This made me feel a little bit better. At least I could be sure he wouldn't try and claim the coke belonged to me the minute he was in front of a judge. I was contemplating whether to have another go at him when the door of the cell banged open and two Guardia Civil officers came marching in.
'You go prison now,' they told us. 'The bus is outside.'
The coppers cuffed us up and shoved us back into the transport bus, which set off on the twenty-minute journey to Salto del Negro. Salto is the largest prison in Gran Canaria and has come under scrutiny from Amnesty International after reports of guards handcuffing inmates to prison beds and beating them with truncheons. It sits at the top of a hill and is fairly isolated from the rest of Las Palmas.
As I sat in a little, filthy, cramped compartment on the bus, it dawned on me that I was going to have to ring my mum to get money for bail sent over. This was the one thing worse than ending up in prison. I tried to put it out of my mind but couldn't help imagining the look on her face when she heard what had gone on. I just hoped that she would realise I was innocent.
The windows on the bus were too high to see out of so I didn't get to look at the jail from the outside. My first glimpse of it came from within its forbidding concrete walls. It looked like a grey block of flats with small, dust-filled prison yards at regular intervals. There were male and female wings, which is the norm in Spain because most Spanish jails are mixed. This seemed a little bit odd to me, as I had always thought that part of the punishment was being deprived of male company. It didn't make much difference though because the men and women were hardly ever allowed in the same sections of the prison as one another.
Antonio and I were split up and taken to separate reception areas, which suited me fine because I couldn't have cared less if it was the last time I saw him.
'Go to desk,' a short but stocky Guardia Civil officer told me as I entered the main building.
I did as he commanded and was asked a series of questions at the counter by a plain clothed prison guard.
'¿Cuál es tu nombre? ¿Y cuál es tu fecha de nacimiento?'
She would have had a better chance of getting through to a brick.
'I'm sorry I don't understand,' I told her, trying to remain strong and hold back the tears. 'I don't speak a word of Spanish. I'm from England, you see.'
I was just about to burst out crying for the umpteenth time that day when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see a pretty-looking girl with a head of bright blonde hair standing behind me. I figured she must have been passing through the reception area on the way to her cell. She was clearly an inmate but didn't look at all mean or predatory like I had expected a convicted criminal to be.
'You seem upset. Are you OK?' she asked.
'Not really,' I told her. 'I can't speak Spanish and don't know what's going on. Nobody speaks English. It's going to be a nightmare in here.'
'Don't worry,' Blondie comforted me. 'I'll ask the guards if you can share a cell with me. That way I can look after you and translate anything you are unsure of.'
The reception staff didn't seem to have any problem with this, presumably because it worked out easier for them.
'OK, off we go,' said the girl. 'I'll show you to your room. There will be five of us altogether now. Two of the other girls are OK but one of them is a pain in the ass. She is called June and she has horrible temper tantrums. Whenever it happens, the guards have to inject her with Valium, so try and avoid doing anything that could set her off.'
In ordinary circumstances I would have been scared out of my wits but I was so exhausted, that my emotions were now a fraction of their former selves. I felt fear but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of tiredness that gripped my mind, body and soul. As long as my cell had a bed in it, it was OK by me.
'What did you do to end up in here then?' I asked Blondie as she escorted me down a noisy corridor towards the women's wing.
'Credit card fraud,' she told me. 'I'm originally from Holland, but I was arrested whilst I travelling round the Canaries doing scams. The crazy thing is that they traced crimes back to me that happened on five different islands so I have to spend time in prisons on every island. I've already done three so I've got one left after this and then I get set free.'
When we got to the cell, the other three girls were out on exercise, which was a bit of a relief because it meant that I could put off meeting the dreaded June.
'I'm going to leave you on your own for a while,' Blondie told me. 'I'm off to see my friends on the yard, but you should stay here and get yourself settled in.'
I nodded in agreement and Blondie motioned to a nearby guard to lock the cell door. The cell was empty apart from three sets of bunk beds and a toilet. There was no TV or radio. This was real prison.
Now that I was finally alone, I had some time to reflect upon everything that had gone on, which left me shaking with fright again. I was locked up in a foreign country with no idea how long it was going to take for my bail to come through and I had no way of finding out. My bottom lip began to tremble as I envisioned spending weeks surrounded by the same four concrete walls. I tried to stop myself from crying but eventually gave in and let the tears flow.
Fortunately by the time my cellmates got back from exercise, I had finished weeping and managed to dry my eyes. I knew it wasn't a good idea to show weakness in jail and didn't want them thinking I was a soft touch.
'This is June, Mariah and Paula,' Blondie told me, pointing to each of my new roomies in turn, who were all Spanish. Mariah and Paula were dainty little girls but June was absolutely huge. She was one of those people whose obesity eclipses all their other physical attributes. I shuddered to think of what she was capable of during her outbursts because one of her gigantic fingers probably weighed as much as an average person's hand.
