In the far corner, opposite the toilets, was the "slopping out area"—two large porcelain sinks with huge plug-holes for the waste, and a tap that was either off or blasting out water with the force of a fireman's hose. I watched as the water splashed off the bottom of the buckets, sending spray everywhere. To my left, next to the dustbins, were the urinals, blocked up and overflowing with deposited slop from the impatient, who couldn't wait for the waste sinks—the mess flowed freely.
I was so angry. I wanted to grab whoever was responsible for dragging this disgusting, inhuman practice into the 1990s by the scruff of the neck and throw them headlong into this filth. Forty-five inmates were expected to complete their tasks in ten minutes. Nice one. With gritted teeth and holding my breath for as long as possible I slopped out and returned to the cell, only to have to collect my toilet roll and wait my turn in the queue. It was some time before I calmed down.
* * *
Since I had arrived in prison the weather had been foul and nearly every day exercise had been cancelled. Now, for once, the sky was clear. At nine-thirty we were called out for exercise and I wandered out to the yard with Tommo and Guido. Manolitto elected to remain in the cell but there was no way I was going to forgo my second opportunity of fresh air in nearly two weeks.
No matter where you go in HMP Wandsworth, the internal structure of the prison means you have to pass through its geometrical centre, a circular hall which over the years has become a shrine to the regime. In the middle of the floor lies a marble circle embossed with a large brass star and any inmate who sets foot on this symbol of authority is in serious trouble. You pass round it anticlockwise, in single file, without talking, hands out of pockets, shirt buttons done up to the neck, and scrutinised by gleeful officers who are ready to pounce and scream at any one who violates this ritual. Fortunately I'd been warned what to expect by Guido. It struck me that the only group of megalomaniacs who could have devised such an infantile tradition were second formers at my old boarding school. There were about fifty of us from "A" wing heading out for exercise and the line moved slowly through the prison, but it wasn't too long before we reached the large iron door that led to the outside.
There are certain everyday expressions that through over-use lose much of their significance, and walking out into the yard I realised that "fresh air" was one of them. I breathed it in as if it were an elixir, and it struck me how lucky I'd been to spend most of my life in the open. I gulped in the air and became heady with the "fix" of oxygen. The yard was the size of three tennis courts back to back, surrounded on three sides by high fences with razor wire wrapped round the top. We had entered the yard from "D" wing and as I stood surveying the scene I looked up at the building that blocked in the fourth side.
The wing looked as imposing as it was monstrous: like a huge three-decked man o' war, the small dark rectangular windows reminding me of the gun ports of the Victory in Portsmouth. It stretched away in the distance for a hundred yards or so in perfect symmetry, not a brick out of place. I knew our wing was identical, though our cell was effectively below the water line and hidden from view. It was a daunting place to live. Everything in the yard was grey and looked filthy, even the hundreds of tatty-looking pigeons that flew round or perched on the long wires that stretched from end to end. The wires were a protection against landing helicopters, the IRA having successfully broken out using that method a few years previously.
On the ground next to the wing building were paper parcels, and as we walked past them on our first circuit I turned to Guido: "What's all this paper doing out here?"
"Shit parcels," he replied.
"What the hell are they?" I asked, guessing but not wanting to believe.
"If you have a crap at night," he explained, "some cells throw it out the window. So don't fuckin' tread in one or you'll bring it in the cell." I was shocked. I couldn't decide whether I was locked up with people who were naturally disgusting, or whether they were normal human beings who had been warped by the Wandsworth regime. I just couldn't believe we were allowed to walk about in such filth.
By now there must have been about two hundred inmates in the yard. About half joined the slow train moving continuously round, the other hundred or so sat on the ground at one end, forming two distinct groups: black and white. On each circuit we would pass within feet of a hundred pairs of staring eyes.
Occasionally a body would break rank from the train and bend to the ground. "We call them "swoopers"," said Guido, who was looking decidedly pale. "They're pickin' up fag butts".
