I have an implant.”

“Fuck, you must have really been up to something.”

“Well whatever, it sucks.”

“I’ll get you something,” Sam offers. “What would you like?”

When they have gone, Colin, who has been sitting by himself on the wall watching us with an air of detachment, approaches me.

“Hi, he sits beside me on the church steps and hands me a slip of paper. ‘ IF YOU HAVE AN IMPLANT IT CAN MONITOR AND SEND EVERYTHING YOU SAY AND EVERYTHING ANYBODY SAYS TO YOU.’

For a moment I find myself caught up by an intense feeling of denial, this is crazy, why would they be in the least interested in what I might have to say about anything. But the feeling lasts for a matter of seconds, of course its true. I look at Colin as if he is the possessor of all wisdom. “What do I do?”

He raises his finger to his lips and takes the piece of paper back out of my hand. ‘You need to be very careful what you say. And whatever you do don’t discuss your case. If you need to talk about anything sensitive at all, do so in writing.’

“I need to tidy up before Michael comes back with the dumpster.” His voice is firm, articulate and sounds wholly artificial. He gets up and puts the tools up against the wall.

Sam hands me a large seafood sough bread roll. I feel trapped, almost paralyzed by a heavy depression, I long just to get home, to escape into sleep.

“What’s up, you look like your numbers came up on the Lotto but you forgot to buy a ticket.” Sam strikes me as being both sympathetic and clever and I am curious as to how he found himself on a CS scheme.

“Oh nothing, I’m just pissed at having no money and ending up doing this!”

“Oh, it’s not so bad, and there are ways to make money other than through the CSA.” He winks and I am nervous now hoping he says no more.

“Thanks for the sandwich.”

Michael the Supervisor returns with the others bringing our conversation to an end. “You guys still on lunch, you haven’t even finished the side bedding yet.” He looks across severely in my direction,” you can put that away,” he points at my sandwich. “You need to finish this section along the side here. And keep it straight, this line is all over the place!”

“What a tosser!” Sam whispers under his breath.

The afternoon goes more slowly, Michael remains on site watching over us. The relaxed, almost meditative feel of the morning is replaced by a dull oppressive monotony. When four thirty comes I cannot wait to get away.

 “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I call over to Sam and Errol as I leave.

10.

I have started writing a diary. This seems to provide some release.

’25.11. 2024.

A silence has descended upon me. I am careful now even when talking to myself. Sam is friendly and I like him, though I feel ashamed whenever he comes to talk to me and dread him confiding something incriminating. I fear that he is interpreting my attitude as coldness. I think I must tell him about the implant though am also terrified of being seen as paranoid, perhaps even a little mad.

Colin is the one person I feel I could talk to but he is incredibly distant, keeps himself aloof from the rest of us and is seen as friend of Michaels, even a possible grass. I am sure that this is not true, but feel imprisoned by silence.

Mum called again and we spoke on the videophone. I finally explained the changed TCCO conditions to her and as I feared she wanted to jump on the next tram and come on over. I explained that everything is ok; I don’t want her to have to deal with the stress of the journey. I told her I would go and see about getting a compassionate waiver on my conditions. I put on my most relaxed easy going manner and this seemed to calm her. We’ll link up before Christmas.

I got my first cheque from the Community Service Agency yesterday, a pittance, just about enough to live on. I have had to stop buying anything in the way of luxury items and closely watch my use of electricity. Fish Fingers are now out, which I miss and of course even the occasional cigarette is out of the question. Though I am getting used to living frugally which is not all bad, life feels simpler. I just miss the ability to buy things spontaneously.

Tomorrow we start working on the old Library. I am determined to let Sam know about the implant.’

‘THE IMPLANT CAN RECORD SPEECH, BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY TO ME. ‘

I re-read the note. I feel acutely embarrassed but I am determined to show it to Sam.  I catch a bus up to Neasden and walk down to the old library complex.

Sam is propped up against the wall eating a sandwich with one hand whilst playing with his reader in the other. I approach determined to get the thing over and done with. I grip the note firmly in my right hand. He looks up as I approach and places his reader back on his wrist. “Michael is not here yet?”

“No, we’re early.” I say handing him the note. “What’s this, a sick note? Alex can’t work today he’s got a bad tummy.” He opens up the note and raises his eyebrows. “Is this for real?”

I nod, feeling sick in my stomach, stupid and ashamed. Up until now everything that has happened to me has felt so secret, so private, so intensely intimate and personal, a horrible secret like a vice or perversion.

“Fuck,” Errol and Lucas arrive and he puts the note in his pocket. I feel relieved.

Michael and Colin arrive together. “We’re working indoors today.” Michael announces and pulls a key from his pocket.

The work is dirty and hard, we are clearing up piles of rubble, knocking down battered shelving, moving heavy boxes. The room is full of dust and dirt and Michael’s presence prevents any further discussion with Sam.

By the time for a break arrives I am already exhausted and collapse onto an upturned packing case and take out my sandwiches. Michael approaches me, “After you finish that you can take this rubbish down to the basement.” To my relief he then leaves the building. I stare despondently at the six black canvas bags filled with sundry items of rubbish.

The basement is a warren of open cavernous areas and other areas where the ceiling drops. I heave the pile of rubbish into the nearest convenient corner, then take time out for a short skive. 

There is a padlocked box room, though the wood is rotten and with a heavy push from my shoulder the strip of wood snaps and I am able to take in a room full of boxes of books.  I lever myself into a room filled with about thirty boxes, each filled with old library books.

Each box seems to be packed by theme, Social sciences, history, cookery, reference, fiction. In less than five minutes I come across at least five books I want to take. I am most interested in the history section, I wonder if there is anything on 1968, aware though that it is an extremely remote possibility that I will find dad’s book. Time is pressing so I stuff a copy of a book into my waistband which the blurb declares to have been influential in the 1968 student movement, ‘One Dimensional Man’, by someone called Herbert Marcuse and quickly make my way from the room.

Michael is back by the time I am back upstairs. He does not leave us alone for the rest of the day. I am kept busy sanding down the woodwork and then helping Colin to remove a rotten door from its hinges. For the briefest of moments he catches my eye with a conspiratorial look and then slips a piece of paper into my pocket.

I run to catch the tram and finding a free seat pull out Colin’s note. ‘BE CAREFUL MICHAEL IS WATCHING YOU.‘ I replace the note in my pocket feeling the old library book pressing against my stomach.

As the days pass I manage to smuggle out several more books, Nineteen Eighty Four and some essays by George Orwell, a selection of writings from the 1990’s from the old Guardian newspaper and a collection of Anarchist essays.

Colin has not turned up for work for two or three days and Michael stonewalls us when we ask where he is. Whilst still being outwardly friendly Sam keeps his distance. I feel cut off, wrapped up in my reading and the excitement of book smuggling.

The weather is still mild on the first of December, and I am able to go to work in a thin sweater and denim shirt. The news is full of mass executions in Egypt and of further tension between America and China. Since I started serious reading I have began to feel more in control of my life. I am currently reading the Marcuse. A lot of it I don’t understand and some that I do seems out of date and not particularly relevant to the world I live in. Still the writing feels dangerous and subversive, unlike anything you can read these days.

We are now working on the upper floors of the old library, which apparently is going to be sold off to an Indian finance company after we have done it up. How much money will they make out of our virtual slave labour?  As I climb the stairs I am pleased to see that Colin is back.

He is standing beside Michael though he looks odd, something in him looks changed. God it’s as if he has suddenly aged, he looks worn out, haggard, he barely seems to register me. I exchange glances with Sam and it is clear that he has noticed the change too.

Michael calls us to attention. “Ok listen up; the handover date is being brought forward so we need to get a move on. We are getting some extra help, but we will still need to shift up a gear. I need for those cupboards to be finished this morning. You,” he points toward me “and Sam can do that, whilst Errol and Lucas you come with me. Colin can you sweep up this mess and keep an eye on these two. “

Colin picks up a broom and begins to sweep the floor in slow steady apathetic movements. This is the nearest that I have really been alone with Sam since I passed him the note. Both of us however are aware of the presence of Colin. His presence though feels lightweight, it’s as if the core of him is absent, he looks strangely distant and distracted and his presence in the room seems to unnerve the both of us.

“How about a short break Colin?” It is Sam who breaks the silence. Colin looks across at us and smiles weakly.  “Yes why not, let’s take five.”

The truth is the cupboards are already all but finished. The trick is to work really hard in short bursts, completing the bulk of the work, then finish the remainder at your leisure, giving you time to take things easy, time to think. And it’s true that my life has become much less complex, stripped down to the basics I have to admit my life feels better.  The silence imposed upon me leading to a constant process of self examination and reflection. There have even been times in the last couple of weeks when I have even experienced moments of happiness.

Sam sits down beside me. “After we finish here we are going outside again, so let’s make the most of this.” He hands me a slip of paper.

            ‘I may be able to help you with your problem.’

He indicates the area of my arm in which the implant is placed. Before I have time to respond Michael is back in the room.

“Come on you guys stop fucking around, if we’re not finished here by the end of next week I’ll see that your payments are docked for non compliance!” He looks irritably toward Colin, and then seems to hold back from saying anything.

“Come for a coffee at Antonio’s after work.” Sam calls across to me as I load up the paint dispenser.

Antonio’s is a little old fashioned coffee bar just off the High Road. It is very popular with students from the nearby Toshiba Technical Institute. I feel awkward and tongue tied as Sam orders two coffees.

“Don’t look so worried, with any luck we can make this job last to Christmas and even if we do go outdoors again I hear there’s a good chance it will be light work, tidying up the communal gardens in Wembley.” He has taken out a pad of paper and begins writing. “What do you reckon of Colin, he looks ill to me?”

“Yes, he doesn’t speak to me, other than to say good morning or goodnight.” He hands me the pad.

‘I know someone who can get that thing out of your arm, for a price. €5,000.’

I take a mouthful of coffee; I have over € 10,000 in the bank, money from Mum that I have left untouched for an emergency. What though is the point, if I take the thing out surely they will know straight away? I hate to admit it to myself but I am truly terrified of giving them any excuse to get hold of me again. I feel both ashamed and irritated by my cowardice. I scribble onto the pad.  “I could do with winning the lotto and then I wouldn’t have to worry about working either indoors or outdoors.” I say perhaps a little to self consciously.

‘I have the money, but will the police not just descend on me as soon as I have it removed.’

“Yeah, well when you win the Lotto remember me.” He reads what I have written, and begins composing a reply. I am aware that somebody might be watching this absurd process and check out the café around me. But there are only three others in the room, not counting the bored waitress who is playing with her reader. There is a young couple just across the way, completely wrapped up in one another; she is stroking his hand whilst he talks softly hand resting upon his chin. A young woman sips distractedly on a latte whilst reading a book.

‘No problem, you don’t get rid of it, you need to carry it with you most of the time, but you can have the freedom to sometimes choose to forget it. They won’t detect its absence if removed for short periods.’

I finish my coffee. “Would you like another coffee?” I push back the pad. ‘Tell your friend I’m interested. ‘

“”No thanks I have to meet someone at half seven. I need to make a move.” He scrunches the piece of paper into a ball. “I just need to go to the toilet.”

“I’ll hang on and walk up to the tram stop with you.”

He returns from the toilet and picks up his jacket. As we are just about to leave Antonio’s, the police descend. They appeared as if from nowhere. Something inside me freezes in fear. They demand ID cards and ask that we stand spread eagled against the wall. I hand over my ID card and I am frisked. Finding nothing on me they then demand that we both undertake a drug test. A hair is plucked from my head and he places it into a slot in his reader. Both our tests come up negative.  The policeman is an ugly bearded man in his late thirties, putting on weight. “We’re watching you.” He announces to the half empty café, then hands me back my ID card.

“The bastards, they really don’t like you do they?” Sam smiles but he does not conceal either his anger or his obvious anxiety. “Come let’s get out of here.”

11.

28.11 2024

‘It is now just over two days since my meeting with Sam, nothing has happened, but I suppose wheels must be turning. I feel very nervous about the whole thing, but also exited, it feels like movement, resistance, fighting back in some way.

Colin looks really ill. I overhead Errol saying that when he was absent from work he had been with the police. Errol thinks he has been sent to spy on us. Whatever he seems terribly changed, he forgets things; often he seems vacant and at times just stares into space. For whatever reason Michael goes very gently with him and gives him all the easy jobs and this just makes all the others all the more suspicious of him.  I am aware that I feel really warm towards him; he seems like someone you could have a really serious conversation with. I am sure that he would have the answer to a lot of my questions, it is impossible though for me to talk to him.

It looks like we will definitely finish the old library before Christmas.  I will try to get a few more books from the store room over the next few days. I have just finished reading some Orwell essays. Somehow the way I got hold of these books adds to the pleasure of reading them. I envy Orwell’s ability to be able to speak and write so openly. His essay’s now would fall foul of about half a dozen laws, incitement to religious hatred, glorification of terrorism, incitement to homophobia, defamation of public officials.

Mum is coming over at the weekend I asked if she could bring over some of dad’s old papers, particularly any personal stuff, things that he wrote.This really pleased her. I am really hoping that she will bring over something like the stuff I came across when I was tidying up.

I had more nightmares again last night. I think the police after the café shook me up a bit and to my immense shame I found that I had wet myself.

I don’t want to write this last bit, but I want this diary to be honest. I need to go now, will write more tomorrow.’ I place the diary back in its hiding place.

I am late for work and Michael informs me that I will need to make the time up later. We are just finishing off the top floor and Michael is extremely preoccupied. He has brought in some extra help, placements from other sites. He is determined to finish off the library ahead of schedule. I am left on my own and have to wash down the walls in a small room at the top of the building. We are not painting this room, so I am told to try and make it spotless. Working flat out I am nearly finished by twelve. I am jut cleaning the little bay window when to my surprise Colin comes in.

“Hi, what brings you up here?”

“I just brought you some clean cloths.” He holds out a bright yellow duster for me. Bemused I reach out to take it from him when I find that his hand also contains a small written note.

‘IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME CHECK OUT NEW CROSS  2015 ON YOUR READER.’

“Make sure you clean these windows properly.”

I put the note in my pocket, but he shakes his head, indicating his forehead with his forefinger. “Don’t forget,” he takes the note from my hand and begins tearing it into little pieces, “ you promise not to forget what I told you about the job.”

“No,” I reassure him, I won’t forget.”

“Good, you’re doing a good job up here.” With that he turns and leaves me alone in the room. I feel uneasy; it is certainly possible that Colin has gone a little mad. I certainly know that after my experience in Paddington Green I very nearly went a bit crazy. Suppose that they had done worse to him? Still I remember New Cross 2015.

When I finally go down stairs there is something of a party mood. Michael to everybody’s surprise has brought some cake and soft drinks. “Congratulations, you have managed to finish the job one week ahead of schedule.” Michael hands me a paper cup filled with fizzy liquid. He indicates the cake and biscuits, “help yourself and after you’ve swept up and tidied away all the cleaning material you can go home early.”

Sam winks at me knowingly and I now cannot wait to clear up and go home. “Colin you can go now.” Michael pats Colin patronisingly on the shoulder and Colin shuffles off down the stairs.

I have just finished my orangeade and am putting away the bottles of cleaner when there is a violent bang, the whole building shakes violently and I  feel as if I had been punched in  the stomach. Seconds pass then Sam comes into the room, “Come quickly they’ve blown up the Shepherds Bush tram!”

I am now running down the stairs after Sam and manage to catch up with him as we turn the corner running toward the tram stop. The sight that greets us is like nothing I have ever experienced. There are pieces of distorted metal strewn everywhere. Broken glass is scattered like gritting sand and crunches underfoot, a parked car has been thrown bodily into the window of a wood flooring shop.

I recognise the bottle green of the tram on bits of scattered metal. The front of the tram is discernable but all that is left of the last carriage is a heap of hideously twisted metal. Oddly there seems to be bits of clothing scattered around. It is then that I see that the clothing contains body parts. I look down and recognise a mans arm noticing that the watch has stopped. A young woman with half her face missing is screaming lying on the pavement whilst another man is trying to push back his intestines which are pouring out into the street. My head buzzes lightly and a siren sounds in the distance I fall and am violently sick. I feel myself being pulled under and I black out.

I must have blanked out for just a few minutes.  It is Sam who helps me to my feet.  “Come on you’re no help.”  Still dizzy I try to find my bearings.

“What can I do to help?” I demand but without conviction.

“Go back to the library and get those new dust sheets, the ones in the cupboard on the ground floor. They’ll make useful bandages.”

When I return the police and medical services are on the scene. Lamely I hand the dustsheets to a young ambulance man. “These might be useful if you need more bandages.” He looks at me oddly. ”Thanks, you should go sit down, you’re looking a little pale.”

In reality I am consumed by shame and inadequacy. I notice Michael nearby talking to what looks like a plain cloths policeman, but there is no sign of Sam.  Feeling wholly useless I know that I just ought to walk home. But I still feel faint and something is rooting me to the spot. 

Finally I manage to force myself to walk back to the Library, where I can sit down for a moment and get my bearings.

Turning the corner I see Sam talking to a young Asian guy. “Hi,” I call out truly pleased to see him. The Asian guy looks up, says something to Sam and then quickly walks away.

“You look fucking awful! Sam declares, “Come lets go get a drink somewhere.” 

We are about to make our way away from the scene when we spot Errol on the opposite side of the road. “Hi Errol,” Sam calls across. Errol approaches us looking like the keeper of poisonous secrets. “Have you heard,” he asks, “Colin was on the last carriage!”

12.

I cannot sleep thinking about Colin and what I imagine to be the manner of his death. Images invade my head as soon as I close my eyes; I see the severed arm, the young woman with the left side of her face gone. She would have been pretty, she certainly had a good figure.

I get up and make myself a coffee. I try entering New Cross 2015 into my reader. 20,000 hits come back. I am just about to plug it into my wall screen when the door bursts open. I have no time to think, to adjust when I am grabbed from behind. I am to be robbed; I try to turn to struggle but am held firmly from behind.

“Keep fucking still, you little tyke! “Then another voice, more self assured the voice of authority. “What’s the matter can’t sleep, got a bad conscience?” And then I know that it is the police.

Policemen are searching my room. I catch sight of the man I assume to be in charge from the corner of my eye. He has my reader in his hand. My room is being ransacked and there is a steady bleeping sound. “Let him loose, he’s going nowhere.” He is standing just behind me. My arms are freed and I am able to look around me.

Some sort of device is being run over the flat; a young policewoman is scanning the room with something that looks like a hand mirror, emitting a steady stream of bleeps. The diary is hidden behind the old air conditioning unit and I feel a rising tide of panic. But to my intense relief they do not look there.

“What is it you want, is it an offence to be an insomniac now!” My insolence surprises me, but I am aware of a growing feeling of anger. They are going through my books.

 “Don’t get lippy with me you little fucker! You were present yesterday at a major terrorist incident, but left without making yourself known to the TAS team. I could take you in for that alone.” One of the young policeman hands him the Marcuse. “Where did you get hold of this?”

I decide not to lie, but twist the truth a little. “I’m working on the old library, I was asked to throw these away. It seemed a pity so I took them home. You can see inside that they are stamped discarded.”

The older man in plain cloths is in charge of two young male policemen, including the one who had been holding me and a young policewoman, short, attractive, petite, holding a small device with which she scans the room. It’s steady heartbeat fills the room.

“Interesting choice of reading, he places the book in a canvas sack in which everything of interest to them has been placed, including all the books I took from the library. He connects my reader to his own and transfers all my content.

“Can I see your warrant to take these things?”

To my surprise his reply is relatively courteous. “You’re a cat C we don’t need a separate warrant. Look it up in your order if you like.”

He turns to his colleagues, “Ok you can go now.”

When they have left he surveys both me and the room. “I could have taken you in, but I’m cutting you some slack here. You are already in way out of your depth, whether you know it or not. We know all about you. Take my advice son don’t do anything stupid, because believe me we will know. We know what you do, who you see, what you say and what you think!”

I am left in the mess of my flat, impotent, tearful and full of a maddening rage. It is a little after four before I am able to fall into an exhausted sleep.

13.

Colin’s death is announced by Michael before the day starts. The atmosphere has the dull quality of all funeral gatherings and Michael seems almost human today.

.Everybody has a tale to tell both about Colin and their response to the bombing. I ask about Colin’s family. It turns out that he was divorced and had two children a boy Harvey and a girl Natalie, both now in their early twenties and as far as Michael knew they both lived abroad. Michael looks genuinely moved when talking about Colin and I realise how alike they both were, well educated upper middle class. Suddenly I realise something that I had not yet registered what on earth is such a highly educated man as Michael doing in such a shit job?

We need to clear up the library by twelve and then go over to a new site in the municipal gardens. ‘They turned my place over last night, what about you?” The note is from Sam.

I nod my head aware of how worried Sam looks. He takes the note back and scribbles underneath. ‘You say anything?’

“Of course not,” I forget myself affronted by his suspicions. He raises his finger to his lips and puts the floor polisher back in its box.

“Good, I think that’s us done.”

”Ill go check that we’ve not left anything in the basement.” I announce and make my way down to the old store room. It is now empty, all the books are gone, taken out, I assume, with the all the bags of rubbish I placed down here. It feels like a sad epitaph on what has been an extraordinary period.

We turn into the High Road and survey the cleaned up mess from yesterday, the boarded shop windows, the damaged street furniture and the black and red stains on the road. The blackened wreckage of the tram has been removed and life is slowly returning to the safety of familiar routines.

Sam passes me a note.

‘The price has now gone up, €7,000.’

Money and sex, I remember arguing with Paul years ago, that, I had said to him, was what people cared about, money and sex. He had been incensed by my cynicism and looking back I do feel a little ashamed. But here I am and I care little at the moment about either. Since my arrest my sex drive has collapsed, I have lost interest in women. I cannot even masturbate.  

As for money I have got used to living without. What’s to buy? I have enough to eat, to heat my flat; I have enough clothes and more than enough access to music. There are of course books.

I have tried entering Marcuse into my reader but all I come across is either Access Denied or Insufficient Credits. I could order the books from a bookstore and see what might happen, but it’s a racing certainty that they would be either unavailable or in violation of incitement laws. Even if I did order them they would probably be taken off me the same day I picked them up.

 An extra €2,000, here or there what does it matter. I want this fucking thing out of my arm and I nod my assent.

14.

Mum’s visit is a surreal event as we both combine to pretend that all is normal. However there is no way I can talk to Mum about my experiences and this I am aware disturbs her. She knows that I am changed but can only guess at what might have happened and it is this not knowing, I know, that most distresses her. We are caught in this trap and deal with it by talking about trivialities.

She looks older now, the constant worry eating away at her, a disease of the heart. She has struggled over with a large bag of dad’s old papers and I resist the temptation to plunge in and see what is in there.

I make tea and we look at old photographs. “Here’s your dad and I just after we met.”

Dad was nearly fifteen years older than Mum. He must be about forty five when this was taken, though he looks much younger, the age difference is much less striking, he looks young, relaxed and self confident. Dad had been single when he had met Mum, before the term became a euphemism for being gay, he would have been called a confirmed bachelor. Mum, was working as a manager in the NHS and had been attending a conference in Coventry. Dad was involved in emergency planning and risk management. He was already beginning to establish something of a reputation as a specialist in terrorist incidents. Later he was in much demand as a specialist and spoke at many conferences both here and occasionally even in America. Later he was to become an advisor to the 2012 Olympic committee.

I look at this man, my father, in a different light now, in the light of the scraps of writing I came across, in the light of a book about the student uprising in France in 1968. Yet he would only have been 11 in 1968! Something about those events interested him, perhaps gave him the same thrill in the possibility of liberation. 

I realise now that I know nothing of my father’s life before he met Mum and next to nothing about my fathers work. The man I knew was quiet, reserved, a workaholic and pathological worrier. He was often away and even when he was around was absent, disconnected and difficult to approach.

 In all of this I am aware that I can strike up a false note, that of the abandoned and alienated son. In truth it was nothing like that. Throughout my childhood and early adolescence I experienced a liberality and freedom and sense of security. I knew that if push came to shove he would support me. His world was just separate from my own and I was not that curious. His work simply did not interest me.

After the Docklands dirty bomb he changed. I think he blamed himself. I always felt he knew more about what was going on than he let on. He had of course been part of the disaster planning team, probably the most influential member of it. I am sure that it was around that time that his illness began.

All this had affected Mum terribly too and it all coincided with Malcolm’s growing rebelliousness. All I remember is a growing unhappiness and the sense of my own inadequacy. Sarah dumped me at that time and I remember intensely the feelings of shame I experienced at her rejection. It felt like being found out. Her rejection of me affected me far more deeply than the deaths mounting up only a few miles away.

Mum now insists on cleaning up the flat. Wrapped up in memory and the difficulties that assembling chronology creates I have no energy to stop her.

“I don’t know anything about Dad before you met him. What kind of man was he?” I help her as she assembles plates and cutlery in the dishwasher.

“Your father was a very shy, a very private man. I think that is what was so attractive about him. He was wrapped up in his work, even a little self absorbed but when you managed to get him to come out of himself, to unwind he was very funny very intelligent and good company.”

This tells me nothing that I do not already know. “What about his politics?”

“Well you knew your father; he was interested but not particularly involved. He voted Liberal Democrat.”

“But when you met him, what were his politics then?”

“Well we didn’t spend much time discussing politics but he was always I suppose what you would call a liberal with a small l.”

I am getting nowhere. “Come on Mum, for God’s sake sit down, I can finish tidying up here later.”

Mum falls asleep in front of the screen and I cover her with a old overcoat.

Dad’s papers are a mess, lacking any chronology; notebooks that seem to date from the late seventies were mixed with papers from the early twenties. As best I can I make up four piles 1970’s and 80’s, 90’s, 2000-2012, 2012-2020. It’s the early stuff that most interests me.

The earliest material turns out to be a notebook dating from 1974, God, dad would have been about eighteen. It is a pale yellow notebook, with mathematical tables on the back cover.

Crouched on the floor I am developing cramp in my legs and lift myself stiffly erect taking the book into my bedroom.

‘I saw GP today. God she looked terrific dressed in painted on jeans and a smock top. We talked for a short while about nothing in particular and then she had to go. I too was late for class. Again I bottled when it came to asking her out. I am such a coward when it comes to girls.’

There are pages more of this as I skip through. It is fascinating to see this portrait of my father, an awkward young man. Occasionally there are comments about contemporary events, but more in passing, slight asides with little indication of engagement, let alone passion.

‘Wilson is re-elected, though with a very small majority. I voted Labour, but with little enthusiasm, more to keep the Tories out; on Saturday to Hammersmith with Gordon to see Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel, also Angela and Rebecca if they can be persuaded to come?’

“Alex, are you in there?” Mum has woken up and is moving around in the lounge.

I open the bedroom door, “Hi Mum you fell fast asleep would you like a cup of tea?”

“It’s ok I’ll make it love.”

The evening passes slowly, I have the screen on the old movie channel for Mum. For myself my head is fuzzy with old photographs and scraps of writing.

I cannot sleep as usual and make myself a mug of tea and begin reading the diary notebook again.

‘January 15^th 1979

Took part in an anti apartheid demonstration outside Barclays bank handing out leaflets to largely indifferent and sometimes even hostile passers by; the central political problem here is one of a lack of empathy; nobody imagines the horrors of anything like apartheid happening to them, to white people, to the English. Banning orders pass laws, second class citizenship, non persons, is all remote to the average white English person.’

