"Is that where you went to school?"
"Never went to school really. My Dad taught me everything I know."
The story emerged bit by bit, but by the sound of it Tommo's full-time education finished when his father went away for his second term of imprisonment for drug-dealing and grievous bodily harm. When I was learning how to hold a cricket bat, Tommo was learning how to roll a "joint".
* * *
An hour later I finished my letter-writing and took more notice of the preparations taking place in the cell. "What are you doing?" I asked. I had already gleaned that it was heroin that Tommo had smuggled in, but I had no idea what they were doing and my question seemed to excite Guido.
"Can't get needles in here, so we "chase the dragon"."
"What's that?" I asked, intrigued but apprehensive. On current form, simply being present in the cell while heroin was taken might be enough to implicate me. I was worried that my prison sentence would start off with a conviction. Guido was involved in a delicate operation and it was several moments before he answered.
"We need foil, see," he said, straightening up. "That's what we've just done."
I suddenly realised why Guido had been so delighted to find an empty packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes at teatime. For two hours it had been submerged in a jug of boiling water, collected from the urn at teatime, and the outer covering had peeled away from the soggy box. Guido was left with a perfect layer of golden foil, and, after carefully drying it between his bed sheets, he moved on to the next stage.
From his toilet roll he tore off several sheets which he rolled tightly into long tapers. "Need them for a light," he said, in answer to my quizzical look. "That's why they only let us have matches. They think they can stop us "booting up" by banning Kit Kats (because of the foil) and lighters (hence the taper). They've got no chance." His lips parted in a malevolent grin.
I lay back and tried to get into Kane and Abel but couldn't concentrate, so instead I listened to Tommo's radio that was playing in the background. Close proximity to drug addicts was new territory for me. It was scary being in a cell with people who were visibly changing, but at the same time I was fascinated, wondering what would happen next. By now apparently everything had been prepared and all we had to do was wait.
Tommo had missed out on tea. Apparently he wasn't feeling like it after Guido had made him throw up. Suddenly, he announced he was "starving" and suggested it was time to open the tin of tuna that Guido had been given earlier in the day. "A favour for a favour," Guido had said when I congratulated him on his present.
"Want something to eat, you two?" he asked Tony and me. Some things you turn down in Wandsworth but half-decent food isn't one of them. We both nodded vigorously. The only task before eating was to extract the tuna from the tin. Unfortunately there was no tin-opener, but I was shortly to learn there are ways round such trivial problems.
Guido was obviously the opening expert and from the top of his cupboard he took down the small metal mirror that each inmate is supplied with. About six inches square, with rounded corners, it looked far from suitable. Putting the tin on the floor, Guido set about his task. Gripping the mirror he lifted up his arms and drove down one of the rounded edges into the top of the tin. I could tell by the noise alone that nothing had happened. He repeated this action like a robot until, at last, the battered top gave up resistance and the mirror crashed through. Oil splattered everywhere.
After he had levered back the edges, making a small gap through which he drained the remaining oil into his slop bucket, Guido began to prise out the meat with his fork. Bit by bit the thin slithers fell into his pudding bowl until the tin was empty. Guido had had the foresight somehow to smuggle in a few extra slices of bread at tea, and minutes later I was tucking into half a round of tuna sandwich.
It was a pretty professional job. By the standards of the outside world it was a long way from good, but in prison it was exceptional. Rather like fish and chips tasting better when eaten from newspaper, a stale tunafish sandwich is five-star food in Wandsworth.
"We'll buy more tins tomorrow in canteen," Guido said. "Want to buy with us, John?" It was a kind offer but with only £2.50 to spend I could hardly participate in group buying, and I explained as much. The reaction surprised me.
"You gotta wise up, mate. That's why we fuckin' asked you cos we know you'll be short. You won't survive in here unless you accept help when it's offered."
I remembered how when I had played the golf tour I had lost several opportunities of sponsorship through not wanting to appear pushy when the subject was broached, and I now realised it was time to learn the lesson. "That's kind of you," I said. "I'd appreciate that," and I did, too.
