Stress test: part 7 (The road to nowhere)

H.M.P Ford is, as some of you will know, a D cat prison. This means it has an open regime. This is a deceptive description. It is far from the holiday camp it is rumoured  to be. It will become, for me, the hardest part of my sentence. So in that respect I suppose it is like a family holiday at Butlins.

I have heard many rumours about Ford. Most will turn out to be “prison myth” some distortions of the truth and very few will be true. A few examples:

• At Ford local women come in at night – I never witnessed this nor did I meet anyone who had. It was always a friend of a friends cellmates mate. Even if it was true I am certain that even after12 months abstinence I would not be interested in the type of “lady” who is so desperate for a man that she’ll climb a prison fence to meet 400 or so criminals.
• Drugs and Alcohol are freely available. – Well, I can’t argue with this one. However, with the exception of the Verne, drugs are available in most establishments. The choice is larger at Ford, at most places Heroin and Crack are the only options.
• You can go out on town visits And go home for weekends. – Though true, this is not quite as straight forward as it seemed. If one is an Enhanced prisoner on arrival there is a risk assessment which takes 4wks. If one passes this risk assessment and has completed 2/3s of ones sentence an application can be put in for a town visit. The town visit is from 8:30 – 19:30 and one can travel a radius of 15 miles (I may remember some of these details slightly wrong). Money can be taken from the personal funds in the prison account. Nothing that wasn’t taken out of the prison can come back in and there is a breathaliser on re-entry. To qualify for a home visit (it doesn’t have to be ones own home) one town visit has to have been successfully completed. The address will be checked by the prison probation team and on the first full day out of the prison one must report in to the local probation officer.
• You can go out and work. You keep all wages for resettlement. You can also go to Uni. – Again, this is true but not simple. To qualify all the above steps have to be taken but most importantly the prisoner must be serving 4yrs+. Anyone who has been following this blog from the start  will see how this will cause me a problem.

Sometimes the perception from the outside is so far removed from the reality as to be unrecognisable.

When I first arrive at Ford I am slightly taken aback by the amount of space. Had I not come from the Verne and instead from a closed prison I think the shock would have been greater but even so… However, an even greater shock is the regime. I had envisaged a laid back enviroment. A kind of “wind down” for the final stretch of my custodial. How wrong I was.

Immediately we get out of the van we are ordered into reception. It seems that the lower the cat the more arsey the screws. The Induction Screw takes us one by one into his office. He grills me about my offence and my motives. He sneers at my reasons and snorts disbelievingly at my claim of having no money. He truly is an arsehole. Over the next few weeks it becomes clear that any infringement of the rules, no matter how minor will be punished. Harshly.

After the usual reception routine (search etc) we are taken to our accommodation. We have to walk around a cricket square (really, in a prison… no wonder people think  its a country club!) to get to the B wing of the prison. Ford is separated into two wings, A and B. These are then separated into corridors in the case of A wing and “Chalets” or sheds as we called them in B. A wing is a large brick building housing people with four year+ sentences consisting of single cells. It also houses the dining room and the health centre. B wing is made up of twelve+ wooden chalets for prisoners with under four years. They are mostly double rooms.

One of the most irritating parts of Ford will be the amount of short term offenders that come through my room. It is like Scrubs all over again. Three of my cell mates will have spent 1week in Lewis on eight week sentences. What does that teach people? I don’t think short sentences should exist. There really is no point otherwise. Eight weeks which means four at the most and three of those in a D cat. It isn’t much of a Short Sharp Shock. And after twelve months in closed conditions with others who have done many months of time, and therefore know the crack, I simply do not have the patience. They learn nothing, they go back into society and give the impression that prison is easy when they haven’t really experienced it. Its like spending a week in India and coming back saying you know everything about Hinduism. If we must have short sentences then they should be in closed conditions, D cats should be reserved for those who need resettlement or have worked their way down. As an incentive for good behaviour maybe.

On what is called the induction fortnight we are taken around the prison. It is separated in two parts. The residential side, surrounded by an eight foot chain-link fence topped intermittently with old blunt razor wire. And the Industries side which houses all the workshops, surrounded by a four foot chain-linked fence topped with…. erm, nothing. We are told that, technically, when crossing the road we are on temporary licence. It has been a long time since I had to contemplate traffic.

One of the reasons Ford is harder than the other prisons is that everyday one can see people getting on with their normal lives. everyday I will cross the road and see real cars with real people getting on with their real lives. When there is a concrete wall blocking the view, although one knows that there is a world outside, it is easy (or easier) to concentrate on the environment one lives in. I am able to deal with what is in front of me. If I know that there is nothing I can do about a situation then I can switch it off. This does however lead to instituionalisation. For twelve months the outside world has been a dream, an idea of a place I once lived. Now, everyday, I have to confront the fact that although I could reach out and touch the real cars I still live in a different world so far removed from the real people. Time will stretch, everyday feels like three. Fords apparent freedom is an illusion and the prison changes from walls keeping me in to my mind keeping me in. I could walk out of the prison, jump on a train and abscond (you can’t escape from D cat). The only thing stopping me is me.

For the first two weeks we have to work five days a week, eight hours a day in a factory. This wouldn’t be much of a problem, I have done many factory jobs before. This, however, is the worst job I have ever done (to this day!!). Have you ever wondered how the little square of bubble wrap gets glued into the bottom of strawberry/raspberry punnets? I must admit that I had never given it any thought. 6p per 10000 punnets. Dab glue, place bubble wrap, stack punnet and repeat for eight hours. Soul destroying.

The food is worse than the Verne but better than Scrubs. Tempers flare often as the first few weeks treatment by the Screws seems to be designed to wind people up. In the first to weeks I think often about getting myself transferred back up a cat (by kicking off). Is it worth being here, just to be treated worse than I have been in the last 12months. Luckily in that first fortnight I meet someone who will be a very good friend for the rest of my time. That is probably the only reason I lasted at Ford.

Stress test, the other side: part 4 (HMP Ford or HMP Butlins)

This is good news and bad news chapter. HMP Ford is very local to where I’m currently living, it’s all of 3 miles away so at least I don’t have to look up the details on the HMP website. Formerly part of a WW2 Fleet Air Arm base it occupies a very large area with boundary fences separating it from open ground in the main. The open ground runs down to the River Arun and Littlehampton is but a stroll away. There are 2 sites on either side of the road and it’s not uncommon when driving past to see inmates in their prison work clothes ambling across the road from the main prison to the workshops on the other side.

A D Cat and Open Prison it, Ford, has an unenviable reputation locally for lax security. With stories, maybe true maybe apocryphal, of drugs and alcohol being freely available and even women smuggled in under the fence. My worries are obvious as I’ve spent the last 10 months supporting Chris who’s done brilliantly with his rehab drug and alcohol awareness courses. He’s not succumbed to any temptation or peer group pressure from his “colleagues” on the inside and here he is being sent to finish off the last 8 months or so of his sentence where both are  freely available. I have to trust him to be aware and carry on as before. The environment here though is also very different from The Verne as there’s a very mixed population from blokes who haven’t paid their Council Tax to murderers finishing off life sentences. In the main a lot of very unpleasant people.

The visiting procedure here is even easier. Chris simply makes an appointment  at the prison and he tells me. Weekends again as I’m still working. Two hours again in the afternoon. The lower category means that Chris can have some more personal possessions and he’s asked me to get him some trainers and a watch… also can he borrow my guitar. I don’t have a problem with any of these items and apparently I can carry this lot in on my first visit, compare and contrast with The Scrubs! Come that day of my first visit I wake up to snow falling. Is that a message and if so what??

I arrive at the prison armed with my guitar in a box and my other parcel. My initial taste of security does nothing but confirm the reputation, it’s all very informal. I check in with one warder, show him ID and another bloke stands casually behind a table looking bored witless just asks if I’ve anything I shouldn’t have… no search and no need to leave anything in a locker. I don’t believe it as there are women going in with kids and only a very cursory look at handbags. Again a far cry from what I’ve become used to. My worries are increased when I get into the big visiting area as there are tables and chairs scattered around everywhere, a shop run by volunteers , a play area for kids and even seats and tables outside (no, not that outside) for weather better than today’s.

Another warder takes charge of my “gifts”. I’ve got drinks and chocolate for us both, find a comfy chair and wait for Chris. One of the first things Chris tells me after our usual greetings is that here at Ford, provided certain conditions are fulfilled he’s allowed after a settling in period for what’s called a Town Day out of the prison. This is day out on licence and subject to conditions  until 6.30, and then later as long as the Town Day has been ok, he’s allowed 4 days home leave. All to prepare him for his return; to mix with Joe Public as a new, highly trained and respectable member of Society. I just have to get my head round these two new ideas. The other thing that I’m struggling to get to grips with is still the informality allowed here during visits. There are couples  rehearsing for a porn show and kids running all over the place. The oddest thing is that I think both of us felt happier (for different reasons) in the more secure environment. Chris is going to take time getting settled here so I’ll have to monitor closely how he’s getting on. Another contribution to the HMP Gold account I’ll send on once I’ve read the instruction issued on how to fill in a Postal Order!!!

