El Infierno

by Pieter Tritton

  It was finally time to board our flight to London Heathrow. As we were mid-air heading towards England the sun was setting in the west and to me it felt symbolic, as if that was the end of one journey and another was beginning. I felt good. We descended through the clouds and the lights of the city of London came into view, spreading out below us. One of the guards turned to me and said, ‘There’s your new home down there.’ Somewhere below us was HMP Wandsworth, soon to be my home for the remaining ten months of my sentence.

  We landed at Heathrow at around 6pm. When we presented our papers at immigration, the border force officer looked at me with a grin and said, ‘Been a naughty boy have we?’ I couldn’t help but laugh. The English sense of humour – how I’d missed it! From here I was led to a waiting prison van and we began the journey from Heathrow down the M4 motorway towards London. I was feeling tired and overwhelmed by this point. The sense of freedom I’d experienced during the flight began to evaporate as we got nearer to Wandsworth prison.

  HMP Wandsworth is an old Victorian establishment with a capacity for just under 1,900 inmates, making it one of England’s largest prisons. All repatriated prisoners come here first in order to be assessed to determine their security status, calculate how long they are to serve and a host of other things. Prisoners arrive on an almost daily basis from all over the world. As well as repatriated prisoners Wandsworth holds those on remand waiting for trial, people awaiting deportation and a large number of foreign nationals. Once you have been assessed you will probably be allocated to the prison where you are going to serve out the remainder of your sentence. This is unless, like me, you only had a short period left to complete. In that case, you are more likely to remain in Wandsworth.

  We arrived at the gates around 9pm. They led me to the reception area, where the handcuffs were removed and my details taken. As it was so late and the guards all wanted to leave for home, they decided to leave the full admission process until the following day. I was shown to a temporary cell, complete with television. Watching British TV was something of a treat after nine years of Spanish-language telenovelas. I sat down in the cell grinning quite contentedly as I drank my cup of English tea and ate some biscuits (not cookies, English biscuits!), chocolate, cereal and other junk foods they had supplied in the induction pack. I felt so very, very happy to be in prison … in England. I was probably the happiest prisoner in the entire place that night. As the relief and exhaustion washed over me I fell back into a deep sleep without the sounds of gunshots or screams in the night. I was in my home country and at long, long last safe.

  I awoke in the morning to the sounds of Wandsworth prison; keys jangling up and down the landings, metal cell doors banging shut, people shouting and talking, bells going off and the multitude of other noises from within the walls. The guards came round a short time later and opened up the cell for exercise, so I went downstairs out into the chilly November air and had a wander round the yard. Luckily I was still wearing the clothes in which I had been transferred, including a black jacket. It was my own jacket from when I went over to Eaodar and had been in the safe keeping of the embassy and later Margarita in Guayaquil. As I walked round the exercise yard I overheard snippets of conversation from some of the other inmates bemoaning their situation and how hard it was in this prison, how bad the conditions were.

  I know prison wherever you are in the world is hard; it’s meant to be. That’s the whole idea – so that by suffering you don’t repeat whatever put you there in the first place. You do have to remember that there are always people worse off than yourself and in far harsher conditions elsewhere. I completely agree that you should stand up for your rights and always fight for better conditions. But prison in Britain is relatively easy. You get fed well and on time, you have clean water to drink, TV, regular visits, clean clothing, bedding, mattresses to sleep on, education, workshops, good gyms in most places and many other benefits.

  Later I had a hot shower, my first one in years as we only had cold water in Guayaquil. I also called my family, who were so relieved to hear that I was safe and sound and back on British soil. They said they would put some money into my prison account so that I could buy some phone credit and snacks from the canteen, which you could access once a week. They also said they would set up an order at the local newsagents for the Sunday Times to be delivered every week. What luxury. This was like heaven to me after what I had been through.

  My family assured me they would be down to visit me as soon as they could. This would be the first time that I had seen their faces in nearly a decade. One of the first things I wanted to do was get checked out by the medical team here to make sure I was clear of TB, as I still had a cough. I also wanted to make sure I hadn’t brought any other tropical diseases back with me before seeing my family and my new nephew, who was only a year old.

  In the morning of the second day I was taken over to see the doctor for the standard check-up everyone receives upon arrival in the prison. I explained that I had just recovered from TB but still had some symptoms including a cough that I was concerned about. I also had a painful infection under my right big toenail – which had only just about managed to grow back after being pulled out in Guayaquil – which needed looking at. Swabs were duly taken and sent for analysis. The doctor took my weight, blood pressure, height and some other vitals and sent me on my way saying they would be in touch.

