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

by John Hoskison

  * * *

  As I lay on my bed I realised that one day soon I would be ejected from the protective bubble of prison back into the real world. I had no idea what awaited me, what form the future would take, but one thing was certain—I was going to have to fight for it. If I continued to hide, it was possible that my most basic instinct would lie dormant for ever. If I wanted a decent future it was time to change my strategy.

  Living from day to day was a luxury I could no longer afford. If I could learn to fight again, and then fight my instinct to hide, perhaps I would be in a position to address the pain inside me and take my first steps towards building a future. As John Wayne would have put it, I had to "get back on my horse".

  * * *

  Since entering prison I had run almost every day—in fact in Coldingley I was known as "the runner". As such, when the annual Coldingley Half-Marathon was due to be run I was almost an automatic entry. But what started out as a fun exercise, just another part of my training, suddenly took on new meaning.

  * * *

  It was a Saturday in early June, the day of the big race, and I was sitting in my cell receiving my pre-race motivation talk.

  "Don't let us down, Hoski—we've bet a month's tobacco on you."

  "Thanks for the encouragement, guys—you might try good luck."

  "Bollocks," said Eric. "You don't need good luck. Just make sure you fuckin' win and beat that black bastard Bowler."

  At least they weren't into wishy-washy tactics, hoping some subliminal message would get through. This was the full-frontal, "Get your finger out or you're history!" lecture and by the time I hit the starting line I was very much aware I had to win. But I had my own motives driving me.

  THE COLDINGLEY HALF-MARATHON

  (Journalist Course Lesson 6)

  Controversy clouded the thirteen-mile race on Saturday when first past the post Andy Bowler was disqualified for cheating.

  Bowler was said to be "destroyed" by the decision, but race organiser Dave Watson had "no option" after runners and spectators reported Bowler for missing out part of the course.

  On an ideal morning for long-distance running, over forty inmates set out to complete twenty-one laps around the prison grounds, but the "hot money" was on three regular runners, Hoskison, Thorpe and Bowler.

  Covering the first two miles in eleven minutes the favourites opened a gap of four hundred yards over the main group. However at the halfway stage the uneconomical action of Thorpe proved too much to sustain and the race turned into a classic dual between Bowler, "tall, rangy, with a good turn of pace", and the steady style of Hoskison.

  Bowler piled on the pressure and by the sixteenth lap had opened a gap of two hundred yards, but Hoskison, who regularly took on water, doggedly stuck to his task and gradually closed on the leader.

  With two laps to go Hoskison caught and passed the visibly tiring Bowler, a move overshadowed by unruly behaviour from the gathering crowd. But on a part of the course hidden from the main body of spectators Bowler stopped, walked across the "loop" and carried on running to finish in front of Hoskison at the line. Unknown to Bowler the short cut had been spotted, and, after carefully assessing reports, Mr Watson made his decision and disqualified him.

  Hoskison was "delighted" with his win, claiming it to be his first victory in two years. Thorpe came in second with Smith winning the bronze medal.

  The awards ceremony was held in the board room with prizes presented by the area manager of prisons, Mr Welleby.

  It was half an hour before detonation occurred. "I'll show you fuckin' disqualified!" shouted Bowler, as the chair flew across the gym, smashed into the far wall and disintegrated. I'd seen some pretty powerful club throwers in my time but Bowler would have been right up there with the best of them. But it was all hollow bravado—he must have been scared stiff. Half his wing had bet a month's tobacco on him, and they were none too pleased with his tactics. The new book had him odds against surviving till morning. As he stormed off to meet the seething punters, their annoyance exacerbated by "whitey" beating their brother, I felt sorry for him. The race had been intended as fun, but there had been a lot of unwelcome pressure for both of us. Twice I had been warned against winning and, even since I'd finished, I had been told I was "for it". I was only mildly concerned: I felt confident my friends would protect me.

  * * *

  When it was time for prizegiving I received my trophy from the area manager of prisons. He presented it to me in the administration block, away from the other prisoners, which surprised me as I thought it a natural opportunity to boost the morale of the troops.

  For ten minutes I was allowed to stand and talk to him but during those minutes I became more and more annoyed. This was the man in charge of every prison I had been in. He was responsible for the motivation and morale of every prisoner and officer, including those in Wandsworth. Yet he seemed embarrassed to talk to me. I tried continually to open up some sort of discussion but he would not enter into a conversation.

  "Wouldn't it be a good idea to encourage more events like this?"

  "Mmmh."

  "You're in charge of Wandsworth, aren't you?" "Mmmh."

  "I spent some time there. I was with some inmates who really looked after me. I was so lucky."

  No response.

  After ten minutes, absolutely livid, I left the room and waited outside. My reaction was "over the top" but I was bitterly annoyed. How could such an apparently ineffectual man be in charge of so many men? I had to walk out. Had I stayed I would have said something I regretted.

