"Hands out of pockets, no talking, eyes to the front!" yelled the officer as he watched us like a hawk. My mind went into overdrive I was in real trouble. I knew where the drugs were, I knew who had shouted out of the window, and I knew they were going to ask me.
It was several minutes before the door opened and Guido was manhandled into the cell. I stood on the landing trying to listen to what was going on but could hear nothing from behind the closed door. Eventually it opened again, and Guido was led away by two officers. It was Tony's turn next.
I stood with my back pressed hard against the wall, I was in a terrible predicament. I was used to sorting out problems on my own professional golf can be a lonely existence—but for once I desperately needed someone in there batting with me. After several minutes Tony came out and was taken away. Whether the order was random or by design Jimmy was called next, and I was left on the landing to fret alone. I hoped beyond hope that Jimmy would confess, but eventually he came out and I was called. I was really terrified.
"Right, strip off".
I took my clothes off.
"Bend over, legs apart." I complied, feeling little humiliation. I had no respect for these men.
"Wider," said one of them, and I felt a truncheon bite into the inside of my knees.
"Right, who's the drug dealer?"
My mind was working in a peculiar way. It felt as though I was part of some dubious "B" movie. "Sorry, Guv, I don't know."
"Don't fucking know?!" he shouted in my face.
"Guv, I'm a professional sportsman. I don't know anything about drugs."
"Don't be so fucking naive," he spat out between clenched teeth I could feel the venom. "Who called out of the window?"
"Guv, I've been asleep all afternoon."
The whole episode reminded me of Midnight Express, but that film took place in Turkey—not London. My options weren't great: "nicked" for aiding and abetting in drug-dealing, or "grassing", only to face a future on the numbers. I gritted my teeth and doggedly stuck to the "I know nothing" strategy. It must have been frustrating for them. They obviously hoped I would crack and nail Jimmy. My stubbornness amazed even me, considering the threats being bandied about. Eventually, the officers let me go, realising I'd learned about prison justice—the fear of being labelled a "grass" is worse than anything they could throw at me. I was literally almost sick with relief.
Minutes later we were all back in the cell. Nothing untoward had been discovered, but the atmosphere was far from celebratory. Apart from the resentment we felt towards Jimmy, the cell had effectively been sabotaged during the search. Beds had been overturned, mattresses split open, and the sheets lay in a pile on the dirty stone floor. Every picture had been ripped off the wall, even the photos had been taken down—it looked as though the place had been blitzed.
Jimmy, however, was quite unconcerned at the devastation, and went to the window to retrieve the parcel he'd carefully tucked into a hidden crack. He then proceeded to pull down his trousers and pants, and to hide the parcel under his foreskin. After witnessing such a revolting act, it was difficult to think of him as human.
Half an hour later, when the cell had been more or less put to rights, the door flew open, and "Against the wall!" came blasting at us, as the second wave of the search started. The routine was repeated, and again we stood outside as Guido was led in and interrogated. After a few minutes the cell door opened and he came out, escorted by an officer who led him upstairs. It was Jimmy's turn next and after a short time I heard him cry out in pain. I can't say I was sorry. When Jimmy was finally led away I expected Tony to be next in, but moments later both of us were released and allowed back into the cell. They had found what they were looking for. We didn't say a word as we surveyed the scene—the cell had been turned upside-down for a second time, and it left us speechless.
I sat on my upturned bed, rolled myself a cigarette, thankful that the whole sorry escapade was over, but my feeling of relief turned to horror when, an hour later, the door opened and in stepped Jimmy He looked pleased with himself—bastard.
"They asked me what the lump was. Told them it was an abscess," he explained, smiling—smiling! "Made me pull my foreskin back, but that's illegal, see. I've told them that the search was illegal. Have to go to an outside court now, not some stupid fuckin' adjudication in 'ere. Have a good boot tonight, now," he said.
"What's happened to Guido?" asked Tony.
"Got nicked for unsigned phonecards. Probably let him off if he grasses me up."
