Shaun Clarke - Sniper Fire in Belfast

‘Might be big in unseen places. Might be brave with what’s hidden.’

‘That’ll be the day. A pair of English nancy boys. A pair of uniformed British poofters tryin’ to keep real men down. Well, when we get where we’re goin’, we’ll find out what they’re made of. I’m lookin’ forward to that.’

It’s not real , Martin thought, trying to stop himself from shivering, his soaked clothing starting to freeze and his exhaustion now compounded by despair at being caught. Bear in mind that nothing is real, that nothing can break you. Just don’t make a mistake .

After what seemed like an eternity, the truck came to a halt, the back was dropped down, and Martin was roughly hauled to his feet and dragged down to the ground, where they deliberately rolled him in the mud a few times, then stood him up in the wind and rain. Someone punched him lightly on the back of his neck, urging him forward. But as his ankles were still tethered together, allowing only minimal movement, they lost patience and two of them dragged him by the armpits across what seemed to be an open space – the wind was howling across it, lashing the rain into his face – then up steps, onto a porch. He heard doors squeaking open, felt warmer air reach his face, then was dragged in to where there was no wind or rain and the warmth was a blessing. His boots scraped over what seemed like linoleum, then they dragged him around a corner, along another straight stretch, then through another door – again he heard it squeaking as it opened – and at last pushed him down into a chair.

Stay calm , he thought desperately. Don’t make any mistakes. It all depends on what you say or don’t say, so don’t let them trick you. Don’t panic. Don’t break .

‘What a filthy specimen,’ someone said contemptuously. ‘He looks like he’s been taking a swim in his own piss and shit.’

‘Just mud and rain, sir,’ another man said. ‘Not the gentleman’s fault, his appearance. The natural elements, is all.’

‘Where did you find him?’

‘Belly down in the mud. Trying to blend in with the earth in the hope that we’d miss him. Fat chance of that, sir.’

‘The dumb British shit. He must think we’re all halfwits. Do we talk to him now or let him dry out?’

‘He won’t smell so bad when he dries out.’

‘That’s true enough. Hood him.’

The cloth was removed from Martin’s mouth, letting him breathe more easily. No sooner had he begun to do so than a hood was slipped over his head and tightened around his neck with a cord, making him feel even more claustrophobic. A spasm of terror whipped through him, then passed away again.

Breathe deeply and evenly , he thought. You’re not going to choke. They’re just trying to panic you .

‘My name is Martin Renshaw,’ he said, just to hear the sound of his own voice. ‘My rank is…’

A hand pressed over his mouth and pushed his head back until the hard chair cut painfully into his neck.

‘When we want your name, rank, serial number and date of birth we’ll ask for it,’ the colder voice said. ‘Don’t speak again unless spoken to. We’ll now leave you to dry out. Understood?’

Martin nodded.

‘That’s a good start. Now be a good boy.’

Their footsteps marched away, the door opened and slammed shut, then there was only the silence and his own laboured breathing. Soon he thought he could hear his heart beating, ticking off every second, every terrible minute.

As the hours passed he dried out, and his clothing became sticky, though it could have been sweat. Not knowing if it was one or the other only made him feel worse. His exhaustion, already considerable before his capture, was now attacking his mind. His thoughts slipped like faulty gears, his fear alternated with defiance, and when he started drifting in and out of consciousness it was only the cramp in his tightly bound arms that kept him awake.

He was slipping gratefully into oblivion when someone kicked his chair over. The shock was appalling, jolting him awake, screaming, though he didn’t hit the floor. Instead, someone laughed and grabbed the back of the chair to tip him upright again. The blood had rushed to his head and the panic had almost made him snap, but he took a deep breath and controlled himself, remembering that the hood was still over his head and that his feeling of suffocation was caused by that, as well as by shock.

‘So sorry,’ a man said, sounding terribly polite and English. ‘A little mishap. Slip of the foot. I trust you weren’t hurt.’

‘No,’ Martin said, shocked by the breathless sound of his own voice. ‘Could you remove this hood? Its really…’

The chair went over again and stopped just before hitting the floor. This time they held him in that position for some time, letting the blood run to his head, then tipped him upright again and let his breathing settle.

‘We ask the questions,’ the polite gentleman said, ‘and you do the answering. Now could you please tell us who else was with you in that field.’

Martin gave his name, rank, service number and date of birth.

The chair was kicked back, caught and tipped upright, then someone else bawled in Martin’s face: ‘We don’t want to know that!’

After getting his breath back, Martin gave his name, rank, service number and date of birth, thinking, This isn’t real .

It became real enough after that, with a wide variety of questions either politely asked or bawled, the polite voice alternating with the bullying one, and the chair being thrown back and jerked up again, but getting lower to the floor every time. Eventually, when Martin, despite his surging panic, managed to keep repeating only his name, rank, serial number and date of birth, they gave up on the chair and dragged him across the room to slam him face first into what seemed like a bare wall. There, the ropes around his ankles were released and he was told to spread his legs as wide as possible, almost doing the splits.

‘Don’t move a muscle,’ he was told by the bully.

He stood like that for what seemed a long time, until his thighs began to ache intolerably and his whole body sagged.

‘Don’t move!’ the bully screamed, slamming Martin’s face into the wall again and forcing him to straighten his aching spine. ‘Stay as still as the turd you are!’

‘We’re sorry to be so insistent,’ the polite one added, ‘but you’re not helping at all. Now, regarding what you were doing out there in the fields, do please tell us…’

It went on and on, with Martin either repeating his basic details or saying: ‘I cannot answer that question.’ They shouted, cajoled and bullied. They made him stand in one position until he collapsed, then let him rest only long enough to enable them to pick another form of torture that did not involve beating.

Martin knew what they were doing, but this wasn’t too much help, since he didn’t know how long it would last, let alone how long he might endure it. Being hooded only made it worse, sometimes making him feel that he was going to suffocate, at other times making him think that he was hallucinating, but always depriving him of his sense of time. It also plunged him into panics based solely on the fact that he no longer knew left from right and felt mentally and physically unbalanced.

Finally, they left him, letting him sleep on the floor, joking that they were turning out the light, since he couldn’t see that anyway. He lay there for an eternity – but perhaps only minutes – now yearning just to sleep, too tired to sleep, and whispering his name, rank, serial number and date of birth over and over, determined not to make a mistake when repeating it or, worse, say more than that. The only words he kept in mind other than those were: ‘I cannot answer that question.’ He had dreams – they may have been hallucinations – and had no idea of how long he had been lying there where they returned to torment him.