by G. F. Newman
He was put on report for not getting out of bed quickly enough after the wake-up bell in the morning – the cell was cold, and being made to stand around in his pants and vest, waiting to get his clothes back, wasn’t appealing. There was no sense of justice here, and the multiple injustices within the penal system were magnified. He was put on report for not folding his bedclothes neatly when putting his bed out. He was put on report for damaging prison property when he was caught keeping a record of his days in there by scratching the wall with a stone he had smuggled in. Soon he noticed a pattern in the way they were putting him on report, each time letting him go a little longer, as if they were building up his hopes before charging him. There was no defence in front of the governor, the fact of being on report meant he was guilty.
Slowly, Lynn learned to check his feelings, but not without pain, and to watch the whole time how he behaved. It required a lot of concentration, and at first his concentration was not good. When he analysed what was happening to him, he told himself that the system wasn’t breaking him, or wearing him down, rather he was learning to be more cunning.
He managed to go for three weeks without incident and the sense of achievement this gave him was shattered when, after breakfast and the second slop out of the day, he was told he was to go before the governor. He hadn’t done anything, and appealed to the warder not to report him.
‘I don’t know about that,’ was the reply. ‘I was just told to bring you up.’
This fitted the pattern of letting him gain more time and confidence, believing he could make it off the block after all, until they knocked him back.
‘Your behaviour record is abysmal,’ he was told as he stood rigidly to attention, toeing the line in the adjudication room. ‘Forty-seven days you have been on this type of punishment. Had you behaved yourself it would have been finished in another nine days. But clearly you’re a man who prefers to do things the hard way. Out of forty-seven days, your longest period without breach of discipline is currently twenty-two days.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lynn readily agreed.
Maudling removed his glasses like they were heavy. ‘No, sir,’ he said: ‘You’ve been making complaints against my staff. Allegations to the effect that members of my staff were directly responsible for Robert Mark’s death.’
Lynn waited, fearing the worst. A knot of tension spread into his chest and across his shoulders into his neck, making breathing difficult and causing the back of his head to ache.
‘Whilst you are perfectly entitled to make complaints against staff, even one that brings about their suspension pending an inquiry, we do have legitimate procedures for them. It is an offence to make complaints via smuggled letters, as you did in the case of Officers Dorman and Jordan. You will lose the twenty-two clear days.’
‘That was before I started this lot, sir,’ he protested.
Maudling wasn’t interested. ‘Your fifty-six days cellular confinement begins again from day one. This, of course, has nothing to do with the fact that two officers have been suspended as a result of your illegal action.’
‘You fucking liar!’ The words burst out of him.
‘Take him out,’ Maudling said, returning his glasses to his nose and letting his glance speed across Lynn.
Reg Allison was one of the warders who escorted him back along the block. ‘You shouldn’t have been that way with him,’ he advised. ‘He won’t forget that.’
On reaching the cell, Lynn looked at the old man, believing he meant well.
‘Why not toe the line?’ Allison went on, as though that wasn’t something he had been trying to do. ‘Be easier in the long run.’
Lynn nodded wearily and went inside. The door was slammed. He tensed, expecting the shutter to snap open. He began to wonder if he would ever get out of solitary. At that point he recognised in himself the same feeling of despair, of desperation, that Bobby Mark must have experienced over his seemingly never-ending prison sentence.
#
Dolly Lynn felt helpless and frustrated over what was happening to her husband. She was trying to do something to stop the treatment Jack was receiving, but feared it wasn’t enough, that she wasn’t achieving anything worthwhile. Nothing ever seemed to result from her visits to the prison and meetings with the deputy governor. Now a letter from Ronald Hazelwood, her local MP, asking her to call and see him at his next surgery left her hopeful that he might be able to achieve something. Although fairly sympathetic when she had gone to see him after Jack got nowhere with his appeal, he hadn’t got anywhere writing to the Home Office minister. Following word from a recently released prisoner about the treatment Jack was getting, the MP had listened patiently when she had gone to see him, but he wanted to interview the prisoner and Dolly didn’t know where to contact him, and that seemed to lessen Hazelwood’s enthusiasm.
The MP’s surgery was in an empty shop with a curtained window in Kentish Town Road. The office in the back room was shabby, the furniture was old and worn and had the appearance of having been donated by the Social Services. Sitting behind the small trestle table with its scratched linoleum covering was the thin, round-shouldered MP. He had long, lank blond hair and round, modern glasses. He rose and shook her hand warmly.
‘I’m glad you could come in, Dolly,’ he said in a familiar way. ‘Sit down.’ He sat on the opposite side of the table and opened a correspondence file. ‘Sorry if my letter alarmed you, but I think it’s better to meet and talk, rather than me simply telling you the position of things by post. Has your husband’s situation changed since we last had contact?’
‘No, I still ain’t received a visiting order. I been down there again without one. Said I weren’t gonna go away until I saw him. But it didn’t do no good. The deputy governor said I couldn’t see him.’ She paused, to stop herself crying. She didn’t want to think about the situation with Jack, and at times even wondered if he was still alive. That was silly, she told herself, but she knew what had happened to Bobby Mark. She massaged her dark-ringed eyes and looked away from the MP. ‘They said he was in chokey still, and had all his privileges took away.’
