A Cockney's Journey

by Eddie Allen

  “Well M’Lord,” he said, reading out the events of that fateful night. He blabbered on about how we attempted to rob the post office whilst armed with a handgun and how the old boy was still seriously traumatised over the whole incident.

  “They got away with five thousand pounds and none of the money was recovered, M’Lord. Paul X viciously pressed the gun in the post office master’s face, trying to force him to open the safe, which thankfully was on a time lock. The safe contained at least ten thousand pounds, M’Lord.”

  DC Jackman continued to nail our coffins down, telling the court how they apprehended Paul, Harry and Al in woodlands near Redhill, after a massive police hunt. He went on to add the fact that Eddie had escaped and only during a routine inquiry into gangland violence, which resulted in him having had his prints taken at Earlsfield police station, were they later matched up to those found in the Jaguar car at the scene of the crime. He went on to tell the judge that, in his opinion, the four of us were extremely violent and dangerous criminals. Unfortunately, the judge was swayed by the considerable amount of previous violent convictions the other three had.

  After blabbering on for another twenty minutes or so, DC Jackman retired from the stand. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the gallery, Sue looked at me with daggers in her eyes, shaking her head in disgust at DC Jackman’s portrayal of her husband. The judge, resting his arms on the bench and peering over his glasses, started muttering something to the chief clerk. The court usher told the four of us to stand.

  “This is a serious charge you face, which carries a severe term of imprisonment. Never before have I had the displeasure of being confronted by the likes of you. Your contempt for the law is for all to see,” the judge barked at us. “Paul X, how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?” he asked.

  “Guilty, Your Honour,” Paul replied with a smirk on his face.

  “Harry X, how do you plead?”

  “Guilty, Sir” he said looking at his bandaged fingers, hoping for a tad of sympathy.

  “Allan X, how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty M’Lord,” Al said quietly, looking very pensive. Suddenly and without warning, I just burst out laughing. The whole affair was so stressful and frightening; laughing was the only way I could deal with the situation. Apparently when you are extremely nervous, laughing relives the tension.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Honour. I don’t know what came over me,” I said all apologetically.

  “OK, Eddie X, how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Well, Your Honour, it’s like this. I…”

  “Just answer the call. You’ll get your say later,” the judge butted in.

  “Guilty, Sir,” I answered despondently.

  The usher ordered the court to rise; informing everyone the case would resume after lunch. We were led down to the cells and banged up until after lunch. During that time, I had a visit from my solicitor. He informed me that, of the four of us, I stood the best chance of getting a light sentence, seeing that I’d never been in trouble before and the fact that I was only eighteen. But, he added, I must be prepared to go to prison, as it was inevitable. The length of term was in the lap of the gods, he reckoned. Personally, I thought it was down to the judge. We sat chatting for half an hour and, during that time I managed to smoke at least ten fags, one after another, until I felt a bit sick. After my solicitor left my cell, I was given my lunch by this warden, who I might hasten to add was a very nice guy. Staring at my tray and wondering what the fuck it was, I decided to eat a little, and actually found that it tasted OK. I later found out that goulash would always be on the prison menu. My cell door opened and I was led back up to the court, where the four of us sat in the dock waiting for the judge.

  “All rise,” ordered the usher. The judge and chambers returned to the bench, sitting down and fidgeting with their gowns. The court was then told to sit by the usher. For the next hour Al, Paul and Harry’s solicitors badgered the judge with all the excuses under the sun as to why he shouldn’t impose a custodial sentence on them. However, all their endeavours fell on deaf ears, as the judge had already made his mind up about giving all of us custodial sentences. My solicitor got up, waffling on about being young, first offence, married with a young son, battered childhood, homeless at fifteen, living in a car, being dragged down the wrong path by circumstances out of his control. By the time he’d finished buttering everyone up, I was nearly in tears.

