Hell (A Prison Diary 1)

Although my life is beginning to fall into a senseless routine, I hope to at least break it up today by going to the gym. I’ve put my name down for the 10 am to 11 am session this morning, as I’m already missing my daily exercise.

9.06 am

Just after nine, the cell door is opened and my weekly twelve pounds fifty pence worth of canteen provisions are passed over to me by a lady in a white coat. I thank her, but she doesn’t respond. I sit on the end of my bed, unpack each item one by one. I settle down to enjoy a bowl of cornflakes swimming in fresh milk. This is the meal I would normally have in my kitchen at home, an hour before going to the gym. I’m used to a disciplined, well-ordered life, but it’s no longer self-discipline because someone else is giving the orders.

10.00 am

I’m pacing up and down the cell waiting for the gym call when a voice bellows out from below, ‘Gym is cancelled.’ My heart sinks and I stare out of the barred window, wondering why. When the door is eventually opened for Association, Derek, known as Del Boy, who runs the hotplate and seems to have a free rein of the block, appears outside my door.

‘Why was gym cancelled?’ I ask.

‘A con has got out onto the roof via a skylight in the gym,’ he explains. Result – gym closed until further notice and will not open again until security has double-checked every possible exit and the authorities consider it a safe area again. He grins, enjoying his role as the prison oracle.

‘Anything else I can help you with?’ Del Boy enquires.

‘Bottled water and an A4 writing pad,’ I reply.

‘They’ll be with you before the hour has chimed, squire.’

I’ve already learnt not to ask what myriad of deals will have to be carried out to achieve this simple request. James had warned me on my first day about the prison term ‘double-bubble’, meaning certain favours have to be repaid twice over. During Association yesterday evening, I witnessed Derek cut a rolled-up cigarette in half and then pass it over to another prisoner. This was on a Tuesday, and the hapless inmate knew he wouldn’t be able to repay the debt until today, when he would have his next canteen. But his craving was so great that he accepted, knowing that he would have to give Del Boy a whole cigarette in return, or he could never hope to strike up another bargain with him – or anyone else, for that matter.

11.10 am

It must have been a few minutes after eleven when my cell door is yanked open again to reveal Mr Loughnane. Just the sight of him lifts my spirits. He tells me that he has spoken to his opposite number at Ford Open Prison, who will have to refer the matter to the Governor, as he doesn’t have the authority to make the final decision.

‘How long do you expect that will take?’ I ask.

‘Couple of days at the most. He’ll probably come back to me on Friday, and when he does, I’ll be in touch with Group 4.’ This simple transaction would take the average businessman a couple of hours at most. For the first time in years, I’m having to move at someone else’s pace.

1.00 pm

We are all sent off to work. I’m down on the register under ‘workshops’ where I will have to pack breakfast bags that will eventually end up in other prisons. My salary will be 50p an hour. New Labour’s minimum-wage policy hasn’t quite trickled down to convicted felons. The truth is we’re captive labour. I’m about to join the chain gang when another prison officer, Mr Young, asks me to wait behind until the others have left for the work area. He returns a few minutes later, to tell me that I’ve received so much registered mail they have decided to take me to it, rather than bring the stack to me.

Another long walk in a different direction, even more opening and closing of barred gates, by which time I have learnt that Mr Young has been in the prison service for eleven years, his annual basic pay is £24,000, and it’s quite hard, if not impossible, to find somewhere to live in London on that salary.

When we arrive at reception, two other officers are standing behind a counter in front of rows and rows of cluttered wooden shelves. Mr Pearson removes thirty-two registered letters and parcels from a shelf behind him and places them on the counter. He starts to open them one by one in front of me – another prison regulation. The two officers then make a little pile of Bibles and books and another of gifts which they eventually place in a plastic bag, and once I’ve signed the requisite form, hand them all across to me.

‘Peach,’ says Mr Pearson, and another prisoner steps forward to have a parcel opened in front of him. It’s a pair of the latest Nike trainers, which have been sent in by his girlfriend.

Both clutching onto our plastic bags, we accompany Mr Young back to Block One. On the way, I apologize to Peach – I never did find out his first name – for keeping him waiting.

‘No problem,’ he says. ‘You kept me out of my cell for nearly an hour.’

Mr Young continues to tell us about some of the other problems the prison service is facing. We are onto staff benefits and shiftwork when an alarm goes off, and officers appear running towards us from every direction. Mr Young quickly unlocks the nearest waiting room and bundles Peach and myself inside, locking the door firmly behind us. We stare through the windows as officers continue rushing past us, but we have no way of finding out why. A few moments later, a prisoner, held down by three officers and surrounded by others, is dragged off past us in the opposite direction. One of the officers is pushing the prisoner’s head down, while another keeps his legs bent so that when he passes us he leaves an impression of a marionette controlled by invisible strings. Peach tells me that it’s known as being ‘bent up’ or ‘twisted up’, and is part of the process of ‘control and restraint’.

‘Control and restraint?’

‘The prisoner will be dragged into a strip cell and held down while his clothes are cut off with a pair of scissors. He’s then put in wrist locks, before they bend his legs behind his back. Finally they put a belt around his waist that has handcuffs on each side, making it impossible for him to move his arms or legs.’

‘And then what?’

‘They’ll take him off to segregation,’ Peach explains. ‘He’ll be put into a single cell that consists of a metal sink,

metal table and metal chair all fixed to the wall, so he can’t smash anything up.’

‘How long will they leave him there?’

‘About ten days,’ Peach replies.