by G. F. Newman
Words of protest almost flew from Lynn, but he knew speaking about some of the things that went on wasn’t going to help either him or Bobby Mark, not here. Maybe he could get word out to a newspaper or television company.
‘What a sorry state our prisons would be in if prison officers relieved their frustrations on the inmates,’ Wykes continued. ‘Your sort of behaviour is inexcusable.’ He paused as if expecting Lynn to interrupt. ‘Have you anything further to say before we pass sentence?’
Now Lynn hesitated. There was so much he had to say, too much, and the words, struggling to get out, smashed into each other preventing him saying anything. ‘No, sir,’ he finally managed through his confusion.
‘Very well. The sentence is one hundred and eighty days’ loss of remission; stoppage of earnings for a period of twenty-eight days; cellular confinement for a period of twenty-eight days.’
It was a result he could hardly believe. His glance flitted across to po McClean, who looked disappointed. The expectation was that he’d cop at least an extra year or be sent out to be dealt with by the Crown Court.
The magistrate paused to consider him as if reading something in his face. ‘Do you wish to say something to this committee?’
His invitation surprised Lynn. Then with thoughts growing calmer, he hesitated and glanced at the governor.
‘You need have no fear of being victimised if that’s what inhibits you,’ Wykes said as though he personally was able to guarantee that. ‘Mr Maudling?’
Maudling cleared his throat. ‘If a prisoner has a complaint and makes it through the correct channels, we will do all we can to remedy it, provided it’s found to be valid.’
The chairman seemed satisfied. ‘That’s fair enough.’
At that moment Lynn was conscious of all their eyes on him. Some were hating him, some fearing him, others probably merely being curious about him. He wondered where he should start. There was so much wrong with the system. ‘Well, sir,’ he began cautiously. ‘I know I was out of order whacking Mr Evans like that –’ contrition was a good start and he thought it might reassure them. ‘I’m sorry I done it, but things build up for you when you’re inside. You gotta have some of it yourself to know what it’s like. There’s no way you can tell just coming in for a visit. It ain’t the same. You gotta taste it and smell it and feel it. You gotta be here and experience how unjust the system is even when it’s not trying to be. It frustrates you the whole time, stops you thinking and acting like a man, makes you like a restrained child who ain’t allowed to do nothing. Then suddenly you get a short visit from your wife, and everything comes crashing in on you. All the time you’re banged up and can’t do nothing for your family, and all the while you can’t help them, wondering what’s happening to them, if they’re all right, if they’re managing. Then your missus comes and tells you all the problems, or you see it in her face if she don’t crack, and there’s fuck all you can do. You don’t even have time to adjust to seeing her, to sit down with her and begin to sort things out. I mean, so much has built up you can’t think of the things you need to say you’re so anxious. The thing is, if they’d find us some proper work, so we could go and earn a wage to send home and support our families, then half them problems would vanish, so many of them are about money. Your helplessness ruins you, it does your head in knowing how they’re struggling and you’re just rotting in here, either sewing a few mailbags or making a few toys or sitting in your peter.
‘I mean, prison’s only s’posed to restrict your liberty, to stop wrong ’uns getting their living. But it does worse than that, it punishes your family, and does you up in the head ’cos you know it’s happening. You can’t wonder at villains getting released and going straight back to work. Prison don’t exactly rehabilitate them, you’re fit for nothing when you get out. Unless you’re allowed to make one or two decisions for yourself you forget how to and that’s demoralising, it strips away all you need to survive on the outside. S’hard for ordinary people to see some of what’s going on inside you. I mean, I know a lot of cons ain’t exactly lovable, and down here you got the worst of ’em. But this place just seems like it is a dumping ground for the problems society can’t cope with. S’all, and everyone gets treated the same – diabolically.
