The lights were still off when I woke up with the weight of an anvil pressing on my chest.
I had dreamt of you and the children, and Dad and Mum and the neighbours. I had come home that night and you were all there. I was sat at the kitchen table in the midst of your buoyant clamour; food was piled high on the table, you had uncorked bottles for the occasion, and I thawed, nudged between your warm flank and my father’s shoulder. I looked at your glowing faces in our home’s evening light and I felt I’d reached the shore of the living again. Finally, I was going to tell you: you would know what I had known there, you would know how my days had been there; I would drop the icy ballast of silence and be in your warm midst again. As I started to speak you stood up to toast me. I asked of you to listen first, I tugged your sleeve, but you didn’t notice. I waited. You finished. I resumed. Now the children sang a song and you spoke to my father over me. I shouted in your ears. You didn’t hear me. I grew smaller. I tugged your sleeve again from much lower. I cried. You didn’t hear me. I panicked; I stood up on my chair and spoke loudly over your heads. Everyone was eating from their plates and chatting to their neighbour. No one heard me.
I did not wake up drenched in sweat or tumbling in my musky sheets. I woke up still as cold stone under the mortar of a nameless, infinite sadness. No one knows I’m here. You will be back with the children soon and there will be not a note, not a word, not a call; all you will find in my place will be throbbing silence. Will you even think of enquiring whether I’m being held on suspicion of terrorism? Of course not. How grotesque. Will you think I’ve left you? What will your days be like until I come out of here? To the kids I’m sure I will be gone on a seminar, I trust you on that one – it wouldn’t be the first fictional seminar in our lives. Except I spent the last one at my parents’. The plus side of a job with lots travelling, really…
In the end, all these important-looking, charcoal-clad people you meet at distant airports, in generic, air-conditioned offices across the globe – wouldn’t know you were a thousand miles away from home from the Starbuck coffee and the Palo-alto English – all these people brought together at world’s end for such incredibly random reasons as the course of the cashew-nut after the housing-market crash and its effect on the Indonesian outsourcing industry, flaunting their plastic name-tags with assumed ridicule – exotic names which no one ever remembers, that’s why the function is always in bigger letters – in the end, they all go back to their cosy homes and their anonymous families. Off-stage their husbands, wives and children, their sick sister and annoying brother-in-law have the say. I always wonder what colour their pyjamas are. Sometimes you meet the same randomer again. That wonderful moment of acknowledged intimacy: the nod on entering the meeting-room.
That’s about as intimate as I ever got with M. He’s from another branch but we attend the same seminars with more or less regularity. When you’re on such a tight schedule as is generally the case on a three-days business trip, you feel lost as a child when there’s an hour-long gap. I remember now, we sat and had a drink at the hotel bar – I think it was in Hong-Kong – it was a couple of years ago, in any case. Can’t even remember what we discussed. The news, probably: BBC World in airports, planes, hotel and office lobbies, and in three days’ time you’re a political analyst. Funny, we never came to discuss that one yesterday. I’d honestly completely forgotten – but if they knew about it, why didn’t they ask about it? They must be thinking I deliberately kept it from them – that I’m trying to hide something. Oh God, that’s really giving the worse possible impression. I’ve got to talk to them again. Hopefully they’ll come soon. Maybe I can tell the guard I’ve got something to say? They’ll be interested. But then they’re going to think that I’m willing to admit to something, that I’m giving way under pressure. That’s guilty behaviour. Shit! I can’t wait until they come to me again, that could be weeks! They’re convincing themselves I’m guilty while I sit here! Maybe talk to the CCTV?
Monday, 30 June 2008
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Ninth Day
I was reminded of my school-days today.
On one occasion, for a minor crime - something too childish for me to record without embarrassment - I was sent to the Deputy Head's office. When this woman, who to me had little evident function, found me waiting there she had no idea what I might have done. I had to explain that I had been sent there by Mrs. X, and why, carefully wording my account so as not to admit my own guilt. Of course, I believed my own behaviour to have been, if not exactly exemplary, far from worthy of punishment. I had an unshakeable belief in my own superiority, in those days, and saw my transgressions as the more regrettable manifestations of a personality that a wiser institution would cherish and celebrate.
