Hammered

by Mark Ward

  After the ordeal of my first strip-search and giving away much of my ‘welcome’ bag of treats to the smack-heads on arrival, the screw told me to move on as he shouted the next prisoner’s name. I stood by the door waiting to enter the heart of the prison. Another screw told me to follow him, and not to stop to talk to anybody.

  The walk to lifers’ wing had to take in B-wing, the remand wing. To my amazement some of the prisoners were out of their cells, ‘on association’. Association is what they call the hour in which you’re let out of your cell to play pool, table tennis and to use the prison telephone. This was done on a rota basis.

  By now the whole of Walton knew I’d be arriving and the prisoners were waiting to get a glimpse of the shamed former footballer. I walked close behind the screw, concentrating on not dropping the bundle of clothes and bedding I was holding. My first impression was how small and condensed it all was. B-wing was narrow but very high, with five landings. Everything seemed so claustrophobic.

  And then I heard the first shouts coming from the prisoners. They were shouts of encouragement and recognition.

  ‘Keep your head up, Wardy, lad.’

  ‘You’re one of us now, Bluenose.’

  ‘Great goal in the derby, lad.’

  I just kept walking and was aware of everybody’s eyes focused upon me. As I approached a group of prisoners sat together, one stood up and shouted to me: ‘Mark, it’s Paul McGrath. I’ll try and get you over here with me.’ Stood next to Paul was Ian Hughes, who gestured to keep my head up.

  Paul McGrath, who was also in on a drugs-related charge, played in the same Whiston under-12s team as me. Ian Hughes had grown up with me and my brothers. I knew both lads very well and it was encouraging for me to see them there. But, already, I felt how intimidating and claustrophobic the prison was.

  As I left B-wing, a screw was stood in front of a big red door with the words ‘A-Wing Lifers’ painted on it. A gut-wrenching feeling shot through my body. What was behind this door? I was dreading my entry into prison life.

  The prison officer on lifers’ wing took me into his office. ‘I bet you never ever thought you’d end up in here, son?’ he said. He went on to tell me that they had taken the decision to put me on lifers’ wing because it was more disciplined and the atmosphere subdued compared to B-wing. Here the prisoners are all doing long sentences and so they tend to get on better with each other. There is an air of acceptance and relative stability to the place. But then Baghdad during a bombing raid is more peaceful than B-wing. It was everyone’s worst nightmare.

  The screw told me that I was to be put in a cell with a young lad from Newcastle. He advised me: ‘I don’t know if you will be moved on to B-wing next week but keep your head down and you’ll be okay.’

  I left his office and went off to find my cell. I was approached by a big, black prisoner, who introduced himself as Martin Jackson, and said he knew a mate of mine called John Brougham. He also told me he was the wing listener – somebody I could go to if I had any problems.

  I found my cell on the ground floor of the wing, where I was greeted by a lanky Geordie called Chris. He was polishing the floor of the cell. It was immaculate and the floor gleaming. He was very friendly and instantly made me feel at ease.

  Chris told me that two Scousers wanted to see me upstairs. I walked up the metal staircase and was met by Paul Hannon and Mark McKenna, who were in for a drugs conspiracy. Paul was a big Evertonian and he sat me down to explain how things worked on the lifers’ wing. Their insight into prison life was important to me and Paul stressed I needn’t fear trouble from anybody. I never felt intimidated by others, although I avoided eye-contact with other prisoners.

  Paul warned me, though, that I’d be looking at a sentence of eight-to-10 years. His estimation shocked me but, as I was to discover, he was spot on.

  Mark went to fetch me two brand new prison T-shirts. I almost laughed to myself as they were in the colour of West Ham’s famous claret. They both told me to try and stay on lifers’ wing, because B-wing was very violent and volatile.

  Paul pointed out that prisoners were coming and going on B-wing every day and, consequently, there was no discipline among the prisoners, who were in a state of constant turmoil. There were little gangs from different parts of Liverpool always taking each other on. And it was full of smackheads.

