Forty-Second Day

I take up my pencil as I hear footsteps approaching the door.

The door is openend and I throw down my pencil.

Forty-First Day

This is my penultimate day, unless they decide to keep me longer. It was grimly satisfying. They didn't interview me, speak to me, it was a day like so many others in the last forty. It encapsulates in twenty four hours the last six weeks of my life.

I haven't been able to think about anything but tomorrow. If they let me leave, when will it be? Will they bother to keep me until a minute to midnight? Where will they let me out?

In fact, I'd love to claim that I spent the day examining some higher purpose, or reflecting on those lessons I have learned over the last six weeks. That in a rejection of all that has happened I will go out and fight for freedom, that I have come to know my 'true, inner self'. I don't think it has been like that. The last six weeks have been boring - very, guilt inducing -when interrogated, and frustrating - in short but extreme bouts. I don't think that there are any take-homes from this.

I wonder what they do to those they don't treat so gently.

Fortieth Day

- Can I ask you a question, Sir?

- Go ahead.

- Why am I here?

- You are being detained in accordance with English law on suspicion of involvement with terrorists cells operating…

- I know, I know. But that tells me nothing, does it? If you ask a waiter what is on the menu, surely you would want to here something more than “oh, a wide variety of original and tasty dishes, prepared using only the best ingredients from all over the world”. That would tell you just as much about the actual selection as your answer has informed me of why I’m actually here, tell me if I’m wrong.

- Well, we had hoped that you would give us the answers. Why do you think you are here. Use your imagination.

- I only know what you have told me - that I am here because of something that has to do with M. Surely you must have realised by now though that I have nothing to do with him. That you were wrong from the beginning. Is that why I am still being held here? Because you don’t want to admit to yourselves that you made a mistake capturing me in the first place? Or do you really think that I will rush home to make petrol bombs together with M as soon as you release me?

- What do you think?

- Don’t give me that! For fuck’s sake don’t give me that! I’m not stupid you know - I know there must be something or else I wouldn’t be here. It’s been forty days now and I have tried hard, indeed used the full capacity of my imagination to come up with possible explanations as to why I’m being held here. I have tried to decipher every conversation I have had with M in search of hidden messages, I have attempted to go through just about everything I have done or said to anyone in the past year, and I still don’t know. I’m only asking you out of curiosity - why am I here - and all you ask me to do is to think about it! I tell you what - I’m not going to think about it any more. I am just going to accept that I don’t know, and it comforts me to know that you don’t seem to have a clue either.

- First of all, I never thought you were stupid. No one does. People who end up here seldom are, and even more rarely do they spend their time making petrol bombs. Second, you should know that we are not stupid either. Trying to provoke or insult me won’t do you any good - if you are clever enough you’ll realise that. Third, it must certainly have crossed you mind that we’re being extremely gentle with you. You cannot think that this is how we treat all our “guests”. If someone withholds information from us that we deem necessary for us to acquire, we usually find a way to get it. In you case...let’s just say we are slightly curious about certain things and that you’ll know when our interest grows stronger. And frankly, I don’t really care whether or not you know why you’re here so long as we get something out of it - and whether we do is for us to decide.

- In that case, I certainly hope you have low standards, or else you must be terribly disappointed by know.

- As I said, that is for us to decide, and in my humble opinion we do possess the greater expertise in that respect. And I believe we are done for today. Take him away.

That’s it. Today’s interrogation word by word as accurate as I can remember it. And if I fail miserably to see the reason why I am being detained, I struggle equally to see in what way our conversation can be of any use to them. But that’s their problem, not mine. I am merely here as guest to still the curiosity of my hosts.

Thirty-Ninth Day

Rain.

I would give anything for rain on my head.

I can hear it outside, just. I want it cascading through my hair and down my temples, dripping into my eyes and merging with my tears and, possibly, my snot.

Thirty-Seventh Day

An extraordinary thing happened today. I met a person from outside. I know, the guards I see every day, and my interrogators, all have lives beyond these walls. When here, though, they are parts of the machinery of this institution and of its fabric. The girl I met today was luminous by comparison.

I was led from my room through our bleak corridors in the usual way, my squat guard silent but for echoing footfalls. He stayed with us in the interrogation room.