* * *
The drug orgy was to begin just before lights out after the last check had been made. Until then, it seemed, Guido was happy to talk.
"You going back to golf when you get out of here?" he asked.
"Not sure if I can."
"Well, if you want to do a bit of work you'd be great at the tweedle."
"Cor, wouldn't he arf!" said Tommo.
"What's "the tweedle"?" I asked.
"Next league up from hoisting, that's what it is. You buy something cheap like a ring from Woolworth's, go to a jeweller's and ask to see a tray with something similar on it. Then your partner comes in, makes a distraction, and you swap the crap for a bit of pucker "tom"."
"What's "tom"?"
"Tom foolery, jewellery. See, we can't do it cause we stick out a mile. Posh geezer like you, well—you've got it made. You can make big bucks at the tweedle."
It was the first time I'd been asked to do something so obviously illegal, but not wanting to appear critical, I nodded at Guido as though I'd consider the proposal.
"You can make good money nickin' cars now, though," said Tony, demonstrating his career was more diverse than just one-dimensional hoisting.
"I thought that was meant to be harder now, with all the security in cars," I commented.
"No chance," said Tommo. "I can break into any car and drive off within seconds."
"How d'you do it?" I asked. I had always been fascinated. When I was the professional at West Surrey it was a regular occurrence to find someone had locked their keys in the car. We used to try to get in with coat hangers and all sorts but we were never able to. However, the men from the AA, incredibly, would have the doors open within seconds. If I paid attention to these lessons perhaps it would give me another string to my bow!
"Depends how much time you've got, but all you need is a piece of scaffold piping about a foot long and a spark plug," said Tony, who then proceeded to give me a detailed lecture on how to get into a top-of-the-range car, start the engine, overcome the steering lock and drive away.
I had to laugh. I was reminded of discussions between professional golfers as to the best way to swing a club. All three of my cellmates tried to convince me that their way was the quickest, but in the end each method was ridiculously simple. Tony had one or two techniques that Tommo hadn't come across before, and Tommo was particularly attentive at one point, and obviously eager to put this information to practical use. In the same way that I used to be eager to try out a new golf theory, I could see Tommo champing at the bit. At least while inside, they were able to update their skills. A short stretch could be treated as a useful refresher course.
"Which is the hardest sort of car to break into?" I asked.
"Ford Cosworth, cos it's got a second steering-lock mechanism inside the steering column. Bit of string and a coat hanger takes care of it but it takes a bit of time, see. Best avoid them," Tony said.
After my lesson I felt confident that, if ever I were stranded and my life depended on it, I would never be short of transport.
* * *
At ten o'clock, as soon as the last check had been completed by the officer, Guido moved across to sit on Tommo's bed, blocking the view of anyone who looked through the peephole. Tony, who had become more and more rabi
d-looking as the night progressed, sat on the edge of his bed. I could almost see his tongue hanging out. Tommo reached across to his table and turned the radio up, then Guido lit the first slow-burning taper and "the dragon" flared.
The heroin had been placed onto the foil over the lighted taper, which heated the rocks until they melted. Using the empty tube of a biro the toxic fumes were then sucked up, deep into the lungs. I couldn't tear my eyes away but all the time I was panicking that an officer would walk in. I watched as the heroin bubbled and skitted across the foil, the pipe chasing the fumes (hence "chasing the dragon"). A sweet, sugary smell filled the cell and I wondered if I might be affected by the fumes myself.
The voices of both men sounded dreadful, grating, as though the fumes had torn their throats to shreds, but their eyes stared longingly at the foil as each took his turn to "fix". It surprised me how short a time it took, and after only a few minutes it seemed they'd had their fill, but there were still "bones to be licked".
"Want a bit?" Tommo asked me, noticing I was watching, but the impression I had formed of Guido was further confused by his vehement response.
"No, he fuckin' doesn't! And don't ever tempt 'im Tommo—give it to Tony." I was grateful to Guido for acknowledging my innocence, but at the time had no idea how rare that quality is in prison. Without anyone questioning Guido's decision, the last vestiges of the "dragon" were thrown in the direction of Tony, who sucked its dying breath into his lungs.
