"Turn that bloody racket down," I screamed, to which I received an immediate and ominous reply.
"You're gonna get it, whitey."
For the next few days I lived in fear, but Ahmed and Bill kept an eye on me and I spent my free time holed up in my fort until the coast was clear. Even then, as I went round I took 007-type precautions, but I had learned my lesson, so complaining wasn't an option. On Bronya's advice I reported the noise to the wing office but I didn't dare pinpoint the source. The officers weren't interested and opted for the "ostrich method".
That Saturday I woke up at eight o'clock, shattered from the night before, and opened my cell door, only to be greeted with Dread on his first "joint", followed five minutes later by music at full blast. With nowhere to go, I sat for four hours—till lunch—assaulted by the din. It was the mindblowing mix of three different types of music at the highest possible volume that distinguished it from anything I had encountered before. The afternoon was just as bad, and I could only escape for two hours, when I elected to get drenched outside rather than be battered by yet more noise.
At the weekends on the induction wing we were all locked up for the night at five-thirty. For eight and a half hours that evening I lay crushed by the noise, unable to read, write or think, and by the time Sunday came I was verging on a breakdown. For three weeks I had put up with the interminable racket—I could tolerate it no longer. After another unbearable, deafening morning, I went down to phone Bronya, as a last resort.
"Hello," she said.
"Hi," was all I could manage.
"John?" she said, knowing something was drastically wrong.
"I... can't... talk", I stammered, every syllable bringing me nearer to tears. I spent the next thirty seconds in silence, fighting for control. "It's the noise," I eventually got out, and after another struggle, "I'll phone later."
It was a cry for help—nothing in Wandsworth was comparable to this—and I staggered back to my cell. All the time I had been in prison I had managed to suppress and control my feelings of hopelessness, claustrophobia, self-doubt, loneliness, frustration, but now the unremitting noise had finally defeated me. It became a symbol of all these things.
Within fifteen minutes I had an officer at my door checking to see whether I was OK. He had to shout to be heard and I couldn't believe he didn't have the nerve to go in and shut the music off. It showed who ran the prison.
I learned that Bronya had phoned the prison and demanded, absolutely demanded, that something was done. She wouldn't accept "no", I was told, and, like a hellcat, had managed to alarm the prison into action. Single-handedly taking on an apathetic regime, she had saved me from the abyss. I owed her my sanity. Within an hour of her calling I was moved to another cell, near Bill, on a quieter landing.
It probably sounds over-dramatic—after all, many people have noisy neighbours, but this was different. It was wall-shaking volume, from all sides, hour after hour, with nowhere to run, just an eight foot by eight foot cell for refuge.
Over the next year, I saw many horrific incidents that arose solely because of the intolerable noise-level. Everyone I knew suffered in some way. Even Bill, experienced as he was, had trouble. One night, a month later, on another wing, a black guy refused to turn down his music—it was two o'clock in the morning. After using the electric unlock to get out of his cell, Bill went to the emergency button on the landing and pressed it. An officer came up to see what the problem was and, after Bill explained, said he could do nothing.
This was too much for Bill. He slammed his fist into the landing door to try to get to the officer. The glass door had a wire mesh woven into it, which, as Bill's fist crashed through, tore his arm to ribbons, cutting tendons and arteries, and tearing lumps of flesh clean off. The surgeon said that he had been very lucky not to lose the use of his fingers. Bill only had to wear a plaster cast for six weeks, but the scars, both physical and mental, lasted far longer.
* * *
During my year and a half in prison I never once complained about being "inside". I had committed a crime and accepted that I had to pay. But when anyone inside is subjected to extremes of selfish, antisocial behaviour, the authorities should surely act with appropriate firmness. To pamper to the whims of a group, just for an easy life, is simply encouraging such unacceptable behaviour. For the sake of all concerned it should not be tolerated.