I'm not sure quite who the girl was. She could have been an official, but could just as easily have been an undergraduate on some quixotic project, who in her naivity had got access to me - something I cannot imagine any more hardened researcher attempting. The girl was preposterously young. I imagined some sleepy bureaucrat signing her off, his mind preoccupied with the recent discovery of his teenager's dope habit, or maybe with a particularly ripe cleavage he'd been staring at on the tube that morning. She asked me about my sleeping patterns, my general health, and made me perform some tasks, some word games, some mental arithmetic. This was evidently some form of psychological assessment, but it didn't feel all that rigorous.

Frankly, I wasn't interested in what this girl - I cannot think of her as a woman - was asking me. I was taken aback by her presence, and how it made me feel. She had luxuriant, tousled hair. Her face was plain but confident and happy and made up with skill. She was tanned. Her handbag was obviously costly, and a pair of sunglasses lay beside it on the table between us. Here was a wealthy woman, but in no sense a glamorous one. She was too young and too English and the illusion she gave of carelessness and a lack of preening was far too successful for that. In a word, the girl I met today was a picture of privilege.

I was prompted to an absurd feeling. I resented this girl's privilege and that of her class, and I felt a desperate pang of envy. I didn't just want the trappings this creature enjoyed, or even her freedom to come and go from my prison, I wanted to be as much like her as I could be. I wanted to be young and beautiful and born to a life of the best of everything.

My parents should not have pursued their worthy but ordinary lives, I thought. Neither should I now be satisfied with what I now accept as my fate. I should be striving to bring my children or theirs to this girl's heights. Somehow, though, I have accepted the life that has been thrust upon me as my own and as right for me. I know or think I know that this girl will not grow up to be happier or healthier than I, or to have a better understanding of the world. Almost everyone in the world has someone to envy, and they console themselves with thoughts such as these.

There is a connection between privilege and freedom, of course - freedom to choose what to do with one's life, and more importantly with each hour of the day - the ability to buy time for study or travel or for blow-drying one's hair is what sets apart the rich from the poor. Historically this divide was all the wider, I suppose, if that's not so vague as to be meaningless. Writing about class, and now history, I cannot help but think of class struggle, which means Marx, which means revolution. This Sloaney girl made me think of the Manifesto. 'Workers of the world...' and the rest. Where shall we place my detention in the history of the modern age? What does it say about these times? I don't know the answer. I know I don't have the perspective to give an answer. But it feels like the end of history. If those with power in the UK believe themselves threatened by me, and this is all the response they can muster, this is an effete age indeed. It is as though history has been replaced by politics.

I will stop here, though this isn't all I have to say.

Thirty-Sixth Day

Last night, I had a dream.

I don't usually remember my dreams; at home, I wake to the sound of an alarm most mornings, and any momentary dream fragments remaining in my consciousness are pushed out by beep after beep after beep.

But now that I spend days drifting between waking and sleep, there is ample opportunity to let the end of my dreams flower in that walled garden of half-sleep, that Sunday-morning half-tossing, half-stretching that goes on without any concept of time or pressure.

Yet, from these kind of dreams, I would rather wake up.

I'm on a treadmill in a laboratory, being analysed by some kind of white-coated scientists - one man and one woman. Traditional nerdy types with clipboards and faces like a slapped arse. I'm linked up to heart-rate monitors and such like. The treadmill slowly gets faster, and suddenly they start asking me where M is.

Each time I reply that I don't know, the treadmill gets noticeably faster. I can't see the speed dial on the treadmill, but I know from experience that if it has been constantly increasing in speed for this long, it must be well over what the human body can tolerate. But I'm still managing to run - only just. It's a dream, so the treadmill can both go on increasing indefinitely in speed and making me panic and yet still remain within the realms of what I can physically handle. It goes on and on, round and round.

*

It's funny, this dream, because I haven't been interrogated for a while now.

And it's not like this can be a subconscious analogy for torture, because - clealry, quite clearly - I haven't been subjected to any.

Thirty-Fifth Day

What a load of old shit I’ve been writing. ‘I wonder if I really want to leave’: of course I want to leave. I just want to get out of here. It doesn’t matter if, in the outside world, my choices are arbitrary or irrational, if I’ve always drunk coffee when actually I prefer tea. It just doesn’t matter. At least I’m making a choice. At least I’m able to make a choice. Here in this room, I have no decisions to make, and it is stifling. All I decide upon is the next word, and whether I prefer this to that. I prefer that. I like its accusatory rattle. But it doesn't really matter because words are not actions - they are not real. There's nothing else.

