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

by John Hoskison

  "What sort of help?" I asked, slightly taken aback.

  "I need to write a letter," he said, "an important letter to my solicitor—and I can't do it."

  "I'd love to help," I said, even taking myself by surprise at my enthusiasm.

  Twister explained his problem, and after he handed me the rough drafts of his letter I knew what was needed. Two days later I had completed the task and gave him the letter rather furtively in the gym. No one else could hear what he said as he moved past: "I owe you, John—thanks."

  There was very little opportunity of doing anything to make yourself feel good in prison and I really enjoyed helping Twister. It was particularly satisfying to do something positive for one of the brothers. It really was a shame so many barriers existed.

  * * *

  Because everyone I first knew in Coldingley had been transferred from "C" wing, the only time I was able to shake off my tremendous feeling of isolation was on Saturday afternoons, when I had a firm appointment to see both Ahmed and Bill. Although I would have preferred to see much more of them, at least we enjoyed those times together. Mind you, the entertainment was top class.

  Every Saturday afternoon an inter-wing football match took place on the pitch hidden round the back of the prison buildings. The captains, supposedly elected through a democratic vote, always seemed to be the drug barons (conveniently, each wing had one). They alone became responsible for choosing the team that would uphold the reputation of the wing, and they always chose the strongest side. But scoring goals was purely incidental. The match was a war of attrition, extremely tough to referee, but each week a new inmate was flattered into taking on the job. I had once been asked and I'd almost said yes. I think the longest a match lasted before the first punch was thrown was five minutes before kickoff.

  It was a time when the officers turned a blind eye. Someone had to take a drubbing and better for it to be the inmates than themselves. It reminded me of the Japanese office blocks where the workers are encouraged to vent their anger with baseball bats on dummies rather than their own bosses. Ahmed, Bill and I would take refuge at the far end of the pitch, in "the neutral zone", refusing to recognise the voluntary apartheid that seemed to reign. But no one ever took any notice of us, once the action started. I saw broken legs, battered faces, "groin strains", and a whole assortment of injuries. But the one who was invariably stretchered off was the ref. It could be the most definite goal of all time, no hint of offside, no hand-ball, but if the ref should blow... POW!

  * * *

  Unfortunately Saturday afternoons never lasted long enough, and after the matches we would make our separate ways back to the confines of our own wings. By this time I had been on "C" wing longer than any other inmate. Not only had I virtually completed my first "term" when I had been transferred to Downview, but on arrival back into the prison I had been treated as a "new boy" and had had to go through the process again. My "extended play" meant that I had spent longer than anyone else getting to know the officers, and there were several whom I quite liked. Certainly they were all better than those in Wandsworth.

  One of the wing's Senior Officers, the one who moved me when Bronya had complained about the noise, was particularly kind. Over the months he had learned that I was a golf professional, and occasionally, when no one was about, he would ask questions about the game. In the privacy of his office he always called me John.

  One evening though, both of us made a mistake. I was standing outside the gym waiting for it to open when the officer walked by. I had known he was going to play golf that morning and, as he passed, I raised my eyes. "Any good today?" I asked.

  "Yes, not bad, actually," he said, with a smile on his face. "Broke eighty for the first time."

  "Well done," I said. I was pleased for him; he was very keen.

  Moments later he disappeared onto the wing and within seconds I was grabbed from behind and thrown back against the wall. A white hand grabbed my chin in an excruciating grip. "Don't ever let me catch you smiling at a screw again," said one of the drug baron's henchmen. "If I do, I'll cut you so fuckin' bad your bird will never want to set eyes on you again."

  It was a cruel warning and one I took very seriously. Prisoners are not meant to show anything but the utmost contempt towards officers. As the prison service takes no account of individuals, so the prisoners evaluate authority. Whilst that barrier of hatred exists, little can be achieved. But there is a solution. The hatred is born in prisons like Wandsworth, where the regime breeds malevolence. A more human approach, adopted from the start, would surely lead to greater harmony in other prisons. For the rest of my sentence, I was never able to further any friendship with an officer.