It was a petty charge and Jimmy was probably right, they would want him as a witness, but I knew Guido wouldn't say a word, preferring to suffer the "nicking". It was a shame: I wanted Jimmy to get caught.
He sat down on the edge of his bed, picked up his bucket and, with practised ease, retched up the contents of his stomach, including the parcel of heroin he had swallowed. He picked it out and dried it. I shouldn't have said anything but I was so annoyed. "You're crazy, Jimmy. Guido would still be here if you hadn't been so stupid and shouted out of the window. Boot up again and I'm asking to be moved in the morning."
"Do that and I'll fuckin' plunge you," he said, and I realised I was almost in too far. Had it not been for the Kane and Abel incident, I may well have been tempted into a show of anger, to front him out by saying something stupid like "Try it," but he probably would have done, and so I kept my mouth shut.
That night was the most frightening of my life. When the lights went out Jimmy began an orgy of drug-taking. He rolled a taper about five foot long, and stuck it to the ceiling with some old porridge he'd scraped out of the rubbish box. It hung down above his bed like a stalactite. After preparing the foil and heroin, he lit the taper, which burned at a ferocious rate even though tightly rolled. The whole cell glowed red in the light of the flames. The grotesque shadow of his bent-over body, as he manically sucked in the fumes, was etched on the wall and looked like the devil at play. It was a scene from hell.
Again and again he inhaled the fumes of the "dragon" and it was hard to believe how much punishment he gave his emaciated body. I've never been so fearful for my own safety. As the night progressed he became more volatile, screaming occasional obscenities at the guards—and at us. I could see Tony lying in bed watching, as though confused, longing for the "bone" to be tossed in his direction but wary of asking the maniac. I lay rigid with fear, unable to sleep, and watched as the whole parcel was used up. It must have taken two hours. I wondered how many men had been led to evil ways by mixing with slime like Jimmy Baker.
That night seemed endless. Sleep was impossible, and I could not disengage my mind from the terror of my incarceration with this loathsome, drug-crazed being.
Chapter 10
Goodbye to Hell
~~
The morning after the drugs raid, bleary-eyed and mentally wrecked, I got up early to clean the cell. I certainly didn't want an officer barging in and seeing all the mess. Jimmy had crashed out in a heap on his bed and Tony was asleep, but the charred remains of foil and tapers covered the floor. I set about sweeping up. When the door finally opened I went straight to the SO and told him that I had to change cells. He looked at me closely and didn't argue. Nevertheless, it was a whole week before I was moved to a single cell on the second landing.
During that time, hostilities between Jimmy and me stayed on "red alert", but because he was suffering so badly he seemed incapable of anything physical beyond survival—just. Even so, the threat was ever-present beneath the surface. Guido never reappeared after being led away. To secure some form of ally, when Steve the blagger asked about the raid I told him I was scared stiff of Jimmy, and asked him for advice. That afternoon, during association, the problem was resolved, and Jimmy received a "hands off" warning. I had no idea what form it took, but when we were banged up for tea his face seemed whiter than normal and he would not look me in the eye.
"Jesus, what did you say to him?" I asked Steve, the next day.
"Never you mind, bu
t you owe me a lesson."
The game of golf had proved useful to me on many occasions: it was a great door-opener; but the privilege of being associated with the game had never before served me so well. From then until I was transferred, I took every opportunity I could to talk to Steve about the golf circuit and explain the basics of the swing. He was intelligent and caught on quickly. He was also confident, and thought nothing of stopping during exercise to take practice swings in front of two hundred inmates as he got me to explain the lessons. It was a small price to pay for protection.