Not so remote now. I smile and feel a sudden warm connection with this young man, about my own age, who also just happens to be my father.

‘4^th May 1979

Thatcher is elected! Everyone I know is despondent, I am not sure how bad things will need to get before people wake up, but things will get very bad.’

Then the notebook comes abruptly to a close.

‘Judith and I are definitely splitting up. I had hoped that our trip to Paris would turn things around but no, it is definitely over. Oddly I wouldn’t mind if I thought she was going off with someone else but it is the knowledge that she is simply bored with me that eats away at me.’

How alike we are. I feel a sudden wave of sadness, primarily for myself. Even over this distance in time what comes across is a freedom, a freedom to engage with the world that feels wholly absent from my own life.

I make myself a fresh cup. Outside it is growing light. I flick the search facility on my reader and nervously enter NEW CROSS 2015. Over 20,000 hits come back, New Tesco Academy, Housing development, celebration of oldest resident. This is hopeless, what the fuck is it I am supposed to be looking for?

I crash back on the bed and fall into a gentle sleep.

A dull low grade depression pervades all Sunday. There are uncomfortable silences with Mum. The old movies and soap channels bore me, but keep Mum occupied. Something keeps me from going back through dad’s things and I kill time by drinking a bottle of wine, reading the news, listening to music, cooking some pasta for a late lunch.

It suddenly occurs to me to try a different search option. I polish off the last of the wine and enter Colin Hibbert New Cross 2015. I feel a moment of anticipation.

‘News department sacks reporter……BBC sack rogue reporter Colin Hibbert.’ I follow up the hit.

There is a photograph of Colin looking considerably younger. ‘The BBC have sacked one of it’s reporter’s and apologised to the Home Secretary following a recent ‘Netwide’ programme which was pulled from the autumn schedules. The programme involved an investigation into the aftermath of the New Cross suicide bombing which killed twenty two people and injured over a hundred.

The BBC stated that “Mr Hibbert was operating outside of normal editorial guidelines and acknowledged that accusations made by Mr Hibbert were wholly without foundation. It had consequently taken the strongest possible action and that Mr Hibbert’s employment with the corporation has been terminated. “

I flick through a number of the key hits.

 ‘Colin Hibbert A Rogue Element By News International Correspondent; -

Once again the BBC has shown itself to be the terrorist’s friend. It seems Mr Hibbert had a long association with extremist Muslim groups and he had previously worked in a freelance capacity for Al Jazeera.

Netwide oversteps the mark

The BBC’s investigative programme Netwide is to end at the close of the current season. This follows the fiasco of the New Cross Bombing report which led to the sacking of chief reporter Colin Hibbert.

The BBC have admitted an error in allowing reporter Colin Hibbert to work unsupervised and that allegations he has made both in the scrapped New Cross Bomb programme and privately are wholly without foundation.’

I enter Netwide the New Cross Bombing. And come up with an additional forty hits. Transcript of banned TV Programme,’ I press enter.

SITE BLOCKED

When I try to flick back the screen goes blank, my reader crashes. “Fuck,” I feel that strange mixture of fear, anxiety and defiance. They will surely know what sites I have visited.

16.

The combination of Colin’s death and the run up to Christmas seems to produce a feeling of apathy in all of us and a steady slowing down of the work rate. Even Michael seems devoid of his former drive and brusque harrying manner. We are clearing up an old pond that seems to have developed into something of an open sewer, the work is cold and disgusting and it takes up all my energy just to stay warm.

There is currently a heightened security alert in the capital following warning of more Christmas bombs. A deep sense of foreboding hangs over the city, the constant threat of sudden death.

Sam seems to be keeping me at a distance and Michael’s constant presence makes any serious contact difficult. I am beginning to give up on the idea of getting the implant removed. Clawing at the thick weed with a long handled grab I am absorbed in thought. How long can this go on? 

Reading my father’s notebook has brought home to me just how much the world has changed.

Each change representing a subtle shift, a steady erosion of freedom, all in the name of public protection, “our greatest freedom the freedom not to be blown up as we go to work!” Is that really our greatest freedom? But people still keep being blown up on their way to work anyway. And yet who notices, who cares? Most people seem oblivious, are happy just to get on with their lives.

Perhaps there are fleeting moments when people are asked to show an ID card, or have their iris scanned or be finger printed that they realise that they have surrendered up too much? But the moment passes. Anyhow to remember a time before ID cards you have to be in your thirties and with each passing year it becomes the way that things have always been. The world of 1968 has gone forever; it is as alien now as the Reformation.

On the week leading up to Christmas the weather turns foul. There are added security checks all along the High Road and I have to show my ID card three times. I am wet cold and deeply depressed. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, the insults are hurled at my upper arm and by the time I reach home I feel exhausted.

There is a message from Mum on my videophone, she has heard from Malcolm. He has been refused Christmas leave but his points rating has increased and he will be eligible to reapply in May.

I pour myself a glass of red wine and arrange some of dad’s papers on the table. I am reading through some correspondence with someone called Martin, dating from the early 1980’s. Martin seems to have been an old university friend of his. Dad has a distinct style now, sometimes extremely witty. But there are no indications of a heightened political sensitivity though occasionally there is a flash of light a glimpse of political ideas.

“So Isobel has gone off to Greenham Common, who would have thought it? It’s difficult not to have admiration for these women though; they are certainly not lacking in courage.

Already the police and local authorities are thinking up new and innovative ways to disrupt them. I would bet that even as I write this there are civil servants who are already in the process of drafting new laws to curb such protests.

The extraordinary thing about non violent protest is that it so often provokes such violent and intolerant responses. I think Thatcher and company would much rather have house brick throwing Trots any day. It’s the symbolism of non violence that they find so threatening, it hits them were it hurts, their moral authority.

I must admit though that I find some of this ‘womin’ stuff tiresome in the extreme, casting far more into darkness that it ever illuminates. It seems to me that the idea is to effectively exclude men altogether from the body politic and this seems to me to be a poor basis for building the future. But I am sure that that is just the response that they expect from men like me and indeed much of the outpouring of the extreme feminist tendency seems designed to provoke such a response.

For myself I am feeling increasingly without a political home. Max has definitely joined Militant and is already parroting the same old tedious party line. Feeble though it may be I will continue to support the Labour Party, realistically it provides the only serious alternative to this hideous crowd, spouting free market economics and social authoritarianism. The left now lacks all credibility, is locked into a 1930’s world view.

 Sometimes I fear we are entering a new dark age, it wont be like the old totalitarianism of the 1930’s, but will be much more subtle, much more insidious and its grip will be  masked by rhetoric about freedom and democracy…….”

Extraordinary that was written about fifty years ago. I think that somehow he knew then what was coming.  I feel suddenly agitated, exited that same thrill of connection. Outside it is beginning to rain as I begin to get slowly very drunk.

18.

I am looking out of the window at the dismal grey shape of the High Road a small queue of last minute shoppers queuing outside the Polish butchers. Christmas Eve and my mood could not be gloomier. The one good thing is that we have been given five days off; I can lie in bed in the morning for the whole of next week.

When I look back on past Christmas’s particularly those of my childhood I remember most of all the little things, the taste of Satsuma’s, the smell of the scented candles Mum used to buy, the piles of discarded wrapping paper, cranberry and the feeling of being so full that you felt ill. Of presents I was given I remember most my first bicycle. I must have been around six, it was only a little thing, but seemed massive to me.

We cross the intersection with Terrance Gardens and begin to slow down. I am about to get off when a young black man crashes into me, knocking me back into my seat.

“So sorry man, I think I have a little too much of the Christmas spirit!” But he is not drunk and his eyes are steady and serious. Before I can respond he is gone, jumping of the tram as soon as the doors are open. I immediately panic, feel for my reader, my wallet, but nothing is gone. There is however a piece of paper in my pocket.

‘If you want the body bug removed, meet at the Clock Harlesden

 8 pm on Thursday.’

Thursday is Boxing Day. I am shaking, shaken from a gentle reflective reverie, almost cosy in its intensity back into the broken realities of the present. I will need to do an automatic cash transfer.

Pre-occupied I unlock the door and switch on the light. I am still feeling shaky as I pour my self a drink. Can I trust enough to turn up at night with €7,000, is this not crazy? But I do trust Sam and he is obviously the one who has arranged this.

I switch on the news channel. There have been several explosions in central London, the Tube tram and bus network is being shut down. Some government minister is talking about the need to act swiftly to catch the people behind it; to do whatever it takes. A woman clutches her head trying to stem the flow of blood from an open wound with her handkerchief. A policeman with a sub machine gun is stopping traffic and turning people back. I switch it off.

I want to dive into bed, to forget everything to let time stand still, for sleep to swallow me and take away the nightmare of the present. I feel too sick to think, too dizzy to write, too sober to get drunk. Sometimes I feel that the whole world has died sometime recently; we are all dead really but carry on functioning, like those insects that keep on crawling though the lower half of their body has been crushed under the weight of your thumb.

On Christmas morning I open the present Mum left for me, they are the thick soled padded boots I asked for.  No sooner do I clear away the packaging than Mum calls to wish me a happy Christmas, she is going to spend the day with her friend Lucy. She liked the grey sweater and the coffee table book, photographs and reader inserts, London in the 1990’s. She says it brings back happy memories. She asks whom I am having Christmas dinner with and I lie, make up a name, Jose from work.

She is worried about me I know. Her anxiety on my behalf fills me with guilt and irritation and I am happy when the call is over. I  open a bottle of wine and place my two minute instant Christmas dinner on a plate then settle in front of the screen for an afternoon of old movies and cyber gaming. I fall asleep in front of the screen.

It is dark when I awake and I am still very drunk. The Christmas lights across the way illuminate the room in steady pulses of light.

It is a moment of pure crystalline drunken clarity. Up until now I have assumed that Colin knew that the Security services had known about the New Cross bombings; they had slipped up and he had tried to expose their incompetence. What if it was more than that? What if the bombings had been their responsibility? Maybe it was even this that got him killed. But for that to have happened they would have also placed the bomb on the tram in the High road! Could things possibly be that dark?

I struggle to my feet. Even if all this is true what the fuck can I do about it? I crash on the bed and tug the cover over me. If I do get this thing removed from me tomorrow I will have committed a serious offence. I could get fifteen years. They own you. Nobody is free anymore we are all out on licence. We are able to do only what the government allows us to do, “Well fuck you,” I shout at the upper portion of my arm, “I’m not taking it anymore.” Sleep swallows me.

17.

I am in a disgusting mood all morning, horribly hung-over, with a pounding head and patchy memory. It’s a good job I only ever drink at home these days; it would be far too dangerous for me to drink in public.

I move through the day in nervous anticipation of tonight. I am going to go through with it. I am no longer even sure why, excepting for the fact that I can no longer live this way. I want to break this whole thing open; I am terrified of the consequences but even more distressed by the prospect of doing nothing, of continuing my tacit consent at my own castration.

I struggle to decide what to wear, settling for jeans and thick black sweater. I need to look the part of someone just out for a normal Christmas drink

I rehearse my story. I am just going out for a glass or two of wine in Harlesden, hoping to meet up with someone I know at the Caesar club.

I am ready far too early and pace around the flat. There is no public transport and I intend to walk. Even if there were public transport I would still walk. I am too tense to sit still and both the air and the rhythm of walking will provide a natural release of nervous energy. I leave the flat early

Under different circumstances I would have enjoyed the walk along half deserted streets, punctuated by the occasional shouts of drunken party goers, the mild air scented with rain.

 A young girl dressed in a party frock, coat draped over her shoulders rather obviously drunk, wolf whistles me as I walk past. She is not bad looking, I return her smile. Under different circumstances this could have been a very good night.

As I turn the corner, as if on cue to break my mood there is a police checkpoint. I present my ID card and undergo an iris check, “Where are you going?”
“Well as its Christmas I thought I might go and have a drink.”

“I asked you where you were you were going not what you are doing!”

He is in his forties, balding and looks as mean spirited as he sounds; I need to be very polite and circumspect here.

“Sorry, I am going down to the Caesar Club just behind the Jubilee clock, I’m going on the off chance I might see some people I know there.”
He checks his reader. “It’s only two hours before your curfew restrictions, why are you travelling so far out of your way. It would make more sense for you to have a drink in Willesden.”

“Yes but as I say I want to check out if friends of mine are there. I won’t stay long. If I do see someone I know I want to invite them back to my place.” I’m aware that my story doesn’t really hang together. “My reader crashed and I lost a lot of contacts.”

The police reader starts to make a low beeping noise. “C’mon we have to go.” His younger colleague breaks in.

 “Just make sure you don’t beak your curfew,” he calls out as he walks back to the car, “I will check.”

When they have gone I get a terrific desire for a cigarette. I miss the days when you could light up on the street. The street is all but empty again. I pause to kill of a few more minutes then make my way slowly to the clock. 

It is five minutes to eight and the immediate area around the clock is deserted. I turn and pretend to be looking for something. It doesn’t do to loiter and I cannot risk being stopped by the police again who will see that I have already been stopped once and can check my original story. I saunter slowly back in the direction of the clock and try to look suitably innocent and purposeful.

 No sooner am I in front of the clock again when a blue and grey Toyota Solar saloon pulls up and a slightly built young white man opens the door.  “Hello can you tell me the way Ladbroke Grove?” He hands me a note. ‘TELL ME YOU’LL SHOW ME AND THEN GET IN. DON’T SAY ANYTHING ELSE.’

“I can show you if you like.” Rather self consciously I climb in. He hands me a set of directions with INSTRUCT ME underlined at the top.

“Ok, you take the next right then left just before the Astra complex.”

We travel silently, encased in a self conscious bubble I feel strangely oblivious to the very naked danger that I am in. We turn down a side road and come to a standstill. He is in his early twenties, clean shaven with a mass of ungovernable black hair and sharp serious eyes.  He hands me a blindfold and indicates for me to put in on. After I am blindfolded we move on again travelling for about five to six minutes.

The car pulls up again. “Well thanks for the directions.” He removes the blindfold and places his finger on his lips, then motions for me to leave the car. Getting out of the car he indicates for me to follow him down the staircase to a basement flat.

The room is small, not much larger than my kitchen and almost unbearably warm. A young man of Middle Eastern appearance is sitting on a sofa. He looks older than my driver, has a scar on his forehead and is dressed in dark blue corduroy trousers and a plain white T shirt. His gaze is unblinking and he has about him the confidence of a leader.  Behind him a sinister looking bearded black man is standing beside a fish tank he too is watching me with intense unblinking eyes. The room smells of incense sticks and tobacco and the air filled with a low steady humming noise. The atmosphere is intimidating and seems designed to produce this effect.

“Do you have the money?” It is the young man on the sofa who speaks. He notices my surprise; I am not used to people speaking so openly. “Don’t worry nobody can hear us. You just became mute and invisible.”

I am more intrigued than afraid now. “Come on in,” he invites, “and have a seat. You have the cash?”

“Yes I can transfer the money as soon as you do the business with my arm.” I show him the screen of my reader, only the transfer account and my electronic signature is left blank. “Why can’t they hear us?”

“You are in a dead zone; we have created the electronic equivalent of a black hole. “

“But won’t they know that the sound has suddenly gone off?”
“Shit you don’t think you’re that important that they are listening to you all the time! You are tracked electronically the software records your speech. It might send out an alert if you said something of interest. It will only get exited if you stay silent for more than a few hours, particularly during normal working hours, then an alert gets posted.”

He knows that I am naïve and is taking real pleasure in enlightening me. For my part I am thirsty for such knowledge. This is the missing information I have been looking for. I feel intoxicated by this sudden freedom of speech.

“Anyhow the implant is more interested in what you’re thinking than what you say.”
Now I am incredulous, he is making fun of me. Now I feel a little angry he thinks I am stupid.  “I don’t believe that, how on earth could they tell what I am thinking?”

“Easily, heart rate, pulse, sudden changes in body chemistry, they know exactly what mood you are in when you get out of the bed in the morning. It always makes me laugh that most of you politicos think that implants are there to monitor your movements. They already do that. It’s practically an open secret that any ID cards issued after 2015 have tracker implants. It’s the one thing you can’t leave the house without. You are already doing all the heavy lifting for them.”

“However you need to be aware, we can remove the thing from your arm, but you will need to keep it close to you for most of the time; a shirt pocket is your best bet., the nearer to your body the better. It is much less sensitive outside your body but it will still send a signal. However  If you do go around without it, it will take them less than twenty four hours before they detect that it is not functioning. Your best bet is to leave out for short periods, whenever you want a serious conversation or you would rather keep the fact that you are becoming,  let’s say agitated, away from them. If you want to keep your movements a secret leave your ID card home. We could arrange for fake ID for you if you have the money. “

“Just get rid of this thing for now.

“But enough of free advice, now do the transfer.”  I enter my signature and the black man takes the reader from my hand and hands it to the guy on the sofa.

As soon as he has made the transfer he hands me back the reader, “Come over here in the light.” I move toward a small table, on which sits a reading lamp and some sort of electronic tool. “Sit down and give me your arm.” I follow these basic instructions. He grips my wrist. “This is going to hurt a little!”
I feel a sharp stabbing pain shoot up my arm and into my shoulder. “There, he stands up, “hold out you hand.” He drops a tiny circular disc into the palm of my hand. “Whatever you do don’t loose it.”

I stand up gripping the implant in my hand. “What happens now?”

“You need to go, Michael will take you back, he will drive you to the tube station at Kensal Rise. Though you must not say anything on the journey, don’t ask any questions. The taxi ride is for our safety not yours. You will need to wear the blindfold again for a short period.”

When I arrive the tube station is surprisingly busy, partygoers and young men off on dates. I envy them, but I am still hovering in a state between chronic anxiety and excitement. I suddenly feel free again. I could toss the fucking thing onto the rail.

Settled in my seat I am aware of the TV camera watching the carriage, of  the disc inside my trouser pocket and of the ID card inside my back pocket. All around I am watched, listened too, and recorded. Rebellion consists not in hiding but in defying the watching eyes and ears openly. But what point would such an act have. Who would know of it? Certainly none of the news organisations would carry it accept to distort and misrepresent.

I am stopped again on leaving the High Road. But it is just routine check. My story adds up with my last interrogation. I am weary with these constant humiliations and feel exhausted now by the effort of the evening. I throw my self my sofa bed and cover my head with an old throw.

18.

I received a set of cufflinks a few years ago from Bridget. The box is perfect for storing the implant. I carry this box with me to work; the implant is in my shirt pocket.

I have barely left the flat since I have had it removed, the thought of re-entering the world being both daunting and uncertain, how will things have changed?

As I am getting off the bus I spot Susan Warren. It is well over a year since we last met. She looks terrific, flowing blonde hair, petite, in a red coat and dark velvet trousers. I always fancied her, but she was rather intensely involved with a guy called Merrick or Monk or something like that. She had been close friends with Paul once, though involved in a different circle she had moved on the periphery of our group.

“Hi, how are you?” I call across and she greets me with a smile.

“I’m well, very well. How are you?”

“I’m OK, it a while since I last saw you. What are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I’m doing great, working in the City, have just brought a new apartment in Swiss Cottage, how about you?”

“Well I’m sort of between projects at the moment. Tell me are you still seeing that guy? You and he always cut something of a dash.”

“You mean Marlon? No, he and I broke off about a year ago. He was offered a job in the states and went of to LA. I seem to remember you were involved with a girl called Bridget.”

“I haven’t seen Bridget since Paul, well for a long time now.”

“Well” she looks momentarily uneasy, “I really can’t stop and talk I’m running late already I must be going. It’s been nice seeing you again.”

“How about meeting up for a drink sometime? “ I decide to risk rejection.

“Oh I don’t know,” she paused for a moment, “I’m a little tied up at the moment with the move and everything.”

“Ok, well maybe after you’re settled?”

She looks slightly awkward is about to move on when she says, “I’m free for lunch tomorrow, unless you’re busy.”

“No, I could do lunch.” I could skip work; make some excuse; fuck them, “how about Monty’s on the High road?”

“Ok, shall we say one o clock?

“Yes see you tomorrow at one.” I watch her walk away. She felt guilty blowing me out. I don’t really care, it’s been sometime since I last spent time in the company of a pretty girl. I’ll take what I can get.

I’m late for work and Michael is annoyed. Sam has not come in and so we are short on numbers. I pick up a shovel and feign apologies. I need to talk to Errol and decide to test my new system. I place the implant in the cuff link box and conceal it behind some battered old tool manuals in the tool shed.

Errol has been shovelling piles of dead leaves into a portable container. At the first opportunity I approach. “Do you know what’s happened to Sam?”

He raises his eyebrows and indicates my arm.

“No, it’s ok to talk, I’ve temporarily disabled it, with Sam’s help. “

“I think the filth have him.”

“Do you know what for?”

“Fuck knows Sam is always up to something or another.”

I need Errol’s advice. “I have to do something tomorrow; I need to throw a sicky. Do you have any idea on what’s the best strategy?”

“A gas leak’s always a good bet, they rarely check. Or if you’re nervous about them checking on you, problems with your eyes, you can always put a little dirt in your eye to make your eyes water and go to the drop in surgery on Mortimer road. They‘ll give you the once over and then give you an attendance slip. Then you can get on with whatever it is you need to do. “

“Thanks, I owe you a drink.”

The day passes in its usual dreary fashion. I watch the time pass agonisingly slowly. The sky grows black at three and by four o clock it is raining torrentially. Michael, the bastard, insists we finish up.

I walk home in the rain, too dripping wet even to get a tram. Once home I strip shower and take to my bed, too tired and depressed to eat.

19.

It is still as grey and overcast as yesterday. I am woken at six by a police drone flying low over the rooftops. ‘They’re about early, must be something up.’

Dead on nine I call in sick, I tell them that I cannot open my right eye. I take my time getting dressed. This is the first time in longer than I can remember when I have sought to present myself sexually.

I choose the deep blue shirt and the black and grey jeans. This I wear with a highly fashionable Hussar jacket I brought on a whim last year but have not yet had the courage to wear.

I look a little flashy, like someone who is making an effort; should I go for a smarter but perhaps more casual look? I hesitate, comb my hair again then I am decided, I’ll stick with this. I switch on the flat security. “Once more into the breach,” I feel light hearted.

I walk into the Medicare clinic on Kilburn High road and take a ticket. I am determined nothing is going to break my mood. Around me sit the walking wounded, the malingerers and hypochondriacs. Fortunately for me the scheme runs on payment per patient and they have no ethical concerns about supplying sick notes. I am rarely ill myself, even then only the occasional bout of flu or a heavy cold. I think the last time I visited a doctor was when I was in college and hurt my ankle falling down stairs. My health credits are untouched.

The examination she gives me is cursory; she seems more interested in getting my details entered correctly on the system. “Your eyes are fine. Whatever was in your eye this morning, it’s gone now.”

“Yes, I just wanted to be sure there was nothing serious.” She signs my attendance slip and I am free for the rest of the day.

Susan is already seated and waiting for me in the restaurant. She looks exceptionally pretty in black trousers, red regency style jacket with her long blonde hair let loose over her shoulders. I remove my coat and leave it, the implant in the inside pocket, on the coat stand by the door. I can now speak freely.

“Hi you’re early.”

She smiles holding the menu. “Yes, I’ve been shopping. I found the most beautiful second hand sofa bed, which cost me a lot more than I had wanted to spend, but it is perfect. I decided I had better stop shopping before I spent even more. I’m hungry, how about you?”

“Yes,” though I am looking more intently at the price list than at the descriptions of food. “I rather fancy the chicken Italian style, what are you going for?”

She chooses the low fat special. “I need to watch my weight.”

“You look fine to me.”

The compliment looks expected and she smiles, “thank you.”

“So tell me what’s been happening to you since University?”

“Well Morag and I had enough carbon credits saved up for our European trip and we spent a year travelling. We both fell in Love with Florence and she stayed on, met an Italian man, Giovanni. We still speak at least once a week. After I came back I met Lucas, you remember, he used to work part time behind the bar at Ramona. He is now involved in a firm of city analysts Goldberger Associates and he got me an interview. The rest is pretty much what I told you yesterday. So what’s with you, what have you been doing with your life?”

“Well I’ve been working around for spending money while I’m trying to establish my self as a journalist. You’ll remember that Paul and I were doing a lot of investigative stuff, publishing in small circulation student journals and websites. It got more and more difficult with increasing legal restrictions. Do you remember the protests when they closed down Response. I think you came along.”

“Yes, well I, well we all did a lot of foolish things in those days.”

“Why foolish, we were fighting for principles, for civil liberties.”

“Yes, and a lot of good it did us. I heard about Paul. He was always very rash, but I was sorry to hear what happened. I hope you’re no longer involved in all that stuff.”

“You don’t think that what happened to Paul was outrageous? He is in prison for protesting peacefully against unjust laws and oppressive government.”

“Well, they don’t lock people up for nothing. There was always something of the fanatic about Paul. You don’t know the full story; Paul may have been up to things you know nothing about. These people don’t mess about; they are fighting for all of us to live without being blown up by some lunatics who want to bomb us back to the middle ages. If they are occasionally over zealous well that might well be a price worth paying. As I say I was sorry for Paul, I liked him a lot, but he always went too far. The rest of us grew up. As I say I hope you’re no longer mixed up in anything like that.”

“No, I’m no longer involved. “ I am aware of the swelling of her breasts, the curve of her hips conscious of a distance between us that is insurmountable.

“You should travel Alex, there’s nothing like it for broadening your outlook. If you don’t have enough carbon credits for the airfare take the train. You could be in Paris in a couple of hours. I’m going next weekend with Lucas.”

“Well I have a lot on at the moment, but I do plan on doing some travelling sometime soon.”

The rest of the meal is a dismal affair, long silences interspersed with bouts of small talk, both regretting that we ever made the arrangement to meet.

And I realise that the distance between us is the distance between me and 99.9% of ‘ordinary people,’ that my nightmare did not exist for them, carrying on their ordinary lives, living in freedom and democracy. Only these terms had long been drained of any meaning, they were labels without substance designed to make people feel better.

I pay my half of the meal. The parting is uncomfortable.” Well," she pushes back her hair, "it's been really nice to see you again. We must keep in touch."

“Yes, well, good luck with furnishing your new apartment.”

I now find myself with a free afternoon. Although the sky is heavily overcast the weather is mild for January. The implant remains in my coat pocket and I leave it there.

The Tram station is almost empty and I board a southbound tram for

Trafalgar Square

. As we pass from Brent into Westminster I allow the feeling of fatalism to wash over me and stay put. At Marble Arch I glance across at Paddington Village and the police complex.

The Tram fills up on

Park Lane

and I decide to get off and walk. The streets are not busy, a hangover from the Christmas bombings. So many deprivations, I’ve lost count, but the river is one I now realise that I have felt intensively. So much gets closed down, so much denial, a refusal to acknowledge loss; I feel it now though, like a dam burst. So much has been taken from me. That has in fact been taken from us all.

The breeze grows stronger as I reach the cordon and Chelsea Bridge. You used to be able to walk all the way down to the Palace of Westminster, now this is as far as you can go on the river.

I grip the handrail and watch the dirty water drift slowly toward Westminster, a brown barge travels slowly in the opposite direction. Paul said some of them carried nuclear waste. I don’t care anymore; it feels good to smell the Thames and the breeze blowing in my hair. Time was when this was the most normal most unremarkable thing in the world. If I am stopped now I will be in a cell in less than half an hour. Have they stolen this power or have we surrendered it? But I don’t feel angry more sad and lonely. The curious thing is that after I left the restaurant I missed Sam and Errol and Colin, I wanted to be back on site. Real political control is getting the prisoner to love his cell.

