Dying to Survive

by Rachael Keogh

  ‘I am from a small country called Cuba. Have you ever heard of it?’ Donal asked me, solving the mystery of his nationality.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I replied, not knowing where he was talking about, but wanting to appear intelligent.

  ‘Mick tells me you’re having problems with the drugs and you want to get clean,’ Donal continued. The penny dropped. It was a set-up. My mother had obviously persuaded Mick to use one of his business contacts to see if he could ‘sort me out’—and as far as she was concerned if I could be spirited quietly away in the process, so much the better. At this stage in my relationship with my mother, it was very much out of sight out of mind—if I wasn’t there the problem could be ignored. And Mick, who liked me, could be persuaded to intervene.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ I said, lying through my teeth again. I had no intention of giving up drugs. They helped me to forget everything. I was fifteen years old and for the previous two years heroin had been my comfort and my support. I wasn’t ready to stop now.

  ‘Well, if you like, you can come and stay with me in Cuba. I am a doctor over there and I could train you in as my secretary. You could even visit Jamaica. It is only a boat ride away. If you don’t like it you can always come home.’

  Were my ears deceiving me? Was this really happening? I knew that Mick had all kinds of business contacts overseas—and would later learn that Mick had paid Donal to take me—but this ‘plan’ seemed so bizarre I thought it had to be a joke. ‘You don’t have to make a decision now. Just think about it and let me know,’ Donal continued, as if sensing my disbelief.

  I played with the idea of going to Cuba for a couple of days. Fantasising about the boat ride to Jamaica and seeing with my own eyes the very house in which Bob Marley was ambushed and shot. Hanging out with the locals, smoking reefers until sunset. But then I would dismiss the idea. Sure I didn’t even know this man, Donal, at least nothing more than that he was a contact of Mick’s and owned property in Cuba. How could I possibly survive on my own in a strange country like that? I had never been further than Poppintree in my life. The whole thing was far too bizarre for my liking—and God forbid that I would have to leave Ballymun anyway.

  But my family had other plans. Within a couple of months of meeting Donal I found myself on a plane bound for Cuba with the plan that I would be Donal’s ‘secretary’. My mother and my uncle Laurence accompanied me on my journey. It took us five days to get there: from Ireland to England, England to France, France to Barcelona, Barcelona to the USA, USA to Mexico, Mexico to Venezuela and Venezuela to our final destination, Cuba. It was the longest five days of my life. Being constantly stuck on planes with my mother and Laurence wasn’t my idea of having fun. I felt angry, lost and resentful at being sent so far away.

  We arrived in Havana and the first thing that hit me was the heat. Even though the sun was going down the air was heavy and sweet. I hadn’t once thought of drugs, and for the first time in ages I began to feel excited at the possibility of starting afresh. Maybe this plan might actually work, I thought, even if the whole thing wasn’t exactly my idea.

  We were greeted at the airport not by Donal but by our tour guides. It was just as well, as the security police didn’t seem one bit friendly. They were everywhere, watching everything, dressed in military uniform, looking at us suspiciously, wondering why we were here—in those days, Cuba wasn’t yet a holiday destination, so three white faces looked distinctly out of place. I felt jet-lagged and I was relieved to finally get to our hotel and to have a comfortable bed to sleep in. Something wasn’t right, though. I could feel it in my bones. My ma and Laurence were acting really strange, leaving their suitcases behind in the taxi and only taking mine out.

  Then I noticed the nurses. It wasn’t a hotel at all. It was some sort of a hospital. I was quickly ushered to my room. What the hell is going on? I thought to myself as I took in my surroundings. There was an oxygen mask hanging over my bed and a television hanging from the wall. Then my mother and my uncle sat down in front of me. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what’s going on?’ said Laurence. I knew exactly what was going on. They had lied to me again. I couldn’t look at them.

  ‘Rachael, we didn’t know what else to do,’ he continued. ‘You’re completely out of control. We tried bringing you to Trinity Court and that didn’t work. What were we supposed to do? This is a detox centre and they will help you to come off the drugs. You only have to stay here for one week and that’s it.’ They sat there, waiting for me to respond. But I couldn’t. My mind was blank and I was no longer in my own body.

