Passport To Hell: How I Survived Sadistic Prison Guards and Hardened Criminals in Spain's Toughest Prisons

by Terry Daniels

  Over the next few weeks, the situation went from bad to worse. My boss at work retired and a new bloke took over who claimed that I had hidden my conviction from the company. He was annoyed that I had been in the local paper and promptly fired me. This meant that I was forced to spend my days at home doing nothing, which drove me further into depression. I just prayed that my pardon would eventually come through so that I could prove my innocence.

  As well as campaigning to clear my name, Fair Trials were also doing everything in their power to keep me in Britain. They wrote to the court highlighting my haemorrhage and my father's death and suggested that I should see a psychiatrist to ascertain whether I was mentally fit to be flown overseas. The judge agreed and put my case back ten months until May 2004 so that I had time to be assessed.

  I had a lot to tell the psychiatrist because the minute I found out that I was facing extradition, I had stopped sleeping properly and lost my appetite. My concentration dropped to zero and I had regular attacks of extreme anxiety. He also asked me questions about my history of drug and alcohol abuse so I confided in him about how bad I had been when I was at my worst. The results of the consultation were sent on to the court so that they could get a clearer picture of how unwell I was.

  To my dismay, the word came back that I was still considered healthy enough to be imprisoned. I wasn't getting out of my fate that easily; the Spaniards were determined to punish me no matter what. They didn't give a monkey's whether I would be able to cope with life behind bars or not; all they were concerned about was making sure I didn't get away with my imaginary crime.

  Jack was upset that I was facing extradition but tried his best to keep my spirits up. He kept reassuring me that I was going to win my case, which made me feel a tad more optimistic and calmed me down a bit. His friends were also very nice to me. I would often hang about with them and they spent a lot of time consoling me and offering me advice.

  'You need to do something to take your mind off things,' his mate Tony told me one day as we sat about drinking and discussing my uncertain future. 'We're off to a rave at the weekend. You should come along with us.'

  'I didn't know that they still had those things,' I replied. 'Are they still the same as they were?'

  'Yeah,' he grinned. 'Still just as crazy as ever. Seriously, you should come. It'll make you forget all about your court case.'

  'I'll think about it,' I told him.

  I had assumed the raves had died out. On the one hand I wanted to see if they were still as good as they were during my teenage years; but on the other, I still remembered my scary experiences on Ecstasy and acid and felt a little apprehensive. Part of me wanted to give them a wide berth but a more persuasive part of my subconscious was saying, 'What have you got to lose? Enjoy yourself whilst you've got the chance.' I was facing ten years in a hellish Spanish nick; I needed something to take my mind off things. Maybe dancing the night away would help to lessen the depression and anxiety that was taking over my life. The devil on my shoulder was right: what did I have to lose?

  By the time the weekend arrived, I had made up my mind that I was going to go along with Jack and his friends. It was years since I had been to a party and I was curious to see how raving had progressed. Had the music changed? Was the vibe still just as loved-up or had the mood turned sour? And were the majority of the crowd still off their heads on drugs? It was time for me to find out.

  As I clambered into the back seat of Jack's car, I felt as if I was doing the right thing. I needed something so intense that it would erase all traces of worry from my psyche. The risk involved in entering an environment like that so soon after I had recovered from a drug problem didn't even register. But then again the thought of a decade inside does funny things to a girl. Activities that would have previously rung alarm bells failed to merit a second thought. The enormity of the problems surrounding what had happened in Brazil dwarfed all other concerns. My freedom was now the only thing that mattered. Everything else had become inconsequential.

  The rave was in a dusty old quarry in Bedfordshire. It wasn't exactly the most glamorous location but then again you would hardly expect an illegal party to be held at The Ritz. The friendly vibe was definitely still there. The good thing about events where everybody is taking Es is that they all act like you've been their friend since birth. It didn't matter that I was new to the scene; I was now part of the family.

  Although most of the ravers were having a good time, I noticed a fair few people lying on the ground, seemingly paralysed. I wondered what the deal was with them. Everybody had been so full of energy at the parties I had gone to as a teenager.

  'Don't worry about them, they're just on ketamine,' one of Jack's friends explained.

  Ketamine is a horse tranquilliser that makes people hallucinate so badly that they can hardly move. It seemed a bit of a strange drug. None of the ravers who were on it appeared to be enjoying the experience. I remember thinking, 'Each to their own but I'm definitely never taking that.' It didn't appeal to me at all. The crazy thing about ketamine is that it's perfectly legal to possess unless it has been prepared for use. This is mad considering it's capable of sedating a horse. Even the most hardened drug takers know to treat it with respect. One of my friends once took it and told me that he spent the whole night pinned against the wall. He said he felt as if he was a character in a pop-up book and everything had taken on another dimension. This was somebody who had got mashed on everything from weed to heroin so he was no stranger to narcotics and wasn't fazed by much.

