I remember a tale of two guys being taken away after celebrating a fortieth birthday party for a breathalyser test, laughing all the way, saying, “Of course I’m drunk, but I’m not driving.”
People will always find a way to escape life. Surely, we have to ask ourselves what have we done to make this life something we want to escape from?
Synthetic high
There is a line from the book The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, which describes a drink called a “Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster” as having an effect similar to “having your brains smashed out by a large gold brick with a slice of lemon wrapped around it”. I can think of no better words to describe the feeling of synthetic cannabis or, as it is also known, Spice.
I would love to say that I’ve never tried it, but with my own weaknesses, too many desperate days and nights, desolate feelings and isolation from reality, I have. I am not proud of that fact, or any facts concerning my addictions and choices of escapism, but I share my experience here, so maybe people can understand what would drive others to make that choice.
I do not condone, neither judge.
When asked why do I smoke cannabis, and why would I want to even after all this, I answer, that for me cannabis is not solely a means of escapism, and that I think it is better to have weed in times of no money, rather than money in times of no weed.
The first time I saw synthetic was in 2013, in Division XI. Real cannabis stays in the system for so long that the chances of being caught on a urine test are too great – and often I’d turn it down. So, here was this new thing, a “legal” high. Just to put you in the picture, by 2015 the UK had more than 250 shops on high streets as well as dozens of legal websites, selling it, before it was declared illegal and banned in 2016.
As I said, this substance became available in prison in 2013, and I fell into it, struggling under its grip till I left the CCF.
It always amazes me what rubbish becomes legal, while cannabis stays illegal. Even now that so many countries have legalised cannabis for medical use, and even now that the World Health Organisation has recognised its medicinal properties, it still remains illegal. Meanwhile alcohol, cigarettes and now even vapours are not just legal but widely accepted. What chance do people have, when the people who decide our fate are fickle and only go for profit and loss?
Maybe my views are too simple but I am a simple man. I only show the comparisons to show the floating legality of law.
In Division XI, sometime back in 2017, I counted cell by cell the people who smoked synthetic: 50 out of 60 inmates. Other Divisions had pretty much the same numbers.
When it’s not available, people went about their daily routines but this normally lasted only a day or two as roads (i.e. ways to traffic illegal things into the prison) were quickly arranged. And as soon as a bag arrived in the Division, its massive cloud consumed the place, with groups disappearing into cells to smoke, nod and drift to music and TV. It was obvious for all to see.
Pink Floyd was the soundtrack to our days of daze.
Whenever there was a stoppage of supply, the madness would begin. I’ve witnessed people draw razors across their chest, arms and legs; superficial wounds but still horrifying. Too many times people have attempted hanging themselves, some even succeeding. Telephones would be blocked by people screaming, crying and demanding money or the drug itself to be brought into prison by wives, girlfriends, children and mothers. Fights, arguments and general bedlam, just to get away from debt, score or change Divisions to find a new supply. All watched on by officers, powerless to stop it.
It was very hard to stay away; the sickly-sweet odour quickly fills the Division as the soul of its user rises and disappears within that smoke.
I told myself often enough “stay strong”, “think”, “say NO”. And I did say NO a hundred times. But then I’d pass an open cell door and a congregation of stoned faces. My guard would drop for a fleeting moment and before I would have realised, I would be saying yes to the highly addictive substance.
I am not trying to justify my actions, merely sharing them with you. I long to understand my choices and my misgivings about addiction. It is a battle I will fight till my last day.
Like so many, I was lost in that sorrowful abyss, with no end in sight. The fear of extra time prevented many from going to the authorities for help. So many of us, by just wanting that feeling of peacefulness that cannabis provides, fell into the horrific grips of its synthetic version with its abominable side-effects.
Things changed slowly when roads were shut down, and officers were caught and ghosted out the back door never to stand trial. But money, greed and stupidity are infectious … and soon enough the cycle started again.
One time in late 2018, soon after my release, I was walking down Cardiff High Street, in Wales, when I passed a homeless chap lying by the side of the street. That familiar scent wafted up to my nostrils. It physically made me sick right there in front of all. I ran and ran and in a way I’m still running.
The Spice is just another part of this war that still leaves its scars.
Overdose
Day 2,437. July 24, 2017. I heard on the news that there were 14 overdoses in the last two weeks in the CCF.
I don’t know how accurate that number is. If you count overdoses as inmates passing out, throwing up or generally going crazy, then some days, in just my Division, we’d have a few overdoses even before lunch.
We’ve lost count of the times those officers from the Medical Room, nurses and even doctors, come rushing into the Division with their big red bag. One of the officers is so short, that the bag almost covers him completely.
The way they rush into the Division and charge into cells reminds me of those old black-and-white silent films. It usually ends with them pushing someone out on a wheelchair.
One lad fell asleep in the night – passed out due to excessive drug-taking, more like it – and when he woke in the morning, he had no use of his legs. The nerve was pinched apparently, and although in the time I was there he did regain some movement, the limp was a daily reminder. But he never stopped using. Sometimes when you pop, you can’t stop.
