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

by John Hoskison

  I couldn't see the point of such tight security. There had been plenty of opportunity for me to escape during my year on bail, and since my prison experience had started it was obvious I wasn't violent. I didn't give a damn about being chained up, but to me the handcuffs symbolised the inflexibility of the prison service—a clear indication we were all being tossed onto the same rubbish tip.

  When the paperwork was completed George was led to the waiting van (no sweat box this time). Hauled along by the guards, I followed. We were just passing the SPO (Senior Prison Officer) when he grabbed George by the arm.

  "Last chance, Edwards. Blow this and it's back to Wandsworth for good."

  Little did the PO know that George's future lay in my hands. If I arrived at Downview and let slip to the inmates that George had been "on the numbers" for running up debts, letters would be sent to Coldingley and the network of dealers would organise revenge. I had heard of knife attacks and horrific beatings following inmates through five jails—the racket demanded retribution and George would make a good example. If I wanted revenge, the opportunity had fallen into my lap.

  The journey passed without incident, but with no view of the outside, it seemed endless. Wedged between two over-large officers I became very hot, and it was a relief when the van eventually stopped and the door opened to let in some fresh air. I sat behind George throughout the journey and now, for the first time since leaving Coldingley, I saw his face. As I went to get out he caught my eye. "Will you grass me up?" he whispered. I looked at him, but before I could answer I was tugged away.

  My first impressions of Downview, judging from the reception area, were favourable, and I felt I had definitely made the right decision. New carpets covered the floors, the walls had been freshly painted and electric lights shone brilliantly—it was clinically clean. But as we started to make our way through the prison, that cleanliness faded. By the time we had reached the induction wing it had all but gone.

  My new cell was located on the ground floor at the far end of the landing, but with no heat and a cold wind whipping off nearby Banstead Downs the cell was literally freezing. It proved to be one of the coldest days of the year but, even so, it was a bit dispiriting to find ice on the inside of the window.

  I tipped all my clothes onto my bed and threw on two extra shirts, a sweat top and another pair of track suit bottoms to keep in at least some of my body heat. Then, feeling adequately dressed, I went out to investigate my new home.

  As I wandered down the landing, I saw a cell door slightly ajar. Inside I could see a young man sitting on his bed. I knocked and walked into the smelly pit. After introducing myself to the emaciated figure, clearly a "soap dodger", I asked about the telephone and gym.

  "Don't know, mate. Don't use either."

  I peered into several more cells on my brief sortie and asked the same question of anyone I could find, but it wasn't long before I understood what Downview was. I had thought that "drug-free" meant a place for non-users, not a last resort for addicts, and I found myself surrounded by inmates who'd hit rock bottom—like a zone inhabited by zombies. The addicts may well have blown all outside connections and not have needed to use the telephone; may well have channelled all their energy into survival, rather than exercise—but that was not for me. Phone calls home were my lifeline and the eventual revelation that we were limited to five minutes a day, at booked times, and with those times clashing with gym hour, made it worse than Coldingley. Within twenty-four hours I realised my transfer had been a dreadful mistake. The next day I summoned every ounce of courage and went to see the Senior Officer.

  "Guv, I did everything I could to find out about the regime here. I told everyone how important phoning home is to me, but nobody told me you have to book calls here just like Wandsworth. I also need to train—I'm a professional sportsman and I need to remain fit. Gym hour clashes with the phone times." He studied me as I rambled on but suddenly he became impatient.

  "It's the fucking cutbacks," he said, slamming his fist onto the table, clearly annoyed about the lack of information available to any inmate since inside probation had been disbanded. He paused for a moment while he recovered composure. Fortunately, however, he was sympathetic. "So you're telling me you want to go back?"

  "It's not that I don't like it here, it's just that it's not for me," I explained, feeling that my grievance might be taken as a personal criticism. "But yes, I'd like to go back."

  With a speed born of irritation he grabbed the phone, picked up the receiver and dialled the number for Coldingley.

