While I’m locked in here.
My daughter is the sun. My heart doubles, triples – in love and pain. I never understood before. I never knew that I hadn’t really loved anyone or anything more than myself but now I feel it through everything and in every moment, day or night, light or dark. I love her. I want to protect her, to hold her, to care for her, to play with her. I am her dad. And I’m not there.
*
It’s May. She’s a month old.
*
An inmate is saying that Gavin Preston is getting transferred here. Merry-go-round, hey. Makes ya dizzy. I feel dizzy.
The inmate is a bit geed up about Gavin, who lands in Acacia alongside his POW gang-leader mate, Matty Johnson.
I didn’t know but the inmate had an axe to grind with them both and he’s really laying it on about Gavin: ‘He’s saying all this shit about you. He’s saying he bashed ya in NSW.’
I go, ‘What the fuck?’ Then I explain to him that Preston thinks he’s a hard cunt, thinks he’s a fucking hitman, ’cos he’s running around with Benji – Andrew Veniamin the hitman – that he’s saying they’re really good mates and they’ve done this and done that, all these murders. And that it’s all bullshit.
I say to the guy, ‘Mate, that’s a fucking load of shit. He’s a fucking liar. He’s a fucking shit-talking anus. He couldn’t even take petrol. Ask him about that.’
So I unearthed Gavin.
And now they decide to move Matty Johnson and Gavin to Banksia. I don’t mention to the screws that I have issues with him. In fact, I say, ‘We’ll get together in the yard and we’ll catch up,’ thinking I’ll sort this out myself.
And once that bloke starts declaring what I’ve said in front of all his mates, everyone hears what’s going on. He’s got all the inmates crouched up the rear of the cells listening and watching through the windows, you know. There’s a bit of an audience. There’s a bit of stage play, a bit of performance, and Gavin knows it’s come from me ’cos I was the one in Sydney at the time.
He goes to me, ‘You think you’re a hard cunt, coming out with that?’
He’s dirty ’cos he’s lost his self-esteem, he’s lost his respect; he’s lost his standing in front of all the POWs – in front of his boys. He’s made to look silly.
That consumes him, but he and Matty are concerned that they aren’t prepared for the confrontation, so they gee up two fucking idiots: a fella pinched on murder and a fucking psycho – two gooses. Gavin and Matty put the pressure on them, put the fear in. These gooses are – well, one of them is a deadset spastic. No, I won’t say spastic but brain dead.
I’m in the yard, heavily medicated. I’ve got a lot of issues. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. All I can think about are my daughter and my dog.
There’s a commotion in the yard adjacent. It’s Gavin and Matt Johnson, yelling, ‘Go go go! Get him! Get him! Get him!’ Get who? What?
I don’t know what the fuck’s going on until the third time in a row I’m smashed in the head with tins of tuna in a sock. That’s how fucked up on medication I am. The third fucking smash to the head and just now I’m thinking, ‘What the fuck?’
There’s two of them attacking me. And everyone’s pressed around the wire yelling, ‘Do it, do it, do it! Get him, get him, get him!’ I’m in the arena. Two of them are attacking. They’re trying to knock me out and my reactions are so dulled.
Now I realise what’s going on. I chase them. I hit one, the big fella pinched on murder, and he’s going down but he’s pulling me down with him and it’s like a bear hug on the ground. He’s not worried about fighting, he’s just wrestling with me, and while we’re wrestling the other cunt comes from the side: slash-slash-slash-slash-slash – all within five seconds with a razor. It’s this quick, and I’m up and gaining control. I’m recovering my wits, my switch to combat mode. I know there’s blood. At first I think it’s from around my eye, the side of my face, where they got me with the tuna cans. But I’m starting to realise the extent of my injuries; I’m cut to shreds – my wounds hanging open. And I’m trapped in the yard. I disarm one of them, get his weapon: two plastic knives with razor blades fused in between, like a cut-throat. So now I’ve got it off him and they run to the corner where I bail them up. I know the law on self-defence and I’m in a crime scene now. If I do anything, my blood trail will show that I challenged them, that I am no longer in defence, that I am attacking them. If I try to slash them, to kill them, whatever, then I’ll be charged. I try to lure them back out to fight: ‘Come on, give me a chance.’
