by Storm Chase
Sitting on the dirty floor, she realised she was still clutching the plastic bag. When she opened it, she saw it was filled with sandwiches, a toothbrush, toothpaste and some soap. It must have come from the consulate. Maybe she could use the soap in the morning, if the tap worked. She was touched that Ffrench had included food. The chocolate bar smelled good but just looking at the sandwich made her feel sick.
“You want that?” A hooker in a dark blue halter-top sequinned dress was leaning towards her.
“Erm,” Cleo wondered for a moment if the woman was going to grab it out of her hands but to her surprise, she was holding out a small twist of plastic. Cleo recognised it instantly. It was blow.
She hesitated and then thought, sod it, better up than down. Ten minutes later, the world looked a better place. The next morning, she swapped the toothbrush and toothpaste for another line. By the end of the second day, the goody bag was empty. As Cleo was coming down, black despair settled over her. She was never getting out of here. She was buried alive forever.
Her lethargy was interrupted when the guards decanted half a dozen girls into the cell. When one of them spotted a rival, she sprang. Within seconds the two women became a ball of flying hair, nails and screams.
Cleo tried to stay out of their way but the cell was so crowded that it was impossible. When the girls slammed into her, the hot press of bodies meant she didn’t hit the ground but she scraped her elbows against the grimy wall. It hurt like hell.
Alerted by the screaming, the guards came back. At first they stood and watched, thoroughly entertained by the chick fight, but when one of the combatants grabbed the other by the hair and began bashing her head against the wall, they got the keys and dragged the girls out. The way they beat the two apart with their batons and kept hitting them even when they were cowering on the ground, terrified Cleo. She stood as far away as possible, cringing against the faraway wall.
When the guards finally dragged the girls away into the corridor, there was a short silence. Then, to Cleo’s horror, she could hear moans and screams from the girls mingle with laughter from the guards. She knew they were being raped. As if one, all the girls in the cell hissed and banged on the bars, yelling obscenities. Despite the wall of noise, Cleo could still hear the screams coming from the corridor. She covered her ears and tried not to listen.
Eventually the sounds stopped. When Cleo looked up, she saw one of the guards had come back. He stood leaning against the wall, staring at her. Cleo crushed back against the wall in terror, thinking she was next. But when he asked her a question, pointing at her bleeding elbows, Cleo realised he was asking her if she was badly hurt. It was the only time any of the guards had even looked at her. A suspicion blossomed in her mind. “Are you a friend of Juan Garcia Riviera?” Cleo asked hopefully.
The guard laughed, shook his head and left. Exhausted, Cleo sat against the wall and tried to block out the world.
Two shifts changes after, one of the guards called her out of the cell again. Cleo hesitated for a long moment. She was terrified of stepping into the corridor but when he opened the door saying, “Medico,” and pointing to her elbows, she realised he was taking her to see a doctor. Nervously, she stepped out.
To her relief, he conducted her through the dingy corridors to a fairly clean looking medical surgery where a tired looking doctor wearing a stethoscope and a rumpled suit greeted her in an offhand way. With the bored guard looking on, he examined her grazed elbows, painted them with iodine and gave her a shot.
Cleo wondered at the special treatment and then decided it must be because she was English. Maybe the consulate would complain if they let her get gangrene.
“Estomago?” the doctor asked. When Cleo looked blank, he clutched his stomach.
“Oh,” Cleo said. “Bad.” She mimed cramps until he nodded knowingly. He produced some pills and handed them to her. Cleo swallowed them immediately. Anything that would cure her diarrhoea was welcome.
After that, she was poked and prodded in an efficient way. Finally, he took a bit of blood and motioned for her to pee into a cup. After being in the cell, Cleo didn’t expect privacy so she was taken aback when the doctor pulled a curtain across a corner of the room and left her to it.
I’ve become an animal, Cleo thought in horror.
When she was done, she asked the doctor if he knew Juan out of sheer habit but she wasn’t surprised when he shrugged without interest. She was jolted though when he handed her an extra packet of contraceptive pills.
