Leaving the prison is, perhaps understandably, much harder than entering. By the time we finally depart Naomi’s cell it’s lunchtime for the inmates. The salty smell of cooking is even stronger as we make our way back out through the winding corridors and staircases, and it invades my nostrils and mingles nauseatingly with my own hunger. I follow Marion obediently, clasping against my chest the crumpled brown envelope Naomi had thrust into my hands as we left, containing an assortment of letters from her father and good conduct certificates issued to her by the prison. Four different guards stop us on our way out, asking who we are, who we came to visit, and insisting on seeing the ugly black ink stamps that were branded on to our wrists by the guard on the door when we entered, shortly before he stole our chocolate.
I try not to stop and imagine what would have happened if we had been unable to show them.
‘Visiting hours normally finish at eleven,’ explains Marion. ‘They’re naturally suspicious of two foreign women still lurking around long after that time.’
I realise in shock we have been inside the prison for over three hours.
We finally make it to the threshold and freedom, and I feel an almost overwhelming sense of relief as I step out of the black iron doorway on to the street. The sky is overcast, and I realise it’s the first time since we arrived in Ecuador that it has been anything other than clear sparkling blue. In just the few steps to the car it blackens even more, the premature darkness casting weird shadows around us as a rumble of thunder echoes close overhead.
‘Quick – it’s going to pour!’ As the first specks of rain fall, Marion does an awkward little trot to the car and hurriedly scrabbles for the lock, but I linger behind, actually wanting to feel the rain on my face. I can tell within seconds it’s going to become a torrential downpour, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to run down the street enjoying the freedom of the rainstorm in a way I have not done since childhood, and the women inside the prison maybe never will.
‘Kirsty – what are you doing?’ Marion calls through the open chink of car window.
‘Just coming!’ I shout back as the freezing, refreshing rain starts lashing down, soaking me in seconds. I surrender myself to it and turn my face up to the sky, letting the furious drops of water pummel my face and blur my vision and block my ears.
‘Woooooooooo!’ I yell, opening my arms up to the rain, filled with a sudden, intense elation at having survived a foray into the depths of a foreign prison. It’s like the day my cousin and I did the skydive then went out and got really drunk afterwards, so happy were we to still be alive. I spin on the spot with my face lifted to the sky, knowing I look crazy, but I don’t care. I hear Marion shouting something at me from the car, but for a moment I’m oblivious to her, completely swept up in the euphoric sense of freedom that comes from suddenly not caring about the cold or my hair or what anyone might think.
Then I hear a car door slam and see Marion has actually got out and is battling to open a bright-purple polkadot umbrella against the downpour as she trots over to a car parked in front of ours, yelling what sounds like ‘Sebastian! Sebastian!’
A man in a dark suit, standing under a black umbrella, has just got out of the car and seems to be standing in suspended animation, one foot slightly raised from the ground, as he crosses the pavement towards the prison. I think he might have been staring at me and my outburst. Feeling a bit silly now, I stumble after Marion as she catches him up, puffing.
Their umbrellas collide as they awkwardly embrace and cheek-kiss.
‘I didn’t know you were coming today!’ Marion is exclaiming breathlessly, shouting to be heard over the rain. ‘To see Naomi?’
‘Yes, not good news, that translator has only gone and…’ He trails off as I duck under the umbrella next to Marion, dripping.
‘Oh, and this is Kirsty!’ Marion shouts. ‘She’s visiting from the UK – we just saw Naomi together! Kirsty, this is Sebastian North, the British Consul!’
I step forward to carry out the obligatory cheek-kiss, the rain pounding over my head for a momentary flash as I pass from the shelter of one umbrella to another, then stand on tiptoe to reach his cheek. I catch a fleeting waft of aftershave and a glimpse of dark-green eyes, stubble and windswept black hair as our cheeks bump together politely for the briefest of seconds, then I duck back out of the umbrella and to the safety of Marion’s.
‘So, the translator has resigned and moved to Colombia!’ Sebastian says, presumably to Marion, but still looking at me. ‘I’ve got to tell Naomi, brought her a list of other options.’
‘Oh no… but we expected this. And actually…’ Marion also turns to look at me. ‘Did you mean that earlier, Kirsty? Perhaps you could give Seb your details?’
Even through the blurring rain I’ve noticed the look of real anguish on Sebastian’s face as he gave us the news about the translator. He really cares about Naomi, I think.
‘Kirsty!’ Marion cries, nudging me. ‘Come on! We’ve got to get out of this rain!’
