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  “And so, at ten o’clock on Saturday night, I did one of the bravest or the most foolish things I’ve ever done—depending on your point of view. I went out to see that he was all right. And he lived in one of the districts we were told in no uncertain terms we should avoid. And to crown it all, I even walked there. It was, as I have said, that rebel within me that did not want to be told what to do, even though I probably knew what was best.

  “The odd thing is that I met nobody, not on the walk there. It was eerie, but I could hear things far away: the sounds of shouting, the breaking of glass, the distant sound of what I think was someone being beaten. I don’t deny that I was afraid; I think I even felt I should turn back more than once. I felt as though I was on the edge of a war; not that I was in one—that I was on the edge of one. But I most certainly felt that a war was going on.

  “When I got to my friend’s door, I saw that there was no need to knock. It wouldn’t have been possible to knock. It looked as though someone had taken an axe to the door; it had then been torn from its hinges and thrown to one side. There was no sign of life from inside, no sound when I called. I knocked on a wall before softly padding in; the curtains weren’t drawn and a certain amount of neon light filtered in from the windows at the back.

  “And I found my friend in the living room, in a pool of his own blood. He had been stabbed no fewer than seventy-six times: that was what they established on the Sunday morning when his body was finally examined at the hospital. And I will never forget crouching there beside him in the darkness. I could see his face in the half-light of the room, and I crouched there in his blood. It was shining; that pool of blood was shining. And as I crouched there I thought that even then they could not take his shining from him. They could do everything to him, and in the end they took away his life, but they could not take his shining. And the strange thing is that I did not cry; I have not cried until now for his loss. I walked all the way back home and thought of that, of all the shining that cannot be taken away.”

  *

  AFTER WE CAME back upstairs, the three of us, I was still in shock. I think actually we all were: I suspect that what had happened was the last thing my superior expected. In a way of course it did him a mammoth favour, because what had he been planning on doing with the guy otherwise? If you announce publicly that all four bombers are dead, you can’t suddenly produce one of them and say you made a counting error. And you certainly can’t do it when you’ve tortured him. So it was the last thing he had thought of, but it was the best possible way out for him.

  I remember none of us said a word on the stairs; I can remember the sound of our shoes slipping on the stone stairs. I don’t really mean slipping, but I can’t find a better word to describe the sound. That sound of shoes on smooth stone. I can’t remember in what order we went back up and it doesn’t seem to matter much now, but I do know that none of us said a word. Total silence. And I remember looking down before we got to the top and seeing the guy white in the darkness. It was very, very eerie. He was so white in the darkness. It was like a body that’s been dug out of ancient ground, out of peat. He looked somehow like a fossil. And I thought of all that had happened.

  My superior, my boss—call him what you will—went straight over to the interview room when we went back into the modern part of the building. He started sorting sheets of paper; he seemed completely himself. He clicked shut the little suitcase he had brought with him. I just stood there, on one side of the table. The one thing he never did that whole time was look at me. I wanted to know what he was thinking; I somehow wanted to know whether or not all this had been worthwhile. I didn’t want to know whether it was right or wrong; the philosophical discussion could wait for another time. But I wanted to know if it had been worthwhile.

  I can’t honestly recall what I said, what I asked. It was just the two of us there in the interview room—I don’t know where my colleague was at that point. I was somehow irritated that all my superior could do was sort through papers. It seemed to be the last thing that mattered. So I suppose that’s exactly what I did ask: if it had been worthwhile, if it had all served any purpose.

  I couldn’t believe the way he answered; you could almost hear the shrug of his shoulders in the way he replied. Of course it had been worthwhile; there had been mention of the base at Faslane. I knew that was where the nuclear submarines were stationed on the Clyde, but I had never heard the word Faslane actually mentioned. Of course it was worthwhile, he said again—this would mean the place could be ring-fenced and any possible attack prevented.

  I just didn’t know what to say to that and so I didn’t say anything. I can remember feeling rather foolish; I felt very much as though I had been written out of everything. He was still going on tidying papers and I found myself asking what would happen to the body. I remember he smiled at that. He assured me everything would be taken care of as far as that was concerned. There was absolutely nothing to be worried about there.

  *

  I WAS GIVEN a letter to take to his wife. I used to go there every day to give him food and water. I still don’t want to reveal the locations where he was kept. I believe to do so might put people in jeopardy even now. I don’t want that risk to be taken. Thank you. One was a cellar, that I can say. He was kept there partly because the police were searching everywhere over those days. I have many friends who experienced dawn raids; their children were terrified because armed police broke in to search the house. I think they kept on being sure they had found the right place. The idea was also that he should know something of the conditions of prisoners who had been held and interrogated by the CIA; I think especially those who were victims of rendition. And he was moved several times. How many? I’m not sure; I think I saw him in three different places. He was always kept in a tiny room, a cell, that had been specially made for hiding him. They were dark and certainly cold. But it was very hot outside; it was the height of the summer so in fact it was cool there rather than cold. Usually he would be moved without warning in the middle of the night; he would be blindfolded and taken out, driven to the new location. I am not going to give any of the names: that is impossible. That is not why I agreed to speak today. I wanted only to read the letter.

