INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story Read online

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  INSIDE

  One Man's Experience of Prison

  A True Story

  by

  John Hoskison

  In order to protect individuals mentioned in this book,

  names have been changed.

  What others are saying about

  INSIDE

  One Man's Experience of Prison

  A True Story

  A journey to hell and back. Entertaining, and 100 times more scary than any drink/drive campaign.

  ~FHM Magazine

  ~

  This is a must read book. Not just an insight into how prison really is but a real life story that illustrates just how quickly your life can turn upside down. "There but for the grace of God..."

  ~John Francome – Author and Champion Jockey

  ~

  This brave and important book should be read by all those who have anything to do with the treatment and condition of those committed to our prisons. The book should be made required reading for all those serving in the prison service and those who join in the future.

  ~Lord Ramsbotham – Chief Inspector of Prisons 1995 - 2001

  ~

  Ought to be compulsory reading for all Home Office ministers.

  ~Allan Massie - Daily Telegraph

  ~

  An Appalling experience that could have happened to almost any of us.

  ~Sir Stephen Tumim - Express

  Published by: ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-176-8

  In order to protect individuals mentioned in this book,

  names have been changed.

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  Copyright © 1998, 2012 by John Hoskison. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  BISAC: BIO026000: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  Dear Reader,

  It was with a great deal of anguish and uncertainty that I first sent this book off for publication. It is about an episode in my life of which I am not proud. But all these years later the prison service is still in a mess and there is hardly a day that passes without my reading or hearing that prison is a soft option. This may be so in some circumstances. It wasn't for me and it isn't for most.

  As you read this ebook version of INSIDE, I hope you will understand why I am still unable to turn my back and walk away.

  Sincerely,

  John Hoskison

  "This book is a searingly honest account of the banalities, absurdities, frustrations and extremely limited choices that exist in our prison system. Accounts such as this open up the closed world of prisons. John Hoskison tells it like it is, as opposed to what gets portrayed on TV or at the cinema."

  ~Professor David Wilson,

  Professor of Criminology at Birmingham City University,

  and a former Prison Governor

  January, 2012

  Deep down I go where no light shines,

  Through hidden caves of fear,

  I thought that I'd explored my mind,

  I thought I'd cried my tears.

  ~

  But now I know I'll cry some more,

  A new duct born through pain,

  I know I'll cry more than before,

  Whilst all the ghosts remain.

  Prologue

  There was a fight on my landing this morning. One of my neighbours was badly hurt. It was a gruesome sight, but one I have become used to. HMP Coldingley has been my home for the last year.

  When I was driven through the gates for the first time last November, the branches of the prison tree were bare. I can see that tree from the exercise yard and I've been watching its golden leaves fall. If I can keep clear of trouble I should be leaving here when the leaves start to grow again. The seasons have always played a significant part in my life.

  Before I came to prison I was a professional golfer. For a number of years I played the European Tour, where I mixed and played with some of the best golfers in the world. I was elected captain of the Surrey Professional Golfers Association and twice I represented Europe in PGA Cup matches against the Americans. I was respected by my friends and colleagues.

  When I left the tour to settle down, I became the head professional at one of the most beautiful courses in Surrey. The members became my friends. I lived in a flat on the course and in the early mornings I would often go out with my young son into its deserted bluebell woods where we would hide and watch the deer. Every morning I bounced out of bed, eager for the day to start. I truly had the most wonderful life. One day I smashed that world.

  * * *

  It was a cold November afternoon and I went to play in a golf match with a friend. After we finished we went to the bar for a drink. I'd always been very careful not to drink and drive, a discipline I'd maintained over twenty years of travelling to tournaments, but that night I chose not to listen to my conscience. When I left the club I was over the limit but I still decided to take the risk and drive home. That short fateful journey took me down a dark country lane where I hit a cyclist, and he was killed. In my panic I didn't stop.

  * * *

  Overnight my world was shattered and I began a journey into a living hell. Two years later I still shrink from thinking about the devastating consequences for all concerned. I am still trying to come to terms with my actions that night. Just once I took the risk. It proved absolutely catastrophic.

  The morning after the accident I offered my resignation to the golf club where I worked, to the golf magazine I wrote for, for which I had great plans, and to the Professional Golfers Association. I had worked very hard in my career. In the blink of an eye I had lost it all.

  The same day I sat my parents down and explained I was going to prison. My mother tried really hard not to cry, but they were shattered. Over the next few days I told everyone I knew. They were all devastated, stunned, and everywhere I went I left people in tears. Hardest of all was telling my son. He was only seven and breaking it to him still haunts me.

