The next Youth Project production, however, was only a week away and had been carefully organised and rehearsed. After discussing my role with Mike, we agreed that my testimony would best be given a month later, and that on Tuesday I should just watch and listen. I was quite happy with that. I had made a commitment to speak, and that in itself had brought me an element of peace.
* * *
A week later, dressed in my smartest prison shirt, I was escorted with three other prisoners (who constituted the "welcoming committee") to the visiting hall where we were to meet the sixty youngsters, their teachers and youth leaders. The youths had been picked to experience a day "inside" as a last resort. Many were already in serious trouble with convictions for theft and drug-taking, but their day in court and the leniency shown had had little effect. Without a change of direction, the next stop could be prison, not as a visitor but as an inmate.
It took about twenty minutes for all the kids to be searched by an officer before they sat down. It wasn't altogether necessary but it added to the atmosphere of discipline, something that seemed to be sadly lacking in all the youths congregated in the hall. Most of them were boys, some as young as twelve, but the average age must have been fifteen. I hadn't considered the possibility of girls being present, but there must have been about ten, dotted around the room. It was only later I learned that two of the girls were already taking heroin and had convictions for shoplifting. They reminded me of the kids who always seemed to be hanging around outside the supermarket, or in the bus shelter, in Cranleigh, where I once lived, a sleepy town similar to hundreds of others around the country.
Some were dressed in school uniform, most were in casual clothes, but they nearly all wore the same surly expressions. From their body language alone, as they slouched casually in their chairs, it was obvious they felt hard enough to cope with prison—prison, it seemed, was a joke.
After a few minutes to allow them to become accustomed to the atmosphere, Terry got up to make his introductory speech. He had been handpicked for the job. Terry was one of the biggest men I've ever seen—six foot six and twenty-two stone. His low gravelly voice contained as much power as Clint Eastwood at his most menacing, and he gave the impression that if you were foolhardy enough to mess with him, it would be the last thing you would do. His sheer physical presence made the youths sit up and listen. They could not have seen many such powerful men, and they must have been shocked to hear his story.
Incredibly, Terry had been bullied inside. He explained how he had been "housed" on the wrong landing, amongst the wrong inmates, and the daily persecution had started when he complained that the toilet hadn't been flushed. After several other incidents five inmates crashed into his cell and pinned him to the floor, where another took out a tin lid and with the serrated edge slashed his face from forehead to chin. The ugly jagged scar that we could all see bore testimony to the event.
The power of his quiet testimony was awesome and anyone who had ever contemplated surviving in prison through their own physical power had their illusions immediately dispelled. It was a brutal story to open up with, but unless the bravado of the youths was broken down, little impact would be achieved.
Dave then got up and gave a short speech specifically aimed at the girls. Dave and his wife had been convicted of theft and were both sentenced to three years imprisonment. His wife was pregnant at the time and had to give birth to their son handcuffed to a hospital bed. He read out a letter she had written, depicting the squalor of Holloway and the dreadful depression she went through after their baby was taken away.
Finally Ted spoke about the rules and regulations that the prisoners have to abide by and the general lack of privacy. He pointed to the prying cameras. "You're being watched already," he said. He explained that in prison they would have to do exactly what they're told when they're told. There would be no excuses. Anybody who broke the rules would be in serious trouble.
After these welcoming speeches, the group moved through to see the punishment area: "the block" where violent prisoners are constrained with "body belts". It was impossible not to imagine the screaming and the pain that would go with the sometimes necessary but dreadful treatment. What made the scene particularly shocking was the detached, clinical way the officer described the punishment, as though he were dealing with a piece of contaminated meat. As we finally made our way across to the chapel, the surly, macho swaggers were becoming a little less confident.
It took about twenty minutes for the group to move from one side of the prison to the other. Seven large iron gates had to be opened and relocked as we passed through, and every time the bolts slammed back into place it brought home how distanced we were becoming from the outside world. Friends stayed closer together and the one macho boy who thought he could taunt the officer by lagging behind was now firmly attached to the group. It must have been the worst place they had ever seen.
When we eventually arrived in the chapel, stern-faced inmates greeted the children at the door, cruelly separating them from their friends and leading them individually to a semicircle of seats around a makeshift stage. Police officers, teachers and youth leaders sat in the back row. Conversation had died, and it wasn't long before Mike Hart walked round to the front of the stage and faced the audience. I thought the youths were adequately stunned and wondered how Mike would greet them. His silver grey hair, pale blue eyes and kind smile immediately reassured the youths that the day was not meant to frighten, it was a warning from Grandad.
"Good afternoon," he said, his eyes taking in every one of the children. "My name's Mike Hart, and I want to explain what the Youth Project is all about. Today's event has not been organised by the prison, but by the inmates themselves," he said, pointing to the fifteen standing at the far end of the hall. "We're here because we care so much about you that we never want you to come into a place like this again. Some of us are serving sentences as long as twenty-five years, and yet we started off our lives of crime by doing exactly what you're doing now: petty theft, causing trouble, playing truant. We're not your teachers or parents, we can't tell you what to do. All we can do is warn you not to make the mistakes we made."