These cautious words ('I have committed the following act... I can see why Mrs. X may not have appreciated the joke... maybe it was not in fact all that funny... my disrespect was targeted more at the school's procedures than at Mrs. X herself...') did not satisfy the figure that was supposed to be punishing me. She expected a more explicit mea culpa, and being made to mouth it, when I did not believe it, was to be my punishment.
I left with a hollow feeling. If I had been given a genuine opportunity to express myself, the authorities might have learnt something about me, or even about themselves. As it was I had been placed in limbo until I found a form of expression that fitted with what they already believed. Had the interview taken place in public, it would have been a show-trial; the dissenter forced by luddite power to act a role: 'Aha! Now I see my mistake! My pretentious upbringing has placed in me a poisonous seed, a hollow of faithlessness, a doubt against the white magic of the rituals of the enlightened State!'
I felt more comfortable when, on arriving late for the third time that half-term, I was placed in detention (a word that now means something entirely different). That was merely disproportionate.
You see, today two smart professional people, respectable members of society, lacking only the perspective to see their own insignificance, engaged me in the same sort of conversation. I was taken from my room by a uniformed officer and led by my elbow through blank and silent corridors to meet this pair, a man and a woman. The man was balding but not old. The woman was younger, with regular features and a trim figure. She was the kind of woman that could not possibly be described as pretty, but she lacked the asymmetries or imbalances that mark us as ugly, and I imagined the lust the men she worked with felt for her.
They introduced a topic of conversation and expected me to speak. The topic they chose was my friend M. What did M do for a living? Who else did M meet with? Did I know where M could be found, or how he had spent the last period? Even, in what I felt was a moment of weakness, why did I imagine they were so interested in M?
I told the truth but there was little to say. To my knowledge M has no other friends. He is a colleague of mine, and I do not see him socially.
There was something they wanted me to say. They repeated themselves. They shared glances (and I imagined the tiny thrill this meant for the man). They showed care and perseverance at their work. They grew almost excited when I mentioned that M could be 'intense'. But this time I didn't know what it was my questioners wanted to hear.
On one occasion, for a minor crime - something too childish for me to record without embarrassment - I was sent to the Deputy Head's office. When this woman, who to me had little evident function, found me waiting there she had no idea what I might have done. I had to explain that I had been sent there by Mrs. X, and why, carefully wording my account so as not to admit my own guilt. Of course, I believed my own behaviour to have been, if not exactly exemplary, far from worthy of punishment. I had an unshakeable belief in my own superiority, in those days, and saw my transgressions as the more regrettable manifestations of a personality that a wiser institution would cherish and celebrate.
These cautious words ('I have committed the following act... I can see why Mrs. X may not have appreciated the joke... maybe it was not in fact all that funny... my disrespect was targeted more at the school's procedures than at Mrs. X herself...') did not satisfy the figure that was supposed to be punishing me. She expected a more explicit mea culpa, and being made to mouth it, when I did not believe it, was to be my punishment.
I left with a hollow feeling. If I had been given a genuine opportunity to express myself, the authorities might have learnt something about me, or even about themselves. As it was I had been placed in limbo until I found a form of expression that fitted with what they already believed. Had the interview taken place in public, it would have been a show-trial; the dissenter forced by luddite power to act a role: 'Aha! Now I see my mistake! My pretentious upbringing has placed in me a poisonous seed, a hollow of faithlessness, a doubt against the white magic of the rituals of the enlightened State!'
I felt more comfortable when, on arriving late for the third time that half-term, I was placed in detention (a word that now means something entirely different). That was merely disproportionate.
You see, today two smart professional people, respectable members of society, lacking only the perspective to see their own insignificance, engaged me in the same sort of conversation. I was taken from my room by a uniformed officer and led by my elbow through blank and silent corridors to meet this pair, a man and a woman. The man was balding but not old. The woman was younger, with regular features and a trim figure. She was the kind of woman that could not possibly be described as pretty, but she lacked the asymmetries or imbalances that mark us as ugly, and I imagined the lust the men she worked with felt for her.