  * * * *

  It was Saturday, May 14, 2005. I’d been in custody for three days but it seemed more like three months. That night, when the prison door was banged shut, I felt really down and it dawned on me that I was looking at a long sentence. News of my arrest was announced on the radio and television and I realised it was big news that an ex-Premier League footballer had been nicked.

  I talked to my cell-mate Chris from the bottom bunk and he gave me good advice about how to arrange for money to be sent in from the family and how to book a visit. I couldn’t wait to see my family and organise a decent solicitor to sort out a case for my defence.

  But there was one burning question repeating itself over and over in my mind: How long will I have to spend in prison? One night in Walton was enough for me to realise I’d made a very terrible mistake. Paul Hannon and Mark McKenna worked behind the wing servery.

  Paul was a typical Scouser – loud and funny. I was in the queue waiting for dinner when Paul spotted me. ‘Here he is, lads … scored against the shite in the derby. Right Wardy, what do you want?’

  As I passed over my metal tray with its tiny compartments, Paul just loaded my tray with everything that was on the menu. I tried to tell him that I wasn’t that hungry and I struggled to carry the mountain of food to the table. The food, if you could call it that, was awful but I knew that everything from now on in my life was going to be different.

  I sat around on the Sunday listening to Paul explain who was in for various murders and telling me about those who had committed other evil crimes. He pointed out an old fella who was stood nearby. ‘See him, Mark, that horrible little bastard dressed up in his mother’s clothes and murdered his family. He is never getting out.’

  It was unreal thinking about the men around me and learning of their appalling crimes that had brought them to Walton. The lifers were from all over the country but mainly from the north-west. A few came up to me and shook my hand, telling me of the matches they had seen me play in. They were fans of Man City, Birmingham and loads of Evertonians came to have a close-up look at the ex-footballer in their midst.

  Just before I was allowed to settle down with the lifers, I was told on the Monday that I would be moved to B-wing, because that was the remand wing and I was a remanded prisoner.

  Paul Hannon tried to have a word with the P.O., in an effort to keep me on lifers’ wing, but to no avail. Just before I left for B-wing I received a visit from Robbie Fowler’s father-in-law. He was in on fraud charges but had been moved to the lifers’ wing for his own protection – because of his relationship with the famous Liverpool striker. His parting words to me were: ‘Do what you can to stay on here, because B-wing is fucking barbaric.’

  I packed my belongings and was helped the short distance to B-wing by Paul, who told me that he’d got word to a few of his mates on Bwing to look out for me.

  I was taken to the office and immediately noticed the difference in the two wings. The noise level was louder and there was much more going on in B-wing, which held 250 inmates. I was allocated Cell 21 on landing four. I walked up to my cell carrying my bedding and noticed how dirty the landings were compared to those on the lifers’ section.

  When I arrived at my cell I got the shock of my life. It was disgustingly dirty. The furniture was broken, there was no glass in the toilet window and the toilet itself was literally full of shit. The floor looked as though it had never been cleaned and, even worse, was the sight of the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen. It scuttled across the floor and escaped into a hole in the wall. It made my flesh itch and I just wanted to be at home with my family.

  Before I c
ould dwell on my misfortune, my new cell-mate appeared at the door larger than life. He was a young Scouser called Tommy. He threw his belongings on the top bunk and asked me if I had a roach. I didn’t know what a roach was. Was he asking me for a cockroach? When I told him that I didn’t know what he meant, he laughed and explained that a roach is a makeshift cigarette filter made out of cardboard, to put in a rolly.

  Fucking hell! A smoker! First shit and now smoke in my cell. I wasn’t having it.

  I went off to find my old mate Paul McGrath. What a stroke of luck. His cell-mate, an old man called Alfie, had just been sentenced to life for murder and was being moved to lifers’ wing. Alfie was a big Evertonian and told me he’d have a word with the PO for me to move in with Paul. Thankfully, the PO was OK about me moving in with Paul and I felt so much better.

