Hell in Barbados by Terry Donaldson

Author:Terry Donaldson [Donaldson, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: hell in Barbados, terry donaldson, murder, beating, prostitutes, drugs, Glendairy Prison Barbados, prison riots, prostitution, drug smuggling, London, drug addict, stabbing, prison, smuggler, Glendairy Prison, shooting, addiction, Barbados
ISBN: 9781905379941
Publisher: Maverick House
Published: 2011-05-11T16:00:00+00:00

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I could only stick with that job for four months, but got reassigned to the garden, under Miss Daniels, who was a real sweetie. It was great to be out in the sun, and away from the dark and dreary cells full of killers and their shit buckets. In between shifts I would sit underneath the five palm trees that flourished in the middle of the courtyard in front part of the prison. I brought my bucket, or portable seat wherever I went. Underneath these trees I could experience the pleasure of some shade and chat a bit with some other passing inmates, as they made their way back and forth to the workshops or the small medical unit. Sometimes the word was out that the storeroom had some new toothbrushes in, or even some razors, and there would be a rush to get hold of some of these treasured items. The severe shortage of razors meant that virtually everyone in the prison was sharing, which may well have been the way I caught Hepatitis C round about this time. Hep C and HIV, as well as many other blood-borne diseases, ran rife through the prison.

Once again there were rackets going on where people in positions of power took advantage of the circumstances. The bastards in charge of the barber shop would rarely, if ever, do their assigned job and use the electric razor to shave your head or chin unless you paid them. The fee was normally two or three cigarettes. The guards would always look the other way and let these clowns have their little rackets.

It wasn’t until I got out and had returned to London that I was diagnosed with it for the second time. I am very fortunate that I live in a country where I can be diagnosed, and where society is prepared to pay the money required to cure me, but the poor lads in Barbados who might eventually discover they have the virus don’t get that help, and maybe that is why they aren’t tested.

Apart from my health, I was beginning to find my feet and could afford to have things done for me, such as have my clothes washed, or maybe buy some new sandals, and when word got out that I had quit smoking as well as the harder stuff, I sensed a strange sort of admiration and respect for me coming through. I could overhear people ask my cell mates if I had quit ‘for real’, and many didn’t, or couldn’t believe that someone who had been so far gone when he arrived could now be winning a battle against all narcotics. People would come up to me to test me, saying, ‘You’ve done really well so far man. Now reward yourself with a smoke.’ But I would always decline, remembering to thank them anyway, just in case I offended anyone I would later regret, like I had done with Grandpa.

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