We’ve got a maximum 8 months to get used to this before R Day. First visit over and lo and behold I’m home 10 minutes after leaving the prison. Our next step towards release is the first Town Day. It’s all arranged for Saturday in May which happens to be Cup Final Day. I’ve less interest in watching Portsmouth play Cardiff than I have setting fire to myself so no conflict there. Chris is allowed out on licence for the day from 8.30. I must be either late leaving or he’s out early as I almost run him over on a back road going towards the prison. This is the strangest feeling ever. I’m trying to be ever so jolly, it’s a shit day, overcast and threatening rain, so we start our day in nearby Arundel for breakfast for him and coffee for me. Where shall we go? Chris wants to have a look at Brighton, something to do with previous travel plans. The least I know about that the better frankly. I don’t go to Brighton very much and use the park and ride when I do and today is no exception. Christ mate, the excitement. Car then bus!!!!

Half way through the day I’m aware that Chris is feeling claustrophobic in the crowds as he hasn’t experienced anything like this for some time. After yet another coffee by the seaside, we agree to abort the visit here and go home. To mine not his!! Ann’s pleased to see him. She’s always got on well with him although understands his previous troubles even less than I do. We are in time to see the end of the football zzzzzzzzzz. We order some fish and chips for dinner before taking him back well in time for his curfew. All in all it’s been a good day although I do understand the difficulties that Chris has had today. Not sure how we’ll cope with the 4 days.

At the end of the proverbial day, it’s been a trial for us both. Chris and I have been strolling round Brighton stopping for more coffees than would be good for us. We’ve never had such a surreal day together. He’s still very neat and tidy although the hair’s growing again (his sadly not mine!). In the past we’ve met up and done much the same although today has just felt so different.

We’ve now settled into yet another visiting routine, our third and hopefully last, at least as far as HMP is concerned. I’m working so my visits are normally either Saturday or Sunday. The appointments are made and I just turn up as before always staggered by the lack of security and the informality in the visiting area. There are couples still trying to re-write the Kama Sutra and no-one turns a hair. I’m paradoxically more concerned about Chris here than I was in either of the previous two places, it’s all so different and the overriding feature remains the amount of booze and drugs that we all know get into the place. I just don’t want him taking steps backwards after having done so well. I have to say that for the first time in a very long time I’m proud of what Chris has achieved and learnt.

He’s working (although never ask him about bedding plants and strawberries!) and also passing courses to get licences for strimmers, ride on mowers and I think very important a Fork Lift licence. All of these give me hope that we’ll be able to find him some gainful employment come November, assuming he has to wait that long. There’s a possibility that Chris may be released earlier and he’s very hopeful about that. In the meantime, we’ve moved to another address slightly further away (all of 2 miles) in time for the second “Town Visit”. This time Chris stays in the house and logs into my oh so bloody slow PC to check the last 18 months Emails and anything on Facebook, whatever that is. The visit’s been a success and despite finding the PC very slow, Chris has managed to harness his frustration until he sees a message somehow from his ex-regarding herself and Chris’s daughter. He gets very angry and I can see the anger and frustration almost oozing out of him. I’m worried again this will send him “back”.

Phil has agreed that Chris can stay with him for the four day visit. It’s very good of him as they’ve not been especially close. Ann picks Chris up and then Phil comes to the house for bacon butties…why do we never have these when I’m at home? Initially all seems well. On the fourth day they pop into my office on the outskirts of Portsmouth for lunch before Chris has to be back. It’s very clear that all’s not gone well. Drink has caused a problem, well that and Phil inviting their Mother round. Chris has never had a good relationship with her ever since leaving hospital 10 days old. It’s been a backward step and on my next visit I broach the subject with Chris who’s immediately very defensive, although he knows he’s in the wrong. Sod the mother.

The early release is a non-starter for reasons not apparent although there have some “disciplinary” problems with roommates that Chris has taken the wrap for, so privileges are over and November 5^th can’t come quickly enough. There are plans to be made and details to be discussed. Time and the HMP regime wait for no man!!

Stress test, the other side: part 3 (A day out in Isleworth)

A day out in Isleworth

The letters from Chris keep coming. Some are very amusing, some are not so. I’m frustrated at having to keep in touch at a very long arm’s length. It takes on average 3 or 4 days for my letters to get to him and vice versa, so often our news has crossed as it were. He’s keeping in touch with football news and views and also the courses seem to going as well as we can expect. Going over Chris’s early life is proving hard for him. It’s also bloody hard for me as I’m continually trying to sort out where I’ve gone wrong. I realise to my horror how much was going on in his mind that I knew nothing about. What’s worse is that his mother and I were still together then. The time since he left school has been terrible, seeing his life develop without really being able too much about it. There has at times been a “bury my head in the sand” attitude and this is something that we’ve got to address during this next difficult period so that when the time comes his future is more stable that his past has been. I’m not sure though that’s what Chris wants, although for the foreseeable future he’s don’t going to be able to make too many demands.

According to Chris’s brief, he’s now looking at the short end of 1-3 years. Phil’s coming to court with Ann and me so at least we’ll provide some support there if we haven’t provided much before. I’m not looking forward to driving to Isleworth early morning for a 10.00 start so am relieved after ringing the court listing office that day before to be told that Chris is “not before 12.00”. Leaving Salisbury after a hearty breakfast, we get to the Court without too many problems apart from driving 3 laps round a nearby supermarket car park, who’s nervous? In my previous life I’ve been in enough Crown Courts not to be intimidated by the surroundings and am well used to poesy barristers strutting around like the superior beings most of them believe that they are clutching their briefs wrapped in pink tape as if they’re state secrets. A quick look at the list and there is something I never ever thought I’d see…Reg v B******. Talk about bring it all home, how the hell have we got to this?

Coffee (awful) in a very depressing cellar cafeteria where bored looking staff just about raises enough “enthusiasm” to take my money and then we’re waiting again. The business of the normal court day is going on all around us but we’re just not taking anything in. It’s a busy Thursday in Isleworth. I know that we won’t be allowed to talk to Chris today either before or after the hearing so we’ll just have to rely on seeing him in Court in the dock, bloody hell again that empty feeling of my son in the dock. I’m not looking forward to that particular experience. His solicitor and barrister come and introduce themselves to us, they both look young and frankly the barrister’s looking more nervous than me and doesn’t fill me full of anything much other than a sense of pending doom. They’re going down to see Chris, who’s probably been here rather longer than us and won’t have bothered himself with having to read a map to get here but only today’s copy of The Independent courtesy of our friendly Du Can Road newsagent! They’re back with us now. Chris is ok and reasonably calm. She’s looking at 3 years if we’re lucky… Bloody brilliant! What happened to the lower end of 1-3 years?

“Those in the case of B****** to Court 2”. Without being too dramatic, those words are about to change our lives. The court room is small and we file into the public gallery. Chris looks smart and tidy but very red in the face and obviously worried. This is not the time or place for misplaced bravado. Ann waves discreetly to him but we all exchange glances, nervous this is the moment of truth and the old blood pressure must be sky-high. Prosecution outline the case and surprisingly play down Chris’s part, used as a pawn in a larger operation, a “mule” in the jargon. Strings pulled by people higher up the “chain” who remain nameless. Chris is stereotypically in debt and with a drug habit so “used” for this to pay off the debt and definitely not for his own gain/profit. Bloody hell that’s a turn up. Chris I know isn’t looking forward to the mitigation as it brings up more from his past. The girl (barrister) is none too fluent either, but after hearing that his family is there to support him as well, the Judge delivers a not too damning speech, takes into account his guilty plea and sentences him to 36 months. Chris has already served 3 months; the sentence is reduced by ½ as a norm so we reckon he’s 15 months to do. My first reaction leaving the courtroom is that we’ve or rather Chris has got a decent result there. Easy for us to think as it won’t be us spending the next 15 months inside. We manage just about to exchange glances with Chris before he returns “downstairs”. We’re left to thank his legal team who are going to see Chris again. They did say that they were happy with the sentence but then like us they’re also going home tonight, he’s not. Oh, they say, did we tell you he will be back in court for another hearing in about 6 weeks to determine his means… If it wasn’t so serious that would be funny. Chris’s means? A converted horse-box somewhere in Dorset and frankly very little else apart from what little’s in his HMP Gold Account. That’s it for the day so let’s get away from here, drop Phil off and get home; after all I’m in work tomorrow. God, that’s to look forward to.

Stress test, The other side: part 2 (West London, re-visited again).

The worst aspect after my visit was reporting to my ex, Chris’s mother. Frankly, I wouldn’t have bothered. But I was “persuaded”. I won’t dwell on the brief telephone conversation as it won’t happen again. I don’t know why she wanted to know as most of the World’s problems originate from Chris and/or me according to her. But she’s no doubt trying to prove the those who give a monkey’s that she’s a caring mother. Which is rather like Ghengis Khan being called a man of the people.

Chris’s trial is set for early September at Isleworth Crown Court. The last time I was in that area I was watching rugby at the old Twickenham.

I managed to speak to Chris’s lawyer who was arranging a video conference call to discuss the hearing. A custodial sentence is inevitable, so it’s just about how long. 2 years seems to be the current thinking and she manages to instil some confidence, as she’s clearly dealt with a number of similar cases. My every day thoughts are just how terrifying that place must be and I’m bloody sure that I couldn’t cope there.

