by G D Harper
I was staggered to discover that I was to spend the night in a jail cell before appearing before a judge the next day.
‘Is this strictly necessary?’ I said. ‘You know I’m not going to run off somewhere and I’m hardly a threat to society. Can’t I post a surety or give an undertaking I’ll be there? Locking me up seems a bit excessive.’
The custody officer looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sure you’re not going to run off, Mr Jones. But the powers that be are insisting on you being detained, quoting a risk that you would breach your injunction again if you were left to your own devices. You can make one phone call to your lawyer, but other than that you are to be kept in isolation until your hearing.’
As the cell door clanged behind me in the police station, it brought the stakes home to me. I tried to convince myself that one night in jail wouldn’t be too bad. An experience to dine out on, and it would improve my street cred no end. As I tossed and turned on the hard mattress trying to get some sleep I was actually starting to be thrilled at my new-found status as a martyr for free speech.
Tristian Hawtrey came to see me the next morning, looking concerned. I gave him a cheery greeting to lighten the mood, made some joke about posting a negative review on TripAdvisor about the lack of facilities. He did not play along.
‘I’ve been through the transcript of your radio interview, and it is possible that it could be considered that you have breached the terms of the injunction,’ Tristian said. ‘That’s a serious matter.’
‘How serious? Could I be fined or something? I’m pretty broke at the moment.’
‘More serious than that, I’m afraid. The Dissemination of Terrorism Act was designed to deal with serious cases of terrorist grooming and to outlaw the posting of inflammatory messages by extremists, or videos of atrocities. In a normal situation, what would happen is that you would be charged with contempt of court and given twenty-four hours to turn up in court, where a judge would decide the case. But this Act allows the Attorney General to make the order for arrest directly, and set the sentence, without involving a judge. You go to court, but that’s purely for a judge to ratify the sentence and to allow it to be processed. He has no powers to overturn the order. And the hearing is heard in camera, which means no journalists or members of the public are allowed to attend. Theoretically, contravening an order under the Act could result in twenty years in jail, life in some cases.’
He saw my jaw hit the floor.
‘Now we’re obviously not dealing with that sort of case here, but you have to be aware that you have been charged with a very serious offence, at least in sentencing terms. We need to handle this hearing extremely carefully. I’ve taken the liberty of getting in touch with Jeremy Hobbs already. He will be at the court to represent you, but you have to realise there’s not a lot he will be able to do.’
Suddenly, my martyrdom did not seem quite so glamorous. I was sure Tristian was being unduly pessimistic, and I told myself that once this was over, I’d start looking for more of a glass-half-full sort of person as my lawyer. It would be time well spent. Legal battles looked like they were going to be the norm rather than the exception going forward.
My solicitor and I travelled separately to the courtroom, me in a Black Maria, feeling like a caged animal as I peered through the metal grille separating me from the police officers in the middle part of the van. Two guards plus the driver seemed a bit excessive. The van pulled up outside the court and I was escorted inside, to the same courtroom I’d been in for the earlier attempts to have my gagging order overturned. I was an old hand at this now. I went to sit down next to Jeremy and caught his embarrassed look.
‘I’m afraid you sit there,’ he said, gesturing to the dock.
‘Oh. Right,’ I replied. I looked at the two policemen, who hadn’t left my side. I went over to the dock, and one of the policemen told me to stand beside it. There was a signal from a court clerk, the door was opened and I walked up the steps and sat down, facing the court. Behind me was a spiral staircase, leading down to an ominous-looking door. My early bravado had now completely disappeared.
‘Be upstanding in court!’ boomed the clerk, and the judge appeared, a stern-looking gentleman of uncertain age, resplendent in ceremonial trappings. He settled down into his chair, and the proceedings began.
Prosecuting counsel went through the background to the case. I had been subject to a gagging order. I had tested the patience of the Crown by attempting to circumvent it by staging a play paralleling the events covered by the order, and had revelled in the ensuing speculation and notoriety. During my radio interview the day before, I had flagrantly broken the terms of the order, encouraging listeners to believe that the play was based on current events and alluding to the gagging order in contravention of the superinjunction. This had all resulted in an order from the Attorney General that I be detained for six months under the Dissemination of Terrorism Act.
Jeremy had advised that the best response would be for me to apologise for my intemperate comments on the radio and to give an undertaking to the Attorney General not to do so again. I was having none of it. I told him he had to attack the morality of preventing someone from speaking out about what they believed to be true. It was a high-risk strategy, and the prosecuting counsel’s words showed me that Jeremy’s misgivings had turned out to be well-founded.
The judge took less than thirty minutes to retire and consider the arguments.
‘Duncan Jones, you have the arrogance to think you can pick and choose which laws apply to you and which do not …’
This was not going to end well.
