It takes me two bus journeys and a taxi ride to reach the British Embassy. To my utter horror the first bus doesn’t even fully stop to collect its passengers, meaning I have to jog slightly to keep up with it then grab on to its greasy metal handrail and haul myself aboard, before it instantly picks up speed again and pulls back out into the early-morning traffic. Within seconds a young man is holding his hand out and demanding payment. I fumble clumsily in my pocket, heart still pounding from my perilous ascent, before handing him a pile of change and ignoring the tuts of fellow passengers trying to push past me to get to a seat.
By the time I catch the second bus I’m more prepared, with the quarter-dollar coin for my fare already held tightly in my palm as I scramble up the steps. I even summon the courage to firmly push past the cluster of other passengers by the doors at the front, and weave my way to the back of the bus to the one remaining free seat. I find myself right in the middle of a group of teenage students who keep staring at me, whispering and giggling, as if being the only blonde-haired, obviously foreign woman on the bus makes me a form of circus attraction.
By the time I’ve stumbled off the bus again and hailed a taxi by virtually standing in the path of oncoming traffic with my arm outstretched, argued with the driver over the fare, won, and been deposited at my destination, I feel like I could survive anything. Now all I have to do is work out which of the many tall, shiny buildings surrounding me is the British Embassy.
‘I wouldn’t get that out in the street around here, love,’ says a voice to my left, making me jump about a foot in the air and instinctively shove my purse back into the depths of my handbag. ‘Just warning you – it’ll be snatched in an instant.’ The middle-aged woman dispensing this advice pats me on the arm and continues walking without looking back.
I stare disbelievingly at my surroundings. This must be one of the most affluent parts of Quito – the wide, perfectly tarmacked road lined on either side with enormous palm trees, and shiny office buildings stretching up into the blue sky behind them. They’re not quite skyscrapers, but they’re a world apart from the worn residential buildings in Liza and Roberto’s neighbourhood. I see the names of several international banks and insurance companies glinting off polished signs and flashing neon billboards around me.
Looming ahead is a glossy, brand-new-looking shopping centre. It could be any mall back home except for the tall palm trees lining the road outside, which only serve to make it look more luxurious and elegant. Well-dressed businessmen and women bustle past, coffee-to-go cups clutched in their hands and mobile phones to their ears… then I spot the little old lady, wrapped in the bright colours of the Quichua indigenous fabrics, huddled on the floor, her hand extended in supplication, toothless mouth moving wordlessly.
I give her two dollars then keep walking, but more hesitantly now, clutching my handbag closely to me. As I approach the shopping centre the colourful illuminated signs of several global brands come into focus: Zara, Ted Baker, Tiffany & Co. An outdoor seating area is filled with the lively chatter of well-dressed people eating breakfast.
I stop and pull out the crumpled piece of paper with Sebastian’s email printed on it. Running my eyes down the checklist of items he’s asked me to bring – passport, copies of my qualifications, Spanish-language certificate from uni – I check the address again. ‘Millennium Building’, near ‘El Palmero’ Shopping Centre.
‘Excuse me…’ I edge up to one of the uniformed, armed guards standing outside the Tiffany’s store. ‘Which one of these is, um, Millennium Building, please?’ The guard arches his eyebrows at me in what I think he intends to be an intimidating gesture, except it doesn’t quite work because he is nearly a foot shorter than me, and slowly raises his arm to point at the building right next to us.
‘Oh, great, thanks!’ I reply, but the guard isn’t listening as he has turned away to shout angrily at a small child I hadn’t even noticed hovering beside us. I watch in horror as the little boy, no older than five and wearing filthy, ragged clothes, almost drops the wooden box he is carrying in his hurry to get away from the guard’s stream of unrepeatable Spanish. As he scrambles frantically on the floor to pick up the contents of the box, I realise they are shoe-cleaning brushes, and the stains on his T-shirt are from black and brown shoe polish.
‘You shouldn’t be working around here, now GET LOST!’ yells the guard, but the child is already sprinting away, zigzagging among the tables of well-dressed breakfasters. He seems completely invisible to them, but I know he will remain etched in my memory for ever. I shoot the guard a filthy look, then stalk off towards Millennium Building.
