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

  No matter how hard or inconvenient it might be, I was determined to keep my exercise going in prison. In the "dungeon" I was surrounded by gaunt, unhealthy-looking men, their flaccid muscles reflecting their lack of spirit. Exercise had been an important part of my life and I clung on to my fitness. It represented much more than just an economical heart-rate—it gave me access to temporary oblivion.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, whilst the exercise was brilliant, the aftermath was not. I stripped naked, put my bowl of cold water next to my bed and washed down. With my visit coming up, I wanted to be as presentable as possible, but with no shower available a damn good wash was the only option.

  Half an hour later, the door opened and an officer came in to announce that the library would be open for ten minutes. I desperately needed something to read so I headed up to the second landing with Guido following.

  Each wing in Wandsworth has its own library. It sounds good but since it consisted of two cells knocked into one, it was rather on the small side, in fact very much so. Only allowing ten inmates into the library at one time was not a security measure: there was simply no more space.

  All the reading material available for over two hundred inmates was crammed into four bookcases. One section contained a large assortment of comics and magazines, every one of which Guido assured me he had read. Opposite, on the far wall beneath the window, were the foreign language and easy-to-read books. I browsed through a couple of these and was astonished at the simplicity of content, which reminded me of the "Janet and John" books I had read years ago when I was learning to read. I couldn't help but smile and think of Bronya. Ever since I had met her she had been trying to persuade me to read something other than a Dick Francis or a Terry Pratchett. Finding me looking at Nerve in gigantic print would have made her throw back her head in exasperation.

  Eventually I selected a very grubby version of Jeffrey Archer's Kane and Abel from the main fiction section. I chose it because it was the thickest book there, plenty of pages being my main priority, as our next visit to the library was a whole week away. Guido, armed with a Judge Dredd comic (which he'd read once before), followed me onto the landing.

  "Why don't you try a good book?" I suggested.

  "Nah. Never read a book, they take too long if you ask me."

  Well, you're not going anywhere, I thought. It seemed there was little enthusiasm to do anything in Wandsworth. Just a load of apathetic bodies idly waiting to get back on the street.

  * * *

  By the time we returned to the "dungeon" we had a new cellmate. The turnover and shifting of inmates was incredible. Our new man had been moved from the other end of the landing. He explained that he'd fallen out with his other cellmates. Not another nutter, I thought. But no, Tony McCloud was just an eccentric Scotsman, and a very fit-looking Scot at that, who was tanned (sure sign of only recent imprisonment), about forty, and who obviously knew the game.

  "Got any burn?" he asked in his thick Scottish accent, beating Guido to the draw.

  "Got nuffin'," said Tommo, who was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling.

  "Canteen tomorrow, thank fuck," observed Guido.

  Canteen day is about the most important event in prison life. Each week, inmates are allowed to spend their wages if they have a job, for instance cleaning (an average of £6), and, if they have any, up to £10 of private cash. With that money they have to buy phonecards, at £2 each, all toiletries (I'd been told not to rely on prison soap and toothpaste, all too often the stores run out) and, if there's anything left, tobacco or food, depending on their priorities. With such a small amount to spend it is inevitable that two or three days before canteen day, provisions run out and "burn" becomes a much sought-after commodity on the black market. Guido and Tommo tried to overcome the problem by keeping their cigarette butts in a tin. When they ran out of fresh "burn", the next stage would be to unravel the old butts and rescue any tobacco that was left. After that was used, like all the other inmates desperate for a smoke, the only course available was to borrow. Wandsworth was definitely a "sellers" market and several inmates specialised in making a "quick buck". The universal "deal" in Wandsworth was "borrow one, pay back two" and if you were willing to pay the price a deal was always available.

  For many the temptation was too great to miss. They would borrow, knowing full well that they would be unable to pay back the following week. Over the months it became clear that canteen day was also when punishment for missing a payment was meted out for all to see. Every new prison inmate should be warned about the dangers of borrowing.