  The other thing that had changed about the raves was that there was now a slight undercurrent of menace. The parties still felt safe, but the atmosphere was somehow different to how it had been back in the day. It was nothing I couldn't handle though because there were enough loved-up people there to outweigh the moody ones. A little bit of shadiness certainly wasn't going to stop me turning out to the next event.

  I managed to remain sober for the first three raves. I was wary of LSD and Ecstasy and didn't fancy getting hooked on coke again. The problem was that the parties sometimes went on until eleven in the morning and I found it hard to stay awake. Amphetamine seemed the perfect drug to stave off tiredness. It wasn't trippy like acid or Es and I didn't have to snort it, which was a risky business after my brain haemorrhage. I didn't give a monkey's how addictive it was as I was facing a ten-year prison sentence and no longer gave a shit. I should have learnt my lesson from the coke. I was about to plunge myself back into a world of dizzying highs and earth-shattering lows and it would only be a matter of time before drugs ruled my life again.

  Rather than sticking to the regular powdered amphetamine, I took a particularly strong form of speed called base whenever I went to a rave. It was a yellowy white paste and gave me the energy that I needed to dance enthusiastically all night. I started off taking it every weekend but my addictive personality soon got the better of me. As I've said before, I've never been one for taking things in moderation. The minute I discover something that I enjoy, I tend to go completely overboard with it.

  I quickly went from taking speed on Friday and Saturday nights to taking it throughout the week as well. I kidded myself that I just needed a couple of grains to wake me up after a night of partying. I would like to be able to describe a long, drawn-out process in which I gradually took more and more, but this simply wasn't the case. One minute I was taking a little dab here and there, the next I was an addict.

  Within the space of a few weeks my drug intake had rocketed. It was frightening how quickly I switched from recreational use to needing base to function. I would get off my head for six days in a row then spend my one day of sobriety feeling angry and frustrated. This was probably due to lack of sleep because I found it impossible to get shut-eye whilst high. I still didn't make the connection that I had got to the stage with whiz that I had been at with coke. It's funny how drugs play tricks on you. They lull you into a false sense of security and assure you that there's nothing wrong. If
only that was the case. I had no job, I was facing extradition and now I was a whiz addict. The situation wasn't looking good.

  One thing led to another and I ended up back on booze as well. Other drugs don't mix well with alcohol but speed is perfectly compatible. The raves were filled with drink and I was soon getting through six bottles of Malibu every weekend. Looking back it was probably a means of self-harming. I didn't have the balls to cut my wrists but I was fully capable of slowly draining my health with drink and drugs. I was a total mess. The only thing that I had to look forward to in life was the parties. It's funny how enjoyable it can be to pollute your body with crap. Getting wasted was the highlight of my week.

  Most of the raves were held in Bedfordshire, Oxfordshire or Norfolk. These were illegal, underground events and weren't in venues like The Sanctuary, where you had to pay to get in. They usually took place in fields and forests, although they would occasionally be held in barns when the weather was too cold to rave outside. Some of the parties only lasted a single night, others would go on for days. I remember a rave in Wales that started on Friday night and was still going strong on Tuesday. I stayed up for the full four nights and had the time of my life. The advantage of sticking to amphetamine was that I had more stamina than a lot of the other ravers. The ketamine-heads fell over part way through the night and the Ecstasy-heads became paranoid, but I stayed lively and alert.

  It wasn't just the opportunity to get high that attracted me to the raves; I liked the idea of heading to a secret location at a moment's notice and transforming a field into a dance floor. Every weekend was different; we never knew which area of Britain we would travel to or what the party would be like. Some of the characters that I met were unbelievable. There was a guy who always turned up in an ice-cream van and sold cornets and iced lollies to the ravers. He must have made a packet because everyone was usually hot and sweaty from taking drugs and needed something to cool them down.

  Whilst I was busy ruining my life with amphetamine, the other partygoers were getting more and more into ketamine. They wrecked the raves a bit by spending half the time on the floor, but it was funny to watch them keeling over. When people are off their faces on that stuff, they go into a state known as the 'K hole', which is where they lose all sense of spatial awareness. Watching them stumbling about the place was like a comedy show. Some of them would try to fight the K hole and struggle to their feet whenever they took a fall. They were the most entertaining ones to watch because no sooner had they managed to stand up than they were on the ground again.

  As the months went by, other more harmful substances began to take hold. People started smoking crack at the raves, which used to be unheard of. When I first went to the parties, hard drugs like that were a completely different scene. The ravers would stick to things that made them happy and carefree. Crack had the opposite effect. It created a dark and angry vibe. The minute the two cultures crossed over, the moodiness of the parties went through the roof. Addicts went round robbing everyone and love and peace were soon replaced by a drug-fuelled aggression. The happy, smiley raves that I once knew were soon a thing of the past.

  My relationship with Jack also began to suffer during this period. He started hanging around with a girl of his own age, which rang alarm bells. Whenever I questioned him, he assured me there was nothing going on, but I suspected that he was cheating. His sly ways created a lot of tension and made me realise that our time together was limited.

