Sunburnt Speculations

The Radicalisation of Abigail

The first thing that ran through Abigail’s mind, when they brought her from her police holding cell into the interview room, was how was she going to write this up for her mid-term paper. Would she even get the chance?

A few hours ago, she’d been sitting round the fire in the Mudjunjup protestors’ camp, a third-year Justice & Criminology intern, helping the protestors to work out how they could get the Vox to intervene for a stay of execution on the cease and desist order before the 7:00 am deadline the police had given them.  But they’d come early, just after midnight, and rounded everyone up. You could never trust them. And she should have known that, she told herself reproachfully.

She was tired and dirty. She felt dirty.  After they’d arrested her, they’d conducted the body search of course. They’d made her squat, unclothed in view of the station police, for what seemed like ages. They hadn’t even let her replace her pad. And they’d laughed at her. That laugh that leaves you bleeding. The laugh that tells you they reckoned they’d taken everything you’ve got, and were about to take more.

Two plain clothes Ds sat across the table from her and fiddled with a machine.

“Anything you say…”

She knew the drill. They’d taught her that in first year.  Probably anything she didn’t say, as well. Better to say nothing. It never helped.

The bruise on the back of her legs, where they’d clubbed her as she ran for the backpack containing her credentials, ached now, pressing against the hard plastic chair. She didn’t know where her backpack was, whether they’d brought in. But eventually they’d find it, go rummaging through it, and work out who she was and what she’d been doing there.

“Helping with inquiries”, the press release would probably say. That’s what it usually said. Though everyone knew, these days, what that meant.

“Well, screw them,” Emma thought to herself as she forced herself to gather her wits. She wasn’t going to help.  Let them see how deep a hole they could dig for themselves. And then screw ‘em properly this time. 

The anger was building inside her. They could see it; they could smell it. They were waiting for it, and then it would all start over. The brutality, the violence. It was true, they really were “the Force”. 

“Hold it in. Got to hold it in, for now”. She made herself breathe; concentrated; centered herself. She was ready. Calmer now. “Bring it on you bastards”, she thought to herself. She could handle this. But a twitch of her thin lips, a slight inward smile gave her away. They slapped her across her face for it.

“Ready to talk now?”

She wasn’t; and she wouldn’t. There’d be time to talk once they realised their mistake. And then, when she did talk, it would be through the Vox.

Andy C. Wood