Hawthorn and Child (31 page)

I did nothing for a couple of days. I slept. I looked at my flat. I shaved.

I called Stanley from a phone box in Muswell Hill.

– I’ve done something. I’m not sure you’ll approve.

– Oh good.

– Are you free? When are you free? This week.

He didn’t want to see me. He tried to put me off to the following week, or the week after that.

– Stanley.

– What?

– Make it this week. It’s big.

– What’s big?

– I don’t want to tell you about it on the phone.

– What are you talking about?

– I’ll meet you in that pub. Same as last time. Tomorrow. 2pm. Be there Stanley.

– What? Oh … drat … all right. Well, make it 1.30 will you?

– Alright. 1.30. You won’t regret it.

– What’s wrong with your voice?

– What do you mean?

– You sound like one of the Mitchell brothers. Do you have a cold?

– No. Yes. I have a cold. Tomorrow. 1.30.

I sipped my tea and looked out of my window. I could hear the high whipping of a helicopter, but the sky was just blue.

I left the flat in plenty of time, carrying everything in a
rucksack
. Though all Stanley really needed in order to make a deal was the two page précis, I wanted to show him – I wanted, I suppose, to impress him – with the background work already completed. I had copious notes on the viability of radioactive material and the explosives best suited to efficient dispersal. The internet had helped me with that. I’d studied the
requirements
for the safe storage of these materials and the procedures necessary for their handling. I had sample contracts from two self-storage places. I had detailed
specifications
of black cabs, London buses, tube trains, golf buggies. I had copious notes on the operating structure of the London 2012 organising committee; as well as, of course, detailed plans of the Olympic site and its surroundings. I had diagrammatic representations of air traffic, sea traffic, road traffic into and out of the city. I had city maps of Cologne, Cairo, Islamabad, Kabul, Damascus, New York and Birmingham. Train timetables, route maps. I had scene sketches for four major set pieces; biographical notes for nearly a dozen characters; timelines and calendars;
motivation
flowcharts; psychological frameworks. I had …

They took me at Finsbury Park tube station. Very smart. Very quick. No one will have noticed, I’m certain. No one. Slight scuffle near the newspaper seller. As soon as you turned to look there was nothing. Just the door of an unmarked van sliding shut. Must have imagined it.

–
Can you breathe OK in there? Clive? Can you hear me?

– Yes, I said.

Something solid, hard and fast hit me in the stomach.

–
What about now?

Motion and imperfect blindness and I had the sense of always turning corners and my fear was suffocation and there were hands on me and a hood of some sort and my clothes were gone and my last thought before I blacked out was for myself not others and it was the thought that death might take a long time.

If you know nothing, you will make something up. If they tell you nothing, you will create something. If they leave you alone in the silence, you will give them names and faces and they will tower over you in the dark like mountains. Guilt is always available. It just needs the stimulus of punishment to make itself known.

I was in a cell. Windowless, with a bunk that came down from the wall, a toilet that came out from the wall, a door set into the wall. It was all wall. Whitewash. The lights were set into the ceiling. There was a plastic bottle of water. The clothes were a pair of outsized boxer shorts, tracksuit bottoms, a much washed tee shirt, a sweatshirt. They all smelled of
disinfectant
. No labels, no marks. A pair of sandals. I looked at the lights. They were protected by a layer of Perspex or something cloudy. All the surfaces were hard but smooth. There were no edges. There was a peephole in the door. There was no handle. No hinges. The bunk had a plastic mattress, about an inch thick, and a grey blanket. No pillow.

These things do not matter.

My chief hope at first was not for my release or for an
explanation
, but that they were the police and not something else.

I wondered who would miss me. If anyone would miss me.

Stanley, obviously. Stanley would miss me. He would call. He would know something was wrong. He would try to track me down. He would poke around. He would visit the flat. Call Rosemary. Get in touch with Mr Malik. Eventually he would contact the police and report me missing. Stanley would know what to do.