I watched as another "swooper" fell on his prey amongst the pigeon crap, put the butt to his lips and lit up. I'd never smoked much, maybe five cigarettes a day, but I always discarded the cigarette after I'd smoked half. If I wasn't careful I was going to be followed round the exercise yard like a trawler followed by seagulls.
After a few more laps Guido's attention was caught by a small, bearded man, pretty much the same size as me, but older than most of the inmates—maybe mid-forties. His arms were folded across his chest as though he were cold. As we passed him on the far corner he told Guido that he'd be joining us next time round.
"Who's that?" I asked, knowing it might sound inquisitive but wanting to know whom I'd be mixing with.
"Just a mate I've done a bit of bird with. One of the best blaggers in London is Steve. Cossers are desperate to nick 'im, surveillance, the lot. All he's in for is a petty drugs charge; be out soon. One of the most respected guys in here, so watch your step."
On the next circuit the small man moved smoothly into step with us and immediately nodded in my direction. "He's sweet, our new cellmate—green but sweet," said Guido.
"How do, the name's Steve," said the bearded man, actually holding out his hand, my references from Guido apparently powerful.
"Hi, my name's John," I said without expression. I'd never met an armed robber before and I thought the best bet would be to remain as forgettable as possible.
Steve turned back to Guido. "Got any burn?" he asked.
"Got nuffin', but I'm cluckin' bad. Wanna do a card deal?"
"Fuckin' 'ell, you still on the gear?" said Steve.
"Yeah. 'Ad a boot yesterday mornin' and I'm starting to feel desperate. I need a joint bad."
"We could do a deal with Floyd. Tommo, are you in?"
"Yeah," grunted Tommo.
"What about your mate?" he said, looking at me.
I shook my head. "Thanks for asking though," I said. I knew they were talking about a drug deal and though I wasn't interested I appreciated being asked and included in the group. I thought of the young Spaniard back in the cell who was distancing himself from his potential allies. I'd learned the importance of getting on with people in my early days on the golf tour. I pitied the young man back in the cell, who probably felt the world was against him.
As we turned the far corner Guido flicked a nod towards a group of black men behind us and after a few moments we had company. "Reespect, Guido," said the dreadlocked black head.
"Card deal, Floyd, six for a quarter?"
The tall black man went into discussion with his partner and, after nodding agreement, turned back to Guido. "Lunchtime, be last in the queue."
"Sweet," said Guido. The two black men peeled away and it seemed the deal was done.
Steve turned towards me. "How long are you doin'?" he asked.
"Three years," I said.
"He plays golf," said Guido. "Thought you'd like to know."
"Fuckin' 'ell, I love golf," said Steve. I couldn't believe it. "You any good?" he went on.
"Not bad," I said, trying to keep calm.
"What's your handicap?"
I had long since decided that my best chance of survival was to try to gain a powerful ally, and although I wanted to keep my past life quiet, it was now or never and I decided to trust my instincts. "Well, actually, I didn't have one, I'm a professional—well... was."
"Fuck off."
"No, honestly, I was
."
For the next few minutes I was quizzed in depth about my golf and what I was doing in "Wanno", and I was pleased that Guido didn't seem to notice that I had previously held back when the subject had been broached in the cell.
"Jesus, this ain't the place for you, mate," Steve proclaimed. "Look, I've gotta go now but we've gotta talk." He turned towards Guido. "Take care of him, I want a golf lesson," and with that, he slid away.
"Seems a nice guy," I said to my companions.
"Hard as nails is Steve. Plunged a couple of nonces in Parkhurst. Get on the wrong side of him and you're history. He knows everyone."
Bloody hell, I thought, better not give him a slice!
* * *
On our way back to the cell I tried in vain to spot the SO to ask him about my visit but I couldn't see him and we were then "banged up" till lunchtime.