They introduced a topic of conversation and expected me to speak. The topic they chose was my friend M. What did M do for a living? Who else did M meet with? Did I know where M could be found, or how he had spent the last period? Even, in what I felt was a moment of weakness, why did I imagine they were so interested in M?
I told the truth but there was little to say. To my knowledge M has no other friends. He is a colleague of mine, and I do not see him socially.
There was something they wanted me to say. They repeated themselves. They shared glances (and I imagined the tiny thrill this meant for the man). They showed care and perseverance at their work. They grew almost excited when I mentioned that M could be 'intense'. But this time I didn't know what it was my questioners wanted to hear.
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Eighth Day
So it's been a week now.
It's a bit like being in a bath, being in here. When I got in, the water was hot. It stung me so much I went numb. When the guy came to interview me, it was like turning on the taps for short bursts of cold and hot water. Then over the last few days, when boredom set in, it was lukewarm. I became horribly aware of myself, just like in a warm-ish bath where your attention gets diverted from the heat of the water to the fact that you're sat in it. Now, the water is cold. The boredom - the lukewarmness - has gone. Like being sat in a cold, stale bath, it's unpleasant.
Bath?
Bath?! Christ, I was right yesterday about checking what I write. Bath? What is this: a diary of incarceration or a collection of shit analogies?
Today is a Saturday. I think about what I would be doing. Drinking coffee, being out and about like everyone else. Saturday: that long day of things that you can't do during the week; the things that a job - so often compared to a prison - stop you from doing.
In fact, this reminds me in a superficial way of the summer jobs of my student days. The boredom, the horrible feeling of the sands of time slipping through your fingers, leaving nothing but a few trapped grains and a slightly itchy, dry feeling.
My mouth is dry. Whatever saliva there is, though, I can taste. And blinking - I'm aware that I'm blinking. I can't focus on much else. Like in primary school when one of the children would go round pointing out to everyone that they were blinking. Everyone would become aware of it. And try and stop.
I try it now. 10 seconds. A few blinks. Now 20 seconds. Now 30.
A drop of sweat falls from my armpit and hits the slightly clammy flesh on the side of my torso. It shatters my concentration on not blinking. Must stop writing, in case I dislodge more drops of sweat by moving my arm.
I hate the feeling of my own chilled sweat on my flesh. I wouldn't notice it much, normally.
That's all I can do here. Sweat, produce saliva, and occasionally excrete. Exist.
And write poorly-composed prose about it.
Maybe I should try remembering something? Anything. But my mind is blank.
40 seconds.
50.
It's a bit like being in a bath, being in here. When I got in, the water was hot. It stung me so much I went numb. When the guy came to interview me, it was like turning on the taps for short bursts of cold and hot water. Then over the last few days, when boredom set in, it was lukewarm. I became horribly aware of myself, just like in a warm-ish bath where your attention gets diverted from the heat of the water to the fact that you're sat in it. Now, the water is cold. The boredom - the lukewarmness - has gone. Like being sat in a cold, stale bath, it's unpleasant.
Bath?
Bath?! Christ, I was right yesterday about checking what I write. Bath? What is this: a diary of incarceration or a collection of shit analogies?
Today is a Saturday. I think about what I would be doing. Drinking coffee, being out and about like everyone else. Saturday: that long day of things that you can't do during the week; the things that a job - so often compared to a prison - stop you from doing.
In fact, this reminds me in a superficial way of the summer jobs of my student days. The boredom, the horrible feeling of the sands of time slipping through your fingers, leaving nothing but a few trapped grains and a slightly itchy, dry feeling.
My mouth is dry. Whatever saliva there is, though, I can taste. And blinking - I'm aware that I'm blinking. I can't focus on much else. Like in primary school when one of the children would go round pointing out to everyone that they were blinking. Everyone would become aware of it. And try and stop.
I try it now. 10 seconds. A few blinks. Now 20 seconds. Now 30.
A drop of sweat falls from my armpit and hits the slightly clammy flesh on the side of my torso. It shatters my concentration on not blinking. Must stop writing, in case I dislodge more drops of sweat by moving my arm.
I hate the feeling of my own chilled sweat on my flesh. I wouldn't notice it much, normally.
