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

by John Hoskison

  Inside the prison walls I tried to keep the news quiet. Not only did I feel sorry for the men whom security turned down, but I also didn't want the likes of Mickey, the drug baron, asking me for favours. But inevitably news like that travels fast, and, for the next week, I was subjected to a fair amount of flack. Nothing serious however, until one evening, when I was waiting in the canteen queue with about thirty other inmates.

  A solidly built white man, known as a trouble-maker, was making his way back to the wing when he paused in front of me in the narrow corridor. "You're a fucking grass, aren't you?" he said loudly. Everyone stopped talking. I didn't know what to say—or do. It was the worst thing you could ever call another inmate. He obviously couldn't see how anyone could earn the privilege of home leave without being an informer.

  With the speed of lightning, a black fist flashed past me and crashed into the side of his head, flooring him instantly. The man who threw the punch then bent down. "He ain't no fuckin' grass," he said, sticking a finger into the face of the dazed man. "Don't ever say that again."

  The man on the floor slowly stood up and moved off. I turned round to my saviour. "Thank you," I said, looking at the black face. Twister simply nodded back. The incident was over before it had started, with my reputation intact. As we continued to wait in the queue, I couldn't help but think back to the time I had virtually written Twister off as a no-hoper. I had to revise my conviction that my first impressions were accurate.

  * * *

  The following days dragged interminably. Never had I looked forward to anything quite so much, and I knew Bronya felt the same. Eric and the guys on my landing were really good about my going. I was even given a tin of tuna that Eric had bribed off one of the kitchen staff. "Better get this down yer neck," he said. "You'll be needing plenty of energy, you skinny runt."

  It was four days before my scheduled trip that one morning I was called down to the office on the ground floor. I thought I had been summoned to sign my temporary release licence but when I entered the office I saw the deputy governor sitting behind the table, obviously waiting for me. He didn't beat about the bush. "Latchmere House have offered you a place," he said. "You're getting shipped out tomorrow."

  "What?" I said, aghast. "Tomorrow?" I couldn't believe it. I had waited months and months to go to Latchmere, but every time I was notified of imminent transfer it had been cancelled. Eventually, I had been told that the eligibility rules had changed, and only prisoners serving over four years were accepted. Yet now I was being given twenty-four hours notice before a move.

  "Guv, I'm due to go on "home leave" on Friday. Can't I go after that?" I asked.

  "It's now or never," he said. "You're not really supposed to go at all, they've just got a spare place that needs filling."

  "Will they honour my "home leave", Guv?"

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "You've got six weeks induction before you get any privileges at all—you've got to prove to them that you're trustworthy."

  "But I've done that here. I've spent a year proving I'm trustworthy."

  "That makes no odds—you've got to start again."

  I asked for ten minutes to consider my position, but deep down I knew I would turn down the offer. I had secured myself a niche in Coldingley, I was on the best "spur" in the prison, Eric and the guys ruled with a rod of iron, and somehow kept it heroin-free. Although the prison was one with a fearful reputation, I felt safe. More importantly there was no way I could sacrifice my home leave. If I phoned Bronya now to tell her I was being transferred to Latchmere and that my leave was cancelled, unquestionably she would take the blow. But it was one I was not prepared to hand out.

  "Sorry, Guv," I said, facing the deputy governor, "but I'm not prepared to forgo my home leave. If it means staying here, I'll do so."

  In one fell swoop I was committed to spending the rest of my sentence in Coldingley.

  * * *

  Four days later I emerged from prison into the outside world: a dress rehearsal for what was to come in five months time. At eight o'clock in the morning and in a state of intense joy, we drove away for four days of bliss.

