Ben Stewart - Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg

Ambulance.

Frank is carried outside and loaded into the back of a Russian ambulance, one of the guards jumps in next to him, the siren blares and they accelerate through the gates of the Investigative Committee headquarters. Frank’s mind isn’t racing any more. Now he’s just confused. What’s going on? Where are they taking me? Then he thinks, well, at least I’m getting a trip outside.

Five minutes later the ambulance skids to a stop outside Murmansk hospital, the door flies open and Frank is pushed into a wheelchair. The guard grabs the handles and bends down.

‘We go to see doctor.’

‘Yes, well, it is a hospital so I assumed that was next.’

‘But you no escape. Understand?’

‘I know I know, a move to the left or a move to the right is considered an attempt to escape and—’

‘I shoot.’

‘Yup, I got it.’

‘Okay, good.’

‘Yeah, don’t shoot me, please.’

‘A move to the left…’

Frank twists his head back to look at him. ‘Yeah yeah, I know.’

‘Okay.’

‘Yup.’

He lifts the chair back, Frank grips the handles, the guard says, ‘Okay, let’s go!’ then the wheelchair surges forward and bursts through the front doors of the hospital.

‘You from London?’

‘Yeah.’

They shoot across the foyer and take a corner at speed, two of the wheels lifting off the ground for a moment.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, I’m from London.’

‘Depeche Mode!’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yah yah, Depeche Mode. Depeche Mode number one. “Just Can’t Get Enough”. “Black Celebration”. Depeche Mode number one!’

Now they’re careering down a corridor, the guard’s boots are making a slapping sound on the tiles as he powers forward with the wheelchair, doctors and patients are jumping into doorways, they flash past in Frank’s peripheral vision.

The guard bends down to Frank’s ear. ‘You like Depeche Mode too?’

‘Er… Depeche Mode number one?’

‘Ha ha ha! Number one! When I’m with you baby, I go out of my head, and I just can’t get enough, I just can’t get enough. ’

They skid into a lift, up one floor, then along a corridor at breakneck speed before Frank is disgorged into the arms of a cardiovascular consultant. He’s immediately examined, the consultant expresses concern over Frank’s heart rate, Frank tries to explain that he’s been brought here by an armed joyrider who’s just threatened to shoot him. The consultant nods, he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t care, he takes blood, he orders Frank to strip and lie on a bench. Frank takes off his top and lies down, electrodes are applied to his chest, tests are conducted, the guard plays with the safety catch on his pistol, the doctor disappears then reappears with a sheet of results.

‘Your body is good,’ he says. ‘Maybe problem in head.’

Instructions are issued to the guard, Frank is loaded back into the wheelchair with the electrodes still stuck to his chest. He’s spun around and launched into the corridor then into a lift, up one level then out into the psychiatric wing. They hurtle towards the door at the end, swerving to avoid another wheelchair coming in the opposite direction, wires trailing from his chest, the guard crooning over his head.

‘ …and I just can’t get enough, I just can’t get enough. ’

They brake outside the door, the guard knocks then pushes Frank inside. Murmansk hospital’s chief psychiatrist holds up a hand. He’s on the phone. He’s middle-aged with luscious grey hair, an expensive suit, a blue tie with red and white dots, a matching handkerchief in his top pocket. He finishes the call, motions to the guard to wheel Frank right in then fixes him with a superior stare.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well I’m not really sure. I was being interrogated by the FSB and…’

‘FSB?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You are one of the pirates?’

‘Well, no, we didn’t actually do it.’

The doctor shrugs. ‘Of course.’

‘No, seriously. We didn’t.’

‘The human mind is capable of convincing us of many things, most of all the things we want to believe.’

‘Why am I here ?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I felt unwell.’

‘Then I will give you something for it.’

‘I was being questioned by the FSB and I had a bit of a… I suppose it was a panic attack. Can you give me something to make me feel better?’

‘Where do you think you are? This is a hospital, that’s what we do.’

‘Well maybe, er… do you guys have Valium? ’

‘Of course.’

‘Can I, maybe…?’

‘I will write you a prescription.’

The doctor scribbles on a pad, rips off a sheet of paper and hands it to the guard. ‘You’ll get two a day from the prison doctor. Hope it helps.’ And with that the man drops back into the seat behind his desk and smiles with paternal assurance. The guard spins the wheelchair around, bursts though the door and accelerates down the corridor. And half an hour later Frank is back at SIZO-1, being led to his cell.

He says to the guard, ‘See ya, mate! Depeche Mode number one! Thanks!’

The guard turns around. He looks confused, surprised that a prisoner has actually smiled at him and said goodbye and thank you. He grins at Frank and says, ‘Good luck, good luck my friend. Good luck, my Depeche Mode friend.’

That night Frank gets his Valium. He takes one and saves the other, and from then on he takes one every night, to get through the road.

It’s burning a hole in his heel.

He knows it would be shown by television stations across the world, it could keep him and his friends in the news, unforgotten. But the memory card with the footage of commandos raiding the Sunrise is still sitting in that little slit in the sole of his shoe. Every day Phil shuffles to the gulyat in his boots without laces, contemplating how the hell he’s going to get the damn thing out of SIZO-1.

It feels like a spy thriller, having this thing in his shoe. A clichéd plot device from a Hollywood movie. But for Phil Ball – a father-of-three from Oxford – it’s real. He’s smuggled the footage into a Russian prison, and now he has to get it out of here. His lawyer has just told him the Dutch government is taking Russia to ITLOS – the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea – and the hearing in Hamburg is coming up soon. And Daniel Simons and his team have lodged appeals with the local court against their detention.

Phil knows the lawyers need the contents of his boot. It’s obvious that footage would help them, they don’t have to tell him that. If the judges at the international court could see what happened on the Sunrise , it could really change things, people would understand what happened, they’d see the activists with their arms raised, the aggressive takeover of a ship by masked soldiers.

So now it’s breathing down his neck. He knows he’s got to get the footage out before the hearing at the international court. It’s vital. This is gold dust. There are people who look like pirates on that film he shot, and it’s not the Sunrise crew. But it’s in his shoe. He’s in jail and it’s in his fucking shoe.

Frank starts a diary in a small green exercise book. On the cover and the inside pages he sticks pictures of his family. The prisoners aren’t allowed glue, so he uses dried toothpaste instead.

4th October

Sometime b4 10am I got summoned downstairs (escorted by 5 guards) to see Pavel my lawyer, 2 investigators + interpreter. I got a bit pissed when some mention was made of possible green vegetation drugs found in Doctors bag/cabin. I insisted on writing down that this was a cheap attempt to damage image of GP and besides the ship is Dutch + in international waters. Mind you the head investigator did offer to supply me with printed results of Premiership football. Had stroll around the Pig Pen and talked to Capt Pete over the wall. Also involved in ciggie packet transfer across cage between inmates. Guards got angry.