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

  With association having only just started and the landing relatively quiet, I noticed the showers were empty. Hot water would last for about five minutes. After that, if you wanted a shower you would have to stand in the freezing cold room and be blasted with icy water. Many of the inmates elected not to do that—they were called "soap dodgers". I quickly dumped my clean bedclothes in the cell, grabbed my wash kit and dived in. Being first in the shower queue was a definite bonus.

  * * *

  When I returned to the cell Tommo was just coming out. Since I had finished my chores, I elected to spend the two hours of association behind doors. Guido was lying on his bed looking rather pale. "How do you feel?" I asked.

  "Crap."

  "Want a cigarette? I've got a few left."

  "Yeah, so 'ave we now. Thought you were going to buy with us."

  "Well, you were asleep and I only had £2.50. I needed a phonecard, which left me with nothing."

  "Fuckin' 'ell, when we tell you it's sweet, it's sweet. You're too nice, mate, you gotta learn to use people more. You had fifty pence left after your phonecard; we could have put that towards another tin of tuna." He sat up on his bed and pulled his knees tight to his chest.

  "Chuck us a fag, then." I lobbed the packet across. "And don't always say "yes", sometimes you gotta say "no", even if you've got enough. You'll have blokes coming onto to you all the time if you don't. Bet that's how you got in 'ere."

  His words tore through me, and my mind raced back over the months to the night of the accident. I knew that Guido was right. It had been weakness on my part that had led me to go over the alcohol limit. I had broken an ingrained discipline, cultivated over twenty years of travelling to golf tournaments, because I had been too worried what others might think of me. I thought my professional reputation as a teacher was at stake and stayed to argue a point. It was no one's fault but my own. They didn't know I was ill and hadn't eaten for three days. If only I'd said "no".

  * * *

  There was a lull in the conversation. Guido lit a cigarette, and I looked around at the surroundings and contemplated the hell that saying "yes" once too often had created.

  "When do you get out?" I asked him.

  "Not long now, another seven weeks, nuffin'."

  "Will you go back to hoisting?"

  "Got to, really; there's fuck all else I can do, my mum won't have me back, got no digs and all me mates are "smack heads". I'll get back on the gear, see, and I'll have to do more nickin'."

  "What about help from here, probation, that sort of thing?"

  "Probation?! Do me a favour! I haven't seen them all the time I've been 'ere, ain't seen no one."

  "What about the rehab course you were meant to do?"

  "Never got started".

  "But surely you don't want to come back in here?"

  "Course I don't! I'll just have to be careful. I won't get a job, no one'll have an ex-con, and I can't kick the habit."

  It was my own fault for believing the media. I expected there to be educational facilities: it would only be my problem if I didn't come out with a degree. I'd expected rehabilitation, education, probation, and believed that anyone who reoffended would only have themselves to blame—but clearly this was not so. Anyone serving a sentence of less than four years is given their release date the day they enter prison; thus there is no incentive to behave well. If your sentence is less than four, you serve half. Only if the sentence is over four years is an inmate exposed to the parole system whereby theoretically he can earn early release by showing that he's addressed his offending behaviour.

  For the vast majority of "under fours", helping to cure the fundamental cause of their crimes is ignored. Without help it was almost certain that Guido would reoffend and I couldn't help feeling that it was irresponsible to let him go without making any effort to prepare him for life after release. He needed help and he had received none whatsoever.

  "I'll get out with my £46 discharge grant and stay with friends," explained Guido. From the proverbial frying pan into the fire, I thought.

  "Most guys go back to hoisting but get caught after a few months cos they take more risks—they've gotta, see. After a few months "outside" they get back on the "smack", big time, and need the extra money When they get back inside their habit's controlled again—sort of like a health clinic, the nick is."

  I looked at Guido and tried to understand the nightmare of his lifestyle. It appeared to be a vicious circle. I couldn't help but feel disgust for a system that so publicly condemns drug-related crime, yet does little to cure it. I was no expert, but it seemed to me that there could be a wing specifically for prisoners convicted of drug-related crimes, that they could have closed visits, where it would be impossible to make deliveries, and that there should be mandatory drug courses. With the possibility of substantial increases in sentence for anyone breaking the rules, and the incentive of shortened sentences for those who abide by them, surely such measures would help to address this growing problem. Of course, the prison officers responsible for bringing in twelve per cent of all drugs would be liable to immediate imprisonment. But my ideas weren't new.

  "Everyone in here knows that, has done for ages. Ask any "smack head" and they'll tell you, but these bastards don't give a toss if you come back or not. At least "inside probation" used to give us a chance—now we don't even have that. The politicians don't want to know about spending on rehab. Hundred and thirty prisons, there are, only three with drug units. We're just banged up for a year, then kicked out on the street. It really pisses me off when the likes of fuckin' Howard criticises us when he does fuck all to help—bastard!"

  I sat in silence for a few minutes, absorbing the torrent. "Look, I'm not bragging and I don't want to interfere, but I'm pretty good at writing letters. Why not let me write to the council on your behalf and try to get some form of help when you leave?"

