Episode 38 - The Frenchman

By seven o'clock this morning the BBC was reporting a man knifed and dead in Pentonville, two seriously injured and two arrested. By the time I'd put the phone down on T, a guy had been slashed in the showers on the fives. A normal day in HMP. I am so familiar with the mayhem and violence that my biggest concern is being out of coffee.

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

@talesfromthejailspodcast

@jekyllandpride2023
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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 38 The Frenchman By seven o'clock this morning the BBC was reporting a man knifed and dead in Pentonville, two seriously injured and two arrested. By the time I'd put the phone down on T, a guy had been slashed in the showers on the fives. A normal day in HMP.I am so familiar with the mayhem and violence that my biggest concern was being out of coffee. It was a relief to go to work at 8.50, less for the chaos and more because I had half a tin of coffee in the bedding stores. I made two cups of coffee, wound the radio and decompressed with Funeral FM. Debussy was playing, Clair de Lune. Big Reeve broke my moment of escapism with news. He was booked on the bus to Kirkham. Mr D had just informed him and he was going in a couple of days. It came as a complete surprise as he wasn't expecting to be eligible for a couple of months. But the biggest surprise of all was that he was in two minds. It was 9.20. Then Big Joe rocked up like Hurricane Nicole sweeping into Florida. He's going too, and just as surprised, albeit he wasn't suffering with second thoughts. No, he was high on Cat D fever. We celebrated with four cups of coffee. I had two again. I was thrilled for the lads, especially Reeve. He has a partner and two young children. This is a game changer for him, especially with the family. He'll be working, eligible for home leaves and on his way to rebuilding his life week by week from now on, however, the Cat D fever equals pad mate manoeuvres. Most of them moody and shady. 10 minutes from now, it's whispers and skullduggery. By lunchtime, I'd helped Reeve see sense and it's time. It was flattering that he's settled, especially with me. So much so that he's reluctant to leave. But it was simple. It's time, seize it. As he set off to confirm he was going, not that he had much option, I had to work on a plan for my own manoeuvres. Not that I needed it. Big Reeve was my best advertisement by wishing to stay. For all of my troubles to date, I was prime real estate. And all the lads knew it. Five minutes over another coffee and Mr. P of all people appeared with another unexpected surprise and he never delivers pleasant ones. He'd been riding me for months now. He's horrible. Just making my time down here as uncomfortable as possible. He wants to sack me. Worse than this, the Despicables have seized it like dogs on a bone. Mr. P needed a listener, and J was preoccupied on the wings. So would I step in? The guy in question was a Frenchman and he'd been given six months for assault. Apparently he would not speak to anyone. I was provided with a bare consulting room the medics use for admin stuff. It has a table and two chairs. It's in a glass fronted room, the size of a broom cupboard. It's not discreet, nor is it welcoming or conducive to helping someone who appears to be distressed by way of consumed with sadness. Mr. P and Mr. S escorted the mountain of a man into the room. He was black, somewhere close to 50. I thought he looked like a broken man rather than a threat. But Mr. P kept the surprises coming with an offer of a coffee, although I knew he wouldn't be making it, nor would he be supplying it. The easiest option was to tell him Reeve could sort it. He knows where my coffee is. More importantly, the officers needed to be gone so I could try to make progress. I chose not to rush or force things, but was aware we probably had 30 minutes at best. He needs to be fully processed, including a medical assessment, and officers lose their patience with prisoners who either can't cope or who hold them up in the process. The coffees would be appearing within five minutes, and I opted to use this time to introduce myself and explain what was happening and why. I told him who I was and that I was a Listener. First thing before Reeve arrived was, do you have any questions? The no was not spoken, but a nod that suggested it. I've got to be honest, I saw that as progress. Mr. P had left him cuffed, for my safety apparently, although I surmised as much theirs. As he sipped on his coffee awkwardly in cuffs I asked him his name. I would never have guessed he was French until he spoke. His name was E and he told me he wanted to end his life. It was 12.40 and we were barely five minutes in. Sat in a goldfish bowl in Walton prison. I asked him what had led him to this point and feeling. Basically why? Visibly upset, fragile, yet determined to end it all, he told me he had three children. I was shocked, although I did not show it. They were nine, 15, and 18. I was a father and I'm acutely aware of the devastation this leaves behind especially for children. The impact can last a lifetime. I'm also aware of the reality, which is we're in prison, I'm in at the deep end and the bloke in front of me is vulnerable. I asked him, was he married? Did the children have a mother, someone to care for them? Then he opened up, and through tears and French English, he explained what had happened. To be honest, it could have been a Carry On scene only that it was serious and without being insensitive or betraying confidentiality as such, his wife had left him for another man. Apparently he caught them together in the marital bed. He thumped the