by Rachel Dann
Suddenly, Marion’s voice pops into my head: At least in Naomi’s cell no one has to sleep on the floor. I remember the tiny, cramped bedroom – it still feels wrong to call it a ‘cell’ – its memory providing a stark contrast to my comfortable surroundings. That room would fit inside this apartment nine or ten times. I stretch my legs out on the bed, resting my head back on the pillow, feeling ludicrously grateful and lucky that I am able to do such a simple thing.
Perhaps for the first time ever, I realise how fortunate my life has been – okay, so we might not have had much money at all in my early childhood, after Dad left and in the years when it was just Mum and me. Before Steve, and then later Chloe, came along. Mum had worked long hours in her job as secretary at the local council offices, often taking extra temp jobs in the evenings or at weekends. I sometimes barely saw her and it was normal for me to get up and make my own breakfast, then let myself in and get started on dinner, too. For such a long time it had felt like a disadvantage… I had seen all my friends and their normal families with two parents, two cars and holidays abroad every year, and felt hard done by. But I had never been hungry. I’d never been uncomfortable or unsafe. I’d never been so desperate to escape or change my life that I was willing to break the law.
I think of Naomi’s cramped little room again and feel an unexpected wash of shame. What must she think of me? Swanning out here to spend a few months exploring South America, leaving my family behind, with no commitments except making sure I get home in time to sit back down at my desk three months later, no questions asked. Despite all my angst and doubt about this trip, it hasn’t occurred to me before now that the simple fact of going travelling, of being able to put your life on hold and take off to explore the world, is in itself an incredible privilege.
Even as these thoughts march through my mind, I think back to Naomi’s warm smile and tight hug as I left, and I know in my heart she was not judging me. No more than I was judging her. I realise what I told Marion in the car on the way home was true – I genuinely did like her. It had just felt like I was chatting to another woman of my age, our different backgrounds and circumstances fading into insignificance.
I wonder what she’s doing, right at this moment?
Naomi had told us that ‘lockdown’ was at six every evening. After that, they weren’t allowed out of the corridor until six a.m. the following morning, for breakfast and roll call. Was she enjoying the last few moments of relative freedom, walking around the prison grounds? Or was she already preparing for the night ahead, trying to get comfortable in that terribly small space, squashed into bed next to someone else, thinking of her children?
Right, that’s it. I’m going to give these translations my best shot.
And I’m going to phone now and confirm I’ll do this, leaving myself no room to back out or change my mind, even if they do prove to be more difficult than expected.
‘I can do this,’ I tell myself out loud as I jump up from the bed and fumble for the jeans I was wearing this morning, shamefully still in a heap on the bathroom floor where I threw them earlier, after the rainstorm. I had been so fired up about phoning Dad, and telling Liza about the prison visit, that I’d not given my soggy clothes a second’s thought since I got back.
Holding up the jeans, I carefully pull out the damp, crumpled business card from the back pocket. It is on the brink of disintegration, but the phone number and neat capital letters saying Sebastian North, Consul are still faintly visible.
I sit down on the floor right there and dial the number before I have chance to bottle out.
It rings four, five, six times, and just as I’m realising in dismay that it is half past nine and I should probably just call back tomorrow, a gruff, tired-sounding voice answers ‘Buenas noches, Sebastian North?’
‘Hi! It’s Kirsty,’ I practically shout. ‘From the prison? I mean, the prison visit… today, with Marion.’
Oh God. Great start.
‘Kirsty! Hi!’ The voice warms instantly, and I hear a faint shuffling sound, as if he’s repositioning himself on the sofa. ‘How are you? Hope you found the visit okay today?’
‘I’m great!’ I reply, wondering too late why my voice seems to have become an octave shriller. ‘I’m calling because I’ve decided – I definitely want to help Naomi. With the translations. If you’ll have me… er, haha.’
There’s a brief pause where the only sound is the echo of my own craziness ringing in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut in horror. But if I am coming across as a psychopath, Sebastian is too nice to say so.
