Roman lays his bedding to his side on the bunk. ‘Well… okay, but what should I do?’
‘Don’t panic. Not yet. The guards threw you in here, you had no choice.’
Roman nods. ‘Exactly.’
The kid leans forward. ‘Okay, listen to me. Here’s some advice for you, brother. Think ten times before saying anything in this place. In prison, I mean.’
‘Right, okay.’
‘I’m serious. People can ask provocative questions around here. An example. Someone asks you if you’re married, say yes, but if they ask you if you have oral sex with your wife then watch out. You say yes, they can say you’re a pervert and make you obizhenny once and for all.’
‘So… so what should I do?’
‘What should you do?’ The kid shakes his head, like it’s obvious. ‘Don’t play tough guy. Don’t boast. And keep your trap shut about your sex life.’
‘But if it’s a mistake that I’m in this cell, what can I do?’
‘Break me out of here. So you’re not tainted. If I leave, this place won’t be woollen any more. Break me out.’
‘Well how do I do that? I mean, I’ve only just arrived here. Am I supposed to fight you? Is that what you mean? I don’t want to fight you. I don’t even know you.’
On the second floor, Camila and Alex are alone in their cells, lying on their bunks. The air is filled with screaming and banging, the sound of locks turning and doors slamming. Somebody is thumping incessantly on Camila’s wall, she shouts back, begging them to leave her alone. Alex has given up on sleeping, the wails of the other prisoners are filling her ears, the mattress is nothing more than a thin layer of lumps and gaps. The whole place is shaking, the Russians are screaming, alarms are going off, and she can still hear the dogs barking, vans pulling up. It’s the other activists, more of her friends from the Arctic Sunrise being brought to jail from the courthouse. The prison is vibrating through the pipes, people are stomping on the floor above her. They’re lunatics, she thinks. This place is crazy. She can’t sleep. She’s cold. She has a purple ski jacket on and a blanket wrapped around her, but she’s still freezing.
Upstairs Kieron is lying on his back, a bright light flickering over his head. He doesn’t have any warm clothes and his teeth are chattering. He manages to sleep for a while then he wakes up shivering, sleeps again, wakes up. Ivan is squatting in the corner of the cell cooking food while Stepan is working the ropes. Ivan stands up and brings a bowl over to Kieron.
‘Here, breakfast. For you, my friend.’
Kieron attempts a smile, nods his thanks and takes the bowl. Ivan doesn’t move, he’s standing there waiting for Kieron to try it. Kieron raises the spoon to his mouth, but before it’s touched his lips he can smell it. It’s disgusting. It looks like porridge but it smells of burning rubber. Kieron gulps and slides the spoon between his lips and swallows. Ivan smiles. And Kieron’s thinking, just eat this shit, don’t upset your cellmates, get through the night.
In the cell next door Phil wakes with a jolt. It takes him a moment to remember where he is. It’s dark outside. He falls asleep again, wakes up. He hugs the sheet, drifts off, then wakes to the sound of metal on metal. The hatch in the door is open, a guard is shouting something and holding a bowl. Phil stands up and takes it. He looks down at a grey paste that smells of chemicals. The hatch closes.
It’s Friday morning, 6 a.m., and their first full day in SIZO-1 is about to begin.
EIGHT
A guard and a female interpreter are stood over Alex Harris. She gets to her feet. The guard peers over Alex’s shoulder and looks around the cell then says something. The woman translates, asking Alex if she has any questions.
‘I just want to know, when can I speak to my family?’
Guard and translator converse.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please. When can I speak to my family?’
More words are exchanged, the woman turns back to Alex.
‘You have to put an application in to the investigators.’
‘I have to do what?’
‘Yes, a written formal application.’
‘To make a phone call?’
‘Yes.’
‘But… but surely that’s a basic human right, to make a phone call. I’ve just been locked up and…’
‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘Okay, so I have to write this application. How long does it take?’
A long and involved consultation between translator and guard ends only when he shrugs his shoulders and fiddles with his belt buckle. The woman says, ‘A few weeks, maybe a month.’ And with that, the guard coughs, steps backwards, reaches out and pulls the door closed.
Two thousand four hundred miles away, Cliff Harris and his wife Lin are staring at the television. Every hour the news channel runs pictures of vans leaving the Investigative Committee headquarters, and they know their daughter is in one of them. The family is in a state of shock. They don’t know how Alex will possibly cope with the ordeal she’s undergoing. ‘You have to start from the fact that Alex has always been a very sensitive, caring child,’ says Cliff.
But Alex isn’t feeling very caring right now, instead she’s burning with indignation, chewing her lip with anger and staring at the door, ready to jump down the throat of the next person who opens it. Hours pass before it swings open again and two guards stand before her.
‘I want my telephone call,’ she shouts at them.
‘Gulyat.’
‘What? What the fuck does that mean? I want my…’ She sits up and makes a phone shape with her thumb and little finger and holds it to her head. ‘I want to call my family.’
‘Gulyat.’ One of the guards makes his fingers do a little walk. ‘Exercise.’
Alex’s heart jumps. At last, this is where she’ll see her friends. She assumes it’s going to be a big yard like in the movies, with prisoners in orange overalls playing basketball. It’s going to be good to see the others again, to hold them and share stories about this place.
She pulls on her purple ski jacket. The guards lead her down hallways, through doors, down a staircase and outside into the open air. They’re walking her towards a concrete building with a long line of doors. When they get there they open one and push her inside. With a scraping sound the door closes and a key turns in the lock.
It’s dark. She’s in a box. It’s two metres by three metres. She looks up. The roof is made of chicken wire and crumbling asbestos tiles, and through the mesh she can see a guard cradling a rifle, looking down at her from a bridge. The floor is covered in spit and cigarette butts. She kicks out, spins around and hugs herself. Then she buries her face in her ski jacket.
In all her life, she has never felt so alone.
Alex Harris studied marketing at university and always assumed she would end up at an advertising agency. On her placement year she worked at Bosch power tools. After graduating she saved up money in Abu Dhabi – ‘not my kind of place’ – and hit South America. And that was where she fell in love with nature. She was in the Amazon, on a canoe, it was idyllic, birds flying above her in the dense jungle canopy. Then she saw the oil pipelines. And she thought, why are they there? Why the hell are they pumping oil through the Amazon jungle? That’s crazy.
After that she went to the Galápagos Islands. She dived with sharks and swam with seals and turtles. When the Deepwater Horizon oil platform blew up in the Gulf of Mexico, she was in Australia. She watched the TV footage of oiled coastlines and felt real, visceral anger. She wanted to do something. She bombarded her parents and friends with petitions. Then she signed up to volunteer at Greenpeace.