After "bang up" (an apt expression after hearing the door slam), we had ten minutes before "lights out", during which Al went to sit on the toilet. Out of politeness I pretended to read a message that had been scrawled on the wall, but I couldn't help noticing that, when he finished, he reached into the bowl and extracted a small cellophane packet. After drying the parcel, he opened it up, inspected the contents, and then placed what looked like three sparrow's eggs on our minute table. He looked up and caught me watching. "Only good thing about going to court," he said.
"What?" I asked, knowing he was unlikely to be a closet ornithologist.
"Crack cocaine. Want to buy some?" I shook my head and lay down facing the wall. I'd never used drugs and I hoped I never would, but I'd read stories where inmates had forced drugs on the innocent to make them users. I knew drugs were available in prisons but I hadn't expected to encounter them quite so quickly.
I closed my eyes and for the first time wondered if, physically, I would be able to survive my ordeal. I was very tired, the events of the day had taken their toll but it was no good trying to sleep. The noise that filled the jail was deafening. Men were shouting to each other from cell to cell. Others were screaming and hammering on their doors in sheer frustration. It reminded me of a film I'd once seen set in a Victorian lunatic asylum. I lay without moving and listened to the noise for what seemed like hours. I was playing possum, I suppose, but surprisingly I didn't even think very much. I was in shock.
* * *
Next day, Al had to go back to court and was collected before dawn. In total, I'd said about ten words to him. It was a case of ships passing in the night, but I'm damned sure he had more of a lasting effect on me than I did on him.
I spent all morning behind my door, which had been opened and left ajar, but no one came in to see me and I sat hiding in my cell, too scared to go out. At lunchtime the door suddenly swung open and my heart missed a beat, but it was only a guard who told me to pack my gear. Initially I thought I was being transferred to another prison but instead, it was to another cell. It was not a good move.
The man with whom I had to share was huge: about six foot four and massively overweight. I wasn't sure how to approach him, whether to shake hands or be completely dismissive, but I wanted to appear friendly. I did not want to make enemies. "Hello," I said, smiling. He looked me up and down, then revealed a set of yellow, tobacco-stained teeth with what could only be described as a leer.
"Hello, boyo," he said slowly, in a thick Welsh accent. Had I not been terrified I might have laughed. I felt like a lamb led to the slaughter and realised that the dismissive approach would probably have been the best bet. Again I was stationed in the top bunk.
On the short journey to my new cell the officer had given me a blank sheet of paper and an envelope. Each new inmate, he explained, is allowed to write one letter, that the prison will pay to post. The officer also told me that I was allowed one "reception" visit and that I should notify my prospective visitors in the letter. That afternoon I lay on my bed and wrote to my parents, but I didn't dare tell them what conditions were really like, or how frightened and depressed I felt.
Taffy (he assured me) was a poet, and late that evening he treated me to a rendition of his latest effort, "Blood on the bones in Aberfan": a title I shan't forget easily He read it with all the expression he could muster. "I can sing it as well if you like," he offered enthusiastically There was little I could do to stop him.
I wasn't sure which was worse, his body odour or vocal talent, but both were dwarfed by the smell of his rotting feet as he prepared for bed.
I tried to erect some form of barrier with my pillow just in case Taffy wanted to "play"; then, unable to shake off the feeling that my worst scenario might become reality, I remained awake all night, ready to protect myself from the madman of the valleys. At one point, for about five minutes, I froze with fear when the bed started shaking, accompanied by some heavy breathing. Later, when he began to toy with his lighter, flicking it on and off under my mattress, I was in a state of near panic. Taffy had just started a twelve-year sentence for arson.
I had to suffer him for three days, during which I showed virtually no interest in him. But he had obviously taken a shine to me. He confided in me that, when eventually released from prison, I should seek the sanctuary of his favourite haunt, the walkway underneath Waterloo Bridge. With much painstaking detail he demonstrated the most effective way to beg.