Then I’m looking at the situation – what the fuck – with my blood still settling, staring at Gavin and Matty thinking: ‘What the fuck? Youse behind this? Youse didn’t want to get in the yard, and whatever I do to these fools here doesn’t get me closer to who controlled it, who organised it.’
The two gooses won’t come out. And I have to walk up and down for an hour and a half. I feel nothing but war mode: no pain and no emotion.
The psycho has made a deliberate attempt to severe the main arteries on both my inner thighs, along with other, serious slash points on my torso, head and neck. I also have defensive wounds from fending this off – the fingers of my right hand are damaged.
The murderer got slashed, too, in the frenzy.
*
When it’s time to front up and get medical help, the first thing they do is ask what happened.
‘Nothing happened. Why?’
*
An officer tells me years later, and I believe this, that I was hated by the staff, especially senior management and the POWs were very close with them. I believe this was organised and orchestrated by staff and inmates, the POWs. The tuna was passed to the fools from Preston by prison staff fifteen minutes before the attack. They launched when I was in the right position in the yard – right down the end, out of the way – where staff could choose not to see. They walked past twice within an hour and a half. I don’t yell out asking for intervention or anything like that. That’s exactly what they were hoping for. The others were hoping that I would bail out, I’d leave, I’d surrender, fuck off see ya later. But I kept on walking up and down. I nearly bled to death, man. And I made sure that when there was a yard change, a swap over, that they left the yard before I did. That they got back to their cell. I had to clean up the fucking mess – get rid of the evidence. There was bits and pieces in the centre of the yard: tins of tuna, the sock, other things, and blood. They weren’t prepared to come out into the centre of the yard and clean that, to get rid of that. I had to mop that, to clean that up, I had to get rid of that. If I’d left it there they would have got charged. None of them got charged. I never said a word. Police come to see me but no one was ever charged in relation to this.
Gavin and Matt were the leaders of the POWs, so they had influence on these other two people who were shitting themselves because one of them was going back out to the mainstream, out back into the general population, and he had issues, problems, and he needed people’s support. So he basically found himself in a situation where ‘I’ve got to do something, I need numbers, I need people, I need help. Basically, I’ll do something for youse; youse do something for me.’ But it wasn’t like that. It was forced, and they knew that, too. So they said, ‘Listen, we’ll look after ya. You go out the back: you’re with us. You prove yourself here, then you go out the back and you’re with us so you haven’t got a problem.’
And then the other one was just psychotic. He had a history of slashing inmates really bad, you know, and slashing prison officers – cutting their throats and everything. An officer nearly died as a result of his wounds. But again, slash and run. He’s just a fucking coward. Wouldn’t stand toe to toe. Couldn’t fight. And they used to root him. Seriously. This is no word of a lie: they literally used to root him.
I looked at ’em. Two fucking gooses. Two fools. I felt sorry for ’em, in a way. But I was still fuming.
JULY 2007
CHRIS:
<
br /> I’m transferred to Marngoneet, which is a satellite jail of Barwon that offers what passes for rehabilitation courses. I’ve been slated to participate in programs for people with drug and violence problems.
*
The compound I’m in has a total muster of 110 inmates, all specifically identified for violence, and the astonishing fact is that the kitchen knives are untethered and accessible to all of us. There’s no need to make a shiv here, although with only about 30 knives available, some inmates would have to share.
Within weeks a convicted murderer with a history of extreme violence in jail confronts me wielding a large kitchen knife. Fearing for my life, I flick to attack mode and he bolts. I chase him across the compound as he runs to prison staff, wanting to be locked away secure in his cell.
I can see the severed tendon in my left index finger.
*
When the inevitable investigation comes, I tell them I was cutting a grapefruit in my hand instead of on a chopping board. But the staff see it all on CCTV.