‘What? Oh, sorry, yes…’ I realise Marion is talking about my offering to translate Naomi’s documents. Sebastian is from the embassy. This is my chance. Suddenly nervous, I fumble in my bag for a pen and scrap of paper to write my phone number down.
‘I studied law,’ I explain to Sebastian over the increasing thunder of the downpour, while rooting through make-up, phone, keys, ‘and I told Naomi I could do the translations… that is, if you want! I’m not sure my Spanish is good enough, but I could try.’ Finally, I locate an old receipt and a stub of black eyeliner pencil from the depths of my handbag. Pushing my dripping hair out of my face and resting the scrap of paper on Marion’s arm, I clumsily scribble my phone number on it with the eyeliner. I look up just in time to see Sebastian’s face break into a surprised, dazzling smile. I press the paper into his fist, his hand warm against my icy cold one, and hope he doesn’t notice the sudden childish flush rising up my cheeks. I’d seen my friends scrawl down their phone numbers for men many times, in bars, on beermats, even straight on to someone’s hand. I had always been the one hanging back, not knowing where to look. Yet here I am, writing my phone number in eyeliner for the British Consul in Ecuador. Despite the perfectly legitimate context, it feels somehow… audacious.
‘That’s amazing! Kirsty, thank you…’ Sebastian fumbles inside his jacket and almost drops the umbrella. ‘Here’s my card, too. I’ll call you to make arrangements!’
I take the card and plunge it safely into my back jeans pocket. After more awkward cheek-kissing and umbrella tangling, Marion and I finally make our escape to the car, and Sebastian jogs towards the prison entrance, his feet splashing up arcs of water.
Once we’re safely inside with the doors shut, I pull the interior mirror down to inspect my sodden appearance. My hair is sticking up in a tangled mop and there are rivulets of black mascara running down my cheeks. I close my eyes and slump back against the seat.
‘Are you okay?’ Marion turns to smile at me. The twinkly old lady from Liza’s kitchen is suddenly back. As we pull away and see the prison receding in the rear-view mirror, I get a sense of leaving Narnia and returning to the real world, the colour and activity of life resuming.
‘Yes… I’m fine,’ I say quietly, starting to shiver as an icy trail of water drips down the back of my T-shirt from my drenched hair. ‘Sorry… I’m completely soaking your car.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Marion says with a wave of her hand. ‘I know it can be a bit overwhelming, the first visit. Thank goodness Naomi’s other cellmates weren’t there, too. They must have stayed behind in the yard after the singing. When they’re all there together it can get a bit… rowdy!’
Other cellmates?
‘It’s not just… her and Victoria… in that room?’ I somehow manage to ask through my shock.
Marion is smiling sadly at the road ahead. ‘No, dear, there are four of them. And they’re lucky – in some other rooms on the same corridor they have five or six. Two to a bed, of course. But luckily, in Naomi’s cell, no one has to sleep on the floor.’
I remember the narrow single bunk beds, and try to imagine sharing one of them with another person. A person not of my choosing. Then having two more people in the one above or below me. And maybe someone else squashed into the tiny amount of floor space beside us.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Kirsty,’ Marion says. ‘It stays with me, too. But actually it’s incredible what support the women are to each other. There are fights, of course, but I’m always humbled by how all the girls pull together to help each other. In Naomi’s cell there’s another Ecuadorian, like Victoria, and an older lady from Romania. They all adore Naomi. I suppose she is very…’ Marion frowns and smiles at the same time, trying to find the words. ‘…Intense.’
I find myself smiling back. ‘Yes. I liked her.’ I realise as I say it that it’s true. I really did warm to her. She almost knocked me to the floor with the force of her bear-hug when I offered to translate her documents. I tried to explain I couldn’t guarantee anything, that my Spanish was still quite rusty, that I’m not even qualified to practise law yet, that they might not even let me do it and I would need to read through everything first… but I don’t think Naomi heard any of it. She just kept saying ‘thank you’ and ‘fuck’ and hugging me and wiping the tears from her face, before digging around under the bed and thrusting a crumpled envelope full of papers into my hands.
Marion is nodding. ‘She certainly has an effect on everyone she meets. Naomi has been through so much. She’s known more pain in her young life than I could ever imagine. Even after losing my John, before I sold up and moved out here, nothing I’ve been through can compare. A lot of the pain she brought on herself, of course… But I suppose that doesn’t make it any less painful.’