I’m consoling myself that probably (almost certainly) for the first time, in a long time, Chris is looking clean and tidy. Ok, just, on the outside, if that’s not too stupid a phrase given his current accommodation. And his life has some order and self-discipline albeit enforced. Still we’ll see how things pan out until his sentencing. I try to send Chris at least 1 letter a week trying to keep a light touch and hopefully give him something to chuckle at. His letters have a black humour about them and also make me very aware how boring his life at present. He has nothing to do, he’s not working as he’s on alcohol and drug awareness courses. I find that an amusing title as he’s already “aware” of these bloody things, hence the trouble he’s in, but maybe I’m just being pedantic. The frustrations for us both are like  ever decreasing circles. He’s not working so not earning, no money is potentially dangerous and he can’t even ring his brief. My funds are limited but I’m able to send another PO for what we jokingly call his HMP Gold account.

Another letter, another VO. This time Ann’s going to come and again I have a repeat performance trying to get through to the prison to arrange my 1 hours’ worth of visit. Chris’s letters tell me about his physical state. His back hurts due to the ancient mattresses and he’s having the odd nose bleed. Although he knows where he is and why, I’m still annoyed that he’s blaming all and sundry for his dilemma. This attitude could grate a bit as time goes by. I don’t think he can complain about where he is and he ultimately has to take responsibility for his own actions. God knows I’ve asked myself enough questions. Another major matter for concern to me once again is the amount of time he (and the other 1000’s there) spends in their cells. There’s the possibility of a warders strike or go slow and then they’ll all be locked up 24 hours a day* and I can only imagine the tension inside that that will create and Chris has to “live with it”.

Mercifully before our visit the strike is called off. Another happy sunny Saturday and it’s off in the car. My neighbour asks where we’re going… “Oh only a day in London.” “ Have a good time” he says in all good faith… Bloody hell… If only.  Uneventful journey and parking in Du Cane Road presents no problems. But then I suppose H.M.P Wormwood Scrubs isn’t on the “must see sites” for your average tourist! This time it’s a little less stressful as having been before I know the procedure with the lockers and then trip across the entrance road to join the queue. I’ve stressed to Ann the un-written rules about eye contact and never ask why someone is inside and for how long. It’s bad enough being here, without her breaking one of those. While we in the queue an unpleasant situation arises. The black girl in front of us has 2 young girls and 1 of them steps off the path just into the road as a female warder drives past in her open sports car…no harm done, no one was ever in danger but the warder seems to want to impress us all how important she is. We can all do without that and it just creates even more tension. After about 20 minutes the door opens and in we go again clutching more ID and the VO. I’m still unsure how Ann will react to the searches and the cold way that we’re all treated. As far as the warders are concerned, we’re all tarred by the same brush and a nuisance to their natural order. Whatever we are and wherever we all come from, we all have one thing in common and that’s we have a loved one inside so there’s no room for airs and graces. The tension is the same as before although I’ve had some letters from Chris and he’s been getting some dosh and his papers, I know that he’s as ok as he’s ever going to be in here. It’s a horrible B Category place and there are some pretty horrendous people in the place. That overwhelming feeling frankly of fear, intimidation and obviously that you’re every action is watched on CCTV never leaves us. It’s only my second visit and it’s a place that you can never feel relaxed in or get used to.

Ann’s been fine. This time we really “splash out” on the “picnic” with drinks, chocolate and a real “homemade pasty”! Waiting in the reception area alongside the actual visiting room, Ann almost commits the cardinal of asking questions but I manage to stop her just as our name is called. Table 23, no window seat this time. Chris is looking quite healthy given his recent history and tidy, haircut and beard gone, although to be hyper critical; the coloured tabard doesn’t go with the rest of the prison uniform!!!! He’s pleased to see us both and Ann greets him like her own son. Chris and Ann have always got on well. We try to make more sense of what’s has happened and also what the short/long term future holds in store. Chris thinks that he’s likely to be moved to a C Cat prison soon after his hearing to serve the rest of his sentence. I’m not sorry that this might be the last time I have to come to this oppressive place. Picnic’s good. The chocolate is devoured and drinks with sugar quaffed as both needless to say are in short supply. The pasty, however, is awful…no, not even that good…pity the warders didn’t confiscate that as well.

The hour’s gone, the warders circle us like vultures ordering conversations to be ended so that they can get us lot out and normal order can be restored in their domain…. You’ve no bloody worries as none of us would want to stay. We have more hugs with Chris and off he goes back to his restricted environment and off we go back through more searches, thumbs being checked along with our photos. I can understand the need for searches etc on the way and don’t have a problem with that, but on the way out? Am I likely to have smuggled some contraband out? It’s a life that I have to get used to. I’ll never agree with what you did Chris but I’ll always support you despite my current visits to the most unlikely places! Don’t forget it’s not wholly my fault that you’re in there and the likelihood of this or any Government making drugs legal before your day in court is, well, non-existent. It may only have been “herbal” but that amount is still classed as smuggling, importation or call it whatever you will. If’s there’s a saving grace, then it’s at least not Class A, you weren’t picked up in South Africa and as you’ve remained silent about the details, I’m not likely to have some hairy arsed dealer banging on my door for his shipment!! Oh and the programmes that Chris is on do seem to be having some beneficial effect as a visit from the well as local priest!!

 

 

*the strike did eventually happen. we were banged up for 48 hours. we were climbing up the walls. and I believe 1 inmate topped him self and many mattresses were burnt. chris*

Stress test, The other side: part 1 (Summer months in west London)

It was the month/year when this great Country of ours became a no smoking zone… I’d spoken to Chris a couple of weeks ago and he’d told me that he was going travelling in France and Spain and gave a mobile number I could contact him on. No worry there as I’d spoken to him and he’d said he was just north of Barcelona having spent some time in France. My only slight concern at the time was that he seemed unaware how he’d got to France except it was by ferry, but we’d had these vague conversations many times in the past mainly when he was telling me stuff he though I wanted to hear rather than the truth, the whole truth and so on.

My sunny Saturday was cut short after receiving a text from a girl friend of his who I’d never met. She asked me to ring her urgently…I’m immediately in panic mode, what the bloody hell’s he gone and done now? Girl tells me briefly that he’d been arrested for bringing drugs into Heathrow…..hadn’t he gone to France and Spain by van?…And was currently “residing” in Wormwood Scrubs!! Bloody hell, my first thought was well at least he’s safe. It seems that his mother and brother are both aware so why am I the bloody last to know?. Walking round in a complete daze not being able to concentrate on anything until I got home. It’s a horrible experience, the worst of it being not knowing what’s gone on. At least I suppose the Scrubs is “better” if that’s the description than some bloody prison in South Africa which is apparently where he’s flown in from. That’s a bloody long drive from Barcelona!!

I’ve so many questions that I can’t begin to understand or answer, but it’s going to get a whole lot worse with degrees of frustration and anger that I’ve never known before. I’m not a great internet person, but now at home I’m studying the HMP website for Wormwood bloody Scrubs looking at visits and anything else that I might need to know. Information is still hard to come by but it seems that he’s “imported” an amount of cannabis resin in suit cases. A small amount?? God this is a whole new and unwelcome world that I’m stepping into. I quickly realise that for the foreseeable future my life is going to inextricably entwined with the Prison service at varying levels. I can’t for example simply ring The Scrubs and ask how Chris is? I have to wait for him to write to me with his number, wing and lord knows what else. Mercifully I don’t have to wait too long.

A letter arrives, it’s going to be the first of many over the next 18 months (I’ve kept them all), and at least I have some detail like his number, wing details and so on. Chris has gone into some detail but not too much about the “how’s and whys” as the letters are of course censored and I suspect that for him silence is the best form of defence as I doubt he’s done all this without help. The form sent with the letter is to become my lifeline for all future visits. The visitor order or V.O is sent out every time a visit is to be arranged. I’m beside myself getting this as all I want to do is to get to see Chris as quickly as I can, not only to see that he’s ok but also to try to understand what the hell’s gone on and why?

I reckon it’s easier to get a direct line to Barack Obama than ringing HMP Wormwood Scrubs for a visit appointment. No-one answers and I’m left ranting at a taped message which is telling me to try later. My frustration is getting the better of me again. There are over 2 million people unemployed and HMP can’t get people to answer their phones… Clearly then they don’t give a toss about those of us trying desperately to get through. Every detail on this bloody form is wrong, my name, my address, so how was I supposed to give them 3 forms of identity, assuming I ever manage to speak to anyone. Eventually I get all the details changed, this only after having to get Chris to send another V.O to me and a visit is arranged for Saturday, only 2 months after I got the news. Again, with the prison service, nothing works at any sort of speed. They make all the rules and control obviously slavish compliance with them.

