by Mark Ward
I decided to start writing a book to pass the time away. And more significantly, I used the half an hour out of my cell each day to keep myself fit. I was already doing press-ups and sit-ups in my cell, and now I started to walk around the exercise yard as fast as I could. I wanted to run but the amount of bodies made it impossible.
One of the worst sights in Walton were the huge cockroaches that climbed the walls. The way they were swarming all over B-wing made me feel sick. Some prisoners referred to them as ‘Jaspers’, although I didn’t bother to ask why. I couldn’t even manage to eat my food if one crawled past.
I had days when I felt desperate but somehow I managed to stay positive. I started to write to people to say how sorry I was for what I’d done. I wrote to all my family and started to receive letters back giving me support.
The weekends were the most difficult, being banged up for 23 hours a day.
Early on in my days on B-wing, there was a definite undercurrent between two rival gangs, who were on different landings. One gang was from Speke and the other from over the water in Birkenhead.
Every day there were attacks launched from both sides, usually just quick, physical assaults whenever they got the opportunity to have a go at one another – at breakfast, in the shower room or in the exercise yard.
This simmering feud came to a head later in the summer and virtually everyone on the wing knew it was going to all go off in the exercise yard on this particular day.
I was sat down against the fence with Paul and some other prisoners. The yard began to fill up and six of the Speke lads were congregated together. Just as the Birkenhead boys came through the door and out into the yard, they were attacked.
It was a bloodbath. Somehow the Speke lads had got hold of chair legs and metal bars. It was no contest. One officer got caught up in it all and it took what seemed like an age before he and the Birkenhead lads were rescued by an army of screws running into the yard.
The violence left one screw with a broken arm and led to a full lockdown for all prisoners that lasted two days. There was no ‘association’ and we were only allowed out at meal times.
At this point I was receiving a couple of visits during the week and one at the weekend from members of my family. They felt like a lifeline to me but it was difficult to find a way of passing the rest of the time.
I still hadn’t been to the prison gym. I’d applied and put my name down but, as with everything in prison, you have to wait your turn. I’d use the prison phone as often as I could, to speak to Melissa and the family, but the credit was so expensive and it was a battle just to use it due to the lengthy queue of prisoners waiting to make the most of their only contact with the outside world.
The hardest phone call I had to make was to Mum. I’d been putting it off, but I knew I would have to speak to her sooner or later. It was May 27 and when I rang her she was so upset at hearing my voice. I knew I’d let her down.
I was just glad that Dad wasn’t around to endure what she and the rest of the family were going through. I already knew that the biggest victims of my crime were my family and the people closest to me.
I told Mum my prison number – NM6982 – so that she could write to me, and I’ll never forget her parting words on the phone that day: ‘Mark, why are you still naughty?’
I laughed out loud, thinking that only my mum could say that. She wanted to visit me but I told her to wait, as I remained hopeful of getting out on bail before long.
I was now known as ‘NM6982 Ward’. Well, they got the NM right – Naughty Mark!
I met solicitor Lenny Font for the first time on June 3. A lot of solicitors were interested in representing me but Lenny’s name cropped up because he’d been involved in a lot of high-profile, drug-related cases.
I took to him straight away. I told him I wanted a solicitor to be straight with me and honest about my predicament. Lenny was adamant that I should never have given the police a written statement. But he was all for my honesty and he thought that would bode well for my bail application.
The bail application was a story in itself but, after going to the crown court later in July, I was turned down even though there had been significant developments in relation to the charges levelled against me.
By now I was being charged with one single offence – possession with intent to supply cocaine, based on evidence police found at the house. The other two charges – relating to the supply and production of crack cocaine – were both dropped because no crack-cocaine was found at the address.
The original police estimation that the drugs haul at McVinnie Road had a street value of between £1.5m and £2.5m was also well wide of the mark. In fact, it had been drastically reduced to £645,000.
On one hand, I obviously felt relieved that two of the charges against me were dropped. But on the other, I felt outraged that they had been made in the first place and that the original estimation of the drugs found was as high as £2.5m. Given all the bad publicity surrounding the case, with talk of a ‘drugs factory’, if I’d pleaded not guilty and take my chances in front of a jury in court, I wouldn’t have stood a chance of escaping an even bigger sentence than the eight years I was given.
Despite the change in circumstances, with the second two counts now dropped, and my renewed optimism, they still refused me bail. In hindsight, though, I’m now glad they did. I would still have had to do the time I’d have spent outside prison on bail and, once I began to settle down to prison life, I grew to accept it. It would have been murder to have spent months back in the free world, only to find that I’d have to return to prison once I’d been sentenced.
I now understand how my background and previous career as a former professional footballer stood me in good stead for anything that prison threw at me. Coming from a big family and being around a group of men throughout my life, dressing rooms full of banter, meant that prison probably came a bit easier to me than many others, who simply can’t cope with being banged up. The football dressing room can be a cruel place. You have to stand up for yourself on and off the field. I was still very competitive and hadn’t lost that fire in my belly. My temperament was going to help me survive in this horrible place.