It’s at least fifteen storeys high and surrounded by even more armed guards than the Tiffany’s store. I draw up cold a few feet away, suddenly filled with nerves and remembering Harry still fast asleep in the apartment. I can hardly believe what I did this morning – slip out before he woke up, leaving a note by the bed. Just the briefest explanation that I’m going to the British Embassy to talk to them about Naomi. I can’t help but feel a little thrill of excitement. I bet he wasn’t expecting that. He won’t like it, that much I know, but in a strange way it feels kind of good to be standing here about to do it anyway.
‘But they’re CRIMINALS,’ he’d suddenly burst out last night, as I sat at the table with papers spread out around me, leafing furiously through Liza’s Spanish dictionary, determined to put the finishing touches to the almost-finished translation of Naomi’s certificates before my appointment at the embassy today. ‘I don’t know why you can’t do something fun – go out, do some sightseeing – while I’m at work.’
I had gone out – I’d met Gabi for lunch and gone for a walk in the park with Liza, and sunbathed on the roof terrace – but the urgency of my promise to help Naomi always overtook me, motivating me to press on with the translations to get as much done as possible before my meeting with Sebastian.
‘You said you’d support me, remember?’ I had replied pointedly, thinking back to our spat when I returned from the prison visit just days ago, and Harry’s apology. Okay, he hadn’t actually said it in THOSE words, but he HAD apologised…
‘All right, all right, sorry,’ Harry had huffed, his apology sounding a lot less sincere than the last one. Even though the last one had only been a note. ‘I just… don’t get it, that’s all.’
‘You don’t have to get it,’ I reminded him. Even though it would be nice if you did. ‘You just have to stop complaining about it.’ Then I had buried myself in the dictionary again, my determination only stronger.
Harry had muttered something to himself then, something about ‘having a lot to deal with at the moment’, but I chose to ignore it and determinedly didn’t even look up from the papers. Just how much can he have on his mind, really, when we’re here on holiday and he’s doing a job he took on a voluntary basis and claims to enjoy? Plus the fact that, if he really wanted my support with something, he should come out and say it to me straight, instead of muttering under his breath.
Now, standing outside the British Embassy, I look up at the impressive building and feel my confidence waver.
Can I really do this? Once you go in, there’s no turning back, I think, wondering for the hundredth time whether I am terribly out of my depth. This is the British Embassy, you can’t just walk in and waste their time… Then I remember Naomi’s hopeful face, and Marion’s encouragement, and the pleased surprise in Sebastian’s voice when I phoned him. He’d sounded genuinely delighted that someone wanted to help Naomi.
Ignore Harry and just go in… you’ve made it this far. Three weeks ago, the thought of taking two buses to the other side of Quito on my own would have terrified me. But then, three weeks ago I had never been inside a prison.
***
I have to take my shoes off and walk through an X-ray machine, then stand cringing while another grumpy security guard opens my handbag and rummages through the notebooks, pens, tissues, tampons and make-up items inside. He doesn’t seem to believe me when I tell him I’m here to see the British Consul, making a raised-eyebrow, ‘yeah right’ expression as he yanks a phone receiver to his ear and impatiently punches out a number on the keypad in front of him, his eyes never leaving my face.
‘Señor Cónsul? Yes, there’s a girl here saying she’s… oh, really?’ He frowns, and I risk the beginnings of a triumphant smile. ‘Morgan, yes,’ he continues, scowling down at my passport in his hand. ‘I see. Okay.’ He turns his scowl back to me, and my smile widens. ‘He wants to talk to you.’ The guard thrusts the receiver into my hand with a huffing noise and turns away to carry on watching the wall of CCTV screens beside him.
‘Kirsty – I do apologise.’ Sebastian’s warm voice fills my ear. ‘Humberto has always been bad-tempered. He’s a good sort really, but…’ – his voice lowers a notch – ‘he’s been having some… domestic problems lately. So we all need to be a bit patient with him.’ I flick a nervous glance at the security guard, now frowning crossly at one of the screens showing two cleaning ladies who have stopped for a chat in a corridor somewhere. ‘So don’t pay any attention to him. Come on up, tenth floor.’