Come the day after studying multimap, I don’t trust myself to concentrate on driving, I go by train. For days now I’ve been feeling guilty myself and asking myself where did I go wrong with Chris and how in God’s name has it all come to this. No real answers except to say that his mother seemed to have a problem with Chris from the day we came home from the hospital. And, perhaps, I’ve over compensated too much. My dark mood isn’t helped by it being a hot summer’s day and the train’s filling up the nearer we get to Victoria. I’m clutching my V.O and all my I.D not knowing what to expect. This lot are going to London for theatres and so on. I suspect I might just be the only person on this train looking forward to an afternoon ,or rather an hour, in prison!!!!. All this farting about with V.O’s I.D and trains, just for an hour’s visit! My mind is all over the place coming into the daylight near Acton station. I turn the wrong way out of the station and head away from where I’m going and then have to ask someone where the prison is. I get a strange look.

Visiting hour is 2-3. I’m there by 1.30 looking at that “iconic” front view and not for the first time thinking what the hell am I doing here? To chat, find out truths and support my son of course. There’s a visitor centre (it sounds like a tourist attraction, it only sounds like) and I’m greeted by a very jolly lady. The whole area has been as tastefully as possible and there are even flowers ( real) on the tables. I’m not taking much in although I’ve managed to put my belongings in a locker. Nothing is allowed inside apart from a few odd coins and of course my ID.

Queuing, that’s another part of prison life that I am going to get used to, everywhere and anywhere. Outside it the hot sun (yes I know it could have been worse) before the warders -only those inside get to call them screws or worse-, for us they must be obeyed as they make and keep the rules. I’m front of the queue now nervously handing over all my I.D and the V.O praying that at this stage there’s nothing wrong. All ok so through the first set of doors for a photo, then thumb print, then more doors, each set opened lets you into another secure capsule as those behind are shut immediately. God this is intense. A scan and body search, oh I can keep the coins but have to give up my handkerchief?? no explanation, and no argument from me.

The next capsule contains a shop where I can spend my coins on a range of sandwiches, drinks pies and so on..Bloody hell can you believe we can have a picnic in this place. Everything is put in a clear polyethelene bag which is then sealed and handed back for me to take to the next level, which is the visiting area. Before that though, there’s yet another area. I’m told by more experienced visitors that I have to put my V.O through the hatch, it’s then collected and I wait again. I am so het up and nervous by now. There’s a window between this and the actual visitors room. The tables and fixed chairs are all numbered, prisoners are drifting through and each time a warder calls the name of the visitors and tells them where to sit. “B******!” No Mr for me. “Table 15!” At last, it’s after 2 now so our hour might well be less. Great, all because of their dawdling approach.

Chris is there in the room looking ok but a little flushed. We can have a hug, even if this is an oppressive environment, as others have done before. Prison/visitor etiquette is an odd thing and something else that over time I have to get used to. Seats are arranged so that prisoners do not face each other. Yet another thing, no eye contact with anyone, certainly not in this room. It’s bloody hot but at least we have a window table. The room’s nearly full with a general hubbub of conversation, until a small eruption by an inmate who’s obviously not as pleased to see his visitor as I am. He’s whisked away in double-quick time and we all carry on as is nothing has happened. Chris and I hug. I’m welling up but desperate not to cry. It’s difficult but I’m determined not to show Chris up in that intimidating atmosphere. I’m still shaking and then realise that my bag of goodies contains only 2 cans of coke (the sugary brown liquid not the powdery stuff!!) And a couple of bars of chocolate. Note to self: do better in the picnic stakes next time. Chris is happy with this though as they don’t get much of either on the inside.

Chris explains to me what’s occurred. 45kilos of cannabis resin in 2 suit cases landing at Heathrow at 6 in the morning. Nothing too suspicious looking then. He’d been in South Africa for 2 weeks before and this was the end product. He adopted a silent no comment with the police interview and then carrying on the silence, pleaded guilty to importation. He couldn’t really much else, so it’s sadly only a matter of how long he’s going to spend with H.M.P and where. We spent the whole hour talking really about why, how and I’m trying not to show how angry I am. Chris asks me to send a Postal Order to the prison so he can open an account as he’ll then be able to buy stuff rather than my fear of doing “favours”, I’m very happy to oblige. Oh and can I order a daily newspaper, not the Sun (he’s taste my boy) There’s a newspaper shop further along Du Cane Road and they do daily deliveries.

A shouted order to end conversations breaks our as the warders who drift around all the time want us all out as quickly as possible as the second hour of visiting has been cancelled. Another hug and we go our separate ways, Chris back to his confinement on the Wing and me back to Acton station for the journey home. I don’t look back as I can feel myself welling up again and certainly don’t want to be seen crying for Chris’s sake on the way out. Going out is a mirror version of going in, checking thumb prints, body search and then in the fresh air across the drive to the visitor centre. Pick up my belongings from the locker and away, at least next time I’ll know what to expect and hopefully be less in a daze.

It’s been an odd experience. I’ve been in prisons before but it’s surreal seeing my own son there. Part of me is quite happy as at least I know where he is and what rehab programmes he’s on. I just hadn’t realised how wayward his life is and how dependant on booze and drugs he’d become. Maybe we’re both a little at fault. Him for only telling me what he thinks I want to hear rather than feeling that he’s able to confide in me and try to share his problems and me for burying my head and not asking enough difficult questions about what I suspected and/or knew.

On the way back, just around the corner there’s Braybrooke Street, which is a cul-de-sac bordering the prison wall. Here I remember almost to the day in 1966 3 policemen were gunned down in cold blood. It’s etched in my memory because 1 of the murdering bastards called Harry Roberts was caught near where I worked in 1966. It just another sobering effect and makes me reflect on the day and the problems Chris may have to deal in such a forbidding place. Pressure cooker is a bit of a cliché but none of us who visit really know what goes on and the sheer panic and fear which hangs around every wing. I know that date now of his appearance at Isleworth Crown Court for sentence and will fix another visit before then.

Stress Test: part 6 (Winter in Dorset)

Winter in Dorset really isn’t much fun. It’s bleak, cold and wet and there’s even less to do than usual (less than nothing? doesn’t seem possible does it? But it truly is). And that is on the out. The year before I had been living near a tiny village between Dorchester and Bridport, on top of a hill, up a three-mile long dirt track. It had been a cold, wet, hard winter. There was no close supply of wood (for the burner) and I didn’t have a car so keeping warm was a mission in itself. I swore to myself that this would be the last winter I’d spend in the hole… How wrong I was.

Winter 2007: Its bleak on Portland in the winter. The prison has supplied us with heavy winter jackets to try to keep the worst of the wind and rain out. But the Citadel is shaped like a bowl so the wind comes in and whips around the walls but it doesn’t seem to leave. Sometimes it gets so strong that its hard not to get blown over. Portland is on a spit of land with a small causeway attaching it to the mainland. I have heard, but not seen, that sometimes the causeway can get swamped by the sea. Turning Portland into an island, cut off from the rest of the country. I casually wonder how much food there is stored in the prison but I’m sure they are prepared for that sort of thing. The coats are big horsehair type things with a strip of blue material running across the shoulders, presumably so the Screws can identify prisoners. With the wind cycloning around the Citadel and the rain coming at a sideways angle they don’t do much good though.

I dislike Christmas. I haven’t been a fan since I was twelve. It is a time for kids and family’s but to me It’s just another day when the shops don’t open. Worse than a Sunday. Usually I would find some mates who also have no plans and get bolloxed. However due to the lack of alcohol and drugs here that is not looking likely. The Verne is the only prison that I occupied where the drug problem is how to get them. Well, it’s not a problem for me as I’m not looking for them. What I mean is that in Scrubs the wings are awash with heroin, poor quality for sure but there is no problem finding it. In H.M.P Ford (when I get there) I will find that drugs and alcohol are easier to get than coffee (there is also a good trade in kebabs). So it was refreshing to be in a place where there was none. At least if there were, I never came across them (and I usually trip over dealers if they are about). So Christmas in prison? Well, can’t be any worse than on the out really.

I think I probably had the most relaxing Christmas’s, certainly of my adult life, that year. I’m sure that the Screws could have found better places to be but they put an effort in to make enjoyable. Everyone on the wing was making sure that everyone else was ok. I think we all knew what a strain it would be on those with family’s and the sense of togetherness was enlightening. We certainly weren’t the “animals that need locking away” that I read in the Sun and other comics so often. There was a real sense of collective responsibility between us all. The New Year came and went and I was content to get on with teaching and playing music. So it was again jarring when I got a slip under my door informing me that I would be moving in one week to H.M.P Leyhill in Gloucester.

H.M.P Leyhill is a D cat prison. This means it is an open prison. H.M.P The Verne is a C cat with an open regime, it still has great big walls and razor wire. D cats generally just have fencing. But Gloucester is not where I wanted to be. Leyhill is also tagged as a nonces prison. There is across the road from it a therapeutic prison where sex offenders go to be “cured”. When they have completed their courses and are judged not to be a risk to the public any more Leyhill is the next stop before release. This is one reason I didn’t want to be there. Another was due to the enormous likelihood of  drugs washing around the wings I didn’t want to relapse. It was even further from my only visitor than The Verne so the chance of a lapse was huge. When one is in D cat there is the opportunity to be “Released on Temporary Licence” ROTL for town visits. This is to aid returning to the real world, I will talk more on this later. My point was though that because of the distance I wouldn’t be able to go on a town visit as they would be no one to pick me up. All of the benefits of being in a D cat would be wasted and it would put my recovery at risk. So, I refused to go. If one is in a B cat and refuses to move one can be physically moved. Put in the sweat-box and taken. However this tactic won’t work going to a D cat. As I pointed out to the officer when I informed him of my refusal, if that happened when let out at the other end I would just walk out of the gates. I was put on my first charge, Wilful disobeying of a direct lawful order. I wasn’t out to make trouble but I felt that this was putting me at risk and that was unacceptable.

