Episode 25 - Scarred For Life

Unexpected often equates to being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a poor guy in his sixties who was new on the wing was caught up in the crossfire and his face slashed. He was only going for his morning shower.

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

0:00

Episode 25 Scarred For Life. Life in here is a rollercoaster of unpredictabilities that wreaks havoc with a person's head and emotions. It is difficult to relax, as anything can happen without notice or warning. You can't plan for anything, not even five minutes away. We're constantly in survival mode, limited to what we can do and constricted in the extreme as to where we can move. If we move anywhere in prison, then it's always accompanied by an officer or two, and you don't have to travel to any point in prison without passing through steel doors, steel gates and holding areas. Each lawless wing holds over 200 men and such as the design of the place that you could wake up on a different cell, on a different wing and you wouldn't feel like you'd moved at all. Not unless your toilet is next to bottom bunk's pillow. As time progresses, I have come to realize that routines can both be positive as much as they are potentially monotonous. And almost everything is made more difficult by other prisoners more than prison officers. I've never quite understood this, but fellow inmates cause you more harm or grief. I've written many times how I sit behind the cell door waiting for the sound of the keys to unlock us, and then stride along the landing to a phone, hoping it's working to make the morning love call. Often lads smash them off the wall in a frenzy after falling out with their partner, screaming down the phone with threats and abuses. A regular soundtrack we all end up listening to. Far too many of the lads are just horrible, all smiles and laughs with their fellow inmates, and then wild with jealousy when they ring the missus. Thankfully, some of the partners have the courage to ring the prison and report it. Lads in here are thick as much as despicable. How are they not going to be found out? Some think that they're super clever, ringing home on a mobile phone from inside their cell. To be honest, that's even dumber than the abuse dished out over a prison phone because once a partner rings into Walton and throws their abusive partner under the bus, i.e. he's ringing me from the cell on a mobie and threatening me. Then it's a raided pad, which always flushes out more than the phone. You lose your job, you lose any perks, and your cellmate is fucked just because he's in the same cell. One of the lads, E, is falling apart. His missus was spotted up with another bloke bouncing around in the car with the roof down over the weekend, and he was driving. One minute was Jack the Lad in here. Now he's being terrorized and mocked through the night by the lads. His head has fallen off. I've said many times that the lads get off on another inmate's misery. He is on remand waiting for trial. Another drugs conspiracy. And if it's anything like the others I've witnessed, most are getting slammed. Lads pray for fives. That is five years, but they're returning on average with between 10 and 15. Today's the 1st of June, and I embraced it with a positive attitude. I don't count the days, but it is nice to have another month behind me. I'm growing in confidence no matter how bad or tough it is, and I'm doing okay given the dire circumstances. At 8.30, I was preparing for the day ahead. That may sound ridiculous as to what do I have to prepare for, but you would be surprised. Laughable as it sounds, it's my wash day and as ever I pack my reading and writing materials, never forgetting my two pound pair of specs. I was preoccupied with the thought of T. It's Credit Wednesday on my phone, and that always is a relief. It's the link or the only link between life in here and love on the outside. I've come to recognize the sound of trouble, not the tantrums type, but conflict trouble. It's a combination of shouting, the alarms going off, thuds, goading from some to the voyeurs who lust over the sight of blood and violence. I could tell it was serious even from behind my cell door. It's disturbing to hear so many enjoying the violent entertainment. It's like match day, but without the football. Whatever it was, and whoever it is involved, I could sense it was escalating to something significant. My pad mate was first out and I followed. My eyes caught the worst of what was taking place, the classic slow motion experience, less than 15 meters away. I recognized the lad on the floor from my early days when we landed on B-Wing. He was a real pain and aggravator. A young buck who was fueling tensions when Johnny and I were dumped into cell 5-1, his buddies that day were now his enemy, and as I looked over in a state of powerlessness, one of his former pack members was kicking him in the face and head like it was a rugby ball. It was sickening. He was helpless and entwined between guards and foe. He was being kicked to the point of not far away from death. What made matters worse was that I felt powerless to intervene. Could I do something? Should I do something? Why is nobody doing anything other than enjoying the sick entertainment? It took a while for the officers to overcome the gang attack and smother the violent frenzy against him. Somehow he staggered to his feet like a punch drunk boxer rising to stay in the fight, but with his eyes and senses gone. Blood was pouring from both ears. His nose and his face were disfigured. I wanted to scream and help him as much as I wanted to cry. I'm in a place amongst people where I don't belong. The kid who caused me grief. Who never once smiled or gestured a friendly look in my direction, not even a simple, alright fella, because I've been on the same wing as him for months...no. The truth is I just wanted to throw my arms around him and help, tell him you'll be okay, even though it looked like he may not be. He's a young lad in his mid twenties. With a young family, and none of this makes sense. When you reach my age, you have a sense of parenting. It's a default setting. I hated it all and preferred to get back on top bunk, feeling sick to the core at the event, and reminded of how vulnerable each of us is in here. Unexpected often equates to being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a poor guy in his sixties who was new on the wing was caught up in the crossfire and his face slashed. He was only going for his morning shower. I'll never forget the frightened look on the lad's face as he stumbled to his feet. In the end, I went from wishing I could help, to wishing I could leave By 8.45, we were all banged up and the wing back in lockdown. Even us, who work in reception, normally avoid the coal face of wing life. The harsh reality is that I'm a prisoner with a prison number and very little identity or worth in here. Incidents such as these are happening a number of times a day, and nothing seems to be done about it. Ironically, on the news, Victoria Derbyshire is reporting there is a debate with reference to the suicides in prison. Apparently a person dies every four