  ‘Myself and Laurence will be staying at a hotel just up the road,’ my mother assured me. ‘If you need anything, just ask the nurse.’ She kissed me on the forehead and they were gone.

  I couldn’t believe that they had left me on my own in this foreign place—I was bewildered, tired and couldn’t credit that my mother and Laurence had dumped me here.

  The week came and went, as I spent my days watching HBO and feeling numb. The nurses gave me my daily dose of medication and spoke to me in a language that I couldn’t understand. My mother and Laurence came to visit, telling me about the fancy hotel that they were staying in and trying to humour me in different ways. ‘Rachael, I really can’t believe how well you’re taking all this,’ said my mother as she pottered around my room. But I wasn’t taking it well at all. I was gritting my teeth and bearing it, wishing the week away.

  ‘We can’t go on like this, you know,’ my mother continued. ‘We know what you are doing, Rachael,’ she said, before rapidly changing the subject. ‘Anyway, next week, we are flying to Holguín. We’ll stay in a really nice hotel and we’ll have a great time,’ she reassured me. I couldn’t see myself enjoying a holiday after this, but I nodded my head, pretending to share her enthusiasm.

  One week later and I was relieved my detox was over. My drug habit wasn’t that severe, so with the medication I was given I didn’t feel a thing. If nothing else, I had my family off my back and I could look forward to going to Holguín, free from the horrible tension that had lingered between us up until now.

  It was as though I had stepped into a time-warp in Holguín. Another world, where time stood still, oblivious to the world outside and to any life beyond its own. A world rich in history, with a mix of Spanish and African culture pulsating through its streets and a mish-mash of colours decorating its old colonial buildings. The Cuban people appeared to be impoverished, but seemed content with their lot, staring at us in wonderment with our blonde hair and fair skin. ‘Que linda, Que linda,’ the men would mumble as we walked past.

  My mother seemed baffled. ‘How do they know my name?’ she asked Maria, our tour guide.

  ‘Oh no, they don’t know your name. They’re saying that you’re beautiful,’ she answered, laughing heartily. Maria stayed with us the whole time, telling us all about Cuba and its roots, about the arrival of African slaves, about Fidel Castro and communism. I would be fascinated now, but then I really had no interest in what she was saying. I hadn’t come to Cuba for a guided tour or even for a detox. I had been made to come, lured there by the promise of a job which I knew now didn’t exist. But while I was here, the main attraction was the sun. I couldn’t wait to find a beach and burn myself to a crisp.

  So, I found it odd when we started driving away from the city. Then I saw a sign, which read, EL QUINQUE. ‘I hope we’re not going to another centre,’ I said to my mother, immediately thinking that the sign meant ‘clinic’.

  ‘What do you mean? I told you already that we were,’ she answered, looking at me as if I were mad.

  ‘No, you didn’t. You said that we were staying at a hotel. I can’t believe you’re doing this. I’m not going to another treatment centre,’ I screamed, realising what was going on and becoming more hysterical by the minute.

  ‘Let’s just see what it’s like, ok?’ my mother implored.

  ‘No, I don’t care what you say, I’m not going.’

  ‘Ok, if you don’t like it, y
ou don’t have to stay.’ She took me by the hand and led me in through the gates.

  ‘I’m not staying,’ I repeated, as we passed a security guard who had a gun attached to his waist. Then we were greeted by the receptionist. ‘Hola, como esta?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said under my breath and turned my back to him. Then I was distracted by a commotion just feet away from where I stood. Two men emerged from one of the houses, wheeling a stretcher in front of them. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the black plastic body-bag.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I heard my ma say behind me, before she covered my eyes with her hands.

  ‘I am really sorry that you had to see that,’ said the receptionist, leading us away from the scene.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Laurence asked him.

  ‘Well, you see, El Quinque has three phases: for the first two phases, patients cannot leave the grounds without supervision. But after therapeutic evaluation, adaptation and sociological tests, when the individual is ready we allow social interaction without supervision. That man was a friend of one of our patients. He brought the patient out and they brought drugs back in with them. Unfortunately, the friend overdosed.’