* * *
When I was about ten, my father talked to me about the evils of drugs. We were in the car at the time and his warning had such an impact on me that I can still picture the building we were driving past—the Royal Surrey Eye Hospital. By all accounts, both Tommo's upbringing and his father's attitude were diametrically opposed to mine. That night I was thankful that the warning I had received had proved sufficient, and that I had been able to watch the proceedings without feeling tempted to participate.
With little else to do, once the drugs had been taken and my cellmates were tripping out in a world of their own, I slipped into bed and tried to relax. Because I was experiencing so much so quickly, living "for the moment" was proving easier than I thought. As I was reflecting on what I had just witnessed, my defensive wall was abruptly torn down. Suddenly my mind was ripped away from the present and, without warning, flung back to the past. Tommo's radio was still on and Elton John was singing a song I knew so well:
It's four o'clock in the morning, dammit,
Listen to me good,
I'm sleeping with myself tonight,
Saved in time, thank God my music's still alive.
As the music carried through the dark I quietly mouthed the words of the song. Like everyone, I have my special songs: "Someone Saved my Life Tonight" was the first song I ever learned on the guitar. I had been caught unawares and for a fleeting moment I tasted a forgotten security. It wouldn't happen again if I could help it.
When the song finished I tiptoed across to Tommo's bed and switched the radio off.
* * *
Back in bed I tried to sleep and was on the threshold of blissful oblivion when suddenly Guido stirred.
"What's that noise?" he asked, in a rather sluggish voice. I was surprised he could even speak. I listened carefully but couldn't hear anything. It occurred to me that he might be imagining things, but he was insistent. As he was the only one who had heard the noise, it had to be coming from his corner, and we turned our senses in that direction. After watching for several seconds I saw something scuttle across the floor, moving fast towards Tommo's bed.
"Cockroaches!" shouted Tony. "Fuckin' cockroaches!"
Knowing what to look for, I was able to make out a number of small black shapes, but a match suddenly flared and lit up the cell. It was like a scene from a horror film. A seething black mass swarmed round the slop bucket, and the disgusting sight sent a shiver down my spine. Startled by the sudden light, several of the black shapes darted towards my bed, too fast for the shoe I hurled in their direction, and disappeared beneath me.
"What the fuck shall we do?" said Tony, but until the smell of tuna was gone there was little we could do. The "dungeon" was always susceptible to the odd bug, Guido informed us languidly, but since the mobile food counter had been permanently positioned near our cell the problem had become worse, and I could see it was going to be a regular occurrence if we opted for extra food.
"I'll have to borrow your bucket tonight, Tommo," Guido said. The thought of having to get up to have a pee to find you're treading through a mass of cockroaches made me squirm. We had no option but to try to sleep, but I couldn't help thinking of the army beneath me, and dreaded that, at any moment, one of them would start to clamber up my leg. I fidgeted around, my skin crawled for ages, and I couldn't get comfortable. Eventually I closed my eyes and attempted to meditate... "Relax and breathe"..."Relax and breathe"—to the exclusion of everything.
Chapter 8
The Ultimate Test of Tolerance
~~
I awoke on Friday morning to the sound of rain hammering against the window. Only really keen members would be playing golf at West Surrey today, I thought. I had slept badly. In my imagination, cockroaches continued to crawl onto my bed but only a couple of times had I leant over to see if they were still around. With the morning light illuminating the cell I sat up and glanced at the floor, but there were no visible signs that a marauding mass had been on the scrounge hours before.
I looked across at the rest of my fourball. Both Guido and Tommo were still out for the count; Tony had his back towards me. I checked the time, and lay for a couple of minutes, wondering what my son would be doing at school that day, and thinking about Bronya; then I clambered out of bed. Intrigued as to the state of Guido's bucket I crossed the space separating our beds. At the bottom of the brown bucket two dark shapes lay motionless. Cockroaches, I thought, were alleged to be so durable that they could live in lands devastated by a nuclear blast, but they'd met their match in Guido's slops.