‘I’m afraid that was confirmed by my inquiries at the Home Office,’ Hazelwood said. He seemed slightly embarrassed, and Dolly didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. ‘I’m not sure they’re allowed to stop his visits. I can’t seem to get information about that. He’s considered a persistent and disruptive troublemaker. As a result, they seem to jump on him for every minor infringement of the rules.’
She knew all this, it was fresh information she wanted. ‘He made a complaint about the death of another prisoner what’s got two screws suspended. That’s all he’s done. That’s why he’s getting all this stick, it is.’ Anger surfaced through her sense of defeat.
‘The Home Office showed me a catalogue of disciplinary charges against your husband, Dolly.’ He paused. ‘I wish there was something more I could tell you. I know there is a huge bias against the prisoner at disciplinary hearings. We should try to get some reform, so that prisoners can be represented by a solicitor. I think the European courts might be more helpful there.’
‘He’s been over four months in chokey, sir,’ she said. ‘I know what that’s doing to him.’
‘Let me get this right, Dolly,’ Hazelwood said, sitting forward, suddenly alert. ‘Are you saying he’s been in solitary confinement all that while? Is that what you are telling me?’
‘Yes, he has. And I ain’t been allowed to visit him.’
‘Gosh, I didn’t fully appreciate that. I’m sufficiently familiar with the rules to know that fifty-six days is the maximum a prisoner could be confined to a cell for punishment. I’ll go back to the Home Office, Dolly. I’ll tackle the minister again, see what he has to say. Certainly, I’ll endeavour to get your visits reinstated. Leave it with me.’
‘Something’s got to happen,’ she said ominously, ‘or Jack’ll wind
up hurting someone. I know him well enough. He won’t be able to take much more of it.’
‘I’ll get back on to the Home Office first thing. I’ll tackle the minister personally about your husband’s case – she’s not a bad sort. I’ll see if I can get some action on this.’
She hoped he wasn’t being over-optimistic, but she wondered at his smile. It was professional, easily found. Dolly wasn’t reassured.
57
DURING HIS TIME IN PRISON he was used to sleeping with the light on the whole time, and during his months on the block he had become used to the door shutter opening every ten minutes or so, even though he instinctively tensed; what he couldn’t get used to was the warders who reached into his sleep wrenching him violently into wakefulness. Sometimes they were real, sometimes they weren’t, and sometimes he wasn’t able to distinguish between reality and unreality.
Hearing a long, sickening scream, Lynn pulled himself clear of his shallow sleep and found himself wet with sweat. The scream was gone and he didn’t know if he had imagined it. He sat up in the narrow bed listening, but the block was silent, save for the metallic sucking noise that seemed to go on all the while; it wasn’t something imagined, but the very atmosphere of the block that was ever-present at night, like all the pain and suffering being expelled.
A marked change was taking place in him, both psychologically and physiologically, one that worried him. He was a different person from the man who had been put down here six months ago. He had shrunk in stature, and lost weight; his shoulders were constantly hunched and tense, and he blinked as though with an eye affliction, jumping at the least sound. His resolve to beat the system was no more for he knew it was nonsense even to attempt it. Instead, he needed to be cunning, he told himself, play it their way.
He tensed now on hearing someone moving along the corridor. The centre of his interest was frequently the door, and he often found himself staring at it.
The shutter slid open and a warder peered in. Lynn quickly averted his gaze.
Sleep wouldn’t return now. He had no idea what time it was, but he would lie in his bed until the wake-up bell.
The clanging startled him, even though he was listening for it. He rose at once, having too much to lose to be put on report for lying in bed after the bell. Straightaway, he began folding his bedding into a tight, neat pile, glancing anxiously towards the door, expecting somehow to be caught out, but not knowing how. These past few days he was more anxious for having almost reached his goal and fearing being kicked back to the start. Quite how he had all but managed fifty-six straight days without offending, he wasn’t sure, but he believed the screws were looking closely for something to pull him up on, some reason to set him back and make him start his chokey all over again.
The cell door opened and a warder said, ‘Bed out!’
With brisk movements, he brought his bed out and placed it in the empty cell opposite, the neat blankets placed on the end.
Automatically, he reached for his pile of clothes as he came back across the thoroughfare.
‘Leave those. Did I tell you to touch those?’
‘No, Mr Wright, I thought,’ he began feebly. The warder who’d opened his cell each morning for the past week always let him get dressed first. This was it, Lynn thought, he would be put on report. He checked a tremble which started in his jaw.
‘Don’t think,’ came the reply, ‘just obey orders. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The warder’s gaze left him as he stepped into the cell where his beady eyes circled the empty space, searching for possible infringements of the rules. Lynn waited anxiously, feeling hugely grateful when he was finally ordered to dress and slop out.
After breakfast, he received a surprise visit from the governor. The governor, his deputy, or the chaplain looking in on prisoners was supposed to be a regular occurrence on solitary to check the prisoner’s welfare. In fact, he rarely saw any of them.