That's all I can do here. Sweat, produce saliva, and occasionally excrete. Exist.
And write poorly-composed prose about it.
Maybe I should try remembering something? Anything. But my mind is blank.
40 seconds.
50.
Friday, 27 June 2008
Seventh Day
I’m bored. Again.
Yesterday nothing happened. And guess what? Today nothing happens. Got to think of something to do. I thought maybe I could play noughts and crosses. 42 games I played. Every single one ended in a draw: I know my opponent too well.
It’s looking like we’re going to be here for the long haul. It’s been a week now I think. Can’t just sit and worry, racking my brains for some buried explanatory guilt. Need a strategy here. Could try and escape? Not really me: I’m a waiter not a doer. I’m happy to watch, there’s just nothing here to watch. Could jump up and down a lot or lift my bed. Get strong, measure my expanding biceps. They might think I’ve gone mad. Or I’m training for something. Would that help?
Writing helps, I think. Gives me something to do, something to think and to do. But it’s dangerous. Must resist spiralling into my own thoughts. Getting lost in the wordy wilderness. I read back over what I’ve already written: I must resist this over-analysing hysteria. It’s only been a week. I need some structure here.
This then is the task: keep writing, but check. Once every week check. Read back over. Read back over as if it is somebody else’s work, as if this is not me here but a different person, each day writing. And I am simply their reader.
I’m not here.
I’m just watching.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Sixth Day
I am bored.
I’d love to claim some higher emotion, some deep-seated righteous indignation or even some great universal truths that my confinement has enabled me, uniquely, to see. Right now I just can’t be bothered with all that. I have ceased to question why I am here, or why they bothered to interrogate me. This is not a rational response to the insuperability of such questions, but an inability to motivate myself to think any more.
It is an odd kind of boredom. It is devoid of anticipation - as when waiting for a bus or the childish boredom at the end of a long Summer, waiting for term to start. It is devoid of anger – somehow the injustice washes over me. It is devoid of guilt– thoughts are fruitless here; I am a boredom-self-apologist.
Waiting implies expectation of future events. I do not wait; I sit.
I’d love to claim some higher emotion, some deep-seated righteous indignation or even some great universal truths that my confinement has enabled me, uniquely, to see. Right now I just can’t be bothered with all that. I have ceased to question why I am here, or why they bothered to interrogate me. This is not a rational response to the insuperability of such questions, but an inability to motivate myself to think any more.
It is an odd kind of boredom. It is devoid of anticipation - as when waiting for a bus or the childish boredom at the end of a long Summer, waiting for term to start. It is devoid of anger – somehow the injustice washes over me. It is devoid of guilt– thoughts are fruitless here; I am a boredom-self-apologist.
Waiting implies expectation of future events. I do not wait; I sit.
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Fifth Day
I did not have much sleep last night, and it annoys me. I know I have nothing to worry about and yet I keep going through the events of yesterday over and over in search of an explanation. Obviously, the questions themselves cannot have been important - I suspect they know everything they need to know about me already. They must have had other reasons for asking me about my name, my job, my telephone number… but what? What did they want to know? Whether I am willing to co-operate? Surely, that can’t have been it. They must know I am not stupid, and why would I lie about something that would take them less than a minute to check? Did they want to see how I am coping with being detained? Possibly, but I presume I am being constantly watched anyway. Were they checking how I would react when confronted with a person of apparent authority? Whether I would make a false confession of something and hope for release? Whether I would attempt an escape?
I am starting to think that the purpose of the questioning yesterday was just this. To make me ask questions. To make me wonder. It is strange how a simple, polite question about one’s name under certain conditions can trigger an explosion of doubt and other questions that are a thousand times more complicated. It strengthens me that I have come to this realisation, but it doesn’t stop me from asking further questions. Why do they want me to process the events? What is the purpose of these mind-games? I try and concentrate on other things; the low, monotone sound from the ventilation system, the barely visible cracks in the paint on the walls. Other than that, I am exposed to a minimal level of stimuli. Bare walls. Frosted glass. Clean floors. No smells. Monotone sound. I only have my thoughts and my questions.