  But what dwarfed every other emotion were my feelings for the cyclist's family. I lived in a nightmare world of sorrow and regret. It took nearly a year for the case to come to court. Every morning and every night I thought about the consequences for the victim's family. Every moment of every day, I longed for forgiveness. At every corner I had to ask myself: if I hadn't had a drink could the accident have been avoided?

  During that year I wrote a letter to the victim's wife, expressing my great remorse. It was the hardest letter I have ever had to write. When I received a reply accepting that it was just a terrible accident, that I was forgiven, I wept. I was overwhelmed by her compassion.

  But living with such grief and to
rment prompted me to ask myself whether my own life should continue. Many times throughout the year the easiest option seemed to be suicide. Had I been younger, less experienced in life, I doubt whether I could have coped, but I was able to do so through the incredible support of my girlfriend, family and friends, all of whom knew that my actions on that dreadful night were totally out of character. More importantly, I have survived thanks to support from the victim's wife, who has humbled me with her forgiveness, and who, knowing of my previous character, spoke on my behalf at my sentencing trial. Without her forgiveness I would not be here today.

  * * *

  As the day of my trial drew closer it seemed the media was preoccupied with reports about prison. Like most people, my attitude was that prison is a holiday camp—I believed the reports I read in the newspapers. It was not until the day of my sentencing trial, my first day in prison, that I realised that newspapers only tell one side of the story...

  Chapter 1

  Court 13, The Old Bailey

  ~~

  Friday 6 October 1995; 4:30 p.m.

  "Will the defendant please rise."

  I stood up on trembling legs and looked towards Mr Justice Hooper. It was almost a year since the day of the accident, a year I had spent on bail, living and working in a community that sometimes seemed to forget the trouble I was in. It had been an enormous strain trying to carry on as normal, knowing that things would never be normal again.

  Throughout the past year I knew I was going to prison. I knew I should go to prison, I was guilty and that had been my plea. I longed for the punishment to begin, so that it might bring some relief. But I had dreaded the ordeal of having to face my day in court. For weeks I had tried to prepare myself. For endless hours, alone in my flat, I had tried meditation and self-hypnosis to help me survive the ordeal.

  The judge started his summing-up. I locked my eyes onto the electric light on the wall above his head, and concentrated. I could hear the judge speaking, heard the words "three years imprisonment". Then the gavel banged.

  To my right, I could see the court usher beckoning to me. Showing no emotion I turned, picked up my overnight bag and walked towards the door. Within steps of the exit I glanced up at the public gallery and glimpsed my father's ashen face.

  * * *

  The holding cell beneath the Old Bailey law courts is a place few get to see. It's small—about the size of a standard family bedroom—dark, covered in dust, and smells of sweat and urine. This is where convicted prisoners wait after their court appearance, before being escorted to prison—a place where expressionless facades crumble as reality comes crashing down. There were eight of us in the cell and I immediately felt like a fish out of water. Unlike the others, for me it was an enormous relief that my punishment was finally to begin; and apart from one man, I was dressed conspicuously smartly. My companions clothes looked creased and dirty, and I now realised several of the men had come straight from prison, where they had been on remand. I had come from home, through the leafy green countryside. My navy suit had been given to me when I represented Europe in the 1992 PGA Cup matches against the Americans. As I sat down on the wooden bench by the door, I loosened my tie, undid the top button of my shirt, and slouched against the wall, trying to adopt a similar pose to the others.

  In the far corner of the cell a figure knelt on the filthy floor. "Fifteen years, fifteen years," he kept on murmuring, as tears streamed down his face. Seated next to him, the only other smartly dressed man wore an Armani suit and an open-necked shirt. A long scar ran across one cheek on his dark skinned face—he looked like the actor Al Pacino. His dark eyes studied his neighbour as if he were inspecting some insect. Mild interest—no sympathy.

  I had no idea how long we would have to wait but as the minutes passed I couldn't help noticing, on the wall next to me, a scribbled "Hall of Fame", topped by the IRA and including familiar names of other infamous killers.

  After an hour we were joined by two other men, one small, the other tall, black, and sporting a Rastafarian hairstyle. Al Pacino knew him and raised his eyes in greeting. "They dropped the murder charge; gotta go back for sentencing on a manslaughter," he said, slumping down on the bench.

  There were still a few spare places to sit, but the smaller man, with hands clenched tightly at his sides, paced back and forth across the room. A tramplike figure sitting next to me looked at him. "How did you get on?" he asked.