  I quickly moved my stuff into Cell 4-06 and what a difference this place was. It was clean and there was no shitty smell. There was even a window in the toilet, but it wasn’t glass. It was an old snakes-‘n’-ladders board that had been cut perfectly to fit in the window.

  Paul and I had so much to talk about.

  32. DEATH IN THE WALLS

  I WASN’T sleeping. My mind was in turmoil. The noise throughout the night was unbearable. Deafening music, and prisoners shouting to each other from their cell windows. ‘Hey kidder’ or ‘You’re a grass’ or ‘I’ll see you in the yard tomorrow.’ Idle threats, but they had the desired effect in the early hours of the morning.

  I was used to having complete silence at night in the freedom of my own bedroom. Now I was in a zoo with noise emanating from every corner.

  However, it wasn’t only the shouting, the music, or even the snoring of my cell-mate Paul McGrath that prevented me from sleeping. The grave reality of my situation and the thought of spending a long, long time behind bars raced constantly around my mind.

  I’d already been warned by numerous inmates that I could be looking at 20 years. I laughed it off at the time but, on reflection, I knew deep down that I was in a lot of trouble. If what the press had claimed was true – that a ‘drugs factory’ manufacturing huge quantities of crack cocaine had been found – then I was facing a hefty sentence.

  It wasn’t long before I witnessed my first sight of physical violence inside. I got up for breakfast and was queuing with the other prisoners for our cereal or porridge, when someone was suddenly punched flush on the chin by a lad two places in front of me. He fell like a sack of spuds and the bowl full of cereal and milk flew up in the air and all over everyone stood nearby.

  That sparked a mad rush from the screws. The prisoners were told to get back behind closed doors as the whistles for more back-up rang through the wing. It was an hour before we were allowed to go back and finish our breakfast, and the poor lad was still out cold. Paul told me that this kind of thing happened most days, and I began to wonder if it might happen to me at some point soon.

  I could hear some of the prisoners pointing me out. ‘That’s him, the footballer. He’s fucked, they’re going to throw away the key.’ It was tough to hear but I told myself that I had to remain strong and ignore any taunts.

  At that point, the only thing I was looking forward to was my first visit, on the afternoon of Wednesday, May 18. Melissa, Billy and Tommy were coming in to see me, and I couldn’t wait to see their familiar, friendly faces.

  All the lads who had visitors that day were let out of their cells in the morning for a shower and then, just before 2pm, led over to the visiting area, which was situated in the new part of the prison. Even though I’d only been in prison for a week, feeling the fresh air as we walked between the two buildings brought a tremendous sense of relief. It was a gorgeous May day and just to feel rays of sunshine on my face again and to breathe in the air was an unbelievable delight.

  I felt like a right scruff in a pair of black leather shoes, black Nike tracksuit bottoms and a sky blue cotton crew-neck jumper. These were my only personal belongings, which police retrieved from the house in McVinnie Road. I’d have to ask Melissa if she could send in some new clothing for me.

  It was pretty intense to be stood in a small room with the other prisoners, waiting to be called in to greet our loved ones. I looked around and could tell how much they were all looking forward to the next hour of their lives.

  My name was called and I was given a designated table to sit at, marked clearly by a number. Once all the prisoners were seated at their tables, the door was opened and a swarm of bodies just rushed through, their eyes darting around the room as they searched for a familiar face.

  I was beginning to feel very nervous about seeing them again face to face when I instantly spotted Melissa. She was heavily pregnant, and my heart just sank as I saw the hurt and upset on her face. I just wanted to burst out crying there and then but, instead, I stood up to hug my little girl and assure her that I was okay. Melissa is an emotional person and I wasn’t surprised to see how upset she was. She said how tired I looked and asked if I’d been eating properly.

  Billy and Tommy shook my hand and also asked how I was coping. They all felt gutted for me and just wanted to do all they could to help. I was to appear in Huyton magistrates court the next day, hopeful that I’d be granted bail. Billy was putting up surety for bail and, as a well-known footballer who had never been in trouble before, I felt I stood a good chance.