Mike's brief explanation was perfect. We did care about them more than they could possibly know. Knowing what awaited them "behind bars", the thought that some of these baby-faced youths could one day end up in prison, was an appalling one, and the next two hours reflected that. Every effort was made to force them to sit up and think.
The drama production was very poignant. The simple plot revolved round two young lads who one day steal some sweets from the local shop but aren't caught. This leads them to take greater risks, where they do get caught. The ensuing community service order has a positive effect on Joe. His friend, however, returns to crime, and eventually gets eight years for armed robbery. The drama was good on its own, but the contained message was made additionally powerful when the action stopped and the audience was given an opportunity for role-play.
"Joe's friend has just persuaded him to go and steal some sweets," Mike said, looking expectantly at the audience. "We want one of you to come out here and re-enact the scene, but this time say "no"."
At first there wasn't a great deal of enthusiasm, but eventually, with a little help, a young boy put his hand up. "I'll do it," he said.
Joe's mate, supposedly a ten-year-old boy, was played by Frank, an inmate well over six foot tall. "Come on, we'll go and nick some sweets," he said to the child looking up at him. We all waited for the answer.
"No," said the boy.
"What d'you mean, "no"?" said Frank, raising his voice. "Come on, we won't get caught."
"No, I don't want to," the boy said, sounding slightly less sure of himself.
"Don't want to. Call yourself a mate?" said Frank, applying the pressure. "Come on, don't be such a chicken."
The boy looked round. No one moved. Everyone was holding their breath, hoping he could say "no" one more time.
"No, I'm not doing
it," he blurted out. "If you were my mate, you wouldn't ask me to do it." The room erupted into applause. It sounded as though it was the first time the boy had ever said "no". For his pains he received a T-shirt proclaiming, "I've been to prison—I know what it's like."
* * *
The rest of the drama was equally successful, but at certain points where Joe's friend was struggling to come to terms with prison, the action again paused as an inmate delivered his experiences "inside". Many were gruesome and horrific—but all were true.
Hearing the brief speeches had an amazing impact on me. It was almost as though I was seeing the true picture of my environment for the first time. I had survived in prison because I had switched off my mind and my senses. When someone described what I had gone through and survived, I was left open-mouthed.
When the drama came to an end, as a finale, the inmates sang a song written by Mike, called "It's Better Out than In".
It was nearly the end of the day, but first there was a ten-minute period when the youths were split into small groups with an inmate allotted to each group, so that he could answer any questions the youngsters had. I thought I was to play no part, but Mike led a small boy to one end of the hall, sat him down and then headed in my direction.
"John, I've been talking to one of the teachers about the boy over there," he said, nodding towards the end of the hall. "He's got involved with a group of older boys who're stealing cars. He used to be good at sport, but no matter how much the teacher tries to get through to him, he can't. Have a go, will you? Get him to open up a bit," he said, taking me by the arm and leading me across the hall.
"Jason, I want you to meet John," he said. "Talk to him, tell him what you're doing." The boy looked at me cautiously.
"Hello, Jason," I said, giving him a reassuring smile. Mike drifted away and I was left with the youngster, who could not have been more than fourteen.
"Mike tells me you're good at sport," I said, trying to steer him onto neutral ground, but he sat looking at the floor. I wasn't quite sure where to take the conversation and we didn't have long. "I used to be a professional golfer, played for England once or twice before I came in here." He continued to stare at the floor, but after a few seconds he spoke. "I've played golf once or twice with my dad," he said. Then he lifted his head. I suppose it was a bit like hitting the jackpot. Almost immediately the common ground was firm enough for me to begin to get through to him, and when we parted I hoped my message about keeping on the straight and narrow would be remembered. Certainly his attention was focused on me more closely than if we shared nothing at all.
From then on, my past career was almost a signature tune, and I like to think that the youngsters I've spoken to since have at least remembered what the "golfer" said. The game itself, the fact that I'd been a professional sportsman, had opened many doors to me in the past. I like to think that none have been more important than the ones it has opened recently.
Throughout the day I had watched Mike constantly trying to get through to the young people who had come into the prison. His energy was fantastic and at the end I was left with an overwhelming impression of a man totally dedicated to helping mixed-up children. I knew then that, given the opportunity, I would do the same if I could. It could possibly be the one positive thing to emerge out of the last two years.
* * *
Two days later I was in the chapel with Mike when one of the officers came up to deliver a letter. It had come from the Metropolitan Police. Apparently six youths who had attended the project had turned up at the police station and handed in six flick-knives, a crowbar, and several other bits and pieces that were tools of the house burglar and car thief. The police were delighted. They praised the boys and immediately wrote to Mike to tell him the good news and congratulate him on yet another success. They regularly sent their problem youngsters to see the project and they also had the video that they could show at their station.
