It’s difficult to explain this. Think of a football crowd sharing the exuberance of a goal. Think of that hive mentality. Now think of the general feeling there is when that same crowd leaves the ground after a loss: that dull, sombre ache, shared by all, akin to something being taken from them, a heavy loss. That is close.
It is close to when prisoners wake to start another day and already every negative emotion is washing inside them. Prisoners seldom know joy and when they do, it comes in scraps that cast very brief rays. But when this collective low is felt, it is damn immobilising.
The weather today was overcast and humid, which may have been a contributing factor. I don’t know the position of the moon, but maybe it effects this phenomenon also. There is no energy of the positive kind and anything one tries to do is likely to fail. It feels so haunting that I would swear it’s a virus as its symptoms are shown by all: lethargic movements, despondent staring eyes, intolerance to any form of diversion and just like a virus, time is the only thing that will see it stay or pass.
It is smothering.
Love and affection
At the end of 2008, I was again released from prison on bail. I had spent 358 days behind the walls. I had not seen Barry in a while. We’d been on separate paths inside prison and the only news I got of him, via Chinese whispers, was that he was deteriorating fast.
I was in a pretty bad shape by then as well, as the cocktail of legal drugs they had put me on in prison for depression, anxiety and addiction, had caused me to lose control over my personality. I’d have been much better off with the cannabis that they considered so wrong.
My father once again had to come over to Malta to help me with the transition out of prison and find me a place to stay. His coming to look after me was the main condition of my bail and we had to prove to the court that he had only bought a one-way plane ticket to Malta.
Each of the three times I left prison, the assistance I received upon release, by the state of Malta or even the UK government, was nothing short of a joke. It is no wonder that reoffending rates are so high.
With my father’s help, I stopped taking the prescription drugs and was able to regain a purpose in life. And it wasn’t too long before I found a job as a chef, at a busy tourist pub in Qawra, called The George, run by a very understanding boss.
Soon, I settled back into work and the normal routine of life. I wasn’t really doing much of anything, just working, eating and sleeping, and waiting for the very slow process of the Maltese courts and the inevitable impending doom of the sentence that was hanging over me.
Life under those conditions is not a life, it’s merely an existence. It had already been almost three years since my initial arrest, and one of those years I’d already spent behind bars.
In 2010, my friend Mark had come to stay with me. I’d met him in prison in 2008, he was down on his luck, struggling with heroin addiction. He had just been let out of the drug dependency unit and needed a place to crash. I can never turn away anyone wanting help. The first night he got to my small one-bedroom flat, he began lining up all the tablets the doctor had given him to try and stay clean and off heroin. It was scary to see so much medication, lined up like chess pieces. I had to leave for work but gave him the keys and pleaded with him to be good.
When I returned that night, Mark was dead on my floor. He had suffered a major overdose from the tablets he had shown me. God knows what happened that night and why. But to find my friend splayed like that, meant that once more I fought with the thought that maybe I could have done more.
I had to ring the ambulance and of course my friends the police followed.
After the ambulance crew had bundled Mark into my old sheet, covered him with my dressing gown and dragged him out, it was my turn. My flat was searched and when one of the officers found a Body Shop hemp lip balm, I was doomed. The policeman was overjoyed. I was taken to Floriana lockup and again subjected to lengthy interviews. Fortunately, the inspector saw it for what it was – an accidental overdose – although I still believe to this day that the onus lied with the doctor.
The inspector, PG, finally released me around 3 a.m. I was dropped off at Valletta’s deserted bus station and told by the officer, “Do not forget that you are on bail, if I pass here in 20 minutes and you are still here, I’ll charge you with breach of your bail conditions.” Their terror continued and worked on me.
I phoned Leighton to quickly pick me up from that madness. That night, I slept feet from where my friend had died. Life looked bleak with no end to the ordeal in sight. I was living day-to-day, drinking too much and planning nothing. Each day brought a greater depression.
Until one day, into the bar, and into my life, walked the most amazing person I had ever met. My life was changed instantly. Immediately there was a connection, and we spent many a night at work and outside of it, talking about everything in the universe: hopes, dreams and especially my situation, and the hell I was passing through.
I think most women would have run a mile, but Marzena and I became ever closer. She was working away from her native country, Poland, and we found a kindred spirit in each other. Even then, she was my rock, and I used to long for days when she would be on shift with me at the pub, or when we were both off, so we could spend time together.
I had many a voice inside me telling me to let her go and not tie her to my sinking future. But love knows no bounds, and I think the situation pushed us to be even more intimate. We both let our guard down and fell head over heels in love.
I almost forgot about the case, court and prison. Although it was always there in the background, it was painted over in the joy of the here and now. We were truly happy, like any other young couple in love.
I remember the day we found out we were pregnant. Although we were both delighted, the reality of my situation suddenly popped again to the foreground. Optimistically and perhaps naively, I promised her that everything would be OK.