days. The head of the Officer's Association says it's the greatest social injustice of our time. Thankfully we got out to work, but all day I thought about what happened, how was the kid recovering, and the other poor old guy. Of course, how I wish I was back in a more civil, loving, caring world with my loved ones. By tea time, the lad and the old guy had returned from hospital. The lad seemed fine back to his old cocky self, but I sensed, it was probably masking fear. The older guy turned out to be a real character and took it all in his stride. I gave him four packets of Coco Pops and went and found him two T-shirts. He was still wearing his ripped bloodstained one from the morning incident. He couldn't have been any more grateful. His face slashed and scarred for life, and yet full of gratitude. It was very humbling. The highs and lows of HMP, the powerlessness of being able to do so little with so little choice. I did not feel angry, bitter, or resentful as I think of the judge and his cronies who put me in here in the first place, the reality is that I am here and what makes the difference is how I deal with it, how I get on with it, and how I progress. I said earlier it was Credit Wednesday. While the events of today catapulted HMP into turmoil, visits were cancelled. The first time I've seen that and testament to the scale and impact of this morning's violence. At the end of the day, when I look forward to ringing T, well, the VP room was busy with paedophiles and wrong'uns and when it wasn't, one of the other lads was burning into his credit and catching up with his own loved ones. I managed a quick two minutes to T as we were waiting to return to the wing. She was worried not having heard from me since the morning love call. I didn't tell her all the details of the day's events, that would only worry her unnecessarily. Instead, I told her the diluted version and it's always tough to get a phone on Credit Wednesday On a final and happier ending, I did get my washing done. It's a perk that I value. Once again, and in jest, the lads bang on about me wearing Calvins in my fifties. Even the officers go on about them. It's funny, but if I didn't guard them like they were precious stones, then they'd be gone. The 12th of June, 2016. It's official. H, a size 14 and a half shirt, received 32 years and 30 years rec on Thursday. Although it's not a surprise, it's still a shock to hear it, and I didn't even receive it. I'm curious to ask, but dare not. But what does a man think of when the harsh reality hits? What does each feel? How does a person compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings? In my experience, it's hard to process a head fuck. These lads are doomed in here for life. Whilst out there, they're damned for life. The four week overtime ban is over and the old normality is slowly returning, albeit it's far away from being something that is humane. I don't complain from my own position as I'm cocooned in reception, but the lads on the wings do have it tough. Half of the wing is struggling with severe mental health problems and half of them at least will be on meds. They should not be in prison, especially the low level stuff and nonviolent, they need help, not punishment. I'm months in and return to the obvious question, follow the money. Where is 40,000 pounds for each prisoner going? The place is cut to the bone with staff shortages, food not fit for purpose, and the portions would starve a child, let alone a man of 160 pounds in weight. Not happening is the fastest anything gets done, and if you did a tour of the prison, it's a cross between an asylum and a prisoner of war camp and a fly tipping site. I'd like to know what the powers at be really see or think when they walk from one end of the prison to the other. It's squalid, dangerous and out of control and unsafe for both prisoners and staff. How is this possible? Rehabilitation doesn't exist because no one understands what it means, or worse, no one believes in it. It's a firefighting exercise every day, like the prison is on a life support machine, and all that's happening is it's being kept alive, but any quality of life is over. Basically nothing gets done. Scores of private sector as well as public sector businesses and quangoes are being paid an eye watering amount of taxpayers' money to administer a service that is basically not fit for purpose. Why and how? Surely there is a care of duty to staff and inmates, are the incidents being logged or buried? It makes you wonder, is there an amnesia towards logging attacks? If not, then it implies the justice and prison services are failing in their duty, and ignoring the data and prisoners' welfare. Suicides, self-harming, slashings, drug addiction and various violent attacks are an endemic culture now and represent the real true prison landscape, but worse, they're being ignored. Prison and prison officers are not equipped, resourced, or experienced enough to deal with it. Surprisingly, a number of officers are more than okay. Unfortunately, the all time low morale affects inmates to their detriment. Caging any animal and abusing it does not tame it, nor is it good for its health and wellbeing or emotional balance. Men are under extreme pressure to survive in an overcrowded, squalid Victorian building, built in 1855. Inmates are forced into a sub world that is lawless, and as a result, the place is out of control. Violence is a bigger currency than drugs and tobacco. One of the lads was coshed the other day. A tin of tuna in a sock and whack, over the head. It's a sickening sight. Another guy, three went in on him, burst into his pad, and battered him and broke his jaw. I see most of these cases down in reception and chat with them while they're waiting to go to hospital. I swear, reception is more like a military hospital on the battlefield than a processing hub. Imagine you've been battered, a victim in a savage attack and you have to visit a hospital, handcuffed to an officer. You're stiched, patched up and then sent back to here. I've said many times, there is nothing worse in life than when you realize no one cares and there is no one coming to help. What does the man in the ivory tower, aka, the Governor think of all of this, I wonder? Is it the case that people don't want the truth to get out because of the size and scale of the problem and that a prosecution and accountability would have to take place and heads would roll? Obviously. Stuck behind my cell door in searing temperatures that drain you, my solace is writing. It helps me make sense of this madness. Training keeps me fit and strong, and of course, it's good for my mental and emotional health. But there is another reason I train hard, and that's if I end up fighting or I'm attacked. I'm curling 30 kilos nowadays. Everything is increased, my strength, stamina, and speed. In an environment like this, you don't get a second chance, and although my mantra to the guys is, I'm a writer, not a fighter, if I'm forced to defend myself, there is a fighter in me that always surprises the attacker. However, so far, rise above it, soak it up, and in my darkest hour I feel only love and know that I am loved. They have served me well.