  Now that the parties weren't particularly safe anymore and I could no longer trust my boyfriend, the speed put me on edge and I started to feel desperately scared and anxious whenever I got high. Reality blurred with paranoia and I thought that all of the other ravers were undercover Old Bill. It was no longer a case of happily dancing the night away; my sanity was gradually eroding.

  When you're awake for six full days and nights, your mind becomes a haunted house. Your sleep-deprived brain can't interpret what is going on and drums up all the worst-case scenarios. I thought that harmless passers-by were following me and attached a sinister agenda to everyday events. The stress of my extradition mingled with drug-induced fatigue and sent me spiralling into a state of permanent fear and tension.

  As if I wasn't paranoid enough, somebody spiked my drink with rohypnol at one of the parties. I lost twelve hours of my life that night. The only thing I can remember is coming to and being violently sick. It's terrifying when I think of all the things that could have gone on during the time that I was under. I hadn't taken anything that I wasn't accustomed to, so why would I have passed out if somebody hadn't put something in my drink? It was a horrendous experience that destroyed what little trust I had left. From that day onwards I vowed never to let anybody near my Malibu. I was suspicious of anyone who came within a hundred yards and found it impossible to relax.

  I wasn't the only victim of the new breed of ill-intentioned raver. The ketamine users were the perfect targets for robberies because they spent most of their time completely incapacitated. Crackheads don't care what they do to get a fix. They probably would have amputated the fallen ravers' legs if they thought that they could get a couple of quid for them. When I first started going to the parties you could leave your car door open with the keys in the ignition and nobody would touch it. The raves were the polar opposite of how they used to be. Love and positivity had transformed into hate and dodginess.

  I could no longer unwind at the parties so I started developing new ways to take my mind off the extradition. I had always been artistic and enjoyed creating things so I got into sewing cushions. I started off sewing one or two to pass the time and soon got to the stage where I was sitting up all night, making mountains of them. That shows what an addictive personality I've got. I must have completed a couple of thousand cushions altogether. Looking back I probably had some kind of OCD. Drugs can often make you want to do repetitive activities. The monotonous nature of the tasks that you are performing somehow feels rewarding. I'm not sure if amphetamine brought on my condition but it definitely made it worse.

  The other thing that I became obsessed with was my niece Emma. I knew that she would be a teenager by the time I got out of prison, which caused me no end of upset. I wanted to spend as much time as I could with her and ended up going overboard. I spent every waking moment in her company and couldn't bear to be away for too long. Saying goodbye to go to prison was going to tear my heart apart. It was going to be horrendous.

  My family made allowances for my moodiness and obsessiveness but not everybody was as sympathetic to my plight. In late 2003 I got a phone call from my landlady telling me to meet her at the office. I knew exactly what it was about; she had heard about my status as public enemy number one and wanted to evict me.

  'I'm afraid I'm going to have to terminate your tenancy,' she told me. 'I can't have somebody who's been involved in criminal activity living in my property.'

  It was just another humiliating experience to add to the collection. I wasn't angry with her because it was her house, which meant she had the right to kick me out. I didn't have the energy to plead my innocence either so I just said 'OK' and left.

  Some of my raving buddies were looking for a housemate at the time so I moved in with them in Aylesbury. They lived in an area called Haydon Hill on the less upmarket side of the town. Haydon Hill itself was quite a quiet place, but it was near a rough estate called Quarrendon. This might have unnerved some people but I couldn't have cared less that I was going to live on the doorstep of the area known locally as Beirut. Home was now wherever there was amphetamine. My house was just a place for me to crash out during my one night a week of sleep.

  I would have got on well with my new housemates if it wasn't for the fact that one of them was a little bit on the messy side. I'm a very tidy person; I like everything in its place. Not everybody can be as clean as me, so I should have just put up with it, but instead I screamed my head off at them whenever they left their things about the place. I guess a week of sleepless nigh
ts can turn a nice girl into a monster. Looking back I must have been a nightmare to live with.

  My obsession with tidiness had pros as well as cons because I managed to get a job working for my landlord's cleaning company. I was running low on cash so it was a godsend. I also gained a lot of satisfaction because I loved the challenge of sprucing up a filthy home. I liked comparing the dirtiness of the rooms at the start to the spotless end result. The only thing I didn't like about my job was the unpredictability. I worked whenever there was work available rather than following a set timetable. I would have preferred to have had a weekly routine but beggars can't be choosers. Some of my friends from the rave scene made their money in less reputable ways.

  When you're hanging about in an environment that is centred around drugs, it becomes impossible not to mix with shady people. Dodginess comes with the territory. I would have liked to have kept my world separate from theirs, but unfortunately life always seemed to find a way of dragging me into other people's mess. I didn't like the shadiness but the shadiness liked me – and one day it came knocking at my door… or rather booting it off the hinges.