  Upon my return to the cell I found someone else had been placed in there with me. His name was Justin. He had been repatriated from Spain earlier that day and had just come on to the wing. He’d been living around Marbella and Málaga for several years but had been convicted of fairly minor cocaine dealing and given a four-year prison term, of which he had already served 18 months in Spain. We chatted, watched TV and recounted tales of prison and drug trafficking from our pasts. It didn’t take long for us to make an incredible connection, the chances of which must have been extremely small. It transpired that he had known Simon, my friend who had supposedly hanged himself in the Peni in Guayaquil. They had been acquaintances in Spain many years before and Justin had known virtually everything about the case and Simon’s arrest. This completely broke the ice and we spent the rest of the evening talking about Simon and the circumstances surrounding his death, his case and the prisons in Ecuador. Justin and I were together for three or four days and tried our best to get allocated to a wing and cell together, but didn’t quite manage it. Having completed our induction period, he was transferred to D wing and I to B wing.

  I was placed in a cell with a Polish man called Rafau. He was a tall, big guy with fair hair and a light complexion. He, along with four others, had been arrested for importing various drugs from Holland including heroin, cocaine and cannabis. To transport the drugs they had been using lorries, one of which Rafau had been driving when captured at a service station on the outskirts of London. He was still on remand awaiting trial and I could tell he was finding it all very stressful. It was his first time in prison and he didn’t view himself as a criminal – and I suppose to some extent he wasn’t. He was yet another victim who had been caught up in the drugs trade. I settled into the cell and the general routine of the prison and made a few friends on the wing. I found a couple of Chileans and Colombians to talk to, which was good, as it allowed me to practise my Spanish and meant I could help them out when they needed some translating. I also met a guy from Oxford called Darren who had spent several years in prison in Peru. It was really good having someone to chat with about the whole experience who fully understood what I was talking about. I generally didn’t bother telling people as most would look at you as if you were crazy.

  Then I heard from my family that they were coming to visit. I suddenly became very anxious and apprehensive. I was worried about my appearance and I also didn’t want to show surprise at how anyone had changed in the time I had been away for. I had seen very few photos while I’d been in Ecuador. With each passing day the tension ratcheted up another level to the point where I
could barely sleep.

  However, on the day everyone’s nerves (which were of course mutual) soon settled down after the initial shock of seeing each other for the first time had worn off. My father’s hair had greyed a lot more and his face had aged but then so had mine! My sister looked pretty much the same, just more like an adult woman and mother now compared to the younger sister I had left behind ten years ago.

  The visits were over all too quickly, being only an hour and a half in duration, and soon it was time to say goodbye once again. My father promised they would try to visit once a month if they could. They said that once I was released I could stay at the family home in Gloucestershire for a while until I got myself back on my feet and organised with a place to live and work. I was grateful for this as I knew it was going to take me a while to readjust after such a long time in prison and in a different country.

  I wanted to go to our house in France, but I wouldn’t be able to as my passport was being withheld until I repaid the cost of the airfare from Ecuador for my repatriation. This came to over £2,000, which I would have to pay to the prison governor of HMP Wandsworth.

  I had finally succeeded in getting the medical staff to pay attention to the cough that I just couldn’t shake, and was transferred to the isolation ward of the hospital wing. Once the results of the tests had come back showing that I was non-contagious and didn’t have TB, I was transferred back into the main prison. This time I was sent to D wing, which was generally the drug rehabilitation wing but also for those who were sick and needed regular medication. I was placed initially in a double-doored single cell for high-security prisoners. The prison officers seemed to take that sort of approach to me. It didn’t bother me that much, but I was kept in that cell for over two weeks and not allowed out for anything. They wouldn’t even allow me to go down for exercise; I had my food brought to the door of the cell and on a couple of occasions they actually forgot to feed me. I went absolutely ballistic and reminded them I was sick and not being punished and they soon sorted out something to eat.

  I hadn’t anticipated that I would experience such a degree of culture shock as I did. I had arrived on 14 November just as the Christmas advertising campaigns were getting into full swing on the TV. I found this all very overwhelming and quite upsetting, having just come from a country where there was such poverty and suffering. The greed and consumerism of our society was very hard to stomach, and to some extent still is. It took a few months for me to become accustomed to everything again, which I had really not anticipated. One very marked change was the massive influence of technology. From what I could see the whole of society had changed, with everyone now seeming to have smartphones and iPads. The drinking culture of Britain had changed a lot, with a vast number of pubs and clubs having closed down, and people drinking at home more these days and communicating instead via social media, which barely existed when I had left for Ecuador.

  As the months went by I changed cells several times within D wing and got a job as a wing cleaner, which kept me out of my room nearly all the time. I was able to use the gym and started getting fit again. With only a couple of months remaining, I was suddenly transferred to the category C unit at Wandsworth, where there had been quite a lot of trouble in the last few months. This meant I lost my job and was back to spending almost 22 hours a day locked up.