When the door opened ten minutes later, I was still the only one up and I went out to stand in the queue to hand in my unsealed letters and book my daily call. It was pretty quiet on the landing, but I came to realise that in prison, this was typical of Fridays and weekends. Since Thursdays were the main drug delivery days, it was a case of the morning after the night before. I wandered back to the cell, completed the usual chores and waited for breakfast. I was ravenous but by the look of my cellmates, it seemed the only thing likely to be on their menu was "cold turkey".
Breakfast was a sombre affair. Lousy food is edible when there's someone to have a laugh about it with, but the others were still asleep so I sat in silence, chewing on the lumpy pig-meal porridge, made with water, and felt a longing for home comforts. My companions were still sleeping two hours later, when the door opened and "canteen" was called. I didn't know whether to wake the others up. Fortunately, as I dug out my identity card, Tony stirred and I left him to do it.
I went out onto the landing, made my way up to the second floor where a gate was open, and joined the small queue which led round to the canteen door. With only £2.50 to spend for the week, it didn't take me long to decide what I needed. One £2 phonecard, a packet of Rizlas, a Mars Bar and eight penny chews. I used to buy more from the tuck shop at boarding school.
Buying phonecards was the major purchase of all inmates and I didn't realise how much profit the prison service made out of our phone calls until much later in my sentence. Not that I blame them; it just seemed a case of false economy. The likelihood of an inmate reoffending increases the longer they are out of contact with home. It would seem only sensible to encourage communication. But using the phones in prison is prohibitively expensive, and many inmates whose homes are far away simply can't afford it.
I saw an advertisement on television asking how much people estimated a twenty-minute call from Dartford to Heathrow would cost at the weekend. The answer was fifteen pence. Fantastic value. At t
he weekend in prison a local call lasting twenty minutes ate a whole £2 card. During the week, phoning before six would give you about six minutes for your £2. The prison service may well enjoy a substantial profit from the phones, but set against the cost of housing individual inmates at over £25,000 a year, they'd be better off encouraging inmates to "phone home".
* * *
As I went back to my cell with my purchases I passed Guido and the boys on the stairs. There were no greetings: they looked ghastly. I saw plenty of "clucking" inside and it always looked horrendous, like the worst possible hangover. I wondered whether the "hair of the dog" theory would be put into practice later in the day.
Unfortunately it was still raining and once again our period of exercise in the fresh air was cancelled. Instead, our one weekend association period was brought forward and, as "kit change" was due, I grabbed my dirty clothes and dashed along to where the officer instructed me to wait. I was, characteristically, first in the queue. I don't know whether it's a good thing or not, but I've always been like it: waiting at airport terminals, practice grounds, in cinema queues—and now prison. I wondered where I'd picked up the habit. Certainly I'd never known my parents to be late for anything, and my son Ben was already showing similar traits. When he was four, I was collecting him from playgroup when his teacher saw me in the playground. "We're a little concerned," she said. "He always has to be first."
Well, don't look at me, I thought. Wanting to be first, needing to win—no way. I'd done too much fruitless struggling in my time to wish it on my son. But perhaps I wasn't giving enough credit to a young child's powers of observation. I hoped that an overactive competitive instinct would be the worst trait I would pass on to my son. I thought of Tommo's father and his drug abuse and violence, and couldn't help but feel sympathy for my cellmate.
* * *
After a wait of several minutes the solid steel door swung open and I entered the cell which constituted the laundry room. The smell of clean clothes was immediate. Even though I tried to keep myself clean, my clothes were impregnated with the smells of prison: stale smoke, stale food, the recess area—there was plenty of contaminated material around. Unfortunately we were only allowed clean clothes once a week. "One for one" was the enforced policy: whatever you deposited you could take away. Two officers perched high on top of the large pile of laundry presided like fifth-form bullies and watched, smirking, as I stripped off. I was made to put all my dirty kit in the correct baskets and only then allowed to put on clean pants (the cleanest I could find, that is), socks and jeans—I now required a 28-inch waist, I'd lost so much weight. Picking up clean sheets I left the room and made way for the next inmate to enter the domain of the pocket dictators.
INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story Page 7
