In February 2001, I'd been living in Riyadh for 23 years, in charge of a housing compound rented to British Aerospace. My wife Aida and I had a beautiful home and the use of a swimming pool, tennis court, sauna and gardens. We had a good circle of friends, and a social life centred on local bars. For a while, I'd helped run one of them - I even home-brewed some of the beer sold there. Alcohol is, of course, illegal in Saudi Arabia, but the authorities turned a blind eye.
Anti-western sentiment had been growing, but we'd always felt safe. Terrorist attacks were rare and had military targets anyway. So when a British engineer was killed by a car bomb, the news sent a shock wave through the expat community. Within days, more Britons were injured in a second blast. A friend who helped at the scene was taken in for questioning. Days later, two more disappeared. All were part of the same scene as myself, but I didn't see them for more than a month, when they appeared on TV confessing to the bombings. They gave no motive and seemed nervous. Most people I knew agreed the authorities were using them to cover up the existence of militant Islamic groups. The bombings continued.
I was walking my dog when armed police ordered me into their car. "You're going to be away for a few days," they said. In fact, I would never see my home again.
They took me to the interrogation centre of the Saudi secret police. I was left in a tiny cell, then dragged, blindfolded and shackled, to another room. That's where the torture started. I was beaten on the soles of my feet with a pickaxe handle by one of my interrogators, Ibrahim, while the other, Khaled, demanded, "What were you given? Where have you hidden it?" I didn't know what they wanted. These sessions were carried out daily, and over a period of weeks the flesh on my feet turned black.
In the cell, I was chained by one hand to the bars in the door, for hours in the baking heat. There was a metal flap at head height. Guards would slide it open without warning and scream into my face to keep me awake. A half-litre bottle of water was placed just out of reach, and the constant fluorescent lighting destroyed my internal clock.
On the rare occasions I was allowed visitors, Khaled and Ibrahim were always present. Seeing Aida for the first time in months should have been a blessing. Instead, I was terrified. My captors had threatened to take her into the room next to my cell. "That way," they said, "you'll be able to hear everything we do to her." That mental torture affected me more than the beatings.
I sensed my grip on reality slipping. I'd hallucinate vivid butterflies and bewilder my guards by pacing my cell, one hand held out before me. In my mind, I was walking my dog along the banks of my native Dee estuary.
All the time, my "statement" was being collated by my interrogators. Deprived of medication for a long-term heart condition, and with no fight left in me, I "confessed" on TV. A year after my arrest, I was tried. Khaled and Ibrahim gave evidence, and the whole process took five minutes. I was sentenced to 18 years' imprisonment. Saudi newspapers reported that the bombs were linked to a turf war among western alcohol bootleggers.
It would be another 18 months before I was released. A series of explosions in Riyadh had left more than 30 people dead, Saudis and westerners alike. The government could no longer keep secret domestic Islamic militancy. Along with six other men, I was granted a royal pardon and flown back to the UK.
The officials responsible for our imprisonment and torture are protected by state immunity, so can't be prosecuted. We're taking our case to the European Court of Human Rights, but redress seems unlikely.
When we should be looking forward to comfortable retirement, Aida and I live on benefits in a tiny flat. I used to be a party animal; now I'm overwhelmed by groups of people. I sleep badly and have flash-backs that stop me in my tracks.
I've heard that one of the conditions of our freedom was a secret deal - in return, five Saudi detainees were released from Guantánamo Bay. Did they suffer as we did? Torture is not only cruel, it's useless. The crime I admitted being part of was an illogical fantasy but, under the circumstances, I'd have confessed to anything.
