This time there was no cancellation. The governor even came into my dorm to wish me luck before I left the jail. Mum was waiting in the car park and looked over the moon to see me.
'This is the beginning of the end, Terry,' she told me. 'Soon you'll be coming home for good.'
I really hoped that she was right because temporary freedom didn't feel at all like the real thing. The knowledge that I could have my pardon application torn up and thrown in the bin if I put a foot out of place was still very much at the forefront of my mind. I couldn't drink or enter a licensed premise, I wasn't allowed to gamble or set foot in a bookies and I had to remain at my address from 7 p.m. onwards. The first two criteria would be easy enough to stick to but what if I was forced to leave my house for some reason? Most people wouldn't have thought twice about it, but given my history of misfortune, I could picture the police turning up the minute I put a foot out of the door. I was just going to have to stick pedantically to the rules. It wasn't worth risking losing everything for a minor breach.
As we pulled up into our street, I felt a knot of tension forming in my stomach. I should have been looking forward to eating proper food and getting a good night's sleep but felt as if another disaster was lurking on the horizon. The governor had ruined my visit by postponing it. The uncertainty that he created had made me far too nervous to enjoy the occasion.
I had been granted a full weekend at home, which sounded like a long time when I was first told about it but now seemed too short to fit in all the things that I wanted to do. Emma was off to her school disco on my first night back so I would only be able to see her on the Sunday. It was just a case of making the best of the two days that I had.
It felt weird setting foot in the house again after being away so long. All sorts of memories came flooding back to me, some good and some extremely unpleasant. I remembered all the fun times that we had had there as a family; but also the days after Dad's death and the deep, dark depression that I fell into in the build-up to my extradition. Mum had bought a Christmas present for me every year since I had been arrested so I opened them all up, thanked her and then sat at the table, ready for the feast fit for a king that she had prepared for me. We had chicken, rice and fajitas for the main course, my all-time favourite, followed by Toblerone cheesecake for dessert. Yummy!
I had got so used to eating rubbish that I had almost forgotten what a decent meal was like. I devoured both courses in two minutes flat and then reached over for another slice of cake.
'I'll tell you what Mum, I bet they won't be having that in East Sutton,' I smiled, cheering up a bit now that I had got to stuff my face.
The combination of stress, excitement and an extremely full stomach made me feel exhausted so I finished off my last mouthful, heaved my way upstairs and plonked myself down on my nice, warm, comfy bed. You barely get a minute to yourself in prison so I laid there basking in the silence for a while before going to sleep. This was how life should be lived. Human beings weren't meant to be crammed in a dorm like battery chickens. Being locked up in prison again was going to be like moving from a penthouse to a cardboard box. I just hoped it wouldn't be too long before I could come home for good.
The following morning, I was woken up by the sound of Emma's angelic little voice firing a million and one questions off at Mum. Kelly had brought her round to spend some time with me and the cheeky monkey wanted to know why I was home so soon. Kel had told her that I was in hospital because she didn't want her to know I was locked up so Mum had to think on her feet.
'She's been allowed out for a visit,' Mum said. 'She'll be better soon but until then they're only letting her out for a few days at a time.'
I felt as if she was telling the truth in a way. Prison had been like a spell in a detox centre. It had helped me to get over my various addictions and cleanse my mind of youthful rebellion. If I hadn't gone in when I did then I probably would have carried on boozing and taking whiz, which would eventually have either sent me insane or made me seriously ill. I had matured to the point where life in the fast lane no longer appealed to me. Give me a clean bill of health over a weekend on the tiles any day of the week.
I spent the remainder of the day having my brains picked by Emma, cooing over the new baby and catching up with the latest gossip from my sister. All of my conversations took place at a million miles per hour because I wanted to cram as much as possible into my last day of freedom. Mum cooked a lovely Sunday roast and we all sat around the table together, just like when I was a kid. It would have been the best home visit that I could have possibly asked for if the fact that I had to go back in less than twenty-four hours hadn't been hanging over me. It's difficult to enjoy something when you know it's going to be so short-lived. I felt as if I was counting down the minutes until it was time to head back to jail.
The day passed by in the blink of an eye and before I knew it, my visit had come to an end.
'Don't worry, Auntie Terry will be better soon,' I reassured Emma. 'Not long left to go now. Be a good girl for Mummy whilst I'm away.'
I gave her a hug and said goodbye to Kel. A couple of hours later, I pulled up into Hogwarts again, ready to resume my spell in purgatory. All in all, the visit had been an overwhelming success. The fact I hadn't done a runner the minute they let me out would no doubt be another string in my bow when it came to the final decision on my pardon. I had a feeling that they wouldn't have granted me temporary release so quickly if they weren't planning on freeing me soon anyway.
