The crackle of a radio. ‘Go ahead?’ said a woman on the bridge. She listened for a moment. ‘Hey, guys, hang on – someone’s said they saw him go into the water and no one’s seen him get out of it again.’
There was a silence.
‘Let’s get the dive team in,’ said someone else. ‘And tell them to get on with it, yeah? If he’s in there, and we can’t see him, there’s a chance he’s at the bottom of it, or will be soon. What was he wearing? Do we know?’
‘T-shirt and jeans.’
‘Really? T-shirt and jeans? Oh, he’s fucked then.’
Down in the water I noticed the surface of the river around me had started vibrating. I was wondering what was causing it, then suddenly realised it was me. I was violently shivering. I’d been under that bush for at least twenty minutes by now, and my jaw was starting to lock. This, I knew, was the onset of hypothermia. I watched helplessly as the juddering of my body sent more and more ripples out onto the surface of the river in rapidly expanding circles.
‘Here, Ian! Look down there,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘Do you see that?’
‘What?’
‘Those ripples on the water. Can you see?’
There was a silence.
‘What, those?’
‘Yeah! The ripples! Is that him? Is he under the bridge?’
I could see, in the dark reflection on the water’s surface, two police officers bending over the side of the bridge. I was done. It was over. I pushed myself off from the bank and floated out into the middle, right underneath where they were looking, and trod water.
‘Good evening officers,’ I said. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
‘Get the fuck out of that fucking river now or you’re going to get fucking tasered,’ said the guy.
‘You’re going to taser me in the water?’ I said. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’
‘Just get out,’ he said.
‘I’m obviously under arrest, I get that,’ I said. ‘But if I get out of this and you start fucking pissing me off and roughing me up, I’m going to start up a whole new feud. I’m warning you.’
At the riverbank one of the policemen gave me a hand up and hauled me out.
‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of assaulting a police officer,’ he said. ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Ten minutes later I was shivering in the back of the police van, handcuffs around my wrists, four space blankets draped over my shoulders.
And that was my Sunday night.
Back in the interview room the officer pressed pause on the remote control. There I was, on the little screen, crouched over an unconscious policeman with a cosh in my hand.
‘That is me,’ I nodded. ‘I did do that. I’ll put my hands up.’
I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Whatever they had decided to do with me – fine me, issue me a caution – as long as they hurried up about it, I didn’t really mind.
Half an hour later, when I finally stepped out of Chelmsford police station into that grim, milky-skied morning, the most immediate thing on my mind was coffee. My solicitor took me to a nearby Costa and we sat in the window with large lattes as I tried to get my head around exactly what had just happened.
‘I thought …’ I said, rubbing my temples. ‘I was expecting a fine. A caution. I can’t believe it. What are they charging me with again?’
‘Actual bodily harm against the male officer and common assault against the female.’
‘Common assault?’ I said. ‘That is so much bullshit. I didn’t lay a finger on her. How can that be assault?’
‘I’m afraid that’s how it goes these days,’ he said. ‘If you spit at someone, that’s common assault. If you swear at them, it’s common assault. You don’t have to make physical contact with them. If you do anything that makes them fear for their personal safety, that’s an assault.’
‘But she’s a police officer,’ I said. ‘No one should be attacked, I get that, but isn’t what happened to her last night just part of the everyday job? If she can’t even handle standing one metre away from a little ruck between two guys, then she’s not qualified to be on the force. She should be on the tills in Waitrose, not out on the streets.’
‘I didn’t say I agreed with it,’ he said. ‘It’s just how it goes these days.’
I picked up my coffee and looked out of the window, scowling. My clothes were still wet from the river, my trainers sodden.
‘This fucking society nowadays, everyone’s so protected,’ I said. ‘They’re mollycoddled. They’re wrapped up in cotton wool. Even the coppers. It’s a blame culture. It’s pathetic.’
