Chapter 3
"Guv, I need a bucket"
~~
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon before the lights came on and I was able to survey the cell in detail for the first time. With walls thick enough to deter even the most stiff-necked escapee and ceilings high enough to make the potential "swinger" use his imagination, HMP Wandsworth made any form of escape an unlikely prospect.
The cells, designed in Victorian times, might well have been considered spacious, but a century later, housing four instead of two, they were cramped and oppressive. My seven-year-old son could have jumped, quite comfortably, from one bed to another without touching the stone floor. On the wall opposite the cell door, well above head height, two small windows allowed a worm's eye view of passing guards—or at least their feet, since we were below ground level. Heavily barred, these windows were left ajar, allowing at least some air to circulate and freshen the dank, sweaty-smelling "biosphere". With showers only permitted every two days (so Guido had informed me) and open-top buckets holding the "slops", the smell was something only those from "cardboard city" could initially stomach. It made me want to heave. I guessed that if I stood on tiptoe under the window I would just be able to grab breaths of fresh air.
It was, however, to the beds that my attention was drawn, and the fact that mine had still to be made. As I sat up I was reminded of the television advertisement—the one featuring the "spring"-design bed enabling a person to sit without spilling the adjacent glass of wine. If that basis defined quality my bed was a cracker. "Give" was not an expression one could use about the mesh of steel slats that sufficed as the base, and with one single inch of foam mattress as protection, only a Tibetan monk with a masochistic streak might have found it comfortable. Up until then my back had fortunately been used to better, and, as I draped my uniform prison green sheets and blanket over the metal monstrosity, my thoughts teasingly leapt to the Palace Hotel in Madrid, one of Europe's finest, where all the rooms have king-size beds.
Suddenly there was a noise of jangling keys outside and moments later the door swung open. "Tea!" was shouted loudly by an unseen guard and immediately my three cellmates grabbed their plates and headed for the door. I followed suit, picking up the plastic knife and fork I had been given on entering the prison. But eating did not top my list of priorities—the lavatory did.
To my horror when I entered the corridor I found that the lavatories were closed. It wasn't long before I realised that when the door opened it allowed us out for one specific purpose, and only one. At teatime you collect your meal and return to the cell as quickly as possible—at teatime the lavatories are closed. There was an officer standing near me hurrying everyone along. With little option I went up to him.
"Excuse me, I'm new in today. I wasn't given a bucket. I need to go to the toilet. What do I do?" Succinct and to the point.
"Borrow someone's." His lips moved but the rest of his features remained motionless. It seemed I wasn't a person with a problem: I was just a nuisance—an irritant—and he wasn't the slightest bit interested in me. There was no point in pleading. I stood in line behind the long counter and waited to collect my tea.
I'm not a fussy person. I had guessed that reports in the press suggesting that prison food bordered on cordon bleu were probably exaggerated, but nothing could have prepared me for the standard of food in Wandsworth. "What is it?" I asked the inmate who stood serving behind the counter.
"Lasagne," he replied, as he poured some onto my plate. The chef in Wandsworth obviously had a warped sense of humour.
Back in the cell I toyed with the measly bit of slush that could only be described as "fat soup", but my mind was elsewhere and I knew I had to broach the subject.
"Look, Guido, I need to go to the toilet. I've asked for a bucket, but the bastard said I'll have to borrow one—can I borrow yours?"
He turned and looked me up and down as though assessing whether or not I was clean enough. "OK," he said, nodding. "As long as you slop out for me in the morning." He didn't really have much option. What else was I to do? I put my plate down and headed for the bucket.
I've always had a bit of a problem about peeing in front of people. I remember one particular night at the Albert Hall, when I had gone to hear my sister play violin in the Proms. At the interval, I had to go to the toilet. There were about fifty men waiting behind me and for love nor money I couldn't relax enough to go. I missed the beginning of the second half (poems by e.e.cummings) because I had to wait for the "sit downs". (A blessing in disguise when I heard the singing.) Standing up in front of my cellmates who were still silently eating, I tried to pee into the bucket. Total frustration. I wondered how long I'd be able to remain inactive without drawing attention to myself I needed a distraction.
