by Iain King
Seeking civilisation, the rebels had threatened civilisation itself.
The war had been very bad for Safiq. When the government bureaucrat who employed him lost his job, Safiq stopped being paid. Soon he was homeless, too. He sheltered with a family from Sudan he knew from the local vegetable store, who lived in a shack next to the old Roman wall. The wall had been built to keep barbarians out of the ancient empire. Safiq spent his eighty-two dollars as slowly as he could, but it soon dwindled.
With nothing for him in Libya, Safiq began to investigate how he could travel to a better life in Europe. He learned from the Sudanese how most of the unofficial passenger ferries were stopped and diverted to the Italian island of Lampedusa, where migrants were sent back to Africa. Many of these ships were overloaded. Some sank, usually drowning everybody aboard. The rumour was that navies from the rich countries didn’t even bother to rescue Africans from the sea. He wouldn’t go by passenger ferry.
But, by asking questions along the dockside, Safiq did learn of another plan – the ‘fast boat’, they called it. The boat’s captain claimed it had already crossed to Italy several times. Safiq decided it was worth the risk, and paid sixty dollars for a ‘ticket’ – which was just a scrap of paper.
Departing at night, Safiq found himself with thirty other Africans crammed onto a tiny skiff. His hopes rose as the craft sped out to sea, and the lights from the coast of Libya disappeared beneath the horizon. For at least two hours, the boat sped on, into the darkness. He dreamed he could see Europe ahead, in the distance. He was getting close…
Then the motor stuttered and stalled. The skiff stopped in the water, and Safiq realised the crewman who had steered them out of port was no longer on board. Where had he gone? Safiq couldn’t tell. He checked the engine, and realised there was no fuel left. Passengers began to shout and argue. Two young men jumped into the water and tried to swim, but one didn’t know how and the other soon tired. They returned to the boat and tried to climb back in. As passengers moved over to help them, the skiff began to tilt. Realising the danger, they tried to move back, but it was too late. The boat quickly tipped and capsized, throwing everybody into the sea.
Safiq and most of the passengers grabbed the upturned skiff, and just held on as long as they could. Safiq saw the woman beside him cry. A father tried to keep afloat with his daughter on his shoulders. The water was cold, and he became numb. Everyone became quiet as they waited in the darkness.
Only when the sky began to lighten were they seen – by an Italian Navy boat. Safiq didn’t know how many people were rescued, but he was sure it wasn’t all the people who had set off the evening before.
They were taken to Lampedusa, where he stayed for two days, before being transported back to Libya.
Safiq was back in Africa, poorer and much less hopeful than before. He tried to find the family from Sudan he’d known from the vegetable shop, but they’d gone. He tried to find work on the dockside, but only found some plastic sheeting, which he tried to sell.
None of it offered hope.
Then he heard of a new plan – a chance to reach not just Europe, but the United States – and he knew it was a chance he had to take.
Day V
Thirty-Two
Paddington Green Police Station, Central London
Myles believed it was now a whole day since he had been handcuffed in Rome, although he couldn’t be sure. Twenty-four hours was just a guess. And nobody had told him anything since he’d left the British police van.
Myles knew from his time questioning suspects in Iraq: when people are left alone, sooner or later they start to think about the worst that could happen to them. Solitary confinement was one of the most powerful forms of pressure there was.
Myles studied the inside of his police cell. He imagined the stories of the people who had been in the cell before him.
His bed was built into the room: a single, body-size concrete step with a dark green plastic mattress on top. The white walls had recently been cleaned – probably disinfected. The strip-light in the ceiling was encased in plastic and protected behind a metal grille. Even if he could reach it, it would not help him at all.
The only way out was through the tall, metallic, painted black door. He gently leant on it and felt his weight rest against the lock. He pressed harder, but the door barely registered his presence. There was no way he was going to barge his way out. He tried to look through the double-glazed peephole, but there was a cover on the other side blocking his view.
Myles realised that he was now completely at the mercy of whoever was holding him. Whoever it was, he had to communicate with them.
He looked around for a camera. Surely they’d be watching him in the cell?
Nothing.
Or, at least, that’s what he first thought.
Then he saw, beside the light, a little stud in the ceiling. He stood on the concrete bed to get closer, and realised the stud housed a tiny lens.
He pushed his face towards it, realising that whoever was watching the pictures would probably be seeing a distorted image of his nose.
‘Hello?’ he called into the lens. ‘Can you hear me?’
He watched and waited, but as he expected, there was no response. ‘Can you tell my partner, Helen Bridle, that I’m here.’ Half-jokingly, he added a ‘please’ to the end of the request. But there was still no sign of a reaction.
Myles looked around him again. He stepped back down. He didn’t want to remain stuck in the cell forever. Surely that couldn’t happen.
He remembered Habeas Corpus – one of Britain’s oldest laws, the name of which hailed from the language of ancient Rome, Latin. Habeas Corpus was a command to see the body – his right to appear in court.
But if he was being detained under anti-terrorist legislation, would Habeas Corpus still stand? Myles didn’t know.