If this 42 days thing is true, then I’ll be out of here in a week. I wonder if I get to leave on the 42^nd day or if I have to wait until after 42 days. How much could one last day hurt? I wonder what time they’ll let me out. Morning would be nice – some daylight perhaps. A full day of walking and sun. Or just an afternoon, even a rainy one. But it’s perfectly possible that I could be here indefinitely. Maybe they think they’ve found evidence of some past crime – those sweets I stole from the shop as a kid, that lie I told at school – ‘Oh no sir, it certainly wasn’t me’ – anything. I can’t remember all of my own life. Maybe I’m now awaiting trial and nobody’s told me. Who would know? Who would fight for me? The government? These people are the government, I guess. Why haven’t my friends done anything?

Thirty-Fourth Day

They left the door open after breakfast today. Not for long, just 20 seconds or so, perhaps half a minute. It is hard to judge. I sat there and looked at it, that gap to the outside world, or at least a slice of undecorated wall identical to those four that have surrounded me for the last five weeks. I briefly entertained thoughts of escape, but really, what would be the point? I'm sure I wouldn't get very far. Or at least I think I entertained thoughts of escape. It is easy to rationalise ex post, but I'm pretty sure that I've already broken my resolution. I'd by lying to myself if I claimed it were a concious decision. Sitting and waiting is becoming a habit.

I wonder if I really want to leave. Being here is no barrel of laughs but how do I know I really want to be in the outside world? In my first few days, few weeks, I could only think about what it was to be out there. Now I only think about myself, about my cell - my life a sea of introspection. Over a month of sitting and thinking and I'm not the same person that entered this prison. Will I be as content as I was before? Would I be able to do the things I did before - even make new choices? What makes me think that I would be able to choose coffee on the outside, let alone tea? Perhaps for the new me, this is as good as it gets.

Thirty-Third day

Thirty-three.

That’s the longest sequence of random digits I can remember. When I was younger, I used to play this very simple and somewhat geeky game together with my friends - whomever could remember the longest sequence won, and I was usually the best. I believe that is why I have always liked the number thirty-three: it appeals to me in some strange, psychological and pseudo-aesthetic way. Surely one number cannot be more beautiful than another, and yet, I have always preferred thirty-three to both thirty-two and thirty-four.

I wonder whether our silly game would ever have crossed my mind had I been anywhere but here. I would probably have been too busy with my everyday life to even reflect on why I have always preferred to set my alarm to 6.33 rather than 6.30. Come to think of it, there are so many things I do without even reflecting on why and how I do them. I get up, have a shower, make my toast, drink my coffee, travel to work, talk to colleagues, eat lunch and dinner, read the paper, watch some TV, go to bed. If I wanted to, I could probably justify my choice of daily routines, but why would I ever need to? And if no justification is ever required, how can I be sure that it is, in fact possible?

It may be that I wake up, twenty years from now, only to realise that I, in fact, have always preferred tea to coffee. Why then have I always insisted on having the latter for breakfast throughout my life? Maybe because my father always had coffee when I was a child. Maybe because people I have lived with never really liked tea and it therefore seemed most convenient that I too should drink coffee. The point is not that I dislike coffee, I really don’t - at least not for now. But if I do things without thinking about why, how do I know if I actually prefer tea?
Being detained has made me an observer of my own life, a demander of justifications for every action, critically assessed. What I long for more than anything at this point is to be able to choose for myself in every aspect of my life - when to wake up, when to brush my teeth, what to have for breakfast… but what is the point if I never reflect on my choices anyway? From now on, I’m going to make conscious decisions - I am going to be aware of every choice I make and I shall demand a justification of myself.

If nothing else, I should remember this resolution as something good that came of my detention.