I want something to change. I want someone to turn off the “repeat track” mode and allow the next one to go on. No one has yet told me why I am here, their reasons for detaining me or if I need to do anything. I am considering walking over to that CCTV camera with its lens constantly fixed on me, speak right into it and tell them that I know they are trying to play mind-games on me but that they are, in fact, plainly wrong in believing that I am a terrorist. But then again, that must obviously be what they hear from everyone, and I am not going to fall into the normal pattern. I am different. I am innocent. The physical walls of this room do not bother me much - but the lack of information and constant mental competition make me feel claustrophobic.
I am starting to think that the purpose of the questioning yesterday was just this. To make me ask questions. To make me wonder. It is strange how a simple, polite question about one’s name under certain conditions can trigger an explosion of doubt and other questions that are a thousand times more complicated. It strengthens me that I have come to this realisation, but it doesn’t stop me from asking further questions. Why do they want me to process the events? What is the purpose of these mind-games? I try and concentrate on other things; the low, monotone sound from the ventilation system, the barely visible cracks in the paint on the walls. Other than that, I am exposed to a minimal level of stimuli. Bare walls. Frosted glass. Clean floors. No smells. Monotone sound. I only have my thoughts and my questions.
I want something to change. I want someone to turn off the “repeat track” mode and allow the next one to go on. No one has yet told me why I am here, their reasons for detaining me or if I need to do anything. I am considering walking over to that CCTV camera with its lens constantly fixed on me, speak right into it and tell them that I know they are trying to play mind-games on me but that they are, in fact, plainly wrong in believing that I am a terrorist. But then again, that must obviously be what they hear from everyone, and I am not going to fall into the normal pattern. I am different. I am innocent. The physical walls of this room do not bother me much - but the lack of information and constant mental competition make me feel claustrophobic.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
Fourth Day
This morning was special. I talked to a human being. The sound of my voice was eerie. I was sat on a plastic chair, scooped from my loins to my shoulder-blades in the seamless curve of grayish composite. This new room wasn’t very different: no window, no clutter, just a desk with two chairs, and another one in the corner. The man in the suit who woke me this morning was now sat opposite me under the same bleary light as fills my room, the corridors, and, I suspect, the entire building. Thinking of it now, I have no idea how big this place is. How many rooms? I haven’t heard anyone else next door. Am I the only one in here? The place is clean, it’s not like the paint is flaking off the walls – but it’s not fresh either. Their furniture seems new, but not shiny new. Timeless. I wonder whether I’m underground. Maybe there’s a building upstairs, offices, swarming crowds, clatter and chatter.
When I followed the man this morning I felt excited. The morning torpor ebbed as soon as I realized he wasn’t my regular breakfast guy. I don’t know what I expected – the mere fact that he was obviously from outside, that something was going to happen, anything really, got me into a state. We marched down identical corridors for five minutes – in fact, I have no idea, could have been longer. He had me walk in front of him and steered me with a calm, even voice. We sat down. For a while he just looked at me. I felt the flutter in my stomach solidify and mount up my chest. From my bed, with unaccustomed eyes, I had only distinguished a silhouette. Now the man opposite me looked like the standard middle-aged commuter, carefully groomed and modestly dressed, with regular features marred only by a somewhat oversize nose. Thin red veins crowned its flagging nostrils and crawled up his cheekbones. When he spoke, it was with the same neutral voice as had breathed over my shoulder.
-“What is your name?”
Surely they know that? Never mind, let’s show some well-mannered sanity.
With slow, regular pace came more calm, polite questions.
-“Where do you live? When did you move in? Where were you born? What is your telephone number? Are you married? Have you got children? How many? How old? What are their names?”
Bloody hell, they’ve already got records full of that stuff. What’s the catch? They’re out of harm’s way anyway, and it’s not like they’ve got anything to worry about – unless these guys think terrorism begins at kindergarten. No, it’s fine, these are ok questions. He’s not pushy or aggressive. Let’s oblige.
-“ Are you employed? Where? What do you do there? Since when? Who are your colleagues? Who is your boss?”
