wing, who I observe working every
day, isn’t there one to spruce up the induction wing? Do they leave the wing in
a filthy condition so that when inmates are moved to another part of the prison
they’ll feel it’s an improvement, or is it that they just can’t cope with the
turnover of prisoners? Either way, I would like to tell Governor Kate Cawley
(I’ve discovered the governor’s name on a notice board, but haven’t yet come
across her) that it’s degrading, and a blip in an otherwise well-run prison.
Why are the induction prisoners locked up for such
long hours while the rest of the inmates are given far more freedom? And why… And then it hits me. I am the only person in that
room who hasn’t been through this process before, and the others either simply
don’t give a damn or can’t see the point of it. They are mostly hardened
criminals who just want to complete their sentence and have as easy a time as
possible before returning to a life of crime. They believe that the likes of Mr
Flintcroft will make absolutely no difference to their lives. I suspect that
the likes of Mr Flintcroft have, over the years, made a great deal of
difference to their lives, without their ever realizing or appreciating it.
Once Mr Flintcroft accepts that there are going to be no
questions, we all file out and return to our cells. I stop and thank him for
carrying out his thankless task.
12 noon
Mr Chapman tells me I have a large parcel in reception,
which I can pick up after dinner (lunch).
12.15 pm
Lunch: spam fritters, two potatoes and a glass of Evian.
HELP! I’m running out of Evian.
12.35 pm
I report to reception and collect my parcel, or what’s left
of it. It originally consisted of two books: Alan Clark’s Diaries, and The
Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby, which has been sent in
by Anton, one of James’s closest friends. They’re accompanied by a long letter
about the latest bust-up with his girlfriend (I do love the young – only their
problems exist) and, from Alison, a dozen writing pads, two packets of
liquid-point pens and six books of first-class stamps. Mr Chapman explains that
I can keep the long letter from Anton, but everything else will be placed in my
box at reception and returned to me only when I’m transferred or released.
3.15 pm
I have become so accustomed to prison life that I not only
remember to take my gym card, but also a towel and a bottle of water to my
afternoon gym session. The running machine still isn’t working, so I’m back to
ten minutes on the rower (1,837 metres – not very impressive) followed by a
light weight-training session and ten minutes on the bike, which I now know how
to turn on and, more importantly, turn off.
Everett (GBH) leaves his 240-pound bench press, and asks if
he can have a swig of my Evian. I nod, as I don’t think there’s much of an
alternative. A moment later his black weight-lifting partner – taller and wider
– strolls across and takes a swig without asking. By the time I’ve finished
stretching, the bottle is empty.
Once I’m back on my wing I try to take a shower, but the
door is locked. I look through the tiny window. It’s all steamed up, and two
prisoners are banging on the door trying to get out. I cannot believe that it
is prison policy to lock them in and me out. I hang around for about ten
minutes with a couple of other prisoners before an officer eventually appears.
I tell him I’d like to have a shower.
‘You’ve missed your chance.’
‘I didn’t have a chance,’ I tell him. It’s been locked for
the past ten minutes.’
‘I’ve only been away for a minute, maybe two,’ he says.
‘I’ve been standing here for nearly ten minutes,’ I politely
point out.
If I say it’s one minute, it’s one
minute,’ he says.
I return to my cell. I now feel cold and sweaty. I sit down
to write.
6.00 pm
Supper. A bowl of thick, oily soup
is all I can face. Back in my cell I pour myself half a mug of
day, isn’t there one to spruce up the induction wing? Do they leave the wing in
a filthy condition so that when inmates are moved to another part of the prison
they’ll feel it’s an improvement, or is it that they just can’t cope with the
turnover of prisoners? Either way, I would like to tell Governor Kate Cawley
(I’ve discovered the governor’s name on a notice board, but haven’t yet come
across her) that it’s degrading, and a blip in an otherwise well-run prison.
Why are the induction prisoners locked up for such
long hours while the rest of the inmates are given far more freedom? And why… And then it hits me. I am the only person in that
room who hasn’t been through this process before, and the others either simply
don’t give a damn or can’t see the point of it. They are mostly hardened
criminals who just want to complete their sentence and have as easy a time as
possible before returning to a life of crime. They believe that the likes of Mr
Flintcroft will make absolutely no difference to their lives. I suspect that
the likes of Mr Flintcroft have, over the years, made a great deal of
difference to their lives, without their ever realizing or appreciating it.
Once Mr Flintcroft accepts that there are going to be no
questions, we all file out and return to our cells. I stop and thank him for
carrying out his thankless task.
12 noon
Mr Chapman tells me I have a large parcel in reception,
which I can pick up after dinner (lunch).
12.15 pm
Lunch: spam fritters, two potatoes and a glass of Evian.
HELP! I’m running out of Evian.
12.35 pm
I report to reception and collect my parcel, or what’s left
of it. It originally consisted of two books: Alan Clark’s Diaries, and The
Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby, which has been sent in
by Anton, one of James’s closest friends. They’re accompanied by a long letter
about the latest bust-up with his girlfriend (I do love the young – only their
problems exist) and, from Alison, a dozen writing pads, two packets of
liquid-point pens and six books of first-class stamps. Mr Chapman explains that
I can keep the long letter from Anton, but everything else will be placed in my
box at reception and returned to me only when I’m transferred or released.
3.15 pm
I have become so accustomed to prison life that I not only
remember to take my gym card, but also a towel and a bottle of water to my
afternoon gym session. The running machine still isn’t working, so I’m back to
ten minutes on the rower (1,837 metres – not very impressive) followed by a
light weight-training session and ten minutes on the bike, which I now know how
to turn on and, more importantly, turn off.
Everett (GBH) leaves his 240-pound bench press, and asks if
he can have a swig of my Evian. I nod, as I don’t think there’s much of an
alternative. A moment later his black weight-lifting partner – taller and wider
– strolls across and takes a swig without asking. By the time I’ve finished
stretching, the bottle is empty.
Once I’m back on my wing I try to take a shower, but the
door is locked. I look through the tiny window. It’s all steamed up, and two
prisoners are banging on the door trying to get out. I cannot believe that it
is prison policy to lock them in and me out. I hang around for about ten
minutes with a couple of other prisoners before an officer eventually appears.
I tell him I’d like to have a shower.
‘You’ve missed your chance.’
‘I didn’t have a chance,’ I tell him. It’s been locked for
the past ten minutes.’
‘I’ve only been away for a minute, maybe two,’ he says.
‘I’ve been standing here for nearly ten minutes,’ I politely
point out.
If I say it’s one minute, it’s one
minute,’ he says.
I return to my cell. I now feel cold and sweaty. I sit down
to write.
6.00 pm
Supper. A bowl of thick, oily soup
is all I can face. Back in my cell I pour myself half a mug of
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