Hacked (18 page)

A
Guardian
journalist came to talk to us Tuesday evening. She had mad, wavy hair and glasses and laughed a lot.

‘I want this piece to compel the Home Secretary to throw out the request before Monday’s hearing. That’s my raison d’être.’

She was called Amanda and we all liked her, and what she wrote. I got a snippet on the front and a whole page inside Wednesday’s paper, which Ruby and I read in the café after English. She pointed at the black and white portrait.

‘You’re the next Johnny Depp,’ she said and then laughed on her own for a few minutes.

Amanda rang me while we were saying goodbye, both going off to revise for our last paper. I planted a kiss on Ruby’s lips before picking up.

‘Hi.’

‘Dan, Amanda here. Have you read the comments?’

‘No, I’ve been in an exam.’

‘That’s something I don’t miss. Check it out online. There’s a distinguished list supporting your campaign.’

She wasn’t wrong. The sort of faces you see in
Mail Online
were dotted among the hundred or so comments. Gary McKinnon got Sting, from The Police, whereas I had Olly Murs. It was probably our age. Almost as interesting was my first Hitler reference.

If Dan Langley didn’t know what he was doing Hitler didn’t either

Nice to see proof of the theory.

I was lying on my bed staring at yet another vocab list, trying to care. French definitely wasn’t on my list for ASs, and I was bound to do well enough in the other exams to get into sixth form. I decided to revise till tea, and read more Dan Langley web content after that. The hearing had stopped feeling like a public hanging. Everyone was convinced the Home Secretary would deny the request before I got to court. It had become a question of when. Paddy Power were taking bets on the day and time. Charlie told me that when he brought round a copy of an article he’d written in a law magazine – ‘No defence of fast-track extradition’.

‘Dan! El! Tea!’

I leapt up, let the book drop and raced El down the stairs. Dad was pouring wine, Mum was dishing out bowls of chilli con carne.

‘Last exam tomorrow,’ said Dad, as if I didn’t know.

‘Oui, c’est Français.’

‘You’ve done well, Dan. Managing to do your exams with all this going on.’

I did the usual shrug.

Mum sat down and we tucked in.

‘We all think it’s going to go well,’ said Dad. ‘But if not, the automatic right of appeal still exists – no thanks to the government —’

‘Dad just wants you to know that we’re prepared,’ said Mum, ‘whatever happens.’

If they were trying to rein in my confidence in the campaign, it didn’t work. I wasn’t interested in the automatic right of appeal, because I wasn’t going to need it. The world was on my side. Liberty, Friends Extradited, loads of MPs, the
Guardian
, and those were only the well-known ones.

I slept like the dead, and had to rush to get to my French exam.
Quelle horreur!
When I came out, desperate for breakfast, Charlie Tate was waiting. He ushered me to his car and got out his iPad.

‘There’s a fourth one about to confess.’

‘How do you know?’

‘There’s a TV station in the States that has a morning show called
Good Day, Oregon
. They’ve been trailing that she’s coming in for the crack of dawn slot, which is about now.’

Charlie got the video streaming from their website.

The presenter – white teeth, big salesman’s smile – introduced Esther, a bookshop owner from Portland, who was enormous, with straggly hair and boho clothes. That was pretty much the only thing he managed to say. Esther was livid. Nothing to do with me. She was livid with Amazon, for cutting prices, getting exclusives,
and generally killing the world’s love of reading. She accused them of ‘hating’ books. That was why she gave Angel the bots, because she thought the plan was to take down Amazon. She didn’t mention me, because she didn’t care. She wanted her moment of fame to rant. It was fine by me – she was another person that Angel had lied to, which was good enough.

‘Interesting,’ said Charlie when the presenter finally wrestled the limelight back and we turned Esther off. ‘Anna gets away with it because she’s a minor. David Johnson falls between jurisdictions – aiding the hijack of an American drone on German soil, but Esther … she was involved in the London end of the plot. That’s an offence the UK could request extradition for. Dan, I think we can safely say the pressure on the Home Secretary to do something has just increased. She won’t want to demand Esther’s extradition because she knows it’ll never happen – the US keep hold of their own – which means …’

He chewed the right side of his lip while he waited for me to fill in the gap.

‘She refuses mine.’

I got out of the car and went in search of food.

We had an end-of-exams celebration on Friday on Joe’s living-room floor with the ‘borrowed’ projector. Ruby was rubbish, kept shooting at her feet or at me. Joe’s mum got pizzas, but Ruby had to go before they were ready.