  "What sort of help?"

  "So you don't reoffend. I don't know but there must be something," I said positively. He looked up from thumbing through Judge Dredd.

  "There's a housing association I tried once, not for a house or anything flash, but a drug-free hostel away from my manor, but I got no answer."

  "Let me try again," I said, looking at him. After a moment he gave me a small nod. "Got the address?" I asked, determined not to let the idea sink without trace.

  "Can't it wait?"

  "No. It won't take you long to find it. Where is it? In your box?" I said, moving towards his bed to provoke a reaction.

  "All right, all right, I'll get it."

  A few moments later I stood with the address in my hand. I mapped out a letter for Guido, asking for help: "...I was desperate to leave the area where I was too easily led... I wanted to break my habit and needed help to put me on the right road..." The letter was suitably pleading, and I was just about to read it to Guido when we heard a whistle blow.

  Somewhere outside a fight had broken out, and both of us leapt up to the peephole to see what was happening, but it was at the other end of the landing. Half an hour later Tony returned, looking sick. "Tommo's been done," he said. "Down at kit change, that bloke Pete, the psycho, was there, took a swing at Tommo."

  "Fuck it," said Guido.

  "Is he hurt?" I asked.

  "There was a general bundle. Had part of his ear bit off," said Tony. "Screws threw us all behind the doors and piled in, bent them up and took 'em down the block."

  "Hope Tommo got in a couple of digs too," said Guido. "Didn't just lose an ear."

  "Reckon he must've bust someone's nose, there was blood everywhere."

  With any prisoner on drugs possibly HIV positive, Tommo must've been a worried man. "Think he'll be all right?" I asked.

  "Don't know," said Guido. "Won't be coming back 'ere, though."

  Even though Tommo wasn't the most magnetic of personalities, he'd been fair to me, and I felt sorry for him. It might have been any one of us out there. If the guards hadn't told Pete that we had asked
for him to be moved, the fight wouldn't have happened.

  "We'll get some other bastard in 'ere now," Guido said. Once again the expectations of another body coming in unsettled me. No consistency. Incredible frustration. Wandsworth was proving to be the ultimate test of tolerance.

  Chapter 9

  The Raid

  ~~

  Four days after Tommo was taken to the block, an officer came in, collected his possessions and, when pressed, explained Tommo was off to the Scrubs.

  "Don't forget his photos," Guido said, getting up to prise the most personal of Tommo's effects off the wall. "And tell 'im to keep in touch," he added, as he handed over the photos, although since Tommo was unable to write, it was a token gesture. After his fight with Pete we knew Tommo wouldn't be coming back, but now, at least, we knew he was well enough to travel.

  Just four days had passed since my arrival in Wandsworth, but they seemed like four weeks. The grinding routine distorted time and I felt more and more as if I had been dumped in the "dungeon" and left to rot. Every day I phoned little Ben, or my parents, or Bronya; these calls were my only contact with reality. There was no news of a transfer, and conversations focused on how to push the system into action.

  I had now spent two weeks "inside", and not one official had spoken to me regarding my future. Not one prison rule had been explained, and I had no idea of my entitlements. It seemed information was deliberately held back. During exercise I had gleaned from Steve the blagger and Guido an accurate picture of what should be happening: induction on arrival (for an explanation of the system); sentence planning (what goals you should try to achieve during the sentence); assessing risk level (what risk level you are); and, finally, reallocation to a new jail. Rather like the early days of my golf swing: great in theory—lousy in practice.

  Pushed into action through frustration, one morning I asked an officer: "Guv, I've been here for over a week now; when do I go on induction?"

  "You don't from here, not on this wing," he answered mechanically.

  "But Guv, I thought everyone goes on induction."

  "How long you doing?" he asked, looking at me for the first time.

  "Three years, Guv."

  "Three years!" he exclaimed. "You shouldn't be on this wing. This is for short-term sentences, short sharp shock stuff, under one year only."

  "Well, how come I'm here then, Guv?" I said, my frustration growing rather than abating.

  "Must be the overcrowding."

  "But how do I know what's meant to happen to me, sentence planning and all that?" I asked. "My family needs to know," I said, hoping forlornly that an appeal on their behalf might make him more sympathetic.

  "Just have to wait, won't you? Now move along."

  I was herded back to my cell. I wanted to scream, to shout for someone to help me, but the cell door slammed shut—like clamping the lid on a pressure cooker. Unfortunately Guido was in a baiting mood, and after he had repeatedly goaded Tony into revealing the end of Kane and Abel, the Scot finally succumbed. I hadn't finished the book, and this provocation was enough to push me over the limit. I leapt up from where I was trying to relax and smashed both fists down on top of my cupboard, which shattered. I neither felt nor noticed the ugly gash that a nail had opened on the underside of my hand until red drops appeared on the floor.

  "So you have got a temper then," Guido said, with an inanely stupid grin. "Better not let the screws see that cupboard. They'll nick you."