  “He’s a victim of circumstance, M’Lord and I beg the court to show leniency to my client,” my brief informed the judge. I looked on in amazement, thinking that this guy definitely deserved an Oscar! The judge looked at us, while fidgeting with his wig and then his glasses. He then rubbed his chin as if thinking he needed a shave. He beckoned us to stand.

  “Is there anything you would like to add to your defence before I start sentencing?” he asked us, sticking his finger in his ear indicating he would listen. Nobody responded to his request.

  “Paul X, the sentence I bestow upon you befits the terrible crime you committed, using violence and frightening behaviour with a firearm. I have no hesitation in imposing a seven year custodial term,” he said sternly.

  “Allan X, for your part in this armed robbery, again I have no hesitation in imposing a seven year custodial sentence.” Al looked at me, wide-eyed and shocked at his sentence.

  “Harry X, your previous convictions of theft, violence and fraud give me no reason whatsoever for being lenient towards you, even though you had a bit part in this robbery. It seems to me that you need to learn how to respect the law. With this in mind, I sentence you to a five year custodial term,” the judge said, glancing his eyes towards me.

  “Eddie X, I have taken into account what your solicitor has told the court. However, regardless of your circumstance, I feel that this court should nip it in the bud. You must realise and learn the difference between right and wrong. I therefore sentence you to between six months and two years Borstal training and I truly hope, young man, that this changes your attitude towards crime, because next time you will go down for years,” he warned me.

  The court usher led us out of the court and back down to the cells. That was the last time I saw Al and the boys for years; our paths didn’t even cross in prison. Al and Paul served their term in Parkhurst prison on the Isle of Wight, while Harry done his bird at Pentonville. I spent six weeks in Wormwood Scrubs, waiting to be re-allocated to Rochester Borstal in Kent. I mixed with rapists, murderers, and cop killers. I never spoke to anyone the whole time I was there, for fear of talking to the wrong nutter. The place was full of the most evil humans I had ever laid eyes on.

  The day I left Wormwood Scrubs for Rochester Borstal was not a day too soon, and I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a massive relief for me to board the prison sweatbox, heading to Kent and leaving behind what I can only describe as bitter, twisted and extremely violent institutionalised inmates. However, Rochester Borstal for young offenders wasn’t in the same league as the Scrubs; in some respects it was worse, with young villains trying to make a name for themselves, being hell-bent on breaking all the rules imaginable. Just like the Scrubs, each wing had its own chap and his sidekicks, running the wing for his own gain. This guy was undoubtedly the hardest of all the wing inmates. Even the screws left him alone, especially when dealing with other inmates who dared to undermine his authority.

  I’m a great believer that if you’ve done the crime and the time, you have paid your dues to society. Unfortunately, there are some do-gooders on the outside who don’t share my views; condemning ex-offenders upon their release thus making it virtually impossible to get work and go straight. Mind you, there are quite a few who will deliberately get themselves nicked on a regular basis just so they can go back to prison; these are the poor souls who need help, not condemnation. Being institutionalised, they don’t know any different. Not only do you lose your liberty and dignity, you have to be alert and on your guard the whole t
ime you are inside. The experience is very stressful, saying or doing something wrong or having more tobacco than anyone else could lead to being given a slap, or being mugged for your smokes. These events happen on a regular basis, the beatings normally occur when you least expect it, like in the shower room or first thing in the morning during slop-out, while the wing was buzzing before breakfast.

  The worst thing that can happen is being sent down near the end of the week. Upon your arrival, every con knows you have a quarter of an ounce of tobacco and a box of matches. Most of them have run out days ago and are gagging desperately for a puff. Arriving at Rochester, I got talking to this guy in reception who was doing the same sentence as me. He informed me that this was his third spell in Rochester.

  “Keep your nose clean and you’ll be alright, and remember one thing, never bow down to anyone, otherwise you’ll be fucked for the rest of your term.” Rob reckoned. “If anyone wants a row, or picks on ya, give ’em a dig, even if you get done. If you set your stall out from the start, they’ll leave you alone. The first two weeks are shit. We’ll be called recepos and every fucking scumbag will try to nick your smokes. Stand firm, OK, Ed?” he added smiling.