I gratefully pass the phone back to Humberto, flashing him what I hope is a comforting smile, then flee towards the lifts before he changes his mind.
I should have worn a suit, is my last panicked thought before the lift doors ping open on the tenth floor.
The first thing I see is the famous lion and unicorn logo and the words Consulado Británico embossed in gold writing above them. Yet another security guard sits at a small table beside the door, with a big sign-in book open on the desk before him, and he scrolls his finger down the list of names, presumably appointments, searching for mine. Before he can locate me, the door swings open and Sebastian is standing there, beaming, holding the door open wide and gesturing for me to go through.
‘But what about—’
Sebastian waves his hand dismissively at the guard and smiles at me again. ‘Don’t worry – I told him I was expecting you. I hope your journey here was okay, and you didn’t have any problems finding us?’
I start to reply, then find myself rendered speechless by his tie. Vivid purple, it has silver sparkly musical notes embossed all down the middle in a jaunty line, and a big plastic button at the bottom in the shape of an electric guitar, flashing yellow and purple light.
Following my gaze, Sebastian bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, that!’ He flicks at the tie with his hand, looking embarrassed. ‘God, I forgot to warn you. Sorry – it’s Theme Day today. A charity thing we do here once a month at the embassy, always on Fridays when we’re closed to the public.’ He stops to run his hands through his hair. ‘Can’t believe I asked you to come today of all days…’ He chuckles awkwardly and looks genuinely mortified. ‘It’s been going for years – everyone comes to work in fancy dress for the day and donates some money to our designated charity – this time it’s a local school. The themes have to be something typically British… last month it was Great British Sporting Heroes. Today it’s Rock ‘n’ Roll.’
‘Ah… I see.’
‘Some people get really into it. Like Diana, on reception.’ As we cross the small reception area towards the main entrance, Sebastian waves. A portly older woman, wearing a vast frizzy Led Zeppelin wig, raises her hand to us in solemn salute from behind the desk.
‘In the back office they don’t have any day-to-day contact with the public, you know – HR and Press Management and Counterterrorism – all their work is desk-based. So on Theme Day, they can go really wild. Diego from Accounts is dressed as Geri Halliwell, in that awful Union Jack dress from the Spice Girls. Which is ridiculous, really, as they’re hardly Rock ‘n’ Roll. They’re nineties Britpop.’
‘Um…. yes, indeed.’ I start to wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place and this is actually a loony bin.
Sebastian pulls a heavy wooden door open and indicates for me to go first. Instead of entering a room or corridor, I’m inside a small compartment, barely big enough for two people to stand side by side, empty except for a picture of the Prime Minister and another wooden door opposite me.
Without thinking I reach for it, but it doesn’t budge.
‘It’s an airlock,’ Sebastian explains, stepping into the confined space beside me. ‘I have to close this one before you can open that one. Government security precautions and all.’ We stand side by side for the two seconds it takes the door behind us to click shut, and I am close enough to notice the light hint of stubble on his jaw.
‘So… um… who are you supposed to be?’ I eye the hideous tie again, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
‘Ha, well, this was just a token, really. It’s harder for me, because I deal with the public, and a consular situation could come up at any time, so I have to tone it down a bit. It would be awful if someone came in with a real emergency – a mugging or kidnap – and the first thing they saw was me, dressed up as a Bee Gee or something.’
I blink. ‘Well, yes… quite.’
The door in front of us pings open, and we’re in a small waiting area with sofas, a small desk, potted plants and a water machine. A huge poster opposite shouts at me in capital letters to keep my passport safe and always use travel insurance, and another beside it asks in even bigger, violent red text ‘WHERE WOULD YOU TURN IF YOUR MENTAL HEALTH DETERIORATED ABROAD?’
Very good question, I decide as I pull the folder containing Naomi’s certificates from my bag, and realise my hands are shaking.