  I could tell by the worried look on my mother’s face that she wasn’t going to let me stay here. ‘Right, is there someone that I can speak to? Rachael is only fifteen and I’m not happy with this at all.’

  ‘Ma, I’m not staying here. No way,’ I interrupted, seeing my chance to escape.

  The receptionist looked concerned. ‘Of course. Come this way with me, please.’ ‘Rachael, just wait here for a minute, ok?’ my mother pleaded.

  I gave them a dirty look and they walked away. The scorching sun was splitting through the tropical palm-trees, but I couldn’t get the image of the body-bag out of my head. They can do what they want, there’s no way in a million years I’m staying here. I can’t believe they’re even thinking about it after that happening. I was lost in thought.

  ‘Hey, little woman,’ I heard someone say beside me, as a tall man approached me. ‘What you doing here? Are you coming to stay with us?’ I could recognise the Jamaican accent a mile away.

  ‘Emm, no,’ I answered. ‘My mother wants me to stay, but I don’t want to.’

  ‘Tell me about it. It’s not all that bad, you know. I’m Lenny,’ he said coolly, offering his hand for me to shake.

  ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Rachael.’ Lenny had a kind face with big sad eyes, but I liked him straight away.

  ‘Did you get a chance to look around? It’s amazing, you know.’

  ‘No, I just got here.’

  ‘Come on with me and I’ll introduce you to my wife.’

  ‘Your wife is here as well?’ I was amazed.

  ‘Yeah, we both came from Kingston, but I’m here a bit longer than my wife. You’ll have to go easy on her; she’s still having a hard time coming off the crack.’

  I followed Lenny through the villa, apprehensive about going any further. We passed Mediterranean-looking huts with straw roof-tops. ‘This is where we live,’ Lenny explained. ‘You can either have your own hut or one of the apartments over there.’

  I tagged along after Lenny, jumping over a set of concrete lily-pads set into the grass.

  ‘That’s where we have therapy,’ he said pointing to an outdoor conservatory, ‘And here’s where we hang out the most.’ The swimming pool. I was impressed. ‘All together, there’s forty acres of land. You can go horse-riding if you want, or play bowling. The alleys are over there.’

  I could hear music in the distance. It got louder as we walked towards what appeared to be a restaurant, also outdoor, on stilts. The patients were gathered around the one table as if they were having a meeting. No doubt they’re talking about the man who had just died, I thought. They all seemed very serious. Except one woman who was singing along to the reggae music.

  ‘La musica, Rose, por favor,’ one of the others shouted. Rose ignored them, singing louder this time, doing twirls, with a smile on her face.

  ‘That’s my wife,’ Lenny said, as he turned down the volume of the music. ‘Everyone, this is Rachael.’ The group glanced at me, nodded and got back to their meeting.

  ‘What have we got here? A white Rastafarian!’ Rose said, as she took me by the arm. ‘Look at the Robert Marley tattoo on her arm. You’re in the right place, girl.’ And I was, I thought to myself, looking at the swimming pool and the swaying palm trees. This would be more like a holiday than a detox.

  At dinner time my mother and Laurence had found me in the restaurant. ‘Well, you seem to be settling in well,’ Laurence said with a smile. Laurence was always cracking jokes about my addiction. I think he found it easier to deal with me in this way.

  ‘Listen, Rachael, you only have to stay here for three weeks. Myself and Laurence are going back to Ireland, but we’ll come back and collect you then,’ my mother assured me. Out of sight, out of mind again. Why didn’t my mother just talk to me about my drug problem, instead of bringing me to the other side of the earth, I wondered. But I already knew the answer to that. The usual story, except that now I was in a lot more trouble. I needed her now more than ever.

  Leaving me in Cuba only fuelled my sense of abandonment and anger. When I go home, I’m gonna go fuckin’ mad. I’ll get her back for this, I pledged to myself. I’ll definitely get her back. Then I began to panic. ‘No, you can’t leave me here on my own!’ They both looked away and I could feel the tears well up in my eyes. ‘I fuckin’ hate you,’ I shouted, as I stormed away from the restaurant.