‘I dunno, the system’s all wrong. It’s unjust, it treats you like some low life form. Dogs in Battersea get better treatment, they do. I mean, this little lot takes all your self-respect, takes all your dignity. What are geezers in here, after all? I mean, they’re only the villains what got caught. What are those people on the outside, most of them? Villains what didn’t get caught. People in here are entitled to something, well, some of ’em. But this lot, it wants everything, dun it? We got nothing left.’ The words finally stopped bubbling out of him and he felt exposed and vulnerable.
There was a long silence. Wykes seemed uncertain now and cleared his throat. ‘You’ve obviously given matters a great deal of thought.’
‘It’s what builds up inside, sir,’ Lynn said humbly.
The Committee didn’t seem to know how to proceed. His emotional outpouring probably embarrassed them. He felt embarrassed himself and wished he had kept his mouth shut.
‘I’m sure where your points have any validity, the Home Office has them under review.’ The chairman glanced towards the governor, who nodded. ‘No one wants to see men stagnate when they could otherwise be useful, productive members of society.’
‘Tell me, Mr Lynn,’ the only woman member of the Committee said, ‘what dignity or self-respect did you leave those guards when you smashed them to the ground with your shotguns?’
‘I didn’t, did I? I didn’t smash no one with a shotgun. It wasn’t me, I was fitted by the filth. They decided it was my turn, and that was it!’ Anger flashed through him like petrol vapour igniting, and he felt two escort warders press tighter to him and grip his arms.
‘A jury of twelve men and women thought differently.’
‘Only with a bent judge. All the Bill what got up in court perjured themselves. It was a get-up from the go. I mean, what fucking chance you got?’
‘Watch your language,’ the chief warned.
Beyond caring, Lynn said, ‘Well, go on, nick another hundred and eighty days off me. What’s the fucking dif? Bang me behind m’ door for as long as you like, don’t alter the facts one fucking bit, does it?’
No one pursued the point. Wykes said, ‘You’re appealing against sentence?’
‘Yes, sir. Just waiting for it to get on.’
‘Well, good luck,’ the chairman said. Lynn closed his eyes in face of the inadequate remark. ‘Was there anything else, Lynn?’
He glanced over at po McClean, hating the Ulsterman more than the two IRA men behind their doors on the wing must have hated him. Without fear of consequences he said, ‘I’d like to make a complaint on behalf of another prisoner, Robert Mark. He’s being held in solitary and getting a regular beating from the screws. The dirty slags steam into him for no reason at all.’
‘That’s a very serious allegation,’ Wykes said formally. ‘Have you followed the proper complaints procedure, taken it to the governor?’
‘No, sir. Wouldn’t do any good, would it?’
Maudling bristled at this, but didn’t comment, as though to do so was beneath his dignity.
‘Do you wish to name the officers you believe are involved in this mistreatment of a prisoner?’ Wykes asked.
Again Lynn hesitated, wondering if this was a smart move. They might try some kind of retaliation against him, or if they didn’t they almost certainly would against Mark. ‘No, sir.’
‘Very well,’ the chairman said. ‘This committee takes note of your complaint, and will inquire fully into it. That’s all.’
Lynn was escorted out to start his sentence in chokey.
49
DURING THE RELATIVELY SHORT TIME he had been at the pr
ison he had made what he thought was an insightful observation about his fellow workers. Some might have thought it more a judgement, but if it was, he included himself in it. The prison staff comprised more than a few of life’s failures. Only a minority seemed to see the job as a vocation, most seemed to have tried something else and failed: the examination for the police being too stiff; the fire service too tough; entry to the prison service required you to pass the simple medical and you only needed to be five feet six inches in your socks. People from the armed forces who were suddenly without a regimented life often came home to the prison service, and failures who avoided change, wanted secure employment, automatic power over those less fortunate, and strict regimentation. Few of his colleagues accepted this, and they deluded themselves about the worthiness of the job. Paul Hardiman harboured no such delusions, but felt no less at home.
An equal number of failures was found among those like himself who formed the professional body of the prison service; the doctors, welfare officers, clerics, most of whom seemed to have less recognition of their failings. Perhaps, being better educated, they were more equipped to deny their shortcomings by rigidly demarking the authority of their position, allowing no possible challenge to it.
