by Rachel Dann
He turns to look at me with a perplexed expression. ‘Out?’
‘Yes, you know – out. Out there.’ I indicate the window. ‘Out somewhere in Quito. A bar or a restaurant or—’
‘We’ve already had dinner.’
I swallow back a surge of frustration. ‘Yes, okay, I know that, but we could still go somewhere different. I don’t know… find some live music, have a drink, see where the night takes us? We could even look for that traditional place I read about, in the old town, that does those cheesy corn things – what were they called? I can’t remember, but you know that traditional snack I told you about… from the guidebook…’ I can hear the mild desperation in my own voice as I trail off.
‘Babe, I’m knackered today,’ Harry says apologetically, lifting my hand to kiss it. ‘Plus, it’s a Wednesday. I doubt anywhere’s open.’ He drops my hand and turns back to the bedroom door. ‘But let’s definitely do something on Friday, okay? I’ll take you out for dinner.’ Then he winks at me and disappears from view.
I stare at the empty bedroom doorway and hear the slight creak of the bed as Harry gets back into it, realising I should be feeling pleased. Haven’t I just proved Harry was telling the truth – the number he called was a travel agency, or at least they were people who organise trips to the Galápagos Islands. There’s nothing suspicious going on, and the only reason he’d gone outside to make the call was that he wanted it to be a surprise. I should be feeling relieved.
So why aren’t I?
Aside from the stabs of guilt about checking Harry’s phone, why do I still have a creeping sense of unease, a feeling that something isn’t quite right?
Chapter Seven
Quito women’s prison is both much better and far worse than I’d expected. If you’d asked me what I had expected, I wouldn’t have been able to answer you, but all I know is that it was not this. From the moment we arrive, the feelings that swamp me are of deep disgust and intense amazement both at the same time.
I spend the journey from Liza and Roberto’s house to the prison, on the outskirts of downtown Quito, with my stomach in knots and my nails digging into the palms of my hands, nerves causing my heart to pound at the thought of entering the prison.
As Marion’s car slows to a stop at the end of a grotty and almost derelict street, and she reminds me yet again to watch my handbag as we get out of the car, I wonder, not for the first time today, what on earth I am doing here. It had seemed like such a good idea from the comfort of Liza and Roberto’s kitchen last week…
I stick close behind Marion as we walk hastily up to the prison entrance, not making eye contact with anyone in the small cluster of people, mainly men, loitering at its edges. We have to practically step over an older woman sitting on the very pavement, selling bottles of water and fizzy drinks straight out of an old plastic cooler bag at her feet. She waves a bottle of water at me as we pass, but I follow Marion’s example and ignore her.
Even the prison door itself is terrifying. Vast and black and heavy-looking, topped with rusting coils of barbed wire and spikes pointing up into the cloudless blue sky. I stare at it and tilt my neck back to see right to the top, trying not to imagine what horrors lie on the other side. My nerves become genuine fear and cause my legs to tremble as I stand behind Marion, who knocks once on the door then stands back with her arms folded, waiting. For one crazy, delirious moment I’m reminded of various fantasy adventure films from my childhood, and half expect a booming voice to call from the other side ‘Password?’
Instead, the metal bolt on the door slides back with a painful scraping sound and a short, middle-aged man in sun-faded prison-guard uniform silently gestures at us to enter.
As I step off the street and through the metal doorway I can’t help but imagine the hundreds, maybe thousands, of feet that have stepped over this threshold in the past, experiencing all the sights and sounds just as I am, but combined with the knowledge they won’t be stepping back over it again for a very long time. I can almost feel the ghostly eyes of all the prison’s occupants, past and present, observing me as I follow Marion inside.
The guard flicks through our documents – passports, and an authorisation letter Marion had already obtained on behalf of the Alma Libre charity – then nods at Marion and waves us through.
Keep it together, I tell myself, when what I really want to do is turn on my heel and run as fast and as far as I can away from here. Down to the end of this neglected old street with its stray dogs and boarded-up shops and loitering men. I would not stop running until I got back to the part of the city I knew; where the streets were lined with palm trees, not rusting cars, and where Quito still felt like a holiday destination.
