by Mark Ward
The previous night, Warren had been using the phone and had a major row with his ex-wife. While sitting in his cell, he received an incoming call. When he answered the phone, the caller said: ‘Is that you Warren?’
‘Who is this?’ asked Warren, and at that very moment a screw opened the door and said: ‘It’s me, and I’ll have the phone please.’
Caught, banged to rights. It turned out his ex-wife had phoned the prison following their row and grassed him up about the mobile phone. Warren received another month on top of his sentence for that misdemeanour.
People have often asked me how it’s possible to charge a mobile phone in prison without a charger. The most common way is to use ordinary batteries, and simply run a length of copper wire from positive to positive and negative to negative, using sticky tape to keep it in place.
Certain electronic gadgets, like razors and hair clippers, have chargers that also fit some mobile phones. Prisoners can be very cunning and you’d be amazed at some of the improvisations they create in order to get by.
One of the most unbelievable acts I heard about in prison was the art of hiding a mobile phone … by inserting it up the arse. It’s something I can honestly say I never tried, but there was a skinny lad from Manchester called Mather who apparently could fit two phones up his arse!
Many a prisoner would use this distasteful method to hide their phone, but I would rather run the risk of getting caught than attempt that disgusting test of pain.
It goes to show, though, the lengths that some prisoners would go to in order to retain contact with the outside world and keep in touch with their loved ones.
However, it came to my attention recently that an X-ray machine had been developed that could provide a scan of your rectum when you sat on it. So maybe the old phone-up-the-bum trick is no longer such a clever idea!
* * * *
I often listened to BBC Radio 5 Live in my cell during the day but on the morning of Wednesday, April 19, 2006, I was very shocked to hear of the sudden death of John Lyall, who had been like a father to me at West Ham. John had died of a heart attack at his farmhouse in Suffolk the previous night and I was upset that I couldn’t attend his funeral in Ipswich to pay my last respects to the great man. The best I could do was send flowers to his bereaved family, which Melissa arranged on my behalf, and I was genuinely touched to receive a letter from John’s wife, Yvonne, thanking me. It was the least I could do in memory of a man who meant so much to me as a football manager and as a person.
It would have been fitting if West Ham had won the FA Cup in his honour when the Hammers met Liverpool in the final at Cardiff just a few weeks after John died. With plenty of fellow Scousers in Buckley Hall, there was a lot of banter in the build-up to the game, with me and the other Evertonians obviously cheering for the team in white.
I watched the BBC’s live coverage and couldn’t believe it when my old team took a 2-0 first half lead, only for Steven Gerrard to deny them the trophy with his wonder goal that made it 3-3 in the dying seconds. Liverpool won it on penalties, which was a sad end to an emotional period for West Ham fans who had mourned the loss of another great manager, Ron Greenwood, just a couple of months before John passed away.
* * * *
I was beginning to look ahead to when I might be able to step up to category D status and move on to the last stage of my four-year prison term. I’d discovered that my ROTL (Release On Temporary Licence) date was May 11, 2007 – a quarter of the way through my original sentence. I was allowed to apply for open conditions 24 months before my release date.
But that was in the future. In the meantime, I had further reminders of the happy family occasions I missed out on.
Melissa married Kevin Coyle on August 17, 2006, and I was gutted to miss the wedding. I got to speak to her on the mobile after the reception, and she was so upset to hear my voice. I felt I’d let her down badly by not being there on her big day to give her away.
I’d already missed so much while banged up in prison. Two Christmases, the birth of two grandchildren – Frankie followed Isabella on January 15, 2007 – and now my daughter’s big day. Instead of me being by Melissa’s side, it was Jane who gave her away instead.
I sensed it was becoming hard work for Nicola and the family to visit me regularly at Buckley Hall. Instead of receiving visits every week, it now stretched to every fortnight. I was beginning to think that maybe she wouldn’t be waiting for me when I eventually did get released.
At 28, she was a lot younger than me, and it must have been difficult for her. I’d seen, at first hand, many relationships destroyed because of prison. Not many women wait for their men but I was hoping that Nicola would because she was special to me.
* * * *
During my playing days, a favourite training game among the lads was head tennis – which is better described as volleyball with your head instead of your hands. I’d got all the lads at the prison gym into it, and the screws even held a head tennis competition at Christmas.
Being the ex-pro footballer, I was under pressure to win it. I was partnered by Peter Wilson, a big Everton fan, and we managed to triumph in the final to become the Buckley Hall Head Tennis champions.
In prison you set yourself little targets to aim for. It’s very good for focusing the mind. I was desperate to beat the gym screw Mark Hilditch at soft tennis before I left Buckley Hall. I was edging closer and was a lot fitter than Mark but he had exceptional racket control. In March 2007, I eventually achieved my target, beating him three sets to two.
After the game he shook my hand and told me that it was his first defeat in 13, long years.
* * * *
On Thursday, March 8, a screw opened my door early in the morning and said: ‘Pack your bag, Ward, you’re out of here.’