  After going through the de-lousing and medical check, we were given a bundle of clothes. Two blue and white-striped shirts, one pair of jeans, one pair of grey itchy strides, two vests and pants and one pair of shoes. These items would be replaced every seven days! Unfortunately, Rob was sent to F Wing and I ended up in E Wing. Standing looking around at my new boxed home and feeling really miserable and depressed, I noticed I had a bed, a little wooden chair fit for fishing on the riverbank, a little dresser and slop-out pot. My depression soon turned to anger when this guy called Stepanovich waltzed into my cell, belligerently demanding my tobacco. He informed me he was the chap of the wing and if I knew what was good for me, I’d hand over the smokes. Remembering what Rob told me, I picked up the little chair and smashed it over his head, telling him to fuck off out of my cell otherwise I would kill him. He screamed, dropping to his knees. I picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him out onto the landing. Slamming my cell door shut, I sat on the bed trying to roll a fag. After a few attempts I gave up, due to the fact my hands were shaking so much.

  Rob was spot on with what he told me. During my sentence, I never had any grief from anyone after that incident, not even the real chap of the wing, Braddock. In fact, Rudi Braddock and me ended up being good friends, with both of us playing for the prison rugby team. We had some really hilarious encounters playing the screws’ team. The first few weeks of my sentence was spent scrubbing and polishing floors for a few shillings a week. It was during this time that I met the prison Chaplin, Bruce. Bruce was tall and gangly, with a short grey beard and gold-rimmed glasses; he was without doubt the person who got me through my first and last prison sentence. For a man of the cloth, he was just so laid back and cool; it was impossible not to like him. I spent ninety per cent of my recreational time sitting in his group, listening to his beliefs and wild stories. He would sit in his chair, smoking French cigarettes, Gitanes, while Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells played in the background and the smell of burning incense sticks filled the air with the scent of lavender. He was a male version of my great friend, Rose; his spiritual beliefs and knowledge of Buddhism had me enthralled for months on end. There were over one thousand inmates in Rochester Borstal, yet only five attended Bruce’s daily circle. His strong belief in the afterlife was on the same lines as mine. His knowledge, however, was greater than mine and I couldn’t wait to gain some of his wisdom. Three months passed and Sue and Daniel visited me twice a month. I was only allowed one VO a fortnight and two letters a week. During one visit, my nan came with Sue and Daniel. She started rowing with some of the prison officers, accusing them of starving me, because I’d lost so much weight. She actually hit an officer with her brolly and the whole visiting room roared with laughter.

  I had done everything Rob told me to do; keeping my nose clean whilst keeping a very low profile. This action became more difficult as time wore on. Living with 120 other cons sometimes brought about problems, which, gladly, I overcame. The prison governor promoted me from floor scrubber to kitchen orderly. Being a Red Band, I could move about the prison unaccompanied. I could also spend more time out of my cell than anyone else, have privileges such as showering every day instead of twice a week, not getting banged up till lights out at ten, when everyone else was banged up at seven, watching telly and listening to music in the recreation room, getting the daily papers first to see how QPR got on, more cash, selecting the best (if there were any) yellow peril every night and rock cake with my cocoa. There were, however, certain arseholes that used me as a carrier between cells and the only reason I obliged was to keep everyone sweet, otherwise I would get loads of grief and it just wasn’t worth it. I smuggled from cell-to-cell and even wing-to-wing everything imaginable, tobacco, drugs, sugar, chocolate, porno mags, matches and even pins to split their matches. Everyone would trade between themselves; the non-smokers invariably got the best deals. There were quite a few guys, me included, who traded food for tobacco, especially when your landing was first up for breakfasts and dinners. There were eight landings, four either side of the stairs, so if F landing went up first, the following day they would be second, the third day, third and so on until you were last again. The reason for the system was simple; all the decent grub like eggs, bacon, sausages, beans and toast only catered for two landings. After that you got goulash. So, if you were up first or second, you had great bargaining power. The non-smokers who were last would buy your breakfast for quarter ounce of tobacco. Being a kitchen orderly, I got first choice all the time. Not surprisingly, I never went without smokes or toiletries. Mind you, I lost a shitload of weight! One of my pet hates was morning parade where we had to march around the prison, like army cadets.