Too late now, I realise, as we hear the heavy metal door clang shut behind us. I wonder again what each woman inside must have felt when she heard that sound.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. A combination of frying food, sewage, cleaning products, and the simple, horrible smell of lots and lots of people crammed into a small space.
Seconds later I notice the beautiful, magical singing coming from somewhere within the dirty, yellow-painted walls in front of us. Haunting, echoing, the sound of one hundred or more women’s voices rises and falls in and out of earshot over the background noise – banging pots, people calling to each other, cars hooting on the road outside. I realise they’re singing in Spanish. I can’t make out any words but the emotion and energy of the voices sends a shiver down my spine.
I stop and hesitate, just inside the doorway. Marion turns to look at me kindly. ‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, dear,’ she says, taking my arm.
‘No! No, it’s not that. I do want to,’ I lie. ‘It just… isn’t what I expected.’
Marion smiles. ‘Trust me, I remember that feeling. But you’re here at a good time. They’re just finishing worship. Come on, let’s go in.’
Worship? Thoroughly confused, I follow Marion across a small concrete courtyard. It’s surprisingly pleasant-looking – several potted plants dot the corners of the narrow area, some with bright red-and-pink flowers, and two benches line the side walls. It could be the back yard of any London apartment, in fact – until I look above me and see the wall going up and up, twenty feet above my head, crowned with angry coils of rusting barbed wire.
The courtyard is empty except for a female guard at the far end, leaning against the wall and looking down at what I take to be a mobile phone in her hands, an expression of crushing boredom on her face. Despite the relentless sun beating down on us, she’s dressed in a thick, dark-blue uniform and heavy boots, hair scraped back in a severe bun. Next to her is a black metal door festooned with several thick chains and padlocks, which I presume she is supposed to be guarding. I follow Marion towards her, and as we get closer, with a gulp of fear I notice what looks like a real gun stashed in her belt.
She and Marion exchange a few words in Spanish, then the guard lazily digs in her pocket, produces a tangle of keys and begins to unlock the padlocks one by one.
Eventually she finishes the last padlock and pushes the door open, gesturing for us to step forward. As soon as we’re over the threshold the door bangs shut behind us and I hear the metallic scraping of the bolt sliding back into place. I imagine the guard resuming her position against the wall and going back to her text message or game of Candy Crush or whatever she was doing.
‘Is that – it?’ I ask Marion incredulously, realising we are now inside the very bowels of the prison. I don’t know what I expected – some sort of check, a pat-down, an X-ray machine, a search of our pockets – something. In reality, all we have on us is a plastic bag containing an assortment of chocolate bars, some tatty Stephen King paperbacks and a notepad and pen. The first guard at the outer door had peered in it briefly, rummaged around a bit, taken one of the chocolate bars for himself, then waved us in. It feels almost like a wasted opportunity.
Marion nods. ‘Yep. That’s it. They
all know me here. Christian missionaries pose no threat.’
At the sound of the door closing, I feel fifty pairs of eyes turn to stare at us. We’re in a wide outdoor corridor between two high buildings. Women of all shapes, sizes and ages line the corridor – some sat on benches, some leaning against the walls, some milling about in groups. A hushed silence falls as we enter, conversations ending abruptly as the women turn as one to stare at the two intruders.
‘Stay close to me, Kirsty, and keep your eyes forward,’ Marion commands, as we start to cross the corridor. We dodge smelly puddles of water on the bare concrete ground as I follow in her wake, practically trotting to keep up with her determined pace. She seems to have morphed into a totally different person with our step across the prison threshold. Gone is the twinkly-eyed, bubbly old lady from Liza’s kitchen, and in her place is a fierce, fearless warrior-woman. I resist the urge to cling to her arm as we pass just feet away from the inmates.
