The facility, p.6
The Facility, page 6
‘Anyway,’ says Tom. ‘There’s a bloke I know in the Met. He’s an important bloke. Superintendent level.’
‘And? What did he say?’
Tom reaches for the spoon beside his coffee. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘He said nothing.’ He glances to gauge her reaction but her expression offers no clue. She is waiting for whatever comes next.
‘Next,’ says Tom, ‘I spoke to a guy in the Home Office. A civil servant. This guy, he likes to brief. I pay him – the website does – and he’s got tastes, shall we say, that require investment. So usually I pay him, assuming he comes up with something I can use.’
‘Did he?’ Julia says, in a tone that suggests she already knows the answer.
Tom meets her eye. ‘No. He didn’t. But listen,’he adds. ‘These are my best sources, Julia. These are the Libertarian’s best sources.’
Julia does not seem encouraged. ‘That’s good, is it? The fact that your best sources haven’t told us anything?’
‘But they have!’ Tom is grinning. He checks around, conscious that his words will have carried. ‘The fact that they didn’t say anything: it tells us something.’
‘Like what, for instance?’
‘Well,’ says Tom. His smile fades. ‘I don’t know exactly. But I had assumed your husband’s was a routine arrest—’
‘They arrested him under anti-terrorism legislation. How could you possibly have considered that routine?’
‘But that’s my point! These days it is routine. Or it can be, at least in terms of how information is fed to the press.’ Tom shakes his head. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘my point is, the Met, the Home Office, the entire law-and-order apparatus: they rely on us to report these things. They leak information because they want us to have it.’
‘I’m not following, Tom.’
‘They’ll tell us why. If we notice an arrest, and we ask about it, ninety-nine times in a hundred they’ll give us something we can write well before any charges have been made. Because if we’re asking, it’s in the public domain. If it’s in the public domain, they have to guard against any form of backlash.’
‘By saying what exactly?’
Tom shrugs. ‘If it’s a terrorist they’re holding, they might say the arrest was made in conjunction with the ISI and leave us to fill in the blanks – just as an example. If they don’t give us something, they know we’ll cry human rights.’
‘So why not just come out with it? If they’re effectively telling you anyway . . .’
‘It’s part of the game. They can’t just come out with it, not until they press charges. If they press charges, they are obliged to make a case, which very possibly they will lose. Besides,’ Tom adds, ‘they don’t need to. They tell us what they want us to know and we make the case for them. We legitimise their actions, justify the time for which these people can be held by making them seem more dangerous, sometimes, than they really are.’ Tom reaches for his coffee spoon again, twirls it clumsily between his fingers. ‘We insinuate and incriminate and incite and the more we do the better the police look.’
‘And you do this?’ Julia’s expression is one of disgust. ‘You, your website. Despite everything you’ve written, you still do this?’
‘Not us so much but . . . I’m talking about the press in general. The media in general. It’s just how things work.’
‘You mean it sells papers. It gets traffic.’
Tom shrugs again. ‘I suppose.’
Julia turns away. Tom watches her for a moment, then drops his gaze. At the sound of raised voices, he lifts his head. There is an argument developing between the cafe owner and the group of students. One of the girls wants the key to the toilet but she is not one of those who has bought a drink. The cafe owner has his arms folded, the girl her palm outstretched. Her friend, a boy, intervenes, by offering the girl a sip of his Coke. She drinks and smiles triumphantly and once more holds out her hand. The cafe owner continues to refuse, however, which sparks a blaze of abuse from the rest of the group. Tom does not understand German, or any language except English, but there are certain words he has picked up somewhere and the students are using these now. The cafe owner responds in Italian and Tom is able to follow the exchange quite readily. In the furthest corner of the cafe, the dog begins to bark, and the old woman strains to keep it under control. Only the couple in the corner nearest seem undisturbed: they do not turn to watch but remain huddled and holding hands. In the end the students leave, in a clamour of scraping chairs.
Tom faces Julia and rolls his eyes. Julia seems hardly to have noticed the commotion.