  How did I find him? I must say he was very kind; I do not remember him being angry or desperate to escape. He seemed calm and perhaps resigned. I felt sorry that he was chained like an animal. There was nothing I could do or say; I was there only to bring food and water. I was not supposed to say a word, to speak to him at all. No, I did not—I knew that I was not to speak and so I did not. But I did smile at him and I did not think this was wrong. Did I feel unhappy at his condition? I am not sure. I think it is true to say that part of me did feel unhappy. But he was also there for a reason. He had been kidnapped and imprisoned for a reason. If there had not been a reason I would have felt more unhappy. No, I did not know what was going to happen. I did not ask and I was not told. I have said they wanted him to know what it was like to be imprisoned, that is all. But yes, there was fear he might be found—that is why he was moved from one place to another several times. Yes, the letter.

  One day he put into my hand a piece of crumpled paper. He had one hand free; the left one was always chained to the wall. It was a completely crumpled piece of paper, a ball, and at first I had no idea what it was—if I thought of anything, I imagined it was just rubbish. But he said to me very quietly to take it, that it was a letter for his wife. He begged me to take it, pushed it into my hand. I had put down the bowl of water so my hands were empty. I didn’t know what to do, but I stayed; no one else was there at that time. He said the address was on the letter; I would find the address there. Please would I take it to his wife, and he begged me several times. He kept thanking me.

  What did I do with it? I had to hide it when I came home; I did not know what else to do with it. I hid it in a box at the back of a cupboard. Yes, I was frightened that my husband might find it. He would have been angry.

 
Why did I not take it to his wife? I did think of it. I lay awake the first night, still wondering what I should do. I knew that I should take it; I did want to help him. I was not saving his life or revealing where he was hidden. Yes, I had read the letter myself before I hid it, before my husband came home. It was an innocent letter; there was no reason to be suspicious of it. And the address was there on the paper. So I drove there, perhaps the next day or the day after. I felt guilty because I was going behind my husband’s back. But I saw at once it would have been impossible. The police were everywhere. I can remember that they looked at me as I drove past. How could I give the letter to them? They would have arrested me at once or questioned me. And I did know where he was being hidden. No, I was not at all tempted to tell them. Was that because I believed it was right he was being held captive or because I was afraid? I am not sure how to answer your question. I do not think it was a choice for me. I do not believe I felt there was any choice at all at that moment.

  So I kept the letter, hidden where I have told you. I thought about it many times; I did not forget about it. I have not forgotten about it to this day. Why did I decide to give it now? The answer is that I wanted to. I think it is about being brave and honest. Many people are telling things that were secret. No, I am not afraid. I do not know what my husband will say. But I will read the letter. I have said everything else, so I will read the letter:

  My love—

  I don’t have long to write this; they’ll be back in a few minutes. I found a stub of pencil and some paper in an inside pocket—no idea how I’ll get it to you, but I’ll try. No idea where I am either; this is the third place. Most of all I want to say I’m sorry. None of this would have happened if I had gone on with things as they were. I can imagine what it’s like for you and the kids right now, but I want you to know I love you. We had the best time. I sit down here remembering, all the good things. There’s nothing to regret and don’t give up. Whatever you do, don’t give up.

  Eric

  *

  I WAS ONE of the police out looking for Semple; that’s the simplest way of introducing myself. I’m originally from London, been in the North for about ten years now, I suppose. It was a horrible time; in fact, it’s what made me leave the police. I just didn’t want to be part of the force any more; didn’t like what we had to do—hammering on people’s doors and searching properties. The whole atmosphere was horrible. It was hot; you couldn’t sleep at night; you were remembering hearing children crying and people screaming at you. I just realised I wasn’t cut out for it any more; by the end of those weeks I felt a nervous wreck. My wife and I were unhappy; the kids were miserable. I just wasn’t myself; I didn’t want to come home at night. I felt I was someone else, that I was acting in the wrong play. All of it felt wrong.

  I just felt it was an “us and them” situation. I felt we were two different worlds. It was like two men shouting at each other from two different cliffs and neither hearing what the other said. And you both just go on shouting. We were doing the politicians’ dirty work for them. They don’t get their hands dirty. That’s another reason I left. I think I really saw that for the first time. It wasn’t achieving anything. All we were doing was alienating people. I mean, what good does it do hammering on someone’s door, bursting your way in, shouting at everyone and turning the place upside-down? And leaving again having found not a bloody thing? Tell me what the point is, what that achieves.

  Of course there was a reason for what we were doing; I know that! But I simply don’t think it helped solve anything. It didn’t bring Eric Semple back; I doubt very much it prevented more unrest. I can only think it would have been counter-productive. I know, it’s easy for me to say all this now I’m out. I certainly felt it, but I wouldn’t have voiced it. I bottled it up. That’s why things were so unhappy at home. No doubt about it.

  There was one day I saw this little girl, she would have been four, four and a half. We had gone in somewhere, two of us, and I was at the back. There was this little girl frightened over in the corner. She had thick dark curls and she was hiding her face. I was closest to her and I could see she was trembling. I tell you what I thought afterwards: it sounds crazy, but what I wanted to do was freeze everything. To freeze the whole scene except for me and that little girl. I just wanted to go over and kneel down and tell her it would be all right. And I didn’t; I couldn’t. We had to go on shouting, even though there was nothing to shout about and we solved nothing.