  I wandered aimlessly around the villa, contemplating making some sort of a getaway, when my thoughts were interrupted by a stream of Spanish. ‘Buenos dias, Racquelita. Me llamo Gregorio. You can call me Greg. Andamos a la casa. We go to the house, ok?’ Smiling, Greg dragged my suitcases into one of the huts. ‘Living room, bathroom, bedroom, ok?’ He gave me a smile and left me alone. I opened the wardrobe and climbed inside. I hunched myself up into the foetal position and cried my heart out.

  _____

  The time came for my mother and Laurence to go home. I hadn’t spoken to them since we arrived in El Quinque. I hoped that my ma would see sense and change her mind. But she didn’t. I was being left in this strange treatment centre with people from Latin America and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Everyone was much older than me, except for Mauricio and Alejandro, both fifteen years old like me and from Colombia. Alejandro had been a crack user and he could speak a little bit of English. He loved telling me stories of his escapades with the Colombian Mafia. I put his delusions down to his crack withdrawals.

  Mauricio looked like a model and we were attracted to one another straight away. We couldn’t communicate, but our attraction didn’t need words. It was physical. He was beautifully tanned with a toned body and a boyish, chiselled face. Before long we were sleeping together. Connected by our own pain and troubles, we would lie under the night sky, staring at the stars, wishing we were anywhere but in El Quinque.

  Three weeks passed quickly, but there was no sign or word from my mother. She wouldn’t accept my phone calls and I was becoming more and more fearful that I would be stuck in Cuba forever. El Quinque was more like a holiday camp than a treatment centre. With very little supervision or guidance from the staff, there were drug-filled parties and orgies every night, which frightened the life out of me. I got the impression that El Quinque was more concerned with the money they were receiving than with the welfare of their patients.

  Going to therapy and mixing with the other patients seemed pointless to me. Unlike them, I wasn’t an addict: they were a lot worse on the drugs than I ever could be. I didn’t need to be in a treatment centre receiving therapy like them. They were all crazy anyway. So I spent most of my time isolated in my room, listening to rave music and fantasising about drugs. The highlight of my day was medication time, when I was pumped up with all sorts of medication while the other patients went to therapy. I was hurting badly and
I needed some comfort, so I turned my room into a replica of Ballymun by painting the flats on to my walls, along with paintings of needles and junkies’ faces. I tried to soothe my hurt by living in my head and plotting revenge against my mother. But no amount of plotting or eating or having sex with Mauricio could ease my pain. It seemed that the only person I could really talk to was Lenny. He had become my friend and I would talk to him about my family and my life back in Ireland—I could confide my pain and rage to Lenny and I knew that he understood. But I still felt lonelier than ever. Five months had passed in El Quinque and no-one from Ireland had made any contact, let alone come back to get me. I began to slip into a state of depression.

  _____

  Then one day I heard a familiar voice outside my apartment. ‘Racquel, Racquel.’ I couldn’t believe it. It was my uncle Laurence. I jumped up off my bed and raced out to give him a big hug. I forgot about everything that had happened in the last five months. Laurence hadn’t broken his promise to me, I thought. He had come back to get me.

  I was later to learn that the reason I’d been left so long in this place was that Mick’s friend ‘Donal’ had run off with the money and my fees at El Quinque had not been paid. Laurence had to break me out of the place and make a run for it, back to Havana and home, putting his own life at risk for me, terrified that we would get caught. I didn’t care about any of this. I was just relieved that I was getting out of this hole and going home.

  _____

  And of course, the ‘holiday’ in Cuba had been a complete waste of time. My family had got rid of the problem for a few months, but as soon as I saw the flats in Ballymun, my cravings for heroin kicked in. It was as if the previous five months had never happened.

  I was surprised to see my old buddies Katie, Emer and Mary, waiting outside my grandmother’s house to welcome me back. ‘Ah, thank God you’re alright,’ they all said, their arms wrapped around me in a huge hug, crying their eyes out. ‘Just don’t start hanging around with all them in Poppintree again. They were the ones who got you into this trouble,’ Emer said.