I am aware now of being watched, of being watched always,  but more acutely now, the camera on my right turning on its pedestal to examine me more closely.  It is time to move.

I make my way quickly toward Pimlico and dive into an Arcade. The secret is to change your appearance. I buy a large carrier and take of my coat, place the implant back in my shirt pocket and place the coat in the carrier. I try to alter the look of my hair and step back out onto

Tachbrook Street

. I cannot take a tube without using my ID card and I cannot take a tram or bus without using my reader to pay. I will need to walk back.

I need to use side streets and avoid areas where ID checks are more likely. The sky has cleared a little now and it a now a balmy late afternoon in January. It is growing a little chilly without my coat and I slip into a doorway and pull it over my shoulders cloak fashion.

The conversation that goes through my head is the one that I had when the implant was removed. “It’s practically an open secret that any ID cards issued after 2015 have tracker implants. It’s the one thing you can’t leave the house without. You are already doing all the heavy lifting for them.”

The impulse may have cost me my freedom; suddenly I now contemplate my rashness with some bitterness, they will have already detected that I have breached my TCCO. Surely though I am not that important, will they really be tracking me? More likely some computer programme is giving out an alert at this very moment. I feel sick with fear and yet still curiously liberated.

It is growing dark when I reach Notting Hill, the early evening punctuated by the sound of a low flying drone. There is a police check point at the junction with Ladbroke Grove which means I have to double back on my self.

I Cut up a side street and then across into Portobello road which still contains the odd group of tourists, stragglers from the afternoon. In another twenty minutes or so I should be back in Brent.

When I reach the

Harrow Road

and cross over I am back in Brent with just under two hours before my curfew begins. I can be back in my flat in less than half an hour. This thought gives me added confidence and a sudden feeling of optimism. Perhaps nothing will happen; perhaps I have got away with it?

PART TWO

1.

Chief Superintendent Peter Taylor was only a week away from his fifty fourth birthday. He was well paid, had a nice house in one of the nicer parts of Essex and was carbon credit rich and could also afford to travel. He had intended to do just this on taking early retirement in a year’s time. However he had only just learnt that the rules were to be changed once again, making such a move for him now impossible. It was thoughts of this unforeseen and from his point of view, malign act that influenced his mood that cold January evening.

These ultra low energy lights irritated him; the illumination from them was so anaemic.   He had in front of him three cases for sentencing, two breaches of a standard curfew, one juvenile ASBO and one breach of a TCCO. The last case interested him, it contained a black section, accessible only to MI5, yet on paper the young man’s previous offending would certainly not warrant such attention. Also the name Mournay was familiar but he could not place it in any context. Where had he come across it before?

It was pretty standard stuff breach of travel restrictions, but this was a second breach? The circumstances of the first breach would seem to warrant a custodial sentence under the guidelines but instead he was given another community sentence with further restrictions on the recommendations of an MI5 case officer, all very odd.

Still he had been picked up earlier on this evening. A map of his travels displayed upon the screen. That too was curious, why travel out of his restricted zone, just to watch the river for five minutes?  Certainly he had no contact with anyone.

It then came to him, Mournay, Graham Mournay; he had heard  him speak about ten years ago, maybe longer. He had been one of the leading experts on emergency planning procedures. He had attended the Met conference in Brighton and had struck a very controversial note, had strongly criticised the response to the Docklands dirty bomb. Hadn’t he later been removed from his post? He had actually spoken to him, albeit briefly.

Yes here it was clearly cross referenced, father Graham Mournay, formerly security and emergency planning advisor to the Olympic committee 2010- 2012, Chair of Greenwich emergency planning team. Security clearance removed January 2013, resigned February 2013, see section 4. However section four is black and restricted. This was very curious. It was highly unusual for such a low grade offender to have a black section.

“Get me John Lansing,” John was the MI5 liaison officer. If an ambassador is someone employed to lie for their country, liaison officers were persons employed to lie for the respective agency. Still John was one of the more human varieties of that particular species and Peter enjoyed a good relationship with him.

“Hi John, how are you? How is life among the spooks with your new ‘you ask, you get,’ Justice Minister in tow?”

“Well my expenses are no longer being queried, so perhaps we should meet for a working lunch soon and discuss ways to improve the new local liaison committees. But you never make social calls to me so tell me what it is you want and I will see if I can help?”

“Graham Mournay, does the name ring a bell?”

“It might ring several bells in different sections, I think I know what’s coming.”
“You are on the ball this evening, well you will know then that I have his son down in the holding cells. I need to pass sentence but there are one or two anomalies in this case, I am getting no guidance from his case file and it would be useful to get some clarification.”

“What are the sentencing guidelines for this offence, four to ten years? If we are not providing any guidance you just follow the normal sentencing guidelines.”

“Yes I know that, but the guidelines were not followed last time, he was given a community sentence and I would find it helpful if I knew why.”

“Now your fishing Peter, you don’t need to know anything other than what is on the screen in front of you.”

Peter switched on the scrambler, “off the record.”

“All I can tell you, and I mean all, is that there was some unfinished business that related to his father going back some time and we had hoped to tie up some loose ends. Your young man is not important, though his name is well known in certain circles; we had hoped that he would act as bait for some bigger fish, but it proved fruitless. You can have him now. It would seem that he has been quite resourceful though so you will need to err on the side of caution on this one.”

“Well thanks John that is a little more helpful.” Peter knew he would get no more. “Let me get back to you on that working lunch.”

He called the custody officer, “send Thompson and Boateng up to the holding block in ten minutes; leave Mr Mournay where he is. I’ll see him in the morning.”

2.

Peter varied his journey home every evening, ever since the campaign to target senior policemen. He had known Sir Keith Alexander, blown up by a suicide bomber in Southwark and in the aftermath had reflected on his own mortality. Not that he had been afraid but suddenly much more acutely aware of the tenuous nature of living. Paradoxically he had begun to feel much more alive, to enjoy the fleeting moment more. But that time had passed and now he took the journey, travelling indirectly, taking a circuitous route, on auto pilot.

But he always enjoyed arriving home and at just a little before nine he was early tonight. The house was too large now that the children had moved on but he felt too set in his ways to contemplate moving, he liked it here. Nor would Sarah be interested in moving. They had been married very nearly thirty years now and the routines and regularities of life had settled upon them creating a comfortable stasis. The marriage itself was now merely a comfortable convention, separate lives and separate beds. However there was no great unhappiness and divorce was neither desirable nor necessary; the present arrangements suited them both very well.

Moreover they both took too much pleasure in the close proximity of their grandchildren, Morag and Anthony. His youngest daughter Clarissa lived close by with her husband Mark, a research chemist. His other child Nicolas, Nick, now lived in the states, divorced from his American wife Louisa, Nick had their Grandson Jeb to stay every other weekend.

He switched the security screen off and entered an empty house. Sarah was out at one of her political meetings. He poured himself a beer and made up a salad with some cold pheasant from the fridge.

Seeing the name, Mournay and thinking back to the time of the Brighton conference had brought back memories of that time. It had been an incredibly intense period, the sense of imminent and all consuming disaster was like a tangible presence everywhere. It had certainly dominated that conference. Everything had been focused on the need for drastic decisive action, the need to respond to the growing threat. It was this climate that produced the Regulatory and Administration Powers Act. Indeed the outline of what was to become the act had been announced by the Home Secretary at that conference.

For Peter it had been an exiting time, he was climbing the career ladder, he felt gifted with insights about what needed to be done to tackle Islamic terrorism and it suddenly felt like finally that they would be getting the tools they needed to fight back. The atmosphere had been positively heady.

He remembered how discordant the voice of Graham Mournay was, people had walked out and he had been heckled. Peter couldn’t remember now, after all this time the content of his speech, but he remembered something of its tone, warning about the creation of a police state. Later he had run into him in the bar. A kindly affable and yet passionate man, they had disagreed vehemently but parted on good terms. Later he had read several newspaper articles written by Mournay and then of his early retirement on ‘health grounds.’ This had followed closely on from the leaking of the Carrick report. The leak had caused a major storm at the time, with the government being placed on the defensive; the report was “purely speculative, working out worse case scenarios.” Looking back now it was difficult to see what all the fuss was about. So much of what was in the report was now accepted practice.

The initial period following the Act had been a real high for everyone in law enforcement. With all the new powers they had been given they had been able to tackle everything from drug abuse to people trafficking. It had felt exhilarating. In operation Hoover he had tested everyone on suspicion within a thirty mile radius of Haringey town hall and done more to take drugs of the street in one week than had been achieved in the previous ten years. The newly created work camps had filled up and the streets had become safer overnight. The civil liberties crowd had kicked up a fuss but by then the changes had enjoyed overwhelming public support. Not that there were not some misgivings, his own view at the time had been that these new powers were a necessary evil, a chemotherapy, a poison to drive out a greater even more deadly poison, after which things could return to the way they were.

However the promised results respecting terrorism had been considerably less than was promised and in other areas the law of diminishing returns had set in.

Now the world was, if anything, an even more dangerous place than it had been then, incidents of terrorist action had increased almost tenfold. Not that there had been no successes, they had managed to nip several major planned operations in the bud, including at least two further attempts at dirty bombs. But there had been a corresponding increase in so called minor actions, bombs on tubes, on trams and buses, bombs in airport check in areas.

As for things returning to the way they were he knew now that was no longer possible, for better or worse they now had to live in the world they had created.

He carried the food and his beer into the TV room and switched on the Wall Screen. He flicked through the news channels distractedly, then onto the Police Network. He then entered his code to switch off the filters, one of the perks of his job, entering the query Graham Mournay 2013 into the news cutting section.

Mournay had gone from being an obscure civil servant to, albeit briefly, a prominent spokesman within the civil liberties lobby. A group of politicians, Christian clergy, prominent Muslims, academics, writers and artists had formed to oppose the new laws under the banner of the Freedom and Justice Committee and Mournay had joined them.  He had written several newspaper articles in his capacity as a member of this group. For a while he became suddenly very prominent, positively ubiquitous, with articles and interviews almost every week. Then suddenly nothing, Mournay suddenly seemed to disappear from the radar screen.

Peter pulled some of the articles up onto the screen. The articles were pretty much the standard civil liberties line from that period, the arguments familiar.

 “Graham Mournay a leading authority on security and anti terrorism has denounced the government’s new anti terror legislation declaring it to be a terrifying assault on civil liberties and part of a creeping creation of a police state. That the content of the Carrick report clearly illustrated the real agenda behind the changes which were about power and control………….” 

He hesitated for a moment then asked for the case file on Graham Mournay., which promptly appeared on screen.  He read a short briefing note.  The leaking of the Carrick report had led to a major investigation with Graham Mournay being the prime suspect. But it seems there was no definitive link ever proven. He was however pressured to resign for, ‘health reasons,’ though the real reason and the suspicions about him were widely leaked, almost certainly by Five.

It was pretty much a standard security file, including background checks, past history, security clearances. It contained a section on the leak investigation, including monitored e-mail, telecommunication and surveillance intercepts, including a summary with the final leak report noting no definitive link proven. It contained the names of journalists Mournay had been in communication with, Peter Collingwood of the Independent, Colin Hibbert of the BBC and Chuck Able of CNN. Hibbert was marked as a grade B target, indicating a high indication of subversive links; his name was crossed referenced with a black, restricted access, section of the file. He felt suddenly very frustrated and irritated.

 His level of Security clearance had never bothered him before. Indeed his attitude had been, if anything, one of relief that he did not know about, nor was involved in any of the murkier activities of MI5 or TAS. He had heard things of course, had turned a blind eye on more than one occasion, was indeed reconciled to the fact that when fighting the kind of evil they were up against it was not always possible to be so scrupulous about methods. Sometimes corners needed to be cut; sometimes you had to fight fire with fire. Still he had often been uneasy about some of the rumours. Had felt queasy at the very occasional glimpse of ‘unfortunate excess’ as it was invariably described. But for the most part he had been too busy, too consumed by his own struggles, to think too long or hard about these things, let alone loose sleep.

There was a trick you could use; he had heard about it, it was the kind of thing that was whispered late at night in drunken conversations in conference bars. But he had never attempted it. You could raise a section 4 query apparently under an international request code, 441, which was code for the CIA, and this would allow you to see some restricted material.

The risk to him of trying this were severe, theoretically he could loose his job. He got up and poured himself a large scotch. Why would he do such a stupid thing? Why the sudden intense, almost burning curiosity? The tension inside him was palpable, it was the tension of a man who always kept the rules, who followed orders and who turned a blind eye when necessary. 

Never much of a drinker, he tended to prefer beer to spirits, he downed the whisky in one. Before allowing himself any further thought he entered a query Graham Mournay, Carrick Leak, restricted 441 request, and the screen filled up with large sections of transcript, with substantial sections blanked out.

Mournay would have access to the final report as a member of the government’s Advisory Group on Islamic Terrorism. Clive Martin the MI5 liaison officer had advised against giving him access. Monitored telephone and e-mail intercepts had identified a growing disaffection on the target’s part. Access to the report had consequently been denied, however there had been a breakdown in communication and the chairman had failed to be notified of this decision.

Mournay was in contact with a number of journalists; however prime suspect amongst them was Colin Hibbert of the BBC. Hibbert had a history of dealing in leaked material and was also known to have developed links with a group in Syria, Islamic Liberation. The next two paragraphs were blacked out.

Mournay and Hibbert had spoken over the telephone on 23^rd January, 19^th February and just before the report was leaked on 7^th March. The logged conversations do not refer to the report explicitly; however it is clear that Mournay was disturbed by material he had seen and had informed Hibbert that the government intended to move against trial by jury for all ‘security’ offences’ and was adding a string of new offences to the summary justice provisions of the 2009 act. Both options recommended by the report. 

In e-mail correspondence with Hibbert dated 23^rd February he alludes to ‘the new ideas furnishing the debate,’ which undoubtedly refers to the report. However despite both targets being kept under close observation it has not been possible to unequivocally identify Mournay as the source of the leak.

The next section, under the heading, Implications for AGIT was all blacked out; there was then a further paragraph, also blacked out under the heading Staining The Laundry.’  Peter felt a sickening sensation, this was a euphemism for smearing persons, he had heard it used before in the context of leaking false information about terror suspects, usually alleging acts of sexual depravity, gambling, drug or alcohol misuse. He also knew that the campaign of the Freedom and Justice Committee had collapsed after the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Chair of the group, had been ‘found’ to have downloaded child pornography.

He logged off and switched off the wall screen then poured himself another large whisky. He heard Sarah coming in through the side entrance. She opened the door of the TV room and stood before him, dressed in a blue trouser suit and wearing her hair up.” Are you still up?” She asked redundantly, looking surprised at the whisky in his hand and there was also obviously something else about his appearance that startled her. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, just a slightly heavier day than usual.”

“Well you want to go easy on that stuff,” she indicated the glass of whisky. “I will not see you in the morning; I have to go up to Manchester and need to leave early. Don’t forget that Susan is coming over tomorrow night with the children. She has to attend a PTA meeting. Remember you said that you would keep an eye on the children for a couple of hours.

“Don’t worry I haven’t forgotten!”

With that she left him alone to his thoughts.

3.

There had been raids on a number of addresses in Islington. The raids were outside his patch but the numbers pulled in had been so great that they had to take the overflow. The cells were full and he had his hands full all morning ensuring that everyone was correctly processed. In the resulting turmoil he all but forgot Alex Mournay sitting in the sentencing block.  He was reminded of his existence by his duty officer, desperate for cell space, at 12.00 o’clock.

“Ok, book him in for three,” he would need to re-arrange his meeting with the chair of the local police liaison committee. He called through to his secretary, Martin. “Can you re-arrange my meeting with Abbas? Also bring forward my video link with the CPS if you can do to four o clock? I need to leave dead on six tonight, Susan is bringing the children over at seven and my wife is in Manchester. “

He was not looking forward to sentencing Mournay, but the case was very straightforward there was no question respecting his guilt. He spoke to his equivalent in Islington and ordered the preparation of the spare sentencing room. They could also use four of the five cells in the sentencing suite.

He made his way down to the sentencing room, taking his mind off things by thinking of the children. Caroline Brody was already waiting. A rather unpleasant young woman she was the CPS prosecutor on duty that day. Thirty five, she looked considerably older, with severe unforgiving eyes and a pinched face that always seemed to have the expression of someone forced to negotiate their way through a world full of unpleasant smells.

“The case is straightforward, we are asking for the maximum tariff of ten years.” She informed him in a tone that suggested it was her job to ensure that he did not simply walk in the room and tell him he was free to go.

“Yes, I’m familiar with the case papers and with the sentencing guidelines, suppose we just get on with it.” His irritability surprised her. They entered the sentencing room and the escorting constable ordered the young man to stand.

Peter couldn’t help but satisfy his curiosity and examined the young man sitting before him in the light of the knowledge that he had learnt about his father. He looked no different than so many of the young offenders that passed before his eyes, perhaps a little more subdued and defeated looking. There was none of the defiance he met in some of the younger Asian men he sentenced. He looked pale and fearful. That was intelligence in the eyes and enough good looks to justify some vanity. As he sat down again their eyes met for a moment and in just that fleeting moment the Chief Superintendent was tempted to say, ‘I met your father once.’ But the moment was gone and he became aware again of the presence of the disagreeable young woman beside him whose job it was to ensure that the correct procedures were followed.

“Mr Mournay you have pleaded guilty to breach of your conditions of liberty, you have removed your tag implant and have violated the travel restrictions placed upon you under the Terrorism Act 2015. This is now your third serious offence.  Interfering with your tag is a particularly serious violation of a community sentence and can only attract the most severe penalties under the law.  Do you have anything to say in your defence?” Peter was aware that his voice sounded artificial, that he had struck something of a false note.

The young man remained silent. He simply shook his head.

“For the record the defendant has declined to offer a defence. Given the seriousness of these offences I have no alternative but to sentence you to the maximum term allowed for these offences, I am sentencing you to a Rehabilitation Order of ten years. You will serve a minimum of six years. Your case may be reviewed at that point.  Take him away.”

The young man stood up and was led from the room. This time Peter made sure that their eyes did not meet. Ms Brody looked pleased with herself and Peter suddenly felt full of venom. “Well I’m sure you have work to do, I know that I have. “ He marched quickly from the room, anxious to be free of her poisonous presence.

He couldn’t shake this feeling of irritation, a feeling bordering on petulance, which made him feel ashamed. He tried to complete the report for the consultancy meeting before his video link with the CPS, but his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were interrupted by Martin. “There are two officers here to see you.”

“Martin, you should know better. I can’t see them now; I have to meet with the CPS in fifteen minutes.” Martin looked embarrassed and Peter suddenly knew that something was wrong and almost immediately knew what it was.

I’m sorry sir, they’re from MI5 and they insist they see you right now.”

“Ok Martin, you had better show them in.”

 4.

There are six of us and little room to move in the minibus. The windows are blacked out and the light from the single electric bulb is weak. The man next to me is giving of a foul odour that permeates the whole bus. He is older than the rest of us, Pakistani or Afghan I would guess, he sits head down unwilling or unable to engage with the world around him.

At least three of the others seem to know one another. They too are from the sub continent, all young men; they talk to one another in a foreign language keeping their voices low. The only other white man in the group sits on the opposite side from me, just behind the cab. He was muttering away to himself. About the same age as me his eyes look wild and disturbed. He looks like someone who has been tortured.

The relief at escaping torture this time around is still fresh for me. The days following my arrest were made intolerable by the ever present threat of torture. As the hours passed this fear had exhausted me and I had collapsed into a sleepless stupor.

As soon as I reached the corner of the block I knew that I was about to be arrested, my instincts now that of the hunted animal, I know things now that you could never learn in books. I had barely entered my entry code than they had pounced. Though first I had had to stand and watch as they ransacked my flat. This time they had found my diary.

They pulled the implant from my pocket and showed me the route I had taken both to the river and then back. All I had to do was to acknowledge the truth of these facts. I signed without protest and they had then left me alone.

The dread when they fetched me from my cell had been like a physical blow and I couldn’t help my self, I threw up. The policeman actually was quite kindly and let me clean my self up.

As soon as I realised that I was about to be sentenced I felt a relief that bordered on gratitude, since I have convinced my self that you are never tortured after sentencing.

After being sentenced I was taken down a flight of stairs and out into a courtyard, feeling the pale sunlight and the cold air on my cheeks. I waited, watched by a bored police constable, for about half an hour, then the gates opened and a minibus pulled in.

When I climbed in there was only the incoherent white guy in the corner. Our eyes met but he did not appear to see me. I settled into my seat and as we drove off I noticed a slight chip in the paint on the window and I am able to just make out the shapes of a normal world going about its business. We collected the rest of the passengers from a number of police stations in central London.

The time now passes slowly and the claustrophobic atmosphere in the small van is beginning to feel unbearable. We stand still for prolonged periods, either in traffic, or for other reasons which extends the journey agonisingly. I begin to feel cramp in my legs.

Finally we dip into darkness; the little light from the chipped paint goes out.

We come to a stop and after a moment the back doors are opened and we are led out like bewildered sheep into a cavernous hollow basement car park. Each of us is presented with bright orange vests which we are told to place over our clothing. Once I have struggled to pull mine over my head I have a small metal bracelet clamped around my right wrist.

We are then herded back together as a group. I now realise that the men who are guarding us are not police but private security guards. The man in charge is in his forties, bearded, heavy set, his blue uniform ill fitting. He stands before us with the self important air of a stereotypical sergeant major.

“OK, you are to keep together as a group at all times. If anyone should try to wander off,” I suddenly feel a sharp pain in my right arm , a stabbing sensation in my shoulder, “you will be given a reminder of your responsibility to stay together.” The deranged white guy has collapsed on the floor and seems to be having some sort of epileptic fit. “Get him up on his feet.” He signals to his colleague. “That was just under a one on the dial. The scale goes up to five. I’ll leave it up to you to imagine what a five would feel like.” To my right the young man has been helped to his feet, still shivering his eyes those of a frightened animal.

We are led forward and travel up a sequence of moving staircases out of the basement and into a concourse that I recognise. Startled, we are in Euston train station. The shock to the system is enormous. We are suddenly surrounded by normality, people going about their everyday lives.

As we are brought to a halt I look around me, close by there is a small coffee stall, a young woman, smartly dressed in the latest nineteen thirties fashion is sipping espresso, our eyes meet and she looks at me with contempt. I am aware now of the terrible stigma of these awful orange vests.

All around me commuters, travellers, station workers are going about their day indifferent to me except for a dispassionate curiosity at best or at worst with open hostility. It is the latter that I now feel burning into me. I now feel wholly naked, exposed.

We are led forward toward the platforms, a little boy, no older than four is staring at us with a mixture of fear and curiosity. His mother pulls him away. The ticket scans are switched off and we walk down onto the platform, an assorted group of anti-socials.

As we walk though the gates it is apparent is that my feeling of shame and humiliation is not shared by several of the younger Asian men. They are smiling, walking confidently, instead of passively being on the receiving end of contempt it is they who have contempt in their eyes. They view the passing commuters, the daily life of the station with disdain.

The train that we board turns out to be the normal London to Aberystwyth bullet train, though the third class carriage we board has been stripped down to the basics, hard seats and hash lighting. I am just grateful to be off the station concourse, hidden now from hostility and curiosity.

So Aberystwyth, north Wales, or possibly some point in between. Somehow it felt more comfortable to have some sense of geographical direction. The Asian group is broken up and a young man is made to sit down beside me.

“Hi I’m Alex.” I break the silence. His eyes are intelligent but cold and suspicious, he does not respond. I turn and look out of the window as the train begins to ease itself out of the station.

We speed through Wembley and Harlesden, my home patch and I watch as we race through the outer commuter belt and the towering complex that is Brent Cross City Village, a self contained bourgeois bubble of security. We speed on out of London.

Once free of Watford the countryside sweeps past, field after field of oil seed rape, wind farms and commuter belt villages, a soporific display. I fall asleep.

I awake at Coventry. The recently refurbished station a modern palace of chrome and glass, although the platform concourse had a fake old fashioned look about it, looking back to the golden age of the 19^th century. I take it all in, groggy and in uncertain space and time. A package of official issue sandwiches sits on the table before me. My neighbour has finished his.

“You will learn to be more careful,” he indicates my sandwiches, “your infidel brothers would have stolen them from you whilst you slept.“

“But not you,” I ask, pleased that he has opened up a conversation.

“I am a Muslim, we do not steal.” He now looks away from me, something compelled him to speak. It is his pride he wants to display his superiority but knows that he should not.

“Well, thanks for the warning.”  The train pulls out and I began eating a sandwich which tastes like cardboard, it contains a bland mix of cheese and some sort of relish. I am hungry and so manage to swallow the final mouthful.

As we sit in Birmingham New Street Station I remember the last time I was in Birmingham. I came with Paul and Bridget. 

It had been a strange day. My relationship with Bridget had been one of those peculiar affairs when you really wished that your feelings for someone were stronger than they actually were. We were so compatible, we liked the same things and she was lively, attractive, albeit in a somewhat low key fashion and had a terrific sense of humour. All in all it should have been a great relationship but there had just been something missing, the chemistry just had not been there.

They had spent the morning shopping in the Bull Ring and the afternoon at the Picasso exhibition. Then Paul had driven them all back to London. I’d really enjoyed the day. I remember kissing her goodnight as we dropped her off at Tufnell Park. Shortly after that we had drifted apart. I wonder what became of her.

I am overcome by a melancholy nostalgia to the point where I feel tearful. I start to feel sorry for myself. Outside the countryside speeds past as we leave the Industrial Midlands and it is growing dark.

We are all made to disembark at Telford and take it in turns to be escorted to the toilet. Out in the car park we are handed over to two men from the same security firm. A surly pot bellied man in his thirties and a younger man, who is preoccupied with playing with his reader.

We are bundled into a mini van, however this time the windows are not blacked out and we are able to see out into the darkness and the vague shapes of the passing Shropshire countryside.

The journey takes about thirty minutes when we pause before some wire gates. I make out the writing on a wooden sign just behind the wire, Lilleshall Rehabilitation and Correction Centre. 

Once inside we are driven past rows of two storey blocks. We halt before a single story building marked Reception Centre and ordered to get out.

The cold hits us all simultaneously; I am wearing just my coat and jacket and soon begin shivering. The air is sharp and scented with the odour of damp greenery and winter rain. The ground beneath our feet is covered in grey gravel. The single storey building looks like an old church hall, similar to the one next to the playing field that Malcolm and I used to play football upon. The double doors are painted a bottle green and the windows are illuminated by low energy light bulbs. The whole area feels eerily quite. This hush infects us all, the young Asian men Mumbling amongst themselves. We are all trying to keep our spirits up.

The door is opened and the minibus driver hands over a slip of paper to a uniformed officer who has just emerged from the building. He glances down the list, “Abdul Rahman?” The young man steps forward and is taken into the reception building. And so one by one each name is read out and we enter the low brick building.

When it is my turn I enter a small ante room, bare but for a metal bench, a portrait of the King and a single door leading into the interior of the building. The officer swipes us through and I am led forward into a short corridor and then into another room. This too, though much larger is sparsely furnished.  A long table is occupied by a tall man in civilian clothes flanked on either side by two cloned uniformed officers. The man in civilian dress is clearly in charge. In his fifties with white hair, dapper, handsome even, he is at least six foot tall, possibly taller. He looks at me with a calculated indifference.