If there was one change I could make to a prison like Coldingley that would lead to more inmates being successfully rehabilitated, it would be to ban ghetto blasters and make all prisoners wear prison clothes. Why? For an inmate to break old habits he needs to change his lifestyle. To allow so much of his old personality "inside", in the form of music and clothes, just encourages the "gang" ethos and the battle is half lost. Change the face, change the music.
* * *
The Sunday night I moved to my new cell I lay back on my bed and in the luxury of a (relatively) quieter environment, I mentally thanked Bronya. I switched on my radio. It was virtually the first time I had been able to hear it since arriving in the prison.
Chapter 13
A Trip to the Downs
~~
A week after being moved to a quieter landing I received a set of earplugs through the post. Bronya's inspirational gift turned out to be invaluable. Whilst not cutting out all the noise, they blunted the attack; and every night since, my ears have been stuffed with foam. If anyone who reads this is unfortunate enough to be packing an overnight bag to take to court, make sure you take a set—you'll need them.
Being able to sleep at night proved half the battle. Instead of emerging like the living dead, I now leapt downstairs to make my calls home and was washed, shaved and nourished before the wing had come to life. With energy levels restored, life was looking up. But the improvement was more wide-ranging.
The adverse report on the prison had galvanised the authorities into literally cleaning up their act. The litter and waste thrown from the cell windows, which lay on the ground surrounding the wings like a covering of snow, was cleared. Officers roamed the landings more frequently, making sure that cleaners cleaned.
There was also a change at work. After a severe reprimand, Tom made an attempt to discipline the workforce. The "Bronx" was dismantled, Bill's distillery plant closed and, just before Christmas, a fortnight after I had been on the verge of mental breakdown, I began to get to grips with my role as inspector. I was not solely responsible for the increase in wages to £10.50, but the proportion of scrapped work decreased.
I was expecting to move off the induction wing by January, to another, with less "bang up" and more freedom. Life would still be far from pleasant—but it was nonetheless better. I was thrown into turmoil, however, when on 18 December I was offered a transfer to another prison in early January—HMP Downview near Banstead in Surrey, a supposedly drug-free establishment. Normally I would have sought advice from the probation officers stationed within the prison, who were there to answer questions on life inside and out—how to prepare for release, how to avoid reoffending—but they had been the first victims of the budget cuts and had been shown the door. Each inmate had therefore to rely on outside probation officers, who visited only rarely. The only alternative was communication by post. I was lucky: I could write letters, and the probation officer allocated to me was conscientious; but many weren't so fortunate.
It was Sod's Law that the first time I needed advice in Coldingley my probation officer was away and would not return until it was too late. There were three questions about Downview that I needed answers to. Could I phone home regularly? Could I learn a new trade? Was there a gym? I asked the officers on my wing but all they could offer was, "It's supposed to be drug-free". Rather ominously, I once heard it referred to as "Brownview" (brown being a nickname for heroin).
Janet, head of the minuscule education department, doubted that anywhere would now have much education, but couldn't help with the other questions. Finally, I tried a "governor's application", but in the
same way that I had employed assistants to protect me from dissatisfied customers in the golf shop, so the SO protected the governor. "You'll have to make your own mind up," was his reply.
I spoke to Bronya who, typically, phoned Downview to ask questions, but she was given no information and remained uncertain as to what I should do. Her priority was my safety, and a drug-free prison sounded better, but mine was communication with home and this I would sacrifice for nothing. I took a gamble and decided to go—after all, I was drug-free. I said as much to the SO when he called me into his office to sign the acceptance form. By my name was a box that had been ticked, signifying I was to be transferred on a "sale or return" basis, just like a box of dodgy golf equipment. I used to love the concept of "sale or return" when I stocked the shop at West Surrey, but when it referred to me personally, I wasn't so convinced.