They waited until I was asleep. Then the door clattered open and there were three men surrounding me – all talking, it seemed to me, at once. I woke too quickly, and I could not take in what they were saying. I am told that this was the point at which I signed a form stating that I knew and understood that I had been arrested, that my rights had been explained and that I had indicated that I understood them, that the police officers who arrested me had identified themselves as such, that I had suffered no ill treatment, that I was content with the conditions of my detention, and that I was willing and ready to cooperate fully. I remember none of that. All I remember is that two of the men were wearing police shirts, Met ties, pressed trousers, shiny black shoes. My relief was physical. My breathing changed. I may have wept.

I assumed it was the middle of the night. But it was not. In the interview room, narrow windows at ceiling height let in the day. It was warm. They got me some coffee. After a while they got me some sandwiches as well. There was a camera in the corner. There was a recording machine on the desk. There were two desks. Three men. They looked at me. They asked me things. They wrote in notebooks. I don’t know what they wrote.

– Are you Clive Henry Alan Drayton?

– Do you live at Flat 3, 14 Surrey Gardens, Archway, London N8 6UP?

– How long have you lived there?

– Why did you split up with your wife?

– Do you know why you have been arrested?

– What self storage units have you rented?

– Have you rented self storage units?

– Have you ever rented self storage units?

– How did you meet Omar Malik?

– How much do you pay in rent?

– Have you converted to Islam Clive?

– Who is Fariq? In Cairo. Fariq. Who is he?

– Have you ever been to Cologne Clive?

– Why the fuck are you smiling?

– Who do you know in Yale, Clive?

– When did you last speak to Robert Grant in New Haven?

– Who is Fariq?

– Who were you trying to call in Damascus?

– What is this number?

– When was Namjeev Malik in your flat?

– How did you meet Mr Malik?

– Why do you need to know about depleted uranium?

– Who is Christoph Mann?

– What fucking novel?

– Have you heard the term
extraordinary rendition
Clive?

– I don’t believe you Clive.

– You’re fucking pathetic Clive.

I told the truth. They didn’t like the truth. It annoyed them. I was tired. They shouted at me a little. Then they let me go back to my cell. In my sleep I kept answering questions. When they woke me I felt that no time had passed. I was taken back to the interview room. The windows were dark. This time the third man, who had not spoken during the first session, was talking as I walked into the room. He stopped. He looked at me. He had an American accent. He didn’t talk again. I asked for a lawyer. They didn’t like that. I don’t know why. It didn’t make any difference.

– Why are you interested in radioactive material?

– Have you visited these websites?

– Why are you interested in black cabs?

– I don’t believe you.

– What do you have against The Olympics?

– Why have you called Islamabad three times recently?

– Are you a Muslim now Clive?

– Why did you get a new Oyster card Clive?

– Why have you stopped using your credit card?

– Why haven’t you told Stanley Whitmarsh about this novel?

– No you haven’t.

– Is there anyone you’ve told about this novel?

– Did you write this email?

– What is the novel you describe in this email? Is that a different novel?

– Why did you lie in the email?

– Who is M. K. Wharton?

– Simon Wise?

– D. L. Wentworth?

– Michael Wellington?

– Grant Wise? Lillian Porterhouse? Kent Michaels? Walter Wise?

– All pseudonyms? For who?

– Why a pseudonym Clive?

– Why?

– Do you know how much trouble you’re in?

– Why did you request these books Clive?

– Why are you interested in security?

– Why did you get this book about a 7/7 conspiracy Clive?

– Do you believe that MI5 was behind 7/7 Clive?

– Who is Fariq?

– When did you last see Namjeev?

– Why did you travel to Stratford on these dates?

– Why did you travel to Hackney Wick on Tuesday 21st of last month?

– Is this you Clive? In this CCTV image?

– What were you doing?

– Is this you? In this photograph?

– Why did you stand there for nearly twenty minutes Clive?

– Why did you take photographs here Clive?

– How many bank accounts do you have?

– Tell us about working at the university Clive.

– How stupid do you think we are Clive?

– How stupid are you Clive?

All my actions have been collated. All my little steps. All my middle names.