I had five days to get my defence in order then I would be taken before one of the governors who would find me guilty. I was guilty there was no disguising that again (just like court) I was having to rely on mitigation. I thought my reasoning was sound. Surely they didn’t want to put me in a position where the likelihood of re-offending would be high, did they? Well, maybe they didn’t but unfortunately prison law is black and white. It isn’t about what might happen, it is about the charge. It isn’t about why I did it, it is just that I did it. I was found guilty, my punishment was to have my canteen stopped for two weeks. This might not sound much but when you have little anyway, it hurts. They didn’t take my Enhanced status away though. That would have stopped me teaching and would have meant that they couldn’t send me to D cat. I was also warned that next time if I refused instead of sending me to D cat I would be sent to Dartmoor. Oh…

Because I had been lucky enough to make some solid friendships the canteen ban didn’t hurt as much as it could have. Everyone heard of what I had done and although I got some people calling me mad (Everyone wants D cat) my friends understood why I’d done it and supported me. I was given coffee and tobacco that saw me through the two weeks. Half way through March, while I was tutoring an English lesson, I had a surprise visit from one of the wing Screws. He told me that there was a van going to H.M.P Ford the next week and would I please be on it. Later that evening I was walking around the prison thinking about my options. Ford was literally on my Dads doorstep so it would be easier for him to visit. I didn’t know whether they were bluffing about Dartmoor and I wasn’t sure that I really wanted to find out. But it was a shame, I was enjoying life (as much as one can in prison) at The Verne. This was the longest amount of time since I left care that I’d been clean of any drugs and alcohol, I couldn’t guaranty that I would continue if tested. Lost in my world as I was I didn’t hear one of my student walk over to me. “Meester Chris, Meester Chris” For a few minutes we walked in silence. Sometimes, he said, we have done all there is to do. We have given what we need to and taken what there is. Then it is time to move on. We walked on for a while. Take care, he said, I will see you soon. He didn’t as it turned out.

I had made up my mind and I had told the wing officer that I would be going. The rest of the week was taken up with taking all my kit back, getting various medicals done and saying goodbye. Crossing the country again, I wondered if I’d be able to request my usual seat?

In my time at The Verne I had purposely thrown myself out of my comfort zone. Instead of doing a workshop job where I could have been anonymous I had got a job where i was forced to interact with people. I had been playing in a band and done a performance in front of a hundred other prisoners (I had been so nervous I almost couldn’t play the guitar because of my hands violently shaking) I had a part in a play with the drama class I was in. I wouldn’t have done most of these on the out so doing them inside was definitely not comfortable. But I learnt new things about myself and that was the point. I realised that most of the time things aren’t as bad as I think they are going to be. And if I just throw myself in I will swim not drown.

The Verne had done what I needed it to do and I was now on the final stretch. This was, hopefully, going to be the last move

C

Stress Test: part 5.5 (briefly)

On my way through the system I noticed many things that seemed at odds with what I had assumed prison to be about. An in vogue phrase at the moment seems to be “a dumping ground for society” and this is pretty much on the money. I had always thought that prison was where dangerous people were kept. People who were a danger to others and to society.  In Scrubs there were many people who fit this mould, although whether they were really like this on the out or just putting on an act so as to be left alone only they and their friends and family will know. But one image that has stayed with me to this day was a *stereotype alert* Pakistani shopkeeper who, as it turned out, was in for V.A.T fraud. He was utterly lost. When I went to court for sentencing he was one of the people I shared the cell with. The C.P.S  alleged he had swindled £500,000 over ten years. And they made it sound like this was a major crime. The reality was that the money had gone on bills. He hadn’t bought a new Porsche or a Rolex, he had just been trying to make ends meet and try to give his family a future. After we’d spent a day in the court cells chatting I’d see him around on the wing. More often than not he wouldn’t even notice me. The poor bloke was so spun out. It seemed then, and even more so now in light of the financial crisis, so petty. No one had been hurt, for all intents and purposes it was a victimless crime. But to H.M Customs and Revenue he was a dangerous criminal. They could have made him pay back the money and do community service but they wanted to scare small business people into not fucking with them. I never did meet any Vodafone chief execs while I was away. Or from any major company’s, It’s like there are two laws for different sized company’s.

While I was on C wing there was a bloke in the cell opposite mine who I used to occasionally chat to. He was in for breaking a restraining order. After his lady had sacked him he had lost the plot a little bit. Not in a violent way, more a pathetic irritating kind of way. You know, the phoning up at all hours, crying down the phone, professing undying love and “How could you do this to meeeee, I LOVE YOU!!!!”. She got the restraining order after he started turning up at her work trying to talk to her. He was, at that point, convinced he could win her back. Actually Even when I met him inside he still thought there was a chance. Anyway, my point is that he wasn’t dangerous he just needed help to realise that it was over. He got arrested, when, one day he went to her house to see her. After knocking on her door and realising that she wasn’t at home he decided to wait for her. He sat on the kerb opposite and waited. She didn’t come home, she was on a two-week holiday. The Police, however, had been called by the next door neighbor and duly came around to arrest him. He was on remand when I met him. His doctor had sent letters to the court and to the prison explaining that he needed to be in a psychiatric hospital and not on 23 hour bang up. During the three weeks that I knew him he often cut himself. Almost every other night the cell alarm would go off in the cell he shared with a variety of people due to them getting sketched out by him cutting himself up. The week that I was transferred to A wing I woke up to screaming coming from the cell across the landing, his cell. The next day i saw his cell mate and asked him what had happened. He told me he’d woken up (he was on the bottom bunk) to see matey hanging from the top of the top bunk. He had managed to raise the alarm in time but that was more luck than anything else. At night the Screws often disappear from the wing. It wasn’t as though the prison hadn’t been warned. He shouldn’t have been there.

I don’t know the stats but from experience a large percentage of prisoners have mental health problems.

Bullying is a constant problem in every walk of life. At work, in relationships, in social circles, having been through it myself I can see it happening all to often. In prison it is fucking dangerous. If you have experience of bullying then you’ll know how horrifying it is. If you then add not being able to get away from the person, actually being locked up with them, it is a terrifying thought. In The Verne there was a chap who had come in after me. He was in for money laundering and was apparently an accountant on the out. As soon as he came in he was trying to find out who was in for smuggling, he wanted to do a deal. This kind of person is best avoided, they make themselves a target and if one get to be known as an associate then one could also become a target. This chap had approached me and many others, he was really trying to pretend to be something he wasn’t and it all came on top. He approached another prisoner who wasn’t as tolerant. Prisoner#2 got prisoner#1 talkingabout how much he wanted to spend, to gauge if he really did have money or whether he was the worst undercover cop ever. One evening prisoner#2 walked into prisoner#1′s room picked up a letter from his wife and walked off with it. Five minutes later he came in and told prisoner#1 “I have your wife’s address, I want £1000 put into my prison account and £1000 put into *****’s (his mate) account otherwise the house will be torched. Prisoner#1 was freaking. Five days later he came back from a phone call white as a sheet (he was asian, that’s how shook up he was). His wife had come home after work to find two milk bottles half full of petrol on her doorstep. There was nothing he could do, he couldn’t protect her where he was. He couldn’t get the prison to do anything. And worst of all, he only had himself to blame. There are some really fucking bad people in prison, that’s why they are there. If you get noticed too much you may as well paint a fucking big target on your back. Never boast unless you can, and will, back it up. If you walk around telling people how well off you are, you should expect someone to try to take it off you. I don’t know if he payed up or not. I would assume that he did. But if so it wouldn’t have ended there. once they have you paying up they won’t stop and it won’t stop until you get transferred out. And even then not always, I kept in touch with some of my friends after being transferred and I have heard stories of people on long sentences having networks in different prisons.

