* * *
As soon as my cell door opened at seven-thirty I dived out, grabbed a shower and, when dressed, made my way along to reception.
"Say hello to Soho for me, Hoski."
"Give her one for me, kid."
"Send us a postcard when you get to Spain." The comments rained down as I walked past the wing.
I was given a travel warrant from Woking station to London and £2.20 so that I could buy lunch. The senior security officer looked at me as he handed it over. "Be back by six, not a minute later. And Hodgkinson," he said, giving me a stern look, "don't do a runner."
I was then escorted to a part of the prison I hadn't seen before. It was the visitors' entrance, the hallway to the front door. The security was phenomenal. Two huge electric doors slid open to let me through, and it crossed my mind that my son had passed down this same corridor when he came to see me. For a seven-year-old boy it must have been pretty daunting.
Finally I came to the entrance hall and, with all my paperwork completed, I was free to step outside. Before I did so I looked round at the two officers watching but they didn't shout, or call me back, and moments later I took the step that brought me outside the walls of the prison.
Almost immediately the taxi booked for me pulled up alongside. "Woking station, is it?" he asked—but I was in a daze.
"Yes, Guv," I answered.
The first thing that struck me was the fear I had of travelling in the car. The driver was a lunatic, the speed he was driving was ridiculous—but when I looked at the speedometer it was only showing forty miles an hour.
When I reached the station I walked to the ticket office to show my travel warrant, but six people bustled past me to the front of the queue. They appeared to be set on fast forward. I was amazed. In just a year I had adapted to the pace of prison, which was obviously considerably slower than that on the outside.
After collecting my ticket from the man behind the counter whom, like the taxi driver, I also called Guv, I went out to stand on the platform. There were a few minutes before the train came, and I decided to buy a Mars Bar from the sweet shop, as I hadn't had time for breakfast. I felt quite ashamed when I stuffed it deep into my pocket and walked to the far end of the platform. I tried to tell myself that there was no way any of the commuters would mug me, but I ate it with my back turned to the crowd.
The platform was packed as it was still only 8.15, and when the train came I found the only seat available was next to a businessman. I felt PRISONER was stamped across my forehead and that everyone would instantly know. I put my hand up to my brow in the "thinking man's" position. Apart from an occasional glance out of the window I pretended to be asleep for much of the journey. Finally the train pulled into Waterloo and I headed towards the underground and Bedford Square, my destination.
Even the smallest things, like looking up which line I had to take, I found complicated. My whole metabolism, both mental and physical, had slowed down to such a degree that it needed all my concentration to work out the simplest things. In that respect, prison was definitely a protective bubble.
Eventually I arrived at the correct station and wandered out to find my way to the university hall where the conference was to take place. In the back of my mind I knew what I was going to say. I was well aware of the importance of preparation. I had made many important speeches in the past after winning golf tournaments, twice in front of Prince Andrew when I had won the Nelson Trophy in consecutive years; but twenty minutes is a long time to stand and talk in front of nearly a thousand people. As I walked the final few hundred yards once again I rehearsed the main points in my mind. It was going to be an emotional time.
At ten o'clock I climbed the steps to the imposing building, took a deep breath and went inside. The hustle and bustle was unbelievable, and I had to stop myself from thinking that flight was the best option. Holding my head up and taking a deep breath, I summoned all my courage and made my way to the reception desk where I had been told to report.
"Good morning," I said to the woman. "I'm meant to register here, I believe."
"Name?"
"Hoskison—I'm one of the guest speakers."
She went straight to a small pile of badges laid out in one corner but then found mine in an envelope tucked to one side. I could see her mouth open slightly in surprise as she took out the badge and slowly handed it to me. It was probably my paranoia but suddenly I felt like an animal at the zoo.
I was pointed in the direction of a small room where the panel of speakers were gathering, and before I could change my mind I walked across and opened the door. But my bravado almost crumbled and I tried to slide in unnoticed. Almost immediately a voice seemed to rise above the rest, "Ah, you must be John Hoskison from Coldingley." All eyes turned towards me. It was almost the first time since my court appearance that someone other than prison officials, fellow inmates or family had spoken to me. I was so embarrassed. I willed the ground to swallow me up, but the man who had organised the conference was very experienced, and within a few minutes, during which he spent time reassuring me, I was feeling a little more confident.
After what seemed an interminable wait we were led through to the hall where we took up our places behind a table on stage. On my right was the Right Honourable Lord Justice Brooke, on my left, Chief Inspector Peter Golding of New Scotland Yard. Nine hundred students, lecturers and dignitaries packed the hall. I looked at the sea of faces. I sat, quite frankly, in terror.
I don't remember much about the conference over the next hour until Sir Peter Lloyd, MP, finished speaking and began introducing the next guest-speaker. "It's now time to listen to someone who's currently serving a prison sentence."
I was so nervous it took a second to realise that he was talking about me. I stood up on trembling legs and made my way to the podium which was bathed in spotlights. The audience, who had appeared slightly fidgety during the previous hour, suddenly fell completely silent. I adjusted the microphone, took a deep breath and then let my soul pour out.
