A Prison in the Sun
Page 24
After the prisoners had completed their sentences they were not allowed to return to their islands for up to five years. They were subjected to surveillance by judicial delegates. They had to report to the police station once a month or end up back in Tefía. It was almost impossible to find work because they had a criminal record. No one wanted to know them. They ended up working as semi-slaves or as prostitutes. Probably, a lot of the men did jump off cliffs. I could incorporate all of that and have my protagonist survive to tell the tale.
There was something about the idea of a double life that drew me. José could become a devoted husband and father of numerous children and harbour deep cravings he would be bound to repress. A tortured soul forever at odds with his own desires. A man riven, living a lie, a charade that over time would shape his psyche, warp his inner musings, fuel all manner of distortions and disturbing dreams. And he would never, not once speak of Tefía, not to his wife and certainly not to his children. Should he ever encounter another prisoner in the street, he would stare blankly with no recognition in his eyes as he walked by.
The re-write would transform the story into something both less and more disturbing; at the same time expand the work enough to warrant the novella label. I drafted out scenes, conjured characters and researched settings.
The only break I took from my writing was a dash out on the hunt for a municipal bin to dispose of the plastic bag and its incriminating contents. Not the most pleasant of drives – I ended up having to head all the way back into Puerto del Rosario – and my eyes were everywhere anticipating the police or worse, someone from the gym. After at last finding a bin down a side street, I headed back, pulling up in the car park and scurrying back into the hotel. As I went, I noted the compound-style architecture – a long, low-lying building with large arched windows out front and a flat roof – reminiscent in a curious way of the hostel in Tefía and, also like Tefía, set in the middle of nowhere, admittedly at the end of a stretch of wild-looking beach. Behind the hotel was the dual carriageway that was the island's main arterial road, a smattering of housing estates and then the mountains. It was as though the hotel had been plonked in its own ideal spot awaiting some sort of companion.
Not wanting any unnecessary eyes on my face, I went straight to my room and ordered room service. I spent the evening quaffing a delicious red and downing oysters followed by a marvellously cooked steak. Satiated, I scanned through my emails and accepted three ghost-writing gigs. A pleasant glow infused me. I even felt predisposed to write Jackie an email letting her know I would be back in London the following day. Then I sent Ian and Felicity an email each, telling them I missed them and hoped they were doing fine and keeping up with their studies and asked if they could spare a few hours of catch-up time with their old dad. I thought of the expensive gifts I could buy them with my newfound cash. Not too lavish, I wouldn't want to arouse suspicion, just enough to let them know how much I cared. I hadn't heard from either of them all trip. But I hadn't expected to. I fished out a photo of them I kept tucked in my billfold, smiled down at their cheery, innocent faces, Felicity with her wire braces straightening her teeth and Ian with a touch of acne. That was an old photo, taken in a photo booth on a day trip to Madame Tussauds. I slipped the photo back in my billfold and switched on the television.
The following morning, I repressed my anxieties enough to enjoy a sumptuous buffet breakfast – filling up on eggs, bacon, sausage, fried mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, toast, coffee, juice, a Danish pastry – and it was only when I went to fetch a second coffee that I picked up the local newspaper. I did not need an online translator to understand the headline. The priest had been found. I looked around the dining room. No one was taking any notice of me. I forced myself to drink my coffee before standing and walking casually back to my room. There was no need to panic. There was nothing to tie me to the murder. Nothing. The only evidence was the rucksack and I had that safely in my possession.
I composed myself and left the hotel, arriving at the airport two hours before my flight was due to depart. The day was warming up, and holiday-makers in dribs and drabs were making their way into the building. I parked the car, grabbed my luggage and followed the others. As I neared the doorway, I saw that inside, the entrance was guarded by two police officers. I thought perhaps that was normal or there had been a security scare. I thought that in an effort to quell the nausea rising up in my belly as my breakfast curdled. As I entered with my luggage, one of the officers stepped back to let me pass which I found a decent gesture and I relaxed.
Depositing the car keys in the box provided by the rental service seemed to draw a line under my presence on the island. I would be boarding the plane and away over the Atlantic and in my mind, I was already moving into my new home in Norfolk.
