Marching Powder

by Rusty Young

  ‘¡Basta!’ I think I yelled again, more forcefully, remembering the Spanish. This time they understood. I could see their angry faces telling me not to get involved, but I moved forward to stop them because I couldn’t bear what I was seeing. It was too horrible. I just wanted it to stop. Then the crowd started to turn against me. One of the men made a movement to hit me, and when I put my hands up to defend myself someone grabbed me around the neck from behind and pulled me backwards.

  It was a thick, strong arm that held me but I managed to free myself by lifting my feet off the ground and using my falling weight to slip from under his grip. Clenching my fists, I turned to defend myself against the attacker. It was the big man with the scar. He must have been twice my size and there was no way I could win against him, so I tried to step sideways but someone pushed me in the back and he grabbed me again, spinning me around effortlessly and getting me in another hold from behind.

  I had never felt anyone so strong in my life, and all I could do to avoid being thrown in the water myself was to use my legs. I got a good foothold on the ground and jumped backwards with all my force, trying to push us both back away from the pool or to knock us over so as to make it more difficult for them to get me in the pool.

  It didn’t work, though. The man with the scar was so big and heavy and his feet were so firmly planted on the ground that nothing happened. I tried to push us back again and again, but we weren’t going anywhere. Instead, he tightened his grip and lifted me up so that only my toes were touching the concrete. In that position, all I could do was wriggle helplessly and kick out at anyone around me. The crowd moved out of the way, leaving an almost clear passage to the water. There was only one thing on the ground between myself and the pool and it was the most horrifying thing I have ever seen in my life. I only saw it for a few moments before I was lifted completely off the ground, but I will never, ever, forget it.

  I thought that I was about to be thrown into the pool, but the opposite occurred. Still gripping me strongly under the arms, the big man with the scar pulled me away from the pool, half-dragging, half-lifting me through the angry mob until we were in the open. He didn’t harm me at all, and once we were outside the crowd and away from danger, he let me stand up properly.

  ‘Tranquilo, hombre,’ he said in my ear, trying to calm me down. When I finally realised he wasn’t trying to hurt me, I stopped struggling and he loosened his grip slightly.

  ‘Tranquilo. ¿Sí?’ he repeated, letting me go completely. When I turned and looked at him, he gave me a warning look, said something about not interfering, then went back into the crowd, leaving me standing on my own.

  I was now safe from attack, but I was so shocked by what I had seen that I started shaking uncontrollably. I ran for my life, back up through the passage that led to the main courtyard, which was completely empty. There were lots of policemen gathered at the gates, staring towards where the cheering and shouting was coming from.

  I ran back into Pinos and through the empty section courtyard with my footsteps echoing off the walls. It seemed that no one was there, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a door move slightly and instinctively turned my head. I couldn’t see properly because the opening was narrow, but there was a woman who was nursing a baby peering out, watching me. I think my shoelaces must still have been undone, or maybe it was because my muscles were so weak that they couldn’t support my weight. I tripped and fell on the concrete. When I tried to get to my feet, I fell back down. Then, what I had seen at the pool came back to me and I started vomiting.

  The rapist’s skull had been cracked and the top of his head was completely open, so I could see right inside. A section of his skull was still attached and it looked like a lid with all the brains spilling out over it onto the concrete. There was also a lot of blood; a thick, dark pool of it had formed around his head. He was probably dead by then, but the inmates just kept jumping up and down on top of him and there was a horrible crunching sound as his skull fractured into small pieces. Brains kept coming out as his head was squashed flat. Everything was a big, sticky mess of different colours with clumps of hair mixed in. The blood itself was a really dark red colour, but there were also grey and blue parts of brain that looked like raw meat. I think I even saw something that was green.

  I remember that one of the prisoners had stopped then and stood back from the body. I thought he must have finally finished, but it was just to wipe his shoes on the concrete because they were all bloody and there were stringy pieces of brain and bits of hair stuck to them. Then he went back and kept treading on the mangled face. Behind him, the water had turned a horrible, murky brown colour and the crowd had started attacking the third rapist again. He was too exhausted to escape and was just trying to keep out of their reach in the middle of the pool, using the face-down body of the second rapist to stay afloat.

  That was all I saw, because the man with the scar started pulling me away, but it was too much for me. I had never before seen anyone killed. I had never even seen a dead body. And to see someone killed like that, right in front of me, was the most horrible experience. No one deserves to die like that. I don’t care what they have done.

  I vomited again. I thought the woman with the baby would come out to help me, but when I looked up at her, the door clicked shut. I looked around, thinking that someone else might be able to help me, but everything was shut up. There wasn’t a single soul in the section; they were all down by la piscina or behind their doors, so I had to make it up to my room on my own.

  As soon as I opened the door, I vomited on the carpet. I hadn’t even felt it coming. After a few more times, there was no food left in my stomach, but the muscles inside my body kept contracting as if there was. I leaned forward, supporting myself over the table with a stream of thick saliva hanging from the corner of my mouth, until the contractions subsided. Then I sat down on a chair, feeling weak, and wiped my mouth clean using my T-shirt. It was only then that I noticed the Bob Marley tape was still playing. My stereo was set on continuous play and Bob hadn’t stopped singing about peace or hope for humanity.

