Profession

Back in London

I made it through customs ok and met Mary Featherstone at arrivals. She was going to go with me to the Crane's. We had to stop by the village to pick up some lighting stands--I took cases that didn't have bugs in them--and went to the grand old Georgian mansion. It was one of the few bigger ones that hadn't been converted to apartments or offices over time and was looking shabby around the edges. Old mansions took a pile to keep up; I wasn't surprised. Not everybody had a top-flight butler.  Mary and I were talking about  the news as I rang the bell. The door opened.

Instead of staff or a member of the family, I found myself looking at Trevalyn. I handed my solicitor my camera bag instantly and she stepped away from him. "You're under arrest," he said with a certain amount of relish. "Spying on the United Kingdom for enemy entities." He grabbed my wrist, twisted off my bracelet, and slapped handcuffs on me. Ominously, he didn't recite my rights. A black security pod pulled up and I was hustled off before Mary could say anything. As I was pushed into the pod, I saw other people who must also be in security descend on her.

I was taken to a big bland building on the edge of the Thames that had no exterior windows, a concern. The river smelled bad here. Under the constant gloating supervision of Trevalyn, I was taken inside, had my image, fingerprints, and biometric markers taken, a DNA sample scraped from the inside of my cheek. I was strip searched and given a tacky safety green, tearproof jumpsuit and poorly made canvas pull-on sneakers to wear and escorted to a cell. Not even a cell like Arkham, with a glass wall that allowed some human contact, but with a solid wall and metal door with a large slot almost halfway up and a peephole that could be closed off. I was shoved inside and heard the big locks clunk shut. Nobody had said a word to me other than directing me where to stand and what to do.

Inside this cell was a metal frame and metal mesh hanging off the wall by two chains, bolted to the wall. A thin new mattress was rolled up at the foot, and a wool blanket with a thin pillow were placed next to it. There were no sheets or pillowcases. There was a toilet out in the open in the corner, with a water fountain on the top, and a showerhead with a dial control. A single largish towel and a small washcloth were piled on the tiny sink. There was toothpaste but no flosser, a cheap manual toothbrush that you can't even buy in grocery stores anymore, an unbreakable comb, and a bar of soap/shampoo. A single old-fashioned lightbulb was set into the ceiling. I unrolled the mattress, flicked the blanket over it, and tried unsuccessfully to fluff the pillow a bit. It was apparently made of chunks of foam and refused to increase its loft.

Trays of unappealing soft, tasteless foods were delivered three times a day, which was the only time that I heard another human being. They didn't talk to me; they thumped the door with something hard, said "Meal!" before shoving the tray through the slot, and left. I shoved the tray out through the slot when I was done, whether or not I consumed all the food on it. I was apparently the only prisoner on this hall. The only sounds from outside my cell came from the three-times-a-day meal delivery and a cleaner that came through during what was probably nighttime to clean up the food that I'd left on my tray. That was worrying. I alternated thinking, sleeping, and doing the exercises that I could manage in the small cell--burpees, which was also an aerobic workout--pushups, situps, and handstands (where my feet could stabilize me against the wall.) The light burned out on the fifth day and was not replaced. The only light came in the meal slot.

I didn't waste any time yelling for help, demanding to speak to my solicitor or the authorities, or anything. It was obvious that this was a set up, and I had to work to keep my rage banked. Punishment for not agreeing to spy. They'd probably stuff me here long enough for them to send a message, then there'd be a chat. I'd probably be told that I had to play ball or I'd never see sunlight again. And I wasn't sure what Mary Featherstone could do for me. She probably didn't even know where they'd taken me, and the UK has different laws than the US. So there was a considerable degree of uncertainty along with the rage. I would really have to watch myself and be smart. In all my spare time, I reviewed my plans for the vacation Jon and I had planned with Arielle and her friend, mapped out new career goals that included some photojournalism, maybe getting into sports photography again, the Olympics had been fun, and decided to allow whoever was holding me to pressure me to a reasonable point, at which time I'd capitulate, then pass along nothing but worthless junk and fairy tales for a bit. I'd never heard anything suspicious before, and I doubted that I would in the future. Conspirators were really careful these days, with all the public monitoring. I'd have to sell my London real estate because I'd never be coming back. It would break my heart a little to have to sell Holly Village.