* * *
No adequate reason was ever offered as to why I was denied my electric typewriter, but as a fun exercise, in case I could use the skill in future, I decided to learn to touch-type. Bronya sent me an old instruction book and from a large piece of paper I cut out a keyboard and stuck it to my desk with toothpaste. I practised every night but it was rather like trying to improve at golf without clubs, and although I persevered for some time "the quick brown fox" never really took off.
Continuing in the metal shop was a waste of time. I was hardly going to get a job as an engineer, so when Pete the gym instructor offered me the opportunity of enrolling for an eight-week gym course I leapt at the chance. If successful, I would gain a qualification, the "community sports leader award", recognised nationally by leisure centres and about the only worthwhile piece of paper I could take out of Coldingley. On 26 February I turned up for my first day in the gym.
That old familiar feeling of being the smallest hit me as soon as I walked through the door. Nine black and two white inmates made up the rest of the class, and their bulging biceps were almost on a par with their egos. The gym was not well lit and was in such a bad state that the gym instructors refused to open it, under health and safety regulations, and every morning told the governor as much, so he had to take responsibility instead. But although it was dark, half the class turned up wearing sunglasses, their shaved heads wrapped in scarves printed with the American flag. They looked like a group of reject Harlem Globe Trotters.
Our first activity was an experimental game of basketball, and after only twenty minutes my pulse-rate went through the roof—not, as one would expect, through physical exertion, but rather from the adrenalin surge of being in the middle of a group bundle. It was Stan's fault. One of the three white inmates on the course, he had the gall to dribble expertly through the defence zone of the Rasta team and score a three-point basket, only to collect a solid punch in the neck for his pains. Unfortunately they picked on the wrong man. Stan, not having completed his anger-management course, reacted with predictable ferocity. Within moments the gym was in action.
My nimble footwork found a way through the writhing mass of bodies and I made it to the far wall intact, where I turned and watched with fascination as Pete the instructor gave a blast on his whistle and waded in. I knew he was powerful, but I'd never seen him in action. He steamed in, literally picking up bodies, throwing them to one side and, only minutes later, the "dirty dozen" sat having an enforced "time out" in the shower area where Pete held court.
An ex-paratrooper who had seen action in the Falklands, Pete was about as tough as they come, and although his solid, sixteen-stone frame did not in itself dominate the group, menace exuded from his dark eyes and square, granite jaw.
"Right, you lot, let's get one fucking thing straight," he said, in a quiet though riveting voice. "This nick might let you get away with murder—shades, your own clothes and all that fucking music, but don't try any of that crap down here. Any bullshit and you answer to me—got it?"
He surveyed the group, dissent and sulkiness evaporating before his eyes. It was obvious that the PEI's in prison were not governed by the same constraints imposed on the normal officers, and I had no doubt that Pete would indeed sort out any troublemakers. More than ever I started to warm to his charm.
Initially the course was rife with racism, the blacks hated "whitey", we hated the blacks. One particular black guy called Twister I disliked from the start, and I'm sure the feeling was mutual, as I represented everything he hated. Accepting the ref's decision was simply not on the agenda. Balls that landed in court were called out, deliberate fouls were the order of the day, and the concept of fair play was totally absent. However, as the course progressed, the atmosphere started to change.
The sportsmanship that emerged came mainly from the three gym staff, who led by example, demanding fair play and insisting we all take turns to referee, so that we could all experience firsthand the frustration of having decisions constantly questioned. However, a major influence on us all arrived one Wednesday afternoon, in the form of an outside "special needs group" of mentally handicapped adults who were brought into the prison. They came every week and as part of our course we had to look after them.
I had never had any contact with people with disabilities before and, at first, was slightly apprehensive; but after a couple of weeks, having become acquainted with the group, I couldn't wait for our mutual therapy sessions. Over the weeks I built up such a rapport with the group that Pat, the outside organiser who brought them into the prison, asked permission for me to continue the work after the gym course had finished. But the benefits weren't just onesided. Linda, Brian and the rest of the "gang" (as they liked to be called) also helped me a great deal.
Throughout my life I had always been far too self-conscious, far too worried about what people thought of me, but suddenly, mixing with people who did have a right to worry, I realised how pathetic I had been. I admired every one of them. They suffered mainly from physical disability, their brains simply let down by a lousy communications system, but although slow, they were mentally "all there".
Each week, to enhance their enjoyment, I strove to come up with entertaining ways for us to pass the two hours—a curious game of bowls, hockey-stick putting and darts, which, apart from David, they all loved to play. He, however, less than five foot tall, only enjoyed standing onstage, microphone in hand, wearing dark glasses and singing along to his Roy Orbison tape.
As the weeks passed, though, it was not I alone who tried to get on with the group. I would never, never have put money on Twister making an effort, but I think we had all been humbled by the "gang" and were becoming less self-obsessed.