I know he can look it up on the internet if he wants to, but I still feel oddly embarrassed having to drum this all up. It’s nothing secret, it’s just data, but I feel like I’m laying my soul bare to this guy. Am I giving my family and my colleagues in? No. It’s ok. It’s not like they’re to blame for anything. It’s all on public records anyway. I’m not treading any lines. Ok. Calm down. It’s fine.
-“What’s your social life like? Been out much lately? With who?”
Hey, that’s none of his business.
-“List the people you’ve had contact with this month.”
Come on, like I remember that.
-“Make an effort. We’ve got time. I want the names of everyone you’ve seen in the past month. Have you been away? On a weekend? On a business trip? So do you travel much for work? Where to? How regularly? Who do you see there?”
I venture a remark.
-“Please answer my question. Who do you see there?”
I remained in the room long after the man in the suit had left. I felt tired. My mouth was dry from all the talking. My head buzzed and I couldn’t remember much of what I’d said. I felt I’d come back from a long hike with no direction. I felt like I’d been split open and gutted out by a very gentle surgeon. I felt shame creeping up on me. I had spilled myself. Meek as a lamb. What have I said? Nothing extraordinary. Nothing they can’t have been aware of. What are they playing at, for God’s sake? What’s the point of putting me through this? They know all this stuff! They must have been watching me for some time if I’m in on suspicion of terrorist activity. After a while a guard came and took me back to my room. I’ve been lying here for ages. It’s the first time since I came in here that I can’t sleep. I keep running today over in my head. Shreds of it sail in and out of my mind. What did he ask? His questions were so precise, but I can’t remember any of them now. I feel I repeated myself quite a lot. My brain feels like a tired old sponge. It’s seeping out of it and I’m lying here wide-eyed in the dark straining to keep some of it in the cup of my consciousness. When the man in the suit stood up to leave I hurled some last questions at him. I asked him the time when he was on the doorstep. He didn’t have a watch.
When I followed the man this morning I felt excited. The morning torpor ebbed as soon as I realized he wasn’t my regular breakfast guy. I don’t know what I expected – the mere fact that he was obviously from outside, that something was going to happen, anything really, got me into a state. We marched down identical corridors for five minutes – in fact, I have no idea, could have been longer. He had me walk in front of him and steered me with a calm, even voice. We sat down. For a while he just looked at me. I felt the flutter in my stomach solidify and mount up my chest. From my bed, with unaccustomed eyes, I had only distinguished a silhouette. Now the man opposite me looked like the standard middle-aged commuter, carefully groomed and modestly dressed, with regular features marred only by a somewhat oversize nose. Thin red veins crowned its flagging nostrils and crawled up his cheekbones. When he spoke, it was with the same neutral voice as had breathed over my shoulder.
-“What is your name?”
Surely they know that? Never mind, let’s show some well-mannered sanity.
With slow, regular pace came more calm, polite questions.
-“Where do you live? When did you move in? Where were you born? What is your telephone number? Are you married? Have you got children? How many? How old? What are their names?”
Bloody hell, they’ve already got records full of that stuff. What’s the catch? They’re out of harm’s way anyway, and it’s not like they’ve got anything to worry about – unless these guys think terrorism begins at kindergarten. No, it’s fine, these are ok questions. He’s not pushy or aggressive. Let’s oblige.
-“ Are you employed? Where? What do you do there? Since when? Who are your colleagues? Who is your boss?”
I know he can look it up on the internet if he wants to, but I still feel oddly embarrassed having to drum this all up. It’s nothing secret, it’s just data, but I feel like I’m laying my soul bare to this guy. Am I giving my family and my colleagues in? No. It’s ok. It’s not like they’re to blame for anything. It’s all on public records anyway. I’m not treading any lines. Ok. Calm down. It’s fine.
-“What’s your social life like? Been out much lately? With who?”
Hey, that’s none of his business.
-“List the people you’ve had contact with this month.”
Come on, like I remember that.
-“Make an effort. We’ve got time. I want the names of everyone you’ve seen in the past month. Have you been away? On a weekend? On a business trip? So do you travel much for work? Where to? How regularly? Who do you see there?”
I venture a remark.
-“Please answer my question. Who do you see there?”