‘Can’t you stay?’ I asked, a bit whiny.

‘How can I? Mum’s taking me out.’

‘You are going to tell her about us, aren’t you?’

Ruby nodded. ‘Monday. Promise. Or sooner if …’

I nodded.

I left straight after tea. I’d been wired for days but, walking home, doubt started to creep back in. I hadn’t made any bets with myself about when the Home Secretary would pardon me, but knowing I would wake up on Saturday with the warrant for my extradition still live wasn’t in any plan. If she was going to do something, what the hell was she waiting for?

Friday night I didn’t sleep. My head was
Prime Minister’s Question Time
. All the rational arguments for rejecting the extradition were lined up but each one was shouted down. Hacker! Terrorist! Cyber-thief! I went downstairs at four in the morning and listened to the World Service, hoping for breaking news that the Home Secretary was back from a holiday and my
well-being
was now top of her agenda.

As the day went on, my mood, and everyone else’s, dropped like the blade in an execution. We’d gone along with all the furore, imagining that the louder the noise, the surer my future was … but that was make-believe. The reality was that I was due at an extradition hearing, Monday morning.

I told Mum not to let Ty or Joe in, and hid upstairs. I lay down on my bed but didn’t shut my eyes because the orange boiler suits were back, together with the clang of a prison door and the chanting to mark a new kid being brought in, wrists and ankles handcuffed.

I thought about Angel – of everyone, only she knew I was completely innocent. But she wasn’t likely to help
out – it was because of me that her plan failed and she was on the run. What a crazy mess. If I’d let her carry on, we’d both be in the clear. I’d be safe – getting on with life. But a drone-sized patch of London and everyone in it would be dead or dismembered …

It was unbearable, knowing that by trying to do the right thing I’d basically hanged myself.

I put her out of my mind – the space was immediately occupied by a torture scene set in Guantanamo Bay. I started trying to recite Pi …

Ruby came over about six but she sobbed and so did I and in the end I asked her to go. From my bedroom window, I watched her walk down the road. She was wearing cut-off jeans, a stripy red and navy T-shirt and flip-flops. Her head was down, her hair swinging. She didn’t look back.

On Sunday, when it finally dawned on everyone that the Home Secretary wasn’t going to save me, two demos were arranged – one in Bristol and one in London. It gave the parents something to do. After all, I couldn’t eat and didn’t want to talk, and El had gone to Gran’s.

I didn’t go online. Too scared that the journalists would already be discussing my likely treatment in the hands of the Americans.

And then it
was
Extradition Day.

Mum asked me to wear a shirt. I refused. A teenager in a shirt is suspicious in itself.

Charlie picked us up in the silver Mercedes. Mum sat in the back with me, trying not to cry. Dad put on quite a good show, but we all knew how we felt. Me, I was off my head. I hadn’t slept. My eyes stung. I had a headache that needed a bigger word to describe it and felt sick. And they were just the physical problems. I couldn’t trust myself to speak a whole sentence without breaking down. And my head wouldn’t stop playing videos of either my parents weeping as I was taken through immigration, or El hanging on to me as I was forced into a police van with blacked-out windows.

In an attempt to lessen the unbearable tension in the car, Charlie said, ‘We’re expecting a good turnout at the protests.’

‘Great,’ I said.

‘It all helps,’ said Dad. No one believed him.

Charlie tried again, asking Dad about the transfer
window, but small talk, even about football, had deserted us.

When we reached the Cromwell Road with its massive billboards, Charlie slowly and carefully went through the procedure again. I nodded, but it was all mashed potato. Too soon we were outside the court. My spirits rose, fleetingly, when I saw the crowds. There were at least a hundred signs, and two huge banners, held high above the heads of … maybe three hundred people.

There was a roar as Charlie’s door opened.

Amanda from the
Guardian
was at the front.

‘I won’t let this drop,’ she said, as the crowd moved to let us through. ‘That’s a promise.’

Near the door were three faces I didn’t expect to see.

‘We’re here for you,’ said Ty.

Joe nodded. ‘Everyone from school’s gone to the demo in Bristol.’

Ruby flung her arms around my neck and kissed me. Her face was wet. Mine was distraught.

‘Good luck, Fella.’

Charlie opened the heavy glass door.

‘In we go,’ he said.

As it shut, it took all the noise with it, like an off switch.