‘Don’t think I’m not grateful, Tom,’ she says. ‘When I say what I’m about to say, don’t think I’m not grateful. Because I am, I truly am, but I’m tired too and I’m frustrated and I’m worried about Arthur more than anything.’
‘It’s okay. I understand.’
‘But your news,’ says Julia, her tone colder. ‘Your news, basically, is that you have none. Right? And that you have none somehow implies that things are worse than I thought they were. But,’ she adds, interrupting Tom as he is about to speak, ‘you’re not sure how much worse.’ She tips her head. ‘Is that fair?’
‘Well, I suppose you could put it like that . . .’
‘Or,’ says Julia, ‘and forgive me again if this sounds rude, but is it possible that your sources . . . I mean, they’re good sources and they’re senior people and for whatever reason – and I don’t want to think about why – but for whatever reason they owe you a favour. But could it be that they simply don’t know why my husband was arrested?’
‘Absolutely,’ says Tom, leaning in again. ‘But what I’m saying is, these people are senior enough that they should have been able to find out. That they couldn’t, or that they told me they couldn’t . . .’
‘You still think it means something.’
‘I do,’ says Tom. ‘It’s something different, Julia. I really think this is something different.’
With the students gone, the cafe is quiet. The dog is sleeping and its owner digesting and the lovers giggle once in a while but barely speak. There is a television behind the counter, tuned to Eurosport and with the volume set low. Tom’s eyes drift to the screen but only because he is looking anywhere now but directly at Julia. She is staring at the ceiling, water pooling in her eyes but yet to spill. She blinks, though, and a tear runs free.
‘I’m not upset,’ she says, when Tom shifts. ‘I mean, I am but that’s not why I’m crying.’ She turns to face him. ‘I’m pissed off, Tom. I’m crying because I’m fucking pissed off.’ She says it in a hiss but with evident relish and Tom cannot help but smile.
‘You’ve a right to be. Christ, Julia. I’m pissed off and I barely know you. I’ve never even met your husband.’
Julia drags the heel of a hand across each cheek and clears her throat. ‘Thank you. You’ve done what I asked you to. You didn’t have to and I’m grateful that you did.’ She unhooks her bag from the back of her chair and checks its contents. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude to you,’ she adds, talking to her handbag now. She looks up. ‘You didn’t deserve it.’
‘Wait,’ says Tom. ‘You’re not leaving?’
‘We’ve finished.’ Julia stands and picks up her coat. ‘Haven’t we?’
Tom coughs out a laugh. ‘Hardly. I’d say we were just getting started.’
Now Julia laughs. ‘Tom. You’ve done what you can. I appreciate it, I really do. But I can’t ask you to—’
‘You don’t need to ask.’
Julia sits again, on the edge of her chair. She smiles, with genuine warmth, and it is the first time since they met that Tom feels he is looking at her – that he has been granted a glimpse of her. She reaches across the table and takes his hand. ‘You’re kind,’ she says. ‘You’re just being kind.’
Tom shakes his head. He pulls his hand away. ‘That’s not it.’
‘What then? What else do you think you can do?’
‘Keep digging,’ Tom says, knowing before he speaks that this is not an answer.
Julia smiles again. ‘You have a job, Tom. You have your own problems. I appreciate you wanting to help but—’
‘I’m not doing it to help you, Julia.’ This does not come out the way Tom intended. ‘I mean, I am. Of course I am. But this, whatever this is: it’s a story. If it’s a story, it is my job.’
‘Really?’ Julia raises an eyebrow. ‘And your boss. Katherine, was it? She would agree with you?’
This time Tom does not reply.
‘I have to go,’ says Julia and again she stands.
‘You’re still going?’
‘I have to pick up my son. I told my cousin I’d be there by eight.’
‘Your son?’ Tom has forgotten that she has a son. ‘How old is he? What’s his name?’
‘He’s three. Almost four. His name’s Casper.’
‘Like the ghost,’ says Tom, before he can stop himself.
Julia’s lips tighten. ‘Like my grandfather.’ She glances at the clock on the wall. ‘I have to go.’