I turn to look at Marion as we crawl slowly forwards in the rain-induced traffic. ‘Why was she in Ecuador in the first place?’ I ask. ‘She said her little girl was only two when she got arrested… were they all here together, or what? And what made her get into… um, trouble?’ The questions I’ve had about Naomi ever since I first heard her name spoken at Liza’s kitchen table all come pouring out at once.
‘Naomi came here on her own.’ Marion keeps her eyes fixed on the road ahead of us and I get the impression she is choosing her words with care. ‘She’s what we refer to as a recruit. She came here to Ecuador with the specific purpose of trafficking drugs – it was all arranged before she even left London. I have no idea how she got into it. But from the little she’s told me… it’s easy enough to find these, er, opportunities if you know where to look, and if you’re desperate enough. And Naomi was.’
I realise too late my mouth is practically hanging open in disbelief as I listen to Marion.
‘Try not to judge her, my dear.’ Marion flicks a glance at me. ‘Please don’t ever tell her I told you this. But that relationship she was in… the ex she refers to. The father of her children. He was an abusive shit. Excuse my language,’ she crosses herself briefly, ‘but he really was. He used to hit her. She was desperate to escape him. That’s all she’s really told me but I understand the money she was offered to make one simple journey – or, that’s how it was sold to her – could have solved all her problems. One all-expenses-paid round trip to a far-off country. One meeting with a stranger and one terrible, enormous risk. Not to mention the guilt, of course. Naomi told me once, in a weak moment, how awful she felt lying to her parents and even her children, making arrangements to come to Ecuador for a few days. She’d never even tried drugs before. I know she comes across as a little – what would you say in England? Rough around the edges? But really she’s a good girl. She had no idea what she was getting into with all this business. But once you’ve got into it, it’s very hard to get out again.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, only half sure I want to hear the answer.
‘Well, once she got here there really was no going back. They arranged everything. Whoever they are, the people pulling the strings in these situations, paying others to take their risks for them. So once they’ve paid your ticket out here, you have to go through with it. Naomi told me she wanted to change her mind – chicken out, do the right thing and come home – almost as soon as she got here. But they don’t let you. They took her passport and only agreed to give it back if she showed up at the airport with the package she was supposed to carry. They threatened to kill her. To find her family in London and kill them, too. It sounds like something from Breaking Bad, I know, but I swear there are people who operate like this in the real world. And poor Naomi was foolish and desperate enough to get involved with them.’ Marion’s voice is thick with sadness as she recounts Naomi’s story. ‘And the worst thing is, they were probably only using her as a decoy anyway, to distract the officials from a larger batch going through. They rarely trust inexperienced young girls like her with their big deals. So she got caught immediately.’
‘I would never judge her,’ I tell Marion fervently, swallowing back a confusing mixture of pity, revulsion, and even a little admiration at Naomi’s undeniable, although misguided, bravery. ‘And I meant it when I said I want to help her.’
A long, introspective silence extends between us as we make our slow, stop-start way across the streets of Quito. I realise one question I have about the prison has been left unspoken.
‘How did Victoria get pregnant?’ I ask, finally.
Marion hesitates a second before answering. ‘In the usual way, I should imagine.’ The corners of her mouth are twitching and she doesn’t take her eyes off the road to answer me.
I look down at my hands, feeling ridiculous.
‘There are a handful of pregnant women in the prison at any given time,’ Marion explains, more kindly. ‘It could be their visiting husbands or boyfriends from the outside, or from their regular visits to the male prison. They’re allowed once a month, under police escort, if they demonstrate good behaviour. You see, many of the women here have partners inside the male prison.’
The sensation of strength and independence I had as I left the prison has now well and truly deserted me, leaving me feeling like a silly child, totally out of place in this new world of deals, decoys and police escorts. I stare dumbly at the windscreen wipers swishing furiously back and forth in front of me, the rain teeming against them even more violently.
‘Sometimes, of course, it’s rape,’ Marion finishes, matter-of-factly, reaching over to flick on the demist button on the dashboard. ‘But one thing’s for sure – it’s never planned.’
‘But where do they… what about the babies?’ I ask, wondering at the same time whether I want to know the answer.
‘The women are taken out to a local public hospital to give birth,’ Marion explains. ‘They receive due medical care, until they and the baby are able to leave hospital. Under constant police guard, of course. Then the babies stay with them in the prison until they reach three years of age. After that they go to a family member on the outside – if they’re fortunate. If not, it’s social services.’