  Canteen day was not going to be much of an event for me, as it takes an eternity for private cash to be transferred from one prison to another, and I'd already been told that all I would have to spend was £2.50. I could have borrowed some items but I knew it was the road to ruin. I was simply going to have to be more than frugal for quite some time.

  * * *

  Tony, our new cellmate, turned out to be an invader of space. He walked round the cell taking the unusual step of shaking hands, but then, rather than withdrawing he stayed close, within the "personal zone", and I found him somewhat unnerving.

  "Kane and Abel?" he said, his eyebrows rising with interest as he noticed the book on my bed.

  "Yes, a good long read."

  "Good ending, when the two guys..."

  "Shut up, Tony," I interrupted, before he gave the game away, but Guido, grinning, decided to push for more.

  "Go on, Tony, when the two guys what?"

  "Don't say a word, Tony," I said, between clenched teeth.

  Guido tried to get the answer from the Scot but my warning was apparently enough, and nothing more was said, though I knew Guido was unlikely to give up completely. It was too good a game. Fortunately the door opened and it was time for lunch. I was becoming accustomed to sitting on my bed, eating off a precariously balanced plate, and normally I would have tried to eat what was on offer. However, with my visit not far away I was feeling that familiar sensation of butterflies that I experienced before a golf tournament, so I missed out on lunch and lay quietly on my bed reading and waiting for my first prison visit.

  At three o'clock the door opened and I was on my way: through the prison, round the central brass star (where again I marvelled at the enormous pleasure it afforded the gleeful guards, lying in wait for a new inmate to castigate), and on to the reception wing. By the time we reached the entrance to the visit-area my pulse was racing.

  "Hodgkingson," shouted the officer who had escorted me, and then left me standing alone at the gate. I was wound up tense with anticipation and uncertainty. My thoughts drifted back to 1991, when I had qualified to play in the British Open at Royal Birkdale. As I stood on the first tee waiting for the tournament to start, I was so nervous. At the time I was suffering from a dreadful bout of "yips" on the greens. Members from my club had driven up from Surrey especially to support me. Television cameras covered the whole event and every score was to be published in the paper. I had considered withdrawing, afraid that I would achieve a dreadful score which would be tantamount to professional suicide. In those circumstances, perhaps more than any other, I had disciplined myself to deal with one hole at a time. Somehow I managed to make the cut, play on the last two days and pick up the biggest cheque of my career to date. I thought I would never experience tension like it, but I was very nearly sick waiting to be called through to my visit in Wandsworth.

  Eventually, a rather dirty-looking guard, smelling strongly of whisky, let me through and led me to a small room.

  "Got anything you shouldn't have?" he snapped.

  Not knowing what I was allowed, it seemed a ridiculous question to me. I had nothing to declare and passed on to the next section.

  "Hands above head," he ordered, and I duly obeyed. It was only a rub-down search, one of many that inmates are randomly subjected to, but the involuntary reflex still appeared as he frisked my crotch. The other officer present stepped forward and he
ld out a revoltingly soiled harness, which was slipped over my head and fastened behind my back. It was worn to stop inmates escaping by swapping places with visitors, but it made me feel exceptionally degraded—which may well have been its secret objective. I felt like a carthorse and was glad my son Ben wasn't coming to see me.

  Given the nod, I walked through to the visits room, where I was led to an empty table. It was a small room, considering over seven hundred inmates used it, and I realised why the visits in Wandsworth were so short—twenty minutes every two weeks. Guards sat on raised platforms near each table and cameras attached to the ceiling were positioned to home in on any irregular transactions.

  While I waited, watching the entrance door, I thought of Tommo who was expecting to pick up a drugs parcel, and wondered how on earth the transfer could be carried out with such tight security. Above the door was a notice that stated visitors found with drugs were liable to prosecution. The penalty would be six months in prison.