"Tell me," I asked Guido, who'd visibly liveried up since the drug deal had been fixed, "what does "plunged a couple of nonces" mean?"
"You don't know what a nonce is?"
"Not really."
"A nonce is a sex offender, child molester, anything dodgy."
"I thought they were kept separate, for their own protection," I said.
"Yeah, well, they start off on the numbers—protection under rule 43—where they're locked up on their own, but as time passes they get filtered into the system. When they're found out they're done."
"How do the guys find out though?"
"Screws tell 'em, they hate "bacons" as much as us."
"And then they're plunged?"
Guido lay down on his bed and kicked off his shoes. "Plungin's a stabbin', but depends on what they've done. Sometimes it's a bucket of boilin' water with sugar in it thrown over their bollocks—rips all the skin off, fuckin' terrible that is. Saw it done to a geezer in Albany once, bloke died of a heart attack, good riddance though if you ask me."
I tried to imagine the pain, the sight of another human being punished in such a way, even if he were a child molester or a rapist. It seemed that whatever punishment the courts handed out, it was nothing compared with that meted out by prison inmates. I wondered if during the next eighteen months I would see prison justice carried out.
Chapter 5
Pete "the Psycho"
~~
Discovering information from officers in Wandsworth reminded me of when I was a kid picking up rocks on the beach to find crabs. All the rocks looked the same, but some hid jewels.
At lunchtime when the door opened I made a beeline for the landing office but, with the elusive SO still unavailable and my frustration levels climbing, I threw out the question to an officer no more senior than the one I'd asked in the morning. "Guv, could you tell me how I go about booking a visit?" This time I hit the jackpot.
"Where've you come from?"
"Brixton, Guv."
"Did you have a visit booked before transfer?"
"Yes, for today, Guv."
"Your people can have the visit here tomorrow, if you can let them know."
WOW! I couldn't believe it was so simple after the other officer had been so unhelpful. "Thanks, Guv," I said. "One more thing. I still haven't got a bucket and I need one, Guv."
"You'll have to ask someone else. Now move along."
I came to learn that each officer only had one piece of information to impart. Their capacity to help seemed to be determined by their IQ. I marked this one down as the "visits officer" and moved along to the back of the long dinner queue.
Every meal is an explosive situation in Wandsworth. "Twisting" doesn't go on (not even Oliver would have the nerve to ask for more), and "portion control" is meant to ensure equal distribution; but jealousy is rife among the starving and, as the queue moves along the counter, each inmate scrutinises the amount on the plates in front and behind, to make sure he's not losing out. Perhaps the fuse paper of the inmate in front of me had been lit earlier in the day, but the larger sausage handed out to the guy next to him started the countdown.
"Hey, mate, give us a bit of your sausage."
"Fuck off."
THREE...
"Don't tell me to fuck off, you lucky bastard."
TWO...
The finger in the chest led to the main rockets firing.
ONE...
"Don't prod me, you wanker!"
ZERO: WE HAVE LIFT-OFF...
I'd never seen a fight before, not a violent one. A fist flashed out taking the guy with the over-large sausage in the neck; he stumbled. A left foot swung out and caught him on the knee, which neatly deflected the boot in the groin. He went down with his sausage like a ton of bricks, only to take a right foot in his chest. I just caught a glimpse as the boot lashed into his head.
The next moment pandemonium broke out. A whistle was blown and suddenly every officer in the place threw themselves into the melee, screaming Behind your doors!—a command leaving no room for misunderstanding, but I was so far away from my cell that I was in two minds what to do. A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me violently into the nearest cell. The door slammed shut and I turned to see Steve the blagger. "When they say "Get behind the door," you gotta move quicker than that," he said. "You'll get bent up if you don't".
"Thanks, Steve, I appreciate it," I said, then moments later, "What's "bent up" mean?"
Steve moved to the door and looked through the small peephole. "Come 'ere," he said, nodding towards the hole.