Cleo stared at it and then shrugged; Ffrench must have mentioned it. The doctor mistook her surprise for hesitancy, so she showed him the pack she had in her jeans pocket. He nodded and smiled, signalling they were the same. Cleo didn’t care if they were or not. She was determined to keep taking them; she couldn’t face the idea of having her period in this hellhole.
When the doctor looked at her for a long moment, dug about in his bag and presented her with a bar of chocolate, Cleo almost cried. Kindness and compassion seemed to belong to another world. One she was no longer a member of.
When the guard conducted her back to the cell, Cleo resisted the temptation to barter the food for coke. She ate the chocolate but an hour later she really regretted it. Whatever the medico had given her for her stomach hadn’t worked yet; she spent the rest of the morning hunched over the open drain.
To her surprise the morning guard turned up again later that day, quite out of shift, looked at her and gave her more pills, a sandwich and a bottle of water. As the other girls in the cell stared at her enviously, Cleo took the pills and drank the water but she swapped the sandwich for coke. She felt she needed the boost.
When she came down and her stomach finally settled, Cleo sat in the cell and dozed as much as she could. Every second shift, the guard would appear and hand her water and food. Cleo drank the water religiously and tried to eat. Although the diarrhoea had gone, she threw up most of what she ate. Feeling miserable, she swapped every second meal for coke. With the never-ending turnover of girls, the supply of blow was never-ending too.
Cleo saw the guards knew all about it but they didn’t care. As long as the girls didn’t riot, they could do whatever they liked.
Most of the girls were regulars. They just sat and waited for someone to bail them out, or quickly made arrangement with the guards. Those who negotiated mostly disappeared into the corridor but, on one occasion, the guards lined up three girls outside the cell and took turns. Cleo was beyond horrified at the scene. She was numb.
She also stopped worrying about being raped. Clearly Ffrench had said something to warn the guards off because they ignored her completely unless they were giving her packages from the embassy. Ffrench wasn’t just sending her water and food. On three occasions, the guards brought her a clean T-shirt and knickers. Cleo put them on but as she couldn’t wash, it didn’t make much difference.
Cleo counted shifts in twos so she could take her pills but realised she had lost count of the days. She might have been there a week or a month. She felt disconnected. Even her eyes were playing tricks on her; strange rainbows danced at the edge of her vision.
When Ffrench turned up again to announce her trial had been fast-tracked, Cleo was filthy and high.
Ffrench looked at her in disapproval. “The newspapers are reporting this story,” he announced. “They have picked up on your record.”
“What record?” Cleo asked surprised.
“You were prosecuted for indecent exposure and soliciting.”
Much to Ffrench’s disapproval, Cleo giggled. “It was just a joke,” she explained. “I missed the last bus home and I didn’t have any money. So I flashed this bloke and asked him for a fiver. Turned out he was a religious nut. He complained and I was arrested. But I just got a fine. It was nothing.”
“It doesn’t help your case,” Ffrench said exasperated.
“It will be alright,” Cleo said, her optimism fuelled by coke.
“The newspapers are also filled wit
h pages showing you dancing. You’re nude in most of them.”
“It’s my job. It’s not illegal.”
Ffrench shrugged, visibly giving up. He pulled a letter out of his briefcase and handed it to Cleo. “I have a letter from your mother.”
“Anything from Juan?” Cleo twitched.
“No,” Ffrench said shortly. “You really should face facts. His brother Pedro has been arrested, you know.”
“What? Why?”
“When the police went to see him about your hotel bill, they found him snorting cocaine with two hookers. He was charged with possession.”
“Ohmigod!” Cleo exclaimed. “Juan must blame me! That’s why he hasn’t come!”
“The Garcia Rivieras are drug peddlers,” Ffrench said quietly.
“No way!” Cleo shouted furiously. “You’re just prejudiced! Everybody always thinks that all Colombians are pushers! It’s just not true!”