  I had already discussed with Jane, Ben's mother, how much I should see of my son during my break. He was doing so well that neither of us wanted to disturb the equilibrium, but it was also a vital opportunity to reassure him that, eventually, things would be back to normal. We decided on a happy medium—I saw him twice. The first time, my parents and I took him swimming at the local pool in Guildford. Over the course of the last year one of my friends had taught him to swim and Ben delighted in showing me his large repertoire of underwater stunts. Then, one evening, we took him out for a pizza. We didn't have to do anything exciting, just being together provided all the entertainment we needed. No one could possibly know how proud I was of him. When I finally waved goodbye he left smiling, happy and content, and I knew he would survive until my eventual release. That alone would have justified my home leave.

  My brief return was vital for my relationship with Bronya. We both needed to be alone to talk, free from time restraints. She was able to reassure me that she hadn't found a boyfriend. I was able to reassure her that I was getting used to Coldingley's way of life and that I hadn't found a boyfriend. It seemed everybody's preoccupation with prison had been the rape and sex that went on "inside" and the constant questioning by well-meaning friends was wearying. I told her that there were only two gays in Coldingley and they kept themselves to themselves and were tolerated. "Next time someone asks you how I'm coping with all the rape that goes on, tell them to bugger off," I said. We both laughed about it. Thank God we had managed to maintain a sense of humour.

  I had no idea what the future held for us. At the back of my mind there was a nagging fear she had stuck by me out of kindness, worried what I would do if I received a "Dear John" letter.

  Whatever the future holds for us, there is no one to whom I owe more. I hope that one day I will be able to make it up to her.

  There was only one surprise that she had in store for me during the break. On the third day, without previously warning me, she announced that within the hour I was due on the first tee at the local golf club to play a round with my two closest professional colleagues. It was as well that she hadn't told me—I would have backed out.

  Since being given a golf club by the gym staff in Coldingley, I had nurtured a dream that perhaps, one day, I might return to golf. Hitting shuttlecocks in the gym once a week was a far cry from the real thing, and I had no idea what my form would be like. For twenty years I had worked at my game to make it professionally competent. Nothing would make me more depressed than to find I had lost my ability, possibly forever. As we headed for the club I was more than nervous.

  The course was nearly deserted when we arrived, which was a good thing, as I had no intention of letting anyone see me playing golf. All it would need, I thought, would be for a journalist to be told what a prisoner was doing and I would be swiftly recalled to Coldingley. With my clubs slung over my scrawny shoulder I dodged round the clubhouse and headed for the first tee. Everything seemed so alien. The only grass I had seen for a year was on the football pitch in Coldingley which was more mud than anything, and the well-manicured tee looked like a green carpet. I took my bag off my shoulder, stood it on the ground and then in my customary way, almost a ritual ingrained through years of pressure golf, I reached for a club. Like drawing Excalibur from the stone, I took out my driver.

  It was like meeting up with an old friend from the battlefields—we had bonded under fire. I waggled the club back and forward in my hands, felt a deep-rooted sensation of familiarity and thought back to the drives we had nailed, over the closing holes of my championship victories. It was now time to test that friendship.

  I teed my ball up with trembling fingers. There had been no time for any practice hits and after only a few swings to loosen up, I faced my first golf shot for over a year. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my friends and Bronya w
atching closely. I think they must have been as nervous as me.

  I took up my stance, glanced up towards the distant fairway, which seemed an impossibly small target; then, focusing on the ball I took a swing. WHOOSH! I looked up after contact but my unpractised eye lost the ball in flight. I looked to my friends for a reaction.

  Bronya was grinning. Nick and Peter were staring, open-mouthed. It must have been a fluke, but somehow, I had caught the shot perfectly, sending the ball, like an arrow, hurtling towards the intended target. Minutes later, my second shot was just as accurate and landed only a few feet from the flag. The ensuing putt from five feet never looked like missing. A year in prison, without hitting a shot in practice, and the first hole I play—I make a birdie. It was an amazing feeling. But even while feeling overjoyed that I could recapture my old form, I also felt an overwhelming sense of sadness that I might never be given the opportunity of competing again. It was a bitter taste of emotions.