One afternoon when Pete was away, Twister was sitting on a bench talking to Linda when she innocently asked why he was wearing sunglasses. A month before, the question would have led either to complete shutdown or volcanic eruption, but he could do neither to Linda. He reached up, took them off and, for the first time ever, I saw him smile.
David was still onstage singing along to his tape when he waved for me to join him. With my confidence growing, the opportunity was too good to miss. Put this in a Disney script and it would be thrown out as too sickly-sweet, but I held out my hand for Twister's glasses—which he passed across—and I headed for the stage. Dave and I blasted through ten of Roy's greatest hits and, as we played imaginary guitars, I didn't give two hoots about looking odd in front of everyone. Our final rendition of "Pretty Woman" brought the house down, and when I returned the shades to Twister his comment, "Nice one, John", summed up the new "entente".
As the course came to a close I started to ask myself the question: where does sportsmanship come from? Is it hereditary or learned? I had been lucky enough to have a private education where sport was much approved, and where accepting the ref's decision was part of the ethos, but how would I have turned out without hour upon hour of supervised team games? By the end of the course, watching team spirit and a sense of fair play emerge through example, I decided that without education we would be reduced to basic, animal instincts—to getting what we could at anyone's expense. I felt sorry for the thousands, millions of youngsters who miss out on sport at school, who never learn "how to win with grace, how to lose without bitterness".
When the time came, I passed my exam with a "best ever" remark from the local examiner from Guildford College. More significantly, I'll remember those two months for the impact sport had on our group. I promised myself that if I could ever use my expertise to help young people through teaching sport, I would do so. Unfortunately, back in the realms of peer pressure, "whitey" was still unable to mix with the brothers, but I'd now seen the goodness that lay inside Twister and the whole experience put paid to my newfound racist views.
I was sorry that the course had finished. I had got on extremely well with the instructors and over the weeks had let slip more and more information about my past life. Nick, Pete and Dave were all s
portsmen in their own right and at first I could see they had their doubts that anyone so small and frail could be a professional sportsman, but for the first time in prison I was not treated like a hardened criminal.
I explained how much weight I'd lost and, as my confidence grew, I even showed them a picture of myself in my playing days. So thin had I become they couldn't recognise me.
On the last day of our course, after our exam, Pete asked me to stay behind. When the rest of the class had drifted off I was left alone with the three instructors, and from behind his back Pete produced a gift. "Present from us," he said, and handed me an archaic golf club—an eight iron. It had a perished rubber grip, a rusted shaft and a leading edge so sharp it would have been the delight of any "hit man". It was the sort of club that in the past I would have thrown onto the rubbish tip without a second glance. But then, as I took hold of it, it was as though the club contained an electric charge.
Pete explained that the idea was to see me swing, so they could see what muscles needed building. I picked up an old shuttlecock from the floor, had a few swings and within minutes was facing my first shots for over six months. When I started to hit, I could have cried with the familiar sensations. The movements I had drilled into my body over thousands of hours of practice still seemed to be second nature. In that instant I knew that if I ever had a chance to play again I would be able to recapture my old form. After ten minutes of firing shuttlecocks accurately between the tram lines of the badminton court my three spectators were captivated.
"Deceptive little bastard, aren't you?" said Pete.
Chapter 15
Michelin Man
~~
When the gym course came to an end I found myself unemployed for the first time in my life. I didn't relish the prospect of a return to the metal shop but the only other apparent vacancy was for a toilet cleaner on my wing. That appealed to me even less and so, as a last resort, I headed up to the education department to see whether they could suggest any alternatives.
Apart from when I took the assessment test as a new inmate at Coldingley, I had been at work all day and had seen little of the department. It was situated above the main corridor of the prison and as I made my way along to see the head of department it was obvious it had known better days.
A woodwork room, where in the past carpentry had been taught, now lay dormant through the day and was only used by inmates in the evenings. Next to it was the "sign shop" classroom. Inmates who worked in the sign shop itself were entitled to take a course in screen printing, but the point of letting them do so was really to help the industry in Coldingley become more efficient. There was also a pottery room, but I never saw more than a few inmates in there the whole time I was in the prison. The core of the department comprised two rooms, one containing computers, the other a standard classroom where a GCSE business studies course was taught.
There were two types of education available, full-time and "day-release", and both were actively promoted by the enthusiastic staff. But they faced an impossible task. Their obvious commitment to helping to educate prisoners was in direct contrast to that of the prison, and the prison service in general.
It is a simple fact that a prisoner's ability to survive in jail is linked directly to the wage he earns at work. Every single penny is vital—and I mean every penny. Wages for a forty-hour week in the metal shop averaged out at about £10. For taking a full-time education course we were paid £4 a week. The £6 shortfall constituted three extra phonecards for those who wanted to phone home, or half a bag of heroin for those who didn't.
There were many inmates who desperately needed to be educated or learn a trade. There were many who wanted to enroll in full-time education, but very, very few could afford to do so. I myself was tempted into taking the business studies course when I walked into the department that day—but the cut in my prospective wages would have meant virtually severing communication with home.