“I can see there is no point in talking to you,” Ffrench snapped. He stood up and left abruptly. So abruptly that Cleo didn’t have time to thank him for the food, the bottled water, the medicine and the clothes.
When she got back to the cell, she tried to think how she could explain things to Juan. He must have thought that she had tried to smuggle coke and then got his brother into trouble too. No wonder he had abandoned her. But how could she get in touch with him?
Still high, Cleo couldn’t think straight. Eventually she gave up trying to figure it out. She decided to read her mother’s letter. The moment she opened it, she was glad Ffrench hadn’t stayed to watch her read it.
Her mum wrote fulsomely about her disappointing daughter, said she was a bad example to her half brothers and informed her that her new husband had forbidden Cleo any further contact with the family. Cleo would have to reap what she had sown, her mum wrote. Her family had cast her off.
For the first time, Cleo sat down and cried. When a guard appeared later with sandwiches, she swapped them all for coke. There didn’t seem much point in anything anymore. To her utter surprise, the guard came back an hour later and motioned her out of the cell along with several of the women who’d come in the night before.
Half a dozen guards herded them across a courtyard and into a building that lay on the other side. Ushered into a large room complete with dock and judge Cleo suddenly realised she was in a courthouse. A short dapper looking man in an immaculate pinstriped suit greeted her by name.
“Trial,” he said with a toothy smile. “Fast track.”
“Oh good,” Cleo said. The coke was giving her a nice edge. Now she could explain what had happened and it might still be ok.
“Where is Señor Martinez? The abogado?”
He made a movement with his hand, indicating the lawyer was absent. “I am lawyer,” he announced.
“And where is Ffrench?”
“Who?”
“Never mind, let’s go.” Cleo’s cheerfulness dipped when she realised this lawyer’s English didn’t seem to be very good. But when he stood next to her in court, and spoke at length to the judge, she felt that this was better than rotting in the cell. At least she’d have a chance to speak. To explain it was all a mistake.
At length the judge looked at her. “It was your suitcase?” he asked in excellent English.
“Yes, but I didn’t know what was in it,” Cleo said. “This is all a terrible mistake.” She explained what had happened. “So you see it is all a misunderstanding. I didn’t even know it was there.”
The judge nodded and smiled at her.
Thank God, Cleo thought. He understands.
The judge spoke at length in Spanish and banged his gavel on the desk.
The lawyer leaned over and smiled. “The judge is very ‘appy because you admit everything and cause no trouble. He give you minimum sentence.”
Cleo stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“Eight years!” the lawyer beamed.
Cleo screamed.
Chapter Three
The prison bus was crammed with women. They drove through the town and out into the countryside before finally stopping at some huge gates. Exhausted, Cleo stumbled out and stood next to the others. The sun was blazing hot. The concrete concentrated the glare and heat.
Cleo stood listlessly as a man in uniform with a luxuriant moustache trotted over and yelled at them. When he finally finished, Cleo felt faint from the heat. She went blindly with the rest as the guards herded everyone inside.
Cleo was clutching a plastic bag filled with her spare knickers and T-shirts, all of them filthy. Nobody even looked at it. There was the lightest of pat downs before the women were pushed into the jail and the doors locked behind them. No uniforms were issued; everyone was dressed in their own clothes. The guards inside just shoved them through corridors and finally into large cells.
Cleo had thought the police cells were hideous; this was ten times worse. Most of the available space was filled with bunk beds, all heaving with occupants. More women were sitting on the concrete floors. Cleo ended up on the floor squashed between two thin women who stank of sweat. Thanks to the dirt, mosquitoes and flies flew everywhere.
After what seemed like several years, the cell door opened. A prisoner wearing a whistle round her neck screamed out orders. Cleo lurched out, following the others mindlessly as they were led to some communal showers.