  "You're lucky—they consider you a model prisoner and they'll have you back," he said, as he replaced the receiver a few minutes later. "Another inmate wants to come here. You're going to swap with him in two days—man named Ahmed."

  My heart missed a beat. I had completely forgotten about my friend. God no! I thought. We would pass like ships, I would be leaving as he arrived, and he would hate it here. Having four children, he used the phone even more than I did. I walked out of the office and back to my cell in turmoil. I could go back to Coldingley and not tell Ahmed—a pretty poor show of friendship. Or I could tell him and risk having to remain at Downview. As I contemplated what to do there was a knock on my cell door and an inmate entered. A drug dealer (ironic, I thought, in a drug-free prison) had come to "interview" me, investigate the new boys from Coldingley, assess our credit ratings.

  "Know much about the other guy?" he asked.

  I could have nailed George there and then, part of me wanted to, but as I contemplated feeding him to the wolves, I suddenly realised that in the past I would never have thought of such a terrible thing. This wasn't a game, this was real life. I had been on the point of condemning another prisoner to a severe beating. After only three months inside, I was almost ready to adopt the code of violence. It shocked me.

  "Don't know much about him, mate," I said, taking a large step back towards civilisation.

  Later that day I thought of George, sitting alone in his cell, no doubt wondering whether he was in trouble or not. I decided to let him know he was in the clear.

  "I was asked about you earlier," I said to him as I entered his cell. "Told the guy I didn't really know you—didn't mention the numbers."

  I didn't expect thanks, nor did I get any. He looked pretty sick, and I thought he was probably "clucking". I was one of only ten per cent of inmates who didn't fail a urine test on entering Downview.

  "Why don't you make an effort, George? Try to come off the gear."

  "Going to," he said. "Lend us two phonecards till tomorrow."

  He looked a sorry sight as I left him. I couldn't believe he was still prepared to go into debt. "Downview" seemed a more appropriate description of his outlook on life than the scenic view over Banstead.

  Having made one correct decision, the next one was relatively easy I went straight to the SO and came clean about Ahmed. The man appreciated my dilemma, phoned Coldingley, and, after a long discussion in which Ahmed was consulted, he put the phone down and looked at me. "Your friend has decided to stay there," he said. "But you're lucky. Someone else wants to come here—you're still going back."

  I felt as though I had holed a bunker shot to stave off a double bogey.

  * * *

  So six days after I had arrived at Downview I was transferred back to Coldingley. It was one of the coldest days of the year,—8 degrees centigrade in the wind, and it was snowing. The previous two nights I had worn four sets of clothes to bed, but knowing I was going to a warm prison, transported in a car while wedged between two officers, I wore only jeans and a T-shirt.

  The journey clearly wasn't going to be very pleasant. One of the officers I was handcuffed to smelled as if he'd had a good drink the night before. He was seriously overweight, and I didn't like him from the outset. "You should put some weight on, laddie," he said in a thick Scottish accent, as he kept playfully pulling on the chain and sending more shooting pains up my arm.

  We had driven about tw
o miles and were just off Banstead High Street when we were in an accident with a van. It smashed into us with a sickening scrunch of metal, wrecking our vehicle. Silence followed as we all took stock; no one was injured and we emerged and walked to the side of the road. Within seconds a freezing wind tore right through me. Sleet lashed my face and, with only a T-shirt for protection, I stood shivering while the driver of our car argued with the van driver. While they were busy the Scot radioed for help, but there were no cars available at the prison and we had to wait for a taxi.

  I'll never forget the next twenty minutes. People gathered around the spectacle of the wrecked car and the uniformed guards, but with the hands of my escorts stuffed deep in their pockets, the cuffs on my wrists were also clearly visible. I had suffered some dreadful humiliation in my time, such as when I shot the worst score of my life in front of a large crowd and television cameras. At the time it felt like the end of the world. But it was nothing compared to those excruciating minutes. I'll forget the numbing cold and the way the sleet stung my face; I'll probably forget how painful my wrists became. But one thing's certain: as the crowd stood and stared, I'll never forget their looks.