"If it's not a rude question, what are you in for, Guido?"
"Hoisting," he said, pausing to shovel some slush into his mouth. "Hoisting and possession of class A drugs." (I could feel myself relaxing.)
"Got a right result with the judge. Before sentencing he asked to see my previous, a stack of it there was. Sixty convictions takes up loads of paper. Then he says, "Mr. Gomez, it seems to me you've been in quite a bit of trouble before." Fuckin' understatement, that was. Then he goes on, "but prison doesn't seem to have done you any good, I'll therefore sentence you to only two years with the understanding you undertake a drug rehab course."" Guido paused to take another mouthful and I felt myself finally relax, my diversion having worked.
"He was a dozy old bastard," Guido surmised. "It was a right touch, thought I was looking at a five."
He returned to finish his meal, but the conversation had been enough.
"Thanks," I said, and put the bucket down at the end of his bed. "I'll have to use it again tonight but I'll clean it in the morning."
"Too right you will," said Guido with a glint in his eye. "You'll enjoy that."
I turned to organise my possessions. From my bag I took out my "new" prison-issue clothes, and laid them on my bed: a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, ominously, four pairs of secondhand socks and, worse, three pairs of secondhand underpants. I thought of the faded pair I was wearing—donned along with the jeans and sweatshirt after my strip search at reception, and blessed my girlfriend Bronya for insisting I undertake a course of Hepatitis B jabs.
Next to my clothes I put the other items which the prison had supplied: a bar of prison soap, some prison toothpaste, a towel, a large plastic cup, a toilet roll, and a small metal mirror, about six inches square with rounded corners (anti-suicide). All the toiletries that I had brought with me to prison had been confiscated. When the supplies of soap etc. ran out you had to ask for more, and I would come to realise that the officers responsible for handing out items used their power to cause maximum humiliation—it was wise to keep a few sheets of toilet paper in reserve, before asking for a new roll. The only items regularly handed out were disposable razors. Every Sunday morning an officer would come round and swap a used one for a new one. It would have to last a week and, if you happened to lose it, it would not be replaced when the officer returned.
I put my clothes away in the small cupboard next to my bed, on top of which I placed my most valuable possessions—the photos that I had been allowed to keep.
"Pictures of the wife?" Guido asked.
"No, I'm separated. My girlfriend and my son."
"Let's have a look," he said. I took them down and placed them in his outstretched hand.
"This your house then?" he asked, looking at the one of me and my son.
"Sort of. I don't live there any more—the ex does."
"Where d'you live then?" he asked as he turned to the next picture.
"Guildford," I replied.
"Fuckin' 'ell, I know Guildford. It's a great place," he said, propping himself up on one elbow. "You know B and Q on that new estate?"
I nodded.
"I've had bundles out of there mate, bundles," he said, with real enthusiasm.
"Yeah," joined in Tommo. "I done loads of nickin' there as well. Got a bloody great big car park, hasn't it?"
"Straight down the A3, nice and close to the M25, perfect," said Guido. "Fuck me, I'd love to live in Guildford."
I almost smiled. I had lived in Guildford for ten years, ever since I had sought a job offering more security than simply playing tournament golf. The West Surrey club had advertised for a head professional. I had taken the job. I became responsible for the golf shop and employed two assistants to help me, but the enthusiastic membership also encouraged me to play tournaments. I could not have found a place where I felt more at home. Now I had lost it all but I know that I had more enjoyment there in ten years than most people do in a lifetime and I couldn't help looking back with fondness rather than regret. I once read that the gods envy anyone who is too happy. In my previous situation at West Surrey I can understand that. However, I had made a decision not to dwell on the past.
"You've hoisted in Guildford then?" I said, returning to the conversation and guessing that "hoisting" constituted some form of bulk shoplifting.
