The ruperts stationed two of the jundies in the room with me and then left, presumably in case I was lying and was about to explode a string of incendiary devices. I pulled out the first gold sovereign, and the ruperts were summoned. They dismissed the two squad dies and divided the sovereigns between themselves. They tried to look so official and solemn as they did it, but it was blatantly obvious what they were up to.
It was probably thanks to the ruperts’ greed that my silk escape map and miniature compass weren’t found. They were both hidden in my uniform, and a thorough search would have unearthed them. I was chuffed to have them still. It was a wonderful feeling: you don’t know this, big nose, but I’ve still got an escape map and compass, so up yours. The best time to escape is as soon as possible after capture. The further you go down the chain, the harder it is to escape, because the system caters more and more efficiently for a prisoner. Frontline troops have other problems on their minds, but further down the line the security is better and you’ve most likely been stripped of your uniform. From the moment I was captured I had been trying to orientate myself so that I knew which way was west. If the chance came my way, I’d need these vital items.
Blindfolded now, I was taken to another room. I sensed it was large and airy. There were bodies in there talking; the atmosphere was more subdued. I could tell by the more regulated voices that this was the Head Shed’s room. It felt strangely secure. I felt I was out of danger somehow, far from the madding crowd, even though I suspected what was going to happen. Then I realized that though the people sounded more in control, if they filled me in they’d do it more professionally.
There was a strong smell of coffee, Gitanes, and cheap aftershave. I was pushed down onto a chair with a cushioned seat and high back. Part of me felt I wasn’t there. My mind was going into some sort of fantasy to block it out, as if it was all a dream. I had never once considered that anything like this could happen to me. The feeling was the same as if I’d been driving a car and knocked down a child: complete and total disbelief. My mind was hearing things, but I was enclosed in my own little world. I snapped out of it and thought about trying to get their pity, or a cup of coffee or something to eat. But I wasn’t going to ask for jack shit. If they gave me something all well and good, but I wasn’t going to beg.
I clenched my muscles, put my head down, gripped my legs together. I guessed that before they got down to some proper tactical questioning, they would take their frustrations out on me. They were murmuring to each other.
So what’s it to be, I thought. A fearsome torture?
Or am I going to get fucked?
Men milled around, whispering. The tiniest sound is magnified when you’re trying so hard to hear. A chair scraped. Somebody got to his feet and came towards me.
I braced myself. Here it comes. I pretended to shiver. I wanted so much for these people to feel sorry for me.
Two seconds felt like two minutes. It was unbelievably frustrating not to be able to see what was going on. I shivered again, the injured, pathetic creature, the man who knew nothing, the man not worth doing anything to. But I knew I was grasping at straws. Head down, I tried to show no reaction as he approached.
There was a strong waft of coffee, and I longed to be in Ross’s cafe in Peckham with a big frothy coffee in front of me. On Saturdays as young lads we’d go down and get two sausage and chips, pile on the salt and vinegar, and get a frothy coffee. Ross the Greek would let us spend all morning there. We can’t have been more than eight or nine. My mum always gave me the money to go and get my dinner at Ross’s; she knew it was the big thing. In wintertime there would be condensation running down the windows and that strong, strong coffee smell. It was such a snug and cozy place to sit. It came back to me so vividly that for a brief moment I felt like a child who has fallen over and is crying for his mum.
There was no way Dinger would have gone into his cover story yet. Name, number, rank, date of birth, the Big Four-that’s all he would have given. I thought: I’m going to get severely filled in here because they’re going to want a lot more than that. I sort of hoped maybe they won’t be asking me now; maybe they’ll be asking me later. Maybe they’ll just be taking their frustrations out now. Maybe no one can speak English! My mind was racing at incredible speed as this character got nearer and nearer, and finally stopped just inches away.
He pulled my head up and punched me hard in the face. The blow knocked me backwards and to one side, but they were surrounding me, and I was pushed back upright. Even when you’re expecting a punch like that, you’re shocked when it comes. I wanted to stay down because it would give me time to rest before the next one, time to think. Everybody piled in. There was laughter as they tried to outdo each other’s efforts. I felt drunk. You know what’s happening, you know what’s going on, but there’s nothing you can do to control it. You begin to feel detached. It’s happening to you, but your mind takes over and says Fuck this, I’m not having much more of this, and you start drifting into unconsciousness. You can feel it happening, but your mind goes off into a wander. I was being punched into a semi stupor
I let myself drop to the floor because at least then I could protect my face. I drew my knees up and kept them together, kept my head down, kept myself clenched up. As the blows rained down I screamed and moaned. Some of it was put on. A lot of it wasn’t.
Then, as if on a signal, the beating stopped.
“Poor Andy, poor Andy,” I heard, and a mock clucking of concern.
I got to my knees and put my head against the man and shook it. I leant against him, my breathing heavy and rasping because my nose was so clogged with blood and mud. I started sinking to the floor again. I needed his help to get me up. This gives time, I thought, this stalls the operation. Hopefully they’ll come to their senses and see that I’m just a pathetic, useless cretin, not worth the effort, and leave me alone.
I was helped back into the chair and somebody dead legged me. I screamed. Even as a schoolboy I used to hate dead legs-and they were just the variety that were delivered with the knee. This was a full blooded kick. Boots flew in from all directions again. I went straight down.
You know the sensible thing to do is to appear weak and plead with them for mercy, but something takes over. I was so angry that I made a conscious decision once more not to beg. There was no way I was going to demean myself. They were going to do it anyway. I knew it was counterproductive to resist, but you can’t fight your pride and self-respect. If I moaned, that would only give them more pleasure. The only way I could beat them was by my mental attitude, and beat them I would. By keeping as quiet as I could, I was winning a small battle. Even the slightest imagined victory is magnified a thousand times. I’m winning this, I thought. Ridiculously, I felt my morale soar. Fuck ‘em, I said to myself-don’t give them the satisfaction of going home for their tea and saying to their mates, “Yeah, he was begging us to stop.”
They didn’t stop. Boots swung into my ribs and head, steel toe caps connected with soft shins. There was no point to what they were doing; everybody was just being macho. My only hope was that they’d get bored with it soon.
A couple of them started sounding off in English, denouncing Bush, Thatcher, everybody they could think of. My body was starting to throw its hand in. I felt limp and drained. It was difficult to breathe. I had already been deprived of my sense of sight; now everything was swollen and throbbing, and I felt my other senses numbing, too. My heart pounded so strongly it was creating its own chest pain.
I could hear screams and anguished groans. They must have come from me.
Somebody shouted into my face from inches away and then laughed manic ally “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” and backed off.