‘So… my apologies, but is your name Kirsty or Kristie?’ Sebastian asks. He’s looking at me intently across the desk where we have sat down. ‘I thought Marion introduced you as Kirsty… but then Liza and Roberto have been referring to you as Kristie…’
They’ve all been talking about me? I suddenly have goosebumps.
‘Sorry, yes, my name is actually Kirsty.’ I slide my passport across the table to him, feeling more and more like I’m attending a job interview. ‘But I soon realised I had the choice of being called “Krusty” by everyone, or resigning myself to being called Kristie or Christina for the rest of my stay here.’
Sebastian is laughing. ‘Yes, there are some names that just don’t translate. Luckily my parents chose one that is pronounced the same way in both countries.’
‘Are you British, then?’ I ask, feeling a bit silly. Seeing him properly for the first time now, unencumbered by umbrellas and Marion and torrential rain, he doesn’t look British – not with that caramel skin and jet-black hair. But his accent is perfect, more ‘Queen’s English’ than mine. And something about him doesn’t quite look Ecuadorian either. For a start, he’s far too tall. I’ve got used to towering over most people here, but just now, as I stood in my flats, this man was a good head taller than me. And no Ecuadorian or Brit I’ve ever met has eyes quite that colour – a really bright kind of amber green. I realise I’ve been holding eye contact for slightly too long as I try to figure this out. Feeling even sillier, I look down at my hands.
‘I have a British passport, yes,’ Sebastian says, seeming not to notice. ‘I was born in Portsmouth. My father was British, and my mother is from here, Quito.’ He seems to be wondering whether to carry on. I notice the past tense he uses to refer to his father.
‘We lived there until I was eight. Then things… went wrong, and my mother and I moved back here to Ecuador. So I am officially a dual national… a hybrid model.’ He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Wow… so… it must be great having a job where you can help other fellow citizens,’ I say stupidly, not really knowing what to say.
‘Ha, well… they’re all people going through the most distressing part of their lives, whether it’s a mugging or illness or even the death of a loved one.’ He frowns. ‘It is fantastic being able to help people. But let’s just say, in this job, I don’t always see people at their best.’
Don’t I know how that feels, I think, recalling my brief contact with the customers who have passed through Home from Home’s legal department over the years. I might not have much to do with them past the initial reception and, if there’s time, getting them a sneaky cup of tea and a biscuit before they’re taken through to be interviewed by the solicitors… but each person has stayed etched in my memory. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Sebastian, dealing with people in the midst of real crises on a daily basis in his job.
‘Have you met any other Brits since you arrived?’ he asks, oblivious to my train of thought.
I tell him about Ray and Gabriela, and our first night out in Quito with the other British people in the bar.
‘Ah yes. The Expat Scene.’
‘Something in your tone tells me that isn’t really your thing?’
‘Well, Ray and Gabriela are great people. Really special. But I don’t click with the rest of that crowd… I suppose I’m not really British, at least not to them. I haven’t lived there for over twenty years, so I can’t really join in their conversations about missing baked beans and EastEnders and buckets and spades.’
‘Buckets and spades?’ I can’t help snorting with laughter, then immediately regret it as he looks embarrassed.
‘Yeah, was that completely off target?’ Luckily Sebastian is laughing, too. ‘See, I have no idea what it means to be British. I get my ideas from postcards and Bond films and the members of the public who come through the door here, who definitely aren’t representative of normality…’ He stops and looks at me for a few seconds, frowns slightly, then says, ‘Excluding you, that is.’
I’m not quite sure how to take that.
‘I have been to the UK as an adult, but only for work trips and a holiday once or twice to visit my grandparents, before they died.’ He shrugs. ‘I guess I didn’t really fit in there. My dad remarried and has a whole new family, so I have little blond-haired, English half-brothers out there somewhere… I stopped going back to visit after a while.’
I feel a sudden, inexplicable affinity for this man, this stranger, sitting opposite me with his awful tie and English accent and latino good looks.
‘Sorry! I don’t know why I’m… telling you my… whole… er…’ Sebastian trails off as he realises I’m not listening anymore and am staring wide-eyed at the shelf behind his head.
‘Is that Galaxy chocolate?’
