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
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 police 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.