“Alex Mournay 24 years of age already with four previous offences including interfering with an electronic tag, you have committed previous acts of political subversion which led to a TCCO which you then breached. It seems despite this you were given another community order, a second chance in fact and yet again you abused the leniency you were shown.” His voice is emotionless, almost robotic but there is a hard edged sincerity, he believes what he is saying.

“Lilleshall is a category C rehabilitation centre and as such enjoys category C security measures. You have already been fitted with a security bracelet, this is locked in to our central system, any attempt to remove or interfere with this will result in it being activated, I think you have already been shown what this might feel like. The outer perimeter fence consists of a non visible beam that will activate your bracelet if interrupted. Additionally you will be fitted with an electronic implant tag.

“You will be subject to Category C rules and regulations. This means that you are allowed free association with others on your section. Once allocated employment you will work a thirty five hour week. You will also attend civic lessons for two hours each week. You are allowed the remaining time for reading, study or religious activity. Lock down is at 20.30, lights out at 21.00 hours. “

“Behave yourself and you will gain merit points, merit points gain privileges. You will not even be considered for your early release tariff if you have not accumulated enough points.” There is a little pile of white paperback manuals in front of him and he takes one from the top of the pile and hands it to me.

“This is the Centre manual, I suggest you read it from cover to cover and make yourself familiar with it contents. It contains everything you need to know about serving your sentence. Failure to follow the rules laid down in the manual will result in punishment. Abide by the rules and you can serve your time fruitfully. You will now be taken for a shower and for your clothing issue. Do you have any questions?” One of the uniformed officers whispers something into his ear.

“Am I allowed anything to read?”

“You may have one book, the Koran, the Bible or any other of a number of listed religious texts, or if you prefer the Complete works of William Shakespeare. If you gain enough merit points you may be given access to the library.”

“One final thing free association is a privilege you have not yet earned; if you abuse it we have solitary confinement facilities in the centre and will be happy to accommodate you there.”

I am led out the back door and into what turns out to be a room with a shower, a leather couch and a state of the art wall screen that looks strangely out of place.

The officer has a peculiar malign smile now and I know that I am about to be humiliated. He orders me to undress and when I am naked he views me as you might a somewhat strangely deformed insect. He puts on some latex gloves and my head is forced down while he penetrates me with his hand. Whilst he is doing this I hear the door open.

“Is he clean?”

“Well he’s got nothing up his ass.” He removes his hand and pushes me away. I loose my balance and crash onto the floor.

The tiled floor is cold and a momentarily am back in the torture room, the flashback brings a sudden twitching of pain and humiliation.

“On your feet,” he picks me up like a dirty rag. “Stand still in front of the screen.” I am blinded by a sudden flash of light and my insides are flashed up on the screen.

“He’s clean, get him in the shower.”

When I am dry I am handed a full set of clothes consisting of pale blue underwear and colour co-ordinated blue socks, blue loafers, pale blue shirt and heavy duty navy blue overalls which are heavily padded, presumably for extra warmth.  My relief at being dressed again is tempered by the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The fear is back.

5.

Mary Mournay had grown less and less confident with each passing year since her husband died. She still blamed his sickness on all that unpleasantness around his resignation. She had been desperate to protect the boys from all of that and had sent them away to her sisters. The constant visits from the police and those secret service people, the flat being turned upside down. She had watched her husbands impotent rage turn to bitterness and finally to resignation and defeat. She had not been able to protect him. 

Graham had never been a bitter man, even when things had gone against him; it was only at the end that the change came over him. It had felt like the life was being sucked from him. He hadn’t slept, was moody and had often been uncharacteristically short with her and the boys.

It had been an awful time, a grey time. The last time her husband had been well had been made sour by those poisonous people and now they had her sons in their grip. She too could now feel that bitterness, the impotent paralysis of insignificance, she could not help them.

She had sold the house and moved here after Graham’s death. The money from the sale of the house was for the boys, to give them some financial security. Now the whole idea of security, financial or otherwise, seemed completely beyond reach. The world was no longer governed by the rules of fairness and justice. When they had first come to see Graham he had called his solicitor Chris Turnbull, an old friend of his. Graham had been sure that there were some legal processes to protect him. But Chris too had turned out to be powerless. They had been engulfed by pseudo legal Mumbo jumbo, the prevention of terrorism this, the official secrets that, it all boiled down to the simple truth, you had no rights.

Then all of a sudden, just as quickly as it had started, it had all stopped. They were suddenly left alone; the threat of prosecution was lifted. Graham no longer had to present to the police station every day, the constant disruption to their lives had ceased. True Graham was now unemployed, but he had been due to retire soon anyway. However Graham had not seemed pleased, if anything he had become even more morose and withdrawn. Then the illness had started.

The irony being that the press release following his forced resignation had cited ill health and Graham had been forced to sign a confidentiality clause on pain of losing his pension. They had tempted providence. He was dead within two years.

She had managed to hold things together for the first six months or so after his death but after that instead of getting easier things had got progressively worse, Malcolm had run out of control, had dropped out of college and began mixing with a bad crowd. She had known that it was only a matter of time before he was picked up by the police, so that when it finally happened she had felt a guilty relief, guilt she still felt, but at least when he was in the rehabilitation centre she knew where he was, she didn’t have to suffer the daily gnawing anxiety about what he was doing.

Now she worried less about Malcolm than she did about Alex. Malcolm was tough, robust, a bit like her. Whilst Alex took after his father, he was sensitive, somewhat withdrawn, he was soft. She feared for his ability to cope with what they could do to him.

His curiosity about his father was pleasing, but also added to her anxiety. She deliberately avoided talking about Graham’s politics and in particular about the events of around his resignation. She knew what Alex was like and didn’t want to agitate him further. She also knew that like his father he would not talk about what was going on, forcing her to speculate, to try to read between the lines.

She would have liked to call him everyday but knew how irritated he became when he felt that she was fussing over him. So she did not call but worried as she would worry tomorrow, the day after and all the days to come.

She would call tomorrow, not that that there was any guarantee that he would answer, either he would be out or screening out uncomfortable calls. Still she would call, for it would then be four days since she had called him, a decent interval.

She finished her tea and switched off the wall screen. Her movements were slow steady and calculated as she tidied up before going to bed.

Although comfortable enough and ideally sited, with lovely views across the park, it had never felt like home for her. It had none of the associations of home, no family drama, no plurality of experiences. It was her space and hers alone and she was not happy.

6.

The message on the screen was short and to the point. It was electronically signed under the name of Chief Superintendent Peter Taylor. It informed her that her son, Alex Mournay had been sentenced to ten years Rehabilitation Detention under the Section four of the Prevention of terrorism Act 2015 as amended 2022. She would be informed of his place of detention within five days and notified as soon as visitation rights had been awarded.

And that was it. She felt none of the emotion she had imagined she might feel. She knew this was coming; it had simply been a matter of when. She had simply not expected it so soon and so she cried.

The emotion she did feel now welling up like an inner tidal wave was first anger, then rage. For the first time in her life she felt murder in her heart.

7.

The Mournay business, he reflected, was messy, too many loose ends, too much unfinished business. He disliked such cases intensely.

Leon Akunin reviewed the material before him, why this sudden interest from A Chief Superintendent? Taylor had nothing in his background, why suddenly recklessly breach his security clearance and poke his nose in the Mournay business. His own account of his reasons simply didn’t stand up. Now he had been suspended, was subject to an enquiry and would almost certainly be demoted because of curiosity! It didn’t make sense.

His level of security clearance was always a source of satisfaction for Leon, only the section head had greater clearance and the section head reported directly to the Home Secretary.

The section of the Carrick report respecting climate change had been one of the smaller sections, however some of the conclusions even now would produce alarm and even create panic. That information respecting this section had got out was beyond dispute. References to it had been found on Hilbert’s Reader and Mournay had also alluded to it in private correspondence, but then nothing. We were still none the wiser as to where the material had got too. It was of course possible, indeed highly likely,  that it had gone nowhere. That Mournay had only told Hibbert and that we had strangled the both of them before it was distributed more widely. But could they take that chance? The chance that even now some of the material might leak out into the public domain?

This kind of thing of course couldn’t happen now. Mournay simply wouldn’t have got away with it, he’d have been inside coughing up information faster than you could say search warrant. But this had happened nearly ten years ago when things had been altogether much laxer.

He stretched his arms and stood up; it was a little after eight and he should go home. He turned to face the screen again. “Concluding recommendations on Chief Superintendent Peter Taylor, enforced early retirement and class C monitoring, loss of passport and prohibited access to Central London.”

He pulled on his jacket and realised that he had not eaten since twelve but was not hungry. He switched of the lights and set the security code, he was tired and just wanted to get home.

8.

The camp is divided strictly between the Mujhadeen, or the MJ’s, and the rest of us, a mix of drug users, delinquent’s, petty thieves and other so called anti-social elements. The Anti Socials as we are all officially termed look down on anyone like my self, so called politico’s or more derogatively ‘junk heads’ and the MJ’s look down on the rest of us.

The first thing that strikes you about the MJ’s is their incredible discipline. The MJ’s have organised several protests, including hunger strikes to try and all be housed together and the administration has more or less conceded this. Everything they do is done in concert, they react collectively; a slight to one is a slight to all. They eat together, they work together they read the Koran together and of course they pray together each facing Mecca five times a day. Sequestered in their own peculiar world they want nothing to do with the rest of us infidels. Max, who has already served three years of a seven stretch, tells me that there was a time when there had been open hostility and violence between the MJ and the rest, which had led to the murder of a young Moroccan man, to be quickly followed by the revenge killing of a another young man, a young student convicted of incitement to religious hatred. He had been carefully targeted. This violence served neither groups interests and in the end only made life in the camp more difficult for everyone and so after this a truce had been arranged.  Both groups left each other alone with an unofficial code operating to present a unified front to the screws.

Max is my best friend here in the camp and something of an old hand; he has shown me the ropes and has, time after time, helped me to deal with being here.

Max’s own story is far more dramatic than my own. He was brought up on a council estate in Luton. He was the third child, one of five boys. Even Max admits that they were a handful for the community police and getting ASBO’s became something of a rite of passage. Max himself got his first community order at eleven. Now at just under six foot, muscular and heavy set I can well imagine him being a tough kid.  By the time he was fifteen he was doing an eighteen stretch for vandalism and repeated curfew violation. When he came out his family had been evicted and his two younger brothers taken into care. He had been running his own guerrilla war ever since becoming, after a fashion, politicised in the process.  His politics, if you could describe them in such terms, were completely anarchic. He hated all authority and all forms of social control. The government for him was social services, the housing department and above all else, the police. His hatred for the police is perhaps surpassed only by his hatred for the screws.

But no that is wrong, in fact he doesn’t make such distinctions, to Max they are all the same, one contiguous oppressive mass. He has no programme, no sense of what he would exchange the present order for. His passion though is a pure passion, a passion for revolt, a passion for destruction. I have learnt a lot from him.

The camp is divided into twenty blocks each block is divided into four sections, I am on C section Block L. Each Section consists of six beds, six bedside cabinets, six sets of permissible family pictures, six assorted human beings 

 Max is the undisputed head of our section, which consists of myself, Max, Tony, Barry, Terry and Junior. None of us any older than thirty, indeed the whole of the camp is composed of primarily of men under the age of thirty.

At nineteen Tony is the youngest of our section. He was caught breaking and entering. It seems he decided to take up burglary in an attempt to escape working for the Community Services Agency. Introspective and not especially bright he keeps a low profile.

Barry, though not really a political, smashed a surveillance camera after taking a cocktail of drugs. The Community Police beat him up quite badly and he has a scar above his right eye. He is now becoming increasingly political. Like me he is something of a naïve when it comes to surviving in the camp.

Terry is a streetwise drug dealer in his early twenties, caught in possession he’s down to do a maxiMum ten stretch, though this has not fazed him. He is convinced that he will soon get early release, failing that he has decided that he is going to escape.

Junior is a twenty two year old softly spoken Afro-Caribbean guy from Liverpool. His real passion is football and his inability to follow Liverpool FC whilst serving his sentence is his greatest sorrow. He claims to be wholly innocent, having been picked up in a sweep of Anti-Socials following a spate of graffiti writing.

This group represents my closest comrades. The first rule of the camp is that no matter what internal disputes may be going on a section presents a unified front to the rest of the camp. However unlike some sections our own is relatively harmonious. This is largely as a consequence of Max’s undisputed leadership. Even Terry bows to Max’s authority.

Perhaps I should make clear that communication in the normal sense does not take place within the camp. Normal conversation in which people exchange ideas, argue or agree is absent. We all have implants and the camp is swamped with cameras and monitoring devices. All supplemented by the thin bands of metal on our wrists, with the ever present threat of being ‘bounced’, this being camp jargon for the convulsive shock they could inflict upon you.. This all leads to an outward appearance of uniformity and order. However it is only appearance.

There are a number of ways to communicate, the easiest being written exchanges, though these can be risky. There are almost as many other codes in the camp as there are inmates, each section operating a different set of codes in addition to the codes common to the camp as a whole. Different forms of Morse are the commonest. As well as written communication and the tapping out of basic information we also use a word code in our section. So for example, towel means MJ, soap means screw, bunk means a conflict or possible dispute, sneakers is a warning that screws are coming or you are being watched. In this way we are able, despite the implants, to negotiate the complexity of camp life.

Whether you like it or not you soon become obsessed by points. Points are everything, phone calls, visits, working conditions, food, and of course early release. It is the points system that enables the camp to run smoothly.

At the moment I am a just two thousand short of visiting rights. Every day without incident, accrues points, sudden disasters, being late for work, leaving food on your plate, closing your eyes during a civic class, means a deduction of precious points.

One day I witnessed one young guy go crazy. He had been preoccupied by something or other and crashed into a screw, spilling juice over his uniform. This meant a major loss of points. He started screaming, imploring for his points account to be left alone and was ‘bounced’ before being carted off to solitary.

Outside of the MJ most inmates decline the spiritual book or Shakespeare when they arrive, then later regret it. Anything to read is both valuable in its own right and can also be traded. You can then request a text but the process is bureaucratic and can take weeks. The Shakespeare has been my salvation. At the moment I am absorbed by Hamlet’s indecision and the mirror that it holds up to my own.

All the time that Paul was fired up ready to fight back I was holding back, equivocating. At the time I had convinced myself it was cowardice that held me back. And it was true, the fear was real enough, but it was never the real story. The truth was that I was at heart unsure, could we not be mistaken? Most people led quite uneventful lives and accepted the current state of affairs as both normal and, in so far as they believed they were kept safe, desirable. Wasn’t there something hubristic about the belief that Paul and I had a unique insight on the truth? Or perhaps I wanted us to be wrong, to have misunderstood the current state of affairs, as the alternative was just too unpalatable and too unspeakably lonely and isolating. Only now I no longer feel alone, for the first time in my life I am no longer in the minority.

The early days were hardest. Sometimes I felt like I was going slightly mad. The shock was a combination of the sudden realisation of the duration of my sentence and immersion into an alien and hostile environment. I had been viewed with suspicion by everyone on the section. Middle class, bookish, naive, people like me could be a liability. Terry in particular had given me a hard time. A prank in which Terry had misinformed me about the procedure for getting clean bedding had cost me a loss of eighty points.

Max however could not afford liabilities on his section. The way in which the system worked it fell upon the section leaders to keep their section in order. Though in theory no such title existed in reality the screws relied upon the leaders to keep their section in order. Problems in the section led to problems for the leader, loss of points, punishment orders or even removal from the section. Max showed me the ropes, initially with some aggression, making it clear that violence was not only the prerogative of the screws, then as we got to know one another in a more friendly way. For myself I went from seeing Max as just another thuggish oaf to someone who possessed an instinctive wisdom and a depth of understanding about the workings of the system far greater than my own. It reminds me of something I once read in one of the Orwell books, something like he grew up knowing what I had to learn from slowly from books.  I grew to respect him.

As I slowly learnt how things worked, learnt under Max’s guidance how to make the system work to my advantage, the days began to feel less oppressive.

The fact that I have entered data for The Leisure Corporation counts as a background in IT and gets me a soft number working in the IT section. Each day I enter statistical data into a programme for the Department of Work and Pensions. It is boring but represents a cushy number compared with working on the farm or in the public transport repair shop. Every day I earn twenty five points.

Each day work starts at nine and finishes at five. The work is easy with plenty of opportunities to learn valuable information, and information around here is currency. My job is to enter information that comes in the form of printed records about personal work patterns, time spent on the job, going to the toilet, talking, taking breaks, for example an officially sanctioned break is a  code B2, an unofficial break a code B3.

The records come from cameras installed on work premises which are connected to micro computers that produce these read outs. Pete Stirling who works in the section alongside me and is pretty much clued up on these things, tells me that the government will soon have a system in place to link the cameras directly into the Work and Pensions own system and cut us out altogether. In the mean time we represent a cheap way of making the system work. Only Pete has shown me ways, an odd 0 inserted here a missing digit there, to fuck the system up. Though of course you have to be careful, for of course we ourselves are watched, but it is very satisfying to alter the data knowing that somewhere, sometime some government official will be basing plans and expectations on these figures.

It is possible too during breaks to gain snippets of information on the outside world. Though of course the whole of the outside web is blocked there is a quirk in the system that the screws have not yet sussed that allows you to view the Department of Work and Pensions Bulletin board. If two people block out the camera you can find out useful tit bits. In this way we learn that all B Grade civil servants and over are receiving emergency weather training, whatever that might be. That the current security code is red and that pay is to be kept at 2023 levels for a further year. These may seem unimportant but in reality they represent ammunition, a way of putting one over on the screws. Anyhow you never knew when some item of information might prove useful.

Once a week there are the Civic Classes. These are curious affairs consisting of sitting in front of a screen, headphones clipped on, watching the effects of bad behaviour on ordinary people, Muslims being blown up in suicide bombings, working class families whose lives are being destroyed by vandals, the threat to security posed by those who hide behind civil rights, or a short film extolling the virtues of democracy and free speech and showing how these benefit the Muslim and non Muslim alike.

Everyone laughs at them and believes them to be a crude attempt at brainwashing. Nobody admits to being influenced by them which makes me suspicious that they are having a greater impact than we realise.

After a year of these classes it is possible to take a civic exam which leads to points and you no longer have to attend the sessions. In their place you must attend a highly unlikely sounding weekly civic discussion group. Despite the widespread cynicism there is no shortage of people putting themselves forward for the exam.

Aside from sex, what I miss most is music. Music and television privileges can be earned, though I have no desire to visit the TV room and I am a long way off music privileges. Library privileges are amongst the hardest to get, the system seems particularly suspicious of solitary activities like reading

 As for sex, my sex life was hardly active prior to being sentenced so that transition to an all male environment has hardly been that dramatic. Sex of course does happen here, but is overwhelmingly of the consensual variety. There is very little, if any, homosexual rape. If someone is interested in you they let you know and if you don’t respond they leave you alone.

In fact the screws keep a tight grip, though there is very little overt violence. Although given the effect that an even moderate bounce can have there really isn’t any need.

As to the relationship between the screws and the MJ this operates at a different level.  Looking from the outside it looks like two wary street fighters, both aware of the limits to which they can push the other before open conflict, both respecting the strengths of the other.

Indeed it is difficult not to feel a grudging respect for the MJ, the discipline and refusal to conform. They openly despise the camp system, the points and punishments and do the minimum required short of open revolt. The screws for their part are wary and give them a fairly wide birth, short of allowing them to disregard the basic rules. It feels like a permanent stand off.

9.

Peter Taylor had time on his hands. His wife had left and he no longer had to handle the daily stress of an inner London Basic Command Unit. Non of his old colleagues called and his world had shrunk with his old haunts in Central London now forbidden to him. His favourite restaurants and pubs, his occasional walks in St James park after visiting the Yard, his office overlooking the Thames, all now off limits. He had previously created geographical restrictions as a matter of routine as he handed down TCCO’s. Only now did he appreciate just how much of an amputation this could represent.

He had been asked so often, first of all officially, then by colleagues and finally by his wife and family as to what had prompted him to behave so recklessly, so irresponsibly, so stupidly. Up until now he hadn’t really been able to give an answer. He had given answers of course, but none of them held water. His interrogators had not believed him and neither had he managed to convince himself. Only now was he beginning to understand, something inside of him had been gnawing away for years. At the time of his suspension it had felt disturbingly like a desire for self destruction, though now it revealed itself as a hunger for a peculiar variety of existential freedom.  

Looking back now his longing for early retirement had been rooted in just this desire. He had told himself that he was tired and that he had gone as far as he wanted to in his career. He no longer aspired to further promotion and anyhow such promotion was no longer an option, but underneath all this had been a growing disquiet about what he was doing. He no longer believed in the role he was performing.

 It was not that he had ceased believing in the need to place public safety at the apex of considerations and that this might occasionally result in justice that was crude and somewhat blunt edged. This was inevitable in a time when the country was facing an all out assault by fanatics whose whole raison d'être was mass slaughter.

No, it was the growing sense that what he was doing had less and less to do with combating terrorism and was more and more about ensuring effective social control. Indeed he had a growing feeling that what was happening was, rather than reducing the threat actually exacerbating it, he had actually been feeding the monster he was purporting to fight.

And now he looked in the mirror and saw an unemployed middle aged man staring back at him and reflected that when he looked back on his life in recent years this was the first time that he had felt at ease with himself.

He pulled on his jacket and switched on the security system and left the house for his meeting with Don Foster. It was over ten years since he had last seen Don and over fifteen since they had been close. Don was then the chief crime reporter on the local radio station in Staines where Peter too had cut his teeth. Now he worked for an International News Agency and had made his name reporting on organised crime. Their drifting apart had been inevitable as their career paths had diverged.

He had always liked Don and had gone out of the way to tip him off should something interesting be developing. He had later watched as his friends career had developed, it would seem that they were both hard wired for success and he had often thought about trying to re-establish their old friendship, however his position made that difficult if not impossible and so he had let it go as he had let so many things go.

The idea of contacting Don had come just after his suspension. While his case was still being considered he had held off calling. Now that his case had been adjudicated there was nothing to hold him back. He knew that he was being watched, that all his calls were tapped, he had authorised many such monitoring operations himself. The thing was to continue as normal, no attempts at secrecy, he knew that they knew that he knew he was being monitored and so his conversations were as much with them as anybody else. His meeting with Don was a statement that he now felt himself to be at liberty. He had suggested the Taj Mahal on the high street, he had gone there a few times with  Sarah during more tranquil times and the food had always been good, more importantly it was close and one of only a very few restaurants he had patronised outside of central London.

There was no point in taking the car it was only a fifteen minute walk and the environmental charge for such a short journey would be prohibitively high. Not that this had ever bothered him before. He could barely recall the last time he had walked before his dismissal. Now that he had time on his hands and the pace of his life had assumed more human proportions he had discovered the pleasure of walking, of pacing yourself as you absorbed your environment to the full.

They shook hands; Don had already been waiting for around ten minutes and was drinking a glass of Shiraz. The years had been kinder to Don than to Peter and he still had about him that quality most normally associated with youth, bright and enquiring eyes.

“You look well; crime obviously has looked after you.”

“Better it would seem than it has looked after you.”

Peter smiled and sat down. ”That is possibly true. Tell me how are you it is about ten years since we last met? I followed your career. Your piece about the Turkish Mafia in North London was spot on. It certainly ruffled a few feathers!”

“You don’t need to tell me that, some of your guys made life pretty difficult for me for a time. I’m not sure the heat is fully off even now. “

“Not my guys, the Serious Organised Crime squad were always a law unto themselves; we used to call them the Cowboys.”

“We used to call them something else. Do you want to order?”

He ordered a chicken dish he had never tried before and a better quality wine. He felt like a free spirit.

“I read about the voluntary early retirement, which of course fooled nobody. Rumour was that you had got up the noses of Five. But it’s not really my area. I spend most of my time abroad now, in North America.  I find the climate suits my occupation better.”

“Well the rumours were not completely wrong, but in a way its not me I really want to talk to you about.”

“Listen Peter, I don’t know hat happened in your life, or what the system did to you. I certainly know how brutal it can be. But you must know that anything you say to me is unlikely to get into print.”

“Well maybe, but I’m not sure that is what I want.  But you do know people and as you say you spend most of your time in the States and Canada, so even if what I say isn’t heard here it will be heard somewhere.”

“Yes, I do spend most of my time abroad and I value my passport if you get my drift, greater reporters than I have suddenly found their geographical horizons suddenly limited.”

“You used to be braver.”

“Yes and you used to be more savvy.”

“Ok, just listen to me.” The food arrived and they both fell silent.

“Fine but let’s eat first.”

 As they ate they exchanged life stories, talked about whom was now doing what with whom, the currency of small talk. Don conscious of something oppressive hovering in the air.

“If you feel you have to, “Peter commenced as soon as they had finished eating, “as soon as you leave report this conversation to John Lansing, he’s my old Five liaison officer. You need feel no guilt. I’m giving you permission. Then you can be in the clear, as I say you will have no cause for guilt. “

Donald Foster was feeling acutely uncomfortable; this was not really his area of expertise. Homeland security was the least attractive of all assignments. Either you parroted the official communiqués or you were silenced by one of a hundred pieces of legislation. He had been uneasy about this meeting from the beginning and had even considered cancelling, but some old reporter’s instinct had kicked in. These old washed up policeman were invariably bitter and had scores to settle. Still Peter Taylor had been one of the more honest coppers he had come across in his working career and there might just be something here that could lead to a story of sorts, that he could sell to one of the more liberal Canadian papers. “Go on then, tell me your story.”

“”Do you know how many people were sentenced under terrorist legislation in my patch last year? Of course you don’t, but I can tell you, one thousand four hundred and twenty seven. One thousand four hundred and twenty seven terrorists or potential terrorists  just in one small section of central London, of which over half received custodial sentences ranging from eighteen months to thirty years. That’s an awful lot of terrorists in one small patch. As to the national figure I can’t tell you, I don’t know, it is a national secret.  Last year we built another five rehabilitation camps, the actual number of camps again is a national secret, but I know of at least one hundred and thirty.  This is not even to mention the camps that ‘don’t exist.’ In the old Soviet Union the term was Gulag. True, in our system the camps are more benign nobody is actually deliberately killed.

“Don felt irritated, none of this was exactly new, though the language was somewhat incendiary.

“The bald figures of course lack something, the human dimension as I think it’s called in the media. Let me tell you about just two cases that I dealt with in the last year. Let us call her Sandra, a nineteen year old student who objected to the content of a history textbook. I cannot even recall the nature of her objection, anyhow she protested by encouraging other students to boycott history lectures and produced a leaflet. She was arrested and sentenced under section three of the of the 2015 Act, though could have been caught by a number of other sections, though interestingly enough section three relates to undermining free speech and democracy! Under the guidelines I had no alternative other than give her a two year TCCO. If she breaches this at any point she will get a custodial sentence of a minimum of two years.

Mohamed was a sixteen year old boy found in possession of a document calling for the release of Muslim political prisoners. He was charged under section two, supporting terrorist organisations. I had to sentence him to the minimum of four years. I could give numerous other examples. The reality is that whilst actual terrorist incidents flourish we are locking up more and more people. ”

“None of this is new Peter,” Don cut in “and isn’t it a bit late for you to be shouting about this now. It might have carried a little bit more weight whilst you were still in your job?”

“Fair point, however, I am saying it now and with all the authority of an ex-Chief Superintendent.” Peter was aware of the grey utility vehicle parked outside the restaurant. He was surprised at such heavy duty attention and relaxed back into his chair. “If you’re not interested perhaps you know people who are.”