It’s not about rehabilitation. I though it was before I arrived. It is about retribution. I can tell this by the way the governors treated us. Most Screws were o.k they just wanted to get through their shift with the least amount of hassle. A few thought that their job was to punish us, as if having our liberty taken wasn’t punishment enough. These were the Screws to avoid, don’t ask them for anything. If they tell you to do something just do it, if you complain about it you’ll be on a charge. Don’t give them any excuse. Some were sticklers for the rules, but at least you know where you stand. And some were just inept, these are dangerous in a place like Scrubs and normally find there place where they can cause the least amount of damage. But the governors and the probation workers inside the prison (a completely different kind than the outside type). One look and you can tell they don’t believe the rehabilitation line. It is not possible to afford to rehabilitate 83000 people on the budget HM prisons are run on. I was in Scrubs on over the illegal prison officers strike. The first we heard of it was when I switched on the t.v in the morning and my cell mate (who was a local lad) said “That’s the front gate!” And there were all the Screws milling about outside. for 48 hours we were locked up. Our meals were bought to our cells by the governors. There was no exercise or association, there was hardly anyone on the wings. I believe there was a death in Pentoville and I know there was at least one attempt in Scrubs. While they were striking about money and so didn’t get much sympathy the point that should have been concentrated on was that it can’t go on like this. Reoffending rates are high, on my release I didn’t even have an address to go to. For the two months leading up to my release I had been asked by probation where I was going and every time I simply said “I don’t know” considering on release I’d still have 18 months of probation to do you’d think they might have made a bit more effort to help. I was released with £40 and a plastic HMP bag with all my kit in. You can’t just throw people onto the street with just a couple of quid in their pocket and expect things to be fine. For those that have family and or friends, for those who have a house or money to come out to, they may be ok but if you have nothing then you will do what ever you have to do to survive. If people are given a direction and a start in life then their chances of  living the straight life is improved. The problem is that too many people see it as rewarding bad behaviour, without thinking how shit their lives may have been before then. I have been told many times in my life “you get out what you put in” or “you reap what you sow”. If society leaves the people who are already struggling on the edge to fend for themselves, if society put nothing in to these people, what does it expect to get back from them.

I’ will be back on course in a few days. I have to work!!! C

Stress Test: part 5 (Smugglers Uni)

We are shown to our rooms, I am on the first floor three rooms from the end of the corridor. I close my door and sit on the end of my bed. The mattress is standard but unlike all the previous beds I have slept on I can’t feel the iron straps that make up the bottom of the bed through it. I sit back and let the silence wash over me. This is the first time I have been actually alone for months and for ten minutes I quietly sit and enjoy it.

I start to unpack my kit realising that I can put it anywhere as I don’t have to share this space with anyone. First up are my photos, it’s amazing the amount of uses there are for toothpaste. After the pictures are up and the kit is away I sit down to write some letters, using a desk for the first time. In the last ten years I have written, maybe, a handful of letters. In the last three months though, I have more than made up for it

Just before dinner there is a roll check. We all have to stand in front of our doors while an officer does a head count. Then, landing by landing, we are sent down to the dining room. This is the first time I have eaten in front of more than one person in months. Other firsts are; decent food (first tie it looks like what it is called), first time using real knives and forks and first time having salt, pepper and vinegar. We still have plastic plates and bowls though.

I spend the evening walking around the prison. Rather than fencing areas off there are signs up saying where I can and cannot go. Because of the open C regime these signs are enough. The Verne doesn’t accept prisoners with less than a two-year sentence. This means that everyone has something to lose. If one behaves D cat beckons, misbehave however and Dartmoor is the next stop. So I am careful where I walk. There is quite a walk around anyway. There is and education block, a library, workshops, the inevitable chapel, a football pitch. There are flower beds and strips of turf, trees, there is even a pond. If one ignores the fencing topped with razor wire (illegal under E.U rules) and the Citadel walls (also topped with razor wire) beyond, one would be able to forget about being incarcerated.. Well, almost.

There are seven “wings” in The Verne, I use the “‘s as they aren’t typical wings. As you can see from the picture in part 4 the buildings look more like halls of residence (well, not Oxbridge halls). The induction wing was A2, A1 and C1 were Enhanced wings. Everyone on these wings had to be Enhanced and as a result they were quieter and cleaner than the other wings. They were very popular and as a result there was a waiting list to get on them. D wing was actually part of the Citadel, almost buried into the ground. D was a dormitory wing, it had eight dorms with eight cubicles and a sitting room in each. Most of the people living here were F.N’s (foreign nationals) and it was faith-based. They used to have people from different faith groups come in from the out to visit them once a week, so it was popular with those who didn’t have anyone to visit them.

At 20:00 a screeching, air raid type siren blasts out through the night. It seems that its time for the final roll check. After the roll check I have my first bath for months. It is the most relaxing bath I have ever had. It is deep and it is hot, I don’t get out until its cold. I get back to my room and lie on my bed. Outside, in the corridor, I can hear people chatting. There is no shouting or hammering on cell doors, no screams or shouts of despair just the murmur of conversation.

The next morning I am woken up by the fattest Screw I have seen so far shouting at me to get by my door. It is 8:30 and it is role check and I am not where I should be. The problem here is that I have no alarm clock. I have one on my mobile which is stored in reception but as it is unlikely that they will let me have that back just now I need to find a solution. I try to explain this to the fat controller but he is clearly warming to his roll as an arsehole so I give up. After roll check we have 30 minutes for breakfast. In the dining room there is fresh milk and cereals, bread, butter, jam and a toaster… A fucking toaster!!! On the out I rarely ate breakfast since I’d been in however the lack of food had twisted my arm. This however was beyond all expectations.

After breakfast the group of us who recently arrived were due to start our induction. In Scrubs the induction was poor. It told me nothing. This was to be two weeks of induction. By the end of the fortnight we would be expected not to have to be told anything. If we had to be told we would be on a charge.

When the rules in prison are broken one is put “on a charge”. This is similar to being arrested on the out. So much so that inside it is called “getting a nicking”. If it is a rule transgression, as opposed to being against another person, then one will be put in front of a Governor at the next available opportunity and given a chance *cough, cough, akkkhem, cough, urrgh, ahem* sorry, that always sticks in my throat. Where was I? Ah yes, given a chance to put ones side of the story over. Then the governor will fairly consider both sides and find the prisoner guilty. In my time I was put on three charges, two of which were blatantly out of order, I won none. If one has been violent to staff or prisoners then one would be taken to the seg (segregation) block until the earliest opportunity and then, most probably, sent up a category. When one is in a B cat one can’t really be sent anywhere worse unless one is a proper trouble maker. However in C cat it is easy to be sent back to B.

The induction consisted of being shown manual handling (picking things up), Basic numeracy and literacy tests (writing things down) and procedures (getting things across). We were shown the library and gym given extra kit and in the second week assigned jobs. Because of my lack of exams I was allowed to do education in the morning. This was just basic English and Maths and I flew through the exams. In the afternoons I was assigned to the workshops. The Verne does a good trade in garden furniture. Wooden benches, desks, tables. Made at low-cost and sold high, I was paying for my own incarceration. I have no interest in woodwork, I am not made to do this. I don’t have the ability, precision or patience for it. Luckily during my English classes, due to the boredom of working at such a low-level, I had started helping the foreign nationals with their work. The tutor had seen this and asked me if I’d like to become a peer tutor. The pay was £2.50 a week better (it’s amazing how much such small amounts mean when one has nothing) and I got to hang around education all day. Winner!! unfortunately being a peer tutor was more difficult than just tutoring. It was hardcore diplomacy. One had to teach but not come across as if being superior. It took a lot of humility, I was tap dancing like Fred Astaire. It would be no good for my time inside if I were to be in any way associated with the staff so tutoring was like tightrope walking over a pit of pissed off crocodiles.

Nearing the end of my first month I received my first visit. The visits here were slightly different. For a start we were required to wear the blue stripe prison shirts and the dark blue prison jeans. I can only imagine that the reason Scrubs didn’t supply these items would be because the cost to supply over 1500 prisoners would be prohibitive. Like Scrubs, I would send the V.O out and when the visitor received it they would phone and book a time. Visits happened on Wednesday, Saturday or Sundays and were, unlike Scrubs, two hours. On the day of the visit at 14:00 I would wait in the wing hall waiting to be called. When it was my turn I would walk from the wing to a stair by the main gate where the visits were held. I would then be told which table to go to. In this visit hall the chairs were hard moulded plastic and attached to a low table. There were a row of three chairs on one side and a single chair on the other, just to make sure we knew who would sit where. There were cctv cameras everywhere and at the top of the room, on a raised stage, there was a desk with another two Screws sat watching. On top of all this, just in case they were missing something, there were also between three or four Screws prowling the floor. After filling myself with chocolate and cola and having an enjoyable chat the time would come to say goodbye. In the first months it was always a difficult moment but by this point I think myself and my Dad had gotten used to it, well as much as one can. At then end of visits two people would be “randomly” chosen for a full search. After every visit I had whilst in The Verne I was “randomly” searched. It got to a point that the visit Screws saw more of me than some of my girlfriends have. If one was an Enhanced prisoner and on one of the Enhanced wings there was an option to have the visit in the Enhanced section. There were cushioned seats that were independent of the slightly higher tables. Small things indeed but two hours on a hard plastic seat is not the most comfortable of places.

After four weeks I was called to the wing office. The officer on duty started off by apologising to me. Due to more people coming in I was to move wings, usually one would spend six weeks on A2 before moving. He was sorry but tomorrow I’d have to move to B2, known in the prison as Beirut. Because he was so sorry he moved my regime to Enhanced two weeks early. I’d heard about B2, it didn’t have a great reputation. It was, apparently, loud and violent. It was also where people who were kicked off of Enhanced wings were put. The next stage would be the Block then off to Dartmoor. It was safe to say I wasn’t looking forward to this move.