  * * *

  Up until that time, apart from the occasional lapse, I was in a relatively stable emotional state. Now, perhaps, everything was getting on top of me: my friends had moved, I was expecting to move myself, but didn't know where, and I was worried about my next job. One morning, at chapel for Sunday service, I suffered a setback.

  At first the service took a slightly humorous turn. There were about fifty chairs set out but only eight inmates were present, plus a handful of official prison visitors. When everyone was seated the vicar, dressed in his cassock, stood before his small congregation. "We'll now open with a hymn," he said. He paused while everybody turned to the right page and in those few silent seconds the noise from outside began to invade. Boom... Boom... Boom. The vicar's head turned towards the walls. "Let your voices celebrate Jesus," he said. Then, raising his voice as though in defiance, "Sing as loudly as you can. Carry the good news to every corner of the prison."

  As the organist started playing, the incessant pounding of the drums from the ghetto blasters put me in mind of a scene from the film Zulu. We sang as heartily as we could, but were soon overwhelmed by the fierce competition.

  The vicar's jaw was set firm as he preached his sermon. His words, Love thy neighbour, were hard to take. By the look of some of the faces around me, it was almost "mission impossible".

  When the service had finished it was time to mix with the visitors over a coffee, which I was looking forward to, as talking to anyone from the outside world had become a novelty. After most had drifted into the adjacent hall I found myself standing by the chapel door next to a pleasant-looking lady. There was only one other person near us, the chapel orderly, who was cleaning up. The lady took a pace towards me. "Hello," she said, smiling kindly. "How are you coping?"

  The words stunned me. Instantly my eyes filled with tears. I couldn't talk. I couldn't even nod. As I stood there, I wasn't even sure that I could pull myself together. I took a tissue out of my pocket and wiped my nose. "Sorry," I mumbled, with my head down. "I've got a cold." I fled down the chapel stairs, through the prison, and ran to the sanctuary of my cell, where I threw myself onto the bed. I was devastated. I thought I was coping well, but those few words of personal kindness made me realise how lonely I really was.

  I hit the wall hard with my fist, hoping the pain would pull me out of my depression. One day at a time, I reminded myself, one bloody day at a time.

  Chapter 16

  The Half-Marathon

  ~~

  The cell I moved to on "A" wing was about the best you could get in Coldingley. Outside my window I could actually see the prison tree, which was sprouting fresh green leaves, as it was now late May. In fact, it was only two days till my birthday, which I had often spent at the PGA Championships at Wentworth, only a few miles down the road. Not for the first time, I felt like a captive animal.

  I was becoming accustomed to the golf reports on Radio "Five Live" and, up to that time, only the US Masters had been really traumatic for me, but the previous Friday, when I wandered innocently into the chapel area to see Mike Hart, the chapel orderly, there was live golf from Wentworth on the television, and I felt devastated. I cringed at the thought of Open Week in July It was going to be a long, hard summer.

  Six other inmates inhabited my section of the l
anding tucked away on the top floor: four armed robbers, a murderer serving "life", and Eric, serving "a ten stretch" for impersonating a police inspector. It was not by chance that I was privy to such a safe environment. Knowing the powerful sixball had a vacancy on their "spur", my former neighbour on "C" wing, Tommy the "lifer", had put my name forward. Although one normally couldn't choose, I received the nod from the "A" wing SO and moved in. It was a great compliment, as they really knew little about me except that I was quiet and could help with crosswords.

  Since arriving at Coldingley I had been at pains to keep my past life quiet, and even though I whacked shuttlecocks around the gym once a week, I felt comfortable keeping this perceived middle-class activity to myself. I had often witnessed how an inmate, boasting of comfort in the outside world, would be subjected to bullying and blackmail. "Transfer money into this account by tomorrow, or you'll be cut," was the usual threat. Few, therefore, knew I used to be a professional golfer. Early one Saturday morning however I made the mistake of having a practice swing on what I thought was a deserted landing. I was in a classic follow-through position when Paul, one of the armed robbers, came out of the toilet area and spotted me.

  "Fuckin' 'ell—I didn't know you played."

