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MARCHING POWDER

I eventually managed to bribe one of the guards with a full packet of cigarettes to ring the British Embassy. As soon as the embassy got word that I was there, they sent someone around. Simon Harris was a serious man with a good heart. He brought me some supplies, including orange juice, sandwiches and a few magazines to read. He asked me whether I had been tortured or mistreated. I said that I hadn't because I was worried that the police might take revenge on me if I made a complaint about being deprived of food.

However, I did complain about not having a mattress or blanket. The capitán pretended to be outraged when Mr Harris questioned him about this. He ordered his men to fix the problem immediately. They gave me a sack filled with straw to lie on and two blankets. But as soon as Mr Harris left, they took them away.

I thought the investigating police were treating me harshly in order to make me confess. But it wasn't that. After four or five days I made my declaración stating my innocence, and signed it. I thought that now the police would send me to court to be charged in front of a judge, but they just kept me imprisoned in my cell. They seemed to want to punish me because I hadn't given in and confessed.

After another week in the FELCN interrogation cells I became extremely sick. By then, even if they had let me out to exercise, I couldn't have. I was too weak to remain standing, so I spent most of the time lying down. I no longer noticed how cold the floor was. I could see my ribs poking through my skin. I had also developed a severe cough. At first I thought this was because my lungs weren't used to smoking, but when I started coughing up blood, I knew it was something more serious. I spat the blood into the corner of the cell because there was nowhere else to put it. Gradually, the wall became stained with small red and green lumps where the bloody phlegm had trickled down and dried against the cold concrete. Some mornings, after the colder nights, I noticed that little crystals had formed on them. The guards refused to call a doctor because I had no money to pay for a consultation, or even for the phone call. I knew for certain that I was dying.

On the thirteenth day, I had a fight with the guards. When it was time to return to my cell after the morning toilet break, I refused to go back in. There were two guards and they were nice about it at first.
'My friend, por favor,' they said, patting me on the back and pointing into the cell. But I refused to go in. I was thinking to myself,

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