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

  I had listened to so much speculation about rape and buggery being the biggest pastime in prison that it was a case of head down, back to the wall, and escape as quickly as possible. Six of us crowded into the shower at the same time, and I can't remember ever washing so quickly. It was such a relief to remove the dirt from Brixton, the transfer and a day in Wandsworth. It was also a relief to emerge unscathed. My whole body tingled when I got out, not because of hot water (that had already run out) but because the prison-issue soap I had been given had peculiar bits in that made it like sand paper. But whether scraped or washed clean it felt great.

  After towelling down, while trying to keep my clothes off a floor that was already under water, I dressed quickly and then headed out to the landing. My telephone call, booked for around four o'clock, was to take place during the two hours association, so I had the phone card I'd acquired in Brixton with me. I dumped my towel and soap by the cell door, pinpointed the exact location of each of my allies (knowing that my loudest shout would alert them), and then, rather bravely, I wandered round to have a look. I tried to appear as casual as possible—as though I belonged. But no sooner had I taken three paces when a voice shouted out, "Hey, you!" I looked around to see an officer glaring at me. "Come here," he said, pointing to a spot in front of him. I made my way across.

  He put his face close up to mine, and I could smell his breath. "Did I see you with your hands in your pocket?"

  "Yes, Guv," I said, not realising I had done something wrong.

  "You know that's against the rules," he said with a scowl.

  "I thought it was only round the star, Guv."

  "Well, it's not. It's everywhere." He then leaned right up close. "If I ever see you with your hands in your pocket again—you'll end up down the block," he warned with a sickening grin. I was then dismissed. I wandered off, knowing I had been lucky to survive, but until I knew the ropes, it was likely that, somewhere along the line, I would inadvertently break the rules again. The officers must have had fun playing this game. The odds of winning were stacked heavily in their favour.

  * * *

  With my hands now firmly stuck to my sides, I made my way to the end of the landing where a pool table was constantly in use, but the menacing figures holding the cues reminded me of a Charles Bronson film where one of the bad guys was given a severe beating, so I avoided getting too close. Right outside our cell was a table tennis table, but the light was so bad that it seemed playing was done mainly by feel, and most of the time was spent hunting for the ball. It really was that dark. The electric lights were weak and any natural light from the landing above (which, being above ground, had windows) was shut out by the large nets that were strung above us. These were there to catch anything thrown from the other landings, as the "dungeon" was the dumping ground for lousy lunches and the occasional "shit parcel". It had also saved the lives of numerous officers who had been pitched over the side.

  At the other end of the landing was a television and I made my way towards it. During association a video was shown, and the one that day was a violent American gangster film. It seemed an odd choice for some potentially volatile people, but I stayed to watch for a few minutes. There were probably thirty men tightly packed into the dark space underneath the landing stairs and most were standing as there were only half a dozen chairs. It was like entering a cave.

  I've never been one for communal television watching. It's something I had to endure though, when I was the professional at my club. After "captain-pro" matches on Saturday afternoons, I used to sit with the members in the luxurious clubhouse watching golf tournaments beamed live from Sky Sports. I had a very good relationship with the members, but I used to cringe at the incessant analysis, as every opinion under the sun (except the right one) was offered as to why Sandy Lyle had hit out of bounds, or why Langer had missed another putt. Watching television in Wandsworth was exactly the same, but when the bad guys took their first drubbing the ensuing comments came from men who knew what they were talking about.

  "That's shit, he'd be dead by now. Look at him, he's still running around."

  "Yeah, and that bird, she's just plunged the geezer and not a drop of blood on her."

  "Can't plunge a guy like that, anyway."

  Whoever the director was, he took some fearful criticism, and I wondered how he would've handled the views of the "experts".

  Time passed slowly but finally, after the umpteenth look at the cheap watch I had bought specially for prison, it was time for my call and I climbed the stairs to the telephone area. The six phones attached to the wall were within feet of the landing office and there was no privacy: all conversations were recorded and listened to. I walked up to the office to register. "I've got a phone call booked for 3.50, Guv."

