Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg: The Extraordinary Story of the Arctic 30

FIFTEEN

Frank’s lawyer reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a letter. ‘It is from your wife,’ he says.

‘From Nina?’

‘Yes.’

Frank’s heart jumps. He snatches the envelope and turns it in his hands. It’s bulging, full of sheets of paper, and Frank Hewetson thinks it may be the most precious thing he’s ever held.

It’s a Thursday morning and he and his lawyer are sat across the table from a senior officer from the Investigative Committee – a man memorable both for a streak of petty authoritarianism, and for an unnaturally enormous forehead that is capped with a surf of receding jet-black dyed hair. Most of the investigators wear cheap acrylic suits and this individual is no different, swathed as he is in a brown affair that creases violently when he makes even the slightest movement. A period of accusatory gesticulating at Frank leaves him looking like a crumpled wreck.

The man has just spent an hour telling Frank that the FSB now has proof of piracy, that many of the other activists have signed statements fingering Frank for responsibility, and that his only hope of avoiding many years in jail now lies with his revealing exactly who did what on the protest. Frank isn’t sure he should believe the man but he won’t incriminate his friends. Eventually the interrogation ends, and now Frank’s lawyer is handing him a letter from his wife.

He never thought he’d feel such joy at being given a simple letter, but this is how it is since being locked up. He hasn’t been sleeping well, the road runs all night and Boris and Yuri are loaded on chifir until 6 a.m. every morning, pulling the ropes, banging on the wall, screaming through the window. Already Frank is savouring the moment he’ll lie on his bunk and run his thumb under the seal and pull out Nina’s note. He’ll read the letter slowly, savouring it, stretching out the time it takes to make it to the end. But just as he’s turning the envelope in his hands, the officer plucks it from his fingers and slips it into the inside pocket of his scratchy brown suit jacket.

‘No, you cannot have this. It must pass through our censors first. And you have not answered my questions.’

‘What?’

‘You can read letter when you answer my questions about criminal invasion of oil platform.’

‘Just… come on, man. Give me back the damn letter.’ He rubs a hand over the fuzz on his scalp. ‘It’s from Nina. I miss her.’

The investigator folds his arms, the suit bristles with static and multiple crease lines break out on its surface. He cocks his head and his eyebrows lift into the lower slopes of his forehead.

‘No.’

‘It’s from my wife. Why can’t I have it?’

‘You are answering questions, not asking them. I am asking the questions.’

‘You have to be kidding me.’

The officer sniffs, swings one leg over the other and narrows his eyes. ‘When you tell me who was in charge of the criminal gang which attacked the platform, you may have the letter.’

Frank stares at him, at the thin mouth now rising at the corners as the man’s face takes on an expression of supreme self-satisfaction, at the sweep of hair that only starts somewhere near the crown, at the saggy neck skin hanging over the collar of his shirt. Frank’s lawyer is sitting next to him, two armed guards are standing behind the officer. And Frank thinks, shit, I’m fucked, I’m going down for fifteen years, it’s happening, there’s no way out, this is it.

He leans forward, eyeing the cop, biting his lip and making angry breathing noises through his nose, fulminating, trying to stop his mind. He’s turma racing. He’s close to the edge, the vortex is opening up. He’s sucking in huge lungfuls of air through his flared nostrils, his knuckles are turning white as his hands grip tighter on the edge of the table. Then suddenly he hears a voice saying, ‘Frank, are you okay?’

Frank looks around. ‘What?’

His lawyer says, ‘Are you okay? You’ve gone white.’

‘No. No, I’m not okay. I’m fucking angry.’

‘You need doctor?’

‘Yeah, I need a fucking doctor.’

‘Really? You need doctor?’

The guards edge closer, the investigator’s smile collapses into an expression of panic, he’s looking nervous, edging back from the desk. The cop clasps the top of his head with his hands and cries out in Russian. Frank doesn’t understand him but it sounds like an expletive. The officer jumps to his feet and throws open the window, then he starts manically fanning the air in front of Frank’s face with a copy of the criminal report into the boarding of the oil platform.

Frank rolls his eyes and makes a heavy gurgling sound in his throat as one of his legs goes into a spasm. The cop drops the report and pulls a lever arch file from a shelf. He opens it and uses it to fan Frank, and the look in his eyes betrays his fear that one of the Arctic 30 could expire on his watch. He drops the file and lifts a telephone receiver. Orders are barked, more windows are opened, Frank’s chest heaves as he pulls a series of rasping laboured breaths. The door flies open and suddenly a doctor is standing in the middle of the room, his head turning from person to person as he searches for the patient. He rushes forward, applies a hand to Frank’s head, sticks his ear against his chest then looks at the cop and shouts, ‘Skoraya pomosh!’

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.