Don Foster was widely travelled and was used to dealing with sub texts, double meaning and euphemism, the deliberately opaque language of criminality, yet still he was unclear as to what was being communicated here. Whatever else the conversation could not be taken at face value.

“I will put some feelers out and let you know.” A long silence followed as they both emptied their plates. “Listen Peter I have to be at the airport by six tomorrow so I’ll need to make a move soon.” Peter was very much enjoying the wine and decided to stay and enjoy desert. “Ok, I think I might stay for desert.” He pushed his napkin toward Don with the single phrase; ‘don’t shake hands when you leave,’ written upon it.

The waiter brought the bill and handed it to the journalist, Peter reached across and took it from his hand and has their hands touched Don felt a small metal disc thrust into his palm. “Let me get this.” Peter smiled and placed the bill beside his plate.

Don thrust the disc into a small pocket in the inner lining of his jacket with the precise expertise of one who is used to quick and inconspicuous acts of concealment. As Don was about to leave their eyes met, Peter had the look of a man who was about to get very drunk.

“I will be in touch.” Don informed him.

10.

There is something odd about Mum’s message, flat unemotional, distant. It affects me far more than anything that has happened to me in the camp. I feel distracted and vaguely sick at heart.

Max is sitting on his bed talking to Terry. They both nod as I enter. Something has happened; I can feel it instantly, my instincts now attuned to camp life.

Max leans over as I reach under my bed for my towel. “Junior is being transferred,” he informs me. It is Sunday, transfers invariably happen on a Sunday.

I place the towel around my shoulders,” how is he taking it?”

“He is probably being told at this very minute.” I never know how Max gets to know this information and it is rare for him to convey such knowledge out aloud. Either he is being careless or he is certain of his ground, knows there will be no ramifications. I have noticed a slight change in Max lately; a certain cockiness has replaced his former caution and instinctive wariness. 

I find my toothbrush and toothpaste and go to clean my teeth. Each section contains two sink units, one toilet and a shower room. I try to use these facilities outside of everyone else’s cycle and so clean my teeth a good hour or so before lights out.

Both Barry and Tony return from the workshop but there is no sign of Junior. Barry says that Junior was called from his workbench and two screws escorted him out of the building. We are all on edge, sensing something in the air. The uneasy silence is broken when Junior enters. He looks sick and unsteady and moves towards his bed with the air of someone who is no longer anchored on the planet.

Max moves toward him and leans against the corner of his bed   “What is it, what’s happened?”

“They’ve shot my brother, he’s dead.”

We help Junior to get his things together. I hand him his Liverpool football pendant, a pathetic symbol of a more innocent age. He takes it from me and places it carefully in his bag.

11.

“We should be more like the towels, they stick together; the screws are fucked every time. Don’t get me wrong I don’t like the fuckers but you have to admire them. They’re like a fucking army with Abdul-Azeem as their general.”

Max and I are talking, the conversation a mix of written, verbal and coded exchanges. “That is what I don’t understand,” I say, “they could decapitate the leadership at a stroke, all they would need to do was transfer Abdul!”

“No, you don’t get it. Abdul’s far too useful to them where he is, they scratch his back he scratches theirs. Abdul delivers far more for the screws than you know. It’s his way of staying in control and being in control gives him leverage. You’ve got to admire the fucker; he knows how to deal with the screws on their own terms.”

Max and I are standing in the dead zone, an area in which the view of both internal cameras is blocked if you had your backs turned. Max now barely conceals his contempt for the screws and talking with him is beginning to feel dangerous.

His appearance is that off streetwise hard man someone who can handle himself and it is an image that he consciously seeks to cultivate. Max now works out as often as he can in the little shed with its few pieces of gym equipment laughably called the Gym. But this image belies his sharp intelligence and an ability to size up a situation in seconds. In a different world Max would have gone far, he combines savvy with an astute sense of timing. He knows instinctively when the screws are at their most vulnerable, when we can enjoy some leverage, as well as when we need to tread more carefully.   Unfortunately he is now beginning to realise this and paradoxically this is weakening him.

Juniors departure had left us all feeling demoralised, especially when Max finds out, how I don’t know, that his transfer is not an act of compassion but designed to remove a potentially unstable person from our section. I am beginning to realise this is what camp life is like, a constant cycle of ups and downs. You settle into a routine, think you’ve got the system tapped and then something happens to send you spiralling down again, shattering your freshly acquired assumptions. Such was my discovery of X block. Its existence seems to be something each and everyone has to find out about for themselves since it is not a subject people care to talk about. As with so many things it was Max who told me about it.

Qasim was working with me in the IT section when a screw whispered something in his ear. He went berserk and attacked the screw. He was bounced so severely blood began pouring out of his nose. As he was carried away I overheard Pete whispering X block.

“It’s the punishment block, not a fun place to be. They sometimes take the MJ there.” Max is succinct and doesn’t expand. It soon becomes obvious to me that it is a place that inspires real fear, a place of torture and even death.

Though what is preoccupying me most at the moment is the lack of contact from Mum. It is so unlike her. I have one communication slot a week, but there is nothing for me. I am beginning to feel abandoned.

The replacement for Junior is a Muslim Jawad. However he soon overcomes our initial hostility. He has a sharp sense of humour and is pretty savvy when it comes to dealing with the screws. More importantly he dislikes the MJ as much, if not more than we do. He is very funny about them, a source of constant MJ jokes. Sentenced for drug dealing and forgery he managed to angle his way into rehab camp instead of prison, he claims, by bribery. He has a solid streak of cynicism believing you can get whatever you want through a combination of money and manipulating the system. He is convinced that he will not be here long and says he has lawyers working for his release on the outside. Despite his cynicism and lack of principle I can’t help but like him.

Outside it is becoming warmer and apparently we are to be issued with our summer boiler suits at the end of the week. Time passes in strange ways here. Days have lost there separate essence, with the exception of Sunday and Monday. Dates and the marker points of the year, bank holidays and external events are absent here and so you drift into a timeless limbo, broken from time to time by some event, such as the issue of summer clothing.

There are scattered patches of grass across the camp, a few trees here and there and even a flower bed in front of the Reception Centre, beyond the wire the trees and fields and changing Shropshire countryside. The warmer weather and the lighter evenings lift the mood in the camp and as I return from work I feel a spring in my step.

            “From you have I been absent in the spring,
            When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim,
            Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.”^[1]

Shakespeare is like some wonderful mantra that can destroy the most evil odours of the camp.

When I enter the section I find it empty and even feel a tinge of disappointment. When I first arrived I thought the worse thing would be the loss of privacy, this felt like a disaster and indeed there are times when it really grates, but you get used to it. Anyhow when the lights go out you inhabit a space that is truly your own. I am aware now that far from being the worst thing about being incarcerated, being forced to share a space with others is perhaps the best. Not that I like everyone in my section. Terry I positively dislike. Yet he is in my section and I feel a loyalty toward him for this. I suspect, no, I know, that he feels this too. I understand now that this is the real meaning of comradeship, a word fallen wholly out of fashion.

I have thirty minutes before the evening meal and take out the Shakespeare.

            ‘Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
            Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky
            Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
            Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.’^[2]

I have no sense of burning injustice. Am I innocent? No, not by their lights; and they are right for if I had the power I would destroy them, maybe even kill now if it were necessary. I rest the book on my chest and reflect on the somewhat disturbing reality that for the first time in my life I am content.

12.

It is just a little before five and still pitch black outside. Well over an hour before sunrise. Mary dressed in her usual careful way, putting on a thick navy blue sweater. For it would be cold out.

In the kitchen she made herself a cup of tea and ate a couple of slices of toast coated with her favourite thick cut marmalade. The tin of paint had been sitting under the stairs since she moved in. The leftovers of the scarlet of the woodwork in her bedroom, she had always liked the vividness of red, it was a colour completely lacking in ambiguity or compromise. She had been given the paint brush by Mr McCourt, who lived on the corner when she had asked to borrow one. “You keep it, I don’t need it anymore.” He had said. She placed the brush and the tin of paint in a canvas carrier bag and placed several apples, pears and a bunch of grapes over them.

Outside it was cold, a sharp wind blowing from the direction of the river. The streets were empty though she knew that she was being tracked by the CCTV cameras.

When she reached the corner of the high road a police car pulled up. “Good morning love, what are you up to this time in the morning?”

She smiled her sweetest smile. “A friend of mine is ill. She lives in Twickenham; I am just taking her some fruit. I need to catch the early train as I need to get back here before twelve.”

“Can I see your ID card?” He looked bored, was at the end of his shift and was obviously going through the motions.  She gave him her card and when he asked to see inside her bag she displayed the fresh fruit.

“Ok love you have a good day.”

“You too officer, you too,” she watched as he drove away.

The Town Hall was not really the Town Hall anymore, though everyone still called it the town hall.  Some of the offices had been rented out to commercial firms whilst the remainder was occupied by the planning and urban environment department. However it still occupied the most prominent place on the High street, dominating the surrounding buildings.

 On a cold morning in February the only occupants of the forecourt area, consisting of a non functioning fountain, a war memorial and two dedicated wooden benches were the pigeons and a cat waiting for its moment to pounce. The CCTV watched them all with a cold indifference.

Mary reckoned she had five minutes at best before the police would arrive. She therefore moved quickly. The wall beside the entrance presented an expanse of naked sandstone on which she painted in the largest letters she could create MY SON ALEX MOURNAY IS INNOCENT.

13.

“Fuck them, fuck them and their Sharia law, their fucking fatwa’s and their fucking Jihad. They’re all fucking mad.”

The Muslim inmates have been agitating to have Jawad join them in one of their own blocks. Jawad is equally adamant that he wants to stay with us and is pleading with the screws to let him stay.

I listen sympathetically, but I have other preoccupations, Mum has still not responded to my last message and I will soon have enough points for a visit. “Speak to Max he might be able to do something.” Terry walks in looking anxious.

 Terry has just passed the point’s threshold for consideration for early release and has become obsessed with the best way to present his case.  Max  comes through the door in a furious temper; he has just lost points following a dispute with someone at work.

I suddenly feel overwhelmed by all this emotion and climb on my bed and close my eyes. I just want to get away from this fucking madhouse.

14.

Police constable Peter Reeve had just ordered a Psyche evaluation. He had an obviously deranged fifty five year old woman in the cells. She had waited to be arrested having daubed a slogan in red paint on the wall of the old town hall.

However much to his alarm when he inserted her ID card into the network it had contained a red flag report. He now needed to contact the intelligence section. He should have completed a complete check on her card before ordering the psyche tests. Now he would be in trouble. Fuck, why couldn’t she have chosen some other wall, some other time?

When he arrived the man from Five was surprisingly civil. These types were usually boorish and demanding. “You’ve ordered a Psyche report? Well hold fire on that while I have a word with her.” Kevin Nolan was an experienced case officer and was familiar with the Mournay business. He picked up her ID card and made his way down to the cells.

He greeted the defiant looking woman with a polite and disarming smile. “Mrs Mournay, you probably don’t remember me. I questioned your husband; it must be about ten years ago now. “

“My husband was being harassed for his political opinions. Both of my sons are being held as political prisoners and now so am I.  I refuse to co-operate with you or with any other police officer.”

“Well I think you’ve got things a little bit skewed there. Your youngest son Malcolm was a vandal; it seems his speciality was smashing CCTV cameras installed to protect people like you. Your older son Alex was arrested for disrupting traffic on Kensington High Street and despite two attempts to give him a community based sentences he seems to have been determined to have got himself sent down. As for your late husband he was questioned under caution and released without charge. There are no political prisoners in this country.”

She looked at this man, about ten years younger than herself, only she felt about a hundred years old and the experience that divided them was an unbridgeable chasm.

“However we both know that in your husband’s case there was, as they say, no smoke without fire. If you really want to help either of your sons anything you know about your husbands contacts with the press could go a long way. I could pull strings get their cases reviewed. “

They had talked gibberish then and were, it seemed,  intent on talking gibberish now. She had sworn as much as most of her contemporaries at university, but frowned on the use of bad language now, so that she surprised herself now when she casually informed him to “piss off!”

15.

Jawad has lost his struggle to stay with us and is being transferred tomorrow. The section is quiet and reflective watching as we watch Jawad put his things together. I am thinking about my flat. I asked Mum if she could organise clearing my flat. She has a spare set of keys. She said she would but I have heard nothing from her for nearly two weeks. I am being eaten by anxiety.

Jawad told me his story. His father brought him and his mother to England in 2004 from Iraq when he was three. His father had been threatened by some Sunni fanatics and they had sought asylum in the UK.  They moved first to Camden then out to Beckenham in Kent. His father was a successful surgeon and he describes a happy childhood, though from everything he says it sounds like he was somewhat spoilt. By the time he was in his teens he was interested in fast cars girls and gambling. His father got him out of trouble once or twice but eventually he was sentenced to a two year community order. He is I suppose what you’d call a hedonist.  He really belongs to an earlier less complicated age.

Max has cut corners and got hold of a Koran for him. “”Fake it if you have to, but go along with them. They will seriously fuck you over if you are smart with them.”
“Fuck them, “he Mumbles but he takes the Koran anyway looking frightened and subdued.

16.

Jawad is gone by the time I leave for work. My goodbye was perfunctory a nod of the head, I would see him around the camp.

At work Pete Stirling passes me a message; apparently there is note on the bulletin board of a something called a special SCCA briefing and the alert level being raised to red. In the break I manage to communicate with him. “What does it mean?”

“I’m not sure but I think it is something to do with the weather.”

In the Canteen I spot Jawad sitting now amongst the MJ, the look in his eyes is truly disturbing and I look away.

I plough my way through mashed potato and a meat pie. The food is not great but palatable and better than most people make out. In truth I don’t have much of an appetite, but leaving food looses you points, so I plough on. I will soon have enough points for the library.

I slot my plate into the dish cleaner and am about to leave the Canteen when I am stopped by a screw. “You expect us to clean up after you?”

“Sorry,” I am caught off guard and incensed by his face so close to my own.

“Don’t you get fucking smart with me?” He points back at my table, there is a slight stain of gravy but not where I had been sitting.

“That’s not mine.” The stabbing pain shoots up my arm and I am shot back crashing into the plate cleaner.  I get sudden horrendous flashback of lying on the cell floor and feel my stomach heave, there is a buzzing in my ears and I feel I am going to pass out.

He pulls me to my feet and drags me over to the table ordering another prisoner to fetch a cloth. “You fucking clean up after yourself.”

I just about manage to stay upright, gripping firmly onto the side of the table. I manage to wipe the table clean and desperate to lie down, walk unsteadily from the hall.

I cannot stop myself from throwing up before I reach my block, but manage to reach the corner of block H. I am aware of precious points draining away but at this moment don’t give a fuck. I need to get back to my section.

17.

The pain in my armpit and the flashbacks keep me awake. The worst thing about the flashbacks is that there is no respite in sleep and the worst thing about sharing a locked space with five other people is being rooted here. I cannot read, I have no control over the light, and cannot get out of bed and pace around, I am forced to lay here in the darkness my thoughts running riot.

I am aware that Max is brooding over something, though he says nothing. Terry is in a black mood, he has just been refused consideration for early release and we all think that Barry is going slightly mad. Yesterday he practically locked himself in the toilet and could be heard talking to himself. The mood in the section is black.

And how long have I served? I have been here just over two months, two months of a minimum six year sentence, with no reason why I too should not be refused early release. I could do the full ten years!  How many points for example had I lost today?

“Never think of the length of your sentence, take each day as it comes and live for the little victories. “ This had been Max’s advice when I arrived, but I cannot help feeling now that the life is being squeezed out of me and all the time the violence that can kill me is only a heartbeat away.  I hear Barry moaning in his sleep.

PART THREE

1.

As soon as he left the airport concourse he felt it, even the air felt different, it crackled with the possibilities of free expression.  The first thing he always did was buy a news cartridge.

He took the airport shuffle downtown. There was still a dusting of snow on the roadside as the bus weaved its way toward Bloor St West and the heart of Toronto. He inserted the cartridge in his reader read the op ed pieces in the Toronto Star with a newspaperman’s eye for the use of language, but mostly for the sheer pleasure of reading contrarian political views.  He himself had recently contributed some material to The Star on the changing face of international crime and he intended to nurture his relationship with the organisation. He had an appointment with Henry Roth the editor tomorrow at three.

He was aware of the attractive young woman, a little young for him perhaps, sitting across the way. They had left the terminal together and he had been aware of her eyes upon him as he skimmed through the local press. He prided himself on retaining a degree of youthfulness and it pleased him to have attracted the attention of someone, late twenties or early thirties, so much younger than himself. He placed the reader back in its pouch and smiled at her. “Are you from Toronto?”

“No New York, I am doing some work up here. From your accent I’d say you are British. My name is Juliet.”

“Yes you would be right, from London, Don. Don Foster, I’m also here on business.

“Really what do you do?”

“I’m a freelance journalist. What about yourself?”

“I’m in financial analysis. My company has just purchased a small Canadian business I’m here to check things out.”

Don was aware that his stop was coming soon. “What do you find to do here in the evenings?” He decided to feign ignorance of Toronto nightlife.

“Oh there is plenty to do here; the nightlife in Toronto is as good, if not better than New York.”

“Really you must give me some pointers.”

“I could do better than that if you free at any time on your trip I could show you around.”

That,” he took in the relaxed curvature of her young body, the bright eyes and high cheekbones, she was beautiful, “would be great.” He took a business chip from his pocket. “There are my details. I have a few things to do this evening, but then I am free until Saturday when I need to fly back to London.”

She handed him her own chip. The bus announced his stop. He smiled at her and waved his hand, “until later then.” He got of the bus at Bloom Street.

This unexpected bonus lifted his spirits even higher. He hailed a taxi.

2.

He woke disorientated and switch the light on to allow the shape of the hotel room to form. It was too warm. After England he found it difficult to deal with the Canadians idea of a healthy room temperature. He crossed the room in Boxers and a vest and looked out of the window at the vast jewelled landscape of the city. Thin flakes of snow were falling.

There was a video message from Juliet on his reader. She suggested they meet tomorrow down by the CN Tower. He decided to return her call when he felt a bit fresher and less out of sync.

He unzipped his flight bag and pulled out his toilet bag and a set of clean clothes. He then felt under the flap and unzipped a small hidden compartment and removed the disc that Peter Taylor had given him just three days ago.

Three days ago yet it already felt distant. He wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with this business. Taylor was either naïve or playing a very complicated game. He obviously knew that everything said at their table was being recorded. It was possible he had death wish or was possibly attempting to resolve a mid-life guilt complex. Don had seen stranger things.

But in his heart he knew there was more to it than that and so reluctantly driven on by his journalistic curiosity he slipped the disc into the side channel of his reader. He read Peter’s outline chronology and summary of the loose threads. It was not so much a story as a series of interesting questions.

‘The Carrick report contained material that was highly restricted and indeed later classified under the amended Official Secrets Act. Mournay apparently leaked this section to Colin Hibbert a BBC reporter; however the material never saw the light of day, why? Five was still exercised about this material after nearly ten years, why? If Hibbert had the material what happened to it? Mournay was active on the Freedom and Justice Committee. Why did Mournay suddenly go silent after being initially so vocal? What pressure was brought to bare? What was the truth behind the Archbishop of Canterbury’s child pornography charges? He had been adamant about his innocence, but it destroyed his reputation all the same and brought down the Freedom and Justice committee. Was he framed? ‘

Don knew Hibbert, had met him on several occasions. They moved in similar circles, though had never been close. He had always been seen as something of a maverick and after his sacking by the BBC rumours abounded about poor fact checking and sloppy copy.

The last time they had met was at a news conference, the Serious and Organised Crime Squad were crowing about having broken up the so called London Croatian Mafia. It had been a mish mash of the usual stuff, painstaking preparation, infiltration, the courage of individual officers, the decapitation of the organisation. As copy it was fine as far as it went. Hibbert had approached him as the conference broke up, he was looking for work. Hibbert had looked ill at ease, a haunted man. Don had promised to suss out any possibilities and let him know. It was effectively the brush off.

Now he looked up Hibbert’s biographical details and found that he was dead, killed in a suicide bombing in north London. The story of his sacking was familiar, the Netwide programme, accusations of poor research, unfounded allegations against the police and security services. He then looked up transcripts of the programme. It certainly was not a programme that could be made in the UK now.

The New Cross bomb had come at a  pivotal moment; a number of highly controversial measures were going through parliament, the Terror Prevention and Internal Security Acts being the most prominent. The bomb had gone off just days before the vote.  Hibbert alleged that MI5 knew about the planned bombing before it had taken place and indeed had a mole in the terror network that was planning it. That the explosives had been allowed to pass into the hands of the terrorists and that several opportunities had been missed to prevent the event.

Actually Hibbert never openly alleges that the bombings were deliberately facilitated, merely that maverick elements within the security apparatus had become out of control and unaccountable, but the coincidence of the bombing had served the government well and this had led to a cover up.

Without having access to Hibbert’s sources it was impossible to tell the veracity of the story, though he himself had heard worse stories. It was now passé that the security services were a law unto themselves.

He poured himself a beer from the mini bar and stared out at the nightscape, the contented city. A safe city where it was still possible to think aloud.

True he was probably seeing things though rose tinted glasses and most of his Canadian friends laughed at his idea of Canada as some sort of Nirvana. Canada too had its problems but compared to England and the Europe he had just left behind it felt so much less contaminated by the diseases of surveillance, paranoia and outright oppression.

3.

After outlining ideas for a new project, a comparative study of Canadian and American attitudes to the gangster archetype, in which the Canadian will emerge very favourably, it was always useful when selling stories in Canada to have a slight anti American twist. He then told Roth about the Mournay business, not so much with the idea of punting a story, stories about the misbehaviour of European security services no longer sold, but as much to satisfy his conscience that he had at least made an effort to push it.

“Well, the Archbishop angle would be interesting; it made a major splash at the time even over here. But where is your story? All you have are suspicions; well for that matter I have a few of my own and I seem to remember talk about dirty tricks at the time. But where is your evidence?

Don had to admit that he had none and that all he really had were some lines of enquiry and some very difficult lines at that. The security services were hardly likely to sit around and do nothing whilst he attempted to locate their particularly grubby dirty laundry.

He lit a cigarette, another freedom still available here.  “The strange thing is if you told most English people that they now lived in a police state they would laugh at you. The entire framework you see is still there. ’Free’ elections, parliament still meets, there are still debates and discussions, the newspapers still criticize the government, though understandably there are some proscriptions to protect public safety, comedians still make jokes about politics and the news media that they have always  known, The BBC, the Times, Virgin News, are all still around. The entire framework still in place and yet it is now just an empty shell. Sometimes it reminds me of a cardboard theatre set; only behind the cardboard are sinister men in suits kicking the shit out of some poor sod.”

“Well the problem I have is the Canadian people are growing bored with the story, political repression in Europe no longer sells. I need a new approach, a new angle of vision. Give me that and I will find space for you.  Go back and check out this Archbishop story, give me something solid there and we can really run with it.

Don smiled and said he would see what he could do.

4.

She was even more attractive than he remembered from yesterday. They were eating in a small restaurant on Wellington Street just off the St Lawrence Market. He was explaining the background behind the story he had been pitching to Roth, devoid of the anti American twist, aware that he was getting quite drunk.

“You seem to know Canada and the States well.”

“Yes, I have to confess that I am more familiar with Toronto and indeed its night life than I led you to believe. The prospect of your ‘showing me around’ was too great a temptation to pass over. “

“That’s terrible for all I know you have been making notes in your head all evening regarding both the accuracy and the good taste of my judgements.”

“Well if I was you’d be doing fine on both counts.” She laughed a short artificial laugh, but her smile was real enough.

She was pleased with his assessment of her. She liked European men, particularly older European men, there was often such an attractive quality about them, a mix of world weariness, which gave them a vulnerable quality and highly structured charm and they made an effort. “But why North America for your work, I would have thought there was plenty of organised crime in Europe.”

“Oh yes certainly and a lot more besides. It’s become an awful lot harder to investigate anything in the UK, we have no First Amendment. Europe is a big continent and the Union a complex organisation, but everywhere in Europe the trends are against a free press. Germany, France and the UK are the worst offenders and are pulling all the others in the same direction. I tell you now England can no longer be realistically described as a free country. Twenty five years of Islamic terrorism has seen to that. In the States you went overboard after you were attacked in 2001 but the system was eventually self correcting, a sensible balance being struck between fighting fanaticism and protecting fundamental civil liberties and freedom. There are still problems in the States of course, things are not perfect here in Canada either, but you have largely managed to fight terrorism in ways that don’t erode free enquiry, free debate and the ability to oppose. In England the state was slower to respond but there has been a steady year on year accretion of power to the state, a ratchet effect, every atrocity leads to new powers, new powers create a breeding ground for greater atrocity.” He paused realising he was lecturing her. “Sorry, I’m hectoring you.”

“No, it is interesting, we have had a number of terrible acts committed on American soil and I often wonder whether we are well enough protected, what if next time they use plague or some form of killing on a really mass scale?”

“Well of course you are right to be worried and we need to fight these people with all the weapons in our arsenal, but you will not defeat them by turning your country into a police state. That way you hand them victory. “

“Are things really that bad in England?”

He took another mouthful of wine angry with himself that he had allowed the conversation to take this course. Was this the way to seduce a woman? He was out of practice. “Well, maybe I am exaggerating; I am terrible when I get on my hobby horse. Let’s talk about something more cheerful.”

She took a mouthful of rich pasta sauce then smiled raising the glass to her lips. “Don’t worry politics doesn’t frighten me. My uncle ran for Congress when I was ten. My brother, my elder sister, my mother and father all argued politics whilst I was growing up. I have always enjoyed a good debate. “

He smiled and took another mouthful of wine, “and how did your Uncle get on?”

“He lost, well in truth he was bombed as we say in the States, he lost very badly.”

“Would you like some more wine?” He now felt the evening was back on track.

5.

In the morning when she had gone, she had, she said, to catch an early flight to Montreal; he had savoured the memory of her body. The pillow still bore the lingering memory of her scent. He had almost forgotten the frisson of excitement that came with the start of a new affair. He was exited by the thought of seeing her again soon. Despite feeling slightly hungover he was acutely aware of being happy.

He got out of bed and went to the toilet. Shaving he planned out his day. He needed to go to the Telecommunications room down in the basement to check out some material for his organised crime project. Then he would need to take a short flight to from the City Airport to Ottawa to get his Canadian Press credentials updated. He could also get the citizenship papers at the same time.

He needed to be back in London by Thursday. He would poke around a little respecting the Archbishop story. But this would just be for form sake, to ease his conscience. His heart was not in it. He would be back in Canada before the end of the month, maybe the next time for good.

He picked up his reader; there was a message from Roth. ‘A little present from the CIA, the Case Officer at five in charge at the time of the Mournay case was one Leon Akunin.

6.

The Drug they were giving her Panax was fairly new, pioneered in the states to treat anxiety disorders it had been shown to be particularly effective in the treatment of paranoia and persecution mania. She did not know that the drug was new or even indeed that she was being administered it. Under the clauses of the Mental Health Act 2018 it provided that in cases of compulsory detention if a patient’s reason was ascertained to be impaired medication could be administered without the patient’s knowledge or consent. Her sudden feeling of well being she put down to the change in the weather.