  After a long wait, a door opened and Bronya and my father walked in. At first they couldn't see me and for some seconds I watched them impassively as I tried to adjust to the rush of affection that swept through me. Then they spotted me. From across the room I saw them smile and as they walked towards me I felt my bottom lip start to tremble. They must have known that I was choked with emotion because they didn't expect me to speak for a few moments, and it was all I needed to pull myself together and put on a smile.

  I had tried really hard to make myself presentable but, without any mirrors in the prison, except for the small one we were issued with, I had no true impression of how I was looking. I could see, though, that they were shocked by my appearance. I'd never been very big but during the last two weeks I must have lost over a stone. "How are you?" asked my father, showing immense concern as he sat down opposite me at the small table.

  "I'm fine, Dad—really," I forced out.

  "But you're so thin—you've got to make sure you eat properly."

  "It's only because my clothes are big, Dad, don't worry," I said, but it was as though somebody else was speaking. I yearned for a reassuring hug but only minimal physical contact was allowed.

  * * *

  The visits room had a snack bar selling refreshments—tea, coffee, fizzy drinks, crisps, that sort of thing—a chance for the inmates to OD on Mars Bars. My father offered to fetch the tea and buy me a few special treats, leaving Bronya and me alone.

  We sat opposite each other at the table and at first I found it very difficult to talk. She was staring at me and I could see how worried she looked. "I really am all right," I said, trying to reassure her. But she'd seen me through the worst year of my life and could now read me like a book.

  "No, you're not," she said, a tear running down her cheek.

  "Did you have to wait long?" I asked. She knew I would not be able to cope with pity—I was trying to keep my emotions on hold, so that I wouldn't break down. Reluctantly she let the conversation drift off in another direction.

  "You know how I can't cope with queues," she said bravely. "Well, Wandsworth could give tips to Disney World. They make you do it in stages."

  She described how they'd played the waiting game: standing out in the cold on the prison steps—and waiting; checking in at the visitors' centre—and waiting; being escorted through to the waiting-room, and waiting to be searched. Then the long wait before finally being called.

  I reached across to hold her hand. "You're freezing," we both said simultaneously. I explained why I was cold. Being in one of the last cells on the block meant that not only was the food cold by the time it reached us—so was the heating pipe.

  "Can't you complain?"

  "No."

  "We've got to get you out of here," she said.

  I couldn't manage more than one Mars Bar, but later I regretted not stuffing myself whilst I had the opportunity. My father told me about the marvellous support I was getting from friends and former colleagues, and how everyone was quite sure that it would be only a matter of a couple of weeks before I was sent to serve out my sentence at Ford Open Prison.

  Both my father and Bronya had been busy writing to official bodies, trying to ascertain prison procedures. Both had been fobbed off by Wandsworth. "The prison does not enter into conversation with either friends or family of the prisoner," they had been told. The bad news was that after continually pestering my probation officer with phone calls, Bronya had finally been told that it would be unlikely for me to reach "D" category status until I had served at least six months. Until then I would be a "C" category prisoner—someone who could not be trusted.

  And then, in no time at all, an officer came over to us. "Finish your visit," he said. New to the situation and anxious not to put a foot wrong, the three of us stood up straight away and said our goodbyes. With Bronya and my father watching I fought to maintain some dignity as I was led away.

  * * *

  Back in the cell I lay on my bed and considered the age-old question: is it better to experience elation and excitement, that will invariably be followed by depression, or to go through life taking no risks? Their visit had been brilliant, but the knowledge that it would be two weeks before the next was intensely depressing. Some prisoners preferred never to have visits: they were simply too painful. But for me the pleasure far outweighed the pain. If a phone call was the equivalent of being watered and fed, Bronya's and my father's visit amounted to an emotional banquet.