Tom slides back his chair. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
Julia looks like she is about to protest but does not. ‘Fine. Let’s go.’ She moves towards the door and Tom follows. Julia is already on the pavement when Tom turns back.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘My coat.’ He returns to their table to collect it. It is on his chair and he pulls it free, then hurries again towards the door. On the step he turns once more, to check whether he has forgotten anything else. Except for their abandoned cups and Julia’s cake, their table is empty. The cafe, in fact, is now deserted, but for the lovers ensconced at their table. Tom glances at them and then away and catches up with Julia outside the door.
‘What is it?’ she says, noticing Tom’s expression.
‘What? Nothing. Let’s go.’
Julia leads and Tom lags. He looks behind him, towards the couple still visible through the glass of the door. They are giggling again and gazing at each other, which is exactly what they have been doing the entire time. Except for that moment when Tom glanced back; when he checked again that he had left nothing behind. Because for a second – for a fraction of a second really – he was convinced that they were both watching him.
Arthur eats. The food is bland and anaemic but it is the first meal he recalls eating since . . . Since what? A tuna sandwich in the surgery, which he did not finish because the bread had turned soggy. A KitKat, after that, and a cup of coffee. Does that count as a meal? Before that there was breakfast – or did he skip it? Before that was dinner, the night before he was taken wherever he was taken, and dinner was probably something in a plastic tray. So perhaps this is his first proper meal in months, in a year – since he separated from Julia. Drooping vegetables and dry chicken and rice that has been scraped from the bottom of a pan, as well as a hunk of bread so stale it feels toasted and a glass of warm milk, slightly sour. Bland then, anaemic then, but delicious nonetheless.
So Arthur eats. His head dips as his fork lifts, in the way his mother always told him it should not. He starts with the chicken but it takes too long to chew so he scoops the rice instead, unashamedly using his fingers to stop the grains falling from his fork. He swallows too quickly, as though he were drinking, and gulps the milk to flush his throat.
He is conscious that there is someone beside him and across from him and behind him but he has barely looked yet to see who they are. The people from his coach, Arthur assumes, because they eat the way he does: with a sprinter’s focus and without exchanging a word. There is no conversation anywhere in the hall, in fact, just the sound from Arthur’s table and the one behind of scraping and shovelling and swallowing and the snap, periodically, of plastic cutlery not up to the job. Arthur wonders vaguely why the rest of the room is so quiet. Not all the prisoners can be as hungry as the new arrivals but rather than eating perhaps they are watching; it is the first time, after all, that they have all been assembled. Between mouthfuls, Arthur glances to check. He looks up and he sees and what he sees makes him stop. He lowers his laden fork to his plate.
Disgust. Abhorrence, even. Over the penitent shoulders of the man sat beside him, Arthur has an unobstructed view of the half-dozen tables beyond, of the people – men, for the most part, though a handful of women too – around them, of their faces, their expressions. It is as though they were watching the new arrivals eating something other than food: something that only savages would eat, or animals. Or perhaps it is how they are eating. Perhaps it is the ferocity with which they gorge themselves. The man opposite Arthur is licking his plate. Something has stuck to it and he scrapes at it with his fingernail, his tongue again. Arthur looks back to those watching and though their countenances seem barely to have changed, he has missed something, he realises. He thought it was disgust but it is that and something more. It is shame too. The people watching are disgusted but also they are ashamed, as though it were not strangers they were watching but themselves.
Arthur slides his plate away. He is famished still but all of a sudden he cannot eat. The man opposite – a youngish man, slim but not skinny, dishevelled like the rest of them but with the look of someone who might usually take care over his appearance – notices and catches Arthur’s eye. He regards Arthur warily, gauging him for a moment, then takes hold of Arthur’s plate. He pulls it towards him, slowly at first, all the while watching Arthur and tensed for him to react. He might be dragging a discarded bone from the twitching muzzle of a dog. When the man seems reassured that Arthur is not going to protest, he smiles and stacks Arthur’s plate on top of his. He picks up the piece of chicken and bites, smiling still, watching Arthur. He takes another bite, then drops his eyes to his second course.
