INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story

by John Hoskison

  Having seen the gym, my revised expectations of the education department were spot on. Because of savage budget cuts, only twenty out of two hundred and eighty were on courses, and no trades were taught. At the time, GCSE English was about the most advanced lesson you could take. We were at Coldingley to work, and any ambitions I harboured of finding some kind of training for an uncertain future evaporated.

  The only positive aspect of induction was that I met Ahmed. Also from Wandsworth, he was serving a sentence for "grievous bodily harm", although when he told me his story, I couldn't believe he was in for so long, or that he had even received a sentence. He told me he'd been playing in a cricket match and was driving home with his brother when a van pulled up next to them at traffic lights. Ahmed's children were in the back, and when the van cut them up Ahmed let it go, didn't react. When this happened a second time, and his car was actually hit, he followed the van to get its number. It stopped and two men got out with spades. Foolishly, Ahmed's brother got out and was immediately set upon by the men. Ahmed reached into the back for his practice cricket bat (I loved that bit—no way would he use his match bat) and proceeded to become involved in the fracas. Ahmed was sure the attack was racially motivated, but he was pretty handy with the square cut and although his little finger was almost severed by a swiping spade, he scored a couple of boundaries. It was Ahmed who was prosecuted. The two men who had caused the trouble had previously been in prison for assault and burglary, but these facts couldn't be brought out in court. But what was insinuated to the jury in a devastating closing speech by the prosecuting council was that Ahmed was a very religious man. A fundamentalist, even. Ahmed got twenty-one months. In all the time I spent in prison Ahmed was the only person I met who had suffered what seemed to me gross injustice. A qualified engineer, Ahmed's professional background and intelligence made him an obvious choice for the metal shop. I, on the other hand, had asked for anything but that. The day before work started, at what was rather like a graduation ceremony, the "qualified" instructor read out where we had been allocated: Ahmed to the laundry—I to the metal shop! After three days of being told about the prison by an extremely depressed-looking officer, it was nothing more than we expected.

  Alone in my cell, that night I tried to summon some enthusiasm, but I felt terribly dejected. I was as apprehensive about my safety here as I had been in Wandsworth, if not more so. I missed Ben and Bronya, I was desperate to call home but I had no phonecards, my private cash not having been transferred by Wandsworth. My expectations that I could use the rest of my time constructively seemed to have come to nothing. And I had still only served fifty-three days of my sentence. Time and loneliness stretched endlessly before me.

  At the entrance to every prison there is a notice that greets you: "All prisoners will be treated with humanity and will be given every opportunity to rehabilitate themselves so that on release they may be successfully integrated back into society." Suddenly I realised that it was a lie.

  Chapter 12

  Never-Ending Noise

  ~~

  At Coldingley I tried to remain active, to live for the present, as I had vowed. My life revolved around work, keeping fit and my communication with the outside world in the form of letter writing and phone calls to those closest to me.

  Work in the metal shop turned out to be far from hard, but the very fact that I was out of my cell all day tired the nine-stone skeletal frame I brought to Woking. Running on the spot in Wandsworth had been fine, as far as it went, but twenty-three hours a day locked in my cell, with little else to do but lie on my bed, had left me in an enfeebled state.

  Every evening I went to the gym. Though at first I could only manage a pathetic amount of cardio-vascular work, I gradually built up to a point where I felt more like my old self and could complete the circuit I had devised with the help of the gym staff. They were brilliant, and had been from the first time I had wandered in to train. I can't remember ever having encountered such an intimidating atmosphere. The gym was packed with men, mostly black, who would have made the Incredible Hulk look small. They screamed with the effort of heaving impossible weights off the floor only to release their loads with earth-shaking reverberations. There was also a punch bag in one corner which was constantly in use. The heavyweights slugged it back and forward, driving their punches home with grunts of exertion, sweat pouring off them onto the floor. It was unbelievably noisy. I crept round the gym into the far corner and tried to look as insignificant as possible, but I was immediately noticed by one of the officers. He strode up to me with his shoulders swaying back and forth. He was a very powerful-looking man—he needed to be. "New in, are you?" he asked.