"Too right, out of that B and Q—drills, saws, bundles, mate. It's a right easy touch."
"Drills?" I asked. "But aren't you seen? I mean, a drill's pretty big."
"No, dead easy. Just hide it under a big coat," he explained.
"Bit suspicious during summer, isn't it—wearing a big coat?"
Guido looked at me, his eyes narrowing. "You catch on quick," he said. "You don't use a coat in the summer, you have a spotter—bloke who causes a distraction. When no one's looking you grab the stuff, dive out and bosh, you're off. It's easy, even Mano can do it."
I turned to the young Spaniard. "You a hoister as well?" I asked.
"Yeah, but not like them, I just do it for kicks."
"No you don't, you lying bastard!" lashed Tommo. "You spend the dosh on that stupid car of yours so you look good—you're a fuckin' waster, Mano—not like Guido and me. We're doers, we've got serious previous to prove it."
I had to bite my lip. It wouldn't need the brains of Kavanagh, QC, to pick holes in that philosophical argument.
"So how do you get rid of the stuff? That's always intrigued me," I asked Guido.
"Why, want to do some nickin'?" asked Tommo.
"Course he fuckin' doesn't," said Guido. "Does he look like a fuckin' hoister?"
"No," I said, in an attempt to clarify. "I had some gear stolen once and wondered where people get rid of it."
"What sort of gear?"
"Oh, just some golf clubs," I said. But it was more than just a few. Twice in the space of a year the shop at West Surrey was ram-raided. The second time I had to spend several nights in the freezing cold protecting my stock while the shop front was rebuilt. The dust and filth were a nightmare, I was not compensated for my loss of earnings and my insurance premiums went through the roof.
I was seething. My rage had been exacerbated by reports in my newspaper showing that these bloody criminals, even if caught, would enjoy a "salmon and champagne lifestyle"—a menu for God's sake, and all these bloody prisoners absconding from home leave. Where had justice gone?!
Prison was easy, my newspaper told me—it was a holiday camp. Fired up by reports such as these, I used to phone all TV polls to register my vote, make myself heard, and on those cold lonely nights, with gritted teeth I would imagine myself their judge and executioner. I'd wipe the smile off their faces: Birch them—bang them up—make the bastards suffer.
* * *
"Hey, listen up," said Guido loudly, obviously realising my mind was elsewhere. "Ping clubs mate, they're the ones you want. Break into a boot and find some Pings, it's one-and-a-half cash for certain. No problem flogging them down the pub. You play golf, do you?"
"Used to," I said, unclenching my fists.
"Any good were you? I tried once—fuckin' useless."
He jumped up from the bed, faced me and took a swipe at an imaginary ball. I knew he'd never make a golfer.
"So you can make a bit of cash hoisting?" I said, hoping to change the subject. I had no intention of revealing my past quite so quickly.
"Just a bit," said Guido, now sitting down again. "Grand a week, no problem—but you've got to if you're on the gear."
"Is that drugs?" I asked.
"Fuckin' 'ell, don't know what you're doin' here. You should be in Ford, mate. "Smack", "brown", heroin—doesn't matter how much dosh you get, it's never enough. I know people who do five grand a week on "crack" and they're still gagging for more."
"How, though? Surely your body can only absorb a certain amount?" Except for what I had seen on television, I knew little about drugs.
"Listen, I'm tellin' you the fuckin' truth, you know nothing. If you're cluckin' you'll do anything for a fix, anything. Wish I'd never seen the stuff."
"Cluckin'?"
"Yeah, withdrawal symptoms."
"Visit in two days though," said Tommo. "Hang in there mate, got a joey coming, we'll be sweet then."
It took me a while to get used to the various expressions I heard in prison—a "joey" is a parcel of drugs smuggled in on a visit. But rather than continually draw attention to my inexperience I decided not to ask too many questions. However, two things I did need to know—how to get on the telephone and how to book a visit.
"Ask a screw about the visit," said Guido. "But you have to book to use the phone in the morning. You better be out quick though, or all the times will go."
