Dying to Survive (10 page)

My family may have had its difficulties, but they didn’t know about drugs and they had never imagined that I would end up like this, high on drugs most of the time, robbing from them when I wasn’t, just to get high again. They couldn’t see why the blonde bubbly child they had known would turn into this mess. They decided to seek help at the Trinity Court Methadone Programme, but they were assured that I wasn’t recognised as a drug addict. They all breathed a sigh of relief for a while—they could ignore the problem, telling themselves that I was going through a phase, one that I would surely grow out of. But the reality was far from this. I was growing into it. Rapidly spiralling head first into addiction and out of control, until they could no longer bury their heads in the sand and pretend it wasn’t happening. They decided to take drastic action.

Chapter
6

    RESCUE PLANS

M
y legs were agitated and my nose was running. I hadn’t got the energy to get out of bed and I wondered if this was ‘the sickness’ that everyone was talking about, the sickness of withdrawal? I knew my grandfather was downstairs, cooking one of his favourites, sweetbreads or something else which turned my stomach. I could hear him talking to somebody, but I didn’t recognise the other person’s voice. It seemed to be someone with a Spanish accent, though. He’s getting worse by the day, I thought. Letting any Tom, Dick or Harry into the house: John had a habit of meeting complete strangers and inviting them into the house for a cup of tea.

Then I heard the kitchen door open. They were coming up the stairs. I hid under my blankets, pretending to be asleep as my bedroom door opened.

‘Rachael, I want you to meet somebody.’ It wasn’t my grandfather but my mother’s boyfriend, Mick. Ever since that row in my mother’s flat, I had been suspicious of Mick, but I could see why she stayed with him—he was well off now and offered her a secure, comfortable existence. Also, Mick had taken an interest in me, letting me come out and about with him for the business he now ran and accompanying me to the bus stop to make sure I didn’t mitch off school. He was with some man who looked like he was Spanish.

‘Hi, really nice to meet you,’ said the stranger. ‘My name is Donal.’

Donal, me arse, I thought, he was mixed race and spoke with a Spanish accent—he didn’t look one bit like a Donal. What was he doing in my room anyway? I was still half asleep and I wasn’t impressed with my grandfather letting them come up to me. ‘Wow, your bedroom is amazing,’ he continued. ‘You obviously love Bob Marley,’ ‘Donal’ said, looking around at my huge collection of posters. ‘Do you know, I live just next to Jamaica.’ A handsome man, well groomed and who appeared to be in his forties, Donal looked like a film star. I was immediately intrigued by him and the fact that he lived beside Jamaica. It was my dream to go there some day.

‘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, you 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.