Thirty-Second Day

I am sick of myself. Sick of being both subject and object; sick of being the only object onto which my otherwise unsolicited mind can latch; sick of being the only, unchallenged subject allowed to behold everything in its boundless exercise. I want obstacles. I want competition. I want narrow passes in which to squeeze and contort myself. I want bulky, unmoving alien bodies to populate the space. I want to fight, to strain, to jump, to beat. I want to run an obstacle course with a tense, sweating mind; I want my tense, sweating self to push and elbow its place in a crowded world.
I am liquid. The once stubborn, straining arches of my leaping mind have collapsed and resolved into still pools, an immense and silent wetland. In the busy world of the living I journeyed through ever-changing terrain, through mindfields, down crags and caves, up mountain peaks and, occasionally, through rather charming valleys. Now with every feature removed from the landscape, I wade my way through flat expanses, sighing marshes and barren soils. Distances stretch. Hours grow long.
Am I even walking? Sometimes I get the feeling I’m stepping on a treadmill while behind me a cardboard scenery keeps unfolding its repetitive colour-washes with a mechanic whirr.
In the busy world of the living I risked intrusion, annexation and obliteration every minute; hordes of competing subjects stood pushing and howling at my doors. Sometimes the density was suffocating. Letting any in always constituted a major risk. Man, did I live dangerously… In the vacuum of their absent bodies, I spread like an oil stain on my still, watery surface. I am flat, and ever thinning.

Thirtieth Day

Let me describe how my life goes. I doze, and I always dream. Sometimes I dream of my childhood, which is both wonderful and painful; sometimes I have nightmares, but they don't trouble me. I can always wake up - I have no need to sleep long or deep or well - and when I am awake the fear goes away. In my home, in the dark, I am vulnerable to intruders, man or beast or like nothing else: insane or merely ruthless. Here I am secure if nothing else. Many of my dreams, though, do trouble me, for one reason or another. I have dreams in which I learn about myself, profound dreams, and my memory of them is empty - they get to me - but more troubling still are those that I perceive, when asleep, as quite mundane, but which I later realise were wrong in ways that should have shocked me.
This morning, for example, I dreamt that my son had died, and this did not horrify me.

I cannot doze all day, however. Still, I lie down. I am used to lying down when I am alone or have no reason to sit. I generally lie on my right at first, but I have a certain pain in my ankle that makes this uncomfortable. By twisting my body, arranging my legs just so, I can avoid it - but I am always tense when I feel I am forcing myself into this position. So I lie on my left, and I long to roll over. I measure out the minutes as best I can, keeping my discipline, and then I roll over with infinite care. I don't want my ankle to play up, I have to end my roll in the right position, and I have to execute this manoeuvre naturally in an unforced manner.

Lying on my right does not live up to its promise. Eventually I leave my bed. Then I sit on the hard floor with my back against the wall, sometimes with my arms over my knees, sometimes with my hands splayed out on the ground by my sides, the pressure through my wrists lifting my shoulders high. In this position I am a permanent shrug. I prefer to sit opposite the camera, not beneath it. I don't like the thought of being watched from behind.

I am not yet good at pacing; I can't keep it up. I stop too easily. I remain too easily seduced by the idea that actions should have purposes, and that when I am not acting to a purpose I should preserve my energy.

I would like to be more precise in my description. If I had a watch I could understand how it is possible to divide a day into dozing, two types of lying down and two types of sitting on the floor. As it is I struggle. Each time one of my meals arrives, I know I have got through another few hours.

Twenty-Ninth Day

I: Who are you?
EYE: Might ask you the same question.
I: Why the sudden shift to stereo?
EYE. Need for dialogue. You’ve entered the angle of percievedness.
I: I?
EYE: Aye. Get up till I observe you.
I: No need. They.
EYE: It is common, it is common: used to Them by now, no? It’s I should rouse your concern.
I: Why?
EYE: Silly question. Don’t flinch while I take a peek around. Not been doing much of that lately, have you?
I: The circumstances don’t permit it –
EYE: The circumstances! The circumstances! Cock and bull! Thought I told you not to panic! Overheads, pencil sharpeners, apocalypse outside the window, Bob’s your uncle, how’s your father –
I: You know my father? God be praised! Tell him I’ll soon be – but no. Forget it.
EYE: Delirium. Serious delirium. Patient told not to panic, only to introduce another voice, another I, mono to stereo, mono to stereo – Don’t flinch while I examine our big toe. Take off that sock.
I: What?
EYE: You heard me. I fancy a look at our big toe. See how the ingrown’s getting along.
I (flinching): No! You’ve no right! That’s private!
EYE (shedding a tear in Its merriment): We’re a funny one today, aren’t we?.. Off with the sock! Yes… Ooh, they all need a bit of a clean, don’t they? Bit of a trim, too. Shouldn’t think there’s much chance of getting hold of some clippers, though. Let’s just get some feelers on the ingrown! Feelers!
I: Not touching the ingrown. It hurts!
EYE: Aye, of course it hurts. The phrase “sensible shoes” never did mean anything to you, did it? I: Don’t look. I forbid you to look!
EYE: “I forbid you to look”, you says! And I says, “I’ll have my look any old how, free to my own devices, I am.”
I: Says you!
EYE: Says I!
I: Just need to talk to someone is all. Can’t carry on like this. Guard! Guard! Guard! Need someone to –
EYE: Keep your voice down, won’t you! Wouldn’t want an independent presiding over this mess. ’Part from that camera over in that corner, she’s all right, she is.
I: She? For God’s sake, this is serious! We need a little focus here!
EYE: We are being serious! A very serious matter indeed. Don’t you know we named her Jeremy?
I (reflecting): Jeremy… Yes, a rather suitable name for a camera… (Aside.) Clear signs of Stockholm Syndrome: the month’s not out and already on first-name terms with the captors!