*
Day 2,460. August 16, 2017. Wow, what a funny day. Last night, Franky came back to the Division after his holiday in punishment.
By 8.30 a.m. he was already blacked out on the floor, overdosed on synthetic. Four screws, two nurses and of course all the Division looked on at the spectacle as he was wheeled out.
By 10 a.m. he was semi-fit and allowed to go down for a family visit.
By 2 p.m. they moved him to the drug rehabilitation section in Mount Carmel, the mental health hospital. He’ll be back soon.
And all on the feast day of Santa Marija.
Miracles are possible.
*
Day 2,592. December 26, 2017. Today was a bad day. I guess it had been coming for years really. As always, I pushed my luck.
I had been doing well, staying away from that damned synthetic. It’s so hard to say no, when it’s everywhere. Not that that is much of an excuse – some of the boys are able to refuse. But my addictive behaviour never leaves me.
Joseph is now back in the Division. I hadn’t seen him in a long while. He’d been circulating around the Punishment Divisions for months. But now he’s back.
It seems that there is nowhere to keep people renowned to cause trouble, separate from others within the system. Or, maybe the system likes feeding trouble, by instigating opportunity.
The Division had been dry as well – there hadn’t been anything for a while.
Everyone flocked to his cell. I could see he had something as everyone was already stumbling around. I tried to stay away. The inevitable was coming though.
We finally bumped into each other and shared a few stories of the time he had spent in the other Divisions, and then the words came so innocently:
“Do you fancy one?”
“Well, it’d be rude to say no.”
&nb
sp; Just like that. Before I knew it, I was in his cell. Surround sound blasting drum and bass, and a spliff the size of Bob Marley’s leg in his hand.
It had been so long since I had had any, it hit me hard on the second or third pull.
Sound vanished, vision blurred and before I knew it, I was passed out on his floor, twitching and looking like a dying man.
He told me later that he had to put me in the recovery position and clear my airway. I’d vomited and even wet myself. Ah, the glamour of drugs.
After only a few minutes, but what seemed an eternity, I was up on my feet at least, shakily making my way to my own cell, six cells down. The officers had already circled the Division. I wasn’t the only one on shaky legs.
After a while I’d changed and recovered, but my stupidity hadn’t.
The table in the Division downstairs had filled up with those still alive, and I joined them. There must have been six or eight of us, sitting right under the guard room, openly rolling and smoking.
Yes, again it happened, a few more pulls and I was floundering again. Consciousness wavering. Half the boys at the table were in a similar state. One had even fallen asleep with his head on the table. Another was throwing up, like in the film The Exorcist. One of his friends was throwing buckets of water over him to wash him off and wake him up. We had pushed the equilibrium too far.
Again, I’d managed to stumble to my cell, pretending to watch the show as I held myself up on the door frame. In came the red bag and the gang alongside it.
One of the female nurses walked right past those who were dying and walked straight up to me. She took a good long look in my eyes and then pointed a damning finger saying, “Urine.”
What did I care? Synthetic doesn’t mark on their tests.
I was marched up to the Doctors’ MI room, with three other lads from the table. When they gave me the sample pot, I almost filled it. I handed it to the officer. We’d had problems before. A semicircle of guards, SRT and nurses fanned around.
“Watch this,” he said as he put in the test …
… within seconds taking it out, holding it up and declaring, “Ha, positive.” His joy was uncontrollable. “We’ve got you.”
I didn’t believe it and I told them so. From the gang who were at the table, smoking the same spliffs, only two of us were positive. I didn’t tell them that.
I told them I wanted to send it to hospital, to be checked, as was my right I thought, as others before me had done that, and the samples had come back negative. But no chance, I was done. Caught and that was that.
I can’t really complain too much, I was smoking after all. And I was pretty smashed. The only thing that really got to me was the reaction of the officer. So happy to catch a big criminal.
Which is strange as I remember his mother, who worked as a nurse, being caught taking home a bag full of medicines. I never heard what happened. I’m sure he wasn’t so happy with that. Although I’m sure, like the so many times that officers have been caught bringing things in and out of prison, it’s all whitewashed.
I was done, I had to go back to the Division and pack my bags. I’d be going to Division VI for ten days. I’d lose some privileges. But the main problem was that I’d just added 28 days to my sentence. I had lost one month of remission.
Now I had to phone my family and tell them. That was harder than the extra time. I was due to leave on August 17. Now I’d be leaving on the September 13. Again, I’d miss my daughter’s birthday.
Stupidity knows no bounds.
When I went back to the Division to pack, under a guard’s supervision, one of the lads just had enough time to sneak me a bag of synthetic. On the way to the punishment block I was able to conceal it. When I passed through their quite vigorous search, they didn’t find it.
For the first two days of my punishment, I didn’t come out of the cell. I smoked, slept and forgot where I was.