Once she had got the introductions out of the way, Blondie told me it was dinner time and offered to lend me her phone card so that I could ring my mum.
'After our meal, we will be locked up all night,' she said. 'You need a card to make calls in here. If you have no money, you can't get minutes on your card so it's a good thing I am here for you.'
I was grateful for her help but crapping myself at the prospect of having to explain to Mum how I'd ended up in prison. As I ventured out onto the wing, criminals of all different nationalities milled about the place. There seemed to be a lot of South Americans, which figured because Spain is home to large populations of Ecuadorian, Colombian, Bolivian and Argentinean immigrants. Some of the inmates looked as if they were on drugs but others showed no visible signs of living their lives on the wrong side of the law. They were quite an eclectic bunch, which I hoped meant that my Englishness wouldn't make me stand out from the crowd too much.
The minute I caught sight of the prison phone, my stomach turned to jelly. I contemplated bottling it but forced myself to make the call because I knew that it was a necessity if I wanted to get out. Mum would no doubt be upset but there was nothing I could do about it.
Ring, ring…
Part of me was hoping no one would pick up but my more pragmatic side was eager to get it over with.
'Hello?'
This was it, the moment of reckoning…
'Mum,' I said, crossing my fingers and praying that she would be able to cope with what she was about to hear. 'It's Terry. I don't want you to panic but I've been arrested…'
'You've been what?' gasped Mum.
'I'm in Salto del Negro prison in Las Palmas. I haven't got long on the phone so I need you to listen. You've got to send some money over to me 'cause I need bailing out.'
'How do I do that?' she asked, sounding on the verge of tears.
'You can wire it over using Western Union,' I told her. 'I love you Mum. Please get me out of here. I just want to go home.'
'I love you too Terry. I'll go and send the money now. Are you all right in there?'
'Yeah, I'm holding up OK,' I lied. 'I've got to go now Mum. I'm using
somebody else's phone card.'
I wished I had had more time so that I could explain to her that I hadn't done anything wrong. The idea of her sitting at home wondering why I was locked up was too upsetting for words. Although I was extremely grateful for her help, I now felt lower than I'd ever felt before. Even when I was on the worst comedowns imaginable, I was still never this depressed. Antonio had a lot to answer for. Not only had he put me through hell but he had also done the same to my dear old mother, who had never broken a law in her life. The more I thought about how selfish he had been, the more I hated him. But he wasn't the only one who was to blame. If I hadn't been so strung out on coke that I agreed to accompany him on the trip to Brazil then none of this would have happened. There is a big difference between being an addict and being a drug smuggler though, and I didn't deserve to be locked up for being hooked on coke.
'Are you OK?' asked Blondie, who had been waiting by the phone to show me where to get my food from after I finished my call.
'I'll survive,' I told her. 'I'll be a damn sight better when I get out of this hellhole.'
Dinner was the last thing on my mind but I figured that I should at least try to peck at something. I followed Blondie to the queue and waited in line, all the while replaying the conversation with my mum in my head. She had attempted to stay calm but sounded absolutely devastated. I just hoped she knew me better than to think that I had committed a crime that was worthy of being sent to prison for. Fair enough I was an addict, but I wasn't a drug smuggler. If I had been transporting millions of pounds worth of cocaine across from Brazil, I certainly wouldn't have carried on living in the Bungamar. My lifestyle couldn't have been further from that of a professional smuggler if I'd tried.
A stick-thin, track-marked inmate slopped a pile of mushy chickpeas onto my tray and I followed Blondie to a table. The food looked disgusting, which was exactly how I had expected it to be. As I sat and contemplated whether or not I could actually bring myself to eat it, I noticed a little South American lady walking across to the table next to us. She looked quite sweet and innocent, which made me wonder how she had ended up inside.
'That's Carina,' said Blondie, following my gaze and guessing what I was thinking. 'Her and her husband got caught smuggling coke. They were X-rayed at the airport and a load of condoms filled with drugs came up. Their kids were with them at the time as well. It must have been terrible for them.'
'Why did she do that?' I asked. 'She doesn't look like a criminal.'
'She's from Venezuela, which is a very poor country,' Blondie explained. 'She was probably trying to earn enough to move her children somewhere better. The sad thing is that everybody knows the swallowers are decoys. The people at the top rat them out to the cops and in return, their workers are allowed to pass through customs without being properly checked. Poor Carina is looking at fifteen years inside. My heart goes out to her.'
I glanced over at the lady again and tried to picture her swallowing condoms full of Class A drugs. She really didn't seem the type. I had heard about drug mules smuggling cocaine over from developing countries before but had never come face to face with one. She had a sad look in her eyes, as if she no longer had anything to live for now that her family had been taken from her. Her face still haunts me to this day and I often find myself wondering if she was ever reunited with her kids. I would like to think she was because she didn't look like a bad person, just someone who was willing to do whatever it took to get out of the slums. She reminded me of the people that I had seen at the Brazilian street party and hearing about her circumstances changed the way I looked at them. I now appreciated just how tough they had it over there.