Being surrounded by constant noise 24/7 was even more grating now that I had experienced the peace and quiet of home. I had been hoping that my visit would reinvigorate me and give me a new lease of life but I still felt just as lethargic as ever. As the days dragged on, I wondered whether anybody was still chasing up my pardon. I hadn't heard anything for ages so I decided to give Mum a ring and tell her to get onto Fair Trials. The minute I got through to her, she started yelling excitedly down the phone.
'It's come Terry! It's all over. You've made it! You're free!'
Oh. My. God. This was the moment I had been waiting for. My ordeal was finally at an end. No more rushed trips home where I spent every second worrying that something would go wrong; I was coming back for good.
'I can't believe it,' I shouted. 'I've done it! And I couldn't have done it without you, Mum.'
'It's only a partial pardon but it still means you're free,' Mum told me. 'They've reduced your sentence from ten years to six so under the rules over here, that equals three in prison and three out on license. You've already served three years inside so now they need to release you. You'll have to see a probation officer every week for a couple of years but at least you won't be in jail.'
It's impossible to be partially innocent. To me this youshowed that the Spanish government had realised they had made a mistake but were reluctant to fully own up to it. It beat another two years inside though so I was just as happy as Mum. I still needed to wait until it was all finalised before I could leave the jail – and an apology for stealing three years of my life would have been nice – but I was ecstatic nonetheless.
On the day of my release, the entire wing gathered in the reception area to bid me farewell. The other girls all gave me a kiss and a cuddle, which made me very emotional. I had met some good people inside. They were the only thing about East Sutton that I was going to miss. Even the guards had all turned out to see me off. It hammered home the contrast between British screws and Spanish ones. The ones in Spain would have probably given me a few licks with a truncheon as a goodbye present.
As I stepped out of the prison door, I stopped for a second to reflect upon everything that I had been through since my arrest in Gran Canaria. Over the course of the last decade, I had been in seven jails in three different countries, mixed with everyone from shoplifters to multiple murderers and survived addiction, depression, anxiety, and two near-fatal haemorrhages. My new-found freedom marked a brand new chapter in my life. The days of drink, drugs and
excess were well and truly over; I now yearned for a quiet, trouble-free life. After being released from both Salto and Maghaberry, I had ended up carrying on as I left off but this time there was too much at stake. If I put one foot out of place, I would be going straight back to jail, which would totally destroy me. Mum was waiting for me in the car park so I flung myself into the car and yelled, 'Drive before they change their mind!'
My passport to hell had finally expired. And one thing was for certain: I sure wasn't renewing it.
Chapter 22
LIFE ON LICENSE
So how did this story end?
Although I was over the moon that I could now socialise with people who weren't criminals and no longer had to share a room with six other girls, being free wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Don't get me wrong, after witnessing everything from violent prison brawls to dead bodies being carted out of cells, I was relieved that I was back in the sleepy little village that I had grown up in, but being on license was just as nerve-wracking as my home visit had been. I barely left the house for fear of accidentally breaking the law. I wasn't planning on doing anything illegal so I technically had nothing to worry about but kept thinking, 'What if I'm accused of something that I haven't done again?' The idea of having to do the time that I had spent in prison all over again scared the living daylights out of me so I spent weeks on end in my room, only venturing outside to go to my probation meetings.
I got on well with my probation officer but couldn't help thinking that seeing her was totally pointless. The idea was that she would keep me on the straight and narrow and prevent me from committing another offence, but seeing as I wasn't guilty in the first place, she might as well not have been there.
The other thing that really got to me was the fact that I no longer had a group of mates to knock about with. All my friends were still going to raves and taking stupid amounts of drugs, which meant that I had no choice but to cut them off. But where was I going to find replacements? Raving had been my only real interest and there was nothing to fill the gap. I tried to arrange to meet up with one of the people who had got in touch with me after reading my story in the Mirror but my license conditions made it impossible. I was banned from staying anywhere overnight and he lived all the way down in Newcastle.
Aidan wanted to meet up with me but I wasn't allowed to leave the country either and he refused to come to England. He got quite angry when I told him that I wasn't willing to break the rules and hasn't spoken to me since. He would have been a nightmare to go out with in the outside world so I'm glad that we aren't talking, although I still wish him the best of luck with whatever he is doing.
The fact that I had got so used to being in jail made it even harder for me to kick-start my social life. I had become very institutionalised and no longer felt comfortable going out. Even a quick trip to the shops left me feeling emotionally exhausted and extremely panicky. Other people's attitudes didn't help either. When I went to sign on at the job centre, the woman behind the desk was very rude to me and made it crystal clear she didn't like ex-cons. I tried to voice my concerns about how hard it was going to be to find a job with a criminal record but she was totally unsympathetic and told me that it wasn't her problem.