  21

  SLEEPING PILLS

  When I first arrived at San Pedro, I didn’t feel safe leaving my room; now, nine months later, I didn’t even want to. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have, because I didn’t have the energy. For two days I hardly ate, and after that I couldn’t get my appetite back. The sight of meat made me sick and I stopped eating it altogether. Even if it was cooked, I still saw that man’s brains spilling out onto my plate.

  I couldn’t do anything. I was depressed. On the rare occasions when I was hungry, I ate. I drank when I was thirsty and went to the toilet when my body told me to. That was all. The only thing I actually wanted to do was sleep. And much of the time I couldn’t even do that.

  That was the period when I started taking sleeping pills. I was having real trouble sleeping, so I went to see the doctor for a prescription. He didn’t ask any questions. Why would he, I suppose? On the scale of drug problems in San Pedro prison, sleeping pills didn’t even rate.

  Once I started taking pills, I did even less. I only saw light once a day. With less food in my body, I didn’t need to go to the bathroom as much. When I needed to urinate, I did so in a bucket that I emptied whenever it became full. And when I got sick of emptying it all the time, I bought another bucket.

  I couldn’t think properly. Even my mind had slowed down. The only reason I ever had to get out of bed was for the lista, and if that hadn’t been compulsory, I wouldn’t have gone. Getting up was a lot more of a struggle with the sleeping pills in my system, but somehow I still managed to set my alarm clock and make it down to the courtyard every morning. If ever I didn’t wake up, my neighbour Gonzalez would bang on my door and force me to get up, or they’d send for Ricardo, who had a spare key to my room.

  After falling out of bed and stumbling down the stairs, it was easy to pass the actual roll call. All you had to do was wait, hidden among the other pri
soners, listen for your name and then call out ‘¡Presente!’ before heading back to your room. The guards sometimes looked at me suspiciously because I could hardly keep my eyes open. Once or twice they checked my breath for alcohol, but nothing ever happened. They all knew that the governor was my friend.

  After lista, I would take another sleeping pill. And when I woke up, I would take another one. With the pills, sometimes I could sleep for sixteen hours straight, although at other times I hardly slept for days and nights on end, even if I took three or four. It was dark in my room and I began to lose track of time. Eventually, my whole body clock became completely disoriented. Sometimes I would look at the clock, just out of habit, but after reading it I wouldn’t have known whether it was three o’clock in the afternoon or three o’clock in the morning.

  I began ordering more and more pills from the doctor to help me get back into a normal sleeping routine. There was no limit to the number of boxes he could order from the prison clinic, and they were very cheap because the pills were copies manufactured in the factories in El Alto. When I needed stronger dosages, one of the inmates knew of a farmacia on the outside that didn’t ask for prescriptions. These pills were more expensive and I had to pay someone else a propina to get them, but it was worth it because I didn’t need to take so many doses in one go.

  I don’t recall much of what happened during those few weeks, but it wasn’t much, I know that. When I wasn’t asleep, I often got drunk on my own. One afternoon, I woke up and felt that my lips were caked with dry blood. When I looked in the mirror, I had cuts and bruises all over my face. I didn’t know if I had been in a fight or if I had simply fallen over. I never found out. I was too embarrassed to ask anyone.

  The few times that my head was clear, I remember the main feeling I had was simply that I wanted to die. I thought about death a lot, but I was afraid to kill myself. I was a coward. Every time I thought of suicide, the image of that rapist’s head being stomped on came into my mind. So, I started fantasising about a little red button in the middle of my wooden table that I could press to end my life in an instant, without pain. I could press it and just disappear.

  One thing I noticed about sleeping pills is that they rob you of your dreams. I think I stopped having dreams completely, or maybe I just couldn’t remember them. Whenever I tried to get off the pills, I had the most horrible nightmares, usually about Yasheeda, and I always remembered the exact details. The one that recurred most strongly involved her ex-boyfriend. I had seen his photo when it fell out of her diary one morning, so I knew what he looked like. He was tall and strong and, in my nightmares, he was always nice to me.

  The worst nightmare occurred on the night that the police informed me I was due to go to court the following day for the beginning of my trial. In the nightmare, Yasheeda’s ex-boyfriend sat me down and explained that she had made a big mistake because she had been confused at the time she met me.

  ‘She’s with me now,’ he said. ‘I just wanted you to know it was nothing you did wrong. Don’t feel bad.’ He was really apologetic. And then they kissed in front of me and it was like I wasn’t even there.

  22

  MY TRIAL BEGINS

  On the day that my trial was scheduled to begin, I lay in bed all morning, watching Laura on TV. But not even that could make me happy. I didn’t bother turning on the light, and I couldn’t bring myself to get up and eat breakfast or lunch. My stomach was in knots.

  Finally, I rose and began preparing for my court appearance. I took special care to look well dressed. I was ready when the announcement about my court appearance came over the tinny prison loudspeaker system.

  ‘Thomas McFadden to the puerta principal.’

  I left my room and walked quickly towards the main courtyard.

  ‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t San Pedro’s international loverboy,’ said a familiar voice as I passed through the Pinos gateway. I turned around and gave a cry of surprise. It was Ricardo. In my misery, I had completely forgotten about him.

  ‘Hey, man!’

  ‘Why do you look so surprised to see me, Inglaterra? Don’t you recognise me?’ He had obviously heard my name called and had been waiting for me.

  ‘Hey, man! Ricardo.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Ricardo,’ he said, taking my hand and shaking it as we walked along.

  ‘Pleased to meet you again. I’m glad you remembered my name at least.’ I’d also forgotten how funny he was.

  ‘Hey, man! Where have you been?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean, where have I been? Where do you think I’ve been? Did you think I sold my house and moved suburbs or something?’

  Ricardo accompanied me to the main gates where I lined up with the other inmates on the transport list. The police marked our names off, and we then filed out into the street and onto the green police bus to be driven across town to the court.

  ‘Good luck, inglés!’ he called to me before they closed the doors.

  There were about ten of us on the bus, with two guards. They didn’t bother handcuffing us. San Pedro was for minimum-security prisoners, and the only time we would be out in the open was when we were getting on and off the bus, when there were plenty of police around. (Later on, they did handcuff us, but that was only after an accomplice had handed one of the inmates a gun in the courthouse and he’d shot three policemen before escaping on foot.)

  When we arrived at the court building, I saw my lawyers waiting for me at the entrance. They welcomed me with smiles and handshakes and then introduced me to a female colleague, who kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Hello, Thomas,’ she said. ‘How was your ride?’

  The policeman assigned to guard me stood aside, waiting to take me to the holding cells.

  ‘Don’t worry, Thomas. Leave everything to us,’ my lawyers assured me. ‘We’ll see you in there.’

  I had been in those same court holding cells on my way to the prison from the FELCN eleven months previously. I wasn’t in the same cell as then, but it was almost identical – plain walls, no furniture, one small window high up, and an observation hatch in the door for the guards to look through. It didn’t seem as horrible as I remembered. I had been through a lot since then.

  To me, eleven months was a very long time to have to wait for my first court appearance. However, by Bolivian standards, it was considered speedy. My lawyers said this was a good sign: it meant the money we had sent to the judge was working. There were inmates who had been in San Pedro for six years without a trial, they said. But I didn’t know whether to believe my lawyers, since originally they had said that my case wouldn’t need to go to trial at all.

  The courtroom was very simple, like an old-fashioned classroom. There was nothing modern, such as cameras or microphones. All the furniture was wooden. The prosecutor, known as the fiscal, sat on one side of the room and the judge’s desk was up the front, in front of a Bolivian flag hanging on the wall. Everyone else, including my lawyers and I, sat in the middle of the room on uncomfortable chairs that made a terrible noise when you moved them. For my first appearance, there weren’t enough chairs, so the police had to go out and borrow some from other courtrooms.

  When I first saw the judge coming in, I was hopeful.

  ‘Please stand,’ called one of the court officials. Everyone bowed as the judge took his seat. He had a nice face. It looked like the face of someone who had children. I know that doesn’t sound important, but when it’s your trial, the judge’s face is something you notice.

  The proceedings began very slowly. Everything that was said had to be typed using an old-fashioned typewriter. The typist was fast, but it was impossible for him to keep up with everyone, especially when they all talked at once. Often he had to interrupt in order to get people to repeat what they had just said. On top of that, whenever anyone spoke, they had to wait for my interpreter to make the translation into English.

  I watched the judge closely. I found it hard to believe that this man had received fifteen thousand
dollars from my lawyers and was now sitting there, pretending he hadn’t. At first, this made me feel confident; I thought he was a good actor. However, he kept his performance up for so long that I began to doubt whether he was corrupt at all.

  In the whole time I was there, the judge looked at me only once, when the prosecutor said my name and pointed to me. When the judge’s eyes met mine, his expression was completely blank and there was no hint of softness in his face. I began to wonder whether the two bribes had reached him. By the end of the afternoon, I was convinced that they hadn’t.

  No significant developments occurred during that first hearing. I had been hoping that the judge would dismiss the charges immediately, but it had become obvious that this was not his intention. Reaching a finding of inocente was going to take longer than expected. My second court appearance was scheduled for three weeks later.

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Ricardo, when I arrived back at San Pedro. He had been waiting for me at the gates.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to say.’

  ‘Apparently he’s a good judge,’ Ricardo said, rubbing his fingers together. ‘Very fair. So, you’re lucky, inglés. You might be out of here before you know it.’

  ‘How long, do you think?’

  ‘What are you asking me for? I’m not a lawyer.’

  ‘Come on! Let’s go and have a chat in my room,’ I suggested, not wanting to think about it anymore.

  ‘Ahhh, so you want your old friend back. Didn’t have time for me when the girly was around, hey?’ said Ricardo. ‘But now she’s gone …’

  ‘I’ll cook you something.’

  ‘I’d love to, Thomas, but I can’t. I’m sorry, I’m busy.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Gotta fly. I’ve got a hot date tonight. You know how it is.’