The next few days passed in a blur. I could not sleep. I was numb with fatigue, and only once was I allowed out of my cell for exercise, and then only for twenty minutes. Because it wasn't raining, we were permitted to walk outside round a small yard. I walked alone for much of the time but after a while I was joined by a man who introduced himself as Pete. A powerful little Irishman, he was serving ten years for attempted murder. After he had described his crime in meticulous detail, I mentally nicknamed him Pete the Machete. We only spoke for a few minutes. He was anxious to find out what happened to Al the hit man, but I could tell him nothing. That afternoon Taffy was moved, and I spent my fifth night in Brixton alone.
* * *
At first I couldn't believe my luck—a night without fear. However, when the steel door once again slammed shut, I was left in the dark with nothing to do but think. Cut off from the world and conscious that my punishment had begun, it was almost the first time since the accident that I felt I could look at the remnants of my life. In the darkness, the feeling that I had lost everything overwhelmed me. I had separated from my wife and just before the trial I had told my girlfriend Bronya that it would be better for her if she didn't wait for me, but I was missing her so much now. I ached with loneliness for my little son, but, I could not let him see me in this cesspit. I had lost my job, my flat and with it all my future. I was haunted by guilt at having taken away someone's life—that would never leave me. There was absolutely nothing to look forward to.
For six hours I sat at my small desk, bathed in moonlight, and tried to find a way that I might keep going. It was a desperate situation and everything pointed to the easiest solution: to end it all, there and then. In golfing terms, "to retire".
Ironically, it was that very expression that saved me. Years before, as a young golfer, I had retired several times from tournaments when not doing well and had come to realise that nothing is more humiliating. Thus in later years, when facing a resounding defeat on the course, I had disciplined myself to look neither back nor forward, but instead, to concentrate on the present and finish the round, focusing on one hole at a time. Often it still ended in defeat, but more than once I had survived.
It may seem ridiculous that such an unlikely comparison with my present predicament could have guided me in the right direction. I do not want to belittle my situation, but having been a professional for twenty years, I perceived my life very much through golfing eyes. When my mind finally related the problem to something I could understand, I saw how I might survive. I knew it was going to be difficult, that I wasn't really facing up to my problems, but if I lived for the present and worried neither about the past nor the future, perhaps somehow I could carry on.
* * *
At eight o'clock that same morning an officer came in to see me. "Hodgkiss," he said (no one in prison would ever get my name right). "Pack your gear. You're moving. You're being transferred to another nick."
"Thank God," I thought. "Where to?" I asked, expecting him to say Ford Open Prison.
"Wandsworth."
I'd never heard of it. "What's it like?"
He looked at me for several seconds, opened his mouth as if to say something, then turned and walked away.
I packed my few belongings into my small bag, sat on my bed and waited to be called. Somehow I had got through my longest night, and I approached my move with renewed purpose. I didn't care what Wandsworth was like, it had to be better than Brixton.
Chapter 2
New Boy: Wandsworth
~~
I had spent
much of my twenty-year career travelling round Europe, staying in top hotels, so the word "Reception" evoked images of large carpeted areas, comfy armchairs, mahogany desks and polite concierges. However, the reception area at HMP Wandsworth gave the word a new perspective: decaying rubbish, wooden benches, stone floors and brutal "screws". It was no cleaner than Brixton; if anything it was worse. Continuing the tradition of getting my name wrong, "Hodgkinson 2478" was called out loudly by an officer and I followed him at a respectful distance along a scruffy, badly-lit corridor. We went down an iron staircase to the depths of the prison—the "dungeon", I later found it was called, because it was below ground level. He left me outside my new cell as he reported to the landing officer, and sheepishly I opened the tiny peephole to look inside.
Three bodies lay on three beds. The light was off—it looked like night-time but it was midday. Three buckets stood on the floor and I realised there was no toilet or wash basin. I felt very, very weak and sick. Five minutes later the officer returned, opened the cell door and I went in. The door slammed shut, as I was locked in. Three faces turned towards me, three pairs of eyes drilled into me: the new boy.
"Give us a fag," said one of them.