I remained in the room long after the man in the suit had left. I felt tired. My mouth was dry from all the talking. My head buzzed and I couldn’t remember much of what I’d said. I felt I’d come back from a long hike with no direction. I felt like I’d been split open and gutted out by a very gentle surgeon. I felt shame creeping up on me. I had spilled myself. Meek as a lamb. What have I said? Nothing extraordinary. Nothing they can’t have been aware of. What are they playing at, for God’s sake? What’s the point of putting me through this? They know all this stuff! They must have been watching me for some time if I’m in on suspicion of terrorist activity. After a while a guard came and took me back to my room. I’ve been lying here for ages. It’s the first time since I came in here that I can’t sleep. I keep running today over in my head. Shreds of it sail in and out of my mind. What did he ask? His questions were so precise, but I can’t remember any of them now. I feel I repeated myself quite a lot. My brain feels like a tired old sponge. It’s seeping out of it and I’m lying here wide-eyed in the dark straining to keep some of it in the cup of my consciousness. When the man in the suit stood up to leave I hurled some last questions at him. I asked him the time when he was on the doorstep. He didn’t have a watch.
Sunday, 22 June 2008
Second Day
Even when there is no car chase, siege, megaphone negotiation, or baton-charging involved, getting arrested involves a certain amount of adrenalin. I slept like the dead last night despite the unfamiliar mattress, and was pretty bleary-eyed this morning when they took me out to the showers.
I'm wide awake now, though, and a little surprised I haven't been getting more attention. They must have questions to ask me. I'd be worried about seeing my lawyer - presumably I am to have a lawyer - but frankly I wouldn't have much to discuss with him, as I haven't been charged with an offence. I suppose most crooks in this situation would be fretting about whether their accomplices will stick to the story, or whether their contraband has fallen into the wrong hands, or whether they'll be facing retribution, having cocked up the plan. My family are away, they have no reason to be concerned, and I couldn't give a shit if I don't get out in time to go to work; I've nothing to worry about. A perfect time to become imprisoned. What luck!
I'm getting distracted. I put pen to paper because I've nothing better to do, and my intention was to do some positive, analytical thinking and write down what I thought. Only a single day 'inside' (and already I'm talking like a native - how pretentious can you get) and I'm already giving myself these little projects. I'm playing at being a prisoner. Is that a mistake? Is it going to leave me acquiescent? Should I be fighting every step, refusing my food, outraged at the loss of my liberty? Right now it seems like a value a little too metaphysical to get worked up about. In here I can't exactly chase my dreams, but I guess that means I won't be disappointed. And what sort of weekend did I have in mind anyway? The indulgence of a pizza and a film, since I'm on my own? It's nice to be on one's own, for a bit. That's solitary confinement for you.
I'm wide awake now, though, and a little surprised I haven't been getting more attention. They must have questions to ask me. I'd be worried about seeing my lawyer - presumably I am to have a lawyer - but frankly I wouldn't have much to discuss with him, as I haven't been charged with an offence. I suppose most crooks in this situation would be fretting about whether their accomplices will stick to the story, or whether their contraband has fallen into the wrong hands, or whether they'll be facing retribution, having cocked up the plan. My family are away, they have no reason to be concerned, and I couldn't give a shit if I don't get out in time to go to work; I've nothing to worry about. A perfect time to become imprisoned. What luck!
I'm getting distracted. I put pen to paper because I've nothing better to do, and my intention was to do some positive, analytical thinking and write down what I thought. Only a single day 'inside' (and already I'm talking like a native - how pretentious can you get) and I'm already giving myself these little projects. I'm playing at being a prisoner. Is that a mistake? Is it going to leave me acquiescent? Should I be fighting every step, refusing my food, outraged at the loss of my liberty? Right now it seems like a value a little too metaphysical to get worked up about. In here I can't exactly chase my dreams, but I guess that means I won't be disappointed. And what sort of weekend did I have in mind anyway? The indulgence of a pizza and a film, since I'm on my own? It's nice to be on one's own, for a bit. That's solitary confinement for you.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
First day
All I have this pen and paper.
The room is small, and almost completely empty. There’s a table and a chair, but I don’t feel like they belong to me. I tested them out, but they’re too hard and institutional. The chair is them same small, charcoal-grey plastic model that they used for our chairs in school. They were uncomfortable then and they’re much worse now.