  "Show us your phonecard."

  I took out the green plastic card similar to those used on the outside and handed it to the officer. "Where did you get this?" he said, glaring at me.

  "I brought it with me from Brixton, Guv."

  "It's not signed on the back." On the back of the card there was a small place for your signature but at Brixton, a similar category "B" prison, you didn't need to sign the cards.

  "I didn't know you had to, Guv. I mean at Brixton..."

  "I don't give a fuck about Brixton. What's your name?"

  "Hoskison, Guv."

  "If I ever catch you with an unsigned card again, Hodgkiss, I'll put you on report. Understand? You're lucky I'm going to let you make this call."

  When I took back my card I was trembling. I can't remember ever having to bite my tongue as I did then. How the hell was I to know you had to sign the card? It was as if information were deliberately withheld to cause maximum humiliation. I was directed to phone number six. I dialled the number. Pulse-rate up around a hundred and ten, I waited for an answer.

  "Hello," said my son. His little voice hit me with the force of a battering ram and I almost broke.

  "Hi, Ben, how are you?" I said, trying to make my voice sound light and happy.

  "Dad, how are you doing?" he cried out, sounding really excited. "What's it like in jail?" I'd told my son I was going to prison six weeks before the trial. Even though Ben was living with his mother I saw him almost every day. He was following me on his bike one morning as I went for a run—one of the many things we did together. I stopped after a couple of miles and walked as I explained I wouldn't be around for some time. I can still remember his face as I told him, but I refused to make it a sad affair, and explained what a great time we'd have in the future. He took the news well. Even so, both my ex, Jane, and I kept a close watch for signs of any adverse reaction. A few days later on his way home from school he said, "Mum, Tony doesn't believe me—Dad is going to jail, isn't he?" Jane didn't know whether to laugh or cry. His teacher chimed it was the best possible reaction, that Ben was bottling up nothing and accepting it well, probably because we had made the least fuss of the tragedy for his sake.

  Hearing his happy bubbling voice on the phone raised my spirits. We chatted for about four minutes, but I was constantly aware that my valuable card was running low and that I didn't have long. At that time of day the telephone ate the units with an insatiable appetite and much faster than a phone on the outside. Now my time for this call had run out. I promised Ben I would phone again the next day, and explained that if I didn't call, it wouldn't be because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. Then I put the phone down. Only a few minutes was left before my time was up. I didn't have time to think, I simply dialled the next number.

  After asking for Bronya's department at work and waiting impatiently while I was put through to the correct extension I was finally greeted with a shriek of delight. It's true I had told Bronya not to wait for me, but deep down I so hoped that she would. It was more an act of self-preservation than generosity. Throughout the previous year she had supported me more than I could have possibly hoped, and was one of the main reasons I had been able to survive, if not the main reason. Th
e thought that she would be there at the end of my sentence was something that I just couldn't allow myself to hope for. But now my need to see her overrode any reservations, and I had included her on the reception visit slip I had sent my father. We spoke only a few words but there was really no need to talk at all. Her empathy simply flooded through.

  "Time's up," an officer blasted at me from inches away, shattering the moment with practised skill. A quick goodbye, and Bronya and I were separated. I turned back to the insanity of Wandsworth.

  Emotionally I had been watered and fed. Undeniably the telephone calls were a lifeline. But they left me with an overwhelming feeling of sadness. If I felt so bad after a phone call, I wondered, how would I cope after my father's and Bronya's visit the next day?

  * * *

  Back in the cell Guido and Tommo were in a good mood and this helped to sweep away my feeling of melancholy. The card deal delayed at lunch had now been completed and Tommo had also "ponced" some burn. They were discussing whether to light up a "spliff" there and then, but their decision to wait until after "bang up" proved to be the right one, for, moments later, the door swung open and our new cellmate entered. It was the first time I'd seen Guido anything but confident—I could almost hear the alarm bells. The new man seemed to ooze evil. He was extraordinarily thickset, about five foot ten, and his mouth was constantly at work as though he'd eaten something and was trying to recapture the taste. I moved across and sat down next to Tommo on his bed.