The next day I packed (again) and moved to Beirut. I was going to have to share a cell for a few weeks until a single became free. My new cell mate was a 6ft6 Gambian who was also in for smuggling cannabis. He spoke with a soft voice and had a massive smile. Within hours we were firm friends. I have always been easy to share a cell with. I don’t really care what’s on t.v and am always up for sharing sugar, milk etc. Jobe was equally easy to live with. I found though my time away that on the whole the F.N prisoners were easier to get on with than the English. Most of them were in for smuggling offences and were content to just get on with it and get it done. The English could be in for anything. There were a lot of violent offenders, bank robbers, burglars, muggers and worse. I would always prefer to hang out with drug offenders than bank robbers.

Soon enough I was assigned my single cell, it was on the top floor. As soon as I’d moved my kit in there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find two people stood there. One quite round chap in his late 20′s called Lea and a small Irish chap in his 50′s called Ned. This, it seems, was the welcoming committee. They invited me to Lea’s room for a tea and chat. During the chat Ned asked if I played an instrument, I told him that I play the guitar. The next evening after dinner I was in my room writing letters and there was a knock at the door. When I opened it there was Ned, holding a guitar. He’d borrowed it from the chapel for me. He’d also bought his flute. Ned was a lifer, he had been lifed off though the old three strikes rule. Apparently in the 80′s if one was found guilty of three violent offences (I think this means G.B.H rather than A.B.H or common assault). He told me that in the 70′s and 80′s he’d been involved with the I.R.A, his nickname was Ned the Rope and his role had been making bombs. A lot of what people tell you in prison has to be taken with a pinch of salt but after being shown his court documents one night I think at least the majority of what he said was true. The night that he bought the guitar around we jammed for hours. And every night for the rest of my time at The Verne we would play. After a few weeks Ned told me that he’d booked the music room. This was a tiny room that had a drum kit, a P.A, a few mics and some amps. He’d also found a drummer and a bassist. It looked like we were getting a band together then. For the next six months my life revolved around teaching English and playing music. Things could have been a lot worse. I saw people around me having a torrid time. Some people were getting savagely bullied, some had shit going on outside, some just couldn’t get used to being locked away. I, however, was learning more about myself than I had done in all of the last thirty years. I was gaining confidence from the tutoring, when I walked around the prison people would come over for a chat or just smile and say hi. Not one person had a bad word to say about me. I was clearly doing something right but I still couldn’t see what it was.

 

 

 

* I would like to say at this point that when I started writing this I didn’t realise it was going to be the long. I am trying to keep it as short as possible so as not to bore anyone but without missing too much out, a delicate act indeed. It is difficult to explain all the ins and outs of prison life to anyone who hasn’t experienced it as it is so far from the reality of life outside. So please bear with me and I’ll try to get through it without sending any of you to sleep. If it helps this is pretty much the half way point now. Thank you for reading. C.*

 

Stress Test: part 4 (Some homecoming)

The sun is peaking over the rolling green hills. There is music playing on the stereo. Through the window I can see trees on the horizon, I see this green and pleasant countryside fly past. What better way to spend an October morning. Except; The seat is hard plastic, the window is sealed and the music is some whining country and western singer complaining about his woman running off with his best friends dog or some such trash. The destination is H.M.P The Verne on the spit of land known as Portland. Not to be confused with H.M.P the Weir which was the infamous prison ship. H.M.P The Verne looks like an old WW2 Citadel and, from the outside at least, rivals Scrubs in the intimidation stakes.

Three days earlier: Waking up at 8:30 as the cell door is unlocked ( I’m on A wing at this point, as its half the size of C wing everyone is unlocked at 830 for exercise for an hour. After weeks of occasional exercise this is luxury.) I turn the kettle on for a cup of coffee and get ready for a morning walk. On the floor by the door is a slip of paper, on closer examination I see it is for me not my idle cell mate who is still sleeping. The slip tells me that I am moving in two days. I am to have all my kit packed, to have handed in all Scrubs property and to be by the Wing office at 9:30. Again many differing emotions battle through my body. I have been on A wing for six weeks now. I successfully completed the “short duration project” which is a run of the mill addiction awareness course. It ran for four weeks and it was because of this course that I managed to get transferred to A wing. After weeks of C wing this is lush. The cell that I’m sharing has a separate toilet room, bliss. Also it is on the fours (top landing) and facing the outside. This means for the first time I can see the outside world. I can see people kicking a ball around on the scrubland or playing cricket. I see people walking dogs and this, particularly, presses on my heart. Every so often I slip away in my head, I imagine Le Stress belting in and out of bushes, hunting anything smaller than her. The downside of being able to see over the wall is that the windows don’t open. Because of the risk of someone accurately throwing a tennis ball filled with drugs over 100ft into a six-inch gap the windows had been sealed shut. There are two vents which don’t seem to let any air in and because we are south-facing the sun comes in all day. It’s what I’d imagine living inside a greenhouse would be like. But it’s worth the discomfort, the ups outweigh the downs. On the course I am out of the cell every morning to do work on triggers, lapses, relapses and danger zones. It’s all work that I have done before, it’s the same technique that is used for all drugs, alcohol, abuse victims, violent offenders, gamblers and sex offenders. They just change the substance. The answers are easy to give, I just have to think about what they want to hear, it doesn’t take much intelligence. Because its classed as education I get paid £2.50 a day which means at last I can afford coffee. Life, as much as it can be in here, is good. So the letter, though not unexpected, is not entirely welcome. I have been bitching for weeks about not being able to do anything. Not being able to do any education as it is only for basic literacy and numeracy. I left school with nothing (children’s homes in G.C.S.E year, not a good mix.) so I thought since I had nothing else to do maybe trying to get some quallies would be a good use of my time. But it’s not meant to be in Scrubs. But now the time has come, now I’m getting downgraded to C category, I’m not sure I want to go. I don’t however get a choice in this. Andy, my cell mate, is getting released two days after I leave anyway so I guess its time.

The morning of the move; I’ve said my goodbyes, packed my stuff and I’m waiting by the office to be called. There are six people waiting with me; two for court, one for D cat, one for release and two of us for transfer to The Verne. 9:30 comes and we are led through the maze of corridors to reception. There are four temporary changing rooms on each side of the hall with a Screw in each. I am shown into one of the rooms and given a box. It’s the same box they used to store my stuff when I first came in. As the officer performs a full search he replaces my prison clothes with the, by now really stinking, clothes that I got off the plane in soooooo long ago. I even get my Oakley’s back! I’m then asked to sign to say that all my property is accounted for and escorted into another sweat-box. Unsurprisingly I get the same seat. After 20 minutes waiting the van starts and we are off. On the way through the massive gates I reflect on the last three months. The last six weeks have coloured my memory. I don’t remember the difficultly of trying to reach people when I first got here. Nor trying to get my head around the maddening rules and regs. Neither do I recall the feeling of complete aloneness or impotency. I think instead of the people who I have shared the last six weeks with. Who, through the course, I have shared some emotive moments of my life and who have shared theirs with me. And I feel sad that our paths will not cross again.

We reach Dorset, everything here is a memory. This is the last place I lived before the fateful flight. As we reach the Dorchester/Weymouth roundabout I realise that just ten miles from here my truck is parked up. Roughly five miles from here Le Stress is with my ex, probably chasing sticks or rabbits. I feel a lurch, not from the van though the driver can’t have long passed his test but, from a wave of homesickness. I am so close to my home, dog and friends yet for the good it does I may as well still be in Africa. So near but so far from home. Not in distance but in time. We drive through Weymouth and I can’t tear my eyes from the window. I’m hoping to see someone, anyone, that I know. But I don’t. The van tilts up and we drive up a steep and winding road. Up and round, up and round until we come to The Verne Citadel. If I had thought Scrubs looked intimidating this place was more so. It was like a Fortress. At least from the outside. Once inside everything was different.

The Verne is an “open” C category prison. It is as far from the regime of Scrubs as it is in distance. The reception building was apart from the main prison building, we filed in expecting to be shown to a holding cell. There was no holding cell. We sat in reception while the reception Screws went through our personal kit trying to get some sense of what to expect. For the first time since Scrubs I got to keep my clothes, all I now needed to do was to get them washed.

We were escorted from the reception building by an Induction orderly. Orderly’s are prisoners who have reached the Enhanced level (There are three conduct regimes; 1, basic -this is the punishment regime. Exercise, letters, canteen spends are drastically reduced also the t.v. is taken out of the cell. 2, standard -this is the regime all prisoners come in on. 3, enhanced -on this level one can get better jobs, single cell, more access to one’s private spends, more visits in comfier seats [in the Verne anyway] also at a point in the sentence can apply for rotl. Release on a temporary licence, more on that later). As we walked to the induction wing, A2, I was struck by the space. There were no iron gates to be unlocked. There was grass, I hadn’t seen grass for months and trees. Trees, in prison!! The wings were like nothing I had imagined. It was more like student accommodation than prison.