‘That’s wonderful,’ he says warmly. ‘There are certain processes we need to go through to get you on the books as a translator. It’s very simple – it just means coming to the embassy and bringing some papers – is that okay? Let me take your email and I’ll send you the details and our address.’
I recite my email address with the same feeling of childish embarrassment from this morning.
‘Great – can you come along this Friday morning? We’re closed to the public then, so I’ll have more time to see you.’ There’s a tiny pause. ‘To talk about the translations. And get all the papers signed.’
‘Friday is great!’ I say, feeling exuberant.
‘Okay, perfect.’ Sebastian’s voice feels very close to my ear. The silence on the line draws out between us and I realise I’m pressing the phone against my head so hard my ear is aching.
‘Er… so, you seemed to enjoy our typical Quito rainstorm this morning?’ He breaks the silence, and I hear a smile in his voice. Oh NO. So he definitely did see me spinning about in the rain like a loon. I desperately cast around my mind for a logical explanation, but find none, so opt for the truth.
‘I just suddenly felt so… free. And grateful… you know, after the prison.’ I close my eyes again and rest my head on my palm in embarrassment, thinking how Harry would probably snort with amusement at that.
‘Oh, I get it,’ Sebastian replies sincerely. ‘The first time I went in, years ago when I was new to the job, I got home and stuck on Metallica at full volume the whole afternoon. I think I even had a bit of a dance.’ Another pause, and what I think he intends to be a chuckle. ‘Prisons do funny things to you.’
Fervently grateful for his understanding, I manage to say goodbye and agree to attend the embassy at nine a.m. on Friday without causing myself any further embarrassment.
I lean back against the wall in relief and let my phone drop to the pillow beside me. Almost immediately it lights up again and buzzes furiously.
One new message.
I stare at it, hardly daring to breathe. Could this be…?
Sender: Dad.
As I click open the message I realise my hand is actually trembling a little, my heart filled with trepidation at the vast potential for pain and rejection contained within one tiny digital envelope. I can’t read it fast enough once it opens.
Dad: Hi K. Got your voicemail – good to hear from you. Were you serious about us coming to visit you?
I let out a long sigh. See? A perfectly innocuous message. No rejection. Actually, it seems quite positive…
I fire off a reply immediately.
I’m serious if you are.
Then, feeling I should elaborate a little, I send another one:
It’s great out here. Beautiful country. We’ll be in Quito about two more weeks. Then want to see jungle and Galápagos. You’re seriously welcome.
My finger hesitates over the button for a few seconds before pressing ‘send’.
I think back again to Dad’s casual comment the night we visited him. That he’d been thinking about a holiday, that he might come and visit us here. At the time I’d been filled with cynicism, thinking that if he rarely even came to visit us in the next county, what likelihood would there be of him travelling halfway around the world? But then, today, hearing Naomi’s anxiety about her father and desperate sorrow at not being able to see him again, something gave way
inside me. Something made my perspective shift. When did I last actually invite my father to visit us? What would happen if I did?
For the first time ever, a feeling of privilege overrode any other feelings. Privilege, sheer good luck that we are both alive, and well, and free to see each other whenever we want. For the first time, it felt like a crime not to be making the most of that. Or trying to, at least.
Dad takes longer to reply this time. I realise I’m staring at the phone, incapable of doing anything else except will it to light up again. After what feels like hours, it does.
Dad: I’ll talk to Dorice tomorrow then phone you to discuss. Thanks for the idea. Best wishes, Dad x
Oh my God, he’s actually taken me seriously… this might actually happen. What have I just done? A swirl of emotions surges through me. Panic, excitement, hope… I haven’t spent more than a few hours at a time with my father since I was five years old. What on earth will I do with him for a possibly extended visit in a foreign country? What will we talk about? And have I really just done this without even mentioning it first to Harry?
