by Mark Dawson
There was no point in pushing it. Milton sat down to wait it out.
* * *
MILTON GUESSED it was another two hours before they came for him.
“Hey,” the guard said, “English. Come here.”
Milton stood and came to the door of the cell. “Phone call,” he said, extending his thumb and little finger and putting them to his mouth and ear.
“Hands.”
The guard opened the slot at waist height and told Milton to slide his hands through so that he could cuff him. Milton did as he was told and didn’t react as the cuffs bit into the skin around his wrists. He withdrew his hands and stepped back as the door was pushed back.
“Out.”
Milton stepped out of the cell.
“Phone call,” Milton said.
“No phone call,” the man grunted.
“Where am I going?”
“Transfer,” he said with an unpleasant smirk.
“To where?”
“Bilibid.”
“What’s that?”
“Prison.”
“In Manila?”
“Move.”
The guard took out his baton and used it to prod Milton in the back. He walked on, the guard jabbing him between the shoulders to ensure that he kept going.
They passed through two heavy doors and then out of the building through an exit into a yard. There was a Toyota HiAce parked alongside the building. It was painted white, with the livery of the national police added in blue and red. The rear doors were open, offering access into a compartment that was kept separate from the driver and his passenger by a wire mesh cage. The guard prodded Milton in the back once again and, still biting his tongue, he reached for the door frame with his cuffed hands and pulled himself inside.
The doors were slammed shut. The vehicle was not air-conditioned and the rear wasn’t ventilated. The temperature inside the cage must have been more than a hundred degrees.
There were bench seats on either side of the vehicle and Milton lowered himself onto one of them and waited for the driver and another guard to get into the front. The driver started the engine and, with a creak from its suspension, the HiAce pulled out of the jail compound and onto the road outside.
* * *
THE BENCH seat was uncomfortable. It was directly over the wheel arch and it vibrated unpleasantly every time the van bounced over uneven stretches of road. The two men in the front of the van spoke in Filipino. Milton was unable to understand their discussion and quickly tuned it out.
He tried to assess his situation. He located west by looking for the sun. It was in the afternoon, and he was able to judge that they were headed in a generally southerly direction. They passed signs for Makati and Taguig and ignored the turn-off that was marked for the airport. He estimated that they had been travelling for around ninety minutes at a speed of around sixty miles an hour. Milton did not know the geography of the island, but, based on his assumptions, he suspected that they were around ninety miles to the south of the capital.
They turned off the main road at Alabang. They continued, the road becoming smaller and narrower as it passed through a series of villages and hamlets. Vegetation thronged on either side and, as Milton turned his head to glance at a clutch of children watching them go by, he caught sight of a road sign. It was in English and read INSULAR PRISON ROAD. They continued for another five minutes, eventually slowing and pulling onto a driveway that terminated at a large iron gate. There was a checkpoint next to the gate and the driver wound down his window so that he could speak with the guard. The guard stepped out of the hut, put his hands to the window, and looked in at Milton. He went back to the driver, exchanged a curt word, and then opened the gate.
The van drove through.
Milton looked ahead through the windshield. They were approaching a large white building with two towers on either side. The parapet atop the walls had been crenelated and a vinyl banner had been strung up above the entrance. The banner contained a mixture of English and Filipino, but Milton was able to see WELCOME! and, beneath that, NEW BILIBID PRISON.
They drove into the main prison compound. Milton looked out and saw tall brick walls that were topped with razor wire with elevated guard posts every hundred feet or so. He saw armed guards in the posts and powerful-looking spotlights. Vast palm trees swayed outside the walls, their fronds sixty and seventy feet above the ground. The buildings were simple, whitewashed and substantial. The van followed the road around to an admissions area and, as they slowed, Milton was able to catch a glance through another gate into a courtyard, where he saw hundreds of men. They milled about in groups; some sat on the ground, while others ran or worked out. Milton saw a man in a pair of bright blue shorts lying on an improvised weight bench; he was lifting an iron bar that had been fitted to two cylinders of concrete.
The van stopped by an open entrance. Two armed guards opened the doors of the van and indicated that Milton should step down. Harsh, bright light streamed into the back of the HiAce and Milton blinked into it as he descended. One of the guards held a pair of leg irons, and he bent and closed the shackles around Milton’s ankles. They were attached to a chain with just enough play to allow Milton to take a step. A second chain was attached to his handcuffs and, with Milton now duly trussed up, the guard indicated that Milton should go through the archway and into the darkened space beyond.
21
MILTON PAID close attention as he shuffled through the arch and into a building beyond it. They were still outside the main prison compound, close enough to the courtyard that he had seen earlier to hear the sound of a basketball bouncing against the ground and the clamour of dozens of voices. Every forward step took him farther away from his liberty, but he was already beyond the point where he could have done anything to go back.
He was shackled and the guards were armed; what was he going to do?
The new building was evidently dedicated to the processing of new inmates. Papers were handed over to a man sitting behind a desk. He looked up to regard Milton, and, with a disdainful flick of his hand, he indicated that Milton should continue into the gloomy room beyond.
