Free No More Tomorrows by Schapelle Corby Page A

kilograms of ephedrine powder. I’d seen these guys when I was led down to my cell and could easily hear them through the cell wall. A Balinese guy called out, ‘You OK?’ after he heard me vomiting. He told the guards I needed a drink, and after I gave them some money that I still had in my pocket they brought me a clear plastic bag filled with Fanta.
    Later in the afternoon, the guards let Chris out of his cell to talk to me for two minutes. He stood at my cage door – a very strange feeling.
    That first night in the cells at Polda, I threw up for three and a half hours straight: 11 p.m. to 2.30 a.m. I know because I marked it in my diary:
    I vomited pretty bad last night, I was actually in pain. The head policeman came to see me for a bit – he told me to let him know if I need to go to hospital. I don’t need a hospital; I need to get out of here.
    Diary entry, 10 October 2004
    I couldn’t sleep that night, like most of the nights that followed. Sleep suddenly became a luxury. Lying down on a soft mattress, with a fluffy pillow and fresh, clean sheets, had been a given only two nights before; now it was a fantasy that I longed for. And still do.
    It was hell. Almost everything seemed to conspire against me sleeping. The ants and mosquitoes drove me crazy, and the guards sitting just outside my door didn’t stop talking all night. Despite trying, I’m now sure you can never adapt to sleeping on a thinly carpeted concrete floor. I did eventually sleep on the concrete, but only when the pain of sleep deprivation became worse than the pain of bruises and swelling and sharp pins-and-needles caused by the hard floor. It’s definitely not by chance that sleep deprivation is used as a method of torture.
    I have to move my body every five minutes or so. I’ve not yet become accustomed to sleeping on the HARD floor; my body is in more pain now than the first week. The first week my bones – back bone, hip bones, shoulder, ankle bones – were bruised. Now they’ve become swollen, especially my tail bone – it’s the most painful.
    Diary entry, 6 November 2004
    Merc often tried to give me a mattress, but the police and guards point-blank refused to allow it. I have no idea why, as some of the guys were allowed mattresses.

    On the Sunday, Lily came to see me, and I met Vasu Rasiah for the first time. I wasn’t told how Vasu fitted in, and I didn’t think to ask. I just assumed he was a lawyer at the same firm as Lily – and I think he was happy for me to assume that. He never corrected anyone when they called him a lawyer.
    The Australian media called him a lawyer for months, until he became known as a ‘case coordinator’. It took Merc and me a few weeks to realise he was actually a developer/designer/contractor/construction manager and ‘case coordinator’. At least that’s what it said on the various business cards he handed out.
    Two days of hell had passed, and I still had high hopes of getting out on Monday.

6
The ‘Celebrity’ Prisoner
    ‘Y OU ’ RE FREE TO GO. H AVE A NICE HOLIDAY!’ A S THE cell door swings open, I happily step out into the brilliant sunshine with a matching brilliant smile. Tears of joy wash down my cheeks and the darkness clutching at my heart vanishes, along with the deep pain and fear. Thank God it’s over! Now my biggest problem is deciding between a relaxing poolside beer and the revitalising surf . . .
    That’s the way I pictured Monday. I’d seen it, dreamt it and convinced myself of it during the past forty-eight hours. This surreal, crazy madness would stop. My spinning world would beset back on its axis. They weren’t my drugs, I didn’t put them in my bag, I didn’t do this. Just a quickly faxed X-ray or boogie-board weight would prove it beyond all doubt. The police would say, ‘Yeah, look, it’s crazy, let her go. Let her go to her sister’s birthday.’
    So that first Monday I sat anxiously waiting for the guards to come and unlock the cell to release