It was great news. I was going to HMP Kirkham, an open prison situated between Preston and Blackpool, and two months earlier than expected. I assume they let me move on to category D status a little earlier due to my good behaviour. Kirkham was nearer to Liverpool, which was good in terms of visits from friends and family, but, more significantly, it meant I’d be going to open conditions and it would be my last prison before release.
I couldn’t wait to get there.
36. FINAL COUNTDOWN
I ARRIVED at Kirkham on a bright, sunny day and it was a welcome sight just to see prisoners walking around the grounds. The reception area was very busy and after a security check I was allocated my billet.
Each billet was made up of 20 cells, with a shower room and toilet at the end of each building. The cells were small and basic but that didn’t matter to me. I just wanted to dump my belongings and get out in the fresh air.
As I put my bag on the bed, a prisoner popped his head in and, after placing a loaf of bread, milk and coffee on the table, he said to me: ‘My name is John. Anything you need, Mark, I am down at the end.’
I later got to know the guy as John Willis, a Scouser and mad Evertonian, who was soon to help me again in more ways than one.
Breathing in the fresh air and feeling the spring sunshine on my face, I began to realise what all the fuss was about when prisoners spoke about open prison and how cushty it is in comparison to institutions such as Walton and the barbaric behaviour that goes on in those places.
The prisoners who had been there for a while looked so much healthier while, by contrast, I noticed that all the lads who arrived with me had that classic ‘prison grey’ complexion.
It was unusually warm for the time of year, and I just sat in the sun, feeling the warmth on my face. Right outside my window was the running area, and I couldn’t wait to put my running shoes on out in the fresh air, instead of the claustrophobic, compact gym I’d left behind at Buckley Hall.
There were ducks everywhere, waddling about in groups, and I also noticed a bowling green. What a contrast to the misery and draconian regime I’d left behind at Walton. It was a big shock to the system.
In the first couple of days,
I was introduced to all the facilities at the prison. The gym area was excellent, with its well-equipped weights area, running machines and squash courts.
While I was walking around taking it all in, I noticed a lad following me. Before I’d left Buckley Hall, a prisoner from Bolton named Benny had told me that he had a fat mate at Kirkham who would smack my arse at soft tennis, and that he would be waiting for me when I got there.
I turned to face this big lad following me and he said: ‘All right, Wardy, I hear you play tennis.’
Without thinking, I replied: ‘Oh, you must be the fat bastard.’
‘You cheeky twat,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you who’s a fat bastard. When do you want to play?’
The lad’s name was Lee Bonney. I said I’d play him the next day if we could organise it.
Just before bang up on my first day, I went outside for a run round the track and felt like a little kid again. It was an unbelievable sensation to have the freedom to run around in the open surroundings.
I’d arrived at Kirkham with still over two years of my sentence remaining. A long time to serve, even in open conditions, but as far as I was concerned I was going to use my time at Kirkham positively and do my utmost to be 100 per cent prepared for my release date of Monday, May 11, 2009.
I was given my release details once again and as I read down the sheet of paper this time, I noticed that I’d be able to apply for what they call a Town Visit on May 12, and a Home Visit a week later.
A home visit! Nobody had told me anything about going home. I showed the dates to a prisoner in the next cell and he pointed out that, because I wasn’t on a parole sentence and had my release date, I was entitled to home leaves.
In two months’ time, I was going home for four days, and again every month until my release. Fucking hell! I couldn’t wait to tell the family. This place Kirkham was getting better by the hour.
* * * *
I’d been at Kirkham for precisely six days. I’d battered the running track and had never felt fitter. However, I had a rude awakening on the soft tennis court, where I well and truly met my match.
Lee Bonney, the fat prisoner who had challenged me to a game, smacked my arse big time. Benny from Bolton was right – he was a freak. He was big and heavy, and I was sure that he wouldn’t beat me – I’d be too quick and fit.
I never got a set off him. I shook his hand and told him what a good player he was. But that soft tennis defeat was really the least of my worries.
* * * *
On March 14, I awoke early but, as soon as I stepped out of bed, I was on the floor. I’d collapsed suddenly and fallen unconscious.
The sound of me hitting the floor in my cell had been heard by John Willis, who happened to be walking along the corridor. I remember waking up on the floor feeling very disorientated, with unbelievable pain in my neck and pins and needles in my arms.
John sat me up on the bed, told me I looked terrible, and rushed to sound the alarm. A screw arrived on the billet and John told him to ring an ambulance. ‘I can’t’, said the screw, ‘I’m on my own.’
‘Ring a fucking ambulance now, you prick!’ said John, and with that the screw ran off to do as instructed by my fellow prisoner.
There were no chains this time as I was taken to the Royal Preston Hospital, where an Irish doctor examined me and said I’d be staying with them for a while. I had a cut on the back of my head from the fall but the doctors were more concerned about what had caused me to black out. I really didn’t feel well at all.
Melissa, Billy and Uncle Tommy came to see me that night and were obviously concerned, especially remembering what I’d been through in hospital four years earlier. I was wired up to a heart monitor that took a telemetric 24 hour reading of my heart. I told the doctors and nurse about the suspected aneurysm I’d suffered in November 2004 but they didn’t seem too concerned about that.