  By the time the taxi eventually arrived, the two officers were worried they might be suffering from whiplash. I was informed that I was also probably suffering from it, so we all had to return to Downview for a check-up. But I was fortunate in escaping injury.

  * * *

  It's difficult to say anything positive about my experience at Downview. Maybe I didn't try it for long enough. It has a good reputation for helping addicts, but it wasn't right for me. People thought I was crazy to go back to Coldingley, which had such a bad reputation, but they hadn't appreciated how important phone calls were to me. As I was driven through Coldingley's gates I was certain that going back was the right thing to do.

  Chapter 14

  Swinging on the Inside

  ~~

  At Coldingley I returned to the status quo. I found myself on the same landing, and in the same cell that I had first inhabited, but "Dread" had moved and my next-door neighbour was a "lifer". Tommy Foster was in his sixties and serving a "twenty stretch" for murder. He had a penchant for loud rock. His needle had stuck somewhere in the mid-eighties when Rossi and the gang opened at "Live Aid", but his sacred uniform of faded denims, waistcoat and long grey hair was not appreciated by the Rastas. They looked on him as some sort of prehistoric oddball—but I liked Tommy: he was easy to get on with.

  At first I tried to hold a conversation with him, but I soon realised his hearing was as bad as his worn-out tapes, and we soon slipped into communicating by signs—thumbs up and a smile when "Caroline" drowned the jungle beat.

  Our friendship grew to the extent of swapping milk and sugar and, one night, even extended to a sandwich. About midnight, knowing I was hungry, he knocked on my locked cell door and asked if I wanted something to eat. I then heard the sound of someone jumping up and down outside the cell, and soon a plastic bag was slithering under my door. It contained a brown bread piccalilli sandwich, which, after his twelve stone had flattened it, was about two foot wide, but it was a kind gesture and one I appreciated, even though he was drunk at the time. He had already spent two years in Coldingley, and so was hardly a "new boy", but in my short absence "C" wing had taken on the responsibility of housing prisoners with behavioural problems. The two boxes of "hooch" found in his cell on "D" wing (the alcohol-and-drug-free wing) meant that the "brewmaster extraordinaire" was serving a two-month sabbatical.

  It seemed a strange policy to expose new inmates (of which I was considered one) so quickly to the "bad boys" of Coldingley but I had never been one to question the ref's decision. Whilst disappointed not to find myself on a better wing, as I had already completed one stint of induction, I knuckled down for two months in "survival mode", although this time only on yellow alert.

  * * *

  In all prisons "lifers" command respect from fellow inmates, and even though Tommy was regarded as "odd", his time inside affecting him more than most, our friendship elevated me to a position of being almost untouchable and I felt far less vulnerable. In return for the sandwich I lent him my own mix, my Coldingley desert island disc, favourite tunes to be locked up with, that Bronya had sent me in for Christmas along with a Sony Walkman: "Bleeding Heart" by Hendrix, Clapton's "Further on up the Road", and the last, "Free Bird", hardly the sentiments of a "lifer", but as the anthem of the seventies, he loved it. With imaginary guitars tuned up, we blasted out the solos with a passion and I became a permanent member of the band.

  My friendship with Tommy also gave me access to an unusual and normally exclusive club, the "lifers" in Coldingley, of which there were about twenty. Suspicious men and hard to get to know, but this was understandable, since they had spent up to twenty years experiencing every conceivable horror. Apart from Ahmed and Bill (of whom I now saw little as they had been moved to a wing on the other side of the prison), during the following months, I gravitated towards the "lifers", preferring the company of men who had survived the hardest of times—the Ryder Cup squad rather than a county team.