My sanity depended on contact with the outside world, but I knew I would be up in time to book my call. In all my years as a tournament golfer never had I missed a teeing-off time through oversleeping. No matter where I was, or how late I'd been to bed, I always seemed to be up early. I was a natural early riser.
Exhausted from lack of sleep and my introduction to Wandsworth, when the lights went out at ten I fell blissfully asleep for the first time in days.
Chapter 4
"Slopping Out"
~~
I was right when I'd guessed Tommo was a snorer. Guido turned out to be a hybrid snorer and sniffer, and Manolitto whimpered.
My blissful sleep had not lasted. I had woken in the early hours, and then only slept fitfully. But I still awoke at six, mid-dream, and reality came flooding back. I lay staring at the ceiling, no radio for companionship, isolated from the outside world. I felt alone and depressed. It wasn't even twenty-four hours since I'd arrived in my new home, transferred from one hell-hole to another, and my calculations left me stunned: five hundred and thirty-five days to go. I backtracked through my mental calculations and found the concept of seventy-six weeks less distressing, eighteen months almost acceptable. I decided against getting a calendar.
As I lay waiting to get up I felt drained of energy. Only the prospect of setting in motion a telephone call to my son dragged me up. I rose, dressed and livened up in anticipation. When the door opened at seven-thirty I was out as fast as a greyhound from his trap.
No running on the landing was shouted at me from inches away as I passed an officer, and I slowed to a fast walk, but our cell was at the far end of the landing and by the time I reached the application officer there were already fifteen bodies in front of me.
"I need to book a telephone call, please," I said to the shaven-headed officer when it was my turn. He stood and looked at me without saying a word. It must have been my puzzled look that prompted him to comment. "I need to book a telephone call, Guv," he said, emphasising the last word. I realised the pompous bastard wanted a title.
"I need to book a telephone call, Guv," I repeated.
"Time?"
"Anytime after six, please, Guv."
"No calls after four o'clock."
"But..."
He cut me off before I could explain that my son might not be at home before four. "Two times left: 3.40 or 3.50—which do you want?"
"3.50, Guv," I plumped for.
"Name and number?"
I pronounced and spelt my name out slow
ly so that he could write it down correctly, but the mess he made of it was a fair indication of his intelligence. No wonder we all have numbers, I thought.
"I also need to book a visit. I haven't had one yet and I need to know how to book one, Guv."
"Is it due?" he asked.
"I don't know. I had a reception visit booked at Brixton but I don't know how to book one up here, Guv."
"Ask the SO (Senior Officer) later," he said. "Now move along," and I was dismissed. I had not been told any rules or regulations since arriving in prison and I had the distinct impression that the officer enjoyed making me feel uncomfortable. As I hurried back I decided that he'd probably been bullied at school. If he wasn't gay, as many of the officers in Wandsworth were reputed to be, I pitied his wife.
* * *
When I got back to the cell Guido's bucket was waiting for me. "Do it properly, and scrub it out with the brush," he said, as I picked it up at arm's length and disappeared out of the door. I suppose he had the right.
In years to come there will be things that I shall doubtless forget about prison, but "slopping out" won't be one of them. I walked along my side of the landing to the recess area which catered for forty-five of us, pushed open the saloon swing doors, and there it was—Hell itself.
With my first intake of breath the stench hit me and I almost gagged. In the far corner were two sit-down toilets, one with no door, the other with the door shut, but being only three feet of wood at hip height it offered little privacy. A queue of inmates holding toilet rolls waited as the two men, bent up with effort, tried to hurry. To my immediate right was the washing-up area for plates, cups and hands, a trough four foot by two foot, surrounded by a mass of bodies anxious to slosh water over the dirt. Three taps constantly blasting out freezing cold water ensured an overspill and in places the mess lay half an inch deep on the floor. To my immediate left were two dustbins for leftovers from the previous meal, but so important was it to get to the trough before the overspill soaked trouser legs and feet that food was often slung onto the floor to add to the evil soup.
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