Rushing around, trying to decide on my course of action, had fully occupied my mind for several days and in no time Christmas was upon us and the festive season began. Christmas trees, holly, decorations, a whole assortment of bonuses for prisoners and a huge turkey dinner... in my dreams. I became so irritated by the exaggerated radio reports about the privileges inside prison that eventually, I had to turn it off.
That year, Christmas "inside" started with the carol service—that's if you could get in. When the governor and his family, and the officers and their wives, and the managers and their staff were all seated, the inmates were left to battle it out for the last few pews. It was wonderful to witness such Christmas spirit!
Before Christmas Day itself I tried to spend as much time as possible in my cell—the landings had become too dangerous. Only a skeleton staff remains in the prison during Christmas week, which means there's no "canteen". To overcome that problem, inmates are paid one week's wages in advance, so that they can buy enough supplies to last. For two days there were more drug deals going on than the whole of the previous month. Add that to the hooch available and you really had some rocket fuel.
One inmate was sick right from the third landing as far as the telephone queue. The mess was still there on Christmas Eve when I made my way downstairs, and crossed to the visit hall. Yes... I had to take a deep breath. It was Christmas Eve, and my son had come to visit.
Unlike Wandsworth the visitors are already at a table when you walk in, and the atmosphere is much more relaxed. Give them their due, even the officers were smiling.
* * *
I had finally seen Ben on a Sunday morning, only two weeks previously—an emotional, joyful occasion. Now the excitement of seeing him again was incredible. He was at the table with my parents and my wife Jane. Even though the hall was packed and there were lots of distractions, they told me that Ben refused to take his eyes off the door that I would be walking through. He was in the get set position, and when I appeared he came hurtling at me with arms pumping. I caught him in full flight, and the hug he gave me cricked my neck.
For two hours he sat on my knee, talking a hundred words a minute. The energy he had was awesome, his enthusiasm bubbling over. I thought of the hours I had worried about him and the hours I would continue to do so, but he seemed to have overcome the hurdle of the first few months. He was doing well at school, he had his mates and, most important, he had got used to me not being there.
My parents and friends had shown tremendous support towards Ben, but ultimately it was his mother who was responsible for his wellbeing. Jane was guiding him through the minefield and, by all accounts, was doing a superb job. Sometimes people split up, that's just the way it is, but Jane and I have remained friends, and I will always owe her a debt of gratitude for the way she handled the situation. I would have sacrificed anything for Ben's happiness. Seeing him that day was the best possible Christmas gift.
My parents were marvellous during the visit. I know they wanted to ask in depth how I was and whether I felt safe, but in front of Ben these were questions best left unasked. I could see my mother watching me closely, and I realised that the concern I felt towards Ben, she in turn felt towards me. We kept our emotions under wraps and were all happy and smiling, but when it was time to go my mother came towards me with a look that I had known since I was a little boy. She put her arms round me and gave me a hug. The front I had so carefully maintained throughout the visit instantly crumbled and I collapsed against her. For the first time since entering prison, I felt totally safe. "Keep going," she whispered, giving me a squeeze. "I'm so proud of the way you're coping." There's encouragement, and there's encouragement... but then there's your mother's encouragement.
* * *
Twenty-four hours later, on Christmas Day, the dining-hall was closed for building repairs and, as my cell looked decidedly more decorative than the others (over eighty cards stuck to the walls with toothpaste—the universal glue in prison), Ahmed and Bill joined me for lunch. We were united, I think, by an instinctive feeling that no one should be alone at that time—but no one spoke much; our thoughts were elsewhere.
Two slices of turkey roll and some Christmas pudding constituted our feast, and when the last lump of custard had been swallowed, we were all quite pleased to see Christmas come to an end. Now all we had to do was wait for the workshops to open before life could return to normal—but it was a long wait.