I moved to his side and squinting, with one eye closed, I had a full view of the fight scene on the landing. There must have been six officers outside, and initially all I could see was a wall of uniforms, but after a moment they separated, and I could see the inmate who had started the trouble. His right arm was bent up behind his back in an arm lock so extreme that to relieve the pain the man automatically bent forward. An officer had his neck in a hold and was twisting his head to one side at an impossible angle. Truncheons were in their hands but I couldn't see whether they'd been used. The man was then led away, screaming in pain. I couldn't see the other inmate, but he was no longer on the floor. I turned back to Steve. "Looks painful," I said.
"Fuckin' is," he said. "Probably get more painful, too, when they get him on the block."
"What happened to the bloke on the floor?"
"Down the block, too, if he's well enough. They'll sort it out later but most of the time, guilty or innocent, a fight's a fight and he'll get blamed just as much."
"All for a bit of sausage," I said.
"Listen," said Steve. "Guys set off at the smallest thing. I knew a bloke in Long Lartin once who borrowed a quarter ounce of burn off a geezer. When he was asked to return it he told the bloke he'd borrowed it from that he hadn't got it. As he's talking the burn falls out of the cupboard. Guy comes back twenty minutes later, stabs him forty-eight times, dead as a dodo. Geezers are right on the edge in 'ere. You gotta recognise the signs."
I nodded. I knew when to listen—this was advice from somebody who knew what he was talking about. We spoke for a few minutes and after a while the door opened and we were let out. There were no signs of the fight on the landing, everything was back to normal and not one inmate displayed any reaction. "How often does that happen?" I asked.
"Every time the whistle blows," said Steve. "Once a day at least."
Once again we joined the queue and eventually I collected my sausage and cabbage leaf. "Thanks for the help again, Steve," I said, as I made my way to leave.
"Catch you later," he said, nodding, and then as an afterthought, "Keep your head down. Don't want to see you get a battering."
* * *
Back in the cell I managed two mouthfuls of my fat-soaked sausage and threw the remains in the bowl we used for rubbish. Guido managed half of his and even Tommo couldn't eat the revolting morsel.
Because of the fight the lunchtime drug deal had been postponed, and Guido was trying to work out whether it could be completed during "association", when, for two hours, inmates were allowed to mix. It supposedly
took place every two days, but more often than not it was cancelled because of staff shortages. Theoretically, we were meant to have association that afternoon.
Suddenly we heard keys rattling in the door and moments later it swung open. An officer came in and looked round. "Esposito?" he asked.
"Guv?" answered the young Spaniard.
"Pack your gear; you're moving."
We watched as Manolitto stuffed his possessions into a large transparent plastic bag. Within minutes he walked out of the cell. It all happened so quickly. No goodbyes, nothing. It seemed really strange to me, so cold and impersonal, almost like not shaking hands after a game of golf.
"Must've been worried you were goin' to batter 'im and asked for a transfer, Tommo. That's why the screw stayed—keep us off 'im."
"Yeah, well, good riddance," said Tommo.
"Where's he gone to?" I asked.
"Dunno. Another wing, maybe another nick. They never tell you."
I wasn't exactly feeling at home, but to some extent I'd settled down, and to find a spare bed waiting to be filled I found disconcerting. Because there was no opportunity of airing frustration against the guards, someone had to take the brunt of pent-up anger. Manolitto had been persecuted by Tommo not because he was Spanish, young, or introverted, but because he presented the easiest target in the cell. Someone had to be the fall guy. Manolitto must have hoped that, as "the new boy", I would take some of the flack, particularly as I looked fairly small and vulnerable. It must have been a disappointment to find that Tommo still regarded him as the one to suffer. I was left hoping that when the new man arrived I would be able to retain my position of third in the pecking-order.
At two o'clock the door opened for association and, on Guido's advice, I dived out with my towel and soap and headed for the communal showers on the other side of the landing.
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