The table is bare (I removed the paper and pen from it) and it shines dimly under the fluorescent strip lamp. The walls are bare (I didn’t need to remove anything from them). The floor is, except for me and this pen and paper, bare. The bed – attached to the wall - has not yet been made. In the corner, there is a toilet. No brush, but a single roll of toilet paper. There is no window, not even a barred-up square of light.
The door is open. Outside, an armed police officer is watching me.
Now, if I were reading this, I’d think that the person writing it was trying to complain about this situation, trying to depict it as a violation of human rights, working himself up into some storm of righteous indignation, or perhaps preparing to tell his readers about far worse abuses.
I’m not going to do that. Apart from the actual arrest – by my reckoning, three hours ago or so, but it’s hard to tell – I haven’t been manhandled; I haven’t been punched, kicked, spat on, called names, or anything else. And the room is horribly bare, but clean. I’ve always been of the opinion that people live surrounded by too much clutter and distractions, and so there is a certain peaceful calm to be had from being surrounded by nothing but walls and cheap, functional furniture. And an armed police officer.
That may sound odd, but the truth is that it does make you calm. It makes you meek and obedient. If I do anything that I’ve been told not to, or not been told to, anything unexpected or misinterpretable, I could get shot. So I’m not restless, or panicky, or violent, because there is no point. I didn’t complain when they stripped me of my outer clothing, emptied my pockets of my wallet, phone, keys, watch, and various tickets and scraps of notepaper. And I won’t complain now.
I don’t want them to think that I ought to be here. They haven’t told me why I’m here, but I know that I haven’t done anything to warrant arrest. At least, I don’t think I have. I certainly haven’t been planning any terrorist activity; this would, to my knowledge, be the main grounds for holding me without charge.
No, I’ll just wait until they talk to me. It might take a while, but I’ll wait. And until then, I’ll write. I don’t know what I’ll write, or whether it will be read: but it will stop me talking.
The room is small, and almost completely empty. There’s a table and a chair, but I don’t feel like they belong to me. I tested them out, but they’re too hard and institutional. The chair is them same small, charcoal-grey plastic model that they used for our chairs in school. They were uncomfortable then and they’re much worse now.
The table is bare (I removed the paper and pen from it) and it shines dimly under the fluorescent strip lamp. The walls are bare (I didn’t need to remove anything from them). The floor is, except for me and this pen and paper, bare. The bed – attached to the wall - has not yet been made. In the corner, there is a toilet. No brush, but a single roll of toilet paper. There is no window, not even a barred-up square of light.
The door is open. Outside, an armed police officer is watching me.
Now, if I were reading this, I’d think that the person writing it was trying to complain about this situation, trying to depict it as a violation of human rights, working himself up into some storm of righteous indignation, or perhaps preparing to tell his readers about far worse abuses.
I’m not going to do that. Apart from the actual arrest – by my reckoning, three hours ago or so, but it’s hard to tell – I haven’t been manhandled; I haven’t been punched, kicked, spat on, called names, or anything else. And the room is horribly bare, but clean. I’ve always been of the opinion that people live surrounded by too much clutter and distractions, and so there is a certain peaceful calm to be had from being surrounded by nothing but walls and cheap, functional furniture. And an armed police officer.
That may sound odd, but the truth is that it does make you calm. It makes you meek and obedient. If I do anything that I’ve been told not to, or not been told to, anything unexpected or misinterpretable, I could get shot. So I’m not restless, or panicky, or violent, because there is no point. I didn’t complain when they stripped me of my outer clothing, emptied my pockets of my wallet, phone, keys, watch, and various tickets and scraps of notepaper. And I won’t complain now.
I don’t want them to think that I ought to be here. They haven’t told me why I’m here, but I know that I haven’t done anything to warrant arrest. At least, I don’t think I have. I certainly haven’t been planning any terrorist activity; this would, to my knowledge, be the main grounds for holding me without charge.
No, I’ll just wait until they talk to me. It might take a while, but I’ll wait. And until then, I’ll write. I don’t know what I’ll write, or whether it will be read: but it will stop me talking.
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