  Chapter 7

  Chasing the Dragon

  ~~

  An hour after I had returned from my visit, Tommo came back to the cell smiling like a cat who'd stolen the cream. The parcel of drugs he'd been expecting had obviously been delivered.

  "You got it!" exclaimed Guido, who had been sweating profusely in anticipation.

  "Yeah. Had to swallow it though—the screws were watching too closely."

  "You'll have to puke it up. I've gotta have it," said Guido.

  "I can't," said Tommo. "Never been able to."

  Guido leapt up. "No" was not an option. "Listen," he said, going over to the corner where his water jug lay. "We'll fill this up with salt—you drink it—you'll bring it up all right."

  "I hate that," Tommo said, but Guido was not to be deterred. He poured salt into the jug and stirred it. He handed the jug of brine to Tommo.

  "Go on, mate, drink it quick."

  Guido's need for a "fix" dominated the situation and, with admirable bravery, Tommo took the jug and started drinking. Water poured down his chin, soaking his shirt, but he managed to gulp down the whole pint. As soon as he'd finished he began to gag. I watched, cringing—if anyone was going to throw up it was me.

  Guido held his slop bucket in front of Tommo's face and I heard the liquid slosh down onto the bottom.

  "Fuck it," said Guido. "It hasn't come out. You'll have to try again." He came across to me. "Borrow your water, John?" he asked, but it wasn't really a question. Before I could answer he picked up the new water jug I had been given with a slop bucket and poured in more salt.

  "Go on, my son," urged Guido, as Tommo manfully downed a further pint of brine. The salt, I learned, had been collected over a long period and was saved for just such emergencies. This time, as the contents of Tommo's stomach were spewed out, Guido yelled in delight. "There it is! There it is!" he shouted, and reached into the mess to extract the small cellophane packet. It was a sight that I shall never forget.

  The drugs, Tommo informed me, had been collected in the usual way, and I couldn't believe it was so easy. The visitor surreptitiously drops the "joey" into a cup of tea, which is then drunk by the inmate. The penalty for an inmate who is caught is a mere few days added to his sentence. I would have thought six months in prison for the visitor might have acted as an adequate deterrent, but apparently not. A threat only becomes a deterrent if there's a danger of being caught and, months later, I realised that detection under the current security regime is very rare indeed.

  Tea came and went an
d I could feel the excitement mounting in the cell. Tommo had bought two items with a small amount of the "smack" he'd received—some "burn", and two batteries for his radio, which a few moments later came to life. It suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't read a newspaper or heard any news reports since I'd been in prison. It was like being on another planet.

  * * *

  After tea we were just settling when an officer delivered the mail we were waiting for. Over a hundred people wrote to me during my first weeks in prison, and every word of support gave me strength and helped stave off that crushing feeling of total isolation.

  Every day, letters from Bronya, my parents and my closest friends urged me to keep cheerful and I doubt I would have survived without their encouragement. Many letters included the writers phone numbers, and said that if I needed to talk, I must ring. But that, of course, was impossible. I tried to answer by return, on prison notepaper mainly, but also on some that I had borrowed from Guido. To most, I sent brief greetings, but when I wrote to my son I made up stories. He loved tales about thunder and lightning, storms, castles, dungeons and evil wizards. I didn't have to look far for inspiration.

  Writing to Bronya enabled me to escape the squalor by mentally transporting myself to her side. Pages I wrote, pages I received. One day she sent a letter that had been dabbed with perfume. It was the best treat I had been given for months, and from then on, it became a regular thing. Often I would go to sleep with an envelope lying on my pillow. You have no idea how comforting it was. Receiving letters and writing home was a crucial pastime for me, and I felt sorry for Tommo who was unable to read or write.

  While I wasn't exactly warming to Tommo, I no longer found him intimidating and, that night, when he offered the prison paper he couldn't use, I wondered for the first time about his background.

  "Where are you from, Tommo?" I asked.

  "Chelsea. Around that area," he said, taking a deep drag on his fag.