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BANGED UP ABROAD: HELLHOLE

a wrong move, or trying to take the vests off. If you do, you'll be shot. We will be watching you at all times. Our people everywhere – in Venezuela, at the airport, back in England – they all have photographs of you. Your life won't be worth living.'

I looked at Paul, and I knew that he felt exactly the same as me: 'What the heck have we got ourselves into?' But we owed them. If we double-crossed them, they would probably kill us. There was no way we could get out of this now.

On wobbly legs, we got into a taxi for the airport. In the confined space of the car, it was immediately obvious that the vests stank to high heaven of chemicals – of cocaine. We didn't really know what cocaine smelled like, but a wild panic set in: if we could smell it, what chance did we have of getting past any sniffer dogs?

'Maybe this is a chemical they've sprayed on the vest to mask the real smell?' I said. Although we knew we were deluding ourselves, we convinced ourselves they must have wrapped the drugs in something strong-smelling to throw any dogs off the scent. I started bricking it.

Just then, The Fugees' Killing Me Softly started playing on the radio. For some reason it gave me hope, and I began thinking, 'We're going back to England, we can do this.'

But when we got to the airport, I was shitting it again. I told Paul I wanted to dump the vests in the