  Knowing my son was surviving, that Bronya was coping and our relationship was good, and that my form on the golf course was better than in my wildest dreams all helped me enormously over the next few months but my home leave alerted me to a deeply worrying problem. Throughout the four-day period, with the exception of swimming with Ben, I did not once smile in public. With Bronya and close friends I was able to lighten up, but as soon as I went out into the public eye, I felt it wrong to be seen looking happy. Every other facet of my behaviour suggested I would adapt quickly to the outside world, but deep down I suspected there was still a significant step for me to overcome before I would feel at all comfortable in society. I hoped that, before being released, I could come up with an answer.

  The following day at four o'clock, Bronya drove me back to the prison. It is impossible to put into words how much we had enjoyed the freedom. It was hard to say goodbye. We sat in the car waiting for the minutes to pass until it was time for us to part. I felt like a marine waiting to be dropped from a transport plane over enemy territory. Finally the moment arrived. I gripped my overnight bag as though it were a parachute, took a last glance at Bronya to receive the nod. Then, without looking back, I opened the door and dived out. As I walked into reception, I heard the engine scream in frustration.

  I had to serve one last term. Another one hundred and fifty days behind the lines.

  Within hours of returning, I slipped back into the tense world of prison with surprising ease. An inmate was stabbed in the toilet area of my landing. I didn't hear him scream, but half an hour after the incident occurred I wandered into the room to wash my hands. On the floor was a large pool of congealing blood, and I almost retched. It was a stark contrast to the past few days but with determination I knew I could cope with the five remaining months. I had survived before, I could again.

  But to give substance to what I had been through, to prove to myself that I could survive, I decided to write down my experiences "inside". It would be my therapy. In black and white I would record incidents that would prove me tough enough to cope with anything, inside and outside. It would also help to pass the time. I was well aware that I was on course for a bout of "gate fever", an unfortunate ailment that causes time to stand still.

  Over the next few days I planned out chapters and worked out a time schedule so that the last chapter would coincide with my release date. If I disciplined myself to write a predetermined amount each day I would finish it the night before I walked out of prison for ever. Every day, as normal, I would work for the vicar in the chapel; every night I would work in my cell. (It was a good arrangement in theory.)

  However, the schedule proved hard to stick to. My desk was small and often I found myself kneeling on the floor, resting the paper on my bed. The light in the cell didn't help and after long periods of squinting at words, my eyes became strained and bloodshot. I also developed a small sore on my little finger where it skimmed across the page as I wrote. I spent hours and hours behind my door.

  The guys on my landing took my antisocial behaviour well. They had become used to my spending most of my time alone, and rarely troubled me. At first they were a little concerned that I was writing an expose of all their dodgy dealings, but when I explained it had nothing to do with their past capers, they left me alone. Ironically, among some extremely hard and dangerous individuals, I considered myself to be entirely safe. It was a paradox. Paul tended to be in charge of anyone who caused trouble regarding hooch. Eric, who had a blind hatred of anyone involved with heroin, kept the addicts at bay with a subtle blend of terror and intimidation. Anyone who brought heroin into our spur risked being tossed off the landing. The safe oasis in which I lived, though, was one day put into jeopardy.

  For some time Eric (king of all he surveyed) had been working in the gardens. It was a much sought-after job, but he was very conscientious and held off all opposition. One day, a new officer to the prison took over the duty of looking after the garden workers. Almost instantly he clashed with Eric's outgoing personality, and within a short time Eric was out of a job.

  One Saturday morning, a week after the sacking, I had just finished a run and was going back to my cell when I saw Eric looking slightly dejected. "What's up?" I asked.

  "I've been nicked," he said.

  "What for?"

  "Someone shouted out of the window this morning at the garden screw. The bastard's nicked me"

  "Was it you?" I asked.

  "As if!"

  "What's the punishment?" I asked.

  "A move back to bloody "C" wing. I couldn't cope with that," he said. My mind reeled. The thought that the cell opposite me would suddenly become vacant, only for some animal, more than likely a "smack" addict, to take up residence was too much. I had turned down a move to Latchmere partly because I felt safe. Another five months with a junkie for a neighbour would be intolerable.