  There were two major disturbances on the unit while I was there when the guards completely lost control of the wings and a specialist riot squad had to be brought in. They came in with dogs, wearing body armour, and let off flashbangs and tear gas. Just what I needed right at the end of my sentence! This reminded me of the paros in Quito, when the police would storm the place to regain control, while firing live ammunition.

  During the last few months at Wandsworth, a very beautiful, dear friend of mine started writing to me. We had been at school together and I had always had a really big crush on her, so I was thrilled when I started to receive her letters. We corresponded frequently and I began to hope there was something more to the letters than just being friends. I hoped and prayed I was right as I had loved this girl from the very first day I saw her when I was 14 years old. I arranged to make contact with her upon my release, which she had thought would not be for several years yet. I now had something else to look forward to once I was out. Things were really looking up. The last few months raced by and it was soon my day to be released, having completed ten years and ten days of a 12-year sentence. I was ready and packed at 8am, just waiting to go. But the authorities kept stalling. I started to get really nervous and wondered if I was about to be arrested by the police and charged with something else.

  I went down to the wing office to find out what was happening. I saw that the senior officer on the wing was there. I approached him and asked, ‘Sir, I’m due to be released today but no one has come to get me yet and I’m starting to worry I might be gate-arrested. Could you please do me a favour and check on the system to make sure that isn’t the case?’

  ‘What’s your name and number and I’ll have a look,’ he replied.

  ‘Tritton DF67855, Sir.’

  He tapped it into the computer and I held my breath, half-expecting it to explode.

  ‘There’s nothing on there that I can see so I would say you are OK,’ he said finally.

  ‘Why haven’t I been released then?’ I enquired.

  The SO looked me in the eye and said, ‘Your guess is as good as mine. This place is so disorganised, underfunded and short-staffed it’s a wonder there hasn’t been a serious riot here.’

  Great, I thought, just what I bloody need. He went on, ‘You can be held up until 6pm, by which point if you haven’t been released we have to start paying you for the privilege of your company as you will be illegally detained.’ And with that he walked off. There’s a saying in British prison: we, the convicts, are a bit like mushrooms insofar as we are kept in the dark and fed shit!

  I called my family and they started ringing round to find out what was going on. I suggested they call my probation officer as well in order to advise them I wouldn’t make it back to my home town in time to report to them, as you are duty-bound to do upon initial release. But to my relief, the guards finally came for me at about 4pm and took me to reception to collect my belongings and sign my release papers. I couldn’t stop smiling, but I was still so on edge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  HOME

  26 AUGUST 2015. I was free. I stood outside HMP Wandsworth just absorbing that fact. As I walked across Wandsworth Common, in my imagination I had a large luminous yellow tattoo on my forehead saying ‘EX-CON’. I thought everyone I passed must surely know I had just been released and was wary of me. I felt really self-conscious. It was a horrible feeling and one that didn’t subside for quite a while. All the traffic seemed to be travelling fast and all the people appeared to be rushing around at breakneck speed. I was enjoying being able to walk on grass and touch the leaves of trees, and hear and see birds as I strolled along. Every little thing was as if new to me. I saw with the eyes and heard with the ears of a baby, as if learning everything afresh. The colours and smells of London swept over me like a tidal wave of sensation, an LSD trip without drugs.

  My friend Jen had offered to help me get to Paddington. When she arrived, I explained to her that I was feeling quite strange and very self-conscious. She told me not to worry and we headed towards the tube station, where Jen had to explain what an Oyster card was. She gave me a spare one of hers to use with credit on and we headed underground. On the tube journey, I again felt very self-aware and as if people would be able to tell I had just come out of prison. Jen reassured me this wasn’t the case. At Paddington she made sure I was certain of which platform the train was leaving from and that I had exchanged my prison-issued travel warrant for rail tickets. With all this in hand she wished me well and headed off into the evening, leaving me with my thoughts.

  I was finally on my way home. I phoned my father to let him know what time I would
be arriving in my home town. He said he would be there waiting for me with the car. Ten years ago my father had seen me off from the train station in France. He was now going to meet me at the other end of this train ride. In a way it seemed to have been one long journey, which was finally coming to a conclusion. I was lucky to have survived that ride and certainly couldn’t have done so without the help of my loving family and my many friends who supported me by sending money and letters.

  The journey back was uneventful. I watched the beautiful lush fields, trees and hedgerows of the English landscape race by. I hadn’t seen this in a decade. New housing developments and tower blocks had gone up here and there but apart from that it was much the same. We descended through the beautiful West Country valleys that led to my home town and then suddenly we were pulling into the train station. My father was waiting on the platform, the relief written all over his face. My journey was finally over and my new life was about to begin.

  In Remembrance of Those Who Didn’t Make it Home to Tell their Story

  Freddy Murphy Pescado