Chapter 13 : Fetter Lane & Fetters in Camp Lima
James was sitting in his cell, staring blankly at walls confused and degraded by the episode with the woman the night before, his cock sore from the constant abuse of the previous weeks.
The first that James knew of the police raid was the crash of a door splintering and the cry "Armed police!" immediately followed by the building shaking thumps of stun grenades detonating somewhere above.
Fearful and uncertain of what might be happening, James and his cell mate cowered back against the wall as if that could in some way offer them protection. Nevin burst into their cell confused, frightened and gasping, "It's the police! A raid." He started to fumble with the lock that chained James to the wall but before he could unfasten it the door behind him burst open.
In a cloud of dust and smoke, a gasmask-wearing police officer, in black combat gear, her body protector declaring "SWAT", stood in the doorway clutching an automatic weapon. "Armed police," she called and Nevin turned towards her raising his arms. James saw the woman's eyes widen behind the flat glass of her gas mask. A single shot rang out. Nevin, a startled look on his face, fell silently to his knees and then pitched forward, blood spilling from the hole drilled in the middle of his temple, the back of his skull shattered by the bullets exit path. James almost threw up at the sight. Both he and the other man looked up in helpless terror waiting for the next shot.
A second police officer appeared. "That was lucky," she said. "I saw him coming for you. Quick reactions!" She pulled off her gas mask and shook out a mane of blonde hair. "Let's get these two out of here. The team will have finished clearing upstairs by now."
Two more shots smashed the locks that had imprisoned the two men and the first police officer led the two of them, still shackled, upstairs, out of the building and into a waiting police van.
It drove off.
James was shocked by the sudden and unnecessary killing of Nevin. He had done all he could to ease their confinement. Still he at least felt relieved by their liberation. He wondered what would happen now that they were being freed. Perhaps, after this, there would be some sort of resettlement, maybe even some form of sponsorship to help him to recover. Whatever else it couldn't be worse than the abuse of the last few weeks.
...
The first sight that James got of the place was when they took him out of the van on the inside of the wire fence that ran around the facility. A white curved wall, may forty feet high with doors at regular intervals along its base hardly seemed like a prison or a police station but he didn't have too long to think about it as the police urged him out of the van.
He found it difficult to climb down from the van; the shackles on his ankles made sure of that. Under the haranguing of his police escorts he made his way as quickly as he could, shuffling across the tarmac covered surface of the yard, towards one of the doors where another policewoman was waiting.
Only later, locked in a cell inside a large hut, did he get the chance to try to work out where he was. Balancing on the foot rail of the metal frame bed that was almost the only furniture in his cell he managed to just pull himself up by the two bars of the semicircular window that lit his cell from high on the back wall.
Through the semi-circular window, as long as his aching arms could hold him there, he could see out at some of the camp. To the right stretched a row of single story huts each with their own semi-circular roof windows that James assumed lit cells like his own. To the left a high fence and barricade of razor wire separated the huts from an open grassed area. Beyond this were rows of seating and white painted pavilions. At the far end, a high, oval, glass fronted building stared down like an enormous, single, eye. Behind its glass, James could make out white shirted camp staff moving backwards and forward. Occasional glints of sunshine reflected on the binoculars of those charged to watch over the camp.
Slowly James realised where the camp was. It had been set up with its huts on one half of the pitch of Lords Cricket Ground. The huts were being watched from the vantage point of the Media Centre. He wondered what the score board said. Certainly New Order seemed to be winning.
James's eyes were drawn to a movement in the stands. Three figures in black sweaters and grey camouflage combat trousers were edging their way down towards the level of the pitch. They carried semi-automatic weapons; evidently the women were part of the camp's security guard.
James lowered himself down until he stood on the rail again so that he could rest his arms. He took a few moments to stretch and regain his strength and then pulled himself up once more. Now the guards had gone. Down on the field a group of younger women were involved in some ball game or other. In their black kilts and tight white sweaters there was only one group that they could belong to, New Opportunity, the youth conscription organisation that all girls joined between the ages of eighteen and twenty one. Two of their mentors, girls barely a year or two older, were dressed in the same white sweaters but wearing black track suit trousers. They were watching as the girls passed a ball between themselves, obviously enjoying their exercise.