He looks a little sheepish. ‘Yeah… my aunt in Birmingham sends it over from time to time in the diplomatic bag. She’s the only one of my dad’s family who really bothers to keep in touch. I save the chocolate for the prisoners mostly. They love it. And I keep some in here for the really upset people, you know, those going through a crisis.’
I notice the chocolate is next to a pack of man-sized Kleenex tissues and a bag of PG Tips.
‘But I do help myself sometimes… would you… er… would you like some?’
My expression is all the answer he needs.
It’s ridiculous really. I’ve been here less than a fortnight but already I feel like a deprived castaway, miles removed from civilisation and decent chocolate. Like in that Leonardo DiCaprio film where they all live on a remote island in Thailand, then he goes on a trip back to the mainland and everyone else gives him a list of things they need – soap, teabags, batteries, ammunition.
My mouth embarrassingly full of chocolate, I finally force myself to remember what I came here for and produce Naomi’s folder from my handbag.
‘I really don’t know if I’m going to be much help,’ I apologise, suddenly feeling very silly and out of place. ‘My Spanish is a bit rusty and I’m actually not fully qualified to practise law in the UK… I have a law degree but haven’t yet, er, finished training…’ I stop, suddenly hearing how pathetic I sound. ‘But I’m here because I want to help Naomi,’ I finish, with more conviction, forcing myself to sit up a little straighter.
‘Hey,’ Sebastian says, his tone suddenly gentle. ‘I think it’s pretty amazing you’re here at all, on your holiday, offering to do boring legal stuff for a prisoner you’ve only just met.’
Detesting myself, I blush.
He looks at the copies of my qualifications, then reads through the certificates I have translated so far, frowning and nodding to himself, and I stupidly feel almost as nervous and self-conscious as I did the day I went out for lunch with my dad and his then girlfriend to tell them my A-level results. Except, this time, no one interrupts me in mid-sentence and calls the waiter over to order a cappuccino.
‘This is excellent.’ Sebastian has gone very serious again. ‘Honestly, I’ve seen some interesting attempts at translation in my time, from supposed professionals here. But this is spot-on, you’ve captured all the terminology perfectly. I hope you didn’t spend too much time on this?’
‘No, no, course not!’ I lie, with what I hope is a convincing smile. ‘So, what do we have to do next?’
Sebastian gives me about a hundred forms and confidentiality agreements to sign, and explains that, once all the documents are translated, I’ll have to go to a public notary and swear some kind of oath, then he’ll submit everything to the UK authorities.
‘Oh, and… I’m afraid… Naomi’s full sentence also needs translating,’ he informs me with a sympathetic wince, laying a voluminous document on the table between us. I leaf through it – forty-seven pages in total – and realise it would probably be half the size if not for the flowery legalese I have seen many times before in these types of documents at Home from Home, when checking through and proofreading them. Except, of course, in English. It will take time, but once I’ve cracked the terminology it should be fairly repetitive and straightforward.
‘I can provide Galaxy chocolate on tap to help you get through it, if you like?’ Sebastian is looking at me with a Puss-in-Boots appealing expression, as if to say please don’t back out now, and I can’t help but laugh.
‘Never mind Galaxy, have you got any Bailey’s?’ I ask, already signing the documents.
Sebastian laughs. I’ll email you an electronic version of the sentence, if that helps. To save you carrying all this lot home.’
‘Well… I suppose that’s it then,’ I say, picking up my handbag as if making to leave, but not actually moving.
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Sebastian doesn’t get up either. ‘Thank you so much for this.’ He looks down at the papers in his hands. ‘And, er… if you need any help while you’re here, you know, sightseeing tips or anything, or if you fancy going to… anywhere in particular in Quito, just give me a call, okay?’ As he stands up and indicates for me to follow, he hands me another of his business cards.
‘That’s amazing, thank you – I didn’t realise the embassy did that sort of thing.’ I cling on to the card and think to myself that I must try to keep it somewhere safe and dry this time.
‘Er, no… yes. Yes, yes we do,’ he replies confusingly, not quite meeting my eye. ‘Now if I could just get the…’ He reaches past my shoulders to push open the heavy outer door again.