The lack of publicity that the project was getting, though, was frustrating. "World in Action" wanted to film it and one day the ITV news team came down, but it was such a political "hot potato" without Home Office backing, that there was no way it would get a media launch. Mike had great hopes of extending the project nationally with the use of the video, but without the necessary backing, only the local area was benefiting. He also felt strongly that prisons throughout the country should be participating in similar projects, and I knew he was prepared to travel to other jails to show the prisoners what to do.
At the time, the then Home Secretary Michael Howard, in response to public opinion, was proposing much tougher prisons, boot camps and fewer privileges for inmates. But those conditions were already in existence. To have a video bandied about showing the realities of prison was not on the agenda, particularly when it was a "lifer" who was doing all the good work.
* * *
However there was one piece of good news. So many important people were behind Mike and his project, that he had been invited to go to London to speak in front of nine hundred people at a conference on crime and punishment. I was thrilled for Mike when he told me, not only because the Youth Project, at last, might attract some deserved publicity, but also on a personal note: it would be his first day outside for twenty-two years, albeit under escort, and handcuffed to two officers.
As the day drew closer all those involved in the project came into the chapel to wish Mike good luck, knowing it was going to be the biggest day for the project since he had conceived the idea ten years previously.
The morning before he was due to go I wandered into the chapel to find him sitting in a chair. It was unusual to find him sitting anywhere. Normally he was busy working away, and instinctively I knew something was wrong.
"What's the matter, Mike?" I asked, walking round and sitting next to him. He seemed to have to collect himself and paused before answering. "The Home Office has stopped me from going, John."
What?! I was aghast "Why?"
"They don't want me to go—that's it." Mike knew the Home Office. There was no arguing.
"Mike, I'm so sorry." I felt absolutely sick for him.
"Forget that. Look, I need someone to speak and the only person I can trust to do a good job is you. I've asked the vicar to speak to the governor and clear it with security. You're a "D" cat, they should let you go."
I was stunned. My initial instinct was that I couldn't possibly go not to replace Mike like that. It was his day, his baby, and anything said about the project he should say.
"John, I need you to go," he said, trying to convince me that it was the right thing to do. "I need you to speak about the project and I want you to go for another reason. My speech was to last for twenty minutes and it also involved some of my experiences inside. I want you to use this opportunity to give your testimony—you need to."
I argued for a while, but Mike was stubborn and, what's more, he'd asked me to do it as a personal favour. Within the hour, the vicar had returned with authorisation that I was to go to London the following day—unescorted. A wave of emotions hit me. I was so disappointed for Mike, it seemed grossly unfair that he couldn't go. But what dwarfed every other emotion was fear. Not the fear of speaking in front of so many people. One person or nine hundred it made no difference. It was fear of finally confronting the pain inside. I had fought hard for this chance, and I hoped, beyond hope, that it would be a crucial step towards a future.
Chapter 19
The New Bridge Conference
on Crime and Punishment
~~
The next morning, after a fretful night, I woke up at four o'clock and thought about the day ahead. I knew I was looking pathetically thin and scrawny but at least I'd made an effort to make myself look presentable.
From reception, I had been allowed to collect a leather jacket that had been left for me by Bronya. I had phoned her during the afternoon to tell her the news, and, knowing full well the only overcoat I had was prison issue, she had left work, collected my jacket fr
om home and delivered it to the prison.
This really threw the reception officers. It was against regulations to receive goods into the prison without permission from the governor. They thought it would be all right but they had to check. The reception SO thought it would be fine, but he also had to check. The PO had no objections but it was against regulations, so he was unable to make a decision and the deputy governor was called. The prison was so afraid of upsetting the Home Office, that everybody was paranoid about making decisions.
Finally, though, I had been allowed my jacket. With the shampoo I had borrowed from Eric and the new razor I had collected from the downstairs office, I would go out looking my best.
One cloud hung over my trip. News that I was going out to London had spread like wildfire, and it wasn't long before one of the drug barons came for a chat. He was one of four major sources of drugs in the jail and he constantly needed supplies. The thought that a trusted inmate was going out was an opportunity too good to miss.
"I want you to go to this address, collect a parcel, swallow it or sew it into the lining in your jacket and bring it back to me. I'll give you two hundred quid for your troubles."
Mickey was white, aged about thirty. He was hard, had a dreadful reputation and employed several thugs to carry out his threats. But it was no temptation to me—all I wanted to do was refuse in the politest way.
"Sorry, Mickey—I'm just not into that." He looked at me and slowly spoke the address where I should go. "Remember it," he said, winking. "I'll see you tomorrow when you get back."
When I went to borrow some shampoo, I mentioned the little chat to Eric. "Jesus, you do get yourself in the shit, Hoski. You should give up all this honest crap—too much trouble. Look, you bugger off to London. Enjoy your day—you lucky bastard—and if I get the chance, I'll have a word with Mickey."
"Tell him I'm not doing it," I said.
"You'll owe me, big time." I nodded. Thank God I have friends, I thought.
INSIDE (One Man's Experience of Prison) A True Story Page 18