* * *
To my right was the only empty bed in the cell and, without having to move, I put down on the dirty, stained mattress the bag of prison issue clothing and bedlinen that I had been given in reception. Slowly I reached into my pocket and dug out my cigarettes. There was no need to walk across the room as only three paces separated me from the furthest bed and, with as much confidence as I could muster, conscious that my body language posed no threat, I held out the opened packet at arm's length.
"You might not like them," I apologised. "They're Silk Cut Ultra Low."
One of the men—Mediterranean-looking, medium build, in his thirties—eyed them suspiciously. He looked lean and hungry—not one of Caesar's choices.
"Jesus Christ—fuckin' "civvies", ain't you got no burn?"
"What's burn?" I asked.
"Burn—tobacco, fuckin' 'ell, this your first time inside?"
"Fraid so," I said, aware that I'd already been sussed. "I've just come from Brixton—Pete the Machete told me it's as bad as it gets there, but I must say Wandsworth doesn't look too good."
"It's the worst, Wanno's the fuckin' worst—always has been, always will be," he spat out as he took one of the cigarettes.
"My name's John," I ventured further.
"Guido," he replied with a small nod.
I looked at him as he slipped the cigarette between his lips and flicked the lighter. He took a deep drag but with nothing there to bite into his lungs he withdrew the cigarette, snapped off the butt and tried again.
"Fuckin' fresh air, these," he said, but this time smoke was blown out and he nodded in the direction of the other two men.
"Tommo," he said, indicating the nearer. Then, flicking his eyes across to the furthest bed, "Manolitto—ignorant fucker."
I almost smiled—it sounded like a Red Indian name. I looked across at the inert figure but realised he bore no resemblance to an Indian brave—he lay tucked up tightly in a defensive ball. At least in this quarter there seemed no threat. I then looked across at Tommo. He was lying on his back, legs splayed, his bulk swamping the bed. He was a big man, definitely a snorer. His bald shaved head, inches from Guido's socked feet, was turned in my direction and on his neck, proudly displayed, was a tattoo—Chelsea FC.
I reached across and offered him the packet of civvies. He took one.
"Who d'you support then?" he asked in a deep, throaty voice. My loyalty to Spurs nose-dived.
"The Blues," I said. "I'm a great fan of Glen Hoddle."
"You don't look much like a fan." I refrained from thanking him.
"Never got much chance to go—used to work on Saturdays." He didn't comment and, appearing to have passed the interview, I moved across to the last bed and held forth my offering.
"Don't give 'im nuffin", came Tommo's voice from over my shoulder.
Manolitto's eyes held mine for a second before he turned away to face the wall. One of Tommo's legs flashed out and smashed into his bed.
"Introduce yourself, you Spanish piece of shit," Tommo said viciously. The body lay still. Without knowing, I had blundered into the front line and I wasn't ready for it. Slowly I made a tactical withdrawal back to my bed, my space.
"One day you're really gonna get it, Mano," Tommo added.
I sat on my bed in awe of such hatred. Mano was obviously not flavour of the month and, whilst part of me was drawn to protecting the persecuted, I was relieved that the hate normally reserved for the new boy was being absorbed by the Spaniard—poor bastard.
"How long you doin'?" asked Guido, breaking the silence.
"Three years."
"Fraud?"
"No, driving offence—drink-driving offence."
"Fuck me—bit steep, innit? You kill someone?"
"Yes," I said, shocked by the brutality of the question. It was something I was still struggling to face; I certainly couldn't talk about it. I sat down on my bed and fumbled around with my bag. It was too dark to unpack, but my actions were enough to halt the conversation. When Guido stopped peering at me I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
The morning had been hectic. Three of us had been moved out of Brixton, two to Wandsworth, one to Ford. The businessman who was going to Ford had breathed a sigh of relief when his paperwork was completed. It had needed all my sportsmanship to congratulate him on his good fortune.