*
Back in Marngoneet after micro-surgery, I’m acting up – I’m going ballistic and threatening staff over visitation screw-ups with Kylie. I’m getting paranoid, assuming the worst all the time. I’m jumping out of my skin. My little girl’s out there, and she’s one heading towards two, ya know. Time’s going by; it’s really going by: slow in here and fast out there. It’s excruciating. It’s driving me nuts. And how is this place, that place, any of these fucking places, going to help me settle. I need help. I need help to get calm. I need help to settle. But this is just twisted shit. This is the opposite of therapeutic. I’m getting troubled and angry. Please help me. Please change this. Psychologists keep writing reports about how bad isolation is and how lacking our prisons are in seriously tackling rehabilitation. I’ve been in this shit since I was thirteen. What the fuck? That’s what – 26 years ago. So what’s happened in that time? The bash, the belting by guards, is no longer acceptable but at the drop of a hat they’ll stick me in solitary confinement to go crazy. Otherwise it’s gladiator time. What is this – some weird experiment? Am I a lab rat? Why was I selected as a child for this? Who selected me? What god does this?
*
My threatening tirades at staff land me in solitary again, and then I’m tipped back to Barwon where the psycho who sliced me up is still in residence. Officers tell me he’s now fixated on me, making threats, yelling and screaming. The guy is a drooling freak that normally I’d dismiss but he’s got the blood lust. He’s not a rational combatant. He’s a glaze-eyed thing from the depths.
When officers catch him with a shiv, they move me.
And then I’m moved again.
It’s back to Marngoneet for a six-month ‘intensive violence’ course – hopefully without knife-wielding killers coming at me. But during a three-day drug seminar I am accused of laughing and sent back to Barwon to be placed in solitary in the supermax wing, Melaleuca. The other inmates include a cast of warring gangland figures. I sit in my isolation unit and listen to the shouts and abuse traded between cells.
My release is coming up and, to my utter horror and dismay, this is how I’m being prepared. Like many times before, I revert to a hunger strike. I won’t take part in this world.
*
They move me to the Melbourne Assessment Prison to make reports on possible parole but when that’s complete they say it’s back to supermax, back to Melaleuca, back to 22 hours a day in a small room, with the brief times out never in the company of anyone but guards, and all the time living amidst and getting caught up in thunderous hate-fuelled slanging matches. The idea that this is how you prepare a damaged person, an anti-social person, to re-enter society is dogshit insane.
I’d rather be in hospital with a drip hanging out of my arm, so in front of the staff I swallow metal objects. I’m kept overnight at St Vincent’s – yes, back to St Augustine’s Ward: around and around we go – where they keep me overnight, and then I do it again.
After treatment I’m sent to Port Phillip Prison where they keep me in solitary until my release. Except for a couple of nights in hospital, the last six months of my term are all solitary.
And I’m regressing. Eighteen years ago in the depths of Pentridge, I made the ‘Eat Shit & Die’ t-shirt for my classification meeting. I make another one now and wear it out the fucking gate.
I am a time bomb.
*
Released 2 April 2008.
65. SHEILAS
2005–08
In or out of jail, the mid to late 2000s were a complicated time for Chris in terms of relationships.
CHRIS:
There was a couple of sheilas that I wouldn’t rate highly. That were nothing, really. But then there was Rachel. I’m spewing that I left that relationship. I actually abandoned her. I was with her in 2006 at the time that I was with Kylie. I was with a couple of them, but Rachel was my numero uno – my alpha: she was my alpha mistress. I was living with her and when I come to jail I was with her and then I ended the relationship in exchange for Silvia.
And Silvia was just nothing but a headache. Just a drama queen. That’s all she’s been in my life. Nothing but dramas. It’s so fucked up.
And then there was another one, Jess. She was seventeen years my junior. I felt uncomfortable with the age gap, but she didn’t. We got along really well. She still writes to me now. But again, what sabotaged that was Silvia.