  "Can I do anything to help?" I asked.

  "You could tell them it wasn't me."

  "I can't do that, I wasn't there," I said, looking him in the eye. "Someone could prove I was out running. "But I owed Eric a favour. What's more, he was responsible for keeping heroin off our spur. He'd certainly done more to protect our landing from the drug than all the officers put together. A petty charge might well be held against him but the whole of our landing, and possibly the wing, would suffer if he had to move. Surely I could make one hell of a plea on his behalf, at least make them think twice. I hesitated before suggesting my solution. "Why not let me be a character witness?" I said.

  "A character witness! That'll never work," he said. He had to smile. So did I.

  "Trust me—I owe you."

  A week later, I was summoned to the Coldingley court. I had never been put on report during my sentence, so I had no idea what to expect. It all seemed a bit grand, considering the charge. To have an officer spending time making a ruling about a fairly commonplace event seemed more than over the top. I stood outside the room for what seemed like ages but all the time I rehearsed my plea. Eventually I was called, and let in. I couldn't believe the scene. At one end of the room, sitting behind a large table, was the deputy governor. On either side of him were two officers. To the right of the chair in which I was instructed to sit was the officer who had brought the complaint. To the left of me, behind another large table, was Eric, hemmed in by two more officers.

  There were men in the prison desperate for decisions to be made about parole, home leave and transfers. Yet one of the main cogs in the decision-making machine was tied up with this pathetic adjudication.

  In the silence that followed, the deputy governor explained the charge brought against Eric and pointed out that I had been called in his defence "as a character witness" (I detected the sarcasm).

  Eric had been imprisoned for impersonating a police inspector and from what I'd heard of his performance, had it been on the stage, it would have earned him an Oscar instead of an ten-year sentence. He stood up and adjusted his bifocals so he could peer at me over the rim. This was his day and he was going to
milk it for all it was worth. "Mr Hoskison," (he actually got my name right), "or could I call you John," he said, majestically sounding more and more like Rumpole of the Bailey. I managed not to laugh.

  Thoroughly enjoying himself and going well over the top, he eventually got to the crux of the matter and turned round to the officer who had brought the charge, but the question was directed at me. "Do you think", he said, letting his voice build to a crescendo, "it was me who shouted at this... officer?" he asked, then looked directly into his eyes and enunciated with absolute precision, "You pig-faced cunt!"

  Eric had had his fun. The floor was now mine.

  * * *

  That night, when the celebration party for Eric's exoneration had calmed down on the landing, I returned to my cell and continued my writing. I was behind schedule and my release date was looming. At least for a while, it seemed that our landing would remain intact.

  Chapter 21

  Ready and Waiting

  ~~

  And so to the last chapter.

  My writing has been timed to perfection. It has been a struggle to discipline myself to work over the last few days but, at last, I only have this one section to write. In ten hours, my five hundred and thirty-five days of prison will be over and I'll be walking out of the gates for ever.

  An hour ago, my leaving party finished. I was called every name under the sun when I refused the hooch specially brewed for the occasion, but Eric and the guys must have known I would refuse. "No" is a word that has become easier for me to say over the last eighteen months. Judging from the lack of noise outside, none of the hooch went to waste. By the sound of it my friends are sleeping peacefully.

  For the first time in my sentence I think I'm going to make it. God knows how I've avoided being stabbed, beaten up or becoming a drug addict, but now, behind a locked door, I'm pretty certain I'll go the distance. The only thing that could get me now is a cock-up in administration. Considering the officers still can't spell my name right it's a possibility. I think Bronya would have something to say about that. I spoke to her earlier this evening, my last call from prison. She'll be waiting at the gates at eight, probably at the wheel of a JCB. If they keep me a minute longer than they should, I wouldn't put it past her to come crashing through the front door. I once told her not to wait for me—yet she has.