As each woman was only given three minutes, Cleo hardly had the time to undress and get under the water. Still stinking, and wet too because she had no towel, she followed the group into a large canteen. The food was just as disgusting as it had been in the jail. She couldn’t even choke it down. The noise, dirt and insects were unbearable. To her surprise, some of the noise came from kids running around. Apart from everyone wearing their own clothes, it appeared they could also keep their children with them.
Cleo sat up against a wall until they were all herded back to the cell again. Overwhelmed with misery, she found a small corner on the floor and sat silently, numbly, until darkness fell. Unlike the police cells, prison lights were turned low at night. Cleo tried to sleep but the sounds of the children crying and dozens of women talking meant she could only doze.
When daylight broke, Cleo felt as if she’d only closed her eyes for a few seconds; however, she’d slept long enough for someone to snitch her bag. Now all she had were the clothes she wore.
To her horror, a fight broke out. Two women slashed at each other with combs sharpened to hold knife-like edges. Each time they connected, blood spurted. Cleo kept out of the way, terrified at the viciousness of it. Nobody interfered. The winner finally stood up, bloodied with victory, caught Cleo’s horrified gaze and snarled at her. Cleo hastily looked away. This was a living nightmare.
When they were taken out of the cell again for a three-minute shower and breakfast, Cleo managed to wet her hair and no more. She took one look at the grey oily soup in the big tureens and decided she wasn’t hungry. She sat silently until the whistles began again. This time they were marched into a large cemented exercise yard. It was filled with chattering women.
Cleo didn’t understand one word of the wall of noise but she was very much aware of the unfriendly glances whenever she came too close to anyone. She felt very alone and very foreign. She knew someone was going to come gunning for her soon. Cleo shivered; she had never been in a fight in her life.
It was hopeless; she couldn’t stand this anymore. Cleo looked around and headed back to the cell. She hoped it would be empty but it was still crowded. There were high bars reaching all the way to the ceiling. Cleo looked up. Maybe if she tied her jeans in a knot, she could hang herself.
She was wondering if anyone would interfere when a guard appeared and put a hand on her shoulder. She said something Cleo didn’t understand but the inference was clear; she was to follow her. Cleo was marched down the long corridors and finally out through some locked gates.
Cleo was half hoping it would be news from the embassy. Surely Ffrench would have heard by now
what had happened. Maybe she could appeal. The other half of her feared he’d come to tell her that she was on her own now.
The guard pushed Cleo into a small room and closed the door behind her.
A tall man stood by the window. His dark looks and pale eyes were faintly familiar.
“Sit down, Cleo.” He looked her over. “You don’t remember me,” he observed.
Cleo looked up hopefully. “Are you a friend of Juan’s?”
“No. My name is Weir, Connor Weir.”
He must be from the embassy. “I didn’t do it,” Cleo said nervously. “There was this huge misunderstanding. The lawyer didn’t speak English.”
He shrugged. “You wouldn’t expect an English lawyer to speak Spanish, would you?”
“If you don’t give a shit, why are you here?” Cleo snapped.
“I have a proposition.” Now he looked at her, he wasn’t so sure. She looked terrible. Her auburn hair hung limply around her face, her skin was dull and her eyes were so ringed from exhaustion that they looked bruised. From her shaking, sweating body, it was clear she was still on coke. She’d been in jail for three weeks; it should have been time enough to help her get clean. He realised she must have swapped the clothes and food he’d sent to her for coke. That argued a distinct lack of self-preservation - and intelligence. It wasn’t a good sign.
The impact of their surroundings didn’t help either. The iron bars everywhere, the sense of being caged and the smell of hundreds of unwashed people crammed together was unsettling. Briefly he wondered if he should just get up and leave. But he’d gone too far with this already. He’d bribed the guards to get supplies to her and to ensure she was left alone, paid for a doctor to get a proper medical and used up a lot of favours getting all the paperwork in place before having her case fast tracked. No, he’d thought this through properly. He would take it through to the end.
Cleo wondered why he was just sitting there, looking at her. “What proposition?” she asked him impatiently.
“I live a few hours up the road, in the country.”