"I've been asked here today to give my personal testimony and speak of the harsh realities of prison." My throat was dry, but there was no going back. "I've agreed to speak in the hope my story will stop anyone from making the same mistake I made.
"I'm currently serving a three-year prison sentence for a car accident in which someone was killed," I heard my hoarse voice say "I'm serving that sentence because, for once, I didn't listen to my conscience warning me I was about to do wrong...
"The choice I made was "just this once—I'll take the risk". The choice I made has inflicted untold suffering.
"For twenty years I was a professional golfer. Not only did I enjoy playing tournament golf but I also sat on many committees, gave my time freely to charities and actively encouraged junior golfers. I was respected by friends and colleagues. I had a most wonderful life. Then one day I went to play in a golf match. After we finished we went to the bar for a drink. I'd always been very careful not to drink and drive, a discipline I'd maintained over all the years of travelling to tournaments, but I'd been ill, hadn't eaten for three days and although inside my head alarm bells rang, I was sufficiently distracted not to listen to the warning. I drank no more than the others but on an empty stomach I was over the limit when I left the club.
"My drive home took me down a dark country lane with no street lights and at a bend by a bridge, described at a parish council meeting only nine days before, as "narrow and causing a hazardous situation", a car came towards me with headlights full on. I was dazzled. I put my left hand up to shield my eyes. The speed limit was forty, I was travelling at thirty-four.
"A split second later when I regained my sight, a cyclist, unseen till now, was only a yard in front of me. There was no time to react, no time to move a muscle, and my car hit the cyclist... My mind was paralysed by the staggering shock, and with all thought and reason blocked I left the scene of the accident."
I looked at the audience while I gathered myself. Inevita
bly in my thoughts I was reliving those dreadful moments. I had seen the cyclist at the very last second. There had been no time even to take my foot off the accelerator and, frozen in position, I had driven on. When my mind stopped reeling I found I had already left the scene. The only thing I can remember clearly is that I wanted to die. There is no rational way to behave in such circumstances. In the pitch blackness of the night, animal instinct shut the system down and I panicked. Had anyone told me beforehand that I could possibly have reacted the way I did, I would never have believed them. It was something I had avoided thinking or talking about—the most difficult thing for me to come to terms with.
I went on to explain to the silent audience that my car had been damaged in the accident and that within the hour I was at the police station, where I was breathalysed and found to be over the limit. It was there that I was told the cyclist had been instantly killed...
* * *
For the next few minutes I managed to continue with my speech, all the while experiencing a mix of emotions so concentrated that I doubt I will ever taste the like again. Remorse for the accident and my reaction to it; grief at the loss of life; sadness for everyone touched by the tragic affair; and humility at the compassion and forgiveness shown to me by the victim's wife. Finally, when I spoke of Mike Hart's project there was hope. Crossing from one emotion to the other with such speed left me literally gasping for breath. But, even as I spoke I could feel relief sweep through me. Somehow I managed to get through to the end without breaking down but when I returned to my seat, I was sweating, weak and shattered. I sat down listening to the applause. I couldn't believe that my speech had been met with a positive reaction.
I longed for peace and quiet at that very moment, so that I could reflect on my speech and what it had meant to me. But the conference continued and I knew my thoughts would have to wait until the evening when I could be alone in my cell.
* * *
Throughout the rest of the day, various experts stood up and voiced their opinions, backing up their views with hard facts. Britain now stands third in the world league when it comes to handing out custodial sentences. The rest of the conference looked at how other countries dealt with those who broke the law. It seemed that the less severe policies of many countries eventually led more convicted criminals back into society without reoffending.
But in Britain it was Catch 22. During his speech Graham Wilson, head of prison services, explained the frustration felt by his department when the press blew up a story involving a degree of leniency, and publicised it as the norm. It was understandable, he explained, that the public should get annoyed if they only hear one side of the story. What was not understandable, as far as the prison service was concerned, was when the government, there to provide a lead, simply adopted policies to give them a quiet life.
At the end of the conference one of the organisers stood up and gave an impassioned speech. He gave an example of the damage that could be done by not following the experts' advice, but it had nothing to do with prison. It was regarding an old oil platform in the North Sea that was due to be sunk at sea. "Greenpeace" had got on the bandwagon and protested so vehemently that, after much press coverage, public opinion was fired. It has been proved beyond doubt that the safest place to bury the platform was at sea. But the government had crumbled under the pressure, halted the process and insisted that the platform be dismantled on land.
He made it clear to everyone present that it was they who would help shape the future of the country, and their decisions should be based on facts, rather than swayed by media reports intended to inflame public opinion.
* * *
When the discussions finished all the panel congregated in the waiting room for a cup of tea and it surprised me how relaxed I felt, socialising once more with normal people. Although I would have liked to stay longer I was very time-conscious and couldn't stop looking at my watch. I had no intention of arriving back late and after a short while I made my apologies and left.