One of the most demoralising aspects of being held behind prison bars was coming to terms with all that you miss out on – everyday things that people on the outside take for granted. Melissa gave birth to Isabella on June 6 and my daughter cried her eyes out when I spoke to her on the phone. She was sad and upset that I was unable to see my new-born grandchild but I was just glad that both her and the baby were fit and healthy.
However, as one life began, another very close to me was about to end in horrific fashion. Three days after speaking to Melissa, 31-year-old inmate Daniel Rowland was found dead in his cell. I heard the screams from his cell-mate, who had returned from the shower to find Rowland hanging from the bars over the window.
Just two days later, on Saturday, June 11, 42-year-old Patrick Bailey reached the end of the line and he, too, decided to take his own life.
Prison becomes just too much for some people to bear. They are brought in from the courts and when that big iron door gets slammed behind them, it becomes a huge test of character. It’s never easy to stay focused and positive and some just aren’t strong enough to handle it.
There were often cell searches from the security screws. You were stripped, searched, and then ordered to stand outside your cell as they looked for anything that shouldn’t be in your possession – mainly drugs, mobile phones and dangerous objects. It’s unbelievable the weapons that can be made from objects as harmless as a pen or a CD. Razor blades were used for shaving, and they were another lethal weapon favoured by certain prisoners.
One day, a suspected paedophile had to run a gauntlet of hate past the cells from the exercise yard, with all the prisoners punching, kicking and taking their fury out on him as he raced along the corridor. How he survived I don’t know. He must have somehow slipped through the net, becaus
e the paedophiles were usually well protected and kept well out of reach of the other prisoners. I was all for the paedophiles getting a kicking, but if they weren’t protected then there would be so many more deaths in the prison system.
June 14 was a roasting hot day. Royal Ascot was on the television and I was thinking of all the memorable days out I’d had at the famous Berkshire racecourse with ex-wife Jane, my good mate Mick Tobyn and his wife Kathy.
Me and Paul both liked a bet and I told him I was thinking of getting a mobile phone so that I could keep in touch with the family and place a few bets with the bookies on the outside.
If you were caught with a mobile phone in prison, you found yourself in big trouble. You could be forced to serve more time, so it was a big decision for me to take on. I’d not even been sentenced yet but, in all honesty, the positives outweighed the negatives.
I got on well with a big prisoner called Metan, who told me he had played professional football in his native Turkey. He told me there was a mobile phone available on A-wing and that the lad selling it wanted £350.
Without hesitation, I told him to get it for me. ‘What the hell,’ I thought. I could keep in touch with my loved ones, place the odd bet and ring people I needed to talk to. I knew I was breaking the rules but I was willing to take my chances.
Paul and I watched a horse owned by the well-known football agent Willie McKay win the big sprint at Royal Ascot – hosted that June at York racecourse due to redevelopment at Ascot – and land him around £300,000. I turned to Paul and explained how, years earlier, Willie had offered me the chance to go into partnership with him in his new football agency, but I’d turned him down. What a decision that turned out to be! The Monaco-based McKay has gained a reputation as one of the game’s most controversial characters, but he’s made a fortune from transfer dealings and looking after the interests of numerous top-level players.
I thought I was on my way to a small fortune myself one afternoon. Paul and I would study form in the papers delivered into prison on a Saturday morning, I’d make my selections and then phone Uncle Tommy from my cell and ask him to put on my usual bet – a £1 Lucky 15 involving four horses. Relatives of prisoners would pay the local newsagent in advance to ensure papers were delivered and I’d always look forward to reading the Daily Mirror on a Saturday.
On this particular day it was looking good for me when my first two horses both won – at very long odds of 20-1 and 16-1. The 15 bets that form a Lucky 15 are one fourfold accumulator, plus six doubles, four trebles and four singles. I worked it out later that after my first two horses had won, I had £791 running on to the third and fourth races. With the starting prices for my chosen horses in those latter two races at 8-1 and 6-1, I stood to win £31,679 if they all came in.
And so, full of excitement after watching my first two gee-gees romp home, I thought I’d give Tommy a quick call to tell him the good news that I was halfway to my biggest ever windfall.
Only when I dialled Tommy’s number, there was no answer. ‘That’s strange,’ I thought, knowing he’d usually be at home watching the racing on TV. I phoned Billy instead – and he gave me bad news. Apparently, Tommy was so unimpressed with my choice of long-shots that he didn’t even bother to place the bet!
And then when the first horse had won at 20-1, he panicked and shot round to the bookies to back my other three selections! That’s why I couldn’t get any answer when I phoned his house. As it happened, my remaining two runners didn’t win anyway – much to Tommy’s relief! I had to laugh about it afterwards. At least I didn’t end that Saturday worrying about what to do with 30-odd grand in winnings!
I was starting to take a few liberties, though. On a Saturday, I’d collect half an ounce of tobacco from any of the prisoners who wanted to have a bet on the live horse racing that day.
Around 20 prisoners entered the competition, where they were awarded 10 points for a winner, plus the SP of the winner. The prisoner with the most points after the last race won the tobacco.