‘And I’m afraid, Ant, that it’s also common assault. But don’t worry. It’s not a particularly serious charge. And we have a very strong case that there are good mitigating circumstances. You were trying to stop the trouble, not start it. And someone with your military service?’
‘I put my hand up for it, too,’ I said, nodding. ‘That’s got to count for something.’ I sat forward, suddenly rallying. ‘You know what? We should hit that policeman with abuse of authority charges. In his statement he claimed he’d grabbed hold of me because he was fearing for his safety. But I know from my time at Hendon that if you fear for your safety, you’re taught never to grab hold of someone. You’re supposed to step back and put your arm up. If you’re really in fear, you put your cosh out, extend it and use it in a defensive position. You don’t start jabbing someone in the chest. So let’s go after him.’
The solicitor sighed. ‘That’s going to cost a bit of money. And tactically, it might not be the wisest move.’
I glanced out of the window again. Along the other side of the street I saw a guy I used to know from the gym. He was walking his wife’s miniature pug. He was wearing pink trainers and had his hair tied up in a bun. What was this world I’d come back to?
‘Maybe it’s best not to aggravate the situation with the police,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Most likely outcome? You’re looking at a couple of years suspended.’
It would be nine months before my final reckoning. During that time the charge of ABH had been elevated to GBH because the police officer claimed he’d suffered permanent damage to his eye. It sounded bad, but my solicitor felt sure that the significant mitigating circumstances, combined with my military record, meant the most likely outcome would be me getting off with a suspended sentence.
When the day came, we all took our places in the miserable brick fortress that is Chelmsford Crown Court. With Emilie and her dad watching on, my barrister argued that the incident amounted to nothing more than ‘a mild altercation that turned into a fight between two men’.
But the prosecution pushed back. ‘There was no fight,’ they said. ‘The only fight that night was coming from Mr Middleton.’
Then they played the CCTV footage. The judge leaned forward, squinting at the screen, watching the build-up on the street outside the nightclub. ‘Who is that peacekeeper in the middle, there?’ he asked. ‘The one splitting the groups up?’
My barrister pumped up his chest and announced with booming gravitas, ‘That, your honour, is my client, Anthony Middleton.’
It was a fantastic moment. It could only mean good news. As the proceedings wound on, I began slowly allowing myself to relax. Eventually, it was time for the judge’s summing up. The moment he fixed me with his bird-of-prey eyes I knew things had somehow taken a terrible turn.
‘You are a highly trained and experienced former Special Forces operator,’ he said. ‘You should have known better.’
He handed me down a sentence of twenty-six months in prison, with six months taken off for pleading guilty at the earliest opportunity and another six due to my character references. That left fourteen months inside. Across the courtroom, Emilie was sitting in the ga
llery with her dad. Both of them looked pale and shocked.
‘I love you,’ I called out to her. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘I love you too,’ she said, visibly gathering herself together. ‘We’ve got this.’
That was all I needed to hear. The moment I broke eye contact with her I was in the zone. There was no anger anymore. No shock. No self-pity. No negativity. This was prison. There was nothing I could do about it but dive in head first. I was led out of the court by two members of the prison staff and put into the back of a transport van. They locked me into a tiny cubicle and I was driven to Chelmsford Prison. I didn’t look out of the window. That world, out there, of shops and music and sunlight was nothing to do with me anymore. As we drove, for a horrible moment I almost felt I might drown in the shame I was feeling at what I’d done to my family. I squeezed my eyes and clenched my fists. I had to get hold of myself. There was no other choice.
As we made halting progress through the Chelmsford traffic I tried to marshal my thoughts. My overwhelming concern was that I’d end up fighting. There was no way I could let people walk over me in there. There was no question that I had to defend myself. But what would happen if and when there was physical violence? If I flipped out, I knew I’d probably cause some serious damage. My goal was obviously to be let out early for good behaviour, but that kind of trouble could see me being kept inside for years. Not for the first time, I realised that this was going to be more of a mental game than a physical one. My most dangerous enemy would be myself. This war would be fought inside my head.