I read the message again. Dorice. Of course. In my excitement and sudden motivation to contact Dad, I’d forgotten about her. And that the only reason Dad even mentioned visiting, however jokily, that night was that Dorice is a wildlife photographer and wants to visit the rainforest. My heart starts to sink a little. And who signs off a message to their only daughter ‘best wishes’?
But then, isn’t that why I’m doing this? To try and bridge the distance, the coldness between my father and me, which until today had seemed insurmountable?
As I stare down at my phone and think of everything that has happened today, of the prison and Naomi, Sebastian, and my father, I am overcome by the feeling I have just set in motion an irreversible chain of events.
Chapter Ten
It takes me two bus journeys and a taxi ride to reach the British Embassy. To my utter horror the first bus doesn’t even fully stop to collect its passengers, meaning I have to jog slightly to keep up with it then grab on to its greasy metal handrail and haul myself aboard, before it instantly picks up speed again and pulls back out into the early-morning traffic. Within seconds a young man is holding his hand out and demanding payment. I fumble clumsily in my pocket, heart still pounding from my perilous ascent, before handing him a pile of change and ignoring the tuts of fellow passengers trying to push past me to get to a seat.
By the time I catch the second bus I’m more prepared, with the quarter-dollar coin for my fare already held tightly in my palm as I scramble up the steps. I even summon the courage to firmly push past the cluster of other passengers by the doors at the front, and weave my way to the back of the bus to the one remaining free seat. I find myself right in the middle of a group of teenage students who keep staring at me, whispering and giggling, as if being the only blonde-haired, obviously foreign woman on the bus makes me a form of circus attraction.
By the time I’ve stumbled off the bus again and hailed a taxi by virtually standing in the path of oncoming traffic with my arm outstretched, argued with the driver over the fare, won, and been deposited at my destination, I feel like I could survive anything. Now all I have to do is work out which of the many tall, shiny buildings surrounding me is the British Embassy.
‘I wouldn’t get that out in the street around here, love,’ says a voice to my left, making me jump about a foot in the air and instinctively shove my purse back into the depths of my handbag. ‘Just warning you – it’ll be snatched in an instant.’ The middle-aged woman dispensing this advice pats me on the arm and continues walking without looking back.
I stare disbelievingly at my surroundings. This must be one of the most affluent parts of Quito – the wide, perfectly tarmacked road lined on either side with enormous palm trees, and shiny office buildings stretching up into the blue sky behind them. They’re not quite skyscrapers, but they’re a world apart from the worn residential buildings in Liza and Roberto’s neighbourhood. I see the names of several international banks and insurance companies glinting off polished signs and flashing neon billboards around me.
Looming ahead is a glossy, brand-new-looking shopping centre. It could be any mall back home except for the tall palm trees lining the road outside, which only serve to make it look more luxurious and elegant. Well-dressed businessmen and women bustle past, coffee-to-go cups clutched in their hands and mobile phones to their ears… then I spot the little old lady, wrapped in the bright colours of the Quichua indigenous fabrics, huddled on the floor, her hand extended in supplication, toothless mouth moving wordlessly.
I give her two dollars then keep walking, but more hesitantly now, clutching my handbag closely to me. As I approach the shopping centre the colourful illuminated signs of several global brands come into focus: Zara, Ted Baker, Tiffany & Co. An outdoor seating area is filled with the lively chatter of well-dressed people eating breakfast.
I stop and pull out the crumpled piece of paper with Sebastian’s email printed on it. Running my eyes down the checklist of items he’s asked me to bring – passport, copies of my qualifications, Spanish-language certificate from uni – I check the address again. ‘Millennium Building’, near ‘El Palmero’ Shopping Centre.
‘Excuse me…’ I edge up to one of the uniformed, armed guards standing outside the Tiffany’s store. ‘Which one of these is, um, Millennium Building, please?’ The guard arches his eyebrows at me in what I think he intends to be an intimidating gesture, except it doesn’t quite work because he is nearly a foot shorter than me, and slowly raises his arm to point at the building right next to us.