Fascinated despite my fear, I flick nervous glances left and right. On the bench nearest us, three young women are huddled together, engrossed in a game of cards. They are dressed in jeans and T-shirts or strappy tops, and look like they could easily have just walked in off the street ten minutes ago, as I did. Beside them on the bench an elderly woman in a tatty duffel coat is slumped against the wall, knees pulled tightly up to her chest, staring into the middle distance and muttering to herself. I look away quickly and see a group of girls, no older than twenty, standing smoking and chatting, but also watching us carefully with sidelong glances as we walk past. Behind them, cross-legged on the floor and observing everything around her peacefully, is a young woman with the unmistakable almond eyes and childlike innocence of Down’s syndrome.
The noise of chatter and laughter gradually resumes as we walk past and they forget we are there. Meanwhile, in the background, the singing is always present, rising and falling with the gentle rhythm of a hymn. It is growing louder and closer as we near the end of the corridor.
Within minutes, I realise I am having to re-assimilate my ideas of what a prison should look like. No standing in lines, no uniforms…
‘That’s where the sewing and art workshops are.’ Marion indicates a window to our right, not slowing her pace to allow me to look inside. ‘Where most of the handicrafts come from.’
I glimpse women bustling in and out of the doorway to the workshop, and hear the clamour of voices and activity from inside. I look up past its smeared windows to the two buildings on either side of us, painted the same dirty yellow colour as the outer walls. They each rise at least three storeys high, and are dotted with rows of little metal-barred windows. I stare up in amazement; from each window hangs a colourful assortment of drying laundry – dresses, jeans, bras, T-shirts – dangling from wooden poles and metal wires.
‘They’re the two main wings – where the women live,’ says Marion. ‘They’re allowed outside here most of the day, but then have to go in for lockdown at night. You’ll see inside later, I’m sure.’
I feel a tremor of fear, but also an exhilarating stab of defiance at the thought of going right inside the prison, to its very heart. Harry had been trying to persuade me against coming here right up until I left this morning. ‘But you’re here on holiday,’ he kept saying. ‘Yes, and so are you!’ I had finally answered back sharply as I ran down the steps to meet Marion outside. ‘But the first thing you did when we arrived was get a job.’ I can’t help but smile to myself, remembering the sight of Harry standing at the top of the stairs, still in his pyjamas, hair tousled and brow furrowed in confusion as it finally dawned on him I was going ahead with this. All he managed to reply was, ‘Right… be careful then. I hope you know what you’re doing.’ Well, as a matter of fact, I do know what I’m doing. What was it my boss, Angela, said when I asked her for the sabbatical to go travelling? I’m so pleased to see you actually making a decision. Okay, maybe that’s not exactly what she said, but I’m sure it’s what she meant. And now I have. Decided to do something that is entirely driven by my own interest, not even slightly related to what Harry wants.
I realise with a shock that – despite my still-trembling legs, and considerable fear at being inside what is probably one of the most dangerous prisons of the modern world – it feels great.
We’ve reached the end of the corridor now and there is another black metal door identical to the one with the bored guard. Except this one is partly open and unmanned. The singing is really loud now, and I can tell it is coming from just the other side of the door. Marion indicates for me to go through first, and the sight I see the other side is something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
We’re in a concrete courtyard, about the size and shape of a school playground, surrounded on all sides by high, corrugated-metal walls. At each end there is a tatty basketball net on a metal post, and under our feet I notice broken and faded football-pitch lines. But the thing that takes my breath away and causes me to stop dead in the doorway, forcing Marion to crash into my back, is the sight of row upon row of women standing and singing with all their energy. Old, young, black, white, tall and slim, short and hunched, blonde hair and red hair and afro hair and – in one instance – bright-blue Mohican spikes, everyone lined up in orderly rows, at least a hundred of them. At the far end of the courtyard and facing the throng are three women, smartly dressed and raising their arms in encouragement, wide smiles on their faces as they sing, too.
‘They’re just finishing,’ mutters Marion in my ear. ‘They usually do this one last. We can just stand here and wait.’
