Read by Andrew Baguley
He was as young as you’d fear, the consular agent. But he was my main hope, and I hid my disgust. I got in first:
“Before you start, I didn’t do whatever they say I did.”
“What do you think they are saying you did?”
Cheeky. I began to like him. “I have no idea. I’m at a total loss.” I replied.
“You don’t look very worried.”
“I’m not. Because I’m innocent.”
“Of what?”
“No need to be rude Mr. Woods.”
“Sorry.” And I was. No need to alienate him. No need to swear. I knew this was a mistake, one that would resolve itself shortly.
“Assuming you have committed no crime, we need to work out why you are here. Some of my questions may seem absurd, but I have to ask them. Are you a spy, for the secret services or industrial?”
“No.”
“Are you politically active? Books, pamphlets, blogs?”
“No.”
“Could your friends have arranged this for a joke?”
“Err…. No, I don’t think so.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes I’m sure.”
“This is weird I know, but have you ever signed up to one of those extreme life experience organisations? You know, when you agree to let something crazy happen, but without any warning.”
“Like that film?”
“Yes, like that film.”
“No.”
He paused now, out of ideas.
“So what next?” I asked.
“We wait, for the charges.”
“How long does that take?”
“Could be up to ten days.”
“What? That’s unreasonable.”
“Yes, I know. You will have to get used to that. Things progress slowly here.”
“Will they torture me?”
“No they won’t, I can assure you of that.”
But they did.
*
After three nights I began to realise how much trouble I was in. There was no sense here, no logic, no clear causation, no strategy for escape. I was locked in. I am locked in. I would love it if you could read this, but there is no paper here. Only thought. If you could read this you might decide to lift yourself from complacency and come for me, into this humid country of undeserved punishment. But before leaving your happy life you will want to know - what happened? how did he get there? what did he do wrong? It was nothing I did - well, the smoking perhaps, and too much salt, perhaps a few too many binges - if you want to go hard on me. Nothing criminal. Like I told the consular agent, I do believe I am morally blameless.
*
Forgive my artifice. I must have a framework in which to tell the story, and my memory is full of warmly remembered plots. Also, I need to access my sense of humour, which is like an old friend standing by me. He prods me when I’m down and pulls a face. He is annoying, just as I was annoying in the old days, when I could talk and jest, but at least he is alive. He spits in fate’s face. It was he who transformed the fluorescent tubes above me into rhomboids of sunlight cast through the barred window. My sense of humour came up with the consular agent, the face of fate, the impotent messenger. But I like my junior diplomat, for all his ethereality. He has done well, and I am glad that the service has not moved him on. I’m sure he will climb the career ladder out of this banana republic in good time, but for me, right now, it’s just fine having him pop in nearly every day. And I think he likes me a little.
I no longer swear, I hide my disappointment at news of the latest failed appeal or crushing interim judgement. He hands me messages from my family, but has not yet succeeded in getting one of them into my cell. Not even Julia, my closest connection. That surprises me. It’s been two years, and I would have thought the foreign office would have got its finger out by now and brought her over. But then again, perhaps her absence is confirmation of my guilt.
What was I doing when they came for me? I believe I was sitting in a restaurant – neutral ground - waiting for her… my daughter Julia. We had not seen each other for four years, since her decision to emigrate to Australia. I did not expect her to visit often, but such a time without a glimpse was hard to take. Then she rang, and the breeziness of her tone erased all the hurt that had accumulated. The falling out was history now, she had made a new life for herself, and the time had come to meet again. When you have children you don’t think this sort of thing can happen, but adults are harder to manage than children, and there you go – estrangement.
So there I am, waiting. She is late. I feel the stirrings of annoyance. Late, for this! For me! I take the menu for something to do, and the writing in the centre begins to swirl. The power leaves my arms, I groan, I slip off the chair. The doors fly open with a bang, they run towards me, bag me up, take me away… Why was I in this country? Oh come on, don’t resist, go with the story. It’s all I have now.
*
I do fantasise. My favourite is to imagine the consular agent coming into my cell, seemingly as usual, until, hesitating, he looks back, nods, and says,
“I have someone with me today,”
“Oh, who?” I ask, prepared to be unimpressed. Another sweaty local magistrate, itching for a wedge of damp bank notes in order to ‘facilitate’ the next appeal. But the boyish diplomat smiles and says,
“A surprise actually Mr Woods,” (he has always insisted on this formality). I look expectantly into the shadow of the corridor beyond the door, I see a tan skirt, a slim calf, then a feminine hand on the door post. It is Julia, of course. And in my fantasy I cry. When the dream is over I lay still – always still – and feel the tears evaporate off my cheeks. I cannot wipe them away. If there is any moisture left when the morning staff arrive they will dab me, and one of them might say something like oh, bad dreams again Jeremy.
Oh why the pretence? Why describe myself in terms of an innocent prisoner rather than an innocent victim? The result is the same – I am locked in. Even the doctors call it that. It could be worse – I have learnt plenty from their unguarded conversations at the end of my bed. It could be PVS – persistent vegetative state, in which case I would not even have the power to imagine. Some authorities contend that my condition is worse, because I am aware of it all, the loss, the regret, paralysis of everything but the eyelids, the absolute impotence.
They say, the doctors, that spontaneous recovery does occur. It is very rare, but the way I imagine it, all it takes a reconnection. All I need is for a bundle of nerve tendrils to grow back and touch, across the area of brain damaged in the stroke, the way my fingers touched Julia’s when we dug tunnels in sand pits, furiously scraping away until we met in the middle. The look of achievement in her eyes! ‘Breakthrough!’ she would shout. She didn’t grow out of that until she was twelve or thirteen. She is the catalyst I think. If she comes to this foreign country the rush of joy, the enzymatic storm, will spur those frail nerves on. She is the key.
I hear the slam of distant doors, the creaking of hinges. Footsteps, multiple. They never let the consular agent approach on his own, he is guarded all the way to the door. They should trust him by now. Perhaps it is me they do not trust. Today, shall I relent? Shall I say that I am really a spy? That would be fun. I have to fill the space of endless months.
One day perhaps, if I recover, I will get all of this down on paper, so that you can enjoy it. They may even read it out. Imagine that. And if ever you do hear it you will know that she came back, into my cell, demure and embarrassed in the shadow of the consular agent, before touching my inert hand and setting me free.
(c) Phil Berry, 2015
Phil Berry is a novelist, medical writer and practicing doctor. He has had short stories performed by fellow Liars in London, Hong Kong and Leeds. He is currently completing a book series for children called 'All The Pieces'.
Andrew Baguley (left) worked for the council in the 70s, acted in the 80s, was in business in the 90s and noughties, and is now back acting in the twenty tweenies. He may return to the council for the 2020s. His most recent project was a German TV adaptation of a Rosamunde Pilcher novel where he played an unsuitable date. www.andrewbaguley.com
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