Milton was shoved in the back and nearly tripped, the chain clanking as it went taut and then loose once more. The guards followed close behind him as he emerged into a wide space. There was a long table with a stack of prison uniforms wrapped in plastic sheaths. In the middle of the room was a pile of shoes, each pair tied together by the laces. There was a mirror on the wall and, opposite it, a coiled fire hose with a dripping nozzle.
He was delivered into the custody of two guards. They were also armed, with pistols holstered on their belts. One of the guards stepped around and unlocked the cuffs that secured Milton’s arms and legs. The man removed them, the chains ringing against each other, and Milton took the opportunity to massage his wrists.
The nearest guard looked at him with unmasked contempt. “Take off clothes.”
Milton knew that he had little choice other than to comply. He undid the buttons of his shirt and took it off. He took off his trousers and underwear and stood his ground as he was searched. The guard paused, noting the tattoos that covered Milton’s body and, perhaps, unnerved by his poise and lack of fear. He told Milton to spread his legs and then bend over and, moving with practised ease, satisfied himself that he was not transporting contraband.
Milton had seen the dripping hose and knew what was coming next.
The guard pointed. “Against wall.”
Milton crossed the room. The floor was sodden and the paint had been scoured off the wall. The guard took the hose, aimed it squarely at him, and cranked the tap. A torrent of freezing cold water rushed out. It pummelled Milton in the chest, driving the air from his lungs and shocking him with the sudden drop in temperature. Milton clenched his jaw, unwilling to give the guards the pleasure of seeing his discomfort. They laughed anyway, the guard with the hose training it down at his genitals and then up to his face. Milton closed his eyes and
turned away so that the jet thrashed against the side of his head.
The tap was turned and the flow stopped. Milton stood where he was as the water sluiced off his body. His skin tingled.
The guard assessed Milton’s size, selected a uniform from the pile, and tossed it down onto the floor in front of him.
“Dress.”
The uniform was orange. Milton tore the pack open and took out the two items inside: a pair of trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. They were made from rough denim and they scratched his damp skin as he put them on. The guard looked at Milton’s boots, shared a joke with his comrades, and put them to one side. Milton guessed that he wouldn’t see them again. The guard took a pair of sneakers from the pile and tossed them over. They were old, with a hole in the upper and cracks in the tread. Milton put them on. They were a little small, but not unbearably so; he decided that he would make do rather than invite them to give him a pair that was even more uncomfortable.
There were other items on the table, and Milton was instructed to take one of each: he collected a cotton blanket, a threadbare sleeping mat of woven pandan, and a plate and mug made out of cheap, pliable tin.
The guard grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved. “This way.”
22
THE GUARDS led Milton deeper into the prison.
They passed through the outer door of the administration building and followed a dim corridor that cut directly down the centre of the building beyond. There were barred partitions at regular intervals; the guards were able to open these with the keys on their belts. Milton looked left and right; everything he saw reminded him that his liberty had been removed: the cage doors through which they progressed; the barred doors on either side, secured with thick sliding bolts; the guards in their khaki uniforms and caps, with holstered pistols and billy clubs that hung on fabric loops from their belts.
They reached a third barrier and, rather than unlock it, this time the guards were required to speak into an intercom. Milton glanced up and saw a camera, its unblinking black eye staring down at him. There was a short conversation, unintelligible to him apart from the mention of the name ‘Smith,’ and then an electronic buzz as the gate was unlocked. The guard opened it, stepped to the side and indicated that Milton should make his way through.
This new room looked to be the final one before the start of the main compound. A guard wearing the same uniform was positioned behind a lectern that bore a clipboard replete with papers. Milton was put in mind of a maître d’ standing station outside a restaurant, although the comparison was grotesque in the circumstances.
The man collected the transfer papers from the guard and assumed custody of Milton. He looked at the papers and typed details into the computer terminal that was on a small desk next to the lectern. Once he was finished, he gestured that the guards should bring Milton around to him. He took Milton’s right hand, pressing his fingerprints against an ink pad, and then recorded the impressions on a slip of card that would accompany his details in a filing cabinet somewhere within the prison’s bureaucracy.
He was moved to the wall and given a black strip of card that he held up to his chest. It bore a series of numbers and a letter: 13653-S.
“That is your name. Not Smith. You are 13653. Understand?”
“I understand,” he said.
The guard nodded behind him to a small gate that had been opened from the inside.
Milton went through.
* * *
A GUARD was waiting for Milton on the other side of the gate. He was obese, his belly straining against the buttons of his khaki shirt. His skin was slick with sweat; there were damp crescents beneath his armpits, a sheen on his face, and droplets caught in the hairs of his moustache.
“Welcome to New Bilibid, 13653.” The man laughed at that, as if he considered it to be a particularly choice joke. “Where are you from?”
“London.”
“And you are a murderer.”
It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Milton did not respond.