There is a voice from across the hall. Arthur looks for its source and the woman who spoke is easy to spot. Other than the guards along the walls, she is the only person in the room on her feet. The inmates around her are seated as before, their trays untouched and their hands clasped or cupped across their foreheads or under the tables in their laps. Except, that is, for the man across from her. He is jabbing at his plate, loading his fork and hoisting it towards his bulging, undulating cheeks.
‘Look around you,’ says the woman, glaring at the man eating. She is short and slight but her voice has weight. ‘You’re the only one eating.’
The man takes another mouthful. ‘I’m hungry.’ He jabs again, focuses on his tray.
The woman shakes her head. Revulsion creases her eyes and her mouth hangs open as she searches for her voice once again. ‘Look.’ She points towards Arthur’s table. ‘Look at the state of them. Look at the state of you.’ The new arrivals are dressed in their own clothes still but the others wear a uniform of shirt and trousers: both blue, both ill-fitting. ‘It’s disgusting,’ the woman says. ‘You. You’re disgusting.’
This time the man looks up. He finishes chewing and dabs at his lips with a baggy sleeve. ‘Watch your mouth, love.’
There is muttering from the rest of the table. Eyes narrow and train on the man eating. ‘Watch your own,’ says someone. ‘Leave it out,’ says someone else. There is another, slightly older woman seated to the left of the first and she reaches a hand to her younger companion. The man seated to the standing woman’s right scrapes his chair back, as though preparing to rise at her side.
‘You!’
Heads turn; Arthur’s too. There is a guard striding through the aisle towards the woman who is on her feet. As he walks he draws his baton from the holster at his side.
‘Sit down! Right now!’
The woman angles herself to face the guard. She remains standing. ‘I’m done. I’ve finished eating this slop.’
‘Take your seat! I said, take your—’
The guard closes the gap and seizes the woman’s arm but before he can force her down the man across from the woman – the man so intent before on finishing his meal – is standing too. ‘Let go of her! Who the fuck do you think you are?’
There is another guard, approaching on the man’s side of the table. Like his colleague he has his baton drawn. Unlike his colleague, he has it raised above his shoulder. The woman is struggling and the male prisoner is reaching and before he even notices the threat at his shoulder, before Arthur can register what is about to happen, the guard strikes on a downward arc, catching his victim on the back of the thigh. The prisoner yells and the guard swings again and this time strikes at the point behind the man’s knee. The prisoner crumples, falling back and down and against the metal table. He yells again but his yell is cut short by a crack. The guard makes to swing again, at the body that is at his feet now, but he gets no further than lifting his baton. Like those around him, he stares at the man he has struck. He is still staring when a prisoner at the table behind launches himself from his seat and grabs the guard’s throat.
Arthur stands. The prisoners around him stand. There is yelling from all areas of the hall, and people moving, and chairs scraping. The guards rush forwards to rescue their colleague and their advance breaks on a wall of blue. A table topples and three, four, five of the prisoners closest dart behind it and beneath it and charge with the table raised towards a guard caught alone against a wall. The guard dives and the table strikes brick. The prisoners try to turn it but they are turning in different directions and one at least gets struck with a baton by an onrushing guard. Something is in the air above him and Arthur ducks. When he looks up, whatever has been thrown has already landed. It has hit someone perhaps because just a few feet away another body is on the ground: a guard’s this time, her arm twisted beneath her and her baton adrift. As Arthur looks, a prisoner snatches it up. He pauses, testing the weight of his find, then disappears amid the melee.
They watch. It is all they can do. They are the only ones static: the new arrivals, wondering where on earth they have arrived. But then a guard advances from the wall behind them, dragging with him two colleagues, and points at the man beside Arthur. The man backs away, into Arthur, and Arthur stumbles. He catches his feet on the legs of his chair. The chair tips and Arthur falls but he grabs at the table and somehow hauls himself free. He looks behind him. All those round his table have scattered. The guards are closing though, and closing on him, and Arthur finds himself scurrying the only way open to him: into the midst of the skirmish.