As the prison chaplain, Hardiman not only felt a failure, he was convinced he looked one also. He had a damp, crumpled appearance which seemed to inspire confidence in no one. The skin on his fingers was heavily bitten around the nails and was so raw at times that he was afraid to touch any of the surfaces in the prison for fear of getting Aids. Pathological fear robbed him of sleep and his peace of mind. The possibility that he had already contracted Aids gnawed at him but he was too frightened to go for the test.
Feeling the need to remove himself from the pressures of parish work following the break-up of his relationship with a young ministrant, the prison chaplaincy seemed heaven-sent. His bishop had recommended him to the post with alacrity. Hardiman fitted perfectly in this regime where there was never any need to measure oneself, with abundant opportunity to condemn others as worse failures.
‘Evening, Oliver,’ Hardiman said cheerfully as he approached the section gate to the punishment block. ‘All seems quiet.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette, which was now close to the filter tip.
‘All gone down the pub, Rev,’ the fat uniformed man joked as he relocked the gate. ‘Who d’you want to see, as if I can’t guess? Wasting your time there, you are, Rev.’
As he followed the broad back of the uniformed officer, he smiled and threw his cigarette stub onto the floor, knowing that annoyed them.
Lynn was face-down on the cold stone slabs doing press-ups, counting and ignoring them. Hardiman smiled at the prison officer, being prepared to wait as he watched the sweat-glistening muscles on Lynn’s back – his friend had been very physical like this.
‘You got a visitor!’ Dorman barked.
Hardiman felt a little embarrassed that he was being forced upon Lynn and glanced at Oliver Dorman, inclining his head towards the door, indicating that it was all right for him to leave. The look on Dorman’s face suggested he was more inclined to put his toe into Lynn’s ribs, but he went out instead. Still he waited without speaking and took out his cigarettes and lit one, not considering if this prisoner might object. Most didn’t. Some cadged cigarettes. There was no ashtray, so he threw the spent match in the pot in the corner.
‘Fifty,’ Lynn said, mostly for his own benefit.
Other than sweating, he showed no sign of strain. If he tried doing press-ups Hardiman knew he’d be doing more than sweating. ‘That’s the idea, keeping fit. Healthy body, healthy mind.’ There was nothing coming back from the prisoner and he became more embarrassed. ‘Would you care for a cigarette?’
‘Don’t smoke,’ Lynn said.
With a nod he said, ‘Very wise, especially here. I’m sure that’s the only reason prisoners ask to see me half the time. Yes. I keep trying to give up. A stupid habit really.’ That was another of his failures, but he didn’t want to say as much to Lynn, assuming he hadn’t already guessed. Silence dropped like a stone between them again. He didn’t know what more to say to this man and felt awkward, small-talk not coming easily to him. He felt Lynn’s unease and wasn’t sure how to dispel it. ‘I came to see if I could assist you – with any of your problems.’
The statement seemed to surprise Lynn. ‘You? What the fuck can you do?’
That wasn’t the reaction he had hoped for. He watched Lynn rise off the floor and get his towel and mop off the sweat. The rough cotton dragged across stretched muscles was an exciting sight.
‘Perhaps it’d help if you’d tell me the problem?’
Lynn said, ‘I never had any religion. To be honest, I’ve only ever gone to church when friends got married, s’about all.’
‘Your cell card says you’re C of E.’
‘I was going to stick down vegetarian – for the different food you can have. If you don’t stick down something you’re banged up while the others go to chapel.’
‘Is that all the service means to you, a trip out of your cell?’ His services in prison were the best attended anywhere, but still it hurt when prisoners like Lynn offered their reasons for attending.
‘You ain’t exactly Billy Graham, are you?’
Hardiman smiled, accepting the slight. He knew the power of his oratory fired no one’s imagination. He sighed and said, ‘Does God not address himself to you in any way?’ – ash tumbling down his coat. He brushed at it, then flicked his cigarette in the direction of the piss-pot.
