Episode 16 - Slashings, Stabbings + Spice

What goes on behind closed doors ranges from madness to badness, trauma to terrifying, and funny to intoxicating...

During the three and a half years I was in prison I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales From The Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive, whilst incarcerated.

Most names have been changed. The events have not.

This is a Jekyll & Pride production.

Producer: Trevessa Newton

Title Music taken from The Confession, on the album Crimes Against Poetry (written and performed by The Shadow Poet, produced by Lance Thomas)

Copyright Jekyll & Pride Ltd 2025

@jekyllandpride2023
@theshadowpoettsp

Transcript

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During the three and a half years I was in prison, I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales from the Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive whilst incarcerated. Most names have been changed, but the events have not. Episode 16. Slashings, Stabbings Spice. What goes on behind closed doors ranges from madness to badness, trauma to terrifying, and funny to intoxicating. The list of descriptive words could fill this page, and I could turn it over and do the same again. But what goes on behind closed doors is a world beyond our normal imagination. A bit like a deranged version of falling down the rabbit hole on a bad trip and realising it's not what you thought or expected. Pad mates. Almost sounds romantic when you say it. A bit like Friends, but a prison version. The reality is the atmosphere is often intense, and living with a stranger in here is highly unstable at best. Without wishing to be graphic, where or how does one begin to describe the horrors that take place behind the steel door? What are the secrets that men dare not speak? And what are the horrors that they speak of too freely? Sadly, but honestly. It's a place where men cannot be trusted, cannot be believed, and most certainly cannot be confided in. To be fair, I'm sure prisoners are just as wary of me as I of them. The more you're settled within a group or pack, the less hassle you receive. Although, I'm not sure that is guaranteed. But if extreme mental health problems and deep rooted behavioural issues aren't bad enough amongst the general prison population, then what about the career criminals with violent tendencies dropped in without notice as your padmate? What do you do? If there are rapists, abusers, murderers and generally fucked up angry people sharing a confined space with you, what do you say? Maybe t hey have a drink or drugs problem. Maybe they have a meds issue. What do you do? But worse who cares? What do you do if your padmate likes to indulge in spice, which almost guarantees mayhem and drama will follow? What do you do if both of you are trapped in the cell together and are polar opposites? Who chooses what you watch on the TV? What time its lights out? The cleanliness of the cell? And what if the other person receives unwanted visitors on a regular basis? Madness on the wing spills into cells like water balloons bursting open. A man can be caught between a rock and a hard place very easily. What if your pad mate is a live wire? Eyes glazed with psychosis that scares a man with just one look. You can end up with a cellmate who shouts through the door more than he sleeps in his bed. It's also very easy in here, when the lights go out, to let the darkness consume you. A man can think he is coping well, when the reality is the wheels may not have come off, but the wheel nuts are missing. Daily, I see tensions turn into flare ups, which turn into violent episodes. Heroics in here come with scars and can place unwanted targets on your back. I have enough time in here to sit and wonder. How is all this possible? Who allows this to take place and why? I think of this regularly. Who and why? Imagine, I'm in a place costing potentially£50 million a year to run,£40, 000 per head to a large extent, funded by the taxpayer, and no one cares about any of us. There are some officers who show brief moments of compassion, but they're rare. Some of the lads care but I fear they're more concerned what the other lads may think, and so remain quiet. Standing back in situations rather than stepping forward. Being singled out as a do gooder isn't a great title in prison. I think the lads have worked out I don't follow or run with the pack. I make my own decisions and won't be swayed by the mob mentality. I follow my own path as best as I can under the circumstances. Some wish to derail that. While others watch on with quiet curiosity. I've noticed that many of the lads who are doing the intimidating are the ones who seemingly also get too close to officers. How ironic. It's mad how it works. They can be so cruel to fellow inmates, yet suck up to an officer like they're giving them a blowjob. There is no rehabilitation. It is only a word. A soundbite for politicians. Marketing people, and quangos tapping into the pots of funding and pretending they know what they're talking about, whilst the reality in here is that the prison system is broken. We are the scum and scourge of society, and as such are treated no better than vermin. Ironically, I'm not sure the public is aware of just how much it's costing, and, how poor the outcomes of rehabilitation are, because there's no sign of meaningful activities or programs to learn anything purposeful. A large proportion of lads are on remand, waiting for trials. The majority are conspiracies. Less than three months in and I can see the authorities and prosecution service have combined to deliver a formula for one sided success. I fear, many like mine, are unsafe convictions. But it seems impossible to challenge. The number of guys who step forward and speak