‘Laws are a sign of civilised society. They are made by common consent and must not be trampled on by individuals. But you think you are above such restrictions; so that no matter what actions a court takes, if you don’t agree with them, you can flout them at will. And you will continue flouting them, whenever a chance presents itself. I have to demonstrate to you that the courts will not tolerate being treated in this way. I am ratifying the Attorney General’s order, sending you to prison, where there will be no opportunities to speak to the media or commit further transgressions until due legal process brings you before this court to be tried for contravening the Dissemination of Terrorism Act and related offences. I would hope that you will treat this time as an opportunity for reflection, so that when ultimately released you do not simply reoffend straightaway. I can assure you that that will only demonstrate a need for a longer period of detention. Commensurate with this sentence I am imposing reporting restrictions, banning further discussion of the play known as The Art of Deception in whatever forum until your trial. Furthermore, all performances of the play itself are covered by these restrictions and must cease forthwith. That is all. I ratify the sentence of six months’ imprisonment, with the prospect of early parole solely at the discretion of the Attorney General. Take him down.’
My life collapsed around me. Incarceration and financial ruin. I would lose all the money I’d put up for the production and with further court cases looming, legal bills would be mounting.
I took one last look around the courtroom as the door to the dock opened and a policeman stepped inside. He escorted me down the spiral staircase to the netherworld below. The policeman knocked on the door at the bottom, and after a few seconds, I heard it being unlocked. A matronly-looking woman beckoned me to enter. I stepped inside, leaving behind the courtroom, with its tasteful warm beech and contrasting blue panels, and into the dingy and forbidding world below.
The woman introduced herself as Doreen and led me down some further stairs encased on all sides with steel mesh. She showed me into a small, windowless room, bare apart from a padded bench.
‘This is the holding cell,’ she explained. ‘Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be back in a mo.’
With that, the heavy door with its iron-barred viewing panel was slammed shut. I slumped down onto the bench, my
head in my hands.
Doreen came back a few minutes later.
‘I’ve brought you a nice cup tea,’ she said with a cheery grin. ‘How do you take it?’
‘Milk, no sugar,’ I replied automatically.
It was surreal, this friendliness and courtesy, and I was still in shock that I was now a convicted prisoner. The door opened and another jailer walked in, armed with a sheaf of papers.
‘This is Harry,’ Doreen said. ‘He’s got some forms to be filled in. Drink up your tea and let’s get on with it. You’ll be wanting to have your legal, I’m guessing.’
A ‘legal’ turned out to be a visit from Tristian, for which I was moved to a larger cell.
‘I’m as shocked as you are,’ he said by way of an introduction. ‘The ban on the play is a scandal, quite unprecedented. The important thing is to stay calm and don’t entertain any thoughts of suicide.’
I finally snapped.
‘This should not be happening to me. I want out of here. There must be something you can do. There must be.’ I could feel tears, and forced myself to stay in control. ‘Speak to the media, to politicians, to anyone who can help me.’
‘I can ask Jeremy Hobbs to make a submission to the Attorney General that you will give an undertaking not to repeat your accusations, now or in the future. As you recall, it was what we recommended in the first place. If you’re willing to sign such a document, there is a chance, only a chance mind you, that you will be released. Would you want me to do this?’
I was terrified of what lay ahead. I was sure the next six months would not be all cups of tea and friendly faces. Shamefacedly, I said yes.
He left, saying he would get started on the submission straight away. As soon as he left, Harry, the form-filler, reappeared. He produced a set of handcuffs.
‘Sorry to do this, mate, standard procedure,’ he said. ‘I’ve to take you to the cage for a few minutes until you go into the sweatbox.’
The cage was aptly named – a brutal, animalistic, iron-barred crate where all that day’s convicted prisoners were held after sentencing. Some prisoners’ anger was completely out of control as they threw themselves against the bars like wild animals trying to escape; others were in almost catatonic misery. I watched one prisoner throwing himself against the bars of the cage with such force that blood started to trickle down from a cut on his forehead. One of the most muscular and heavily-tattooed guys I had ever seen was crouched against one side, sobbing like a child. The most terrifying and dehumanising place I’d ever seen, a scene of absolute rage and anguish. And I was part of it.
The courteous behaviour I’d received started to make sense. Everything about my life had changed in the last few minutes, and the disorientation was intense. Doreen making me a cup of tea wasn’t because she was a kindly old dear; it was probably some Home Office protocol designed to reduce my mental stock, help me to transition. Whoever the bureaucrat was that had mandated that procedure, I was grateful to him. These had been a few precious minutes of humanity in the new barbaric world in which I found myself.
It became evident that the promise of being only a few minutes in this cage was optimistic in the extreme. There were about ten of us locked up, and no one seemed to be going anywhere. I headed over to a corner, squeezing past a stupefied black kid who didn’t look old enough to be in this company. I felt ashamed that I was using him as a human shield from the belligerent hard men at the far end of the cage and wondered for a second if I should apologise for my actions. I glanced over at him, saw his lips move as he muttered away to himself, too softly for me to make out the words. I decided to leave him to whatever internal agony he was going through.