  I rarely lost my temper. My first golf coach Jack Busson had seen to that. One day I had been struggling with my game on the practice ground and out of sheer frustration I threw my club down. Unknown to me, Jack was watching. For the next month I was obliged to sweep the shop, wash windows and clean members' shoes. Never again did I vent my spleen on the course. But when I had a shop of my own, if I needed to shake my assistants into action, a quick burst always got results. In prison, though, I quickly learned that no matter what the provocation, outbursts have to be held in check. My tantrum had not impressed anyone.

  "Come at me with a blade and I'll be worried, but unless you're prepared to back it up don't lose yer rag," Guido said, looking at me. "Little guy like you'll get eaten alive." It was a useful and timely lesson, because the next day Jimmy Baker moved into our cell. Guido summed him up as "low life", and he was to push me to the edge.

  Sacked from his kitchen job for accepting bribes, Jimmy had been sent down from the second landing to the "dungeon", which compounded my suspicion that I was in the punishment zone. Grey, thin, hollow eyed and permanently sweating, Jimmy turned out to be a heroin addict of gargantuan appetite, and a dealer to boot. Every time the door opened, some snake would come slithering in looking for a deal. In hushed tones Jimmy would explain: "There'll be nothing till Friday—be sweet after the visit."

  * * *

  On Thursday, the day after his arrival, Jimmy was suffering badly from the effects of heroin withdrawal—he was clucking, and obviously needed a "fix". I watched with revulsion as he sweated and puked his way through the day. His hands trembled when he rolled a cigarette, his nose ran continuously, and he only occasionally wiped it clean with his sleeve. The odour his body gave off would have deterred even the bravest of predators. Not once did he even attempt to wash.

  Throughout the night he could hardly have slept a wink—every time I woke up he was smoking. I wasn't sure what was worse: being subjected to the sight of him during the day, or listening to him coughing and snorting his way through the night. In the morning, he looked like the grim reaper.

  Jimmy had a visit booked that day; I still had a week to wait. I longed to see Bronya and recapture the elation I'd felt at her visit the week before. I felt empty and dehumanised—I needed to see her to recharge my emotions; however, with visits two weeks apart, Friday alternated between being the best day of the week and the worst. Today was definitely one of the very worst, and I struggled through my depression until Jimmy returned in the late afternoon.

  Hardly had the door slammed before he retched up his delivery and set about "booting up". He sat on his bed and made no attempt to conceal what he was doing. I watched him go through the same ritual that I had witnessed in this cell a few days before, his rabid mood reflecting his total dependence on heroin. Just before teatime he staggered over to my bed carrying what was left of the parcel.

  "Goin' to stash this under your mattress," he said to me. "They won't look there. You're too much of a straight goer."

  "No way, Jimmy," I said. "Keep them with you; don't come near here." The line was drawn, my bed was a no-go area—"enter at your peril".

  For a moment he stared at me, intimidatingly, hoping I would fold, but for once I found it easy to say "no".

  "Wanker!" he said, and proceeded to hide it under his own bed.

  The problem with my allies was that, with heroin around, they were hoping for the odd "bone" to be thrown, so I was on my own. The whole atmosphere in the cell had changed. There was little banter, in fact hardly anyone spoke. After tea, during which Jimmy had obviously "sorted" one or two clients, we settled down for the evening.

  It was about six o'clock when someone from the second landing stuck his head out of the window above and shouted down, "Hey, Jimmy, you bastard—you owe me. You're short."

  Jimmy went to the window, his co-ordination looked shot but somehow he managed to push it open. "That you, Izzy?" he called up, to which he received a string of expletives. "Can't be short: I've given out four eighths. Got nothing left."

  Even the salivating dogs, Guido and Tony, were annoyed by his obvious stupidity. The path where the officers walked was only yards away.

  "Fuck's sake, Jimmy, shut up" Guido warned. But with the carefree attitude that "smack" promotes, Jimmy continued to announce his profession to the world. When he finished he sat down, got out his parcel, cut it into two pieces with a blade from a broken disposable razor and wrapped them individually in cellophane. One piece he hid in a crack of the window, the other went
into his pocket. When he'd finished he turned to Guido.

  "Don't tell me to shut up again or you won't get any of this," he said, slapping his pocket. I could see Guido holding himself in check. The problem with heroin addicts is that they are volatile: a basic fist fight could easily turn into a horrific stabbing.

  There are no words strong enough to express how much I hated Jimmy Baker. Looking back, the officers must have been watching him, just waiting for something like this to happen. At seven o'clock, without the customary warning of jangling keys, the door flew open and the three most feared guards on the wing came charging in.

  "Against the wall! Against the wall!" they screamed. For a split second there was pandemonium, but in that time I saw Jimmy's hand whip into his pocket, pull out the small parcel and swallow it.

  "Against the wall!" one of them screamed in my direction, and I quickly moved over to the door where part of the wall was exposed. "This is a cell spin. Anything you shouldn't have, tell us now!" shouted the shaven-headed officer, who regularly boasted of his two periods of suspension for brutality.

  No one said a word as the three officers hovered with truncheons drawn. "Take them away," said one to another officer waiting outside. The three guards remained in the cell while we were led out to the landing and lined up against the wall.