When the wagon pulled up I was led, along with a young lad of around eighteen, into a reception building. Our personal possessions were confiscated and sealed up in plastic bags, then I was taken into a side room, stripped and made to squat, so they could check I wasn’t smuggling anything inside me. If they thought they were going to humiliate me or make me feel in any way ashamed by making me do this, they didn’t know me very well. I stood up, my mind a machine, and collected my allotted prison gear: two plain T-shirts, two grey tracksuit bottoms, two grey jumpers, plimsolls and bed sheets.
In yet another small room we were processed by a ‘trusted’ inmate, a scrawny-looking guy with a wispy blond beard hanging off his chin who handed us both what looked like credit cards.
‘These are your telephone cards,’ he said. ‘Guard them with your life.’ Then came a small pile of papers. ‘These are your canteen sheets. I’ll show you how to fill them out in a bit. On this sheet you’ll find all your timings – that’s when you eat, when you get locked in your cell, when all your roll call times are.’
I glanced down it.
‘You have to make sure you’re stood by your door at eight in the morning,’ he continued. ‘Breakfast is at eight thirty. You’ve got half an hour to eat, then you’re back to your cell to get banged up again. They let you out for lunch at half twelve, then you get banged up again at one.’
‘Fun,’ I said, folding the paper away. I turned to the kid next to me.
‘Are you all right?’ He gave me an insincere nod. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I reassured him, although the truth was I really wasn’t sure.
Wizard-chin led us down a wide corridor and into a holding area that had an old table and a couple of couches in it that smelled of bleach and sweat. More trusted inmates were hanging about in there, for no obvious reason, all dressed in their regulation light grey at-Her-Majesty’s-leisurewear. I was aware of them trying to subtly check us over with furtive glances, while not breaking their conversation. It wasn’t long before one of them slouched over and sat himself chummily on the arm of the couch.
‘All right, mate,’ he grinned, scratching his boney, yellowish arm. He looked over our piles of clothing. ‘You got everything you need?’
‘Yes, mate,’ I said. ‘Thanks for asking.’
‘They give you your phone card yet?’ he said.
‘Got it,’ I nodded.
‘Sweet,’ he said. ‘Chuck us it here and I’ll show you how to use it.’
‘No, mate. I’m happy that I know how to use it,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told.’
‘I’m a trusted inmate, yeah?’ he said. ‘Give us it here. Come on. I want to show you something.’
I stared ahead. When he realised I wasn’t giving in, he stood and got in front of me. There was dried spittle on the edges of his lips and he had one of those mouths that show more gum than teeth. He had crust in the corners of his eyes and his skin had an almost greenish pallor.
‘Mate,’ he said, trying to act the tough guy. ‘I told you to give it here.’
I could destroy this prick in less than a second. I wouldn’t even have to get out of my seat.
‘And I told you,’ I said. ‘I’ve got my card. I know how to use it. Thank you very much, though. I appreciate the kind offer of help.’
From the other side of the room another inmate piped up. ‘You lot,’ he said. ‘Keep the fucking noise down, will you?’
That was it. I was up.
‘Am I fucking talking too loud, mate?’ I said. ‘I’m fucking talking too loud, am I?’
‘No, mate,’ he said. ‘You’re all right.’
‘Be careful who you talk to, because you don’t fucking know me and you don’t want to fucking know me.’ I turned to the other one. Before I had the chance to say any more, he’d shrunk back.
‘All right, mate, no worries.’
I returned to my place on the couch, waiting to be led to my cell. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Was it going to be like this every day? How was I going to keep a lid on it? How was I going to stop myself breaking someone’s jaw?