  I was completely taken aback. "Er, I don't anymore," I managed.

  "Got a handicap?"

  "No, haven't had one for years," I said. It wasn't exactly a lie: a professional doesn't have one.

  "Jesus, I can't wait to play again—worst thing about the nick, no golf." He proceeded to have a couple of practice swings that looked as if he would slice the ball in two. I didn't mention it, though.

  I made my way to the toilet hoping it would prove to be a suitable point to end the conversation but he followed me, stood next to the three-foot piece of wood that constituted the door and gave me an all-too-detailed account of his last round, six years before. Unfortunately he had a remarkable memory.

  "Yeah—great fun," he said. "Came off the eighteenth green with the guys, then headed straight for the bank—got arrested with the sawn-off stuffed in my Ping bag—cosser bastards never did give the clubs back." I smiled as I pictured some rules official trying to work out the penalty for carrying the extra "club".

  Over the next few days I was bombarded with golfing stories and details of his rarely worn Faldo golfing sweaters. For once I had to appear interested. Whereas at my golf club I could tell a friend to belt up if he started to drone on, I found there is only one thing worse than a golf bore—and that's a golf bore with an anger management problem. But one day the irritation of living in the company of a fanatic turned to fear, when he invited me into his cell. To my horror, on his table was a stack of golfing magazines, the top one of which contained an instruction article, with pictures, that I had had published the previous year. Whilst I had told no lies I had been economical with the truth, and I wondered what the hell he would say if he found out that I was a professional.

  * * *

  Apart from this little conundrum I was very pleased with my new cell and neighbours. I was also content with my new job. For a month I had been working in the chapel area as the new job orderly: I had to collect all the forms filled in by the inmates requesting job changes. My new boss was the vicar himself. Not only was he responsible for the spiritual wellbeing of the prisoners, he also organised the whole prison workforce. He was as powerful as the governor and without his help you got nowhere fast. As a shepherd, he was the classic vicar; as the minister of labour, he reminded me of the vicar in the Monty Python sketches, and I half-expected him to turn up wearing shades and smoking a fat cigar.

  I had introduced myself to him after a chapel service when I first arrived in Coldingley, but it was two weeks after the gym course had finished that I was summoned to his office.

  "Sit down," he said. I sat. I watched, as he finished signing some papers, deciding he would make the most perfect villain in a Bond movie, another Dr "No"—the vicar's reflex answer.

  "Got a job for you," he said, swinging dramatically round in his chair to face me. "Been told you're the man I need to hire."

  My name had been put forward by the education department as someone who could help run the labour division (God bless them). Not wanting a return to the workshops, I regarded the opportunity of working in the clean and peaceful surroundings of the chapel office as literally a godsend, and I leapt at the chance. OK, so I lied a little, told him I was computer fluent, and, yes, I suppose the hierarchy was a little peeved when I crashed the software in my first week; but I was very polite to the fuming head of industries and somehow held on to my job.

  Almost overnight, as a member of the "God squad", I became a major influence in the allocation of jobs and very definitely climbed a rung up the prison ladder.

  * * *

  I liked working in the chapel area: it gave me access to a man who knew my ever-present smile hid a troubled mind. Mike Hart worked in the chapel as the orderly and was the most respected inmate in the prison. He was a "lifer" who had already spent twenty years inside for a bank raid that had gone wrong in the seventies when someone had been shot. An "A" category prisoner for ten years, he had lived with the Krays, the IRA and the worst possible criminals, but through it all he had emerged a humble, kind and generous man. Mike worked harder and longer than anyone else in the prison, not only with his duties in the chapel, which he kept meticulous, but also way beyond the call of duty with his "Youth Project", an idea he had conceived years before whilst an inmate of Maidstone prison.