"I can't do it, Paul. It's not that I don't want to, I can't afford to," I said, when I was invited to enroll for the full-time course.
"What about putting your name down for the new computer course? It's only one day a week."
"Brilliant. Put me down. Is there a waiting list?" I asked.
"Only four months," he answered.
When I emphasised that I needed help now they were very sympathetic, but off the top of their heads they could think of nothing. They promised, however, to give it some thought and said that if they could find anything to help me with my predicament they would let me know. "Come and see us again in a week," they said.
I was actually quite hopeful, they were very caring people, but I had to make a decision there and then. Once inside the metal shop you had to stay for at least a month before being allowed to apply for a move. Trusting to instinct, I gritted my teeth and elected to clean the toilets for a week and give education time to make some enquiries.
* * *
Finding the right equipment to do the job had always played an important part in my life, particularly as a professional sportsman, when the right equipment could make the difference between success and failure. But never had I prepared quite so meticulously as I did before my new job as toilet cleaner. I had no idea what microscopic "bugs" were lurking unseen in the "pans" and urinals but looking at my fellow inmates there were bound to be some pretty dangerous ones. No longer was it a matter of success or failure. It was now a matter of life or death.
Ready for action I emerged for my first day's work. I wore two sets of rubber gloves and a face mask in the form of a plastic bin liner tied round my head, with only two holes cut out to see through. Two pairs of jeans covered my legs and three sweatshirts ensured that my best top would not become contaminated. I also wore my heavy industrial boots. With so much protective clothing moving normally was difficult and I walked down the landing feeling as graceful as the Michelin man. It was the first time I heard an officer laugh with genuine humour.
I hesitate before using the expression "throwing myself into it", but I must say that, feeling adequately protected, I did do a good job that day. Almost too good in fact.
"Jesus, have you seen the bogs?" I heard one inmate say when he returned from work.
"What's up with them?" said another.
"They're fuckin' clean—that's what's up." There was a moment's pause when obviously this anomaly was investigated.
"Who's the cleaner at the moment?"
"Dunno, but whoever it is, we wanna keep him."
The next day, needless to say, I went about my job less conscientiously.
* * *
Since arriving in prison I had seen a phenomenal number of inmates transferred at a moment's notice, either to a new wing or out of the prison entirely, and rarely did I get to see them again.
Friendships that might have been forged over months were instantly terminated and rather than have to go through more hardship I made a conscious decision that I would not allow myself to become too close to anyone again.
Ahmed and Bill were no longer on the wing, and for some time I had felt quite lonely. Tommy, my "lifer" friend, had been let back onto the drug-free wing, having served his punishment. With no inter-wing movement allowed, it meant I saw very little of them and I spent nearly all my time alone.
For much of the time I kept myself busy studying for my journalism course. After working late into the night I would often relax on the bed and let my thoughts carefully sift through the outer debris of the wreckage I carried inside me. More often than not when I went to explore anything sensitive I would immediately pull back. For the first time, prison and my former life became mixed up in my dreams.
It was the first time in prison I had nightmares.
* * *
Since the mandatory drug tests had been introduced in January there had been an appalling increase in violence on the "bad boys" wing, as users switched to heroin. The worst aspect of this was not the violence itself, but the worryingly phlegmatic response I had develo
ped to watching my fellow man beaten to pulp. I was becoming brutalised. I became uneasy about this one evening after phoning Bronya. The ground floor was devoid of officers (they were sorting out an argument in the kitchen), when three guys, "hooded and tooled up", came rushing down the stairs and headed for the television room. Poor Floyd was in debt.
"What's that shouting?" asked Bronya.
The room was only a few feet from me and through the window I saw Floyd's arm go up to protect his head.
"Oh, nothing really. Listen—I've got some good news."
The chair legs rained down on him.
"What news?"
Floyd went down foetal-like on the floor.
"I've been made a "D" cat."
The blades came out—ripped into his unprotected back and opened him up.
"John, that's brilliant!"
Then they slashed his face.
"Thanks—it's taken ages."
Floyd's arm had just been broken in three places. He needed a hundred and forty-seven stitches to close him up. Two days later, Vinny got the PP2 battery in the face, but Geordie got the worst. I was told that the police even came in for that one while we were at work. They took photos of the cell two doors down from mine, after which Dave the wing cleaner had to wash it out. To get the blood off the walls was easy, he said, to get it off the ceiling: a nightmare.
* * *
Now that I was a "D" cat I was looking forward to moving to another wing, but until then, apart from quick sorties to the gym, I spent most of my time in my cell. Rarely was my routine upset, but one particular night I was called down to the office. When I reached the ground floor I saw Twister waiting outside, looking slightly less macho than normal, and when he beckoned to me I followed him into a far corner.
"What's the problem?" I asked, wondering whether I'd done something wrong.
"I need some help," he said quietly.
INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story Page 14