*

Look back over what I’ve written. Not good. All this time and not a mention of the ingrown! I’m terrifying myself.

Twenty-Eighth Day

I had an overnight epiphany: pencils are often transported without tapered ends because it means less wasted space in the boxes and less damage to the pencils themselves. At least, I assume that's why. Logic - or what I can approximate to it in my mind - dictates this as a solution.

But since when did logic - or what one takes to be it - prove infallible? How many times have I discovered that something which I assumed to be so due to logic is so not because logic dictated it be so, but through chance, circumstance, or even due to thought processes completely opposed to logic.

Still, whatever the case, whether they ship pencils blunt to save space and cash, or whether they do it just to fuck you off, I'd love a computer about now. I could go poking around on Wikipedia, search "pencil", "transport" and "overheads" in Google and, bob's your uncle, I'd soon have an article on the advanced cost savings to be made by transporting pencils unsharpened.

"Bob's your uncle"? Bob would be uncle. If I had a computer.

No, all I've got is a pencil. I'm in the Stone Age. It's back to the future, at least for another fourteen days. In fact, speaking of mildly apocalyptic circumstances and the disappearance of modern technology, by my mental tally, I've been in (not "inside" - I'm not a prisoner; not yet) for twenty-eight days now.

What if, like in that film, I emerged tomorrow to find that, twenty-eight days later, the whole of modern civilisation had been wiped out by zombies?

Shit, how would I get out of here? That door's locked.

Keep writing. If you don't, you'll get up and try and unlock the door. And then they'll think you're trying to escape.

Keep writing.

Keep breathing.

Don't panic.

Twenty-Seventh Day

Ha! A sharpener! They must be reading this regularly, for today what should arrive upon my desk but a brand new yellow pencil and a small green plastic pencil sharpener? I’ve never understood why pencils come sometimes as flat-ended cylinders and you have to spend ten minutes fiddling around with the sharpener before you can actually write anything. But today at least it gives me something to do.

I’m thinking about the pencil sharpener too. They obviously trust me enough to believe that I’m not going to unscrew the little blade and try to slit my wrists or escape or something. Could you kill yourself with the blade of a pencil sharpener? It would really hurt, that’s for sure.

I wonder who invented the pencil sharpener. It’s such a neat little device. It serves one single purpose and does so cheaply, efficiently and with minimum of fuss. There’s a little wastage of course, but from the pencil not the sharpener. Those sharpenings that go round and round and fracture and drop and float to the floor. Little beige twirlings with a thin continuous rim of yellow. I wonder if they’ll sweep these up tomorrow. For some reason, I rather hope they don’t.

Twenty-Sixth Day

There are no tears today; I feel the empty depression that stems from hope unfulfilled.

Yesterday I was a fool, and today I deflatedly reflect on my somewhat unproductive antics. On a second, more rational pass it is clear that there are a multiplicity of reasons that my hysterical optimism was unfounded. Firstly, I have no evidence that my detention will remain, to the extent that it is, legal. Who knows where I am? What is to stop them from leaving me here. Secondly, even if my captors remain within the law, asinine as it may be, M may well have implicated me under pressure. If M strikes a deal, where does that leave me? Thirdly, the law allows them to detain me if they can charge me even if M hasn't caved. Can I trust their definition of 'reasonable suspicion' and mine to be the same?