  The "Youth Project" was a drama production, staged by a group of fifteen inmates, and shown to youngsters between the ages of twelve to sixteen who were contemplating a career in crime. Every month sixty or so came into the prison where they could see at first hand the end-result of a life of crime. The idea behind the project was not to shock, but to educate, and the project was so highly regarded by police, youth leaders and teachers, that its audience was growing every month. Unfortunately, letting the public see that prisoners were trying to make a positive contribution to society didn't fit into the government's desired image of prison inmates and they seemed to take every opportunity to block publicity for the project. A video of the drama and testimonies of several inmates depicting the horrors of prison life had been sent out to local police forces and youth clubs. It was highly praised by all who saw it, but with the election coming up, the Home Office had refused to give it a press release—it would have been too embarrassing.

  Having spent so long in prison, Mike had himself experienced every conceivable emotion, and he was looked upon by the inmates as a father-confessor. Although he never referred to the incident, it was Mike who had witnessed my breakdown in front of the lady visitor in the chapel and, looking back, he must have known that I was very confused. I had tried to deal with my emotional experience in my usual way, by burying it as deep as possible. But more and more I was finding that I couldn't bury my feelings deep enough.

  One day, during a work break, we were sitting at a table in the chapel office, having a cup of tea, when, with deadly precision, he exposed a nerve.

  "I'd like you to come onto the Youth Project, John—give your testimony, tell the kids what you're in for, what it's like inside. Maybe you can make some of them think twice."

  I cringed at the idea. They were honest and good sentiments but I could hardly face what I had done myself, let alone talk publicly about it. "Sorry, Mike, I can't," I said, fidgeting uneasily in my seat. "I could never make a public confession."

  He stared at me unwaveringly and seemed to understand. "Can you tell me about it, then?"

  Mike had spoken openly to me about his crime but he knew little about why I was in prison. I thought back to the first time I had seen him running round the exercise yard, and the fear I felt when I found out he was a "lifer" who had already served over twenty years: the last sort of person I would ever have wanted to meet, yet now the one man who was getting close to helping me. I tried to picture telling him, bu
t immediately my eyes filled with tears and I knew it was impossible. I looked at the floor to cover my embarrassment.

  "Have you talked to anybody about the way you feel, John?" he asked me.

  "No," I said, quietly.

  "Listen to me," he said, leaning forward to catch my eye. "It takes a lot of courage to face up to these things. But the longer you delay the harder it becomes. You've got to fight your instincts to hide everything. You've got to confront your feelings. If you keep bottling things up you'll be history. You need to give your testimony, if not for the others, for yourself..."

  * * *

  That night I lay on my bed in the darkness and tried to digest Mike's advice. He was right—I had been hiding away. There was a huge difference between the front I displayed on the wing and my inner feelings. The strategy I had employed of surviving from day to day had been specifically designed to avoid confronting the pain inside me, and had become second nature. Mike was right when he said I would have to fight my instincts to stop hiding. It would be the first step towards confronting the pain—but therein lay the problem.

  Competitiveness had been a way of life for me when I was a professional sportsman. There was nothing I enjoyed more than a real challenge, but for some reason (I would need a psychologist to explain it) I had lost my will to fight, both physically and emotionally. I can't explain it; it was as if the pressure of the last two years had fundamentally changed me. Since the accident, I hadn't had the stomach to fight anything.

  Several weeks before, an incident had taken place that typified my attitude. Early one Saturday morning I had gone into the nearly deserted gym to find Chris, one of the "lifers" in Coldingley, waiting for an opponent at badminton. He asked me for a game. With so few people about, if I turned down his offer, it would have looked downright rude, and I had no intention of antagonising a "lifer". For fifteen minutes I enjoyed a knockabout, then he suggested a game.

  Chris was a very good player, probably the best in the prison, and I could see he was a natural athlete; but I had played tennis to a high standard as a boy and I was equally competent on the badminton court. I could cope with his shot-making. What I wasn't ready for was his unbelievable tenacity. He chased down every shot and fought for every point—a born competitor, someone I would have relished taking on in the past. But when I went to stretch myself and make that all-out effort, something held me back. All I could do was tamely go through the motions, expose my neck and wait for the axe to fall. It was the first time in two years that I had been asked to fight for something, and I had capitulated without resistance. We played two games and I hardly won a point. We didn't even shake hands afterwards—I don't think Chris respected me very much.