  "Yes, Guv," I said, backing away slightly. He studied me for a moment.

  "First time inside, is it?"

  "Yes, Guv."

  "Well, you can cut that "Guv" bollocks out for starters. My name's Pete; what's yours?"

  Amidst all the anger and hostility on display in the gym, it seemed that here was an exception, and I felt my bottom lip start to quiver. "Hoskison, Guv."

  "Your first name, I mean."

  "John," I said quietly. I never thought one word would bring me to tears.

  "Listen to me," he said sternly, moving his body between me and the rest of the gym. "There's a lot of bullying goes on in here. You've got to be tough, understand?" I nodded, licking up the tear. "Any problems, you come to see me, right?"

  I nodded again.

  "Okay," he said gently. I managed to regain my self-control. "We'd better start working on that pathetic body of yours, then," he said.

  * * *

  Apart from the confidence I gained from those first caring words spoken to me by anyone in authority, my mental and physical rejuvenation was considerably boosted by the improved diet at Coldingley, an industrial prison where the workforce had to have stamina. Because I was eating as much as I could at meal times, especially the fruit on offer, my weight started to increase and the awful state of my skin, which had been flaking and spotty in Wandsworth, began to improve.

  Bronya immediately noticed the difference when she was finally allowed a visit. "God, you look better", she said as she sat down at one of the thirty tables that made up the visit-area. "Still far too thin but at least not at death's door."

  "The food's much better here," I said, pleased that I looked more attractive than the last time but unaware that the governor was planning a massive reduction to the food budget.

  The visit allowance at Coldingley was three two-hour sessions a month, a marvellous improvement on Wandsworth, but through a mix-up in the paperwork it was not until two weeks after I arrived that Bronya saw me in Coldingley. In that time we had both wallowed in the luxury of regular telephone calls, one in the morning at seven-thirty and one at night. Psychologically they were invaluable to both of us.

  Every morning I also phoned my son, and I was thrilled to hear that he was doing well at school and coping without me. I hadn't let him visit me in Wandsworth. It would have been too emotional, probably for both of us, at a time I was trying my hardest to avoid emotional situations. Now, for the first time, I dared to look forward to seeing him again, but I had to know what the visiting procedure was like before I could risk exposing him to the prison "experience".

  Bronya beamed a smile at me across the table. Throughout my life I had been very lucky; I had travelled abroad to the most marvellous places, all the while earning an income from a job that gave me enormous satisfaction. But when Bronya smiled so warmly at me, it dawned on me that all pleasures are relative. At that moment no one could have been happier than I.

  "Tell me about work, then," she said enthusiastically.

  Her fascination with the workshops at Coldingley had been fuelled by a report carried out by the prison inspectors, that had appeared in the local press. A lack of control over inmates, homemade "brewing kits", drugs, fighting and low morale featured prominently in the article, but I had not discussed the news over the phone as our c
onversations were still recorded.

  "You wouldn't believe what goes on in here," I said. "The problem is, there are no officers in the workshops—just "civvies" overseeing the operation, and they're all scared stiff of the black guys."

  "But there must be someone in there with authority. What if there's a fight?"

  "No one fights, not in the workshops. They're too doped up. First thing they do in the morning is smoke a joint."

  At that moment the small hatch that gave access to the canteen opened and, to be first in the queue (a woman after my own heart), Bronya leapt up to buy some tea. While she was away I thought back to my first day in the metal shop.

  It was on the Monday after our induction period that I had first donned a huge pair of industrial dungarees that swamped me, steel-capped boots, two sizes too big, and shuffled to work. Twice on the way my flapping garment caught on door handles, bringing me to an abrupt halt, and I thought it ironic that after a two-day lecture on health and safety, I had been provided with lethal clothing.

