Piers Venmore-Rowland - Latent Hazard

The splintering crash of the front door hitting the floor woke Rafi Khan with a jolt. Terrified, he sat bolt upright, but was too slow; before he could get out of bed, a harsh voice barked, ‘Don’t move, or we shoot.’ There was no escaping the bright red dots dancing on his chest.

‘Move your hands to where we can see them.’ Rafi slowly lifted up his arms, but at that second the wind was knocked out of him. Under the weight of his assailant, he fought for breath. His hands were pulled behind his back in a vice-like grip, and in a matter of seconds he was expertly trussed up, blindfolded, gagged, dragged off the bed with a bump and left lying on the floor.

‘Suspect apprehended and in our custody. Flat secure. You can come up,’ the same stern voice called out.

Rafi was bewildered and scared of what might happen next. He couldn’t move and the blindfold across his eyes was painfully tight. It took a full minute for his mind to catch up with everything that had just happened.

‘He didn’t give any trouble,’ said the curt voice. ‘His front door was a piece of cake; when will people learn?’

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ said the man in charge. ‘What have we got here? Cases packed; ready to leave. It’s lucky we got here when we did.’

The tone of his voice changed. ‘Rafi Khan, I’m arresting you under the powers conferred under section 41 of the Terrorism Act. You will be held in detention and informed of the charges against you within the prescribed period.’

The man paused. Rafi sensed he was standing very close to him. ‘Put those guns away and take him down to the van, then search this flat from top to bottom. Let’s see what’s hidden here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A pair of strong hands grabbed Rafi and, forcefully dragged him across the floor, like a sack of potatoes.

What the hell was happening? Everything had taken place so fast. Three flights of stairs later, Rafi felt like damaged goods. He was manhandled out of the building into the cold February air, where, from his blindfolded world, he could hear the sound of an idling diesel engine.

The man pulling him shouted, ‘Help me lift him into the back.’

Rafi landed with a thud onto the metal floor. His expletives were muffled by the gag and came out as little more than irate grunts. The tape across his mouth held firm. He was dragged on to the side bench. The doors slammed shut. A bang on the side of the van signalled it was time to go and it lurched forward. In his dark world he heard the police sirens blaring. The van was travelling fast through the deserted streets of London. And then, just as he was becoming accustomed to his environment, it came to a sudden halt.

Rafi was untied and hauled out. Fresh air washed across his face. He was now sandwiched between two men.

‘Start walking.’

Rafi moved forward. His shin bumped into a solid object. Sharp pain shot up his leg. He stopped.

‘Oi! Keep moving!’ bellowed one of the men next to him. ‘Keep moving!’ he repeated.

Rafi tried to proceed in a straight line, but his sense of balance had deserted him. He staggered along in an ungainly manner.

‘Stop! Stand still!’ came the stern order.

To the best of his ability Rafi tried to obey. There was no warning of the ripping sound that came next. Pain seared across his eyes as the sticky tape removed chunks of his eyebrows and eyelashes. He’d hardly drawn breath when the gag was ripped from his mouth. ‘That hurt!’ he yelped.

Rafi screwed up his eyes in the bright fluorescent light. Either side of him were two muscular policemen in full protective clothing.

In front of him, behind a tall wooden desk, was the duty officer, a pen in his hand. ‘Name?’ he inquired in a no-nonsense manner.

‘Rafi Khan.’

A series of quick-fire questions followed. ‘Address…? Date of birth…? Nationality…? Personal effects: pyjamas, watch…Yes, sign for them ’ere… Stand ’ere. Height: 175 centimetres.’ The duty sergeant read off the measure on the wall. ‘Turn to face me.’ The flash of the camera surprised Rafi. ‘Turn sideways.’ Another flash. ‘Hands out.’

In a whisk he was fingerprinted. The whole process was like a moving along a production line.

‘Come over ’ere! Remove your pyjamas! Bend over!’ Unceremoniously, Rafi was strip-searched. His dark-skinned legs showed a selection of new purple bruises. The one on his left shin looked particularly spectacular.

‘Been clumsy, ’ave we?’ enquired the duty sergeant. No reply was sought. ‘Get dressed in these.’

Rafi awkwardly put on the drab clothing. It swamped his slight frame.

‘Take ’im away.’

He was led to a claustrophobic and dingy basement cell. Its desolate overhead light shone starkly. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

Rafi hardly had time to take in his surroundings before the metal door swung open.

‘Follow me,’ said a guard. ‘Don’t get any ideas! This way!’

Rafi was led down a bare corridor to an interrogation room; like everything else in the police station, the room was devoid of character, bleak and utilitarian.

Two interrogators sat on the other side of a narrow desk in a steely silence. Their manner made him uncomfortable: one smirked, the other scowled.

The guard pointed to the chair opposite them. Rafi looked carefully at the two men, his stomach knotted with apprehension. They looked truly intimidating and as hard as nails.

‘Sit down!’ ordered the dark haired man. Rafi recognised his cockney accent. It was a sound he had grown up with.

The blond haired man turned on the recording device and stared at Rafi with his steely blue eyes. ‘We have a number of questions to which we would like truthful answers.’ His voice was business-like and lacked any emotion.

‘Who are you?’ enquired Rafi cautiously.

The dark haired man frowned. ‘Cheeky little sod isn’t he?’ his penetrating eyes stared at Rafi. ‘I’m Mike and he’s Andy. And for now, that’s more than enough information.’

Andy studied Rafi carefully. His craggy face was framed by slightly over-length wavy hair. ‘Let’s get started.’

‘Aren’t I entitled to a solicitor?’ asked Rafi.

‘Sod it! No!’ said Mike firmly. He looked like a jackal sizing up his prey. ‘You are a terrorist suspect. You don’t even get a telephone call and no one gets to see you.’

‘Me a terrorist suspect? How the hell… no way! How have I broken the law?’ asked a bewildered Rafi. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong… And what about my human rights?’

‘The rules are different. You have absolutely no rights. No calls, no visits, nothing,’ replied Andy.

‘Surely I should at least be told why I have been locked up?’

Mike leant forward. ‘No! You’ll get nothing from us.’ In contrast to his colleague, he had black crew cut hair and a scar running across his left temple into his hairline.

‘The law makes it very clear. Terrorist suspects can be detained without charge,’ said Andy, ‘For rather a long while, as it happens. So don’t get your hopes up. You’re going to be cooped up here for weeks or until such time as you tell us what we want to know!’

‘Mr Khan,’ said Mike, with menace. ‘You can either help us and make this painless – or you can be difficult, which would be very unwise,’ his scowl deepened. ‘Being uncooperative isn’t your best option. We have evidence that puts you in the middle of a major terrorist conspiracy.’

Rafi couldn’t believe his ears. He opened his mouth to say, ‘You what?’ but nothing came out.

Their questions rained down and became increasingly intrusive. Rafi tried to answer Andy and Mike as they interrogated him on his religion, contacts, reading habits and favourite websites, but they were seemingly dismissive of all of his answers. Their fierce questioning was frightening him.