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Thursday 18 June 2015

A tomb of one's own

I was arrested the other night. Man and woman police officer came to my home, small element of surprise as they snuck into the building without pressing the intercom. No handcuffs, thankfully, after they decided I wasn't a flight risk. Allegations of assault. Domestic. Driven by two other officers to local station. Bureaucracy. Digital fingerprints, palm prints, mug shots, DNA swabs. Belt removed, shoelaces removed, phone removed.

Shown to my lodgings, cell number eight. Camera observing all except "pixelated" lavatory in corner (without any toilet paper and a dodgy flusher). Thick glass tiles acting as a half-window. Bench / bed with rubber mat and pillow. No blankets or sheets. The gentle breeze of an overhead air conditioner. Red stains on the floor that, hours later, I thought were dried blood but perhaps were just marks from the previous floor painting. That famous hole in the door which gets occasionally opened then quickly slammed shut.

Don't get arrested on a Sunday night, especially in these times of "austerity" and "cuts". Evening turned to night and night to the wee small hours, although without a watch it was hard to tell. Having missed supper and asking only for three cups of tea throughout the night and next morning, I thought of two things, as I often do, to help combat feelings of claustrophobia and panic: Yom Kippur, great training for day-long mini-fasts; and long-haul flights, where you're locked in that metal box, completely at the mercy of other humans and natural forces.

When I felt a wave of deeper panic building, shocked by my Kafkaesque incarceration and sudden transformation into a criminal cockroach, I would counter it by imagining how much worse I would be feeling if I were on a plane heading for imminent destruction. Those good old laws of relativity. No matter how bad, there is always worse.

Anyway, no sleep was had, thanks also to the glaring fluorescent lamp designed to ensure that Big Brother could keep me firmly in his sights. With no external distractions, I tried to see the upside of this rare "digital detox", a chance to see if I still had any spiritual spine. But, by God, time didn't half drag. It crawled and creaked from one dead minute to the next. My inner resources have been seriously depleted, I concluded. Perhaps I need more of this "alone time", this reminder of the nihilistic void which is everyone's ultimate destiny ? Alone, literally alone, with no distractions, no nothing.

Finally, this dark knight of my sole gave way to morning, and morning to late morning. And just when I felt I had become institutionalised within these four walls, out I go to see a solicitor and then to give a recorded statement. Then back into the cell, this time more apologetically from the officer, as if my innocence was already starting to emerge.

I had resigned myself to missing my son's pick up at nursery but - bang ! - the Crown Prosecution Service returned its high-speed verdict on my story, my version of events: "NFA", no further action.

All night long my dog-tired brain had been narrating my "story" to myself, preparing my narrative, again and again, forgetting key words and wondering if I would ever recall them, without access to a pen and paper. And how on earth was I supposed to give a convincing, coherent statement when I was so sleep deprived ?! But in the event, my truth, my story was "performed" sufficiently well for some strangers to make their judgement.

And then, just as suddenly as I had been whisked from freedom, I was now being politely returned to the daylight world, complete with belt, shoe laces, phone, cash and cards. After 17 hours in what was effectively solitary confinement, listening to the nocturnal shouting, kicking and banging of neighbouring inmates, freaking out at their own entombment, I was now free to go back to my "normal" life. One where police cells don't exist and my innocence and freedom is never questioned.

Back to the dreamworld.

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