to me, personally and discreetly, is growing. Trust is a limited commodity in here. I can sometimes ponder for ages, how do these people conduct themselves in the outside world? It's clear to see, most obviously have problems with authority. Many can't process simple instructions or requests. The majority conduct themselves like delinquent teenagers, but they're in men's bodies. They break and smash or intimidate anyone or anything just to get their own way. They don't ask, they take. And try to resolve small things and it's blown out of all proportion and into a dramatic fireworks display. When a person confides in me, I take it seriously. Mistrust in prison can turn out to be deadly. Behind closed doors, there is no escaping one's fears and feelings within. You are not alone, not even with your thoughts. Any of the day's events flood the mind once behind the door, and you decompress on your bunk. Every day is like a Spaghetti Western, where almost everybody is a villain, even if they wear the Sheriff's badge. The lads pull me about how I describe things, and everybody goes on about my confidence. Anything that is different about you, anything that is good, well, the horrible ones, they'll try to extract that from you by any means. If it's not intimidation, then it's humiliation. It never stops. There is no beginning because there is no ending. It's worse than purgatory. However, I try my best to remain true to myself, but it can be difficult. Luckily, I spent years in confusion, searching to discover who I truly was. Why I was here. What is my purpose? Ironically, it is not that I feel at home in here or I don't belong. But I do feel as though my purpose and meaning will somehow find an answer in here. I want to thrive more than merely survive. And with a different state of mind and emotion. I truly believe love is the key. No matter how painful and scary all this is, I hold on to that. Behind closed doors, men grapple with their lack of ability to control or influence anything in the outside world. Families suffer as a result of our absenteeism. And in here, men's mental health deteriorates significantly without any structure and support. I read something about men without women in their lives. They sink to levels of baseness hard to understand until it happens. It's a vicious circle. The pressure loved ones feel outside ripples in here and magnifies all of your problems. It's a mind fuck at best. It's alarming, the high numbers in here for domestic abuse and violence. If your face fits, or you are hard enough, then it appears to be acceptable, and if you are not, then you are attacked and ostracized. Each day, I'm forced to carefully navigate my way through or around The Despicables, hopeful that I might make it back to my cell in the evening in one piece. The last thing you need is sharing with someone who is just as bad as those you try to avoid. So padmates are a big deal. Ranging from the chain smoking to the pretty stable, but not easy to live with. You learn very quickly. It is all about compromise or it becomes a doom pit. Or worse, explosive. It sounds insane. But it can be better to be shacked up with a murderer than it is a thief or a liar. And someone focused more on drugs and masturbation than going to work is going to be a nightmare, and is someone who'll make your prison sentence even worse. If this sounds like a criticism, it isn't. It's an observation. Where does a man turn? Who can he trust? Behind closed doors, a man is shackled to his demons and his pad mate. There is no privacy, no quiet space. Other inmates are always threatening each other through the doors, shouting and intimidating, jabbering through the door like feral, frenzied children, often late into the night. Prison life for me is about soaking up the unpleasantries and trying to rise above the dickhead brigade, and don't try to be a somebody. That's what I believe serves me well in this environment. But it isn't easy. My new padmate is trying to settle into prison life, as I'm trying to settle into my new padmate. As time goes by, it's as if things that normally take years to develop, now only take days. If you don't get on quickly, then life is getting tougher times ten. I'm lucky. I go about prison life and cell life differently to the rest. I'm hoping the Law of Attraction is working in my favour. Kindness works, understanding works, and authenticity works. You learn in reception that new guys can appear as quickly as established ones leave. It's impossible to miss Reeve. He's a big guy. Six foot four. Looks like a cross between a gladiator and a rugby player. Sort of on the spectrum. Quiet but intense. First impressions were, he looked like a bull caught in the headlights in the middle of Times Square. Full of masculinity but softly spoken and out of his comfort zone. He strolled in with Mr. C, who introduced him as the new reception worker. He plucked him from A Wing and bypassed the list of recommendations from the lads. He's replacing the bald one who's on the bus to Cat D on Monday, and that's not a day too soon. He struggled and his frustrations manifested in unpleasant ways. Let's say no more. The lads gave the giant the usual quick fire questions in the kitchen. I didn't hang around. But I did hear he had a couple of young kids. I think he must be about thirty, and received twenty one months for cultivating, a. k. a. a grower. He parachuted into my life at just the right time, even though at first neither of us knew it. His first night on B Wing was not what he was expecting, but Big Reeve ended up sharing a cell with the Horrible One, and we all expected that that was to be the permanent arrangement. But one night would turn out to be enough for the giant. With Baldy on the eve of leaving, I too have no padmate, and for a second time, I'm