  * * *

  Back on the wing my legs felt like lead. I had pushed myself to the limit to battle my way back into the race and I was very tired. My thighs were already stiff after standing around while they had been sorting out the result and, crab-like, I slowly climbed the stairs. When I reached the top, I paused for a moment. It was unusually quiet and as I looked around I realised the landing was deserted. I didn't mind in the least. In my golfing days I had never been worried about receiving congratulations. Most of my battles had been against myself and the pleasure I got was from knowing internally that I had put up a good show. I remember one day at West Surrey when the secretary of the golf club thought I carried this philosophy too far. He had just walked into the shop as one of my assistants was rummaging around underneath the workbench.

  "What are those?" he asked, pointing to the array of silverware usually hidden from sight.

  "Oh," I said, taken aback. "Just bits and bobs."

  "Just bits and bobs?" he said, aghast when, moments later, he held in his hand the PGA National Club Professional Championship trophy. It had been my proudest moment as a professional. Going into the last round I had doubted I could win. Yet somehow I had hung on to beat a potential field of three thousand. The trophy may well have been gathering dust on the floor, but the memory of that victory was unforgettable. The secretary would have none of it, though, and half an hour later the three championship trophies I had won that year were proudly on display in the club house trophy cabinet. I had to smile as I remembered my feeling of pride at winning those tournaments.

  I was outside my cell door, when suddenly, the silence was shattered in a cacophony of noise, as all the cell doors flew open and, simultaneously, steel-capped industrial boots hammered against the solid steel plates in the standard victory ritual. Had it been the nine-teen-forties, perhaps they would have sung "For he's a jolly good fellow", but instead I was subjected to a few verses of a rude little number, presumably learned on the terraces. What a welcome!

  Anything was mine, I was told, and Paul my golf bore was particularly kind. "You've got balls, mate—bloody great big balls."

  I'd been worrying about Paul and the fact that soon he was bound to see my golf article, so while he was steeped in the euphoria of collecting an extra month's tobacco I headed for his cell.

  "Paul, can I come in?"

  "Sure, want some burn?"

  "No, no, I need to talk," I sai
d, sitting down on the end of his bed. "Listen, Paul, I've got a confession to make."

  He looked at me with a puzzled look. I didn't quite know what to say so I reached forward, picked up the magazine and turned to the six-page article where my face stared out from the pages.

  "I should have told you straight away—I was a pro," I said, holding out the article. "That's me."

  For a moment he just looked at the pictures. "This really you?" he asked in amazement.

  "Yes," I said, waiting for the backlash.

  "Fuckin' 'ell—you're a pro." I nodded.

  "Jesus, can you cure my slice?"

  Later that night I lay in my bed and thought back to what the race had meant. I thought I was going to be sick on the last few laps, but I gritted down and somehow found the strength to fight back. No longer would I have to live from day to day. With a newfound willingness to accept a challenge I was on the road to recovery. But no individual battle wins a war, and although I was determined not to hide from anything, I knew there would still be difficulties. The end goal of being able to confront my problems still seemed a long way off.

  Chapter 17

  Crossing the Line

  ~~

  When Tom Lehman holed his last putt to win the 1996 British Open, it put an end to four days of torture and I breathed a sigh of relief. It evoked such powerful memories that I had to fight to suppress my instinct to hide—which was a good job, since there was no escape. Mike Hart watched it in the chapel hall, the officers had it on downstairs, and Paul, my next-door neighbour, listened to it in his cell. Radio blasting, he didn't miss a shot nor a chance to fire questions. It was like being in the Mastermind chair for four days.

  "Why don't you go and watch it downstairs?" I asked.

  "You're kidding—when you're here?!"

  * * *

  Confronting my emotions, as well as getting to grips with the daily troubles of prison life, enabled me to get closer to facing my own problems, while at the same time making me very aware of all around me. Before, when I had switched off my feelings, I remained in one monochrome mood for most of the time. Now I was exposed to a whole spectrum of disturbing emotions. When Ahmed was finally released, though happy for him, I felt personally devastated. Even though I had seen very little of him recently, I considered him a kindred spirit. Just knowing that he was in the prison I had found comforting. He is one of the very few people I met inside whom I would consider meeting again.

  At least we had a laugh before he went. When called down to sign his discharge papers, his personal officer realised that his sentence plan had never been filled out. You couldn't blame the officers, though. Since inside probation had been discontinued, the burden of paperwork had fallen on them. It was a bit disconcerting, though, to see your personal officer, head in hands, in despair.

  Massive cutbacks had meant that no department was safe. On the catering side, the quality of food had continued to decline. The new kitchen Senior Officer, ironically a twenty-four stone giant, had introduced "portion control", which gave a new meaning to the word "stingy": 34 pence per meal was budgeted for each man. Every prisoner's fat reserves were rapidly depleted, and I plummeted down to nine stone three, my Wandsworth weight.

  It gave Pete the gym instructor a headache: he was trying to build me up. "John, you've got to eat," he badgered, but one day I showed him the amount we were given and from then on he left me alone.

  In fact my lack of muscle was one of the reasons I became injured on a run. My hip was excruciatingly painful and although apprehensive about seeing the doctor, ominously nicknamed the "Butcher of Bisley", I had to go. He was not a popular man, hardly surprising when it was his job to get inmates to work, not dish out sick-notes, but I found he'd developed a rather cynical approach. No blood—no protruding bone—no injury. (Michael Howard would have loved him.)