“You murdered a woman. Better hope that stays secret.”
The corridor was dark and it took Milton a moment for his eyes to adjust. There were other men here: a guard, his hand on the butt of his pistol, guided an orange-clad teenager into an adjoining room; another inmate pushed a trolley that carried a bucket and mop and other cleaning implements; another prisoner was on his knees, bent close to the floor so that he could scrub it with soapy water and a brush. The man—Milton saw that he was little more than a boy—sprang to his feet and stood ramrod straight as Milton and the guard approached.
“You are used to nice things in London? Clean clothes? A comfortable bed? Good food and drink? Yes?”
Milton kept walking.
The man turned his head and spat at the wall. “You have nothing like that here. It is dirty, it smells, and the men you will be kept with will kill you if you let them.”
They passed a group of four inmates soon after and, at a gesture from the guard, they dropped to their haunches and pressed themselves with their backs against the wall and their heads bent in a token of their servility.
“You will have a trial soon. And then, when you have been convicted, you will be returned here for your sentence. If you are lucky, you will go to the room where we have the injections. You should pray for that sentence. Life here, if that is what you get, will be bad in comparison.”
They reached the door at the end of the corridor. The guard rapped his knuckles against it and then stepped back as it was unlocked and opened. Milton blinked as he was assailed by bright light. He had expected that his cell would be in the main building, but it was not. Instead, the corridor opened onto a wide plaza with a network of wire mesh fencing that split it into separate sections. The ground underfoot was bare, the earth cooked in the sun until it was as hard as asphalt.
The guard led Milton to a building marked with a notice as Building No. 1. It was a long building, several storeys tall and oblong in shape. The entrance was halfway down the long flank and, as they walked between two wire mesh fences to reach it, Milton counted twenty windows. Each was small and dingy, bars bisecting the dark apertures and a further screen of mesh increasing the security and, Milton guessed, reducing the light that was allowed to filter inside.
He heard a loud metallic rattle and the noise of barked orders, and, as he turned back into the yard, he saw a group of fifty or sixty inmates being herded deeper into the compound. They were shackled together, each man fitted with leg irons and then chained to the men in front and behind. They wore faded orange shorts and were shirtless, their bodies exposed to the scouring sun. Their heads were shaved and their skin was slick with sweat. The formation was shepherded by a team of guards, their batons drawn so that they could be flicked out to encourage stragglers to greater effort and dissuade those who might consider the possibility of dissent.
“You see them?” the guard said. “They are castigados. They have broken prison rules. Perhaps they have smuggled contraband, or they have gambled, tried to escape, or committed sodomy. They are punished.”
“What kind of punishment?”
“Hard labour. They break rocks. They work in the sun until they collapse and then they are returned to isolation. They do it again until they agree that the rules must be obeyed. Understand?”
“I do,” Milton said.
The guards brought the phalanx to a halt and circulated among the men, inspecting them. One of the prisoners refused to respond to a comment from the guard standing before him. The guard pulled his baton from his belt and struck the man on the shins with a downward backhand slash. The prisoner looked up and spat at the guard’s feet. The guard called out, and two of his colleagues hurried to his side, their own clubs drawn. The three men struck the prisoner again and again, their blows landing on his legs and torso and against his shoulders and arms as he tried to protect his head. The man fell to his knees, but his weakness seemed only to provoke his attackers to greater effort
, and they continued the beating until he was face down in the dust, blood running freely from a deep cut to his scalp.
“Inside,” the guard said to Milton.
The entrance to Building No. 1 was a broad opening in the wall. There were two doors, barriers that could be slid back on runners that were fitted into the concrete. The first door was made of two pieces of solid steel and the second comprised two rows of iron bars. They had both been pushed halfway open to allow access. There was a guard slumped in a plastic chair in front of the doors. He glared sullenly at Milton as he was pushed inside.
The entrance led into a hexagonal space from which a number of corridors trailed away. There was a flight of stairs that led up to the first floor and, running directly to the left and right, was a corridor that Milton assumed must have been the main means of accessing the cells. It was blocked in both directions by iron doors that were secured with padlocks. There was a table just inside the gloom, at which sat two guards. They were engaged in a board game that Milton did not recognise, and neither paid him any heed as the guard nudged him toward the door on his right.
It was unlocked and Milton was led inside.
The corridor was constructed from bare concrete blocks. It opened out into a wide lobby that had been arranged around a flight of stairs. Milton looked up: the building was open, and the stairs ascended to the fourth floor high above. Each floor had a landing, and each landing offered access to cells. Milton looked at the cells on the ground floor: there were doors on either side of him, each made from solid metal bars that were also covered in wire mesh.
There was an open antechamber, where another group of guards was waiting. There was a brief conversation and one of the men got up from his plastic picnic chair and took a large bunch of keys from a hook on the wall. He led the way to the stairs and then climbed them to the second floor. Milton was shoved along the landing until he reached a cell on the right-hand side. The guard unlocked the door and pulled it open.
