The concrete blocks of the cell have been painted and repainted in an inoffensively offensive beige. Immediately in front of me is the ‘bed’ – a concrete shelf jutting out from the slightly curved walls. The mattress is a plastic covered piece of foam, not unlike a gym mat from school.

The window on the back wall is really just a hole glazed with reinforced glass and protected with bars. To my left is a stainless steel toilet, lidless. There is a small sink inset to the wall. Above that there’s an intercom: “Press for medical attention. Toilet roll and blankets available on request”.

As I’m escorted into the cell I’m asked if I need a blanket. I decline but regret it instantly. It’s cold and I want nothing more than to sleep. The guard asked if I’m hungry or thirsty and I accepted tea. It won’t arrive.

Occasionally the door’s steel slat clangs open and eyes peer inside. After a few seconds it closes again, the eyes content that I’m still breathing. The whole experience of being in a cell is geared towards making sure you don’t kill yourself. Shoes off at the door, even though my laces were confiscated as I was processed. There are no hard angles in the room. There are no loose objects except the clothes I’m wearing.

From time to time someone is taken out of an adjacent cell. It’s a commotion. I hear a bang on my door as someone outside yells that they’ll fucking kill me. They’ll fucking kill every cunt in the place. I don’t know if it was directed at me, or the guard or just an exclamation… an outburst of frustration, or a comedown from whatever drug he might have been on. The guards handle him gently and respectfully. It obviously is not the first time this has happened. Probably not the first time today.

It’s hard to tell the passing of time.

I could have been here for hours.

I could have been here for days.

Eventually I’m taken out to meet the duty solicitor. Unless you are expecting to be arrested and have the name and number of a solicitor memorised, the chances are you will end up with the duty solicitor. Generally, they are not bad but they are not always good. Their job is to fill a quota of duty cases.

He asks me what happened.

****

At about 7am I heard a knock on the door. I thought it was the postman. I wasn’t expecting anything but sometimes they’re early.

Instead though it was a police officer. He stood there: stout, bald, muscular. In between the car and the rose border was another. She was tall with long curly blonde hair, arms folded. To the right of her, blocking my tiny makeshift driveway, was a third, a slightly chubby but friendly looking man in his twenties.

I thought they were there to talk to me about my neighbours. I don’t live in the best of areas. There’s often loud music and strange cars parking in driveways. 4am arguments between neighbouring families that end abruptly. I’ve even seen the police parole the streets on more than one occasion.

But, no. They were here to speak to me.

They told me why and in shock I sat there in my pyjamas, shaking, mouth dry. The stout detective asked me questions, mostly about the state of my mental health. Again another signal of whether I would top myself if I’m left alone.

I was allowed to get dressed and use the toilet (under supervision) before being read my rights, bundled in an unmarked police car and taken to a police station.

“Did you?” asks the solicitor.

“Did I what?”

He repeats the allegation.

“No! Never! Not at all.”

The conversation goes on and a story is impressed upon me.

Eventually I’m taken back to my cell for more minutes, hours, days, years, until I am interviewed by police.

Up until now the police have been kind, understanding, and respectful. Now I’m sitting in front of 2 disgusted faces. They probe me with questions.

The conversation goes on, questions are asked and repeated and asked again. I retell the story impressed upon me by the solicitor.

In case you are wondering, this is the wrong thing to do. Innocent or not, you absolutely do not tell the police anything. You respectfully offer them “no comment”.

Eventually I’m let go. On bail.

*****

Criminal law in this country works on the basis that you are innocent until proven, beyond reasonable doubt, guilty. It is the job of the police to gather all of the evidence against you, your solicitor to gather all of the evidence in support of you, and the prosecution service to decide if you are to go to trial.

But in reality, to build up enough positive evidence, you have to act guilty. You have to rehabilitate as if you are guilty. And you have to pay your dues, as if you are guilty.

I spend my savings on a solicitor well-versed in this kind of law. I spend more money on classes, courses, therapy, doctors, anything that will help my case if the worst was to happen. And hell, at this point I would not be surprised if it did because I have no idea how I’ve come to be in this position.

What follows is 12 months of constant anxiety and questioning everything I know to be true. Twelve months of rebuilding relationships, of mentally preparing for what I fear my life could be: what would be the protocol for my employers? Would I lose my friends? I would certainly lose my family.

Exactly 11 months, 3 weeks, 2 days and 7 hours later I got a phone call. It is the investigating officer.

“I am calling in regards to your case. I would like to inform you that we are taking no further action. Bye.”

It’s over. I am free to go.

I’m happy, but kind of disappointed. The ordeal has cost me thousands. It’s cost me hours and hours of my life. It’s cost me my mental health and the trust of my friends and family.

No. Further. Action.

Careful words so as to not exonerate me. Careful to not put themselves in an unenviable position of being wrong.

According to my solicitor if they had found a single piece of evidence against me I would have been interviewed again. So, although I get no absolution, I have done nothing wrong and should move forward with my life.

Being an innocent person trapped in the justice system is enough to scare you away from any wrongdoing. I’ve learned a lot from the experience. Mostly, though, I have learned that being good and being honest is not enough. I’ve learned that sometimes you are unlucky and the world won't be there to support you. You’ll be alone.

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