  About sixty inmates worked in the metal shop, which was about the size of four tennis courts, back to back. The area was divided into three sections. I was to work in the part full of prehistoric punch-and-press machines which bent and folded sheets of metal into drawers for filing cabinets. These in turn were passed onto the welding section and then finished off in the paint spray area. The absence of officers made me a bit jittery as the only apparent authority was a manager, a grey-haired, grey man called Tom.

  The job the managers did, as far as prestige was concerned, was somewhat akin to that of a professional golfer working at a backwater nine-hole golf course with a drainage problem and rebellious members. It was the end of the line—and it showed. At any rate Tom's capacity to motivate a less than enthusiastic workforce must surely have evaporated and, after only a cursory explanation, he left me at my huge pressing machine; his passing comment, delivered in his grey monotone voice, was "Just do the best you can".

  I was fascinated, though, by the thought of being in charge of something so huge, powerful and loud—my God, it was loud!

  Although not my first choice of jobs, I decided that if I had to do it, at least I could try to do it well. It took me five minutes to learn the job, ten minutes to invent a more efficient method of handling the metal for maximum output, and fifteen minutes before I received a verbal warning.

  "Hey, you," came the deep West Indian voice. "You workin' too hard."

  My mind was brought back to the present as Bronya returned with tea and chocolate.

  "You know, I was warned off in the first hour of being in the metal shop for working too hard," I said to her, as I took a sip of prison tea.

  "Who by?" she asked.

  "The black guys—they run the place. In fact they run the whole prison. All the officers are scared stiff of them; they daren't lift a finger because they're too quick off the draw at crying discrimination. They've got the place well and truly "tucked up"."

  "What about the report that's come out? Surely that will make a difference?"

  "I hope so. You've no idea how boring it is in there, but Tom was hauled in by the governor a couple of days ago, so things might change. He was talking about making me an inspector."

  "An inspector?" she exclaimed. "Of what?"

  "Of the work. It's disgraceful what gets put out. At the end of my first week we produced 2,000 pieces, 1,800 of which had to be scrapped because they'd been badly cut or pressed. The guys cut one wrong, and because they're not checked, the whole batch is out. My job will be to see the first one's correct."

  "But surely the inmates won't like that," she said in a worried voice.

  "No, they won't mind. We get paid by our rate of production. Last week we only got £6 for our forty hours. Not even the black guys liked that. Production won't go through the roof, but we might be able to get a few more right. Tom said he'd give me all the technical drawings so I can check the work as it's done."

  "But you're useless at things like that, you're a bodger. Attention to detail—you?" she said, aghast. I suppose she had seen one or two rather disastrous attempts of mine at DIY.

  Bronya had bought four Snickers bars from the canteen and, not having tasted chocolate for a month, I steamed in. Relief wasn't the only thing I overdosed on that day.

  "What about friends?" she asked.

  "Got two, Bill and Ahmed. Bill's a burglar, he's spent a lot of time in prison, and Ahmed's a really good bloke, in for GBH."

  "Oh, they sound really nice," she said sarcastically.

  I explained how I'd come from Wandsworth with Ahmed but had only got to know him when we had passed through induction. I also explained how I'd stumbled across Bill.

  It was during my first day in the metal shop. After I had received my verbal warning for working too hard, I decided to go "on tour" for an environmental investigation. With all the huge machines, a welding area and a powerful compression paint spray, the noise should have been overwhelming, but all I could hear was the squeaking leather of my new boots. The eerie silence made me feel I was wandering through a ghost town.

  I made my way to the far end of the shop floor, near the paint spray area which seemed as busy as my section, the inmates adopting the same working stance, feet up and smoking. It really would have made the most marvellous picture in one of the tabloids. When I reached the far corner I came across Tom (who looked as if he was hiding), and at first I was worried he would have a go at me for not working, but he greeted me with a weak smile. "They've had a word, have they?" he said, and I realised how deep the decay went.