As both Paul McGrath and myself are non-smokers, we didn’t care about the tobacco – it was just a bit of fun to us. We stuck a big chart on the wall of the cell with everyone’s name and their horses written down.
The screws would turn a blind eye to the gambling but one Saturday there were five prisoners in with a chance of winning the competition. Our cell was absolutely rammed full of lads, all shouting at the big telly. The half-ounce of tobacco represented a big prize for the winner, especially if they happened to be a smoker. They could sell it for ‘Double Bubble’ and get twice as much back in return, although I never did take advantage of that unwritten rule.
After the race was over and I weighed in the winner with his snout, I was summoned to the mess. The PO told me to shut the door behind me and then asked if I knew that gambling of any kind was against prison rules.
I pleaded ignorance. But he was giving me a chance and told me to just keep it quiet – not have my cell looking like Ladbrokes on a Saturday afternoon.
We carried on with the competition.
* * * *
Not long before I’d been arrested, I met a girl called Nicola Kelly, who worked for Billy in the pub. I liked her a lot. We never got the chance to get close but I had strong feelings for her and was gutted that my arrest prevented me from getting to know her better.
However, even though we had only known each other for a short while, Billy brought her in to see me. It was great to see her again but I was thinking to myself: ‘I bet she’s glad she never got that serious with me’. I told her to forget about us but she was adamant that she still wanted to be involved.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing but I enjoyed her company so much that I agreed she could still come and visit me.
Soon after, I took possession of the mobile phone that Metan had told me about. I was shocked. It looked like one of the first Nokia phones ever made. It was massive. ‘How the fuck am I going to hide that?’ I thought.
I’d been done over. I’d got someone to take £350 to an address in Liverpool and in return I’d been given an antique house brick.
However, using the phone after ‘bang-up’ of an evening was a welcome relief from the boredom. I was on the phone every night to Melissa and Nicola. They kept my spirits up and I can truly say that the big, ugly mobile phone kept me sane at times.
Television was another way of killing time. Paul had a habit of watching our portable TV until late at night and then falling asleep without turning it off. I’d regularly wake up and have to switch it off while he was snoring loudly.
But in the early hours of Sunday, June 26, I was awakened by a different noise – the sound of a woman crying and sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Fucking hell’, I thought, ‘Paul has left the telly on again.’
I turned to face the TV but it was off – and I could still hear the woman’s cries. I realised it was coming from beneath our cell, on the ground floor of B-wing.
It turned out that it was one of the woman screws I’d heard crying. I could hear lots of talking and movement down below, prisoners had started to wake and, before long, the news spread from cell to cell, landing to landing. The female PO had found the Number One prisoner, a guy known only to us as ‘Dava’, hanging in his cell.
The Number One prisoner and occupant of Number One cell had the privilege of having extra time out of his cell. He was given various duties, including compiling the prisoners’ diet sheets, arranging newspapers and helping the officers to allocate cells for new prisoners on arrival from the courts.
One of the perks of being in Number One cell was that it had a big TV with Teletext and was considered the best cell on the wing. More importantly to me, its occupants were given access to the prison gym.
Dava – real name Timothy Davenport, 40, from Cheshire – was a quiet, polite man and helpful to other prisoners. I discovered later that he’d been given a six-year sentence for manslaughter in 2002 but he was due for release just five weeks after taking his
own life. Apparently, he was too scared to leave the prison, frightened of reprisals on the outside.
The mood among the prisoners on the day Dava killed himself was very sombre. Even the screws, who had seen it all before, including three suicides at Walton in the space of just 17 days that month, were devastated.
With his cell-mate given compassionate home leave that day, Dava had the opportunity to hang himself alone that night. How sad. This place had death in its walls. It was the worst experience of my life, and I wouldn’t wish a term of imprisonment in Walton on my worst enemy.
Even big Metan, the Turk, reckoned Walton was worse than the hellish Turkish prison depicted in the hit movie, Midnight Express.
Late one evening, I was speaking to Nicola on the mobile when I heard a key go in the cell door. I instantly shoved the phone under my pillow and was greeted by the PO. He stood in the doorway and asked Paul and I if we would be interested in moving to the number one cell the following day.
‘It’s a lot of responsibility,’ he said, ‘but you’ll get more privileges.’
I looked at Paul and we both nodded in agreement. The PO shut the door and I breathed a huge sigh of relief that I hadn’t been caught with the phone.
Nicola said she had heard the whole conversation and I realised then that I’d have to be more careful to keep the phone hidden throughout the day. However, I was beginning to use my head a lot more, and knew that I’d have more chance of hiding it from the screws after landing the Number One job, albeit at the cost of another prisoner’s life.
Our first few hours in Number One cell were spent thinking about Dava. It was only 24 hours earlier that his dead body had been discovered there. As we settled down for the night, the door suddenly swung open and a screw walked in.
‘Right lads,’ he said with a smirk on his face. ‘That’s where we found the poor sod, over there under the sink, the belt tight around his neck, his eyes popping out of his head and his face all blue. Goodnight lads.’