rejecting padding up with the Prize Prick. Twice he's approached me to be his padmate, and twice I've knocked him back. It's akin to being jilted at the altar in front of everyone. His head's fallen off and he's trying his best not to show it. He knows too well we're both vulnerable to any space cadet landing here and being forced on us as a padmate. All the other reception lads are paired up and settled. It was a no-brainer for me, so I politely declined. I'll take my chances with the stranger because nothing could be worse than him. He acts all big time and tough, but he's poison, and every padmate he's had so far has regretted their decision to move in with him. Thankfully, Reeve came out of the cell this morning and experienced enough through the night to approach me. He said he told the lads that he farts all night like an elephant and snores worse than the farting the rest of the time. Gross, but I couldn't stop laughing. The lads said it was a no brainer to pad up with me. That's how Big Reeve became my new padmate. In the space of 24 hours, I and Reeve both rejected The Prick. You can only imagine how much it hurts. Although no one has said it, everyone knows. HMP is full of Alpha Males and wannabes. The Prize Prick is the latter trying to be the first. A sly and devious type, hardened by too much dissatisfaction. He reminds me of ugliness turned inside out. Ironically, he's the same age as me. Why he's obsessed in undermining me is a mystery. A couple of the lads have already commented he's a two faced fucker, forever reminding us of the prison codes and pecking order. It's obvious to me, he is the one to trust the least. He's fueling the lads to turn against me, and it's prod, prod, prod. Trying to rub me up the wrong way to put me on the spot in front of the lads to gain a reaction. He looks like he's got a glass eye, or maybe a real eye that's dead. It doesn't appear to move. I imagine he probably suffered for that when he was growing up. Even if you are tough, the other kids are still laughing behind your back. For me, and unlike the creature, I have no desire for the title of Number One. Instead, I'm happy to be as unassuming as possible and focused on doing my best to come through the other side as unscathed as possible. The K Kid, the Court Jester in the workplace, is making progress. And he too is navigating the Prize Prick, with a little support from myself, might I say. I don't feel guilty about dropping him as a pad mate, but I am not part of the posse to derail him. The Prick hates him. Not as much as he hates me, but enough to keep him distracted. No one envisaged K rattling and surviving to this point. And he's become popular with the officers which serves him well. At times, we feel like teenagers as we dodged and sidestepped our mutual enemy. However, The Horrible One is a manipulator, and most certainly a dangerous foe, who seems desperate to make our lives as miserable as possible in order to elevate himself amongst prison peers. He talks classically from the corner of his mouth, somehow trying to accentuate his authority. Every time he speaks, it reminds me of a throwback to some old prison movie rammed with stereotypes and cliches. Ironically, the K kid is a surprising contender for King of the Wing as he shuffles around wheeling and dealing. He displays no malice, not a bad bone or wicked thought, and a character all of his own. I think his popularity really annoys The Prick. Slowly but surely, he is solidifying his position, and day by day he grows in confidence. He is childlike in many ways, but not to be underestimated. He's just surviving in the best way he knows. Like the song goes, we're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl. Except the water is filthy sewage and toxic. Carl, commented over lunch, all of us sat together, that G, myself, is a very shrewd guy. He smiled, and gave me the G-Dubz title, and tomorrow we're training partners. That's how far I've come. Slowly but surely, the more the lads get to know me, then the more comfortable they are with me. I spoke to H earlier. He told me he's facing a thirty five years rec. I mean, what can you do or say? It's a number that's impossible to comprehend. Rec comes with the most serious of crimes, and murder, especially one that was described as an assassination, is about as serious as it gets. I suppose in some ways, between the police and the authorities, it is a way of sending out a loud and clear message against the gangs and drugs. However, I always remind myself, someone for some reason was murdered, and that person is dead forever, leaving the grief for his family and loved ones to live with for the rest of their lives. He was stood in his Hugo Boss tracksuit. Something that would have been a high end bit of swag on the outside, it is a strange reminder of nothing more than shattered dreams. A man in his late 20s, facing the majority, if not all of his life behind bars, is a head fuck on a different level. I can't help wondering, does he think about ending it? Or is he hopeful for an appeal? This evening, Bank Holiday, a guy, or should I say a fellow inmate, has collapsed and is unconscious in his cell. None of the staff seem interested in helping him. And plenty of the lads are getting off on him, mocking or baiting him. It's horrible and weird. I'm stuck behind the door. It's sick entertainment in a cruel place that is unhinged. As the guy lies on the cold concrete floor unconscious, on Spice, the rest look on and mock. In the end, an officer closes the door over while I suspect they wait for a doctor. For over thirty minutes no one came to help, and he didn't resume consciousness. As the keys turn in the door, the asylum kicks off. HMP. The wing is a jungle. And as with all jungles, when an animal dies, there is a frenzy.