  "Where you from?" Guido asked the new man warily.

  "Brixton," he answered. "Name's Pete," he added, and turned round to unpack his things. (The officer had left the light on.)

  "On the gear, are you?" Guido asked. A question prompted (I found out later) by the mouth movement—a sure sign of an addict.

  "Yeah, just spent a month in the hospital unit suffering large amounts of "liquid cosh". Talk about cluckin'. Gotta stay here for tests now. Bastards want to send me back to Broadmoor."

  Broadmoor! My God!

  "What are you in for?" Guido asked.

  "Stabbed a copper," he paused, then dropped the bombshell. "With a needle."

  I glanced at Guido and saw him sign to Tommo.

  "What happened?" Tommo enquired, pushing for the full story.

  "I was jackin' up when the cosser bastards burst in. Stabbed one in the leg—told 'im I was HIV positive."

  I sensed Tommo tense and I shifted my position further onto the bed so that his body was directly between me and our bestial interloper.

  "Are you?" asked Guido, who was now standing close to us at the end of his bed.

  "Dunno. I wanted to get psychoed off. I hear voices, see. Told the judge I wanted to give all coppers Aids. Took a right beating in the cells that night; bastards kicked my ribs in."

  Guido had apparently heard enough and moved back into the depths of his territory. Tommo didn't seem to mind that I remained in his. We sat in silence for some time, reflecting on our new cellmate.

  It seemed an eternity until five o'clock, when the door opened for tea. As soon as Pete left the cell, the three of us huddled together.

  "He's a fuckin' psycho," Guido said. "Gotta get rid of him." He turned to Tommo for his verdict.

  "He's a bad 'un. Gotta jog 'im on."

  They both turned to me and I realised they were asking my opinion. I was surprised and in a ridiculous way delighted that mine counted. "Scares the living daylights out of me. He's terrifying, needs putting down," I said, making it a unanimous verdict.

  "Right, we won't be able to talk much tonight," Guido said. "John, first thing in the morning, get to the SO, and tell 'im how fuckin' dodgy Pete is, and that he's got to be moved. We'll back you up."

  "Why me?" I said, aghast.

  "Cos the screws don't trust us and they'll already have sussed you as a straight goer. It's the only way, trust me. They'd never do what we asked".

  "Do it, John. It's the only way to get rid of 'im," Tommo added. "Just don't take no for an answer."

  With the other two showing so much concern I became even more nervous. "All right," I agreed. "I'll do it if I can find him, but you guys had better watch over me tonight—don't let that nutter come anywhere near me."

  After tea, which consisted of two slices of dry bread and a piece of liver with so many veins running through it that it was impossible to cut with a plastic knife, a deep sense of foreboding settled on the cell. None of us relished the prospect of the forthcoming night. There was little talk; it was as if we were getting ready for battle. What made matters worse was the new man's weird behaviour as he sat on his bed, rocking from side to side, seemingly locked away in a secret world of his own.

  Just before lights out, I glanced across sternly for a last look at my allies—then I lay back. When darkness invaded the cell, sheer physical fear made me nauseous.

  Chapter 6

  My First Prison Visit

  ~~

  My survival instinct kept me on red alert throughout the night and I dozed fitfully, my resting pulse-rate sliding to only a fraction under eighty. Only once did my heart threaten to come bursting through my rib cage.

  At three o'clock, the Broadmoor veteran clambered out of bed, used his bucket, and went on tour. A quick sortie into Tommo's territory raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Then he crossed onto my side of the cell and "mission control" hit the panic button. His menacing bulk came to a halt two paces from me. He stood immobile, his dark shadowy figure looming over me. I experienced fear of a different order: not the fear of missing a putt or mortgage payment, this was gut-churning, sickening, physical fear and my heart-rate jumped into new territory. I lay very still, but underneath my pillow my hand gripped my plastic knife. Recently in Wandsworth one of the inmates had suffered an attack from his cellmate. At razor point he'd been pushed onto the bed and only saved from the intended rape by an officer who happened to look through the peephole and intervened. My imagination knew no boundaries and, if pushed, I was ready to spring into action. I could hear the monster's heavy breathing and, through half-closed eyes, I watched his body swaying back and forth. My neck and shoulder muscles were bunched with tension, ready to deliver a frenzied attack.