She didn’t know why they were treating her as if she were mentally ill rather than a political prisoner. She supposed this was a tactic they adopted in certain cases. Her own tactic was the hunger strike; she was on hunger strike until she had access to both of her sons.

The sunlight on the garden warmed the cat as it crouched beside the waste bins, watching as a pigeon pecked at a crust of bread, the cat readying itself to pounce. Mary watched the cat as she herself was observed.  She decided now that in addition to her hunger strike she would set up a pattern of non cooperation, a pattern of protest.

Dr Cox noted that she did not appear to be responding to the medication and considered increasing the dose. He had also instructed that she be given the food supplement as part of her nightly injection.

7.

Jawad is dead! They killed him after some sort of perfunctory trial. They killed him as an apostate and they killed him as a warning to others.

The mood of the whole camp is ugly. Despite the inquiry by the guards and several of the MJ being carted of to X block the MJ are now cock-a-hoop and believe that they have established their authority in the camp respecting matters of faith.

I felt sick when Max told me and keep remembering Jawad’s eyes as he sat in the canteen and my cowardice in looking away.

The atmosphere in our section too has changed. Max has become withdrawn and moody. Barry barely speaks and Terry has become even more objectionable since his early release was turned down. Jawad’s replacement is Nigel, a well connected, poor little rich boy. He started to fund his drug habit by dealing and when he got caught his father managed to pull some strings and got him into a drug treatment clinic. However he ran away and when he was stopped by the police punched a police officer. His father could do nothing at that point and he ended up here. He is very full of himself and not liked. However for some reason he and Terry have struck up a strong friendship.

I know that something is up with Max. Something is going to happen and there is nothing I can do about it. He has grown completely withdrawn and barely exercises any control over the section. To my eternal shame my only hope is that I am not around when it does happen.

I too have become more on edge and withdrawn since being bounced in the canteen and have  a constant feeling of fear in the pit of my stomach.

The unreal heat for early April doesn’t help. Even the lighter summer overalls feel oppressive during the mid day heat and the IT block is not air-conditioned. It is in this oppressive heat that I overhear Asif softly boasting about what was done to Jawad. The sheer ferocity of the fury I feel takes me by surprise.

Asif is new to the IT block and arrived at the camp only a week ago. Pete informs me that he was an exceptionally bright university student caught distributing Islamicist propaganda. He has about him all the mean spirited zeal of the convert. At that moment I could have punched his face.

I take a terrible risk. “You’re very fucking brave you Jihadi warriors, murdering a defenceless man.” I whisper attempting to inject my voice with real venom.

He looks at me surprised, but then with a look of amusement.

“He was an apostate, a disgrace to Islam. He got what all apostates will get!” The real venom was in his voice. “But what do you people understand, you believe in nothing.” He was now intent on confronting me; it was as if some pent up frustration and rage needed to be expressed. “We believe and because we believe we are given the knowledge. Allah gives that which sustains us in truth. What do you believe in, in your atheistic freedoms? Even your government does not believe in these. Look at you, spied on, injected with poison, fearful every minute. Look at me I have no fear, what I have is faith and truth; we will win because we believe. You will loose because you believe in nothing.”

He suddenly collapsed with a scream of pain. He had been bounced.

I return to my work. It was a mistake for me to have confronted him. I will now be a marked man. The MJ were not slow to support their own, just another thing for me to worry about.

What did I believe in?  I believe in freedom, free speech, the right to protest, the right to say no even if everyone else is saying yes and something called democracy, not the hollow exercise of voting for tweedledum or tweedledee once every four of five years but the real power to control the political and economic institutions of society.

In these surroundings it all sounded terribly unrealistic. And all these things anyhow required people. What was the old slogan ‘power to the people?’ I used to believe in something called ‘the people’, people as an abstract concept. I suppose what I have come to realise here is that if the things I believe in are to be made real it is going to have to embrace people like Terry, Jawad, Junior, Barry and of course Max.

I have felt terribly lonely here, believing that nobody else shares my beliefs, but is this true? Perhaps they might not articulate their ideas in quite the same way as I do but I have heard things said here not so very far away from my own beliefs, Junior’s rage at the lack of justice in his life, the belief that things should be fairer, Jawad’s belief in his right to be left alone, to make judgements about how he should live his life free from religious bigotry.

True the only person I have spoken to about these things is Max and he dismissed my ideas out of hand as airy fairy. His belief that the powerful will always keep the powerless down just as the powerless will always fight back and that this is the natural order of things is I would guess not so very different from the opinions of one of the camp guards. There is no moral question, taken to its logical conclusion if Max was in a position of power he would be no more morally wrong in keeping the powerless down than the powerless would be in fighting back. Both would be simply acting out some Darwinian law of nature. I cannot believe in that. People must learn to co-operate and behave in a just manner or otherwise we are nothing more than another species of animal.

The buzzer goes for lunch break. I avoid eye contact with Asif and slip in beside Peter.

8.

I have received a message from Mum; at least it purports to be from Mum but doesn’t sound at all like her. It seems she has been ill and is in hospital in a place called Great Bookham in Surrey. She apologises for not having been in contact but was not well enough. She will arrange a visit as soon as she is better. The email has the smell of censorship about it.. Max says all correspondence in and out is censored.

It is Easter Friday and we have al been given the day off. The weather is glorious, unbelievably warm and those with enough points have been given permission to sunbathe. It is too hot for me and I have no interest in visiting the TV block, although I have now I have more than enough points.

Max is lying on his bed. I try to make conversation.

“What gives?”

He opens his eyes. “This is unreal, it’s too fucking hot.”

“I got a message from my Mum, though she sounds odd, not really like herself at all.”

“Is she visiting?”

“All it says is when she is better. The whole message felt heavily censored. I’m worried, I hope she’s ok.”

“If they’ve allowed her to send a message she’s ok.”

I am aware that he doesn’t want to talk but feel somehow compelled to engage him.

“I’ve fucked off the MJ.” I announce somewhat nonchalantly.

“Oh really,” he raises himself up on his elbow, “how did you manage to do that?”

“I got into an argument with Asif, one of the new intake over in the IT block. I was responsible for getting him bounced.”

“Fuck that, if he got into an argument he got himself bounced. Anyhow I wouldn’t worry too much about the Towels at the moment, after doing for Jawad they are going to have to keep their heads down for some time. Already six of them are being entertained in X block, including Abdul. They’ll need to calm things down for a while. The screws can’t be seen to letting them get away with too much. Now fuck off and leave me in peace I need to chill.”

His tone is good humoured but leaves me in no doubt that he is serious. I wanted to ask him about himself, to get a sense of what, if anything, he is planning. But I lacked the balls and anyhow I think I already know the answer.

9.

The new breed of camera was even smaller, all had infra red and speech recognition capability and were incredibly difficult to detect. Don was acutely aware of this when he suggested Hampstead Heath as the meeting point. Dusk was always best, twilight was the period the cameras most struggled to cope. However even on the Heath you couldn’t be completely sure of safety. There was also the ever present sky drones that flew low over the city with their apparently insatiable curiosity. Being back in London after Toronto was like returning to a dark world. It was a world he was now determined to leave behind.

He used to feel a sense of pride in his ability to engage with the cloak and dagger world of organised crime and counter intelligence, a sense that he had a responsibility to something called ‘the truth,’ and this had offset the fear he always felt in such situations. Now it felt like all that was left was the fear and it was the fear that now ate into him, a gnawing in the guts.

Barker had been a contact for about seven years and had given him many a useful lead. Barker of course was not his real name, which Don had no wish to know. This time however he did not have great expectations of their meeting. He was no longer sure why he was following the story. Was he paying off some sort of debt? He had never really been able to shake off an undercurrent of guilt and responsibility that ran through his life. He did not believe in psychotherapy but still couldn’t help but suspect that this feeling was a consequence of the early death of his father. Don had been five years old at the time. His father had been killed in a car crash. He had left to go to work early one morning and never returned.

            “When I was five the black dreams came;
            Nothing after was quite the same.

            Come back early or never come.”^[3]

He had read those lines in University and had been haunted by them ever since. His father’s parting gift appeared to be this unassuageable guilt.

In the distance he could hear the buzz of a low flying drone. Not a heavy drinker he felt like a good stiff shot of something now.

Barker was late. Don decided to give him another five minutes and if he hadn’t shown by then to go. He would have appeased his conscience, could say that he had made the effort.

A few moments later Barker suddenly appeared as if from nowhere. Don had a sneaking suspicion that he had been observed for some time. Barker sat down on the bench a short distance from where Don was sitting, he was looking away seemingly preoccupied by a young boy flying a kite.

“The name you gave me Akunin, he’s weatherproof don’t even think about screwing with him, he’s a very nasty piece of work.”

“Was he behind the Archbishop business?”

“Yes, and much else besides but you’ll never pin anything on him, certainly not in this country. As for your friend the former Chief Superintendent, stay clear of him, he’s dead meat. They will go for him in the next few weeks.”

“Is this all you have for me?”

“Well there is one thing, as I say you’ll never get Akunin in this country but he has been engaged in a little semi freelance work. He was seconded to the CIA for a brief period in 2020. You will remember the Conrad Hirsch business and the fall of the Powell government, CIA footprints everywhere. Your man Akunin was implicated, hence his swift return back to the old country. It’s a long shot but you might just dig something up in Canada. You might speak to a man called Robert Fox in the CSIS. For what it’s worth I hope you do stir something up, Akunin is a really nasty bastard. However if you do manage to dig something up on him, don’t come back. He’s not the forgiving type.”

Barker walked away before any more questions could be asked. Already the night air was becoming chilled as a pale half moon rose above the city. Don remained seated for a little longer, then after what he felt was a reasonable pause made his way back down Parliament Hill.

On Haverstock Hill a patrol car stopped him and he was asked for his identity card. He was also asked to explain his movements that evening. He repeated his watertight cover story; he always equipped himself with one. He had been to find whether a bookshop he had once used was still open. Unable to find it he had taken a stroll on the Heath.

They handed him back his card after checking his details, they must have seen that he was press. As the car pulled away he was gripped by paranoia. Was this just a coincidence, a random check, as indeed that night all over London people were being asked for their ID card, to explain the nature of their business, or where they on to him, knew about the story?

He never used to be this jumpy. He was getting too old for this game, he needed to get out. The lights of the city no longer seemed quite so benign, each dot of light a potential police cell.

            ‘We will meet in the place were there is no darkness.’

The line was Orwell its sinister ambivalence always chilled him. He had met too many people for whom the harsh light of the interrogation cells had been an all too real part of their lives.

He reached Belsize Park Station, but hesitated before entering. There was a Bar on the opposite side of the road. He decided to go for a drink first.

10.

I am reeling under new information, back on the down dip of the roller coaster.

Apparently for everyday that I am here I am being charged board and lodging! Terry assumed that I already knew. “On the day they discharge you they present you with the bill for entertaining you. The longer the sentence the greater the bill, failure to pay your bill is a criminal offence! I wouldn’t be surprised if some poor bastard is in here for non-payment. “

I am almost incandescent with rage which amuses Terry even more. If a screw were to walk in now I swear I would have a go at him. The fucking bastards, they lock me away and charge me for the privilege. It’s almost beautiful in its savage irony, a perfect symmetry of injustice.

I cannot stand Terry’s mocking grin and go back over toward my bed churning with the kind of rage that up till now has been absent. I am angry with my self for that now too. Despite all my ideas about freedom and justice I have accepted everything that has happened to me as if it were the natural order of things not some awful perversion and by this passivity I see that I have given it legitimacy. If I truly believed in freedom and justice and all the high flown ideas I would actively fight for these things every day. Lying here now I really want to hurt someone. For the first time I think I’m beginning to really understand Max.

11.

Peter Taylor watched as they ransacked his house, carried out every piece of telecommunications equipment, ran a beam search over each and every room looking for hidden devices and he felt little emotion, let alone rage. He had been expecting this for the last week or so and now that it was happening he was in a way curiously relieved.

Outside a car was waiting for him, he looked back at the house as he was led away. He had spent the best part of twenty five years here, had brought up two children, seen his marriage disintegrate and his career take off. So many objects, so may things that he, that they owned, only now he felt no sense of ownership, it was as if not only his wife but his belongings were now deserting him.

“Please mind your head Sir.” The sir was an interesting touch; the young policeman was obviously embarrassed and uncertain as to the status of his prisoner. Daniels the man from F section had no such uncertainty. He was the master here and was not interested in such gestures or any acknowledgement of the former status of the man now in his power. Peter was just another body.

They would take him either to Paddington Green or the Yard, if the latter he could expect slightly better treatment, possibly even some deference, the small courtesies that he was owed for his years of good service. Although now of course he was no longer viewed as a good servant but as an enemy of the state, more invidiously a traitor, someone who had broken ranks.

However they suddenly turned off the road and down a ramp into darkness. This was at neither the Yard nor Paddington Green. He did not know where he was. He was told to get out and was then, to his surprise, handcuffed.

“Is this really necessary?” He blurted out, but was abruptly pushed forward by Daniels whose unspoken commands, a nod of the head, a wave of his hand demonstrated that it was he who was in command and that this was his world.

They had just passed North Cheam and were somewhere in Worcester Park, however there were no holding stations in this area. He was disturbed and confused as he was led down a flight of steps and into a large reception room, obviously buried beneath the South London suburban corridor. He was told to take a seat.

He was expecting to be processed according to the guidelines, told under what sections he was being held and asked to sign a statement that the reason for his detention had been explained to him. At this point he intended to invoke a little known and even less used clause of the 2015 act that allowed for a prisoner to contest the clause under which he was being held requiring a hearing before a high court judge. He was now waiting for this moment of conflict.

PART FOUR

1.

The sky is as dark as an ink stain. The sun has been replaced by an intense humidity, an oppressive force that has invaded the camp. There is murder in the air. Everyone is on edge; rumours of a revolt by the MJ have been circulating for the last two days.

I enter data into the system, one eye on the clock. The sense of release is palpable when the buzzer goes for checking out. Even the screws look relieved. I make my way down the steps and under the watchful eyes of innumerable CCTV cameras make my way back to the block. The air is suddenly ripped wide open by the loudest peal of thunder I have ever heard quickly followed by a sheet of lightening that seems intent on illuminating every dark corner of the camp. I quicken my step but am not fast enough; the rain begins pouring down in torrents. By the time I reach the block door I am soaked and the time between my Iris recognition and the door opening feels like an age. My relief on entering the room is short lived, as I am struggling to remove my wet overall Terry, his face ashen hands me a note. Max has been taken to X block. He has killed a screw.

Although I have been expecting something like this for weeks the news is no less shattering. I can barely take it in. If I can understand what has happened it will make it easier for me to comprehend and I pump Terry for information.

Slowly I manage to piece together what went on. ‘Rat,’ a particularly obnoxious screw in the workshop had been riding Max for weeks. This morning he had bounced Max for some minor infringement. Later Max had been working on repairing a bus, fitting new floor covering with a power gun. Rat had been standing over him when Max had turned and shot him in the face and had then struck him on the head with a metal bar before being bounced so hard he had fallen unconscious.

Outside the rain is hammering on the camp buildings. The mood in the room feels unbearably tense, pregnant with unspoken emotion. The buzzer has sounds and the red light inside the section is lit. This means a lock down, which in turn means no evening meal. I have no appetite anyhow.

This is only my second lock down; the first had followed Jawad’s murder. Everyone is nervous; the screws get trigger happy on lock downs and will bounce you for the most minor of infringements. We are all acutely conscious of eyes watching our reactions. Our section in particular is going to be under the microscope.  Barry makes us all nervous. He has become increasingly unstable and is now staring at the ceiling muttering some mantra to himself over and over again.

I lie on my bed and listen to the sky being ripped apart thinking about Max, about what they would be doing to him in the punishment block. Thinking too about my self with a terrible feeling of loss, it was Max who had kept me afloat. I feel abandoned.

The time passes agonisingly slowly. Terry and Nigel are playing chess. Tony has fallen asleep. Barry is sitting on the edge of his bed listening to the howling of the wind, which appears to be growing ever more ferocious. Suddenly the lights go out, though this time the whole camp is plunged into darkness. The wind suddenly sounds so much louder. Something is wrong.

“Shit, “Terry shouts and almost simultaneously I have the same idea.

“Fuck, there’s been a power failure.”

“Let’s try the door.” It is Nigel’s voice; we can barely see one another. I try to adjust to the light. There is a heavy crashing sound outside, the sound of breaking glass. The darkened shape of Nigel pushes at the door which swings open. The rush of cold air and the thunderous roar of the wind strike me at the same time as the thought, the realisation, run or stay?

Shouts are audible above the roar of the wind; there is torchlight visible somewhere out in the darkness. “Surely they must have back up power?” I can make out Terry now; he is standing beside Nigel at the open door.

“If they have they’ve not managed to turn it on yet.” It is Nigel’s voice in response to my own. I can just make out the shape of his stooped figure moving away, out into the darkness, already being swallowed by the night. Yet another shape moves outside in the darkness, other people are now making their move.

“Come on; if we’re going to go we have to go now.” Terry speaks to the room as a whole. I begin to move toward the open door and am nearly knocked off my feet by the force of the wind. “Run,” Terry  pulls at my sleeve and I begin to push my way against the wind in the general direction of the perimeter fence, past O then S blocks. I am aware of bodies also moving in the darkness, as well as bits of debris blown by the wind. Terry is just in front of me as I struggle to keep my feet against the force of the wind, trying to keep myself focused on his receding figure.

I feel the scratching of a bush against my face and trip on something. I grope forward, aware of torchlight behind me and hug the ground. I feel the base of a wooden post. I am definitely at the perimeter fence, but have lost sight of Terry.

It is impossible to see in front of me and the wind is if anything blowing with even greater force. The fence itself consists of three rows of electric fencing, I am also aware of automatic pulse units that can set of wrist restraints. If power is restored anytime soon I am toast. I push the wire up and begin stumbling forward down some sort of embankment.

I am aware of sounds not far from me; it would appear I am part of a mass break-out. I need to get away as quickly as possible from this invisible crowd. “Terry,” I call out in a low whisper but hearing no response move forward. My eyes have adjusted now and in the open ground around the camp it is possible to get some sense of direction. I decide to run parallel to the road. The dead shapes of dead lampposts line the route from the main gate and I use these as marker posts and trace my way away from the camp perimeter.

“Alex, “ it is Terry, his voice just ahead of me to my right. I catch up with him.

He seems please to have connected with me. ”I’ve lost Nigel. What’s your plan here?”

“I’m not sure, I have been using the road lamps as landmarks but beyond that I don’t know.” I suddenly realise how perilous our position is. It cannot be long before some sort of power is restored and they will be searching for us.

“We should get away from the road,” Terry’s voice is firm and confident sounding now, “if the light comes back on we will be exposed and it is the first place they’ll look, we are not far from a place called Donnington. We can find somewhere secure to hide there to give us time to work something out. I also have a connection in Telford but I think that is a little further away. The fact that so many have done a runner is good. They will be stretched to look for all of us and my guess is that they will search for the MJ first.”

I am happy to surrender the leadership to Terry, feeling completely lost my self. I am wet through, soaked by the grass and the bushes. It is also raining steadily. I am aware that we are going to have to loose these camp outfits if we are going to get far. Breathless we stumble forward covering as much ground as possible moving in the direction of a church steeple, framed against the night sky some way off.

2.

He was in pitch darkness, no procedures had been followed. They had simply taken him down the corridor and thrust him into this cell and darkness. His detention was now completely illegal, outside of any legal framework. The darkness was oppressive and there was a low level buzzing noise that got under the skin, making clear thought impossible.

He was afraid and afraid to admit to himself that he was afraid. Up until now he had imagined himself to be controlling those who imagined themselves to be controlling him. Now that illusion was gone. He was in the power of very dark people indeed, people who did not consider the fact of his former high profile as any barrier to mistreatment. He had seriously miscalculated.

3.

Leon Akunin looked out at a pitch black sky blanketing the suburban landscape. There was something dispiriting about the South London Suburbs a filleted, soulless bourgeois world dozing in a perpetual Sunday stupor.

He glanced through the report again and highlighted two sections of particular interest then turned to deal with the message from the Minister of State. “Former Chief Superintendent Peter Taylor has been identified passing classified information to a representative of the foreign press that could compromise ongoing operations and has been arrested under section 1 of the Amended Freedom of Information act 2015. He is being held pending further questioning subject to review by the Home Secretary to take place no later that Thursday April 24^th 2025. “He switched off the screen and to his astonishment saw that hailstones, some the size of pebbles were falling from the sky.

4.

Terry hands me a carton of milk and some dry bread. We are hiding in the allotments on the outskirts of a small estate. In the early morning light the debris from the storm is visible all around. A tree has crashed into the side of A Tesco Mini Market breaking the windows and Terry has come back with breakfast. I wrap my self in canvas sacking to keep warm; I need to get rid of these wet clothes.

“We need to get rid of these clothes.” I say, swallowing a mouthful of bread.

“Yes, and we can’t stay here, it will not be long before they come looking. There is a house at the end of the block, there’s a heap of post in the hallway, that’s our best bet for now. We need to move soon though before it gets really light.”

I’m feeling on edge and want the security of bricks and mortar around me. “Ok, let’s go now.” I quickly swallow another mouthful of bread and get to my feet.

“Ok, hold on,” Terry too gets to his feet. We place the remaining food in the carrier bag and slip out of the hut.

Terry turns out to be extremely good at breaking and entering and forces open a window with professional ease and we are soon both through the open window.

The house feels dirty and ill kept and appears to have been unoccupied for some time. The house is a small 19^th century affair, probably built as a workers cottage. It consists of a small kitchen, with table and two chairs, a front facing lounge, two armchairs and a dated television screen. Up a flight of stairs there is a single bedroom and a bathroom, which has recently been modernised. In the bedroom we find a wardrobe and chest of drawers full of men’s clothing. The size is too big for me and a little too small for Terry, but we manage, laughing and giggling like two schoolboys bunking off for the day, to kit ourselves out in ill fitting clothes.

I pull the jeans tight around my waist and hold them in place with a knotted tie, a large grey sweater and check shirt complete an outfit that makes me look ridiculous. I look in the mirror and burst out laughing.

“We can’t go out before dark now, we’d frighten the children.”

As the hours pass our predicament begins to sink in and the good humour of the morning dissipates into a sharp sensation of imminent threat. We retreat to the bedroom as the street begins to fill with people inspecting storm damage. Terry has located a very old battery radio and we listen to the local news station. A state of emergency has been declared throughout the West Midlands and the army has been called in. Helen Armstrong the Home Secretary is visiting Birmingham to survey the damage. The weather is expected to improve over the next few days. Of the break out from the camp there is no mention.

The wrist restraints and implants are our greatest fear. The restraints are made of some incredibly tough metal and are sealed in place around our wrists. Terry has tried to ease his over his hand with soap and water but it had become wedged against the ridge of his thumb.

We finish the last of the food and keep a watch on the window as a police car arrives followed shortly by a heavy army truck. The squadies climb out, about ten in all and huddle together fiddling with their weapons. They look bored.

“What do you think” Terry asks, “do you think they’re going to start a house to house search?”

“I’m not sure, I do think it’s odd though that the camp break-out has not been broadcast. Either they have already captured most of us or they think it’s just a matter of time. Those squadies don’t look in too much of a hurry. I wish to fuck we could get rid of these implants!” I reflect too that we have no ID cards. Our chances of getting far are not good.

“Well if they start a house to house now we’re fucked!” Terry announces redundantly.

I say nothing and nothing happens until finally an officer arrives and marches the squadies off down the street away from us.

“There is some sort of timber yard across the way. Timber means repairs, and what is going to be in demand just now,” Terry asks rhetorically, immensely pleased with his sudden flash of inspiration, “wood, boarding for broken glass, timber for house repair. If we could get down into the yard they must have some sort of transport we can hide amongst the timber and get away from here.”

The expression on my face conveys the full weight of the scepticism that I feel. This sounds hair brained.

“Well,” his look of irritation reflects his own doubts, “you come up with a fucking better idea!”

He’s right I have nothing better to offer. “Let’s wait until it gets dark then see what options are open.” I am aware that this sentence is meaningless but for the time being satisfies us both.

5.

At ‘Health,’ she had felt much more in charge of her brief than she did now, though the volume of incoming information was just as great and Health had hardly been an easy department. It was the way in which she received information now that was different, sometimes she felt she had crossed over into world of smoke and mirrors, where things never were as they seemed. Her officials all appeared extremely competent and were as far as she could tell efficient. However answers were almost always ambiguous and hard facts and figures devoid of caveats rare.

Helen Armstrong looked up from the report she had just been given, her time at Health had given her the ability to skim through dense material and hone in on the salient facts. “So we still have twenty two prisoners on the loose and the Prisoner Information Tracking System is still not functioning.”

“Yes minister, but we did recapture sixty eight within the first seven hours after the break out and it is only a matter of time before PITS is functioning again and the remaining prisoners are rounded up. Though if we had better information concerning the restoration of the power supply that would help.”

She disliked Conner intensely; her official in charge of the camp system combined an obsequious deference with an ill disguised contempt for non professionals.

”I thought all these systems had built in power back up. And of the sixty eight escapees we have now had four deaths, was that really necessary?”

“You did sanction extreme prejudice Minister,” Conner suddenly seemed to sense that he had gone too far in both tone and content and immediately modified his response, “correctly sanctioned in my opinion, many of these prisoners were fanatical and would not allow themselves to be recaptured peacefully. Had they managed to link up with terrorist links at loose in the community the results could have been devastating. “

“If they were so dangerous rather begs the question why they were held in a Category C facility.” Though she quickly decided not to pursue this point, “when can we expect news on PITS? And is it true that the system will cease to be of use if the escapees go beyond a hundred and fifty mile radius of camp?”

“The PITS people are providing me with a progress report at three. If the central power supply is restored we can expect the system to be working within thirty minutes to an hour after restoration. The radius of the system might be compromised beyond one hundred and fifty miles, but it is not accurate to say that it will not function, it is likely though that the signal may be too low to be detected.”

She looked at him with a mixture of disdain and irritation, what kind of answer was that?

 Now though she needed to get on with her fact finding tour of the storm damage. “I want a report on the dead prisoners before the end of today and keep the news blanket on. The last thing I need at the moment is news about a prison break.”

6.

Terry has been off searching around the house for food and returns with two tins of baked beans a tin of sardines and a three quarters full bottle of whisky. He shares out the baked beans and sardines and we take it in turns to swig the whisky. Outside it is growing dark.

The whisky soon hits the spot and I am grateful for feeling suddenly more relaxed about Terry’s scheme. We can’t stay here and it’s the only option we have. I have nothing to offer. “We should move now.” I declare a positive element in my tone.

“Are we going for the lumber yard?”

“Yes, to the lumber yard.”

I am grateful for the whisky again as we cross the street, though the darkness feels unusually intense, the kind you never get now except in the most remote of locations. The lack of electricity also means that there are no functioning cameras in the area.

The entrance to the yard is through a wood and wire gate that feels quite flimsy. Most organisations now tend to rely on CCTV and alarm censors to protect their premises.

I follow Terry as he clambers over the gate, he makes it look easy. I struggle, cut my hand on something sharp and I fall heavily to on the other side, hurting my leg.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes I’m ok. “ I struggle to my feet. It is incredibly dark; I can just make out dark shapes, objects in the blackness.

“Over here,” Terry calls out and I move toward his voice. He is standing beside a heavy truck; I feel the solid metal under my hand. “Good news,” he announces,” it’s fully loaded. They will be taking the load out in the morning. “

Suddenly the world suddenly becomes unbelievably bright again, the power has been restored, we moved just in time, any later and we would have been caught in the open.

