Every so often, when the pain in his fingers and arms and feet and the back of his legs became unbearable, he would let go and press his palms on the wall or his bare soles on the floor, and enjoy the relief for the second or two before the blow came to the inside of his leg or his groin or the side of his trunk below the ribs or the small of his back.
But it was while he was standing as instructed that he was, without warning, struck hard across the backs of his knees. He fell to the floor, banging his head against the wall on the way down. The phones and hood were snatched off his head while he was still sprawling, dazed, at the foot of the wall. He immediately placed his arms over his head, curled up and pulled up his legs.
‘Get up!’
The command came from a metre or two away, and rang like a shout in a public toilet. Hugh rolled to his knees, then to his feet, holding himself up against the wall.
‘Open your eyes and step away from the wall.’
Hugh opened his eyes, and closed them tight shut as the light hit them. He stepped away from the wall, swayed, and fell again. This time he didn’t bang his head, and the next time he got up he was able to stay on his feet and open his eyes. A man in the uniform of a Royal Marine sergeant stood in front of him, regarding him with a curious detachment. The room was tiled white, with a cork floor and a polystyrene ceiling. The door stood open.
‘After you,’ the marine said, gesturing to the doorway.
Staggering, cringing from the expected blow, Hugh made for the door. It gave on to a narrow corridor.
‘Left,’ said the marine.
Hugh walked on until ordered into a room to the side. It looked like a lecture room, with bright overhead lights, a blank white wall screen, and rows of chairs with built-in desks. The marine pushed him, not too hard, towards a desk at the front and told him to sit down. Then he went out. Hugh’s head slumped on his arms, across the desk.
‘Hello,’ said a new voice. Hugh looked up. A shaven-headed man a few years older than him, wearing plain trousers and an open-necked blue shirt, stood over him holding two cans of Coke.
‘No coffee, I’m afraid,’ the man said, with a light smile. He had a north London accent, clipped to posh. ‘Can’t risk any hot liquids being slung around, you see. Coke?’
Hugh managed to close his hand on the chilly can. His finger joints hurt. He was still trying to get a fingernail under the tab when the man grabbed a seat, swung it around, and sat down facing him, a metre and a half away. He watched Hugh prise open the can, spill a foamy dribble down his chin, and then force a sip down his throat.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to drink too much at once. You’ve had it rough, haven’t you? Those military types…’ He shook his head, sadly. ‘Carry on as if they were in a war zone. Never give you a chance to put your side of the story before they pile right in on you with the old routine. You’d almost think they enjoyed it. But they don’t, not really. They’re very professional. But rough, undeniably rough.’
He popped his own can and continued: ‘So, Hugh. This is your chance. Let me hear what you have to say for yourself. From what I’ve been told, it doesn’t look good for you, but I’m sure, you know, that you have your own version of events, and if it fits in with all the known facts and accounts for them in a different way – well! That’s you off the hook! No one would be happier than me – apart from you, of course – if this all turned out to be a ridiculous misunderstanding. Result!’ He smacked his palm with his fist, making Hugh wince. ‘I’d be absolutely delighted. Walk you to the gate, put you in a taxi back to Stornoway, slap-up dinner with your wife, night in a hotel, all on the taxpayers’ tab. Sounds good, yes?’
Hugh nodded.
‘On the other hand,’ said the man, standing up and pacing about, as if nervously, between the desks and the screen, ‘suppose you have something serious to get off your chest. What you’ve done might look bad to you. Maybe you’re afraid to admit it out loud. But even so, you’re in a far better position than you might expect if you just spill it all as soon as possible. Names, dates, plans, the lot. The more the better. A full and frank confession makes a good impression on a judge, you know, and I’m sure a smart brief could come up with all sorts of mitigating circumstances. Good Lord! I can reel off half a dozen myself, just off the top of my head. Previous good character. Father of a small child. Local ways, perhaps, about guns and so forth. Seriousness of the offence not realised. Led astray, maybe, by ruthless professionals. All that sort of thing.’
He stopped, by the white screen. Hugh squinted at him, through eyes half-shut against the glare.
‘I sometimes think,’ mused the man, ‘that we make a big mistake letting so many frightening rumours circulate. They work as a deterrent, I’ll give you that, but we seem to forget to balance this against the panic people get into when they’re facing charges like those you are. They may think that no matter what they do or say, life as they know it is over. That they’re doomed to vanish without trace into the… parallel detention system. The global gulag, as some very ill-informed journalists so frivolously call it. They really should read the book, you know, before bandying around terms like that.’
He gazed off into the middle distance for a moment. As the room’s venetian blinds were closed, this did not strike Hugh as a convincing pose.
‘All quite untrue,’ the man went on. ‘And yet, and yet…’ He sighed. ‘I’ve seen so many cases of people who held out, for days, months, years even, thinking that a confession would make things worse for them. Not true, not true at all. And when you see the state of them when they finally come out… Sad cases.’ He shook his head. ‘It makes you wonder what their lawyers were thinking of, it really does. No!’
He turned his head sharply and faced Hugh again.
‘No!’ he repeated. ‘All the grim stuff you’ve heard of – that only happens to those who don’t confess.’ He strolled over and resumed his seat. He took a sip of his Coke, and leaned forward.
‘So tell me, Hugh,’ he began, then jumped to his feet, knocking over the desk, and shoved his face right in front of Hugh’s, ‘WHERE DID YOU HIDE THAT FUCKING GUN AND WHY DID YOU HIDE IT?’
Hugh recoiled, splashing some of the cola, tipping the desk almost over. The man picked up his own seat, set it down and sat in it again, leaning forward, knees apart, arms on the desk.
‘I really do want to know, you know,’ he said. ‘Quite apart from the benefits to yourself of telling me, it really is driving me up the wall.’ He took another sip, and smiled thoughtfully. ‘You trained as an engineer, I understand. I have a smattering of physics myself. The military chaps, of course, all have a very solid scientific education. You see, don’t you, how deeply frustrating it is to be told something that violates the law of conservation of mass-energy?’
Hugh tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He took a gulp of Coke. His arms felt like they’d been knotted from toy balloons, weak and swollen. They ached like he’d just done a thousand press-ups. His ears rang so much that he strained to hear the man speak. The urge to sleep was almost overpowering.
‘Did I say that?’ he said. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Ah,’ said the man. ‘You were interviewed after your arrest.’ He waved a hand, and the screen lit up. Hugh saw an image of himself shouting, in a desperate tone: ‘I told you! I told you before! I threw them away in the tunnel!’ There was a blur of motion across the screen, and then it went blank again. Hugh felt his hand lift slowly to his face, to meet a bruise over the cheekbone.