‘Fuck,’ I whisper, then clap my hand over my mouth as soon as the word is out. ‘Sorry! Marion, I…’
‘It’s okay, honey.’ She smiles. ‘It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?’
I have fantasised so many times about pregnancy and motherhood. My daydreams usually involve gushing visitors and sparkly blue or pink cards on the mantelpiece, shopping for baby clothes with my mum, Harry squeezing my hand with tears in his eyes as we hear our baby’s very first cry. I have never considered how different everything would be if pregnancy were your worst nightmare. Apart from a brief period in my teens, when some of my friends at college had ‘scares’ and we all sat huddled over that little plastic stick anxiously awaiting the results, talking about how their lives would be ‘over’ if it were positive. But even then I felt somehow removed from the situation. I hadn’t even had a boyfriend yet, so my friends’ fears of pregnancy didn’t apply to me, and by the time I started going out with Harry I already knew how much I wanted it.
Would I rather give birth while in prison and be forced to hand over my child to the authorities, or… never become a mother? A hypothetical question, and totally impossible to answer. Something like that could never happen to me. I wouldn’t break the law and get into that position. I imagine it happening to Naomi, on top of everything else, and squeeze my eyes shut at the horror of it.
‘I meant what I said about doing the translations, you know,’ I say fervently. ‘I’ll buff up on my Spanish, give it my really best shot. I want to help get her out of there.’
Marion is smiling. ‘That’s wonderful, dear. If you’re really sure, give Seb a call. He’s spent so much time trying to organise these translations for Naomi, but it’s been a nightmare. Local legal translators are real unreliable. So I know he must be thrilled by your offer to help.’
‘Yes, I will,’ I mumble, feeling another blush threatening my cheeks, and suddenly aware of the business card burning a hole in my back pocket. ‘He seems very… nice.’
Marion turns briefly and grins at me. ‘Oh, Seb is wonderful. A real dish. All the girls adore him. Of course. He goes in to pay his consular visits to Naomi and nearly gets eaten alive by all the others, poor bastard.’
For a moment I’m rendered speechless by Marion’s use of the word ‘bastard’ and the sudden, vivid image of Sebastian North getting his dark suit ripped off by a gaggle of voracious female prisoners.
‘He’s actually a very good person as well,’ Marion continues, her face suddenly serious. ‘Probably… too good.’
Well, he was certainly not what I had expected the British Consul to look like. I’m not sure what I would have expected… someone older, balding, less friendly? But even so, just the talk of consuls and embassies reminds me this is no university coursework; these are real, official documents with actual, legal implications for a person’s life.
Can I really do this? A chorus of self-doubt floods my mind. Mostly in my father’s voice.
‘And how do they all know Gabi so well?’ I ask, desperate to distract myself. I remember the tightly folded letter Naomi had given Marion for Gabi at the end of our visit, and how several other prisoners, including the pregnant Victoria, had asked after her as we left. ‘She seems so well loved. Is it from her involvement in the charity?’
‘Oh, that’s a question for Gabriela herself, I think, dear,’ Marion says kindly, yet in a tone that makes it very clear the subject is closed.
‘Ah… okay.’ Feeling silly yet again, I turn to look out of the window and realise we’re very close to the part of town where Harry’s language school is. He’d told me it was only about ten minutes away from our flat at Liza and Roberto’s, very near the central bus station, which we have just driven past. What time had he said he was working today? Nine until twelve? I realise he will have got home ages ago, and will be wondering where I am.
As we slow down at a crossroads I suddenly spot the bright blue-and-red lettering of ‘Language Leap: Leap Your Way to Fluent English’ shining in the rain on the front of a building opposite. I press my nose up against the window and think I can even see Luke, behind the reception desk with his feet up on the counter. I sigh to myself. Harry definitely will have expected me to get back long before him. A small, logical voice inside me tells me this shouldn’t be a problem, but nevertheless I have a feeling it will be, judging by his overall attitude to my involvement with the prison visiting so far. This morning, when I’d been up and showered and ready to go before Harry had even finished breakfast, he had become grumpier with every passing minute until Marion’s horn finally sounded outside, signalling for me to leave.
‘I still don’t get why you’re so keen on doing this,’ he muttered over his cereal as I bent to kiss him goodbye, determined to rise above the tension emanating from him and filling the apartment.
‘Well, I am, okay?’ I told him as cheerfully as I could manage, before fleeing outside to Marion’s waiting car, and not looking back.
I didn’t really understand what Harry’s problem was. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to let it stop me.