My pencil is blunt and these last words are becoming scratchy making the noise of nails on a blackboard as the wood scrapes over the paper. I'll stop here. I'm sure Pepys or Johnson never failed for a sharpener.

Twenty-Fifth Day

By my calculations – and I believe I am correct – I am 4 days over mid-detention today if they keep me for the entire legal period. It may still be a long wait, but it will never – it cannot – be longer than what I’ve already experienced. Sure, the cumulative effect will make this second semester harder to bear, worn as I am already. But still, knowing even that, the dazzling beam of hope that knocked me back against my bed this morning, when I suddenly realized what day it was, would not be dimmed. For an instant I was there already, I could see the threshold bathing in golden light, I could smell the fresh air outside, I felt a tingle in my limbs, that of freedom, that of infinite movement and long, faraway journeys. I exulted. I leapt from my bed and danced savagely in my narrow cell. I threw myself against the walls, belly first, I raved guttural cries of joy and cried for the first time I’m here. It’s nearly over. Yes, I can see the end, I’m nearly there. It’s over, it’s over already, the end is nigh, yes it is, yes it is!
I sang and yodeled it, and I whisked my prude widowing chair off her slight feet into a passionate waltz. She didn’t really know how to react.
I needed none of their attention. They could all go to hell – what they thought didn’t matter anymore: you can’t prove an innocent guilty and 17 days – yes, 17 days! Hardly over two weeks, ha! – will not suffice them if they haven’t come up with anything in 25 – think about it, that’s 3 weeks and a half! Screw them all, every single one of them! Think what you will, I am free already! Your grip is loosening by the second, there is nothing you can do that will keep me here any longer than 17 miserable little days. I’ve seen worse – I’ve seen 25!
Until this day I was counting my mileage and looking backwards to the hours stretching behind me, watching them grow deeper and darker with increasing fear. From today I am counting down and looking ahead of me. I can feel the hours growing shallow and warm under my fending prow. I am a returning ship and my sails are ablaze. Land is in sight, my course is set, and none of you pirates will detain me in your treacherous waters much longer.

My ruckus must have alarmed a nearby guard – or perhaps someone was watching the CCTV. They came. Two big men flattened me on the floor and I was dragged to a black room the size of a cupboard. I spent all of today there, on the floor. I thought I might be left there for three days or something, but this evening they came to fetch me again. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was escorted back to my cell and sat down.
“M. has testified. You would do better to do the same too.” They bade me goodnight with surreal politeness.

Noi ci allegrammo, e tosto tornò in pianto,
ché de la nova terra un turbo nacque
e percosse del legno il promo canto.
Tre volte il fé girar con tutte l'acque;
a la quarta levar la poppa in suso
e la prora ire in giú, com' altrui piacque,
infin che 'l mar fu sovra noi richiuso.

I cried twice today.

Twenty-Third Day

Here's a theory: prison is bad because it deprives us of comforts that are not quite necessary. Here, I don't have to work, and I am warm and safe and fed with nutritious food and given clean water and I can wash myself and my surroundings are hygienic. Besides those things, however, I don't have a lot of comforts, and I have fewer distractions. I have lots of time to think about what I lack - and as a prisoner, it is expected of me that I will reflect on what I lack. Thus I become obsessed with the desire for a window, a plant, a radio, or more exotic pleasures: a drink, a car to drive, a conversation, cricket, a kiss. I crave status, too. My other desires feel like expressions of this. Status = power + society. I want control over things and I want people to talk to - preferably people that will cherish and uphold my control.

Why does this make prison bad? Because with enough of this treatment, people that come out of prison might not go back to being who they were. They might be more selfish. That's my theory. Prison isn't so much bad for prisoners while imprisoned (although it isn't great); it's bad for society because it creates men and women with too much respect for their own desires.



I'm not so sure this theory is right. It doesn't strike me as convincing. I'm not convinced. In fact, I'm tired, I'm finding it hard to think. I've been getting lethargic. I came up with the theory because I needed something to write, or I believed I did. I believed - or I think I believed - I can't quite remember - that this writing ritual was something I relied on. Do I believe that now? I don't know what I believe. I'm angry with myself because I can't quite think straight. I think I've been sleeping too much in the day.