‘While I’m stuck in here, down to fuck all? T’rific: He might if I was to get a nice result.’
‘The apostle Paul was imprisoned and endured great hardship.’
‘Talk like a prick! What about that no-good slag who put me in here? Be fair! What about him? You lot make me die, you really do. You’re all in this together. Supporting each other, pretending what is going on is right.’ He shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘Coming here and telling me Paul was imprisoned.’
Embarrassment prickled Hardiman’s face and he tried to detach himself from it. ‘You sound very bitter, James,’ he said, sensing he’d got Lynn’s first name wrong.
‘Wouldn’t you be? Wouldn’t anyone?’ Lynn demanded.
‘There are no easy answers as to why such things happen,’ Hardiman said. The obvious answer was that men were in prison for committing crimes, but he was sure Lynn didn’t want to hear that. He had no knowledge that the system often got it wrong, and no reason to suppose it had this time.
‘That no-good fucking detective wanted me put away.’
‘Cast your burden on the Lord. He will sustain you. He may not offer immediate solutions, but it does help to tell Him –’
‘How the fuck’s He helped you?’ Lynn said uncharitably. ‘I mean, you’re doing time just like anyone else. You don’t even have a key! You have to wait for the screws to unlock the doors just like me.’
‘Maybe this is a penance.’ Mostly he avoided thinking about it.
‘I tell you what, pal, you couldn’t get a living outside. I mean, look at what sort of people is working in here. Where else could fucking rubbish like that get a living? Look at some of them screws, they fucking well deserve to be this side of the door.’
This was another truth, one that made him realise how apt his job was. ‘If you wish, James,’ he said, focusing his attention away from his own problems, ‘I will pray with you.’
‘What for?’ Lynn asked. ‘Me getting a result on appeal?’
‘That’s a start. God will listen. I know He will.’
‘If it’s the same to you, I’ll put my bit of faith in m’ brief. I mean, I always believed in things I could see and touch. If they open the gate and hand me a ticket back to London, I’ll believe.’
‘Let me help you some way. Trust me, James. Anything you tell me will rema
in in the strictest confidence.’ He hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. This might have been his last chance.
Lynn blew down his nostrils and turned away.
Hardiman watched his back as he flexed his powerful shoulders like he was getting rid of tension. He wanted to reach out and put his hands on this back and ease the suffering he knew was locked in there. He didn’t dare to.
‘Can I offer you no comfort?’ he asked.
‘Tell you what, you could do one thing for me.’ Lynn gave rise to some expectancy in the chaplain. He waited. ‘S’ lad on the block here called Bobby Mark. You could try an’ do something to stop these dirty fuckers picking on him, if you’re man enough. If they keep it up, I’ll top one of those bastards. I swear it.’
‘You’re mistaken, Lynn,’ he said firmly. He wasn’t about to listen to such accusations. ‘These are decent chaps doing a difficult job. You’re mistaken, I know you are.’
Lynn looked at him. ‘Course I am,’ he said quietly. ‘Fuck off, wanker. Go back and let the governor brown you.’
Hardiman closed his eyes and turned away saddened. There was no point trying to help a prisoner with this attitude.
#
For the record he wrote a report on his meeting with Lynn, setting down everything he could remember of their conversation, putting it down in a way similar to that which the warden used to relate details of charges they brought against prisoners. He also ventured an opinion as to Lynn’s mental state. It wasn’t optimistic.
This opinion he conveyed to the deputy governor the following morning as they walked to chapel. Hardiman was dressed in a surplice and carried a Bible. On Sundays he tried to avoid smoking until after chapel, but succeeded rarely, only making himself irritable, or worse.
‘I’m not a qualified psychiatric worker, of course,’ he was saying, trying to sound even, ‘but I have seen any number of psychopaths, and I recognise one in Lynn.’
‘I’d have thought you fairly well qualified,’ the deputy governor said, ‘and Lynn is not very clever after all.’