“Shit,” we both instinctively move into the shadows thinking the same thing, the implants will now start working.  And what of the wrist restraints would they too now function. Second’s pass and we both stand paralysed, barely daring to breath in the darkness, but nothing happens.

“Come on,” Terry breaks the silence. The wood at the back of the truck is covered in a dirty grey tarpaulin; Terry lifts the covering and begins clambering in. I follow trying to stem the blood from my hand with the corner of my shirt sleeve.

I am acutely uncomfortable wedged amidst long planks of wood with an unpleasant smell coming from the tarpaulin covering.  Terry has clambered in just in front of me and is trying to make him self comfortable, struggling under the tightly drawn cover. The whisky and tension have combined to create a heavy exhaustion and despite my self I find my self slowly drifting away.

I am woken by the sound of shouting and soon after a shudder and whirr of an electric motor. My hand is throbbing from the cut I received last night.

Shortly after I feel the truck move slowly with the slow jerky motion of a vehicle reversing, So far so good, we seem to be pulling this thing off. I wonder if Terry is awake. 

The truck is now moving along at speed. “Fuck I feel rough.” Terry shouts, making himself heard above the throbbing of the engine.

I too feel stiff with pain in my neck, in my hand and down my side. Where are we going and what will happen now. I try not to think too hard, but it is difficult not to feel the intense fear in the pit of my stomach. Over the last few months I have developed the ability to keep my thoughts wholly focused on immediate concerns not allowing thoughts about anything so vague or remote as ‘the future’ to intrude.  Indeed the whole idea of a future, a life stretching before me has become unreal and too painful to contemplate. Now in this shuddering truck travelling through the Shropshire countryside the future has suddenly come crashing into the present, what now? I lie still and feel the steady motion of the truck thundering into the coming day.

Eventually I feel Terry working the tarpaulin cover loose. “We’ll need to make a move soon, “he informs me, we cannot risk jumping out in busy residential area.” The next time the truck stops at a junction, or set of lights we will need to jump out.”

I too free some of the covering and am able to see the passing fields, an orchard, and the slowly increasing number of houses, we are moving into a built up area. It must be after seven as the sun is bright and the air crisp and cool.

The truck suddenly begins to slow; Terry has manoeuvred himself so that he can get a better view of the road ahead. “Shit, get right down!”

I crouch back into position wedging my self amongst the planks of wood. “What is it?”

“Army check point” he whispers, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

We come to a halt and I am able to make out the exchange between the squadies and the driver.

“Where are you travelling to?” The voice is that of a young man, suddenly given authority.

“To Shrewsbury, we’ve been commissioned to do repairs in the Town Centre, Wyle Kop and the High street.”

“I need to see your ID card and your work permits.”

Someone starts stabbing at the Tarpaulin with a blunt object; I hold my breath pushing my self as deep as I can into the mass of wood. Momentarily the cover is slightly lifted flooding light onto the sandy coloured planks. But the moment passes and the cover is replaced. We have not been discovered.

The relief I feel as the truck pulls away is like an adrenalin rush.

“We have to get out of here as soon as possible. Wait for my shout.” Terry has now taken charge again and once again I am happy to follow his lead.

The truck begins to slow down again. I nervously raise my head, we are now in a built up area, streets, houses, shops. “Get ready,” Terry whispers, I lift the cover. The truck pulls up at a set of lights, “now!” I scramble over the side of the truck as quickly as possible, though it seems to take an age for me to disentangle my self. 

Down on the pavement I quickly orient my self, Terry is already walking casually away from the truck and I tag in behind him. ”Get ready to run,” he whispers, but we are not challenged and continue to walk at a steady pace.  The street is empty though there are signs of life. A Metro store is open it lights still blazing whilst outside a dog tied to a lamppost is whining softly

I pull in alongside Terry. “Well at least we know where we are.” I say,  “welcome to Shrewsbury.” 

“Well I’d love to take in the sights but I have a few things on my mind at the moment. “ I’m impressed by our jocularity, for my part it is covering up a cold relentless fear. “We need first to get to a banking booth and then find a communication Centre, preferably Virgin. I have a contact in Telford. If I can get old of him I can arrange for us to get fake ID. “

7.

Lack of sleep, days in darkness? He had lost any sense of time and now he was loosing his sense of self. The slow crumbling away of his human dignity had begun. Hadn’t he once been aware, even authorised, such processes

Right now though it was the light that got to him, he would give anything to go back into darkness. The light burnt, burnt and tortured. Even with his eyes closed the world had the quality of intense searing light. Only they would not let him close his eyes. Every time he did so a sharp pain shot up his spine. If only they would switch off or even just dim the light.

Peter Taylor was strapped loosely into a chair and was sitting in a bare whitewashed room and was its sole occupant. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, certainly hours had passed, though time had become an uncertain concept for him. He had been brought here from the pitch black of the cell with its mind numbing buzz. At first the sudden absence of noise and the brain searing light had so disorientated him that he had fainted.

He had lain in the darkness for days it seemed, being fed only once, a pale figure thrusting a liquid meal into his hand along with a small plastic cup of water. Out of instinct he had made the water last by taking tiny sips, this had proved extremely wise. No more came. Every time he started to drift off to sleep there would be a variation in the buzzing noise that had the effect of startling him back awake. Then suddenly he had been dragged out from darkness and brought here.

He began to work out a system to retain his sanity he needed to grasp precisely what was going on here. No procedures that he could recognise had been followed; consequently his detention was the work of rogue elements. They would need to ensure his co-operation to legitimise their actions or risk their own illegality being exposed. The longer he held out the greater the risk for them.

Suddenly the air was pierced by a shrill squealing that tore into his eardrums and shattered any coherent thoughts. The sensation was of being mentally suffocated.

8.

Terry is punching code numbers into the console, “brilliant it works!” The machine produces a slim pre-loaded cash card. He turns to me with a broad grin, “we now have money.”

“How did you manage that, didn’t they seize all your bank accounts?”

He touches the tip of his nose. “Anything is possible if you have the know how. C’mon lets see if I can get hold of my friend. “

We cross the square, toward a small Communication Centre. Everywhere there are signs of storm damage and already workers are arriving on site equipped to board up windows and shore up damaged buildings. This has almost certainly allowed us, despite our conspicuous appearance, to go without attracting too much attention, though this will not last.

Terry enters the centre with me following close behind. I stand in the lobby and Terry enters an IT booth. I try to look nonchalant and watch an animated Terry talking on the video phone to someone indistinct upon the screen.

He reappears looking pleased with himself, confident and relaxed, he is now unambiguously in charge of the situation. “He’s coming over to pick us up in about an hour. Come on let’s go have a coffee while we’re waiting.”

I am nervous, “shouldn’t we keep a low profile?”

“Relax, act natural, that’s the way to avoid attracting attention. “If anyone asks we’re here on a contract waiting for the boss.”

I’m amazed at just how confident he has become. He is making absolute sense and makes me feel rather ashamed of my own lack of confidence, at being the led rather than the leader.

We sit on one of the tables out in the centre of the square and the waitress comes across to take our order. The square is ringed with cameras; swivelling inquisitively at least one is focused upon us.

“Don’t be so jumpy, we’re on the home straight now Alex.”

I shake my head and look down at the table, it’s my turn to be street savvy, “be careful, if you speak look down, even if they don’t have audio they will have speech recognition in the cameras.”

He laughs, but looks down just the same. “Let’s hope these things aren’t functioning.” He indicates his upper arm; we have both been operating under the unspoken assumption that the implants are not operating, that if they were we would have been picked up by now. This of course may not be true. Terry discreetly rips a section off from the corner of the menu. The waitress, a rather anaemic looking teenage girl brings our coffees, she has nice legs.

“Do you have a pen I can borrow love?” Terry flashes a flirtatious smile.

She hesitates for a second and then produces a pencil. “You need to give it me back.”

Terry takes the pencil from her, “of course, though I will treasure every moment it’s in my possession.” She looks sceptical and gives a sarcastic looking smile. Still she enjoys being flirted with.

“Isn’t it nice to be back among women again?” He says and I smile and watch her retreating figure.  Terry begins scribbling on the scrap of paper.

 ‘Courtney is bringing two fake ID cards and enough credit to last at least a couple of weeks. As soon as I’m sorted I’m getting out of the country.’

I take a sip of coffee. I realise I have no plans, nothing beyond getting back to London and am not even sure what I will do when I get there.

9.

He must have passed out. He was lying paralysed on a cell bench staring into darkness. There was still a low level humming in his ears which now though seemed to be generated from inside his own head. Whenever he tried to move he felt like he was being held firmly down though was not aware of any physical restraint. Underneath the humming though he felt nothing, a numbing silence occupied his head. His mouth was dry and he had a sharp pain in his chest. ‘Have I had a stroke?’

He was aware too that he kept slipping in and out of consciousness, in and out of a black hole. One thing now though was sure he was never going to leave here alive.

10.

He had been unable to follow up on the interview with the Archbishop’s ex-housekeeper. The train service between London and Canterbury had been suspended. Now he was stuck in Kent

He read again the notes he had made. The woman had told him little that he did not already know. The whole trip had been a waste of time. Still he had intended to follow up with an interview of the Canon back in London; again more for forms sake then to catch the Friday flight to Toronto. The storm had disrupted all his plans and he was now feeling particularly irritable and frustrated.

He made his way down to the bar and ordered a beer. He hated these jumped up provincial hotels with ideas above their station. He downed the beer in two, his heart now set on getting drunk

11.

Courtney was a young black man in his early twenties. He arrived on foot. Terry waved to him as if greeting an unexpected friend. Courtney however looked less than happy. “Hi Courtney come and join us.”

“Fuck man, this is me clear, nothing remaining on account. It’s fucking crazy out there. They’ve set the whole fucking British army loose and they are all on something. They’re all fucking juiced up. They aren’t playing fucking games, they don’t like your skin and they blow you fucking away. They killed Eddie The Handle last night. You’re crazy to go out after fucking curfew, they’re just looking for a chance to settle scores and in the middle of all this you ask me to transit a couple of fucking bounce monkeys on the run!”

“Alex please meet Courtney, Courtney meet Alex.” Courtney does not acknowledge me and is obviously burning on a short fuse.” Have you got everything I asked for?”

“Yes, but I had to stretch to do it.”

“Good man, ok let’s go,” he raised his hand to attract the waitress who comes across feigning indifference. “Your pencil love,” he hands her back the pencil then hands her the cash card, “take another five for yourself.”

“Last of the big spenders,” she takes the card from him but she looks pleased.

Courtney looks on edge and I too am feeling exposed. Terry seems to be enjoying his new found confidence. The waitress returns his card and shoots him a come on smile.

“For fuck sake,” Courtney Mumbles as Terry hesitates for a moment returning the girls smile.

“I need a good fuck.” Terry announces, “Where are you parked.”

“Just around the corner, where did you find those fucking clothes?”

Terry laughs, “this is the new look man. Soon everybody will be in on the look.”

The car is a petrol driven Mercedes Hamlet, an expensive item. Terry climbs in beside Courtney while I take a back seat. I am suddenly feeling exhausted, the steady pulsating tension giving way now to weariness. I know that it is now that carelessness can creep in.

“Ok, we don’t have much time.” There is urgency back in Terry’s voice. “Give me the business.”

Courtney hands him a set of power cutters and he quickly cuts through and removes his wrist restraint. “Give me your wrist.” I offer him the exposed restraint which he cuts through with ease.

 “Now give me your right arm.” He rolls up my sleeve. “This is going to hurt.” Courtney hands him a small device which he presses to my upper arm.
I feel a sudden intense burning. “Fuck that hurts.” I instinctively pull my arm away.

Terry laughs, “you wimp, that’s fucked your implant. He hands the device back to Courtney. “Now do me.”

“What does it do,” I ask Terry as Courtney presses the device against the side of Terry’s arm. “It sends a charge into your arm that fucks up the chip in your implant. “

“Ok,” he asks Courtney, what else have you got?”

“Here are the tags,” Courtney hands over two ID cards, one of which Terry hands to me. I read the name Mark Steele; it seems to be a perfectly legitimate ID card with only the space for the photograph blank. 

Terry takes Courtney’s reader and switches it to camera mode. “Smile for the camera, “I freeze momentarily. He then hands me the reader and I take his picture too.

It takes us just a moment to load and seal these into the cards.

“They are ok, but not that good, they were the best I could get in the time you gave me,” Courtney now sounds businesslike, sharp edged, “they’ll fool a police street reader which is all you need. Just don’t get flash with them.”

“The story with Tony, he speaks to Terry, “is that he’s been away in South Africa for 3 years, and this is a temporary ID, whilst he re-registers. Mark,” he turns to me, “has just arrived from the States where he’s been a student for the last five years. Again it’s a temp tag. You have filed registration but are still waiting for your permanent ID.”

He turns back to Terry. “Here’s your money.” He hands him an envelope. 

Terry opens the envelope and hands me a cash card “there five grand on the card, enough to last you a couple of weeks.” He turns to Courtney. “You brought the clothes?

“Yes, I did the best I could. They’re not perfect but they’ll fit better than that rubbish. “He hands me a bag full of clothing. I don’t know what hold Terry had over Courtney but it has certainly delivered us the goods.

I turn to Terry, “I don’t know when I will be able to repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I realise how much I owe this man whom I never really liked. In fact even more than Paul ever was, this man is my comrade. He is also my last link with Max, Jawad, Barry, the experience of the camp. “What will you do now?” I ask him.

“I‘m going to go to Australia, I’ll claim political asylum there, though that political stuff’s more your thing than mine. All that stuff you used to spout about freedom and democracy. You should come with me.”

“No, I have to get to London; I need to find out what’s happened to Mum.” The thought of leaving England has never really occurred to me, what would I do in Australia? I belong here; I suppose I feel a sort of responsibility for the place. God knows I’ve never felt patriotic, whatever that means, but for better or worse this is my country.

“We need to go!” Courtney cuts in.

“OK, we’ll give you a lift to the station.” Terry offers as we drive away. I struggle into some fresh clothes in the back seat, manage to get into a pair of reasonably respectable jeans, jean jacket, a blue shirt and pale blue sweater. I even find a pair of trainers.

At the station I shake hands with Terry both of us embarrassed by the poignancy of the moment. “Listen when you get to London here is a contact of mine. He takes a pen from Courtney and scribbles a name on the back of a parking ticket. I read Leon 77654531.

“Thanks for everything, good luck in Australia.”

“You too, good luck.” I watch them slowly drive away.

The man behind the counter informs me Train services between Shrewsbury and Wolverhampton have been suspended. There are connecting buses to Wolverhampton in the station car park, but the chances of catching an onward connection to London are slim, services have only just been restored. I tell him I will take my chances.

The Coach is full and I am crammed in beside an obese woman in her fifties, who chews toffees incessantly and watches soap operas on her reader.

Each seat has a reader screen inset into the back of the seat in front and in an effort to blot out hers I switch on my own and by inserting my cash card release the headphones.

The news was all of the aftermath of the storm. Pictures of Helen Armstrong surveying piles of rubble, damaged buildings, fallen trees and crushed motor vehicles. Then the army, helping old woman to safety from a semi demolished block of flats, clearing debris, hauling away trees to clear the roadway. In passing it was mentioned that a curfew was in operation and that looting would be dealt with severely, of actual shootings there was of course no mention.

Everywhere we drove there were signs of storm damage, and we are held up by a one way stream that circumvents the tip of a fallen tree. I watch the passing fields, houses, the people engaged in conversation and think of these lives that I will never touch and whose lives will never touch mine. I deeply envy their normality, the sheer everydayness of their lives. They know nothing of camp life, of having an implant and living with the ever present fear that something you say, or even something you are thinking will initiate some savage response.

I feel the stirring of a deep well of self pity and feel deeply sorry for myself. I am aware that this is the most dangerous of emotions; they weakened you and made resistance difficult. They are a luxury I cannot afford. At such moments I try and focus on the reality of my hatred for everything that has been taken from me, that has been taken from us all. Why would they not choose to persecute me I am their enemy, I do oppose everything that they stand for.

But who are ‘they?’ This has always been a problem for me. Whom I am fighting, when I think of the government, so stupid, ineffectual, Alvin Brooks, the Prime Minister with his silly smile and vacuous comments, the current slogan a case in point, More For Less, a typical example of newspeak.   Or when I see the home secretary talking to the police, she never looks like someone really in charge. Paul used to say that we have sleepwalked into a surveillance society, is it possible that successive governments have all been sleepwalking too, seduced by technology, the ever greater possibilities for control? 

We pull into the forecourt of Wolverhampton station then all disembark into a crowd of people milling outside the station. I push my way forward enough to see several railway employees flanked by police and soldiers standing in front of the station entrance. There is a sign in bold black letters ESSENTIAL TRAVEL ONLY TODAY.

I manage gradually to push my way toward the front of the pulsating crowd. I need somehow to get passed a policeman who is examining papers as he filters the crowd into the station, regularly turning people back. “What are they checking for?” I ask a plump Asian man standing beside me.

“They need proof that you are working.”

Suddenly a large Asian family move forward and start remonstrating with the police officer. In the general melee that follows several other people move forward. The elderly matriarch is pushed back by the policeman and drops her bag. I move forward and manage to slip in beside the police officer, picking up her bag in the process.

“Someone has dropped this, “I say handing the officer the bag and edging my way slowly passed him, he takes the bag from me. There is now a degree of chaos as several people are all attempting to breach the thin human cordon. I continue on toward the entrance. I am not stopped and enter the station. Have your Ticket and your ID card ready, the sign flashes intermittently. The woman at the gate cursorily examines my ticket, whilst a policewoman checks my ID card.

“Make sure you re-register soon. This card expires in 28 days!” She hands me back the card and I am through. I feel so cocky l want to punch the air.

The platform is packed. I buy some sandwiches and a soft drink from a vending machine and wait burying my self amongst the crowd.

13.

He was gently helped into the wheelchair by two men; neither in uniform who took his weight as he struggled to co-ordinate his legs. He was a helpless child. He had now lost his motor functions and could no longer control either his bowels or his bladder. He was then pushed down the corridor.

The lift ascended several flights and he found himself suddenly bathed in daylight then wheeled down the corridor into a sunlit office. He recognised the Assistant Commissioner, Harold Wood who had been an old Hendon colleague. But when he tried to say something his mouth only produced an incoherent noise.

“Hello Peter I was so sorry to hear that you have been so unwell. I just wanted to let you know that if there is anything I can do you only need to ask. They’ve called Clarissa and she is coming over to pick you up.”

“Although you’ve had some differences with the force over the last couple of months we’ve still managed to secure a financial settlement for you.” He looked awkwardly around the room as if looking for guidance from the two young men who had brought him here. “Well Peter, I just wanted to say hello. Tell Clarissa that I’ll give her a call and maybe come on over when things have settled.” He picked up his reader from the desk and approached the wheelchair. He took Peter’s limp hand in his. “Good luck Peter,” then obviously embarrassed left the room.

The silence in the room had the quality of a funeral parlour; inside he burned with a fierce destructive energy with tears flowing down his cheeks.

14.

The Press Release was approved by the Commissioner himself.

‘Former Chief Superintendent Peter Taylor who had recently taken early retirement on health grounds suffered a stroke today following questioning under the Freedom of Information Act, following the leak of classified information that had seriously prejudiced anti terrorist operations. These had been standard inquiries and the Metropolitan Police would like to emphasise that there was no evidence to connect Peter Taylor with these leaks and that no charges had been brought against the former Chief Superintendent. He continued to enjoy the confidence and respect of his former colleagues.  Everyone at the Metropolitan Police would like to express their sorrow and regret respecting Peter Taylor’s ill health and would wish a speedy recovery and his family all best wishes at this difficult time.’

“Ok, get that out and get me the Home Secretary on a secure line.”

15.

The train was packed and a seat was out of the question.  I have managed to squeeze into some free space between the buffet and IT carriage. Now my legs are growing tired. I try to squat, to make myself more comfortable but nothing works.

I am also aware of a steady pulsating pain in my arm where Terry did damage to the implant. I fear that he may also have done damage to my arm, which on inspection is developing a nasty sore surrounded by the blue of deep bruising. My leg is also covered in bruises from where I fell climbing over the gate.

The train is crawling south, we left Birmingham about two hours ago yet we have only just passed Northampton. We seem to halt every fifteen minutes or so to a collective groan from the entire train.

The one useful thing about the train being so crowded is that it makes ticket and identity checks difficult. The story given to me in the car sounded fine at the time but I now realise is ridiculously thin. Studying in the states for five years, studying what, studying where? I need to avoid ID checks at all costs.

They have run out of drinks and I finished the last of my fruit juice over half an hour ago. My mouth is beginning to feel dry. I left the camp over forty eight hours ago and yet it seems like an age. The flavour of camp life is already fast receding in my mind and I know now for certain that I must stay at liberty. I cannot afford to be captured again. 

The train jerks forward and we start speeding forward again. My leg has gone to sleep and I move to try and get the circulation going. I try to take my mind of things by remembering passages from Shakespeare.

“The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

The oldest hath born most: we that are young,

Shall never see so much, nor live so long.”

The train shivers and I turn to see soldiers standing beside the track as the train grinds to a halt.

“Oh for fucks sake!” it is one of my neighbours, a young man with a back pack who has been reading a comic book. He catches my eye and I raise my eyebrows.

“This is no joke,” I say again moving to keep the circulation going. The sight of the soldiers has made me nervous.

He looks at his watch as if to indicate the extent of his frustration. “I was due in London over six hours ago.” I smile sympathetically.

“What about you,” he asks, “are you in any particular hurry?”

“No,” I am reluctant to get into a conversation that could compromise me.” As long as we get there soon I will be happy.”

“You live in London?”

“No, I used to though, some time ago.”

“Oh, I’m shacked up in Lordship Lane in Haringey, bit of a shit hole really. Do you know it?”

“No not very well, though I know of it.” I am anxious to keep the conversation focused upon him. “What are doing in London?”

“I’m a student at the City University, studying business administration, what about you, what do you do?”

“Well at the moment I ‘m looking for work”

“THIS TRAIN WILL NOW BE TERMINATING AT MILTON KEYNES.”

The announcement cuts into our conversation to a unanimous groan from the whole of the train.

“ONWARD CONNECTIONS TO WATFORD AND LONDON EUSTON WILL BE FROM PLATFORM THREE.”

The train begins to slow down and he struggles to pull on his back pack.  “Fuck knows what time we’ll get into London.” 

“Yes,” I am troubled by my own difficulties. I have decided to go to Mum’s place. This is risky since they may well expect me to go there. But I cannot think of anywhere else. My old flat is out of the question, aside from anything else it will have already been re-let and my belongings scattered God knows where. Though the compulsion to go to Mum’s feels slightly irrational, born of a desperate need to get some kind of handle on things and all roads seem to lead to Mum’s. 

17.

The Home Secretary came back to London feeling strangely impotent. She felt the whole trip had accomplished nothing except as a PR exercise, though of course that had been the primary objective.

She had now learnt that not only the localised PITS system had been knocked out by the storm but the national tracking system, based in Cheltenham was also currently not functioning properly. This was a disaster but what was really infuriating her was the fact that she had only been told about this by the Prime Minister. Apparently as the National Intelligence Tracking Control System, NITCS was the responsibility of MI5, reporting was solely to the Prime Minister. Alvin had informed her as a matter of courtesy.

She read through the reports that had arrived that afternoon in a foul mood. The Commissioner was continuing his targeted campaign on illegal immigration and extremist cells, tomorrow focusing on Tower Hamlets and Newham and was drawing in extra resources from other London boroughs. He was operating in full co-operation with the Border Police and Immigration Service to ensure the continued success of this campaign.

She also read the weather reports, which were now compulsory for all Executive Cabinet Ministers. It seemed that another spell of hot weather was due with the possibility of further storms.

Apparently Peter Taylor had had a stroke whilst being questioned over the recent spate of security leaks. The report was extremely brief and gave no specific details of what had occurred. She dialled Gordon Lang over at Five and left a message. “This report from Akunin on the Taylor matter is wholly unsatisfactory. I want a comprehensive report on this case on my desk within the next twenty four hours. I also need to be updated on the NITCS system as soon as there are any developments.” Some of her anger released, she decided to go home and called for her driver.

18.

There is chaos at Milton Keynes as we are first directed one way and then another. None of the station staff seem to know what they are doing. Brooklyn, for that is his name, suggests leaving the station and trying to hitch hike to London, but I feel safer here. I can hide in the chaos.

“No, I’ll take my chances here. There is bound to be a train sooner or later.”

We find some free space under the stairs.   He takes off his back pack. “You are travelling light.” This is the first time that it has occurred to me that my lack of luggage may be suspicious.

“Yes, I have stuff in London. I prefer to travel light.”

“So what were you doing in Birmingham?”

“Not Birmingham, Shrewsbury, I met an old friend there. So are you going to hitch hike in?”

“No I think you are right, it makes more sense to wait for a train. I am so late now that a few hours more or less will make no difference. I’ve never been to Shrewsbury. What’s it like?”

“Oh you know, normal pleasant little Middle English town, lots of medieval architecture very civilised. I’m thirsty I am going to see if I can get a drink somewhere.”  I slip away before his is able to respond.

Fuck my story is so thin it is virtually non existent. Who was I visiting in Shrewsbury, what was the address?  Where was I studying in the States? What was I studying? When did I arrive back in England, at what airport and what is my address in London? I cannot possible survive a proper police check. I need to work out a loose cover story just the same. It might just deal with a casual enquiry.

There is a machine serving soft drinks as well as beer and spirits. Well my ID card is good for that. I insert my ID card to verify my age and buy two vodka miniatures and a couple of cans of coke.

I had thought to loose Brooklyn but maybe not seeming to be travelling alone will make me less suspicious. I empty the contents of one of the miniatures into my stomach. Its warm glow acts almost instantly to lift my spirit. Fuck we might even be perceived as a gay couple. I can’t help smiling. I can also try my cover story out on him, a sort of dress rehearsal.

I find Brooklyn reading his book; he lowers it when he sees me. “I thought I had lost you.”

“No, here “I throw him a can of coke, “there was a queue around the machine.”

“I spoke to one of the station staff  He tells me there is a train due in fifteen minutes, but it’s likely to be packed.”

“Well we had better move to the front of the platform.” I say helping him with his backpack. “This is welcome back to England I guess.” I say nonchalantly.

“You’ve been abroad?”

“Yes studying in the States.”

“Oh really, I envy you, whereabouts where you studying?”

“Rutgers University, in New Jersey” I know the name from an article I once read about Paul Robeson the singer and activist.

“What were you studying?”

“Modern history and literature, it looks as if our train is arriving.” 

As the train pulls slowly in there is a surge toward the platform edge. It is an empty local commuter train. We are amongst the first on board and manage to find seats.

“This train is for Watford Junction only; passengers wishing to travel on to London Euston should remain on the platform.”

The announcement creates more confusion as some people struggle to leave the train blocking the way for others trying to board. We enter into an unspoken pact to stay put.

The doors slowly close and the train begins to pull away. “We can take the Wembley Connect at Watford and change for the Tube.” He declares struggling to find a space for his pack beside the seat.

I nod my head; I feel exhausted and don’t want to engage in conversation. “Wake me up when we get to Watford.” I close my eyes.

Max is in my old London flat and there is someone, I think it is Paul, in the kitchen. I am arguing with Max trying to persuade him not to do something stupid. The anxiety is making my neck hurt. 

