At 5.30 am precisely, three armed police officers had banged loudly on his front door.
“Monsieur Maddox, Monsieur Maddox, ouvrez la porte! MAINTENANT!”
After a brief delay, Maddox – short, bald, overweight, wearing glasse – had answered, looking confused. That, of course, was the whole idea.
One of the armed officers, all Beidane, spoke passable English. “You need to come with us for questioning, Mister Maddox.”
An hour later, Maddox had found himself in a cell no bigger than a walk-in cupboard. There was no bed, only a soiled mattress on the floor, a solitary hard chair, and a bucket for a toilet. The only window was barred on the inside, but if he stood on the chair, he could hoist himself up to see outside with the aid of a length of rope attached to the bars. Not that there was much to see: desert, more desert, possibly a little scrub, then more desert.
There had been no ‘questioning’.
In the following days, food was passed through a little window at the foot of the door: rice, millet, chickpeas. Maddox had to be careful to keep the rats from getting to the food ahead of him. Once a day Maddox was allowed out to a nearby toilet to slop out his bucket and to wash as best as he could. No one spoke to him.
Back in his cell, he wondered what he’d done wrong in life. In England, he’d been a decent teacher, popular with the children, he thought, and he liked them. He liked some of them a great deal, perhaps too much. But they seemed keen to please him, to give him pleasure. They didn’t ever say no.
But one of those boys had betrayed Maddox, probably that weedy one with the red hair and freckles. He’d seen it coming, though, when the headteacher had called him into her office to ask what his side of the story was. He’d had just enough time to grab a bag of clothes, withdraw all his money from the bank, and leave. Anywhere. And then, when ‘just anywhere’ wasn’t safe enough, he’d moved from country to country until he’d arrived where he was now. He thought he was safe: no extradition treaty with the UK. He could live, under an assumed name, and even resume teaching.
But then he’d fallen back into his old ways.
Maddox despised himself; but he couldn’t help it, it was just the way he was. He knew he couldn’t be left alone with young boys. He was almost glad that he’d finally been stopped. He wondered what would happen now. Would they hang him? Would they castrate him? Would they use anaesthetic? Would he ever see the world outside again?
Maddox stood on the chair and used the rope to haul himself up to gaze at that endless desert.
And at that very moment, he understood the real reason why the rope was there at all.
“Monsieur Maddox, Monsieur Maddox, ouvrez la porte! MAINTENANT!”
After a brief delay, Maddox – short, bald, overweight, wearing glasse – had answered, looking confused. That, of course, was the whole idea.
One of the armed officers, all Beidane, spoke passable English. “You need to come with us for questioning, Mister Maddox.”
An hour later, Maddox had found himself in a cell no bigger than a walk-in cupboard. There was no bed, only a soiled mattress on the floor, a solitary hard chair, and a bucket for a toilet. The only window was barred on the inside, but if he stood on the chair, he could hoist himself up to see outside with the aid of a length of rope attached to the bars. Not that there was much to see: desert, more desert, possibly a little scrub, then more desert.
There had been no ‘questioning’.
In the following days, food was passed through a little window at the foot of the door: rice, millet, chickpeas. Maddox had to be careful to keep the rats from getting to the food ahead of him. Once a day Maddox was allowed out to a nearby toilet to slop out his bucket and to wash as best as he could. No one spoke to him.
Back in his cell, he wondered what he’d done wrong in life. In England, he’d been a decent teacher, popular with the children, he thought, and he liked them. He liked some of them a great deal, perhaps too much. But they seemed keen to please him, to give him pleasure. They didn’t ever say no.
But one of those boys had betrayed Maddox, probably that weedy one with the red hair and freckles. He’d seen it coming, though, when the headteacher had called him into her office to ask what his side of the story was. He’d had just enough time to grab a bag of clothes, withdraw all his money from the bank, and leave. Anywhere. And then, when ‘just anywhere’ wasn’t safe enough, he’d moved from country to country until he’d arrived where he was now. He thought he was safe: no extradition treaty with the UK. He could live, under an assumed name, and even resume teaching.
But then he’d fallen back into his old ways.
Maddox despised himself; but he couldn’t help it, it was just the way he was. He knew he couldn’t be left alone with young boys. He was almost glad that he’d finally been stopped. He wondered what would happen now. Would they hang him? Would they castrate him? Would they use anaesthetic? Would he ever see the world outside again?
Maddox stood on the chair and used the rope to haul himself up to gaze at that endless desert.
And at that very moment, he understood the real reason why the rope was there at all.