A fight broke out. Four members of a what appeared to be a gang had rounded on a fifth member, accusing him of being the reason they had been caught. He was knocked to the floor by the first punch, then squirmed up against the bars as they started kicking him. He tried to defend himself, then he simply covered his head with his hands and took what was coming to him. There wasn’t enough space for the four gang members to kick him all at once, so they operated a bizarre rota system, each taking one kick and then joining the queue for the next one. After about two minutes they got bored, told him once last time that he’d fucked up all their lives, and stomped over to the other side of the cage.
Nobody from the outside intervened, this was the new normal in the world I was in now. I looked in vain for a clock on one of the walls outside the cage. Time had no meaning here. I squeezed even further into my corner.
Eventually, I found out what a sweatbox was. A big prison van with tiny white compartments that a miniature cat would have difficulty swinging in. I cursed my height as I tried to find some way of folding my legs so that I wouldn’t cut off all blood supply to my feet. I’d just about succeeded, when, with a lurch, the van pulled off. The windows on the van were high up, too high to see out of, and as we drove off I tried to imagine what part of London we were travelling through. I knew we were heading east and as the light coming through the windows suddenly changed, I realised that meant we were going through the Blackwell Tunnel under the Thames.
To whatever hell awaited me.
chapter sixteen
Hell was a place called HM Prison Belmarsh, a sprawling modern jail in southeast London. When I was told the name, I thought it must be a mistake. I’d only ever heard about it as a high-security place where the most dangerous prisoners were sent, usually for life. But it is also a holding prison, where newly convicted prisoners from London and surrounding areas are held for a few days before being dispersed to jails around the country, those more appropriate for their crimes. I hoped they wouldn’t get the two confused.
I stepped out of the prison van, clutching my bag of personal possessions the way a child clutches their favourite blanket. Colossal concrete walls, topped with coils of barbed wire, glinting metallic blue in the evening light. Stern glares from the prison guards, blinding lights above us gave every inch of the courtyard an icy hue that seemed to suck the colour out of everything.
Bitterness and suppressed violence hung heavy in the air. It channelled through me, filling me with anger and resentment. I queued with the other new arrivals, waiting to be registered. A pounding headache seared through my brain; every sound stabbed into my eye. I never got headaches.
I handed over the forms given to me at the Old Bailey to a guard at the reception desk and stood stock-still, waiting to see what would happen next.
‘Step back from the desk,’ he barked, and I jumped back two paces, head bowed in a submissive posture that I hoped would avoid any further antagonism.
I was allocated my prison number and then put in a communal cage again. The other inhabitants were more subdued this time, the intimidating atmosphere having a sobering effect on us all.
‘Jones – property!’ shouted an officer, gesturing me to a room next to the cage.
I emptied the contents of my bag on the table and watched as half of them were confiscated as being in contravention of some arcane prison regulation or another. For the next hour or so I stumbled through the formalities of admission: the fingerprinting, mug-shot photography and inevitable strip-search. A moment of incongruity as a cute black and white spaniel came up to greet me, its tail wagging a welcome. As it sniffed its hello, I realised it must be there to smell for drugs. I resisted the urge to give it a pat and as the guard pulled it away it eagerly greeted the next guy in line.
I was told to bend over and cough, then given a light blue T-shirt and scratchy grey tracksuit before I was escorted to the first-night wing. My cell had a single bed up against one wall; a WC was in the corner with the lid removed. I lay down and stared at the ceiling.
How could this be happening to me?
The night was when the horrors began. All the new arrivals had been put in a wing away from the rest of the other prisoners and as the lights went out, random y
elling started. Screams into the night, a few nonsensical words, some half-sung syllables; it sounded like wild animals bellowing on a Serengeti plain. The name of one new inmate had been singled out for some reason and a demonic sign-song echoed across the jail from cell block to cell block – chants asking what should be done to him tomorrow, in response the most chilling suggestions in anatomical detail. I lay there feeling lonely, frightened and vulnerable. I couldn’t begin to imagine what the recipient felt like.
I barely managed more than an hour or two’s sleep. Each time the prisoners’ cries began to fade away, someone would give a long howl and the next round of chanting would begin.
Early morning, and I was in a drowsy half-sleep when there was a pealing bell, followed by a shout of, ‘Unlock! Everyone out!’ I jumped off my bed, looked out of the iron-bar door and saw three prison officers marching along the corridor, unlocking each door. When my turn came, I stepped out of my cell, blinking in the light as I took in the sight of a straggled line of prisoners; some coughing and spluttering, others standing rigidly in a show of macho defiance.
The prisoner standing next to me looked me up and down.
‘Nonce, are you?’ he growled.
I froze in apprehension. These were the first words spoken to me by a fellow inmate. The barrier I had been building in my mind to keep myself separate from all this, trying to treat it as an out of body experience, shattered in an instant. I remembered the advice I had read about how to survive in prison. Keep your head down; don’t draw attention to yourself; say as little as possible about who you are and why you are in there. I thought back to the taunts I’d heard in the middle of the night.
I stared straight ahead in silence, took deep calming breaths while I thought about what to do. I didn’t want to speak, but even more I didn’t want to be labelled a paedophile.