There were now few "supplies" left in the jail. The drugs had been consumed in a wild orgy, with no thought to the future, and everywhere you went men were racked with pain, and would do anything for a "fix". The price of the drugs that were still for sale had escalated so much that if you had anything at all of value in your cell it was likely to be stolen. It was a grim place to live and, after being holed up in my newly fortified "keep", I was only too pleased when we returned to work. All Coldingley had in common with the outside world, during this festive season, was huge quantities of "cold turkey".
* * *
With just over a week to go before my move to Downview, an incident took place that reinforced my decision to be transferred. In mid-December three heroin addicts had come onto the wing. Gaunt, hollow eyed and shifty, their every move was dictated by their need for a "fix". There was hardly an inmate on the wing they had not tried to "ponce" off.
On the night in question, I had waited in the telephone queue for over an hour when my turn came. Suddenly George, one of the trio, burst from out of the television lounge and, as I walked to the booth, he barged in front of me and grabbed the receiver. With the eyes of the queue on me I had to say something: to do nothing would have invited future persecution—the weak were the first in line to be bullied.
"George, I've been waiting an hour. There's a queue, you know," I said, politely. Whether he had not heard, or simply chose to ignore me, he showed absolutely no reaction. He had his back towards me when I said it again. In one movement he turned and swung his fist. I just managed to move my head in time to avoid the full force of the blow, but his knuckles still caught the side of my face. Gaunt as he was, George was a pretty big man and I was spun back across the stair railings, his body between me and the safety of the surveillance cameras. As I recovered and instinctively went to move past, I must have moved too quickly. He misinterpreted this as a threat, and turned again to attack. I stared straight back into his vicious eyes. I had to front it out. I didn't want to fight—I'd lose; but with so many witnesses I knew that to back away from such injustice would mean never using the telephone again ("Oh, you can push in front of him, he'll do nothing").
For a few seconds he dithered. Slowly but very determinedly I made my way towards the phone. I held my right fist poised threateningly. He lowered his eyes. "Fuck it," he said, backing away before turning and storming off.
The point had been made: I had established my right to use the phone; but realising, after a few moments, that I was too badly shaken to speak, I put the receiver back into place. Keeping my head high I turned, walked slowly past the onlookers and headed for the refuge of my cell.
"You did the right thing," remarked Tony, the "lifer".
"Better clean your face," he added quietly as I passed him on my way upstairs. Moments later I felt the blood trickle down my cheek.
George had been desperate and it was only two days later, unable to pay his debts, that he went "on the numbers" for protection, and disappeared down the block. The drug dealers were seething: he'd really stitched them up, and it was no wonder he had to go into hiding. Even though I was due for transfer, I was glad to see the back of him.
* * *
The night before I was to leave, I was throwing my possessions into a transit bag when Ahmed came into my cell. "Hoski, Downview have offered me a place as well—I'm moving next week. Let me know if it's OK, will you?"
Over the weeks Ahmed and I had grown quite close. Most evenings we would meet up in the library and talk about sport, books we had read and, I suppose, life in general. He was like an oasis in the desert. To hear that my one real friend would be joining me at Downview was great news.
"That's brilliant," I said, smiling, not minding in the least I was to act as the guinea pig. "I'll write and let you know," I promised.
The next day, I said goodbye to Bill, repeated my promise to Ahmed and was escorted to reception. There were two inmates to be transferred that day, and I was just wondering who my travelling companion would be when the door opened and the prisoner was brought in. I couldn't believe my eyes—it was George. Had the prison known I had a grudge against him they would never have sent us to the same jail. The whole point of "ghosting" someone from the block (transferring him without anyone knowing why) is to introduce them to the new prison with as little fuss as possible. The prison had miscalculated that George meant nothing to me.
At first his lack of reaction made me wonder whether he'd made the connection, and I sat contemplating the situation until my "escort" arrived and my wrists were handcuffed to the two officers responsible for me. With little flesh on my arms, the heavy "bracelets" bit into the bone, and every time the burly guards yanked me around an excruciating pain shot up my arm.
INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story Page 12