I didn't generally mind talking about the golf circuit. I was able to do so without evoking too many painful memories, although on one occasion I simply couldn't go on. Steve had wanted to know about the golf tour abroad and I was relating an experience that I had had as a young professional. I was playing in the Swiss Open and in the third round I happened to play with the American Lanny Wadkins, a world class player and the imported star of the week. We were surrounded by 6,000 spectators. It was the first time I had played with such a famous player and in front of such a large gallery, but although nervous and slightly shaky, I started off with five consecutive birdies. I shall never forget my feeling of pride and the ecstatic applause of the fans as I moved to five under par. After the round I took the cable-car at the back of our hotel to the summit of the Sierre mountain. I stood at the top surrounded by the Alps and looked down to the valley below, where the course was bathed in sunshine. It was the most magnificent sight I have ever seen. No one came to disturb me. All sense of time was lost as I soaked into my soul the incredible sensation of absolute freedom. When my mind recaptured the passion of that private moment, amidst the fear and squalor of the exercise yard in Wandsworth, I could feel my lip start to tremble and my eyes fill with tears.
"I'll try all this when I get out—it had better work," said Steve, changing the subject when he realised I was struggling.
* * *
Over the next few weeks I relied heavily on Steve. It seemed such a contradiction that he was a wanted man, yet he was someone whom I could trust. Throughout my golfing career, I had met literally hundreds of people, from bank managers and celebrities to the struggling self-employed. Steve seemed no different from any of them. I never saw him take advantage of anyone, he protected the persecuted and in his everyday dealings he was an honest individual. I wondered how such a fundamentally sound man could end up in so much trouble. One day during association I decided to ask him.
"My mum got involved with another bloke, pimp he was—she was on the game, see. He used to beat her up something rotten. Eventually she kicked him out. She couldn't take it anymore, but he kept coming back and threatening her. One day she was scared witless and phoned the coppers—bastards did nothing. Nearly fourteen I was. He came round, found us in the kitchen and I watched him slash her face and break her arm in two places. She was screaming something terrible and I thought he was going to kill her, so I grabbed a knife and stabbed him. There was blood everywhere; it was horrible."
Steve went on to explain he was taken to a "young offenders" boot camp. It was there he met and began to hang out with the wrong crowd, who encouraged him into a life of drugs and crime. "That was it, really, came out fitter and stronger—could outrun anyone, but I couldn't get a job. So I did loads of nicking. Ended up doing banks."
The circumstances that had led Steve into a life of crime were those I was to hear of over and over again during my eighteen months inside. Such a first offence invariably resulted in a prison sentence, during which "first timers" mixed with habitual criminals who victimise those who try to abide by the rules. And with drugs so readily available, and everyone telling you that "bird is easy if you're doped up", it is hardly surprising that many young offenders become addicted to drugs.
There were first-time offenders in Wandsworth serving short sentences, some as little as a month, for crimes such as petty insurance fraud or non-payment of fines. Of course they needed to be punished, but after a month in Wandsworth some were walking out as heroin addicts, and potentially much more of a threat to society. Stirring the least bad with the worst was no solution. I wondered why there were no prisons devoted to first-time offenders who are determined to return to a normal life. At least in such establishments they could be protected, and given opportunities, particularly with regards to future employment.
Had Steve been sent somewhere like that in the first place, perhaps he would have turned out differently. After his release I suppose it was inevitable that one day Steve would get caught and, six months later, I learned that he had been arrested during an armed robbery on a south London bank. With a guaranteed prison sentence of fifteen years, his life was all but over.
* * *
During my last few weeks in Wandsworth I became increasingly frustrated when I saw young, innocent-looking men led down to the "dungeon" or mixing with dealers like Jimmy Baker. If I could spot it, so could the officers, and on several occasions during exercise I wanted to go up to them and say: "Look, look, protect that man."
But they simply wouldn't have listened. Realising that I could do nothing to help, I became more and more of a loner, content to spend my time locked away, rather than in such rotten company.
Up until then, most of my time in Wandsworth had been focused on survival, but suddenly being shut away from danger gave me an opportunity to think more. Often I found my mind slipping back to the past where it would linger dangerously in the dark recesses of guilt and remorse. But I still found it difficult to confront what I had done on the night of the accident and the consequences for all concerned.