***
But now, as I climb the steps back to the apartment, I can’t help being filled with a sinking feeling at the reaction awaiting me. Just as I am about to slide my key into the lock, the door swings open and Harry is standing there, frowning down at me.
‘Where have you been?’ he asks irritably. ‘You said visiting time finished at eleven – I thought you’d be back ages ago!’
I knew it. Edging past him into the flat, we sidestep each other like two swordsmen preparing for a duel.
‘We took longer than expected, and stayed past visiting hours.’
‘But you’re soaked!’ he exclaims indignantly, looking at me as if I’d just walked in after five years away at war, not a morning’s prison visit. ‘What the hell were you doing in there?’
I suddenly think of Naomi and her fake swagger. I take a deep breath and force myself to meet Harry’s eyes.
‘I actually had a really interesting time, and have agreed to help one of the prisoners.’ I nudge past him and kick off my sodden shoes by the door. ‘That means I’ll definitely be going back there. I know you don’t agree with me doing this, but then I wasn’t too thrilled either when you got a job here and now spend half your time at the language school.’ I ignore the look of spreading shock on Harry’s face.
We stare each other out across the breakfast bar, until he eventually lowers his gaze.
I take a deep breath and consciously make my voice softer, more conciliatory.
‘I think it’s only fair for me to have an interest as well, if you’re out almost every morning at the school. And I am actually really excited about this… the girl I met today, Naomi, is trying to appeal to be released early and go home to the UK, and I’m going to try and help her…’ I trail off as I realise Harry has turned away from me and sat down at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.
‘Harry?’ I walk around the kitchen table so he’s forced to look at me again. ‘Seriously, what’s going on?’
Harry slides his chair back abruptly and gets up, turning to switch on the kettle and pull a mug from the cupboard, avoiding my eyes again.
‘Nothing, Kirst. Sorry. I just…’ His voice lowers a notch, so I can barely hear him. ‘I just feel like I don’t recognise you at the moment.’
I stand rooted to the spot behind him, momentarily lost for words.
‘You don’t recognise me?’ My voice is filled with incredulity. I can barely believe he is saying this. After all the surprises he has sprung on me lately!
Harry puts the mug down on the counter a little harder than necessary. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ He’s staring at me dumbly, looking as if he genuinely doesn’t get it. I stride over to the counter and face him, my feeling of indignation growing.
‘What I mean is… how do you think I feel? We come here to go travelling, then within only a day of arriving you change the rules and get a job – yes, I know it’s only temporary, and yes, I did agree to support you in it – but now I’ve found something to interest me as well and pass the time while we’re here, instead of supporting me in return, or even – God forbid – taking the slightest interest in it with me… you say you don’t recognise me?’ I stop for breath, feeling my determination grow with every word. ‘So, I just want one thing to be clear. For as long as we stay in Quito – I am not giving up on this. I promised today to help someone, and I fully intend to do so.’ I stare back at Harry, daring him to say something. He doesn’t. I let out a deep breath, feeling a sense of release at finally getting all that out. ‘Okay then. I’m going to have a shower.’
Before the bathroom door closes behind me I get a fleeting glimpse of Harry standing with an empty coffee mug in his hand and his mouth half-open in shock.
Ten minutes later, I come out of the bathroom to find the apartment silent and empty. Then I spot something on the kitchen worktop.
There’s a note in Harry’s familiar scrawl, next to a rapidly cooling mug of coffee and a plate bearing two little round yellow yucca cakes, Liza’s speciality. I pop one in my mouth and enjoy its warm, spongey texture as I read the note.
Sorry for being a grumpy prat. Liza’s made yucca bread for lunch, come downstairs. Love H xxx
Even as I read I feel my anger towards Harry dissipating as fast as it came. He might have been inexplicably off with me about visiting the prisons ever since I first voiced the idea, but at least now he’s apologised. Everything is going to be okay.
But instead of heading straight downstairs, I go over to my handbag and pull out my phone, finally deciding to do something that has been at the back of my mind, pressing for my attention, ever since we left the prison earlier. Ever since I heard Naomi’s heartfelt longing when she talked about going home. When she talked about her father.
I clutch the phone in my hands, staring at its blank screen, properly realising for the first time the power held by this tiny device – the power to cause conflict and distance, or… to reach out.
I scroll through my contacts list until I find his name. Casting aside the fact that we never talk this way, that given the time difference he might be asleep already, that I am not even sure whether it is still his number… I hit ‘dial’.