I am shaken and suddenly feel the reality of the headrest of the railway seat supporting my neck. We are pulling into Watford Junction. The platform slowly takes shape.

“Six thirty, it’s taken me very nearly seven hours to get this far,” Brooklyn’s voice breaks in. I take in Brooklyn who is pulling on his backpack.

I am still orientating myself as the train comes to a halt. I have no watch, no sense of time. Slowly I pull my thoughts together.

The concourse is crowded with people being discharged from the train and others waiting for an onward connection to Euston. Wordlessly we battle our way toward the exit.

I fumble for the second miniature and swallow it in a swift movement before we reach the ID and ticket barrier where a queue of people is forming.

“Are you ok,” Brooklyn looks concerned, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine, I’ve just remembered something. “

The policeman at the barrier takes my ID card and enters it into his reader. He looks tired and harassed. “You need to re-register within the next twenty eight days,” he informs me handing me back my card, “this card is about to expire.”

“Yes I know I am going to do so tomorrow, thank you.” I take the card from him and am through the barrier.

I feel a sudden irrational surge of freedom. I need to shake Brooklyn.

“Listen I have a few things I need to do, some calls I need to make. You go on.”
“Ok,” he looks disappointed,” I’m still interested in hearing about your time in the states; let me give you my address.” He scribbles an address and number on his ticket stub and hands this to me.

“Thanks,” I place the stub in my pocket, “I’ll give you call. Good luck with your studies!”

“Hope you find work soon. “ He puts out his hand and we shake. As he walks away I feel liberated. I need to let him gain distance before I can follow. There is a bar just across the way I can kill some time there.

The bar is busy and noisy, a babble of conversation and the sound of music coming from the wall screen.  I fight my way to the bar and order a double vodka.

I know it is not wise to drink too much but the lift it gives to my spirits after days of exhausting tension is too good to pass up. Besides I’ve always been good at holding my liquor, a lot better than Paul who seemed to get drunk after a couple of beers. I was always the heavier drinker of the two of us.

I turn on my stool and watch a teenage girl gyrating upon the screen. There is a young woman standing by the doorway, dressed in tight black pantaloons, white blouse and short Regency jacket, her hair drawn up into a bun on her head, she is stunningly attractive. She looks like she is waiting for someone. Soon a young man arrives and she looks delighted as he takes her by the waist. I envy him, I envy them both. I decide to order one for the road.

It’s at times like this that the impossibility of my life presses most heavily upon me.  It’s as if I suddenly awaken, not to the familiar safety of a stable routine life, but into the very nightmare itself.

I leave the bar feeling slightly light headed. I realise this is the first time I have been in London free, at least theoretically, of any curfew or boundary restrictions for a long time. I am a free man.

It is the first time I have ever been on the Wembley Connect service, it still has a new feel to it, though it  was built over five years ago to take football fans and concert goers from the stadium to the rail service at Watford.

The carriage is half empty; I am travelling against the tide as most of the passengers appear to be travelling in the opposite direction. I watch the outer London suburbs speed past as we travel towards the stadium complex.

I have no thought out plan other than going to Mums and am not even sure what I will do there. I hope that she is out of hospital, but at the same time I don’t want to put her at risk. I just have to see the flat for myself. I’ll just have to make a decision when I get there, when I see how things are.

I have decided however that I will need to use Terry’s contact. I’m going to need all the help I can get.

It is growing dark by the time I reach Wembley tube station. The police are checking ID cards at the entrance. I approach trying to look at ease my ID card ready in my hand.

“This is a temporary card, you need to re-register.” He is glancing at the screen.

“Yes, I intend to within the next few days.”

“Where are you travelling to?”

“I am staying with a friend in Lordship Lane Haringey, I have the address here.” I take Brooklyn’s ticket stub from my shirt pocket. He waves the paper away just tell me the address,

I read from the slip of paper, “109 Mary Seacole Mansions Lordship Lane Haringey.” He enters the address into his reader and indicates that I’m to go on through.

19.

The housing complex was built in 2001 with security a major feature. However Malcolm and I used to play games avoiding the cameras and sensor detectors and now some of the features are a little dated.  If you approached my mothers flat from the front there were a number of blind spots.

I am standing in the gardens just behind the waste bins. It’s extraordinarily quiet. I was expecting more people around. Brooklyn left me at about half six, I spent about twenty five minutes in the bar and a about a further two and a half hours to get here, so it has to be some time around nine, but it feels later. Why are there so few people around? There are no lights on in the flat. This is very early, even for Mum, though if she has been unwell she may have gone to bed early.

There is an old trick and I need to find a heavy object to make it work. There is a stone lying beside a nearby bush. I pick it up; it is about the right weight. The next part is the riskiest, I need to break cover.  I walk casually into the square forecourt and approach the southern corner of the block, I keep my eyes firmly focused on the ground and as I pass the pole that holds the security camera I strike it forcefully with the stone and throw the stone in the direction of the bushes. Sure enough the camera swivels toward where the stone has landed.

I have about six minutes before the camera turns back. I reach the front door of Mum’s flat. I slide my hand slowly along the inner frame of the door quietly intoning a prayer. Bingo, there it is in a little pouch, the keys to the front door. Mum was always nervous about accidentally locking herself out. I used to tell her to leave a spare set with a neighbour and that it was foolish to leave a set of keys in this way. Thank God she ignored my advice.

The flat is cold, dark and has obviously not been lived in for at least a couple of weeks. I know that there is a torch in the top drawer in the kitchen. I have given myself ten minutes tops. I find the torch and shading the light with my hand take a look around. There are unwashed cups soaking in the sink unit, food going off in the fridge and the stale smell of rubbish decomposing in the waste bin.

In the lounge there are newspapers several weeks old and the post has built up in the post box. I turn the light into the hallway and open the cupboard under the stairway. There is stiffness to the door that I don’t remember but I give a tug and the door is open.

They are all gone, the two remaining boxes of dad’s papers. The stuff dealing with the last part of his life, Mum would never have got rid of those. My torch catches the corner of the door frame and there is a tiny strip of yellow plastic attached to the door frame which I have broken by wrenching it open. “Shit,” it is obviously some sort of sensory device. I throw the torch into the cupboard and quickly retrace my steps through the flat.

If they are on there way I have literally minutes to make my escape. I leave the flat and walk briskly across the square. There is now a group of young men sitting on the bench, laughing and joking, watched intently by the security cameras. I am through the gate in minutes and out onto the main road, this runs alongside the park. I need to find somewhere to bury my self among people.

There is a bar I remember close to Maze Hill station. It used to be very popular and I quicken my step. I dread seeing a police car since I am convinced that guilt is written all over me.

Sure enough the bar is still there and is crowded. At the bar I order a double vodka and ask if they have a communication booth. He points to the corner. I take my drink with me.

I have a moment of panic as I cannot find the piece of paper Terry gave me. Finally locating it wedged in beside my old ticket stub, Leon 77654531.

“A friend of Terry’s,” he sounds unconvinced, Terry’s inside. “Not any more he isn’t. Listen I need to meet with you, I’ll explain everything then. I can’t stay on the line long. Terry said you could help, that he would make it worth your while.” 

“Ok, what is Terry’s favourite nightclub in London?”

I’m confused Terry disliked London; moreover his last TCCO disbarred him from entering all 32 London Boroughs. “I am sorry but Terry hated London, he preferred Liverpool and Manchester. His last community sentence prevented him from travelling to London.”

“Ok, listen this is not a good time. What is it that you want?”

“I have a temporary ID card, I need something more permanent and I need to find somewhere to stay.”

“These things are going to cost, do you have money?”

I think about Mum’s money, the money set aside for Malcolm and me from the sale of the house. I don’t have any ideas how I might get hold of it but it is there. “I can get hold of some.”

“Ok, meet me in an hour’s time, outside Bow Road tube.” He closes the connection.

I knock back the vodka and reluctantly leave the warmth and safety of the bar.

PART FIVE

1.

Don was aware that he was slightly drunk, was also tired but happy with the piece he had just sent to Roth. This represented the opening article for his gangster culture feature. He crossed the room and sunk, glass of wine in hand, into the depths of the leather armchair. He ought to go to bed. He needed to be up at five to catch his flight. He had called Juliet an hour ago and the thought of her warm young body gave him a glow of happiness.

He was all wrapped up here. He had taken the Archbishop story as far as he could but it was a dead end. It was all suspicion, hints, rumour and innuendo; there was nothing concrete at all about the story. The Canon had if anything been less useful than the housekeeper. The story was a non starter. For what it was worth it was probably true that the Archbishop had been framed, but he could never prove it. He closed his eyes and drifted without resistance into sleep.

The violence of the shaking brutally propelled him back into the room. The door was opened by the night receptionist, standing back to let the three police officers and lone MI5 man enter the room.

“Mr Donald Anthony Foster I have a warrant for your arrest and to search your room and seize any property necessary in the investigation of a breach of the Freedom of Information Act 2015. You have the right to remain silent but………………………”

The rest of his words drifted away as the full horror of his situation sunk in. They were taking away his reader, a few scattered papers and his Sat-Top from which he had sent his last copy to Toronto.

“You must have made some mistake. I am working for a Canadian newspaper on stories related to Canadian affairs. Please call Henry Roth the Editor of the Toronto Star. I have a flight booked to Toronto tomorrow”

“Yes sir,” one of the uniformed officers handed him his coat “please put on your coat on Mr Foster.”

His head was aching as he stood up. His flight bag was being taken from under the bed. Inside it contained his completed application for Canadian citizenship.

2.

It has grown cold now and I am grateful for my jacket and the pale blue sweater. I am not sure how long I have been waiting but it is a least fifteen minutes.

I dread being approached by a passing police patrol. Two cars have already passed. I pretend to be absorbed by the electronic map of the area, punching in various questions, locating libraries, synagogues, Mosques. If he doesn’t show I’m stuck. If he doesn’t show I’ve decided to try Brooklyn.

“Alex,” I am startled by the voice just behind me but manage to nod my head.

“When I leave station follow me. Don’t walk too close to me but take your time. I will turn right just before Bow Church Station, there will be a grey Toyota Beijing, get in the back seat and wait.”

He leaves the station before I can get a good look at him but I do as I am told. His pace is brisk and I try to follow casually. As he turns and disappears from sight I feel a moment of acute anxiety. All this continuous cloak and dagger stuff is hard on the nerves. I am also aware that the alcohol has slightly dulled my senses.

The car is where is said it would be. I touch the sensor and the door opens. I sit in the dead silence of the Chinese car my nerves stretched like guitar strings.

I wait in silence for about ten minutes when the door of the car is finally opened. He is mixed race in his mid twenties and has a nasty scar on his forehead. He sits in the driving seat and turns to face me.

“Well you were not being followed. Let me see your ID card.”

I hand him the card which he examines carefully. “So what’s with Terry?”

“He and I escaped from Lilleshall, a camp up in Shropshire, a couple of days ago. He is heading up north. I’ve come down here.”

“Are you still in contact with Terry?”

“No he went of with the guy who provided the ID cards.”

“Pity, I could do with some of Terry’s contacts at the moment. “

“You were lucky to get this far with a card like this, very poor piece of work. I can get you fixed up with a proper alternative ID, but it will take at least a week and will cost. You’ve not chosen a good time, things are pretty hot at the moment the shite are everywhere.” He starts the car. “You can crash in the basement of the Arts Centre tonight.”

I find him strangely lacking in curiosity about me and there is something about him that does not invite questioning. Anyhow I am too exhausted to be curious myself, I just long for sleep.

3.

I am led down a set of steps into the basement. I had expected to be alone but the place is already occupied by about ten other people, mostly Asians but with at least one other white man. Blankets and mattresses are scattered at various points upon the floor.

Leon, for I assume that it is he, for he has not introduced himself, shows me a dirty mattress in the corner. “You can crash here for now.”

An elderly Asian woman approaches him and starts whispering something in his ear. “”Fuck off,” he shouts back at her, ”fuck off; when I have the things you need you will be the first to know“ The woman shuffles away looking both anxious and humiliated. I watch as he climbs the stairs.

The atmosphere in the cellar is fetid; the stench of stale bodies and stale food and there is also a palpable tension in the air. The only other white man approaches me. “Hello, welcome to the Bethnal Green Hilton.”

“Thanks, I think I’ll call room service for a night cap.” I try to sound jocular and upbeat, as much for my own benefit as his. He is about thirty, well spoken; I’d say upper middle class but he has obviously been roughing it for quite some time.

“I would keep your things close to you; things have been known to walk in the night. Tony Adams” he puts out his hand which I touch more than shake. There is something about his bonhomie, his assumption of familiarity that I don’t like, that I find disconcerting.

“I see that you have recently been at guest of His Majesty,” he points to my wrist which has become exposed as I pull of my sweater; the wrist restraint has worn a groove deep into the skin around my wrist.

“Don’t worry I too had the pleasure of being accommodated by him. The mark will go away after a week or so.” My tired eyes take him in and the other sorry looking occupants of the basement.

He notices my gaze. “Pretty sorry bunch aren’t we?  All after one thing, security and safety, for that though you need papers, you need identity. Identity to leave the country or identity to stay put. Ironic isn’t it? I’m old enough to remember identity cards being introduced, introduced so they said to protect your identity and yet now here we are and nothing is quite so insubstantial, so pliable, as insecure as ‘identity’ itself. The Government giveth and the Government taketh away, the single greatest exercise of state ownership, the greatest identity theft of all time.”

“So what is it,” I ask, “that you are after, to stay put or leave the country?”

“Me, as soon as I can get my passport and ID sorted I’m out of here. There is no future in this country.”

I have not told him my name and instinctively want to keep my distance, though he is articulate and amusing. “Sorry, I am very tired I really need to crash.”

I lie on the dirty mattress rather than pull the filthy blanket over me I drape my jacket over my shoulders, it is not cold. I place my ID and cash card in my underpants, realising that these are now my sole possessions and fall into unconsciousness.

4.

Aware first of the smell I open my eyes slowly, reluctant to take in my surroundings. People have it seems been up for some time. I am not used to sleeping late.

I prop myself up in the ill lit basement,  across the room a small family group is eating close beside them Tony Adams is reading a book. I need to know the time. I reach for my jeans lying on the floor beside me.

As I struggle to my feet Tony notices and comes on over.

“You slept well!”

“Yes I was very very tired. Is there anywhere here I can get washed?”
“There are showers upstairs in the community centre. You can buy soap and towel from the dispenser.”

“Great I’ll feel better after a shower.”

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Oh sorry my name is Alex.”

“So what brings you here to these salubrious surroundings?”

“Oh, it’s a long and not very interesting story.”

“You are very cautious. You are right of course. You don’t know if I can be trusted. I’m just bored in truth. I’ve been here four weeks now and still have nothing. Leon, the guy who brought you here is a slippery character. I don’t know how you got to hear of him, but be careful. He is greedy and I wouldn’t trust him too much if I were you.”

“Well he is, I suspect like you, all I have got at the moment.”

Tony smiles, “yes, we are both in the same boat. I’ll let you go and have your shower. “

The showers are up on the ground floor, in beside a makeshift Gym. After buying soap, towel and cleaning kit I set about making myself feel more human.

After hacking away at three days growth of beard and feeling the warm water cascade over me I feel optimistic. I don’t know what the future holds for me but feel it will be interesting. There must be people like me people who know what freedom is and are willing to work to get it back, people with whom I could make contact, with whom I could join in the struggle.

Outside it is a beautiful spring day, already the sun high bathing the city in warmth and light. It is the kind of day that invites the curious and lovers to take to the streets. Without really intending to I find myself exploring the streets and for some reason find myself thinking about the London of my childhood. Sometimes my father would take Malcolm and me over to Docklands on the light railway, then on to Bangla town for a curry. He loved curry; he said that in Bangla town you could get the best curry in the world. I was a child of course and am probably looking back with rose coloured spectacles but London felt like a happier city then, I am sure there was less fear. I also cannot remember dad ever being stopped by the police.

Suddenly the narrow street opens out into a little square, fairly modern with a café on the corner and a fountain playing in a small patch of rather worn and shabby grass. It possessed real charm in the brilliant sunshine.

The café is already busy but there is still a one free place at the only table devoid of shade and now bathed in brilliant spring sunshine. I sit down and when the waiter comes I order a lemon tea.

I sit with the sun on my face and the scent of rose petals in the air sipping the warm tea and close my eyes. This is it; this is what is important in life. This is what it means to be civilized.

I used to envy all those nineteenth century characters that inhabited something called café culture. Places far removed from the Coffee Stations, designed for speed of service and consumption so beloved of busy commuters now but  places for idleness, sitting for hours on end, a single cup growing cold, places for reading and heated conversation, conversation and most important of all free debate,  the entertaining of and exchange of ideas. For this moment here in the warm sunshine, for this brief moment, I can make believe that am a free man.

“Alex,” I am startled back into the world, it is Tony, looking more human and benign in the morning sunshine.  “May I join you?”

I don’t object to conversation and invite him to occupy the free seat beside me.

“You’re taking a bit of risk; you must have reasonably good ID at the moment.”

“I have a temp card. “

“So Alex is your fake ID?”

I suddenly realise how foolish I have been and he laughs at the look on my face.  “I thought not, let me give you a piece of advice, never tell anyone your real name, not unless you are prepared to trust them a hundred percent and even then think twice. When you get a new ID absorb it completely, memorise your cover story until it becomes who you are. You had better tell me your name, that is on the ID you are carrying at the moment.”

“It’s Mark, Mark Steele, yes, of course. I’m afraid I am on a bit of a steep learning curve.”

The waiter approaches. “Do you take cash?” He asks.  The young Asian man says nothing but nods his head by way off affirmation. “Good, then can I have a glass of orange juice.” He turns back toward me. “Well I would learn fast if I were you. Please don’t take offence but I guessed you were new to travelling on the underground. I would say you are a politico, though not heavy duty.”

I say nothing but take a sip of tea. Despite myself I cannot help but warm toward him and cannot help but feel a little spark of pride at the use of the word politico which somehow in this setting feels not only apposite but also a little glamorous.  I am also curious and want to pick his brains. He could be useful to me.

 “Very good, you’re not far of the mark. Tell me are there many politico’s as you call us? “

“There are some I have come across, mostly Asians, Islamic militants but one or two others. It’s more unusual for a white person to get into trouble for political reasons. The police are less interested in whites unless they make a real nuisance of themselves or become Islamicist. To be honest you strike me as falling into neither group.

 And what about you what are you escaping from?”

“Me, well let’s just say that I was swept up in the great tragedy of thwarted ambition, that is I got greedy and I got caught. After that his majesty in his wisdom saw fit to take control of all my bank accounts and material assets. “

I cannot help laughing at both his manner and tone and I see that this pleases him.

“But tell me,” I ask him, “is there any organised resistance?”

“Organised resistance to what exactly?

“Resistance to the Government the establishment, the police state, isn’t anybody fighting back against all of this.”

“Well the Islamicists seem a little unhappy, but I get the impression that what they have in mind for us all may be a great deal more unpleasant than all of this as you put it.” He obviously sees how dispirited I look. “I have heard that there are some clandestine campaigns being run and some help the politicos who want to escape the country, but politics is not really my area of expertise.”

I finish my tea which is now growing cold, I can also feel my face starting to burn and the throbbing in my arm has started up again.

“I shouldn’t stay here much longer if I were you,” he says,”its tempting fate and it’s also not a good idea for the police to find us together. I’ll see you back at the Centre.”

“Tell me, “I ask before he leaves, “how come the Centre is such a sanctuary?”

“Easy, the security system including the cameras has been fixed, nothing but scenes of benign community life.” He pays his bill and walks away and after a short interval I follow suite.

Back at the Centre I sit on the mattress and boredom sets in, the atmosphere a strange mix of indolence and tension. Everyone seems to be waiting though nobody quite sure what for.

It seems to me that my whole life has been spent like this waiting, waiting in the wings, waiting for life to start happening. Toward the end, just before Dad got ill, there were whole days like this, waiting, Mum almost physically ill with anxiety. She would not talk about what was going on, only to say that Dad was having some problems with his work.  Finally we were both sent to stay with Aunt Elizabeth, but when we got there all that we did was wait. Waiting for phone calls, waiting for the time when we could go back home. When we did go home Dad was there, only he too now seemed to be waiting. Then he became ill.

There is a sudden commotion at the other side of the room and I am startled out of my thoughts. The family that I observed last night is arguing with a young white man who is obviously remonstrating with them. I look around for Tony but he is not here.

I am not sure why but I suddenly feel uneasy, a growing anxiety about my situation. I really have no idea what is going to become of me. Is Leon to be trusted and how am I to get am hold of the money to pay him. I know Mum’s account number but have no idea how to gain access.

The shouting has stopped. The family has stopped arguing now and are packing up their belongings. An elderly man of Eastern European appearance whom I had not noticed before is struggling to close a suitcase. People are leaving but I have no idea what is going on.

To my relief Tony comes down the stairs. He too looks concerned.

“What’s happening,” I am unable to conceal the anxiety in my voice.

“There were raids in Newham this morning; they picked up a lot of people. Rumour is that we are next.”

“Where is every body going?”

“God knows, they are running around like headless chickens. But staying here could be dangerous. Just a minute let me see if I can find out a little more.” He walks toward the young white man and they engage in conversation. He returns looking now extremely anxious, even pale.

“We have to get out of here and now.”

As he goes to get his things together I pick up my jacket and put the few toiletries I have purchased into the carrier bag along with the sweater. I have the same disturbing feeling as when Terry took charge, a desire to be taken care of that is both humiliating and liberating at the same time. 

“What’s happened,” I ask when he returns.

“They’ve cordoned off the whole of the area, from Whitechapel up to the

Hackney Road

and from Shoreditch to Mile End, there are checkpoints everywhere. They are picking up anyone they decide is suspicious even those with ID in order. It looks like they are intending a full sweep of the area. “

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, but we cannot stay here, a community centre will be one of the first places they will check. Some of the young guys are preparing a reception party. Our best bet is to wait until there is a ruck and try and slip through in the confusion.”
Even I can see that this is not much of a plan but follow him up the stairs out into the early evening. Outside it is deceptively peaceful, there is a gentle breeze, which after the stench of the basement is like breathing champagne. There is also the scent of baking bread in the air and I am aware that I have not eaten all day.

Tony is walking at speed keeping his thoughts to himself and I too am preoccupied by disturbing considerations. My ID will not stand scrutiny so if I am picked up it will mean straight back to the camp, with a substantially increased sentence. The idea of having to start all over again in the camp system is like a stone in my heart.

There is a continuous buzzing overhead; half a dozen drones are circling the area. The streets are empty but for a few stray individuals. A young girl in a Niqab walks purposefully toward us; an old man walks his dog. Everything superficially normal, but you can taste the tension in the air; it is like a low level electric current that tingles against your consciousness.  It is also beginning to grow dark and this adds to the feeling of threat.

We approach a junction and turn into

Buxton Street

to be confronted by a group of thirty or forty young Asian men. They look at as with naked hostility and aggression and I can feel the hunger for violence in my chest and know now that I am in real danger.

“Leave this to me.” Tony whispers, relaxing his pace as several of the young men approach. “Shaanti,” he says in a low relaxed manner and begins conversing in a language I presume to be Bengali.

When he turns back to me the tension has been manifestly reduced. “Relax, they’re cool,” he announces in a low voice. “It seems the police are stacking up just beyond

Brick Lane

. They have already picked up a few people.”

The earth suddenly heaves and there is the rush and thunder of an explosion not far away. “What the fuck was that!” Several of the young men are running in the direction of the explosion. A drone is now hovering directly above us and I have the uncomfortable feeling of being closely scrutinized.

I move toward the cover provided by an awning above the entrance to an office block. The street is an odd mix of housing and commercial properties as if in the process of transition from one identity to another but to which it belongs remains unclear.

Tony seems to hover between following those seeking the source of the explosion and seeking safety. There is another explosion that shakes the windows of the office block, this time if anything it is even closer. Tony now walks toward me as a young man comes running around the corner of

Spital Street

blood pouring from an open head wound. He is soon followed by others all attempting to run at speed, including those who had just run in the opposite direction; there is fear and panic in their eyes.

Tony seems like me to be rooted to the spot I move out into the street. Coming around the corner is some sort of armoured car with police in full riot gear following closely behind. “Run, run,” I shout and Tony begins to run back in the direction in which we came. Something whizzes past me sounding like the sudden out rush of trapped gas. I can hear the sound of my own heavy breathing and my heart straining, I have never run like this before, I am running for my life.

As I approach the junction something flies through the air and crashes behind me, I turn into what I hope is safety but am confronted by a gang, no gangs of young men. They have managed to place two cars across the road as a makeshift barricade and are in the process of dismantling the scaffolding from a nearby building site and are also breaking up bricks and stones. I need to stop and catch my breath.

“Get out the fucking way.” Somebody shouts at me. I look up and there is a man in his late twenties attempting to pull a heavy office desk toward the barricade.

I move out of his way. ”Let me help you.” I call out. Together we are able to move it forward more quickly and others soon give a hand. An explosion shatters the air above my head and I am thrown off my feet and fly backwards.

I now inhabit a silent world. I have gone deaf. I feel a trickle of blood running down my face. I struggle to get to my feet again; I now have a severe pain down my side. At the barricade the armoured car is already pushing back the lighter of the two cars and two young men and a young girl are running silently passed me.

On my feet again I look around for Tony but he is nowhere to be seen. An object flies over my head and crashes against the side of the armoured car and bursts into flame. I am not safe and begin struggling to run down the street toward a burning car.

I reach the corner limping and feeling exposed. A girl, no more than fifteen in a headscarf and wearing jeans and a black Islamic style top is silently screaming. A young man looks drunk, falls on the pavement holding his side. A bearded young man runs forward in front of me as I turn around and hurls a Molotov cocktail before falling backwards. On the ground around me are scattered piles of bricks, stones, pieces of metal.  The police are now coming toward us in force. I pick up a half brick and throw it toward the police lines and watch with a sense of joy as it crashes against the helmet of a policeman knocking him temporarily of balance. I quickly pick up another stone; there is a buzzing in my ears now. This time I want to take aim, this time I want to really hurt someone. To my left an Asian boy, no more than fifteen appears from a doorway and throws a small object which explodes in the air, causing the advancing police to hesitate as they are showered with fragments. I crouch to avoid being hit my self. One policeman is ahead of the others and seems to be directing them. I feel the rough shape of the brick in my hand, a gritty solid feeling. There is a roaring in my ears now and then I distinctly hear the sound of someone shouting. I tense my self then throw the brick.

I suddenly feel an immense blow to my chest that sends me flying backwards. I am suddenly paralysed. I cannot move. I see the sky a dark patch of denim blue. I can feel my body emptying itself of me. I would have liked to have thrown a few more bricks.

EPIOUGE

“Who,” the Home secretary asked, “gave the order to fire live ammunition?”

Errol Grant was head of the department and had a reputation for efficiency and getting things done. “That decision was taken by the Commissioner.”

“Why was that decision not referred to me?” She was visibly angry and not in the mood for ’civil servant speak.’

“Well minister under the legislation drafted by your predecessor such decisions were delegated down to an operational level. There was no need to refer upwards in this instance.”

As he closed the door behind him he reflected on how much more effective the department had become since such emotive issues had been taken out of the hands of politicians.

---

^[1] Shakespeare Sonnet 98,1-3

^[2]  All’s Well That Ends Well

^[3]  Autobiography Louis McNiece
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