To stop myself from tumbling into an abyss of depression I would rely on heavy exercise, and so claw myself back from the edge. Sometimes in the darkness of the early hours I would find myself running on the spot, desperately pounding out the miles in search of a safer place. Over the weeks my feet became battered and bruised but the physical pain was nothing compared to that of the mental torture of reflection. Increasingly I came to rely on physical discipline as a form of escapism.
With the frustration of not knowing how long I would have to remain in Wandsworth, I decided it would be a helpful mental exercise to start keeping a diary of anything interesting that took place—although being locked up on my own for such long periods meant that not a great deal happened. Occasionally I would leap up when I heard a whistle blown by a guard, signifying a fight, but apart from mealtimes and exercise (when it wasn't raining), it was a lonely existence. When I look back and read some of the entries I realise what a bad state I was in.
One great bonus was that Bronya had sent me a small mono radio which I left permanently on, for company as much as anything. There seemed to be a preponderance of programmes on crime and punishment, nearly all of which informed me what an easy touch prison had become. At least it used to make me smile.
My days focused more and more on the early evening when I would be able to phone Bronya and Ben. The calls were my lifeline, and I never failed to book one. On one particular day, however, shortly after I had moved into my single cell, I felt so intensely isolated, so panic-stricken, that only the thought of my next call sustained me. I was first out in the morning and booked it for 3.50. Locked away behind my door I thought about nothing else all day. At 3.45 I got out my phonecard and waited to be let out. At 4.00 I was still waiting. They had "forgotten"—and it was by no means the first time.
In sheer frustration I kicked at my cell door. "I've got a phone call booked, Guv," I shouted. I heard footsteps outside. "What time was it booked for?" he asked. "3.50, Guv," I shouted back.
"Bad luck, you've missed it then, haven't you?"
I still have the scar where I punched the door.
* * *
Unfortunately there was no way I could afford my phonecards as well as extra food, but deciding that my mental health was more important I went without additional nourishment and limited myself to two cigarettes a day. Consequently my weight dropped to 9st 3lb, my ski
n started flaking and, for the first time since I was a teenager, my face became covered in spots. I didn't think I was looking too bad until, on a visit, Bronya burst into tears when she saw me. My mother and father, too, were worried about me, and anxious to know what was happening about a possible transfer. But it was impossible to find out anything.
Over the weeks I had used every ploy to try and discover what was in store for me, but the system was designed to discourage all such attempts. To start off any procedure, you had first to fill out an application form: I had filled out many. On the first, I requested to see a Senior Officer. I handed the completed form to the officer who books the telephone calls in the morning, and who has complete authority over the destination of the request. He asked me why I wanted to see the SO and I explained that it was to do with my reallocation to a new prison. He then told me that had nothing to do with the SO, and that I should ask to see the allocation officer.
The next day I filled in a form asking to see the allocation officer, but when I handed it in, the officer asked me why I wanted to see him. I explained. He asked me if I had been assessed as a security risk. I had no idea and asked how I could find out. Evidently I had to see the officer who assesses risk.
On another form the next day, I asked to see the risk assessment officer, but the officer told me that I wouldn't be risk-assessed until my "record" was sent to the prison. I pointed out that I had no previous record. That threw him. He suggested I contact my solicitor and have that fact brought to light.
It took me a further three days and many valuable phone units to get through to my solicitor. He told me that the prison had already been notified that I had no previous convictions. Once again I asked to see the risk assessment officer but I was told he was busy, and that it was pointless putting in the request. Finally, one morning, I put in one last form asking to see the Senior Officer because of "personal problems". I was at the end of my tether. The officer, however, would not pass on the form until I had told him what I wanted to discuss with the SO. I explained that my family were desperately worried that they had heard nothing about a possible move. I needed to reassure them that it would not be long. He informed me that that was not the SO's problem, and that I should put in a form to see the allocation officer. And so it went on, and on, and on...
INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story Page 9