  Huge stacks of metal stood against the far wall of the building, but as I made my way along I came across a partially hidden door. With the adventurous attitude that boredom fosters I turned the handle and pushed.

  "Fuck's sake, shut that door!" came an angry voice. Without realising what I had stumbled across, I entered and closed the door behind me. Inside was a man I recognised from my wing. He was bent over a big plastic dustbin and out of a large jar he was pouring what looked like sugar.

  "Hello," I said. In reply I received a Neanderthal grunt.

  I had decided to retreat when the man glanced up. "Well?" he said impatiently.

  "Sorry," I said, holding my hands up. "I'm going. I just wondered what you were doing, that's all."

  "Making hooch. What does it fuckin' look like?"

  "I don't know—never seen it made before."

  He stopped pouring and straightened to his full height. About six foot five, grey haired with a particularly ruddy complexion, he looked as though he'd downed a few gallons in his time. I thought him about sixty and, weeks later, was stunned to find out he was only forty-five. Hooch was apparently no long life elixir!

  "New in, are you?" he asked, his eyes assessing me.

  "Came in from Wandsworth. Started work today."

  "Wanno, eh? Don't get many posh people there—bet it shook you up a bit," he said, chuckling. "What you in for?"

  I told him—he passed no comment.

  "Name's Bill," he said, holding out his hand which I shook.

  "John," I said.

  "Well, John, this is how I earn my phonecards. Barrel of hooch every two weeks, flog it on the wings. This is my office see, no one comes in here, not even Tom—got it?" he said sternly, to which I solemnly nodded. His face relaxed as he realised I took his threat seriously.

  I looked at the dustbin. "Tell me how you make it" I asked, fascinated.

  "Dead easy—warm water," he said, kicking the boiling pipes against which the dustbin rested, "and loads of fruit and sugar. The rotting fruit ferments, producing yeast, the yeast turns the sugar to alcohol. Tastes shit, rots your guts, but sure numbs the brain—want some?"

  Out of curiosity I took my one and only sip of the evil brew. It tasted revolting but was obviously as lethal as the fluid that once spilled out of the lawnmower onto the eighteenth green at my golf club, killing the grass overnight. It would have made a great weedki
ller.

  Just by the way Bill talked I could tell he was more intelligent than the average prisoner. After watching him put the finishing touches to the brew, we wandered out for coffee.

  "Fifteen years I've done now—been everywhere. I'm a burglar by trade, see—doing a three at the moment." He wasn't joking when he said he'd been everywhere—Parkhurst during the riots, Wormwood Scrubs, every wing in Wandsworth, in fact every prison I'd heard of. Over the next months I found he knew every infamous criminal.

  "All changed now though," he said, while we sat down and sipped coffee at one of the deserted machines. "Just a tolerance test with all these "sooties". In the old days we'd have just thrown them off the fuckin' landings, but now they run the gaffs. Screws can't do anything—they'd get Bernie Grant up 'ere quicker than I could pick your pocket, and all that fuckin' music drives everyone round the bend."

  The music would in fact almost drive me to breaking-point in prison, but at the time of Bronya's visit I was only beginning to feel the effects of that incessant barrage of noise. When she asked what life in Coldingley was like, her last question before we parted, I replied, "It's hard, but I can cope." I had no idea of the depths I would sink into the following week.

  * * *

  It was my third weekend at Coldingley but for the first time the weather was foul and, with the library closed as it always was during the weekends, and no staff to open the gym, there was nowhere to escape to. Earlier in the week, at two o'clock in the morning, I had lost my rag at the noise from the cell below and had called out of the window. I knew I shouldn't have lost my temper—after all, I'd seen the results. In Brixton, on my landing, there had been a man who'd been found guilty of throwing a petrol bomb at some black guys after days and days of incessant pounding, and he'd got twenty-two years for murder. But I couldn't help it.