We moved into a new family-friendly apartment and we started planning for the birth. We were so busy with work, gynae visits and each other, that we thought little of the looming court case.
On a visit to Malta by her mother and sisters, I asked her family for her hand in marriage and hoped that it wasn’t too selfish of me. I know many will judge me for my ways, but from the moment we met, I knew our path lay together.
Our daughter was due in August 2011 and we were planning our wedding for spring the next year. Which was not an easy feat, as it meant organising family and documentation from Poland and Wales, to Malta.
Our daughter, Rainbow, was born, beautiful and perfect, to two loving and proud parents.
Apart from what had gone down to triweekly signings at the local police station, and the odd uneventful five-minute appearance before the court, life was finally good. It is not unheard of for cases in Malta to go on for ten to twenty years before sentencing, so when I received a paper to appear before the court for the third time that year, I thought nothing of it.
Ninety days after the birth of our daughter, my friend gave me a lift to court.
So off I went with a shopping list in my pocket, planning to get all the items on the way home from court before my evening work shift. I never went back to work or to that home again.
I was not allowed to phone home, or my work, so I didn’t speak to Marzena until I appeared before the court for sentencing. After foolishly pleading guilty on the advice of my lawyer, I was detained for three days. Then, in front of a mumbling judge picking his nose, I was sentenced to ten and a half years; fined €23,000, which would be converted into another year of prison; and I had to pay €1,737.74 in court expenses, which if unpaid, would be another 159 days in prison.
My lawyer never gave me a heads-up, and after more than five years since my initial arrest, my life was thrown again into turmoil – everything I had was snatched from me.
Shell-shocked, I now had to come to terms with the prospect of a very lengthy time behind bars, away from the worl
d and away from my family.
We were told by the lawyers that we still had the Appeal and the Constitutional Courts to fight in and that I should not worry as there would always be hope. We were told I’d never serve the full sentence. There was a large public outcry, and people took to the streets in protest. An account of the hearing and my photograph appeared on television and in newspapers. I became, as they say, a cause célèbre.
There was nothing for it but for us to settle into our separate lives, with me behind bars and my fiancée and child living alone in a country which was not even her homeland. We were allowed two 45-minute visits a week, which were very hard for Marzena to organise and manage with the baby, as they both had to travel across Malta on terrible roads and using an unreliable bus service for a four-hour roundtrip every day of the visits.
Marzena reassured me that they’d willingly wait, and to put all thoughts of separation out of my mind. There’s the old saying, “if you love someone, let them go”, but that never seemed an option, although during some dark nights alone in a cell, I did think that maybe they’d have been better off without me. Maybe the world would be.
We went ahead with our wedding plans, gaining permission from the prison director, in addition to the rest of the paperwork from our two home countries and Malta. Planning it – now from behind bars – was even more stressful.
I was called in front of the then director, and I had to promise that I would stop my communication with the newspapers. If I did that, while shaking my hand vigorously, he assured me that the Prison authorities would give me a wedding present of a reception allowed in the prison. If not, he said, forget the entire wedding. He told me that in this prison, everything was a privilege and not a right. He and the full weight above him held my life and days in their hands. I shook his hand, waiting for the day when the balance of power would turn.
Finally, in May 2012, came our big day. It was not a wedding that many women would want, or look forward to, but she did, and I did. So, on the May 5, 2012, wearing tan linen trousers and a Mandarin-style collar shirt, I was escorted from the Corradino Correctional Facility by two prison SRT officers to my future wife, who was waiting for me at the Registry Office in Valletta.
I was speechless and overwhelmed by her beauty. The vision of her that day stayed in my mind every single day that has followed. I remember being led to the room where our families and my wife-to-be were waiting. The room was pleasantly decorated with fresh flowers and standing there, glowing like a beautiful apparition, was Marzena, dressed in a flowing, white gown with a garland of Marguerite flowers in her hair.
The ceremony itself was a standard affair, with both of us saying our vows and signing our marriage contract, witnessed by Leighton and his mother Jen. We were so happy that we had finally managed to complete our wedding plans, even under those circumstances.
We were wed in front of a registrar with just a few close friends and family present. Husband and wife – inmate and wife – bound for better or for worse.
Straight after the brief ceremony, instead of a wedding car to travel in, I was cuffed and taken back to prison in a van to the chorus of blues and twos, while my wife and family had photos taken and then travelled separately to our reception back at the prison.
In the prison’s main visit hall, we were granted a two-hour concession visit for the wedding reception where a party of 14 of us were allowed to bring in some food and soft drinks. We even managed to arrange for a cake, though it had to be purchased from the prison – maybe they were worried that we’d slip in a file (although files are available from the tuck shop for €1.72).
We made the best of our situation and had a wonderful time. I had been able to borrow a stereo off one English lad, and an Al Green CD of mine meant we even managed to fit in a slow dance, holding each other close. Love filled that visit room that day. We were the same as any newly married couple, if only for those two hours.