The reality of the situation is that it is almost impossible to gain employment if you've been in jail. I might have had a pardon but the offence was still down on my record, which blighted any chance that I might have had of getting a well-paid job. I was still determined to do something productive with my time though, so I started doing voluntary work for a charity that helped people with drug problems. I thought, 'What better person is there to offer advice to addicts than somebody who has been through what they're going through and managed to get clean?'
I loved helping people turn their lives around and managed to get an NVQ in drug counselling. The training that I received helped me to understand my own addiction. I identified the things that triggered my cravings and learnt about the harm that drugs and alcohol can do to the body. One of the most interesting pieces of information that I picked up was the fact that you can grow dependent on the chemical that your body produces when you mix alcohol with cocaine to the point where you become aggressive when you take one substance without the other. This explained the times when I had got really narky when I was able to drink but couldn't get hold of any coke. It was crazy to think that I had abused drugs for so long without knowing the full extent of their effects. I couldn't believe that I had been so stupid.
Providing advice to addicts was just as enlightening. I learnt a lot about myself through hearing about their problems. Some people might have looked down on them but I knew exactly what they were going through. I think drugs and alcohol are the real passports to hell. If you have an addictive personality, they can create a world of problems. I felt as if I had finally found my calling; it was now my job to prevent other people from following the path that I had foolishly taken.
My criminal record still stood in the way of doing it as a proper job, unfortunately, and the job centre weren't happy about me spending my time doing something that I didn't get paid for. They started really getting on my back about it so I had to quit, which I was gutted about.
My Jobseekers advisor scared the living daylights out of me. She was so stern and abrupt that I dreaded going in to see her. There was only one thing for it: I was going to have to beat the odds and get myself a job. I decided that the only way that I was going to have any success was if I approached somebody who was familiar with the circumstances surrounding my arrest. The landlady at my local pub was friendly with my mum so I figured she was the perfect person to try. She had been following my story and was aware of how unfairly I had been treated.
The landlady agreed to take me on as a glass collector, which filled a big gap in my life. Unemployment and depression are a deadly combination so I will be eternally grateful to her for helping to take me out of the deep, dark hole that I had fallen into. Now that I had a job, I became a little bit more confident and started going out of the house. It was the first step to recovering from the host of psychological afflictions that life behind bars had left me with.
I finished my license period in April 2011 but still haven't managed to fully shake off my anxiety. Prison has irreparably damaged me. It has destroyed my self-confidence and left me with a permanent stain on an otherwise spotless record.
There have been positive as well as negative consequences though because I think I would have almost certainly carried on taking drugs if I hadn't been locked up.
The biggest test of whether I was off the drink and drugs for good came when Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had always gone off the rails when faced with a family crisis like that in the past, but this time I managed to remain sober and faced it full on rather than attempting to blot it out with alcohol and amphetamines. It was a major scare after what had happened to Dad so I was over the moon when the doctor delivered the news that her treatment had been successful and she was going to be OK.
Gaining the ability to keep my head during a crisis wasn't the only silver lining to my imprisonment. My case also highlighted the inadequacies of the UK's current legislation on extraditions. Fair Trials have used what happened to me as evidence that the system doesn't work. They recently put forward their argument in the Court of Human Rights, complete with a huge photo of me in the background to illustrate their point. Hopefully the injustice that I was forced to suffer will make things easier for people who are arrested abroad to get a fair trial. If I can prevent a single person from going through what I went through then I will be satisfied that my incarceration wasn't all for nothing.
Another good thing that came out of being locked up was my friendship with John Bercow. He really took a shine to Mum and me, and even invited us as his guests to The Queen's Garden Party in July 2010. I am probably the only person convicted of drug trafficking who has ever been allowed into the grounds of Buckingham Palace. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and
I would like to say a big thank you to John for making it happen. He could have easily dismissed me as a lowlife criminal and refused to have anything to do with me, but he fought my corner until the very end and then continued to support me even after I had been released.
The kindness of people like John has helped me to come to terms with the fact that my life is never going to be the same again. A lot of people might assume I hate the Spanish people after everything that they have put me through, but strangely enough I don't harbour any resentment towards them whatsoever. It wasn't the normal, everyday Spaniards who were to blame for my imprisonment; it was their rotten, crooked legal system. I still love Tenerife and even returned there earlier this year to lay some ghosts to rest.
I was understandably nervous in the build-up to my trip back to the island and kept worrying that the Spanish coppers might try to fit me up again. The terms of my pardon stated that I would be locked up for another decade if I committed another crime in Spain within fourteen years of my release. Visiting my old haunts was something that I knew I had to do though because I hadn't got to say goodbye to anyone when I fled back to England and I wanted to gain some closure.
Passport To Hell: How I Survived Sadistic Prison Guards and Hardened Criminals in Spain's Toughest Prisons Page 28