On my second night in hospital, I was woken up by a doctor who asked me how I was feeling. I told him I felt okay but he said that my heart-rate had gone down to 32 beats-per-minute. The next day, a consultant saw me and, after completing a load of tests, the diagnosis was that my heart was very healthy. They put the low heart-rate down to my high level of fitness.
It was quite surreal being in hospital knowing that I should be in prison. All the nurses knew that I was a prisoner and I remember overhearing a nurse on the phone saying: ‘Yes, he’s still here.’ She told me later that someone from the prison had just called her to check that I hadn’t escaped!
After I’d been in for four days, a couple of screws came to see me, asking me to sign a form declaring that I hadn’t been attacked or assaulted while in prison.
There were ridiculously false stories doing the rounds at Kirkham about why I’d ended up in hospital. The rumours ranged from me being done in by another prisoner to injuring myself in a bad fall while attempting to escape through a window. Kirkham was like a Scouse village – I’d say three quarters of the prisoners were from Liverpool – and the rumour mill worked overtime. It was pathetic.
I thought I was going back to the prison when a young doctor came to examine me, but instead he asked me if they could perform a lumbar puncture, as it would determine if I had suffered a bleed or an aneurysm.
I’d knew from the lumbar puncture I’d had at the end of 2004 that it was unpleasant but I really wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened to me, so I agreed to it. I was told that if the results were negative I’d be able to leave the hospital.
I was fast asleep when I was woken again by an Indian doctor with nurses pulling the curtains around my bed. They told me they’d had the results of the lumbar puncture and it was positive for a bleed.
I was told I couldn’t move from my bed and was put on medication every four hours. It was a nightmare. A nurse would wake me to give me tablets that would lower my blood pressure, just in case I suffered another bleed.
My hospital stay lasted for 14 days and I was only allowed to go back to the prison after having an angiogram X-ray of my brain, which proved inconclusive anyway. I wasn’t really told what had happened to me – they just advised me to take it easy for a while.
From that day to this, I’ve never felt the same as I did before collapsing.
Walking around the prison for the first few days, I felt as if I was on another planet. Everything was all over the place. I was constantly losing my balance and I knew something was wrong. However, prison isn’t exactly the best place in the world to fall ill – sympathy and care are not words you are likely to hear, even in open conditions.
My condition worried me. I’d been so fit before my hospitalisation, but now I didn’t know if I’d ever feel well enough to exercise properly ever again.
Despite my mystery illness, I was looking forward to my first visit home. Nicola had not been to see me, either in Kirkham or during my hospital stay. I was gutted but at least she was willing to stay with me in a hotel during my initial four-day leave. I was supposed to stay at my designated Release On Temporary Licence (ROTL) address – Uncle Tommy’s house in Huyton – but I needed time with the woman who had been so patient and caring towards me over the previous two years.
I couldn’t sleep the night before I was released for my four days in paradise. It was Friday, May 18, 2007, I’d been locked up in prison for two years and was now going home for four days.
On my licence it stated that I couldn’t drink alcohol, enter licensed premises, gamble or take drugs. Every single one of these conditions are normally abused within the first few hours of a prisoner’s release on their first home leave.
Yes, I had a drink. I entered licensed premises and I had a bet – I also did the lottery. But no, I didn’t take drugs.
Obviously when prisoners have been banged up for a considerable amount of time, they are eager to enjoy the most pleasurable things they have been denied behind bars. So they want to shag their birds, have a few bevvies and have bets on the gee-gees. And there will also be some who wa
nt to smoke cannabis or take hard drugs. It’s human nature.
I had no curfew imposed on me and it was overwhelming to begin with as I tried to adapt to life on the outside. The family had organised a Chinese meal that Friday evening at Ho’s restaurant in Prescot. I didn’t make it to the main course because I was so drunk. I’d started drinking early with Billy and Tommy, and my tolerance level for alcohol was zero.
Despite that, I had a special time with the family. Melissa was made up to be with her dad again and I realised then that I would be able to handle the rest of my sentence easily, knowing I could go home once a month.
Those dark days and nights in Walton were behind me. I’ll never forget things there but I was now being much more positive and just wanted to do the rest of my time.
It was hard leaving on the Monday to go back to Kirkham, though. Nicola and Melissa were upset but I told them I’d be seeing them again in three weeks. And it got better, because I was told that if you behaved yourself on the four-day leave, it would be increased to seven days. A whole week out of prison!
However, one special occasion I couldn’t obtain release for was a dinner to honour the late John Lyall and Ron Greenwood at West Ham’s ground. John’s son, Murray Lyall, wrote to me and the prison governor asking if it was possible for me to attend. They let you out for family funerals but the prison wouldn’t allow me to travel down to east London for the gala dinner on May 9. That was a shame, because I’d also missed out on a similar tribute dinner that the Boys of 86 had organised to honour our old Hammers boss at the end of 2007, although Tony Gale got a few laughs from the guests when he announced that I’d sent an apology for absence!