  During my first couple of months back in Coldingley, no longer having all my attention focused on survival, I couldn't help but think about my future. I started to panic. Every week I saw prisoners released onto the street with nothing to show for their time inside except a £46 discharge grant, and regularly news came through that, within days, they had been rearrested and were back behind bars. I still had over a year to serve, but not knowing whether I would be able to return to golf I had to make alternative plans, try to use my remaining time constructively. With hardly any opportunities available in Coldingley, I enrolled on a correspondence course with the London School of Journalists. My parents paid the £350 fee.

  Fortunately they accepted handwritten work, but I had an electric typewriter at home and I applied for permission to have it sent in. My request was turned down. It was hard to understand why, particularly as I had shown that I was squeaky clean, but it was one of many reasonable requests that were being denied and in a move to ease the growing unrest the governor held a meeting to explain prison policy.

  The governor was fairly new to Coldingley himself, and although he'd taken on a pretty dodgy environment it seemed in many respects that his hands were tied. His speech was neither long nor complicated and fell somewhere between admission and guilt, a hands-up, "don't look at me" speech, pointing out that in the future there would be few positive ventures inside. He was doing the best he could but the Home Office had directed that no further decisions were to be taken that could in any way embarrass the prison service, or, more importantly, the government. Effectively that meant no decisions.

  The prison hierarchy may well have become paralysed but new, tough proposals introduced by the knee-jerking Home Office drew new battle-lines and simply made the prisoners dig themselves in.

  Urine tests to help control drugs made the problem worse immediately. Up until January most drug users in prison were dope smokers. However, the residue of cannabis remains in the body for up to a month, whilst heroin is only detectable for three days. Almost overnight, drug users changed from dope to heroin in an attempt to avoid detection, a situation that created an epidemic of addicts and the worst sort of criminal—those reliant on hard drugs. The irony was that the tests had no effect on the number of drug users and, by September, the failure rate was so dreadful (76 per cent) that non-users, including myself, were tested to make the figures more acceptable.

  The proposed plans for the treatment of repeat offenders, the "three strikes and you're out" policy, also had a strange effect. Suddenly education was available in Coldingley. Pockets of inmates sprang up, swapping techniques and modi operandi so that they couldn't be nailed for the same crime. Armed robbers looked at the more subtle approaches of embezzlement and fraud; blackmailers became keen to investigate that one big hit on the banks. In fact, one particular evening I was privy to some role-playing. I had ju
st returned to the wing after a session in the gym when I passed a group of three inmates having a chat. I knew them pretty well as they were from my section of the wing—two blackmailers and an armed robber. It was Terry, the armed robber, who spoke to me.

  "Got a moment, Hoski?"

  "What for?" I asked, suspiciously.

  "Just gotta show these guys something," he said, and went on to explain all he wanted me to do was stand behind a pretend till in a make-believe jeweller's and serve a customer, Jim (one of the blackmailers). I was intrigued and I had time to waste, so I went to the far end of the landing and took up my position.

  "Afternoon, sir, how can I help you?" I said to Jim, who stood before me. After a brief conversation he nervously glanced round, reached behind his back and rather clumsily produced a sawn-off broom handle. Suddenly he was all over me.

  "On the floor, on the floor!"he screamed, his face contorted with anger, the sawn-off pressed to my throat, pinning me against the back wall. Even though I was acting a part, my heart-rate rocketed.

  "No, no, no, no, no!" cried Terry. "For Christ's sake, you're not Starsky and Hutch, the guy would've shit himself—panicked—you've gotta be much more casual."

  It was now teacher's turn and this time Terry entered my shop.

  "Afternoon, sir, how can I help you?"

  Terry glanced round nonchalantly, made a few casual remarks, then with lightning speed reached behind his back, swung the sawn-off under my nose and in the most menacing voice I've ever heard, hissed "Do as I say or I'll blow your fuckin' head off."

  There was no question of my doing anything else, his whole manner exuded practised professionalism, and I wondered how many victims had felt the same dreadful terror. He smiled. "Got it?" he asked the other two. As I wandered back to my cell, I crossed armed robbery off my list of alternative careers.