  After an interminable pause, he turned and made his way back to his bed. As I tried to relax I felt enormous empathy for anyone who reacts when threatened. I would probably have been prosecuted for grievous bodily harm had I been pushed to defend myself using my knife. One is meant to use minimum force. The law, I decided, must have been made by someone who'd never been scared witless.

  * * *

  In the morning as soon as the door opened, I headed straight for the SO and explained our problem. I hoped for a positive answer.

  "I thought we might have problems there," he said, looking at me. "I'll see what I can do."

  He must have seen the worry in my face, but even so, he didn't appear to be concerned. I wandered back to the cell with little optimism. Guido and Tommo were waiting for me, Pete was slopping out.

  "Well?" they asked in unison.

  "I'm not sure. I gave it my best shot. We'll just have to wait and see. Some bloody lookouts you were, though, the guy was on the prowl at three."

  "I know. I was awake. I was just shitting myself, that's all," Guido said. "Don't worry, I would have helped if he'd done anything. Fuckin' scary though, isn't he?" he added, grinning.

  Breakfast was swallowed in silence, no one felt like talking. The reality of our predicament was sinking in—perhaps there might be another night ahead with the madman. But as we finished, the door opened and three officers came in—in fact the most brutal of the regime who permanently roamed the "dungeon" keeping "the scum" in order.

  "Pack your gear, Naylor, you're moving down the landing—your cellmates don't like you."

  Pete looked round, the comment needless, the reaction immediate. "What d'you mean they don't fuckin' like me?" he growled menacingly, his eyes passing from Tommo to Guido and landing on me. I couldn't afford to look g
uilty, I just tried to look puzzled.

  "You'll be better off somewhere else, mate," Guido said, trying to break the tension.

  Pete grunted, clearly seething that he'd been "fitted up", but with the officers watching he could only pack his gear. Five minutes later he was gone.

  "What bastards!" I said, when the door slammed shut. There had been no need to mention that we had instigated the move and, perhaps naively, it was only then that I realised that these officers couldn't be trusted.

  "Better keep out of his way for a while," Guido said.

  * * *

  Outside the rain hammered down, and it was obvious that exercise would be cancelled. Although I felt tired, I was also tense and needed to do something energetic to relieve the stress. For ten years, five times a week, I'd run four miles, but during my year awaiting trial I had stepped up the routine, knowing that I would need to be fit to cope with the pressure. Over the last few months I had doubled my weekly mileage but since entering prison I'd been totally inactive and my body yearned for exercise.

  "Look, guys," I said, "I'm going to do some jogging on the spot. Okay?"

  Tommo smirked. "Joggin' in 'ere?" he said. "Are you sure?"

  I sat on my bed, took off my clothes and, wearing only prison boxer shorts and training shoes, I limbered up. I started off, conscious of the two watching.

  "He's a fuckin' nutter," said Tommo. "Should be 'im who's goin' to Broadmoor."

  I thought back to where I used to do my jogging—a stark contrast to my present surroundings. I tried to lose myself in effort as I looked at the grey wall that faced me. Drops of sweat splattered onto the floor as I started to build up speed and out of the corner of my eye I could see Guido, lying motionless, as if mesmerised by my pounding feet. It took me about ten minutes of heavy-duty work to reach that blissful point where through sheer physical exertion the body, for once, transcends the power of the mind and all thought is blocked.

  An hour later my feet were in such pain that I couldn't carry on so I came to a halt. I looked at my two cellmates. "Thanks," I said. They shrugged acceptance.