  Typically, Tommy tried to make light of the situation. There was a prisoner, much older than myself, aged about 70, sat at the next table and my uncle looked over at him and said to me: ‘Fucking hell, lad, you’ll be as old as him before you get out of here!’ Our Billy went mad at him for cracking a joke at my expense, but I didn’t mind. I’ve always appreciated Tommy’s sense of humour. Melissa told me months later that as they left the prison after their first visit, Tommy put his arm round her and said: ‘He’ll be all right.’

  When visiting time ended at 3pm, it was the hardest thing in the world to have to say goodbye to my daughter. I was so choked up. That first visit was going to be one of many but I’ll never forget it because it went so quickly. The hour vanished in what seemed like 10 minutes.

  The reality of my situation, and what it was doing to my family, really began to hit home. I was ashamed and disgusted with myself for having put them all through this ordeal. I couldn’t look behind me as I left the visit room and was led back to the crazy world of B-wing, praying that I’d get bail the next day.

  When I reached my cell, Paul – who had been in two months before me – sat me down and gave me his advice on getting the best legal representation. He told me that to get on in prison you have to conform, keep your head down, take any opportunities that come your way, and work hard to move on after being sentenced.

  Sentencing was a long way off. I started to keep a diary after that first visit, writing down my memories, thoughts and feelings on paper.

  The ever-present question in my mind was: ‘How long will I be in prison for?’

  Billy arranged for a solicitor named Lenny Font, from the Liverpool firm Hogan Brown, to visit me in prison. My trip to the magistrate’s court was a waste of time because I was remanded in custody until June 16. I didn’t apply for bail at that point because Lenny – whose company specialise in criminal defence – advised me that it would be better to put my application before a judge in the crown court instead.

  I began to feel angry with myself. I’d somehow got myself into an unbelievably pathetic position and I was trying to come to terms with the idea of spending a long time behind bars.

  I was just praying that my sentence didn’t out-weigh my crime. The courts were in the habit of dishing out heavy sentences for drug-related crimes. And the charges against me were serious.

  One day, while coming back from the shower room, I was approached by a prisoner who handed me a big parcel and said: ‘There you go Mark, keep your chin up.’

  It turned out he was an Everton supporter, and had given me a big box of goodies containing cereals, tins of tu
na, mackerel, coffee, biscuits and shaving cream. I was so glad to receive that box of necessities.

  One thing I noticed straight away was the togetherness and camaraderie between some of the prisoners on B-wing. The prisoners known as ‘The Filth’ or ‘The Scum’ – the paedophiles, rapists and really evil bastards – were on K-wing, also known as VP-wing (Vulnerable Prisoners). Most of the inmates on B-wing were in for robbery, fraud, violence and – like myself – drug-related crimes.

  Not surprisingly, many of them were smack-heads. And they were a bloody nuisance. They were forever getting filled in for robbing stuff from cells, and would constantly pester you for everything and anything.

  ‘Have you got a skinny, fella?’ ‘What the fuck was that?’ I thought. Turned out it was a skinny, home-made cigarette.

  They would do anything for a sachet of sugar and, feeling sorry for them, I’d end up giving my stuff away.

  There was also a rule on the wing known as ‘Double Bubble’. The way it worked is that if you gave someone an item, say a tin of tuna, they would have to give you two tins back the following week. The smokers would borrow tobacco and trade in this way. I soon discovered that tobacco was the most valuable currency in prison.

  Paul was already coming to terms with life on B-wing, and he told me it would take two months before I could sleep more normally and feel a little better about my situation.

  I was just so glad to be sharing a cell with someone I knew and could get on with. Paul had also been involved in drug-related crime but his story was incredibly sad. He lost his young son, Paul jnr, who died of a heart defect at the age of 12. The tragedy hit him hard and he found it very difficult to carry on with his job and normal life.

  He made a bad decision similar to mine, getting involved on the fringe of a drugs-related crime, and was eventually made to serve the same eight-year sentence. Looking at Paul’s personal plight, I soon realised there were so many people worse off than myself.