Some sheilas that I’ve had stable relationships with in my life, Silvia’s come in, poked her head in because she was a mad fuck, really good sex, she’d come in and gatecrash it and just destroy whatever I had going. That’s what happens – she keeps coming along and sabotaging things. But she was just a really good fuck, you know, and I always abandoned them and I’m spewing about that.
Especially Jess. I was with Jess when she was twenty. This was in 2005. And I was starting to see her in bits and pieces – off and on, you know. I was seeing five different sheilas at the same time. Didn’t hide it either. I’d say, ‘Listen, I’m not after relationships.’ But Jess and me just started getting things together: slowly, slowly, because I had reservations about women. I wouldn’t sacrifice. I wouldn’t commit myself to them. I’d just see how they go and how I get along with them. That way every time I spent with them was quality time.
When I come to jail in 2006 I was in a relationship with Jess and a couple of others, Rachel too. I stayed with Rachel for about six months and then I ended the relationship and then Silvia started coming out to see me and I also held on to Jess. All of them wanted to come out and see me. They were all actually coming out to see me.
And then towards the end I just started culling them back. Know what I mean? So I culled them all back and remained with Jess, and let Jess and Kylie only visit me – Kylie only because she was the mother of my child.
I had people outside providing her an allowance: $500 a month, whatever she needed, if she needed anything for the kid – whatever. I bought her two cars during that period. The first one she had for a while and then she just ran it into the ground, damaged it, smashed it, this and that, decided she didn’t want me to see the state of the vehicle, okay, so she sabotaged the motor – got a friend to pull something – and complained to me, ‘Oh, it’s not working.’
So I reach out to a mate again, a mate who is in debt to me, who is obligated to me, and tell him: ‘The car is fucked; she needs a new car.’
‘Yeah, no problems.’
My mate pays all my legal fees and when I get out he gives me a bit of money. A quarter of what’s owing but he says I’ll get the rest in six months’ time. Never happens.
Anyway, whilst I’m in custody I say to her, ‘Listen, I’m not having you come visit me by public transport,’ because, at one stage there, she is. So I got her the car, then she’s run it into the ground; she’s got no licence; she’s fucked it up.
So I get her another one, and that was a nice car.
The sheriff actually seizes th
at car off her leading up to my release, because she has outstanding fines. And she wants me to fucking pay for the car. ‘I have to pay again? Come on, man, I already bought you fucking two cars.’ No, it doesn’t work like that.
And then probably three months before I get out she is living with her mother in Toorak. And she doesn’t get along. Living under the same roof as her mother is too much for her because her mother is a control freak. She’ll tell you that; she told me that.
They are having so many arguments that she wants her own place. So I say, ‘All right, fine. How much?’ Another three grand. She is coming out to see me and those are the terms.
At Marngoneet I would have Jess come out to see me on the Saturday and Kylie would come out on the Sunday – it would be the family day. And she knew Jess was coming out to see me – I never hid it. ‘I’m in a relationship with her. Me and you have a child. You want me to bond with the child: I’m bonding with the child. I’ll do what I can – the best I can as a father, but I’m not in a relationship with you, Kylie. Okay? Let’s get that straight. All right, from time to time we might have a little bit of sex, play on the side or whatever, but there’s nothing there, Kylie.’
So we got that straight.
When I was released Jess picked me up in a limo. She was in the back of the limo. I was in a relationship with Jess for about six weeks after getting out. But being released straight out of isolation I was not settled. I was all over the place and I hadn’t lived with her before. I’m hard to live with by myself, let alone with someone else. It was just too much. I’ve been used to living by myself and then bang, I’m living with someone else. And she was a little bit younger – a lot younger – and immature. It just didn’t work.
I moved in with Rachel’s brother, helped him out, and he actually fuckin’ robbed me – stole all my stuff. When I got arrested I had some money there, a couple ounces of pot and just under an ounce of eggie, of MDMA. He fuckin’ stole that, you know. Just before I got out I said, ‘Mate, you owe me a favour: I need a house. I need a place to stay.’
Mayhem Page 23