Before my own transfer and another dose of the "sweat box", I had been allowed to buy a phonecard out of the money I had brought with me to prison. The money, confiscated on arrival, is held on account, and every week you're allowed to spend a small amount. Two pounds my first week—just enough to buy one phonecard. I had warned everyone not to expect any calls for a few days. I had no idea what the situation was going to be regarding the phone, but that morning I was given the chance, and I called my father. He had received my letter containing news of the permitted "reception" visit and had booked to see me in Brixton the following day—I had to let him know that I would no longer be there.
Fortunately an officer stood behind me while I was speaking, and it stopped me from becoming too emotional. Even so, I found it difficult to talk. I respected my parents enormously—they had given me so much support over the years. My mother had trained at the Royal Academy of Music and was a brilliant pianist, my father was an Oxford graduate, but when I announced, at seventeen, that I was going to give up my work in the bank and become a professional sportsman, they didn't bat an eyelid and actively encouraged me in my ambition. Throughout the last year, when I had felt in a no-man's-land, numbed by what I had done, they had shown an inner reserve of strength that had helped me considerably. They had given me the impression that they could cope with any situation, but during our short conversation I decided to gloss over Brixton's shortcomings and also tried to sound cheerful. After only a couple of minutes I was tapped on the shoulder by the officer. I explained I had to go. "I just hope I feel a bit safer in Wandsworth, Dad."
As I lay there reflecting on those words I was so thankful that he couldn't see me in my new surroundings.
* * *
The quiet that had fallen in the cell suddenly seemed far too morbid, and I turned to Guido. "Mind if I put the light on?" I asked.
"Don't give a fuck what you do, but the switch's outside." So it was the same system as at Brixton: during the day you could ask for the light to be put on, but at night the lights were switched out at ten o'clock.
"Don't you ask for it to be put on?" I asked, finding it strange they should wish to live in such gloom.
"What for? Banged up twenty-three hours a day. There's sod all else to do but sleep!" Tommo said.
"Don't you read?" I asked no one in particular.
"Tommo can't read and they've run out of comics in the library," Guido said, propping himself up onto one elbow. I li
t up a cigarette and pondered on the prospect of a sentence without reading. A sobering thought—no escapism.
"Not been in trouble before then?" Guido asked, looking across. I shook my head.
"Not like me then," said Tommo. "I've done a four, two threes, and a two. This one's nuffin'—a year, that's all, be out in three months."
I wasn't sure what to say but it sounded an enormous amount of time spent in prison for someone who looked so young.
"How old are you, Tommo?" I asked tentatively.
"Thirty two, just gone."
I did some mental calculations and realised that, with sentences totalling thirteen years, Tommo couldn't have spent much of his twenties in the outside world.
"Look 'ere," he said, passing across a hand-painted card. "Sandy, me daughter, sent me this for me birfday."
It was a colourful little picture. "How old is she?" I asked.
"Eight now. Only seen 'er twice though. Her mum let me see 'er the last time I was out, but I got nicked again after two months. Ain't seen 'er since."
I was lost for words. I began thinking about Ben. He would be eight next year. The two of us, just about as close as a father and son can get.
"Yeah, well, I broke me fuckin' licence," said Tommo, looking at me. "But I've got another case pending—possession of a firearm. Bastard cossers set me up though. Me brief says I'll beat it with any luck. The search was illegal, see."
"It'll be a "gate arrest"—they'll be waiting for you when you get out," said Guido. My look in his direction prompted a further comment from Tommo.
"Guido knows it all. Got sixty previous, ain't you?" he said, turning to face "the master".
"Go on—show 'im yer previous, Guido."
"Sixty?" I repeated, flabbergasted.
"Yeah," he said with a grimace. "Thirty-six I am now—done eleven years of bird." He paused while he lit a roll-up cigarette. "Last time I got out was Christmas Eve. Five fuckin' days later I was nicked again. No one should get released before Christmas, puts you under too much pressure. Anyway I've 'ad enough now—everyone's got their limit. Got to be real careful from now on." He lay back on his bed, the conversation ended, and for a while the cell slipped into contemplative silence.
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