After what feels like another excruciatingly long wait squashed next to each other in the airlock, we reach the reception area and I turn to shake Sebastian’s hand just as he bends to kiss me on the cheek. Both muttering ‘Oh, sorry’ in a terribly British way, he then extends his hand to shake mine as I lean up to kiss him on the cheek, and end up banging my cheekbone against his ear while his hand awkwardly clasps my elbow.
‘Thanks again for everything,’ he says, holding the door open for me. I mutter something senseless to his shoes and flee the embassy.
***
Out on the street again I lean back against the wall of the building and take in big gulps of fresh air. My heart is pounding and my legs are actually trembling a little. And I don’t think it’s just from the sudden descent from the tenth floor to ground level, altitude or not.
I did it! I entered the British Embassy, was accepted as a formal translator, and got out again without being laughed out of the building, causing a security alert or completely embarrassing myself. Well, apart from almost kissing Sebastian’s ear as we said goodbye. My cheeks burn just at the memory of it. But the most important thing is that Naomi now has her translator. There will be no more delays to her release process. I’m going to do this!
It doesn’t even bother me that I am now committed to translating her whole sentence, something I would never have imagined when I first spontaneously volunteered to help her, sitting there in her prison cell. Right now, I feel I can achieve anything. I step out confidently into the street, actually looking forward to the challenge of my return journey. Not even the craziest Ecuadorian bus driver can dampen my spirits now.
Back at Liza and Roberto’s, before I even have the chance to put my key in the lock, Liza opens the door looking positively overjoyed to see me. ‘Kristie, querida!’ she gushes. ‘How did it go?’
The grin on my face is all the answer she needs.
‘Praise God!’ she exclaims, bouncing a little on the spot and reaching out to clasp my hands in hers, then dramatically drawing the sign of the cross over me several times. I’m so swept up in the excitement that I find myself bouncing with her and squeezing her hands back.
‘Now, come inside – this calls for a hot chocolate and biscuits.’
‘Oh, thank you, Liza, I’ll be down in a minute. I’m just going to go upstairs and get changed…’
As I open the apartment door upstairs, I jump at the sight of Harry, sat on the sofa by the window, staring stonily at the door.
‘When were you going to tell me your father is coming here?’ he says coldly, by way of greeting.
I stop dead, taken utterly by surprise. ‘Wh… what? He’s not… I mean, I don’t know if…’
Harry wordlessly holds out my phone to me. ‘You left this behind.’
I stare down at the small, inoffensive item in Harry’s outstretched hand, still not understanding its meaning. ‘I left it here because they told me no phones are allowed inside the embassy, and it was just at risk of getting stolen on the buses.’
‘Well, your father called.’ Harry’s tone is icy. ‘From a travel agent. He told me he’s booked a ticket to come here next week. With some woman called Dorice. He seemed surprised I didn’t already know about this. It sounded like you’d been planning it for some time.’
‘Harry, I…’ Lost for words, I sit down heavily on the end of the bed, still staring at my phone.
Dad has actually booked a ticket?
Despite Harry’s obvious fury with me, I can’t help feeling a little surge of elation. Dad has actually BOOKED a ticket!
‘I saw his number come up on your phone and answered it, thinking for a moment that something had happened.’ Harry’s tone is severe. ‘It turns out that all that’s happened is, you’re making arrangements with him behind my back.’
‘Harry, look…’ I attempt, despite the fact he’s already striding away from me towards the door. ‘I was going to tell you. Honestly. But it was just an idea – a few days ago I asked him if he’d like to come and see us here, but I never really thought he’d do it, let alone at such short notice! I meant to tell you sooner that I’d talked to him about it, but we’ve both been so busy over the last few days…’
‘You’ve been busy,’ Harry corrects me coldly. ‘I actually had the day off today. I was going to ask if you felt like going out somewhere.’
‘Harry, please don’t—’
‘Check your email,’ he interrupts me tersely. ‘Your dad said he’d email you the flight details. Meanwhile, I’m going out. See you later.’ Then, with that, the door shuts hard behind him.