Episode 23 - Paradise On Top Bunk

None of us can guarantee we'll make it to the next morning. It's like Russian roulette. In one breath, one is pleased to wake up alive and unscathed, and on the other, there is only another day ahead of running the gauntlet, surrounded by prisoners who will be happy just to fill you in for entertainment.

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 23 Paradise on Top Bunk. Maybe you have never found yourself so close and yet so far simultaneously. Only a few feet away is the outside world and freedom. Where my old life has lived more than what will become of my new. It is a beautiful late spring evening. The air is fresh and the breeze light and the sun is setting. From top bunk I can see through a slice of a smashed window, fragments of life, only overshadowed by the high wall and barbed wire silhouetted against the sunset. Within these walls I'm a prisoner and beyond is a place that my imagination, my dreams and my love drift. If I lean over and put my hand through the broken window and close my eyes, I can imagine being anywhere, as the sweet air tickles my fingers. I'm over 50 years of age now, with more than a few wisps of grey hair growing since I landed here. It's possible my glory days are well behind me. My youthful complexion is something captured in old photos, than the man in the six inch mirror I stare at each morning. The sands of time seem to pass more quickly sat in a prison cell, even though each day feels like Groundhog Day. Prison is stealing my limited days and years ahead. The time thief is a relentless dementor who knows there is only one outcome. And one winner. Maybe on days like this, it feels a little halcyon, full of magical memories and joys one never believes will end. A man's mind can wander between wishing and dreaming of a world beyond the cell, to the depths of doubt in chasing shadows in dark corners of one's soul. Should I give up? Or just keep chasing rainbows? Do I press the pause button? The world I once knew, the one I lived and breathed with an insatiable passion, has changed. My place in it has changed too. My only taste of freedom now is my hand stuck out of the window and feeling fresh air. However, what if the wreckage of my past is now the asset of my future? What if my life is not hurtling towards the black star, but being drawn to the bright? An old friend would often say, only in the dark, can we see the light. Maybe my life, with its deep pit of ironies, has brought me to this place for a reason. It may be surprising to hear, but when I lost everything in my life, I didn't lose all of me. In a strange type of way, I found me, and what a profound experience it turned out to be. A man can be afraid of what the future holds. A man can become consumed with the thought his best days are behind him. A man can be blinded by distorted ambition and wishful thinking on bad ideas. I'm not of the mind of chasing lost dreams or trying to recapture the glory days of old. I've learned over the past handful of years that it can always get worse. And whatever the future holds, it has two beginnings. The first is now. Everything I do contributes to life beyond the gate. What I do now lays the foundations for the future. And secondly, the other beginning starts when I win the appeal, clear my name and am released from prison having made it through to the other side as unscathed as possible. The harsh reality is, how far can one plan ahead trapped in the Arkham Asylum? None of us can guarantee we'll make it through to the next morning. It's like Russian roulette. In one breath, one is pleased to wake up alive and unscathed, and on the other, there is only another day ahead of running the gauntlet, surrounded by prisoners, who will be happy just to fill you in for entertainment. The breeze on my hand pushes up my arm and over the back of my neck. Is it possible not to feel like an abused, caged animal? When one swims against the current, at some point, one is going to feel tired. The relentless pressure pushing against you, desperate to consume you. How long can a person survive before their spirit gives up? Or worse, they give up and drown. I believe that remaining true to myself is the key to surviving. I did not come this far for it to have no meaningful purpose, regardless of how determined the authorities and some of the people in here are determined to crush me. I reframe that as fear manifesting itself in ugly ways. Ironically and thankfully, no one has ever dropped an ill or bad word about T, or my daughter, to antagonize me or wind me up. I have no idea why, but I am grateful. I fear my response would result in longer time or death. Authenticity may be unpopular in here, but it will serve a man better than trying to be something he isn't. Lads, who have my best interests in mind, suggested I fight back, or worse, join in at times. Neither is an option, so far, and I keep the faith. I've been here five months. Nowadays as I walk through the wings, I recognize more faces and they show their appreciation at my friendliness. As the months have progressed, between the gym, the lads on my wing, and now the Listeners course, there is always someone who wants to stop and chat to me. Gone are the days when I scurried under the landing like a gutter rat, avoiding eye contact with the piercing eyes of curiosity and hatred. Earlier, Reeve, my padmate, had a go at K, and it all escalated to intense. K had stoked the fire, and once again did himself no favours, but Reeve's response was more a release of wrath. Later, when we were playing cards, just the two of us, I made light of his mood, and that his head and emotions were elsewhere and things build up. K was just the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time saying the wrong thing. I told him in moments like this, you have to look in the mirror of truth. If it was me, I'd reflect on what has happened and why. To my surprise, an hour later, he'd apologized to K. When he told me, I shook his hand and said I was proud. And it takes a bigger man. Big Reeve is adjusting to prison life and the regime by which we work, live and cohabitate. It takes time and none of it is easy, especially if you have a partner and children struggling on the outside as a consequence of us inside. From top bunk I can hear clearly police sirens chasing someone beyond the wall and it broke the silence and peace in our cell. Reeve, on bottom bunk, twice the size of his bed, moves the cell when he rolls over. However, he was up on his feet and facing me. Whatever he was thinking had turned into asking questions. He was curious about what I believe in. It took me by surprise and says a lot of the other person by the choice of questions they ask. I responded by giving him a list of things I don't believe in, such as heaven and hell, gods or goddesses. I told him I don't pray, especially for things to get better. That surprised him. However, that does not mean that I do not respect other people's faiths or beliefs. That's their choice. My faith is within, based upon life's lessons and experiences. I've learned that the more you do the right thing, then often you are returned with the right result. Reeve highlighted that obviously this was not the case of the trial and the outcome, and so that contradicts what I'm saying. That made me laugh. Because I could quite clearly see the reasoning. But I explained, that if you hadn't have cut me off, I would have continued with, maybe it isn't going really wrong, but going really right. None of this makes sense, but in time it will. I truly believe that. If we didn't have a power cut, then maybe there would not have been so many questions. But I wasn't shy about what I said. He wasn't expecting me to say, I don't believe in life after death, although I accept something happens. Some form of phenomena as a result. In the end, or over a couple of hours, I ended up saying a lot of things. Including we're in a constant state of actions and reactions and responses. And that events in our childhood, big or small, can go on to shape or mould the rest of our lives. Defining our choices and decisions. I saw it as a sign our bromance was blossoming when Reeve told me Toenails had pulled him earlier, when we were queuing up to leave work. We were stood around waiting for our pat down. We receive them randomly, just to check we're not smuggling stuff back up onto the wing. Anyway, Toenails apparently asked him, was he going to do K in? Once again, confirming his sly and horrible nature.