‘Oh, great, thanks!’ I reply, but the guard isn’t listening as he has turned away to shout angrily at a small child I hadn’t even noticed hovering beside us. I watch in horror as the little boy, no older than five and wearing filthy, ragged clothes, almost drops the wooden box he is carrying in his hurry to get away from the guard’s stream of unrepeatable Spanish. As he scrambles frantically on the floor to pick up the contents of the box, I realise they are shoe-cleaning brushes, and the stains on his T-shirt are from black and brown shoe polish.
‘You shouldn’t be working around here, now GET LOST!’ yells the guard, but the child is already sprinting away, zigzagging among the tables of well-dressed breakfasters. He seems completely invisible to them, but I know he will remain etched in my memory for ever. I shoot the guard a filthy look, then stalk off towards Millennium Building.
It’s at least fifteen storeys high and surrounded by even more armed guards than the Tiffany’s store. I draw up cold a few feet away, suddenly filled with nerves and remembering Harry still fast asleep in the apartment. I can hardly believe what I did this morning – slip out before he woke up, leaving a note by the bed. Just the briefest explanation that I’m going to the British Embassy to talk to them about Naomi. I can’t help but feel a little thrill of excitement. I bet he wasn’t expecting that. He won’t like it, that much I know, but in a strange way it feels kind of good to be standing here about to do it anyway.
‘But they’re CRIMINALS,’ he’d suddenly burst out last night, as I sat at the table with papers spread out around me, leafing furiously through Liza’s Spanish dictionary, determined to put the finishing touches to the almost-finished translation of Naomi’s certificates before my appointment at the embassy today. ‘I don’t know why you can’t do something fun – go out, do some sightseeing – while I’m at work.’
I had gone out – I’d met Gabi for lunch and gone for a walk in the park with Liza, and sunbathed on the roof terrace – but the urgency of my promise to help Naomi always overtook me, motivating me to press on with the translations to get as much done as possible before my meeting with Sebastian.
‘You said you’d support me, remember?’ I had replied pointedly, thinking back to our spat when I returned from the prison visit just days ago, and Harry’s apology. Okay, he hadn’t actually said it in THOSE words, but he HAD apologised…
‘All right, all right, sorry,’ Harry had huffed, his apology sounding a lot less sincere than the last one. Even though the last one had only been a note. ‘I just… don’t get it, that’s all.’
‘You don’t have to get it,’ I reminded him. Even though it would be nice if you did. ‘You just have to stop complaining about it.’ Then I had buried myself in the dictionary again, my determination only stronger.
Harry had muttered something to himself then, something about ‘having a lot to deal with at the moment’, but I chose to ignore it and determinedly didn’t even look up from the papers. Just how much can he have on his mind, really, when we’re here on holiday and he’s doing a job he took on a voluntary basis and claims to enjoy? Plus the fact that, if he really wanted my support with something, he should come out and say it to me straight, instead of muttering under his breath.
Now, standing outside the British Embassy, I look up at the impressive building and feel my confidence waver.
Can I really do this? Once you go in, there’s no turning back, I think, wondering for the hundredth time whether I am terribly out of my depth. This is the British Embassy, you can’t just walk in and waste their time… Then I remember Naomi’s hopeful face, and Marion’s encouragement, and the pleased surprise in Sebastian’s voice when I phoned him. He’d sounded genuinely delighted that someone wanted to help Naomi.
Ignore Harry and just go in… you’ve made it this far. Three weeks ago, the thought of taking two buses to the other side of Quito on my own would have terrified me. But then, three weeks ago I had never been inside a prison.
***
I have to take my shoes off and walk through an X-ray machine, then stand cringing while another grumpy security guard opens my handbag and rummages through the notebooks, pens, tissues, tampons and make-up items inside. He doesn’t seem to believe me when I tell him I’m here to see the British Consul, making a raised-eyebrow, ‘yeah right’ expression as he yanks a phone receiver to his ear and impatiently punches out a number on the keypad in front of him, his eyes never leaving my face.