He craned his neck to see as much as he could, out across the camp and on to the exercise ground beyond. Focused on the activities outside, James didn't hear the door to his cell slide open. The first he knew of the arrival of the guard was the burning sting of a cane across the back of his thighs. He half jumped, half fell from the bed rail under a rain of blows.
"Get a good look at the New Opportunity girls, did you?" the guard snarled as she cut again and again at the backs of his legs and buttocks.
"No, no. Please stop," begged James. "I wasn't doing anything."
"That's what they all say," the guard snapped but she stopped the beating, leaving him sprawled on the floor of his cell, staring up at her. In her white, short sleeved, shirt, dark tie and straight khaki skirt, it was obvious that she was one of the camp staff. The red epaulettes on her shoulders made James think that she wasn't one of the regular guards but he didn't have the chance to discover who she was. "If you're going to survive in here, you'd better pay attention when the guards are around. Make sure you're standing up, hands behind your back, looking at the ground when there's one of us present. Understand?"
"Yes, Ma'am," said James, judging that it was better to comply than to earn another beating. He struggled to his feet and took up the position that she had described.
As he did so, he heard another woman's voice. "Sorry, Ma'am, I didn't realise you were coming straight down here."
"Don't worry, Whittaker," the first woman said. "I just thought I'd give our friend here his first chance to learn how we do things."
"With us long, is he?"
"Hard to tell with these politicos."
"Excuse me," James said, as politely as he could. "I haven't done anything, I was rescued from..."
"Save it," Whittaker said. "No one's done anything in here if I listened to any of you."
"There's going to be some sort of hearing," the senior guard said. "When they get around to getting the lawyers together. Back end of the week maybe, next week possibly. Who knows? They certainly take their time. Don't you worry though," James felt less than reassured by her tone. "We'll take great care of you until then. Just do as Whittaker here tells you and you'll be all right."
The door to his cell clanged shut and the two women walked away talking to one another. It was only once the sound of their voices had disappeared that James felt safe enough to lift his eyes and move.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Janice, Celia & Nadine met at the Morpeth Arms pub, just around the corner from Pimlico Underground. Celia and Nadine were already on their second vodka and tonic by the time Janice appeared.
"Are you sure this is going to be fun?" Celia said frowning.
Janice waved at the bar boy pointed at Celia's drink and then to herself. He seemed to get the idea. "Of course," she said. "Trust me."
Both Celia and Nadine gave a sceptical look. Janice's drink appeared. "Can't we just stay here and watch his cute little arse?" Nadine said plaintively.
"No," said Janice firmly. "It's time for a dose of culture. So drink those down and follow me. Believe me you'll enjoy it."
Janice led the way out of the pub and along Millbank towards the Houses of Parliament. It was only a short walk which was just as well given the height of the heels on Nadine's shoes.
The entrance to the Tate Gallery was imposing, the steps up from the roadway seemed to beckon the girls inside, Janice striding out in front, Nadine and Celia following much less certainly behind. "We're not at all sure about this culture stuff," Nadine called as they got to the entrance.
"Trust me," Janice called pointing to a poster which announced 'Future Tension : Present Tense - Visions Of The New Order'
"This isn't some political stunt, is it?" Celia said. "I know I voted for them, but I'm not really interested in the philosophical basis for female led societies or some such guff."
"Don't be such a cynic. Come on." Janice led the way through the Tate Gallery. Originally intended to celebrate British Art it now focused on British Women's Art. In spite of the work of the Trustees, the generosity of some donors and the assiduousness of the Government in what they referred to as illegally held assets, there were still more gaps on the walls than the curator would have liked. They'd been reduced to hanging a selection of Beryl Cooks, for heaven's sake. The new exhibition was a critical and popular success, though.