Twenty-Second Day

When I woke up this morning, my diary was, once again, missing.

In its place, a pile of fresh white sheets and a new pencil. A new pencil! I was distraught. My writing equipment is one of the very few things I own here: there's my clothes, but they seem to disappear overnight on those rare occasions when I sleep deeply and return laundered - guess, sine I've not been charged, I have no right to official clothing from Her Majesty's Prison Service - and then there's my writing tools. These are things I can appropriate for myself, cover with my saliva and make marks in with my nails.

I can't even own my bedclothes here; as soon as they start to smell of me, as soon as they reach that golden period between overly-fresh and just plain dirty, as soon as they become mine, they too are removed and laundered.

In another way, though, I was ecstatic. What I write is being read! After the first installment, the reader wanted more.

Not that I think it will get me out of here. Not in the least. If I were in charge of someone I suspected of terrorism, I would read their writings with interest, but not believe a word of it. Writing offers the writer control, the ability to frame events and direct attention away from the truth. It even offers them the ability to just plain lie.

By that logic, of course, my situation is hopeless. Because if I wouldn't trust what I write, then I wouldn't trust what I say. So I can tell them until I'm blue in the face that I am innocent: it wouldn't necessarily convince me; why should it convince them?

So why I am happy that my scribblings are being read with interest?

Sheer vanity?

No. Probably because it proves to me that the outside world still exists.

I'd kill to be interrogated again. Just for that very same reason.

Twenty-First Day

God, a window. Just simple things. The sun, the air, even rain, or wind. Oh! The wind. I mentioned it yesterday merely in passing – ‘merely in passing’, like some casual drinks party aside – ‘oh yes, very good, a window!’ – but it has increasingly now become something of an obsession.

It’s only been a day, but with very little in the way of exterior stimulation a single thought rapidly begins to dominate. I will the wall into transparency. When I was outside, before this, before I... if ever I became hungry I used to tease myself by imagining what I would eat if I could have anything in the world. Anything I wanted in the world. I'm driving across the country with no option but interminable service station synth-food, and I imagine. What would I have? I remember the deep fried salt-and-pepper eel I had in Vietnam, crisp then immediate gooey squelch. Fat and salty bite. Or the perfect Normandy ham in a cheaply tableclothed farmstead. I focus on these to drive myself a little mad, a minor form of self-torment, a little fun test of sanity in a sane normal world.

Here in this box I feel no need for such a test. And yet I'm doing it anyway – there’s nothing else here. How might this window look? Glass perhaps slightly yellowed, slightly warped with age. Diagonal criss-cross lead strips keep this old glass in place. It rattles a little in a buffety gust of wind, but remains firm. Upon the aged white ledge, a child’s money box, hexagonal and heavy with hoarded pennies, a toy racing car, a slumped bear with jaunty red felt hat. This is just the bedroom of my childhood. Long gone now.

And the view? What view? Not the silken willow branches I recall. Not here through this half-remembered, half-imagined window. Through this is only windy cloudy grey. How high up are we? Above the canopy. Above the parapet. This is not the view I want. Tugging and clawing at my own imagination, I cannot imagine what I will. I will the willow. But it simply won’t came.

I screw my mind shut and open my eyes. Well? Wall.

Twentieth day

No interrogation. No reading of my diary - the neglected pages sit there, the ramblings of my mind like unresolved teenage angst, begging for attention. Yet time passes and nothing happens.

Is M detained? What is M saying? Should I be 'confessing' all? The Prisoner's dilemna, of course, says nothing of the guilt of the parties - and a rational player cooperates with his captors and an abandons of his fellow detainee. In this game there are three players. My jailer - What is he thinking? He's read my diary, but somehow I think it is unlikely that I'm going to be reading his in the near future. When does he give up? When does he let me go?

Yet I know it is fruitless to bother to try and construct some elaborate myth - I do not have the imagination to sustain some long-spun yarn, and I'm sure I'd start to contradict myself. On the other hand, I no longer feel sure that I'll ever be free this way, telling them nothing. I wonder if the outside world misses me, or even knows what has happened to me. It is hard to imagine that anyone is aware that I am here, apart from those few people I've seen in the last three weeks.

What I would do for a window...