guy, not his missus. He's now being kicked out of the marital home and the new guy moved in. It was a mess, but in this moment, it was far more serious than a broken marriage. He felt humiliated. Not by the wife moving Mr. Newbie in, but by the sentence in prison. He seemed to take this the hardest. The shame of it. I explained again, he'll be out in weeks and desperate to see the kids. No, was his response. Cold but calm. I thought it was better having him talking than having him just sit there and crying. He told me he tried to kill himself twice before, once under a train and another with pills. Even I thought you're obviously doing something wrong, ie not very good at it. I can't describe the seriousness of the situation. He said he was a man who had lost everything. He felt ashamed and coming to prison was the final straw. He said he had thought he would receive community service and had planned to return to work after court. He'd just taken a deposit off a client to start a contract tomorrow. These small details seemed to weigh on him the most to the point of the shame of everything, and prison, now the ultimate humiliation. Mr. P returned in favourite granddad mode, an irony. His friendliness was almost disarming, especially when he said, I just want you to know, me and the other staff, care. I looked at him with complete bewilderment. Care? Mr. P? I'm afraid they don't go together. In that moment, I couldn't help thinking the judge would be proud of Mr. P's performance. 30 seconds later, I resumed with the listening. The Frenchman became more upset than before, determined to end his life, and I felt helpless. Then, in my eye line, through the glass, the Despicables are gathered to take the piss and wind me up, throw me off my rhythm. Each of them was the worst of wretched creatures, all pretending to be hanging themselves by a noose. It was like asylum inmates performing in a sick circus. I focused on the Frenchman, relaying that many lads arrive here feeling the same as he, and in a short space of time, they find a resilience to cope, and hope to go on. That things are never as bad as they appear. Twelve weeks is a short time, and within days, he could be shipped out to an open prison. The French Goliath remained resolute. He was ending it tonight. The best I could say was how sad that would be. I asked him, did he have a faith that he followed or believed in? Another no. I saw Mr. P hovering. My final words to the broken Frenchmen were, I hope to see you tomorrow, and if it helps, the words I find most comforting late at night are, in my darkest hour I feel love and know that I am loved. He thanked me for being considerate, but his eyes and mind were elsewhere. I had no option but to make Mr. P aware. Discreetly I told him the Frenchman wants to end it all at the first opportunity. It was obvious Mr. P could do without the hassle. But the French guy was big and officers needed to handle with care. Mr. P couldn't tell me anymore about what would happen to him other than he'll be put on 24/7 watch. That was no comfort. It's not like private medical care. No. It's a cell with a glass front, and there's no 24/7. Mr. P returned with two more officers and one of the medics and took the Frenchman away. It felt like slow motion walking back to the bedding stores. Toenails shouted out of the kitchen, he'll want to hang himself after being stuck in there with you. He'll only do 12 weeks. I've had longer farts. I didn't even bother to respond. What a complete head fuck. As a Listener, it was a no brainer. Not discussing or disclosing what was said in the room, especially with the lads. That's a no go. J landed late in the day and as number one Listener, we chatted about what had happened. He disappeared to find out what had become of the Frenchman, but returned, baffled and with no information. We finished the end of my coffee over a game of cards. A farewell game for the Cat D lads. I was conscious about Reeve, now in jubilant spirits, and me not wanting to dampen the mood back in the pad. I'd hoped Mr. T would return before we finished work and at least give me a positive update that the Frenchman had settled rather than he was dead, but it was a no-show. I spoke to T but didn't tell her anything over the phone. It's inappropriate. All calls are recorded. And where would I begin? I don't mind saying that the emotional swells are being close to bursting the banks. What a day. It's impossible to stop thinking about the Frenchman. I do hope he makes it through the night. I'll miss Big Reeve, albeit it is time, or should I say the right time? Between the frustration of prison life and his missus struggling with young children, the pressure and guilt was getting to the big guy. We've laughed like school boys and we've trained hard. He's been one of my best training partners ever. He was so competitive and me not at all. We used to chat for hours, especially in the early months when it's all raw, scary and confusing, and I suppose even if we never speak again, we're Blood Brothers for life, such is our experience together. Reeve, he was like a bodyguard. No one was storming our pad when he was around, and in many ways, he was the cloak of protection or the buffer I needed whilst navigating the treachery from the Despicables. He's going and I'm thrilled for him, although I'm back in the precarious situation of having to choose the right pad mate. Although I'm confident, but not certain, that that will sort itself out by the time we're unlocked in the morning, and if I'm right, the person I'm thinking of, well, he'll make an approach before we leave for work. However, in the here and now, five minutes before lights out, my head and emotions are hijacked by thoughts of the Frenchmen.