  I didn’t go home that evening, not until much later. I didn’t even phone my wife to tell her where I was or what I was doing. I had just come to the end of everything. I was in no fit state to drive my own car, but I did. I went out of Sudburgh and I was driving towards these slate-grey skies. It was totally airless outside, oppressively hot. The edges of the sky were all pink, this strange orange-pink. I don’t know what I was thinking; in a way I was trying not to think at all. I was seeing that little girl and what we had done, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. And I parked in this layby and I sort of half realised I didn’t know where the hell I was. There was sun coming from one side, low and gold, and ahead of me was this wall of black. It was scary. It was like something out of a film, like the beginning of the end of the world. And I just cried; I just cried for I don’t know how long. I think it’s the first real time I’ve cried as a grown man. I didn’t even cry at my dad’s funeral.

  I wasn’t just crying for that little girl; I felt I was crying for myself. I didn’t know who I was any more and I didn’t like myself; I didn’t like who I had become. And then the storm broke and I had the best seat in the house. The whole sky cracked open and it rained; it rained so the ground hissed. And I got out and stood in it for a long time and it felt so good. My face was washed by the rain and it felt like a kind of healing. And I drove back in and I knew that that was it. I wasn’t going to do this any more; I was going to leave. I didn’t care what anyone said. That little girl had made me see myself.

  *

  THE LEADER OF the right-wing extremist group White Rose has been found dead in the Peak District after having been reported missing from his home two days ago. There had been mounting pressure on Andrew Gregory after the violence that followed the march through Sudburgh city centre in memory of Terry Radcliffe and in protest at the kidnapping of Eric Semple. Police had been searching a sector of the Peak District after a tip-off from a senior member of White Rose. They say they are not seeking anyone else in connection with Andrew Gregory’s death.

  The hunt for Eric Semple has been stepped up yet again, with more officers being drafted in from neighbouring towns to scour disused buildings and to make door-to-door enquiries. Police say those enquiries have been hampered by the sheer level of anger felt against the white community in the wake of the Sudburgh march. Asian community leaders continue to complain that not nearly enough has been done to make members of their communities feel safe amid what they describe as a toxic atmosphere in Sudburgh. But a spokesman for White Rose said there was little chance of the white community feeling safe when even newly elected members of parliament were dragged from their own houses. There are renewed calls for the Prime Minister to visit Sudburgh and to speak to representatives from both sides of the divide, but Downing Street continues to insist that what matters is for local solutions to be found through local dialogue. However, political activists in Sudburgh have stressed again today that the longer the Prime Minister puts off a visit, the worse things will become. It is likely that mounting pressure will see a visit from the Home Secretary; he has asked for cool heads and patient hearts, saying that the pressure on the Prime Minister in recent days and weeks has been all but intolerable.

  *

  I THINK BACK on it now and reckon everything started with those four from Manchester. They set in motion the whole thing. You know those stupid trails they used to set up on television, where an egg rolled down a ledge into a teaspoon, and that set off a ball along a tube, and so on and so on—it was like that. A
nd the crazy thing is that those four had no idea what they were doing. I’m not calling them innocent; I’m doing anything but calling them innocent. I’ve called them things I’ve called no one in my life. And because of what they set in motion. That’s where White Rose really started. It might have begun beforehand, but that’s where they got their recruits. That and the fact that not one solitary soul was ever arrested. How d’you think that makes people feel? It’s somehow worth arresting even one individual, just to release them again in a week’s time. Citizens want answers when a train full of innocent people is bombed off the rails. This isn’t Afghanistan or Iraq. This is supposed to be somewhere that sort of thing just doesn’t happen, where it’s not allowed to happen. And it’s not enough to make a garden of remembrance and hope the whole thing will be forgotten. That was the spark; that was the first real flame.

  I’m a teacher and I saw kids crying openly that morning; they sat on benches in the foyer and cried. Boys of sixteen, seventeen. They felt scared, shattered. We’re a post-religious society and what do we have to offer them? Nothing. I felt that morning we had nothing to offer them but listening ears. It was just the same the Monday after the battle in Sudburgh. Several kids said to me they were ashamed to be British. They looked at me and said that from their hearts. And I nodded, because I understood and could only agree with them.

  And suddenly we’re here in the middle of a war. It’s not a war zone where I teach; it’s a quiet suburb on the edge of Manchester. But you feel there’s a war all the same, almost underground. You can’t see it or hear it, but you can sense it underground. And the war could be at the next bus station, on the top floor of that block of flats, in that car parked by the side of the road. It’s a war that’s watching and waiting all the time, and it’ll be back when you least expect it and were sure it was gone for good. It gives me no pleasure to say that, but it’s true, and if you don’t believe it then I think you’re burying your head. And it all began with four people who didn’t have a clue what they were setting in motion. And they never did know because they blew themselves sky-high. At least that’s what we were told at the time. But who really knows what to believe. Who knows that either any more.