Then he thought of something. Deprive them of information as they deprive me.
Myles looked back down at the mattress and lifted it up. Underneath, the plastic cover was only loosely glued on to the foam. He picked at the seam and managed to peel off an edge of the dark green. It was what he needed.
He bent down, placed his teeth around the plastic, and bit. The small incision was enough for him to tear it. He pulled and the plastic ripped along a straight line. With another bite, Myles was able to remove a small strip of the material. He held it in his fingers, then bit it a final time, tearing it into two halves.
Standing on the mattress, he licked the back of one of the plastic strips and stuck it onto the lens stud in the ceiling. Climbing down, he put the other on the inside of the peephole in the door. If they weren’t going to answer, he wasn’t going to let them watch.
Myles knew it was a tiny victory, but it satisfied him. It proved he had at least some control over his situation. He lay down on the slightly damaged mattress as he wondered how the authorities would react.
It took just four minutes for the cell door to be unlocked.
Myles was ordered to stand up. His hands were bound again. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked.
One of the prison officials frowned sarcastically, as if to say ‘You mean you don’t know?’ Myles also detected a sense of disgust: clearly the warden looked down on him as some sort of lowlife. ‘It’s time to see the judge, Mr Munro,’ said the guard. ‘It’s your time in court.’
Myles wondered how they could have arranged a judge so fast. Usually it would take several days, or at least hours. Then he realised: they must have been about to take him to see a judge anyway. His trick with the camera lens had made no difference at all. But he was glad to have confounded whoever was spying on him.
Myles was guided through the cell door. The police wardens were careful to make sure he didn’t scrape himself on any part of the lock or door frame. It was as though they were saving Myles for a punishment far greater and far more deserving than a scratch.
In the corridor, Myles got a sense that he was not in a normal polic
e cell. His was the only prison room in sight. His cell was reserved for something special.
Around a corner there were some wide stairs. Still no natural light, though. He was about to climb up when one of his escorts stopped him. ‘This way, sir. We’re taking the lift.’
As instructed, Myles walked in. Only as he entered and saw they were on floor ‘SB’ – sub-basement – did he realise he had been kept below ground all this time.
The warden pressed the button for floor three, and the lift started to rise.
Myles tried to make eye contact but the warden looked away.
When the lift stopped and the door opened, Myles was confronted with a sign – stark white letters etched into black plastic: Paddington Green Magistrates Court. Below it was an arrow pointing to the left attached to a different sign with a single word: Defendants.
So that’s where he was. Myles had heard of Paddington Green Police Station before. It was near the centre of London. The place that high-profile suspects were often taken for their first appearance – most terrorism cases were tried here.
Myles was taken in the direction of the arrow, through a door and into an oak-panelled waiting room. There he was encouraged to sit down on a wooden bench while one of the court wardens sat beside him. Once more, his wrists were released.
After just a couple of minutes, a second door opened. A policeman on the other side, his hand still on the door handle, leaned in. His posture indicated Myles should come through, and the wardens nodded to confirm that Myles should go. So Myles stood up and walked towards the door.
He was in the dock of Paddington Green Magistrate’s court.
Myles turned to his left, to an audience which had clearly reacted to his appearance. It was the public gallery: journalists were frantically scribbling in notebooks, and a few others were scowling in contempt. One looked like he was from East Africa, a middle-aged gentleman whose expressions made clear he despised Myles.
Then Myles saw Helen. She waved, desperate to make contact with him. Myles raised his hand in return. From her face, Myles could tell she still believed he was innocent. He wished he could hug her, but the policeman standing beside him and a solid partition made it impossible.
Helen silently mouthed the words: ‘I love you!’
Myles smiled back, relieved she stood by him.
The judge sitting directly in front of Myles cleared her throat. The dignified wrinkles on her face frowned and her eyes turned down to her desk. It was an indication that Myles’ attitude – smiling and nodding to people in the public gallery – was not acceptable. Myles was too relaxed.
He tried to look serious. He straightened his back, and prepared himself for the judge’s word. ‘Mr Munro, this is a magistrates’ court,’ explained the judge, labouring her words. ‘You have been brought here because a crime has occurred and there is important evidence to indicate you were involved.’
The judge paused to see if Myles would react. Myles remained still. He let the judge continue. ‘Therefore, for the purposes of this hearing, I would like you to confirm for me your name: are you Myles Adlai Munro?’
Myles rocked his head forward in confirmation.
‘Mr Munro, if you wish to confirm your name, please say “yes” or “yes, I am”.’
‘Yes, I am Myles Adlai Munro.’
The judge looked down at the papers on her desk before continuing. ‘And do you live in Pembroke Street, Oxford?’
‘Yes, I do,’ replied Myles, trying to comply.
‘Accommodation which I believe belongs to the university?’ She raised her voice at the end, turning the statement into a question.
‘Yes, it does.’
‘Thank you, Mr Munro.’ The magistrate paused again. The court paused with her. It hung on her words.