I struggled till the day I left, saying yes to things I should have said no to. I passed a lot of days inside blindly, not thinking about the nightmare my life was. Since being away from those depressing walls, I’ve had no problem saying no. But I know that it is no excuse.
Escape comes in many forms.
Hello? Reality calling
Day 2,679. February 19, 2018. It was going to be a good day. I’d woken up confidently and I was determined not to let anything alter my positive state.
Fall-in was slow, more coughs and sneezes than calls of “Sir”. It was a cold morning and had been a bitter night. I smiled.
There were no milk or sandwiches. Not to worry, I told myself, black coffee it will be. The grumbling of the inmates and the officers played like an orchestra around me, but I did not mind today. How come, you may ask?
No, it wasn’t my birthday or my release day. Today was a very special day. Today I knew that the €23,000 bank transfer to the prison would be cleared. Today was the day that I was going to buy back my life, albeit I was not the one who made the payment.
It was being transferred by my parents, a few thousand graciously collected via crowdfunding, the balance paid out by my mother and father. I’m sure that since my life is already theirs, they would give me time to pay it back slowly.
So today was a positive day. The court costs and other constitutional costs and fines had been paid over the previous months. So 154 days of my life had already been purchased back from the authorities. Today, February 19, 2018, would be the final payment. Instead of being released on January 18, 2020, I would now be released on August 17, 2018. Doable for anyone. Well mostly anyone. The end was in sight. Liberty was in sight. After 12 years without it, it already tasted good. Surely nothing could alter that.
Very little happens in this prison before 9 a.m. and then the little that does, begins. I waited with my black coffee and happiness. Today, even I didn’t begrudge the officers their chats, coffee with milk and breakfasts, after all I was almost freer than them. At 9.30 a.m. I went up to the guards’ room.
Papers, pen and hope all with me. I should have known better.
“Good morning, Sir, could you please phone the Records Office for me?”
“Why?” The officer grunted over the top of his mobile phone.
“They told me to phone this morning to go up and sign papers to pay my fine.” I was beaming.
“Can’t it wait? I’m alone and busy.”
I looked at him, at his phone, at his cup.
“Well, I’d like to do it this morning if I could please, it’s only a phone call.”
“Liba Madonna,” he cursed, thumping down his phone.
I could see he was on Facebook, he didn’t look like he wanted to joke, so I didn’t ask him if he was on my page. Some officers were.
Taking up the cordless office phone and struggling to dial, he held it to his ear, scowling at me with hate. I smiled back. It was tense between us. With the phone still pressed to his face, he spat out, “No answer. Try tomorrow.”
I was just about to speak, to beg my case for one last try before it was postponed for the day. I was just about to plead with him for help, when the handset he was holding – rang.
He didn’t move, only his eyes lowered, my smile faded. The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity. He seemed determined not to notice, I was determined that he would answer it. In the end he did. Grunting in Maltese for a moment, then slamming the receiver into the cradle. He stared at me unfazed.
“Sir,” I began my voice, quivering.
“If you had dialled the number, surely the phone could not ring,” I said through clenched teeth.
“What do you know of technology?” he replied condescendingly.
“Well, I might never have used smartphones, that is true, but landlines have changed very little since they were invented …”
“I don’t have time for this, I’m busy, ask someone else later or tomorrow’s shift.”
He picked back up his mobile phone, turned in his chair away from me and concluded our conversation.
I stayed there for a moment or two while reality sunk in. I could have screamed out loud, insulted him, demanded he phone again, demanded my rights or called the duty officer. These thoughts all crossed my mind at various speeds. In the end I turned and walked away, back to my cell and another black coffee. I’d wait for tomorrow’s shift.
Today was tainted. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up in a good mood and be able to keep it. Even though that’s a very tall order in here.
Changing cells
Day 2,718. April 30, 2018. Today I am deflated. I had already worked myself up to a state on the telephone from the frustration that I can do nothing to ease the hardship on my wife and kids, financially and emotionally.
Then, I had a clash with a guy. Let’s call him “Guy”. He came next to me. I walked away. He followed. I walked away. He kept talking. I walked away. He said, “Fuck all your family alive and dead.” Fifty-nine men heard and saw. I bit my cheek and walked away.
Adrenaline flooded through me. I was shaking. I started to lose reason. I forced it to stay and slowed down my heart rate. I rationalised the situation. What options did I have?
A. Deal with it. End the situation quickly and violently. Result = punishment, loss of all privileges, 28 days in Division VI, and knowing the Maltese system the opening of yet another case against me. Guy would definitely have given the police a statement on me. It’s the way he works.
or
B. Leave it. Bad feeling will escalate. Result = he attacks me first, or he frames me by putting something in my cell. Something that this particular scrote had done before. All leading to punishment and more time.
Whichever outcome, more time looked unavoidable. My life once again rested in the hands of others and I felt helpless. What would you do?
Later I walked past him. He was smashed on synthetic and he shouted, “Pufta! Pufta!” (Poofter! Poofter!) instigating me to lunge at him. Fifty-nine men heard and saw. I walked away.
Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle... Page 16