Despite the bleak surroundings, barred windows, CCTV and prison guards, I had my beautiful wife in my arms, surrounded by loving family, and I knew we were truly blessed.
We were allowed to take some photos, albeit we had the guards’ portly bellies sitting behind us in the background of each picture. Our guests were allowed to bring in just one camera between them, which had to be examined by security as they entered.
It was all over so quickly. I was returned to my cell and my new wife and child went back to a life without me, outside of those walls. No honeymoon for this couple. I know that the family went home to change and then went to the beach for a barbecue that evening to celebrate. I was told a good time was had by all.
My wife and I carried on our lives, having two 45-minute visits a week, trying to be a real family with our beautiful daughter.
Writing letters became our easiest way to talk, and we’ve sent tens of thousands of words to each other.
We lived this way for about a year, but then life became too difficult for them, living alone in a foreign country away from me and our families. After many discussions about what was best for us all, we had to make the difficult decision for my wife and daughter to leave Malta. The strain of holding down two jobs to make ends meet, and raising a baby with little social and no state assistance, was too much for her. Moreover, I didn’t want them to have to continue to endure that four-hour journey each time they came to visit me. Although I knew I would really miss them, we eventually decided that they would be better off in Wales surrounded by the support of both our families.
By a remarkable twist of fate, both our families lived in Wales, not more than ten miles from each other. My Welsh parents had lived in Italy for almost ten years but had returned to Wales the previous year, and Marzena’s family had emigrated from Poland to Wales in 2010. At the time of our meeting some two thousand miles away in Malta, neither of us could have foreseen this happy coincidence of luck. Yet another miracle that was to shape our lives.
Although away from me, she and our daughter were enveloped in the love and assistance that only an extended family could offer. It was a huge weight off my mind to know that they would both be cared for, loved and helped. It made their transition that little bit easier. I know that without the love of our families, things would have been even more hellish and unbearable, and I find great solace in knowing they were together. A large, happy family, even if without me.
Our relationship relied on telephone calls and letters even more, as I tried to remain a significant part of their lives. It’s so hard to bond over the phone, with a child who just doesn’t understand why I couldn’t go home. But it is hard even for us as adults to understand, so how can we hope that young ones get it? How does one explain to a small child that, because her daddy had grown a plant five years before she was born, he won’t be back in her life until she’s almost ten?
My wife’s strength through all this has been nothing short of a miracle. She had to deal with the reality of life, while I remained separated from it. I think that prison is truly harder on the family outside than the prisoner, as all thoughts, options, self and validity, are taken away from the inmate, while normal life has to continue outside with all the usual worries of life, plus the constant overwhelming sense of loss, and the stigma of having a loved one incarcerated.
Once or maybe twice a year, Marzena and Rainbow were able to come over for visits, travelling to a holiday destination but never for a holiday. For a week or so at a time we’d get one to one-and-a-half hour visits a day, and one family contact visit in a closed room. After so long away from each other, these visits became our only means of real contact.
When we were lucky enough for a family member to accompany them and look after Rainbow, we could do what all married couples do, and have some intimate contact. So again, in our lives we were blessed, and one sunny day in 2014, over eight years since my initial arrest, and via a phone call, I was told the news that I would become the proud father of yet another beautiful girl.
On the one side, it was he
artbreaking, knowing I’d miss the birth and early life and initial bonding stage with another soul. But I was once again overwhelmed with joy. How could I deny Rainbow a sister, and my wife another child? How can anyone be expected to put their life on hold for so long?
There were bad days of course. Bleak days, when all seemed lost and going on seemed impossible. Day by day we stayed focused on the one day when we would all be reunited as a family.
Countless were the times when I would say in letters or on phones, “Not long, one day.” I think towards the end these words infuriated both parties, to the brink of madness.
So, we had a geographically distant relationship and on wedding anniversaries, birthdays, and all the other special occasions in a family’s life, we only had phone calls, cards and letters. Yet we remained strong and close.
My wife and I have been asked many times how we managed to stay so strong. According to my wife, it’s because I have an almost maddening will to avoid drama and conflicts. I guess from my perspective, so does she.
I’m proud of our children and if not their understanding of the situation, their acceptance. My wife has shown me, time after time, just how amazing and special she is. It has not been easy, but we find strength in each other, our families, friends and the overwhelming support we have been shown from people all around the world who are sympathetic to our plight.
We are lucky we are a strong family and my thoughts and prayers go out to those less fortunate than ourselves. So many people, entering prison through silly laws, lose all they have and never regain themselves.
Even in the direst of circumstances, love can conquer all.
Visits, phone calls and letters
Over the years, my wife and children made the long and costly journey to Malta to visit me. In the end it became such a challenge that the visits became less frequent, until they finally stopped coming.
Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle... Page 9