After half a minute of silence, the judge leant forward and spoke directly to Myles. ‘Mr Munro, you are being held under the 2006 Anti-Terrorism Act. Under the terms of that legislation, you may be held for up to fourteen days without being charged. So far you have been held for only one day. That means you may be held for a further thirteen days before a formal charge is brought…’
Myles could see Helen fuming with fury: the woman magistrate was describing Myles’ detention nightmare as if it were a matter of arithmetic.
Myles saw the rest of the public gallery react too. The journalists were wondering what was going to happen next, while the middle-aged African seemed to be bent double in some form of hysteria.
The judge addressed Myles again and he sensed his court appearance was already coming towards its end. ‘And so, Mr Munro, I recommend that you be held in further custody while the evidence against you is investigated in greater depth.’
Myles spoke back. ‘Can I know what the evidence is?’
The judge checked her answer with an official before she gave it. ‘I can assure you, Mr Munro, that the evidence is significant. At the appropriate time, you will be told more about the evidence against you. But under the terms of the legislation, the investigating authority is not required to divulge its evidence before charges have been brought and an arrest made. You, Mr Munro, have not yet been arrested.’
‘So, I’m not under arrest?’
‘No, Mr Munro. You have been detained.’
Myles was about to query the distinction between arrest and detention, but he was distracted by Helen. She mouthed the word ‘lawyer’ to him. Myles picked it up. ‘And will I be allowed a lawyer?’ he asked.
The female magistrate consulted with her official again, this time in more detail.
Myles was turning back towards Helen to thank her for the cue when he saw the middle-aged African man had pulled a long, thin bag from the floor and was lifting it towards him.
Something about the man’s face scared Myles. Something was wrong.
It was then Myles realised the man was holding an automatic rifle, and was about to fire.
Thirty-Three
Paddington Green Secure Judicial Hearing Facility, Central London
The officials couldn’t believe what was happening. Men in legal gowns stared at the weapon, wondering whether it was real. Journalists in the public gallery froze, completely unsure how to react. Even the men responsible for security in the courtroom were too surprised to respond properly. Was it really a gun?
Hardly anyone in the room had seen a real-life weapon fired before, and only one of them had had a gun pointed at him. That man was Myles.
The sight of the rifle triggered a deep instinctive reaction which bypassed the slow but rational thought processes in Myles’ mind. Myles’ muscles automatically pulled down his head, just as a loud burst of bullets flew towards him. His time in warzones may have cursed him with some peculiar form of post-traumatic stress disorder. But they had also imprinted a reflexive response to danger. That instant reaction had just saved his life.
The first volley of bullets embedded in the defendant’s dock above him, showering splinters and other debris. Myles cowered while the tatters of wood burst down.
As soon as the gunfire stopped, the courtroom was filled with screams and panic. Chairs were kicked over in a stampede to escape. People began shouting. Confusion clattered all around. Myles immediately thought of Helen, and hoped she would be able to find a safe way out.
But Myles also understood he was the target. The second volley of fire hit the defendant’s stand where Myles was crouching. Its thick wood warped and holes appeared as bullets flew through. The policeman beside Myles was hit – and immediately slumped to the ground.
Myles pushed the policeman’s limp body away and rolled through the door behind him, out into the waiting room where he had been just a few minutes before. There he moved past the lift, keeping his head and torso low in case the gunman had a clear line of sight.
Myles had half a second to contemplate what next before another burst of gunfire removed the choice.
Instinctively, he ran down the corridor, following it fast, wherever it led. He turned a c
orner to find himself moving into another part of the building.
Myles could only wonder what was happening in the courtroom. An alert had been sounded. Myles guessed it was the alarm for an escaped prisoner, since the court couldn’t have a pre-assigned signal for a gun in the public gallery.
The security officials in the magistrate’s hearing had not been armed. Their large physical presence was meant to be sufficient deterrent against the usual disturbances. But size and weight would mean nothing against this gunman. And if nobody in the building had a gun, how would the man be stopped?
Myles continued sprinting along the corridor. He bumped into a policeman who was emerging, confused, from his office. He ran on, towards two court officials who were blocking his way, too scared to move. ‘Let me through…’ he shouted as he ran.
The officials flattened themselves against the wall and Myles was clear to run between the two men. It was Myles who the gunman was after. The court officials knew it too.
Screams behind Myles confirmed his fears: the gunman was close. Myles imagined the man jumping from the seats in the public gallery, across the courtroom and into the defendant’s dock. The man would have gone through the wooden door and into the corridor just seconds behind him. How could Myles escape?
He realised his chances were slim. As he rounded more corners, he knew the corridors in the building could not go on forever. Soon they would end, and he would be trapped by the man with the gun. A man determined to kill him.
Should he look for the public exit? Myles could hear the crowds moving not far from him and guessed they were being escorted to safety. But crowds meant delay. And trying to hide among them meant putting them in danger. Myles would get caught in the jam. Bullets would kill members of the public, then Myles.
Myles scoured the corridor for something else.