The wings are on the right

We were shown into the wing and the Induction officer sat us down and explained some of what we needed to know. We were shortly to  be assigned our rooms (not cells). We would have a key to our rooms. Each room had a bed, a kettle and a t.v. Also a wardrobe (with hangers) a set of drawers, a desk and a chair. At the end of each floor there were two shower cubical, two toilets and a bath. A FUCKING BATH!! It was all getting a bit surreal now, I kept expecting to wake up at any moment. The next morning we would be starting our induction which would last two weeks. The routine would be 8:00-8:30 breakfast (fresh cereal and fresh milk) then from 9:00-12:00 first work/education period. From 12:30-14:00 lunch (in a dining room with salt, pepper and real knives and forks). From 14:15-16:30 second work period, 17:00-18:15 dinner and then from 18:30 until 20:00 we were free to walk around the prison, go to the gym or library. Sign up for extra education, whatever. By 20:00 we had to be back on the wing and outside our doors for roll check. After the roll check the main wing door was locked but we were allowed to go into each other cells until 00:00. After Scrubs this was astounding. But the extra freedom was paid for, the Screws here I would find out came down hard on any transgression. There was very little leeway especially at the beginning and much more was expected from us. At the end of the first day as I lay on my bed my head was spinning. I had just got used to one regime and set of rules and everything was turned upside down on me. As much as I liked the idea of this place getting to grips with it would take some doing. It took a long time to sleep that night. I was back in Dorset but it made no difference. I was still removed from the world. The silence compared to Scrubs was deafening. Yes, this would take some getting used to.

 

Stress test: part 3 (Boredom and bureaucracy)

After the initial few weeks in Scrubs I realised that most of my fears were unfounded. There were no “soap in the shower” incidents, neither were there any random beatings by evil screws (yep, started calling them this by now and using Guv to address them instead of officer). And if I kept my head down it was unlikely that I’d be dragged into a cell and battered by a bored London gang, though I did see this happen to other people on more than one occasion. Time was the hardest thing to deal with. In this part I am going to attempt to describe life on a wing in Scrubs. Although all prisons are different the regime is mostly the same. Obviously this changes as one goes up or down the categories but in this part I will just be talking about Scrubs. And I will confine myself to writing about C wing as that is where I spent most of my time in Scrubs.

After leaving the induction wing (B) led by a Screw, myself and a group of about fifteen prisoners walked through a corridor reminiscent of a hospital. Well apart from the smell and all big iron gates which needed locking and unlocking every twenty metres. There were different coloured lines on the floor. I imagine that this was for the benefit of the Screws as I couldn’t envisage a time that I’d be allowed to wander around here alone and with a set of keys. It was either that or an attempt to confuse escapees, I had no idea where any of the lines led. After four sets of gates we turned to the right and our final gate of the day. The guide Screw pushed an intercom to announce us. The gate buzzed open and we were led in. The wing was massive. The noise almost knocked me over. The wing was so high that the acoustics seemed to amplify the shouts and calls ten fold. The Wing officer opened a door next to the gate and we filed into another holding cell. This was an old shower room with all the pipes removed. The door was locked behind us and we sat down to wait. We all had large, clear H.M.P plastic bags with all of our personal kit within. I think everyone had a sneaky peek at what each other had. As we had turned up during a recreation period we had to wait until everyone was banged up before we could get placed in our respective cells

As I mentioned in a previous post C wing is, or at least was, the biggest single wing in Europe. It held at that point roughly 400 prisoners. There are four landings, the ground floor is the ones, next the twos, the threes and the fours. There are roughly 60 cells on each landing, two shower rooms and one landing office. On the ground floor there is the wing office, the wing governors office, two dodgy pool tables and a table tennis table. The ground floor is also where the wing servery is. A typical cell is about 12-14ft long and about 7-8ft wide. It contains one bunk bed with an ancient mattress, a pillow (if one is lucky), one chair, a wardrobe (no hangers or doors), A t.v (with an aerial lead if one is lucky), a kettle, a steel sink with a steel toilet attached and no seat or lid. If one is really lucky the toilet will be in a separate room but mostly it is 2 ft from the bunks. One of the most unhygienic and degrading things about inside life is shitting next to your sink and bed. The windows are made of thick security glass, about 2 ft high and 1 1/2 ft wide with two 6 inch wide openable sections. If, however, the window faces the wall the openable sections are replaced with vents which let in approximately fuck all air. Not great if your toilet is in your cell.

When recreation was over we were shown to our new homes, it’s so exciting moving home!! The routine was; at 9:00 those lucky enough to have work or education were unlocked, at 12:00 the Screws would start unlocking for lunch one landing at a time. For lunch we’d have to take our plates down to the servery collect whatever excuse for food it happened to be and carry it back up to our cell. after eating lunch we would have to wash our plates etc in the sink. Yep, the one attached to the toilet that we used for washing our hands and clothes. MMMmmm. Then at 14:00 was exercise. Whether you got exercise depended on certain conditions; 1) Which day it was – one day it would be ones and threes the next twos and fours, 2) Was there enough staff? Because of the sheer size of C wing there were always staffing problems 3) Had anyone kicked off? Someday’s we’d have been out for just five minutes before there would be a fight and everyone would be banged up for the rest of the day. After 45 minutes of walking around the exercise yard (always clockwise, in every prison I lived in everyone always walked clockwise) the bell would go off and it would be back to the cell and banged up until dinner. At 17:00 the unlock for dinner started, again landing by landing. This time though we would be given a breakfast pack consisting of; one cereal pack, one small carton of uht milk, two tea bags, two sugars, two whiteners, two jam sachet’s and two pieces of bread. If really lucky one would maybe get a butter sachet too. In the evening, depending on ones landing, there would be 45 minutes for recreation and or housekeeping. In this 45 minutes one has the chance to shower and clean the cell, pick up post, put in applications and once a week kit change. If you have managed all that and there hasn’t been a fight (unlikely) and you still have time you can socialise and play pool or table tennis. Some people used to forgo kit change and/or showering. These were not the type of people you’d want to be stuck in a cell with. And that was life. The only exciting day was canteen day. Two days before canteen day we would get a form under the cell door with our name and how much credit we had to spend written on the top. From a list on the wall by the landing office we would hurriedly write down catalogue numbers for tobacco, sugar, coffee, coke, chocolate any of the small things I used to take for granted. Two days later, after dinner,  Aramark would come round with the boxes of goods we had ordered. A supply of coffee, sugar and tobacco was the only thing that made life bearable.

Anything one wants or needs inside requires an application form. Need to see the Doctor? Fill in an app. Need new trainers? Fill in an app. Need a new tooth-brush? Fill in an app. Want to see the Wing Governor or Chaplin? Fill in an app. Sometimes I’d get a reply that day (unlikely though), sometimes in two or three days and sometimes there would be no reply as the Screw in charge that shift wouldn’t think it important enough. Once I had gotten past the idea that I could just ask a simple question and get a simple answer I was fine. At the beginning though it was so frustrating. “Guv, can you tell me how much is in my account?” This is a simple request as all the officer needs to do is type in my prison number in to the computer in front of him/her and up it pops. “Fill in an app.”  ”But its right in front of you!?!?!?” Maddening!! The hygiene stuff like toothbrushes, shower gel (2 sachet each request), toothpaste etc was a nightmare. It was kept in a filing cabinet in the landing office, right next to the officer chair. Yet without an app they wouldn’t open it up.

Boredom was the other killer. And in some cases that is meant literally. Because of staff shortages only twice in three months did I get to the liberary. Stuck in a stinking cell for 23 hours a day with only a t.v. I very nearly went mad at one point. My dad was a star, he paid for a copy of the Independent each day for two months. Along with the coffee and baccy it kept me going. In these days of emails people seem to have forgotten about letters. One thing that was guaranteed today keep me smiling all day was a letter. I would write pages and pages to my friends in the hope of getting one back. It’s hard for people on the out to understand as life outside moves fast. Theres never enough time in the day, I am just as guilty of that as anyone else. But just to get a letter, even just one side. Some of my friends said they didn’t know what to write. They didn’t want to go on about what they were doing as they thought it would be rubbing it in. But the opposite is true. I wanted to know anything and everything. I smiled when I read about what my friends were getting up to, laughed at their mishaps. I made light of my situation in my letters as I tried to in my head. Reading about the outside eased some of the frustration I felt and when they sent photos as well I’d toothpaste them straight to the wall. Waking up and seeing my friends smiling down at me reminded me that this wasn’t forever.

In the first month I’d split up with my girlfriend, I knew I was going to be away for a while and I didn’t want to put either her or me through that. Constantly wondering what she was doing, who she was with and all the bad jealous thoughts that can appear after an enforced absence. It just didn’t make sense. We would probably split up over the time I was away anyway so I bit the bullet and did it at the start. Its one thing that I am very glad I did. We are amazing friends still now but I watched people destroying themselves with jealousey and distrust. Screaming down the phone and wasting so much money to do it. I was lucky that the only thing I was concerned about was Le Stress and after I had got someone to look after her I shut the door on the outside. I still wrote and received letters, I still saw my Dad each month. But I never used the phone in 18months, I could barely afford my coffee habit the phone stood no chance.

I should quickly clear up the shower rumour. This is so wide of the mark it is laughable. Though it’s not entirely comfortable having a shower with anyone I don’t know intimately the reality inside is that everyone is preoccupied with not looking at anyone else. I am surprised the walls in the shower rooms in scrubs don’t have holes in them by the intensity people stare at them.

Next time – moving house (again) and another journey in my favorite seat.