After dinner, we returned to our cell where we were locked up for the night. It was strange sharing my living quarters with four convicted criminals, especially as I knew that one of them could go nuts at any time. They all seemed fairly ordinary and well rounded but then again, most people do when you first meet them.
My cellmates passed the time by bombarding me with every single English phrase they knew. It was extremely irritating because I just wanted to be left alone. I kept thinking about Carina and how bad her life in Venezuela must have been. It made me feel grateful that I had been born in a country where I didn't have to do risky things like she had done to guarantee my family a future. But then again I was now living in the same conditions as her. She might have had a worse start in life but we were now on equal ground.
I went to sleep that night hoping that my bail would come as quickly as possible. At least when I was released I would be able to get myself a lawyer and find out how much of a chance I had of keeping my freedom. I was even starting to miss the Bungamar. Jackie would no doubt be wondering where I was. Her tongue-ring clicking was nothing compared to the noise of sharing a cell with four people. I was so tired that I eventually dozed off regardless and dreamed of being somewhere else.
The following morning, Blondie started the day off by issuing me with a warning.
'There are some lesbians in this jail who prey on young girls,' she told me. 'Being locked up has bent them and now they try and bend others. You're best staying with me when you go out on the wing. They aren't the only danger in this prison; Salto is a very dangerous place.'
This was another worry to add to my extensive collection. I had heard of people turning gay in male-only prisons but wasn't aware that it happened to female prisoners as well. I made a mental note never to go in the showers without Blondie there to make sure that I was OK.
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out which women had been 'bent'. There was one couple in particular who couldn't have been more obvious. One, a butch, rugby-player type, the other a pretty, feminine little thing, they were all over each other twenty-four hours a day. The strange thing was that the feminine one had been straight before being locked up and had regular visits from her husband. I guess she couldn't cope with being single for the six days a week that he was unable to come and see her.
I tried to spend as much time as I could in my cell because the exercise yard was no bigger than my living room back in Wingrave and the wing was quite a scary place to venture onto. Whenever I needed to go outside, I always made sure that Blondie had my back. Unfortunately spending so much time in my room meant that I was forced to bear witness to several of June's hissy fits. She acted like a big, fat, spoilt brat and threw our things around the cell whenever she had a bad day. It took several guards to sedate her and stop her from rampaging about the place.
June couldn't handle being in prison. Her only way of dealing with being locked up was to get uncontrollably angry and take it out on everybody else. She was like a baby spitting its dummy out, although I had an equally destructive method for coping with being inside. I passed the time by fantasising about all the drugs that I was going to take after I had been released. It helped to take my mind off things and gave me something to look forward to. I was no longer suffering from physical withdrawal symptoms but my brain was still craving cocaine – and I would soon be able to cram my nose with it because four days through my time inside, I was told my bail had arrived. Blondie was sad to see me go but at the same time happy that I didn't have to spend another day in Salto. I can never repay her for everything that she did for me because without her, the prison would have swallowed me whole. I said a teary-eyed goodbye then went to tell the guards that I was ready to leave.
Chapter 6
COCAINE ON THE BRAIN
Being escorted out of the prison was just as intimidating as going in had been because I had no idea how I was going to get back to the centre of Las Palmas. The Spanish authorities don't give you any money to get home when they release you. The minute you leave the jail, you are on your own and Salto is in the middle of nowhere. It's surrounded by wasteland and there is no sign of civilisation for miles around. I was just starting to panic when a white BMW pulled up and a dodgy-looking Spanish guy poked his head out of the window. This fella looked as if he was some kind of bi
g-time villain. He had the same air of criminality about him that the wide-boy club owners on Veronicas had, and his face was cold and expressionless. I just hoped he hadn't come to polish me off at the request of the coppers who had paid Antonio for the drug run.
'Are you Terry?'
'Yeah that's me.'
'I'm Antonio's brother. I've got some money for you from your solicitor. Open the door and get in.'
He bore no resemblance whatsoever to Antonio, mostly because he wasn't enormously fat, but I was forced to trust him because I would have been stranded if I didn't. I think if Fred West had turned up and offered me a lift I would have probably taken it.
Antonio's brother owned a bar that catered mainly for British tourists, which meant that he spoke perfect English.
'I didn't even know that you were getting out today until I got here,' he told me. 'I was coming back from a visit with Antonio when your solicitor came over to me. He said that there was some money left over from the cash your mum sent to bail you out and asked if I would give it to you.'
Passport To Hell: How I Survived Sadistic Prison Guards and Hardened Criminals in Spain's Toughest Prisons Page 6