  "You're fit for work," he said, in dismissal. Bloody hell, and the dentist was meant to be worse!

  I played my joker. "I don't want a sick-note, doctor—just help."

  He eyed me for a second, smiled, then scribbled something almost illegible which he gave me and pointed to a door down the corridor. Nice guy. I hobbled along, found the door was ajar, and, after knocking, entered the room to find an oriental woman sitting neatly on a chair. She looked at me in a way that dispelled any thoughts of her being an orthodox osteopath; "I'm a healer," she proclaimed. I was asked to "disrobe" and lie on the couch.

  For half an hour I had the most marvellous head and body massage, which ended up with her hands slipping under my back and holding my buttocks. I began to wonder if she had misread the doctor's note, but I decided not to say anything—sod the hip. A week later I returned and, amazingly, had the same treatment—but a tad firmer.

  In my final session, looking into my eyes, she explained: in prison, one had to be careful. But once again the healing hands returned to my buttocks. I did wonder whether she had escaped from Holloway, but no. Apparently, the healing was complete. I thanked her, disappointed I was not to reach the fourth week, and hobbled away.

  Not many people passed the "Butcher" to get to this inner sanctum, so there were few I could tell my story to. I told Paul but he thought I was exaggerating. However, a few weeks later I was vindicated.

  I was sitting in the chapel area waiting for the vicar to turn up when the conference to raise funds for a new holistic clinic began. At first, when people started to arrive, I thought some form of theatre production was being put on. An oriental gentleman came up, carrying a shepherd's crook and looking just like a character out of a Kung Fu series. Following him was a man with gold leaves in his hair.

  "Is this the place of the gathering?" the first asked me. He spoke like a druid out of a fantasy film.

  "This is where the believers meet," I said, taking the mickey.

  "You have Karma indeed," the man with gold leaves said.

  I had to get the guys: this was too good to miss. I dashed back to the wing where I found Paul and Eric. "Come on, you've got to check this out."

  For the next hour we watched the biggest bunch of weirdos I've ever seen, all talking this mystic language, drinking herbal tea and looking "oh, so serene".

  It was the beginning of the Stress Clinic in Coldingley. On offer were cranial osteopathy (head massages), transpersonal counselling (conversation), and stress management crisis intervention (animated conversation). Brochures distributed onto the wings also offered the silver star therapy, which involved healing by "crystal power". Crystals placed on the angry inmate would apparently absorb all evil thoughts. Oh yeah?

  I learned from the vicar, who looked as though he wanted to machine-gun the lot, that Coldingley was the first in a national project. Fourteen prisons were to have the same facility by the end of 1997. By the year 2000 it would be nationwide.

  We had lost inside probation, education was all but non-existent and the food was appalling, yet this debacle, incredibly sanctioned by Howard and the Home Office, was given £120,000 funding. Inmates were crying out for practical help, instead we were given a collection of witch doctors. We thought it farcical, we wanted it publicised and although the Observer picked up the story, little was made of it. Yet disconcertingly, other people whose help was more immediate took some fearful criticism.

  Take, for example, drug addiction. The criminal world revolves around drugs. Cure an addict and there's a chance he'll go straight. There are only four rehabilitation units for a hundred and thirty prisons—the staff and their work are vital. Coldingley is one of the four. Yet one of the drug counsellors, an ex-con who did a fabulous job, was "exposed" in a Sunday paper: "EX-CON WITH KEYS", the story ran. The day before, a helicopter had flown over the prison to take pictures. It was a double-page spread.

  I knew the counsellor. He was a man who had virtually been in the gutter, who had clawed his way out and was respected by everyone. His success at breaking the drug habit meant everything to those who wondered if they could do the same. The furore caused by the
article, written to fire public opinion, galvanised action from the top, and only the governor's fighting spirit saved this man from the rabid reaction of the Home Office. He only just survived. And since then he has continued to save many from heroin addiction.

  * * *

  Since I was less introverted than I had been, I started to look around. I was "D" category security, the lowest risk, and as far as good behaviour went, at the top of the tree, so where was this "easy-touch" prison the tabloids were so outraged about? So far I had sampled four: Brixton, Wandsworth, Downview and Coldingley, housing between them over two thousand inmates. There was one television set per forty inmates, insufficient money to buy shampoo and toothpaste, and a diet that left me almost skeletal. This did not fit in with my perceived view of a holiday camp.

  I didn't give a damn how hard prison was, I'd grown used to it, but prison is meant to be a deterrent. All the youngsters out there contemplating a life of crime should be given clear messages as to what prison is really like, yet biased newspaper reports, written to fuel reaction from the public, are so wide of the mark. The public perception of prison means that it is no deterrent at all.

  There are 60,000 prisoners in one hundred and thirty jails, and every day thousands of decisions are taken. Some obviously backfire—and these, unfortunately, are what fuel media coverage. It is such a pity that this minute percentage is perceived as representative of the prison service. And so young tearaways get the impression that prison is a "breeze".