Some of the women nearest us turn their heads and smile at us in recognition. Well, presumably at Marion. A blonde girl near the back stops singing completely and turns to wave enthusiastically at us.
I can make out the words now – all in Spanish – You gave me a name. You did not forget me. I am your daughter. Because you loved me…
It is impossible not to be moved by the raw passion behind the words. I realise it is a hymn and they are singing to God. I haven’t sung a hymn since primary school assemblies, nor felt the slightest need to, but something about the song sends a chill down my spine and makes unexpected tears prick my eyes. It isn’t just a hymn. It’s a hundred women standing up and insisting they still have voices, that they count, that they will not be forgotten.
Looking at some of the women nearest us I notice their faces are contorted with emotion. Some have tears rolling down their cheeks, others are raising their arms in the air as they sing with complete abandon. It reminds me of a weird evangelical church I went to once with a girl from my commercial law class at uni. Everyone went a bit crazy and started wailing and waving their arms around, while I stood awkwardly at the back wishing I was at home with a cup of hot chocolate and a book. Except, now, the emotion feels wholly real, and instead of feeling awkward, I find myself somehow humbled.
The singing gradually fades out on the last line, ‘Because you loved me… Because you loved me…’, but before it’s even fully finished, the blonde woman who waved at us is breaking from the crowd and bounding over.
As the last words echo around the courtyard she grabs Marion and the two women embrace in a heartfelt hug.
‘I didn’t realise you were coming today!’ she beams, still holding tightly to Marion’s hands, ‘How are you, and how’s Gabi? She must be nearly ready to – wait! Who’s this?’ Her whole demeanour changes as she releases Marion and eyes me suspiciously, taking a step back.
‘Naomi, don’t worry. This is Kirsty. She’s from England, too – she’s travelling in Ecuador with her boyfriend and wanted to come along today. They’re staying with Liza and Roberto… you know, the ones who… erm, do you remember them?’
As soon as Liza and Roberto’s names are mentioned, Naomi’s face changes again, but this time she sags in relief and turns to smile at me. ‘So, you’re English, too? Fuck me.’ She leans forward to give me a kiss on the cheek.
I blink, trying t
o arrange my features into an expression that says this is all totally normal for me, I visit prisons all the time and am not scared AT ALL, then kiss her back.
‘Sorry. I thought you were some kind of lawyer or something,’ she continues. ‘Speaking of which, is there any news from that bloody woman? Has she got my papers translated yet?’ Naomi turns back to Marion, and the hope etched on her face is heartbreaking, even though I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about. I realise how young she looks. I know from Marion she’s several years older than me, so well past thirty, but something about her swinging blonde ponytail and open face with its big, brown eyes makes her appear much younger. She’s wearing jeans and an ugly pink T-shirt that looks as though it once belonged to someone much wider than her. The only concession to my idea of a stereotypical female prisoner is the little swirling tattoo behind her ear.
Marion’s face is all the answer Naomi needs. ‘I’m so sorry, love, no news yet. But hey, why don’t we go inside and talk about this? In private…’
As we’ve been talking, the throng of women has dispersed, some staying in the courtyard to stand around and talk or bounce a ball, and many of them pushing straight past us through the door into the corridor. The enchanting peace of the singing has well and truly disappeared, replaced with the more predictable clamour of talking, shouting and laughing from a hundred women crammed into a small space.
‘Yeah, good idea, come up to my cell,’ Naomi says, in the casual way a person in the real world, back home, a thousand light years away, might say ‘Come over for a cuppa’. She’s already started walking away from us, swaggering in a manly style that totally belies her slight, feminine frame.
My… CELL? My mind is instantly flooded with images of a dingy, windowless room dripping sewage from a crack in the ceiling, knife scratches on the bare wall counting down endless lost days, a hundred pairs of eyes staring at us hungrily from behind rusting metal bars as we walk past them down a long corridor… the sound of tormented wailing as the electric current takes hold of a man’s body, convulsing in agony until even his head bursts into flames…