  “Left, left, left right left, about turn, right, right, right left right. Change your feet, laddie, keep in rhythm, left, left, left right left, swing those bloody arms with your feet,” the governor’s right hand man would scream at the top of his voice. In rain, snow and howling winds, he never let up, changing your lead from left to right whenever he felt like it, causing chaos in the ranks. Being in prison wasn’t easy. In fact, it was bloody hard and miserable. The only consolation I had was the fact that once out, I would never in a million years return.

  While playing for the rugby team, it was common practice to train three nights a week in the prison gym. Other cons used the gym’s facilities, which included snooker, table tennis, weights and five-a-side football. After training one evening, I witnessed a horrific gruesome attack on two inmates. Three guys carrying socks started scowling in anger, running over, smashing these guys across the head and body with their socks. I didn’t know it at the time but they were filled with snooker balls. I stood, gazing in horror, while these guys got seriously beaten. The blood spurted all over the gym floor. Nobody said or did fuck all to help those poor guys; they just acted like nothing was going on and that’s what prison is like. Because you’re in each other’s faces 24-7, you’re afraid to speak out, for fear of reprisals. Many a time I’ve even witnessed screws turning a blind eye when a nonce (sex offender) was being given a slap. Most nonces, after several beatings, ended up down the block, being banged up on a rule 42 for their own protection. Some of the inmates acted like fucking deranged animals, looking for any reason whatsoever to give you grief. The best form of defence while you’re in the nick is simply to keep a low profile and blend in without being noticed. If you draw attention to yourself, in any way, shape or form, on your head be it. During my sessions with Father Bruce, I found complete peace and serenity. Unfortunately that inner peace soon left me when I was back on the wing, surrounded by bitter aggressive cons.

  The next few weeks flew by and before I knew it, I had been inside for five months, knowing in eight or nine weeks I’d be eligible for parole, if I kept my nose clean. Father Bruce asked me if
I would like to be baptised and confirmed at Rochester Cathedral in a couple of weeks’ time. I had no hesitation in accepting his kind offer. Being trustee, I now started escorting prison workers to the farm and eventually the women’s prison that was being built just on the outskirts of Rochester’s town centre. Mind you, all the prisoners I escorted were trustees and most of them were only two weeks away from being released. Consequently, I never had any problems on our journeys to and from the prison. I wish the same could be said of my escorts to and from the hospital wing. There was this one guy who was a complete and utter dipstick. I used to take him on a regular basis to see the prison doctor. On one particular occasion returning to the wing, the muppet legged it, heading towards the twenty foot wire fence. I watched in amazement while he scaled the fence. To give him credit, for a dickhead, he could climb. Within minutes, the prison sirens were wailing and the whole area was full of laughing screws. He reached somewhere near the top, crying out that he would top himself if challenged. What happened next came as a complete surprise to everyone. He flung himself off the fence, crashing down onto the exercise yard’s concrete floor. He spent the rest of his sentence in the hospital wing, after breaking both his legs and fracturing his right elbow and wrist. What a plum, I thought to myself.

  The following week, me and two other cons were baptised and confirmed in Rochester Cathedral. The ceremony was performed by the church’s bishop, Well, I think he was a bishop; he wore a tall pointed mauve headpiece. The ceremony was a beautiful occasion. There have only been a few occasions in my life that I felt so close to Jesus, and my confirmation was one.