We had to empty our pockets to go through the metal detectors, like last time … like catching an easyJet to Spain. Better not to think about planes …

‘We’re in court five this time,’ said Charlie to my parents. The four of us walked over to the stairs. I stalled at the bottom step, like a horse refusing to jump.

‘I can’t …’

‘Don’t lose it now, Dan,’ said Charlie. ‘For your mum.’

Somehow the wail that was rising stayed where it was. We marched up in time, like a funeral procession.

There was a bit of a wait. We sat in a row in the corridor, no one speaking.

‘Breathe,’ said Charlie.

The usher came along, wearing the uniform of Hogwarts, and stopped in front of us. As he opened his mouth, I prayed that he was going to deliver a last-minute reprieve, like in death row cases in films. In that split second I saw the whole scenario – a clerk running through the streets of Westminster, desperate to deliver the joyous decision (in writing, or they’d have phoned) before they strapped me down …

‘We’re ready for you,’ he said, arms by his sides, head slightly bowed.

I went to stand but my knees buckled. Charlie caught me.

‘A second, please,’ he said.

The usher moved to just beside the door.

‘No one’s taking you anywhere today,’ said Charlie. ‘Even if the decision goes against us, you still go home. Nothing happens today, Dan.’

I nodded. Mum and Dad hugged and kissed me and
I walked through the door into the court. I glanced at the judge – it was a woman this time, not young, not smiling. The usher led me into the box with the solid Perspex screen that ran from floor to ceiling. The door automatically locked as he left me inside with the security guard – not young, not smiling.

I was aware of Mum and Dad sitting in the chairs at the back, but couldn’t look. There were other people too – I don’t know who they were.

I leant against the backrest and caught sight of stairs – grey concrete steps, ready to lead the convicted straight from the court down to rat-infested dungeons, solitary, cells with murderers shaking the metal bars …

Stop it, Dan.

I shifted forwards, turned so I couldn’t see the stairs to hell. Caught the guard’s eye, but he didn’t react. I was yet another criminal.

The hearing began. The judge’s voice was like a radio, stereoed into my cubicle complete with interference. I couldn’t concentrate.

At some point I went on to automatic pilot, like Angel’s drone when it flew down the Norfolk coast towards London. Words were spoken to me and Dan Langley’s voice answered. Charlie Tate’s voice rose and fell and his body weaved from side to side. The judge asked questions. The lawyer for the other side said bad words: damage, destruction, fear, terror, threats, complicit, calculating. I heard ‘human rights’ said again and again, but didn’t feel that I had any in my Perspex
box. The clerk clarified something that someone else said. I heard ‘ADHD’ and remembered taking the little white pills. The arguments became background, like lift music, as other memories flooded my mind. El saying her lines in the Nativity with her thumb still in her mouth. The only goal I ever scored. Eating pizza at Joe’s.

I felt cold. Thought about fainting. That would be nice. Collapsing and waking up to find a nurse looking after me. Or Ruby. That would be better.

All the sound disappeared. I forced my attention back to the court. The judge was talking to the clerk, quietly. A conflab. I leant towards the screen, hoping to catch what she was saying, lip-read …

Bent forwards, I could only get air from the very top of my lungs. I sat back, tried to make my body do the yogic breathing, but saw the steps again, imagined myself being escorted down them while Mum beat against the Perspex with her fists … The memory of Dad trying to talk about the automatic right to appeal flashed into my mind. Was that what they were huddled together talking about? Had the Home Secretary changed the law? What if I was going straight to a holding cell at the airport? Little breaths were all that I could manage. I felt fluttery. The glass box seemed smaller.

I looked at Charlie.

Help me.

He acknowledged me, stood up to speak.

‘Not a word at this stage, Mr Tate,’ said the judge.

Charlie sat back down. No idea what was going on.

My eyes sought out Mum. She was leaning against Dad but straightened up when she saw me look, and pushed her hair away from her face. I wanted her to get me out of the incubator and take me home. She held on to my stare, like she was holding the whole of me.

‘Stand please, Daniel.’

I did as I was told, but my eyes stayed trained on Mum.

‘Daniel, you need to listen to me,’ said the judge.

I didn’t react.

The security guard tapped my elbow.

I forced my head round to look back at her – the woman who was allowed to decide whether I could stay with my own family in my own country.

The judge looked straight at me as she gave her decision.

‘Daniel Adam Langley, I have taken into account everything that has been said on your behalf, but —’ The room gasped, ‘— have concluded that the request of the Government of the United States of America to have you extradited to that country must be granted.’