I sauntered over to the check-in desk and joined the queue, maintaining a nonchalant expression on my face and avoiding gazes. The queue shortened in fits and spurts as large family groups were followed by a few couples. As I neared the desk, I noticed two uniformed men standing behind the check-in assistant. They stared into the queue and, for a sickening moment, I felt their gazes on me. I told myself to shake off the paranoia, fast. The last thing I wanted was to arouse suspicion, not with fifty thousand euros in my suitcase. I cursed myself for not trying harder to find somewhere in Puerto del Rosario to make an international transfer. Perhaps I should have listened to that haughty teller in a bank and gone to Corralejo, but I had not been in the mood to travel up the coast and back.
I glanced behind me and the two police officers I had passed on my way into the airport stood like statues staring down my queue. Someone ahead of or behind me was obviously in some kind of trouble.
It was only when I reached the desk that I realised the attention of all four officers was on no one else but me. Before I had a chance to place my suitcase on the scales, one of the officers said, 'Are you Trevor Moore?'
'That is correct.' I could hardly lie.
'Come with us, sir.'
My insides plummeted. I felt the eyes of every tourist in the airport piercing me like so many small daggers as the officers led me away. My mind raced. Who had informed the police? Someone at the gym? But none of them knew a thing. The old men outside the church? But how did the police make the link between the stranger they had seen and me? Same went for the waitress in the café. Or did it? And what about Paco and Claire? What if they had read the same newspaper as me and, suspecting I had held onto the cash, they had informed the cops? I sort of hoped they had. For it would at least absolve me of the crime of murder.
I was taken to a small, windowless room and told to sit down.
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Books and websites consulted
Richard Cleminson and Francisco Vázquez García, 'Los Invisibles': A history of male homosexuality in Spain, 1850-1940.
Carlos David Aguiar García, La provincia de Santa Cruz de Tenerife entre dos dictaduras (1923-1945). Hambre y orden, University of Barcelona, 2012.
Miguel Ángel Sosa Machín, Viaje al centro de la infamia, self-published, 2012
Dr. Daniel Vallès Muñío, La Privación de Libertad de Los Homosexuales en el Franquismo y su Asimilación al Alta en la Seguridad Social, University of Barcelona, 2017.
Video - La Memoria Silenciada Tefía 1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wW-7XHuwz8&t=571s
Video La Memoria Silenciada Tefía 2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=9&v=GU20-exy8q4
Video Carcel de Tefía https://www.youtube.com
/watch?v=RT19zfx1AJ8&t=179s
Newspaper article - http://eldia.es/vivir/2005-07-31/1-centenar-gays-estuvieron-presos-Fuerteventura-franquismo.htm
Online article - http://www.nodo50.org/despage/Nuestra%20Historia/verdad%20historica/estrellarosa.htm
Online article - http://www.tamaimos.com/2012/06/28/memoria-historica-canaria-xii-la-colonia-agricola-penitenciararia-de-tefia/
Newspaper article - http://eldia.es/canarias/2008-05-18/6-Auschwitz-Fuerteventura.htm
Online article http://www.javilarrauri.com/represaliados/octavio_garcia.html
Acknowledgements
This book could not have been written without the support and encouragement of my mother, Margaret Rodgers. I am also indebted to my old friend Domingo Diaz Barrios of Haría, Lanzarote, who told me about the prison in 1989, and Miguel Medina Rodriguez, also of Haría, who spoke to me of the prison many times and even drove past the prison on one of our visits to the island and pointed it out to me. Warm thanks to all who encouraged me to tackle this theme. A special thank you to my editor, Veronica Schwarz for her sharp eyes and diligence. And my gratitude to Miika Hannila and the team at Next Chapter for your ongoing support and belief in my writing.
About the Author
Isobel Blackthorn is an award-winning author of unique and engaging fiction. She writes dark psychological thrillers, mysteries, and contemporary and literary fiction. Isobel was shortlisted for the Ada Cambridge Prose Prize 2019 for her biographical short story, 'Nothing to Declare'. The Legacy of Old Gran Parks is the winner of the Raven Awards 2019. Isobel holds a PhD from the University of Western Sydney, for her research on the works of Theosophist Alice A. Bailey, the 'Mother of the New Age.' She is the author of The Unlikely Occultist: a biographical novel of Alice A. Bailey. A Prison in the Sun is her fourth Canary Islands novel.
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