– Are you a terrorist Clive?

– No.

– Are you involved in a conspiracy to attack the London Olympics?

– Sort of.

The first lawyer was Patricia. The second was Hanif. The third was Simon Forrester. He is my lawyer now. I don’t know who pays who anymore. There is some sort of defence fund. Most of what I feel from other people is pity.

They held me for fifteen days. They asked me the same questions. Again and again. And then again. It was all over the newspapers, the television. For a while it was reported as a major plot. Another major plot. Disrupted. They held Stanley for half a day. They questioned Rosemary for four hours. They held Will McArdle for eighteen hours. They interviewed Lloyd Page at his agent’s office. They covered the front of Mr Malik’s building with scaffolding, and covered that in plastic sheeting, and they spent seven days dismantling my flat. They held Mr Malik for twenty two days. They are still holding Namjeev Malik, pending his deportation.

Then they played it down. Perhaps it was not such a developed plot. Perhaps they had disrupted the early reconnaissance stages of what might have become a major plot.

I was never allowed to return to Mr Malik’s place. I have a new flat now. There is no poplar tree. There is no music from below; no footsteps above. I am not entirely certain who pays the rent. I think Rosemary is helping me, while divorcing me. Simon Forrester explains things to me. I often don’t understand what he says.

Chiefly I experience my bail conditions and the ongoing intimidation as a set of physical symptoms. As an ache on the shoulders and a grit on the skin. My throat coughs as if I have nothing to do with it. My hair is irretrievably berserk. My skin is allergic to something and blooms in red and pinkish blotches. My teeth are OK. My feet are gone soft and dusty – standing can hurt them. My beard has dandruff. My eyes are cloudy and cracked. I can go into the kitchen and sit there for a while and listen to the radio. I can sit there at the table with the chair against the wall and my legs stretched out towards the cooker. I can go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet and read a newspaper or some poetry. I can have a bath. I can lie in the bath and listen to the radio and read until the water is cold. I can shower. I can go into the living room and sit at the desk and write in some notebooks. I can watch the television. I can stare out of the window at the mews and at the men who drag furniture from their shed to their truck and from their truck to their shed all day long every day. I can wait for the news to come on the television. I can go into the bedroom and lie on the bed. I can sleep. I can read in the bedroom. I can listen to the radio. I can set my radio alarm. I can set it for any time of the day or night that I want. I can set it for 3 a.m. and it will wake me up with the World Service or with Dr Karl on 5 Live. I can lie on my bed and listen to the same radio programmes I can listen to in the kitchen or in the bathroom. Or in the living room – you can listen to the radio on the television now. I am not allowed the internet. I am not even allowed a computer. I am not allowed a mobile phone. I have a land line but when I pick it up a man or a woman asks me what number I want so that they can get it for me. These men and women will not engage in conversation. Incoming calls come straight through. Simon Forrester, or one of his team, calls me every day. I wish they wouldn’t.

The door to my flat is locked. Always locked. I have the keys. I’m allowed to open the door. I’m allowed to go out into the street. If I go out of the flat and just into the building – if I climb the stairs and look out of the window on the landing, someone comes, every time, someone comes, some officer, sometimes even in a uniform, and asks me what I’m doing.

When I go out I am followed by at least two policemen. Always men. They stand close to me. They try to walk so that their shoulders hit against mine, so that my feet become tangled in theirs, and they talk to me.

– Going for a walk Clive?

– Where are you going Clive?

– Lovely day isn’t it Clive?

– How’s the book coming along Clive?

If I sit in a café they sit at the same table. If I get on a bus they get on as well. I am not allowed to arrange to meet anybody without their permission. Sometimes they say OK. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I have to ask to speak to the Duty Coordinating Officer if I want to go to the cinema, or use the tube, or do anything that involves what they call being
a pain in the arse
. I never used to visit my doctor. Now I see him twice a week. I am an atheist. Now I go to mass in the local Catholic church every other day. I tried to go to the synagogue as well, but after a while the Duty Coordinating Officer called me and told me to make my fucking mind up.