  "An eight and a four consec," he snapped. "Twelve years for a few fuckin' "E"s. Next time I'll show 'em what drugs is—bastards!" I'd never seen such a dangerous individual and I kept my gaze firmly on the ground.

  The cell was now becoming crowded and oppressively hot, but only a few minutes later, an officer came in to announce that it was time to move. We were led away, single file, into the outside courtyard where we were met by the kind of vehicle I had so often seen on the news. Many times in the past I had wondered what these large white buses were like but never in my wildest dreams had I ever thought I would see the inside of one. They're known, in the trade, as "sweat boxes", aptly named, as the compartment allotted to each of us was like an upright coffin. My space was almost custom-made: being only five foot seven inches tall, my small frame fitted neatly on to the rock-hard seat; but I could see the discomfort of the large black man in the casket next to mine. He was shuffling from one buttock to another, his shoulders barely contained within the sides; for him the sweat box must have been a nightmare. But, to be honest, my thoughts were elsewhere.

  My father would be at home now, delivering the news to my friends and family. Fortunately they had been prepared and expected a prison sentence, but my main concern was for Ben, my son. Because of the nature of my work, I had been able to spend many hours with him in the beautiful surroundings of my Surrey golf course base, and we had developed a particularly close relationship. He meant more to me than anyone and I worried dreadfully about the effect my long absence would have on him. For the first time that day I felt a tear run down my cheek.

  Locked inside the mobile fortress we were driven across town to Brixton prison. I felt as though I was going off to war.

  * * *

  It was late when we passed through the gates of the imposing Victorian prison and, rather than going through the administration process that night, we were paired off and led away to our cells. There was no choosing "roommates" and I followed my partner, Al Pacino, up the three flights of iron staircase to the top landing.

  Filth lay everywhere. I had expected the establishment to be run on military lines and I'm quite sure that no self-respecting sergeant would have let his barracks sink to such a squalid state. Old bits of food lay underfoot, dustbins were overflowing and the walls were covered in grime. I couldn't believe that with so much manpower available no cleaning seemed to have been done.

  At the top of the stairs, a guard opened one of the heavy steel doors and, with a nod, motioned us to enter. I went in, but as Al followed, his arm was grabbed. "Want to go "on the numbers"?" the officer asked. Al just looked at him, turned, and made his way into the cell. He must have caught my puzzled look as he moved towards me.

  "Don't worry. I'm not a nonce," he said. "There's a few people that want to get me, that's all. I shot their boss, but no way I want protection."

  I didn't know what he meant by "nonce" and "numbers" and I wasn't about to ask, but, by the sound of it, Al was the first "hit man" I'd met. I thought they were meant to be men who merged into the background, chameleon-like, the last person you'd think of. Al looked as though he'd been born for the job. It was while I was reflecting on the way my fellow inmate possibly earned a living that the officer reached in and pulled the heavy door back into place.

  Over the months while I awaited trial, I had tried to picture what prison would be like, but never had I imagined that hearing a cell door slam shut could be so devastating. I stood transfixed, literally shocked by the sound and the dreadful feeling of finality it gave me. The last bolt slid into place and I realise
d my punishment had only just begun. I took a deep breath, turned my back on the solid steel door and surveyed my new home.

  Apart from on television, this was the first prison cell I had seen. The once-white walls were now heavily stained a sick shade of yellow. Later on, I discovered that the colour comes from cups of tea, hurled at the wall in frustration, and thousands upon thousands of cigarettes. Large areas were scrawled with messages of pain and revenge, almost gouged out of the paint. On the far wall, well above head height, was a minute window, but it was so dirty that I couldn't see out of it. Underneath it, to one side, was a narrow bunk bed. Two folded sheets and a green blanket lay on top of the heavily stained mattresses. There was a toilet and a sink, though the latter looked as if it had never been cleaned: the plug hole was barely visible. The toilet wasn't much better. By the look and smell of it, flushing had not been on the agenda of the previous inmate. I tried breathing through my mouth, but still couldn't shut out the stench.

  I consoled myself with the thought that I wouldn't have to endure this situation for long. At court my references had been impeccable, the pre-sentence report had recommended community service and the victim's wife had pleaded on my behalf for the most lenient sentence. Everyone had assured me that I would serve out my time in an open prison.

  Al stowed his gear on the bottom bunk. "I'll take this one," he said. I climbed up to the top, sat on the mattress and looked down at the grey stone floor. I've always hated heights. The way my dreams had made me thrash about over the last few months I thought it odds on that I'd be taking a tumble—it seemed a long way to fall.