‘Stand up for the governor,’ the warder ordered.
Lynn scrambled off the floor and stood to attention as. Maudling and po McClean stepped in.
The governor looked him up and down without any expression crossing his face as he said, ‘You’re to be congratulated, Lynn. You have now managed fifty-four consecutive days without offending against discipline. Quite an achievement. We’re pleased with your progress.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Lynn replied smartly.
‘It’s taken you six months. Most prisoners might have learned a great deal quicker. However, two more days and you can return to the wing. Doubtless, you won’t wish to repeat this exercise.’
‘No, sir.’
The governor nodded his approval. ‘In a closed society such as ours, we cannot tolerate disruptive elements. Good order depends on it. You’ve taken a long while to understand this.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well done.’ He removed his spectacles as he started away, but turned back again, causing Lynn to hold his breath. ‘Incidentally, as you were so concerned about Robert Mark’s death, you might care to know the result of the Home Office inquiry which you were instrumental in bringing about. It upheld the coroner’s verdict, that he took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed. It completely exonerated the two officers you named. I thought you might like to know. You might wish to apologise to them, but that’s up to you.’
This was his supreme test. After a moment, he said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ All traces of disappointment or anger, all his sense of frustration and injustice, were totally subjugated.
The governor’s eyes darted over him, and away. ‘Don’t let yourself down during these next two days,’ he told him, then wheeled out.
Possibly the governor, pleased with his progress, had told the screws not to wind him up too much over these last two days. He prayed that was the case. Everyone seemed pleased that he was getting through and he seemed to get less pressure. Gradually, he was lulled into believing that he would finally make it out of chokey. He began to relax a little, and even started to allow himself to feel excited about getting back to the wing; that was until he heard from one of the warders that Jordan and Dorman were back on duty. The news was like a punch in the stomach and left him with a breathless sick feeling. He knew for sure it would only be a matter of time before those two got round to him.
Each time the door opened, fear seized hold of him and he quaked. Those last two days seemed longer than the entire time he had spent on the block.
Perhaps the governor told them to keep away from him and he prayed that was the case, only his prayers weren’t answered. They got to him on his last night. Curled on his bed in the foetal position, too anxious to sleep, Lynn lay very still, hoping to give that impression, hoping he would be left alone. Hearing the key turn in the lock, his eyes came open in alarm, the only part of him that moved as the door swung open and they stepped inside. He could feel their menacing presence as they waited in silence and he was sure they could hear his teeth chattering.
‘All right, get up!’ Jordan barked.
‘Move. Move!’ Dorman ordered when Lynn didn’t respond quickly enough. ‘Or you’ll be on report. Were you playing with yourself, you dirty little wanker? Were you?’ he demanded, like this was an offence against discipline.
‘No, sir,’ Lynn said quickly.
‘I believe you, Jack, thousands wouldn’t,’ Dorman said, like they were old friends.
Just as he started to convince himself the governor had told them to go easy on him, Jordan switched.
‘Right, remove your clothes, bend over, legs apart,’ he ordered.
Wearing only his pants and vest, he wasn’t about to argue.
Meanwhile, Dorman began searching the bedding and dropping it messily over the floor.
‘We suspect you have escape tools hidden here.’
From his bent-over position,
Lynn said, ‘No, sir. Honest, sir.’ All the while his feeling of desperation was increasing.
‘Or smuggled correspondence,’ Jordan put in. ‘You know he’s the one who caused our suspension, Oliver,’ like his colleague might not have known.
‘Oh well, in that case tell him the result of our paid holiday.’
‘Reinstated without a stain on our character. That’s what the record reflects, Jack,’ Jordan informed him. ‘Doesn’t that please you? Doesn’t it warm your heart?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lynn agreed, turning his head.
The two of them looked at each other and smiled.
‘You lying fucker!’ Jordan bellowed and thrust his baton hard up Lynn’s anus, sending him crashing headlong into the wall. ‘All right, get up. Anything here, Oliver?’
‘Nothing. Or he’s a better man at hiding it than I am at finding it. Unless he’s hidden something in his pot again.’
Jordan smiled at that and turned to Lynn as he hauled himself off the floor, holding his ass. ‘All right, pick it up.’
Lynn hesitated and looked at the screw, hoping for some shred of decency in him. ‘There isn’t anything in the pot, sir,’ he said, ‘apart from what I used it for a couple of times in the night.’ The faces before him were implacable. Finally, he picked up the pot and turned to them with it, hating them more than anything, knowing what they were doing to him, but hating himself more for going along with it.
‘Right, fish in among them turds,’ Jordan ordered. ‘With your hand. Let’s see if you’ve any escape tools.’
Again Lynn hesitated, looking at the warder, then at the pot, and back at Jordan. His options were simple, obey the order and pray he’d get out of chokey, or throw the contents of the pot over these bastards and have his fifty-six days begin all over again. He saw alarm dash across Jordan’s face, but knew really there wasn’t any choice. By squeezing down his feelings to make them all but disappear, he was finally able to plunge his hand into the pot and fish around to the satisfaction of these two warders, who smiled.