Finally, a prison officer arrived and we were led out into a huge indoor courtyard. Around us was a massive horseshoe of cells and windows, three storeys high. Voices echoed out above our heads – ‘Fresh meat!’ ‘Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!’ ‘I’m gonna fuck you up.’ The young lad beside me was pale and was clutching his gear to his chest. I looked up in the direction of the Fresh Meat cell, thinking, ‘I would so love to come to your cell right now and knock on the door.’ I was thankful to discover I’d been given a cell of my own. Once inside I took my shoes off, put them neatly by the door, and lay back on the mattress. It was so thin and ragged it immediately brought to mind my days as a craphat back in Aldershot.
The next morning all the inmates had to step outside their cells for roll call. I made sure I was present and correct at 8 o’clock as a prison officer checked us all off on his clipboard. I glanced to my left. Standing beside me was an obvious drug addict. He had no teeth, his clothes were stained with cum and tea, and he stank. I looked to my right. There was a man who was inside for burgling houses. The prison officer doing the roll call was viewing me as if I were no different from them. And I wasn’t. I was just a prisoner number too. If anything, I was worse. Most of these wretches had started out with nothing. But me? I’d had a beautiful wife and family, and a prestigious job that I loved. I’d had everything I ever wanted, and I’d lost it.
For the first time in years I was glad my dad wasn’t around. I thought of him often, as the days in prison turned to weeks. Looking back upon my life up to now, I realised that the military had, in many ways, taken over my dad’s role. It had given me structure, it had taught me how to behave, it had given me a goal to reach for and rules to kick against, to find out who I was. Now I’d left all that behind me, and what had happened? I’d crumbled. After everything I’d achieved and lived through, was I still not man enough to be out there, in the world, alone? Could I not control myself? Could I not fight that war in my head and win?
As the weeks ground on I managed to get into a routine. I’d spend my time keeping my cell immaculate, sweeping it out twice a day and making my bed properly. But, just like when I was in Afghanistan, I made a conscious decision not to make my personal space homely. Some inmates had nice rugs in their spaces and candles and pictures of the family. Mine was just an empty cell with a bed and toilet. I wasn’t going to t
ry and kid myself that this was anywhere I could feel comfortable. This was prison. It was a negative place. I didn’t belong here. Full stop.
But I also knew that if I was to avoid flipping out and hurting someone, I’d have to find a way of not getting sucked into that negativity. I tried to focus my mind on all the things I wanted to do after my release. I worked out in the gym and took on as many jobs as they’d let me do. I served food. I was a cleaner, mopping floors while everyone else was asleep. Soon I was also given permission to leave my cell between seven and eight at night, and teach inmates to read and write. I was shocked to discover how many of them couldn’t even do the basics. It brought it home that, at heart, a lot of these guys weren’t bad people; they just hadn’t been given the tools to properly survive in the world.
I also had another advantage. There were a few people inside that I either already knew personally or had direct connections with from pals in Essex. I know what it sounds like, but there’s no other way of really putting it: some of my friends are gangsters. I’m not talking about petty crime gangs, either. These are top boys from top firms, the kind of men whose names get whispered around the bazaars. I started hanging around with one in particular, who was a former member of the Royal Green Jackets, an infantry regiment of the British Army. He did a lot of heavy work – collection, intimidation – for a top East End gang but had got caught with a commercial quantity of drugs on him. We swapped war stories. He told me about the drugs deals he’d been on, the money he’d had to recover. He got a buzz out of it, and plenty of cash. ‘There are so many opportunities out there,’ he told me. ‘We should do something when we get out.’
I lay in my cell for days, turning over the offer in my head. I was skint and had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. A lot of former Special Forces operatives go that way, and I couldn’t blame them. With my training, I could easily and quickly become a very handy and respected asset within the top gangs in London. Whether it was surveillance, tracking people down, putting pressure on people, recovering debt or overseeing a job, it would be no problem. I was capable. I was aggressive. I could work with violence. The respect would automatically be there, there was plenty of money and it would come easy. The more I thought about it, the more it all added up. I could do it for a year, get some cash behind me and then move on. Why not?
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