Lunch had fortunately been provided at the conference and when I finally arrived at Waterloo I could feel my loose change burning a hole in my pocket. I sat down in the cafe opposite the huge arrival and destination board and bought myself a coffee.
I had grown used to prison over the last year, but a day outside, living and mixing in a normal environment with normal people, was enough to make me realise what a terrible and violent place jail is. For the first time in a year I had been with people who wouldn't stab me if I said the wrong thing. I still had six months to serve and I was voluntarily going back. As I looked up at the destination board, for just a brief, fleeting moment I considered absconding.
A train was shortly due to leave that I had taken in the past on my way to Cornwall, a place I considered a second home. Beautiful beaches, a marvellous coastline and all that space. It would be great to visit. Maybe just a short break. Just a few days... Shocked by the direction my thoughts were taking I got up quickly, left my coffee half-finished and headed straight for the Woking train, though it was not due to leave for another ten minutes. In my compartment I sat gripping the sides of my seat as though at the dentist's, telling myself that I was "definitely doing the right thing". It seemed an eternity before the train eventually departed.
As we headed towards Woking, the fear that had evaporated during my "away day" slowly descended like a dark mist to dominate my instincts completely. All I could think about was Mickey and his bloody drugs parcel. He was a hard, unforgiving man and the main fuel-tanks of my imagination fired simultaneously. When the train pulled into the station, I made my way back to the prison with gritted teeth.
It took ages for me to get through reception. I was strip-searched and questioned in depth. They couldn't believe that I had travelled straight there and back without any "dodgy" detours. Eventually when they couldn't find any proof (which they looked hard enough to find) I was allowed back onto the wing. But no sooner had I entered my cell when a message was passed along and I was summoned downstairs. It was question time.
Mickey the drug man and his henchman took me along the corridor. I looked round to see if any of my allies were around but there was no one. "Well, where is it?" he asked.
"Listen, Mickey, I didn't have the time, and I couldn't do it anyway—it's just not me."
He looked at me closely and I met his eyes. "If I find you've collected, I'll cut your fuckin' throat." His hand gripped my chin for a few seconds, then, playfully, he slapped me across the cheek. "Eric said you wouldn't bring it back, too much of a straight goer—but there's always next time," he said, with a wicked smile.
I was left in the corridor and for a while didn't make a move to go—it had been an emotional day.
* * *
Later, although tired, I lay on my bed and released my mind to wander freely. At first it was hard reflecting on the consequences of that fateful night after such a long time, but as the emotions and memories I had hidden from for so long came flooding back, I tried to absorb them, rather than continue to turn away.
The year on bail had almost crippled me. Nothing had been harder than trying to carry on as normal, while knowing that things would never be normal again. I thought back to the endless hours I had spent alone in my flat trying to find a reason to carry on. I thought of Ben. I thought back to the day when I had received a reply to the letter I had sent the victim's wife. I had sunk to my knees when I had read her words of forgiveness.
I still felt immense guilt when I found myself thinking about the devastation to my own life but I realised finally that it had to stop. There and then I got up, switched on the light and from out of my personal box, stashed underneath my bed, I got out the Golf Monthly articles that I had had published. Someone had kindly sent them in to me but until then I hadn't had the strength to read them. I opened up the first six-page article, entitled "Building Good Foundations". I stared at the main photo in which my son Ben stood next to me, sticking out his chest and looking so proud. I made myself
look at all the other articles and thought about the plans Golf Monthly had had for making an instruction video of my ideas, that was to have been released nationally. My life had been so rewarding, there were never enough hours in the day. Yet, now there was little of that left. I had held a sparkling jewel in my hand and it had turned into a pebble.
* * *
My memories took me down a hard road that night, but somehow I managed to survive. Delivering my personal testimony to so many people had been the right thing to do. Whatever the problem, whether it be alcoholism, drug addiction, or denial, it seems that a frank admission is the first step to recovery.
I knew there would be problems ahead, but Mike Hart had been right. I could now allow the healing process to start.
Chapter 20
The Last Hurdle
~~
In October, having completed two thirds of my sentence, I was allowed to apply for "home leave": a period of four days away from the prison when you can stay at home. For months Bronya and I had dreamt of the chance of spending some real time together. Not only would home leave allow the luxury of freedom away from the problems inside, but it also represented a hurdle. Once passed, it would be the beginning of the end of my time in prison.
Everything suggested that I would be given the go-ahead. I was a "D" cat prisoner and I had returned safely from my trip to London, but even so, I still couldn't believe it when the security department passed me as acceptable. It was something we had dared not rely on, particularly at a time when so many privileges were being refused. It was a week after I handed in my application form before I received a reply, but when I read the confirmation slip, a grin lit my face and I made a beeline for the phone.
Bronya had been so strong for me throughout the year. She'd taken all the heartache and frustration without complaining once, but for all her support there had been little I could do in return. I had earned the privilege of home leave through good behaviour. It was the first gift I was able to give her since arriving in prison. When I told her the news she burst into tears.
INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story Page 19
