Fifty Years of Fear

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘I was told I would be in a single cell.’

  The officer’s almost amused expression changed.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘The man at reception.’

  ‘He lied. Get in.’

  I felt something light up in the dark recesses of my brain. I’d had enough bullshit for one day.

  ‘No. He said I needed to be 'risk assessed' first. As I might be a killer.’

  He looked through me for a few seconds, before shouting out, ‘Birchall!’

  The officer with the craggy looks came over.

  ‘He says he wants a single.’

  ‘Really? You go home, son. I’ll deal with this.’

  The other officer left at a canter. I supposed even the staff didn’t want to stay there any longer than necessary.

  ‘Why do you want a single?’

  ‘I was told I’d be 'risk assessed'. I need to get my thoughts together too. I’ll do that best on my own.’

  ‘OK. I’m assessing you now. Your file says you have been accused of interfering with a child. Therefore, your risk is extremely high. To children. Your cellmate is an old man. So, there’s no danger here.’

  I needed an outlet for my anger. He was all that was available. He must have seen the change on my face because he spoke as I took a deep breath.

  ‘Mr Roach, to be honest we don’t have any single cells left tonight. You will be going in here whether you walk in, or we drag you in. Think about it, a guy like you, first time in prison, you need a buddy here. The guy in here’s a doctor. Was, a doctor. He knows the ropes, talk to him, let him explain what you should and shouldn’t do. Don't make any silly mistakes. He will know about your chances at court, too. He’s been here more times than I have.’

  What was I thinking? Anger or violence weren’t my friends. I stepped inside again and was pleased that the grunting had settled to a mild grumble. Maybe that’s how it would be for me. Small wins were all I could hope for.

  As the door closed, I realised I hadn’t been given a toothbrush and my teeth felt like they had been prepared for painting.

  ‘Hey, I was supposed to get a toiletry pack when I got here.’

  The man peaked round and smiled.

  ‘Out of stock, I’m afraid.’

  Chapter 35

  I didn’t sleep. The lack of a pillow was a hindrance to that, but my mind was churning. I had chosen phone credit over a tobacco pack on arrival. When the door shut, I regretted that decision. The cell smelt of smoke though and there was a pack of Amber Leaf tobacco, a box of filter tips, and rolling paper on the small table top. I stared at it for a while. I even reached out for it once and pulled my hand back.

  The man on the bottom bunk farted at that moment. Our eyes met.

  ‘First night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was judged for a second time that day.

  ‘Smoke as much as you like, I got plenty.’

  He then rolled over and immediately began snoring again. I took his advice. I almost didn’t want the night to end. I felt safe with cigarettes and memories. However, the future beckoned. What kind of existence would I wake up to? How could my life change just like that in such a short space of time?

  The solicitor’s words at the courthouse weakened my heart every time my brain recalled them. ‘It’s just a question of how long.’ I remembered the film ‘The Shawshank Redemption’. All the guys in the yard joking that their lawyer had fucked them. It seemed I had fucked myself.

  My mum instilled in us many things. Some were awful; an ability to be sent to prison included, but she gave us a sense of stoicism. That was a gift. By the time the jail stirred to life, I had accepted my situation. I needed a bloody good barrister, Frank’s help and some luck. I would only get one of them.

  Doc, as my cellmate insisted on being called, was an interesting man. He looked and appeared exactly like what he was - a GP. Even down to the wispy hair and half-moon glasses. ‘Was’ being the operative word. His offending had put an end to his practising many decades ago.

  His alarm went off at six thirty and he got up, shaved, pissed and dressed while whistling. He said nothing in all that time. My stress levels began to rise. I could handle the silence no longer.

  ‘Thanks for the tobacco.’

  ‘No problem, I practically heard you looking at it.’

  ‘It really helped, so I appreciate it.’

  ‘I’m Albert Gilroy, but most people call me Doc.’ He paused and gave me a thoughtful look. ‘Weird how I was stopped from working, but when I came to prison I resumed business, so to speak.’

  'You diagnose problems?'

  'To a degree. Mostly I tell folk not to worry. There's too much time for that here.'

  ‘And you’re guilty?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. Sick, I would call it. I love to touch young boys. Not sexually, just examine them. Weird, eh?’

  Sick was being generous, I thought. The officer at reception had been honest with me, so I decided to go for the same route.

  ‘But if you were getting off on examining them, then it was sexual, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, the juries agreed with you, so I was sent to prison. That was forty years ago, the first time anyway. I’ve been in and out ever since. I only spoke to a boy at the paper shop this occasion and got sent back. They gave me a whole year here, just for saying hello.’

  I was expecting fear in that unfamiliar place, so being freaked out was welcome. The door opened at that point, a voice shouted, ‘Breakfast!’ and the sound of human movement echoed into the cell.

  ‘No one wants to leave their cell when they first arrive.’ This amused him. ‘Come to the door, it’s not so bad on this wing.’

  I followed him there with a racing panic and looked out at the creatures shambling towards an open servery. It resembled a scene from the film ‘Cocoon', before they bathed in the special pool. A long line of geriatrics in tracksuits queued at a hatch. However, instead of old women, we had strange young men. They wore haircuts that didn’t match their faces, and eyes that liked the floor.

  A muscular man with a short Mohican walked down the stairs with just a towel wrapped round his waist. He strolled to the front of the queue and slammed his bowl down whilst staring around looking for non-existent challenges.

  ‘That’s Kilkenny. A bully. Don’t worry, he won’t bother you while you’re with me.’

  That was a good thing as he looked unpleasant to say the least.

  ‘Why is he on here if he’s like that?’

  ‘He’s still a sex offender. He raped a woman. What he actually did was break into a house whilst high on cocaine and alcohol. He found a lady in her bed, removed her feeding tube and raped her. Your average Joe doesn’t like that sort of thing, so we have the pleasure of his company on this wing. Here, he is a big fish as, due to the nature of the beasts, most offenders are dirty old men or sick young ones.’

  We watched as he walked up to an emaciated person who might have been any age from twenty to seventy. He took the carton of milk out of his hand and climbed back up the stairs. His victim shrugged; it was clearly not a new experience. He came over to us and spoke to Doc.

  ‘Can I borrow a milk later?’

  ‘Go on, take one from my stash.’

  When what I could just about recognise as a young lad moved past us into the cell, my curiosity got the better of me.

  ‘Has he got cancer or something?’

  ‘Who, Karen? No. Heroin addiction. Drugs like that suppress your appetite and lead to malnutrition due to long periods without eating. Karen’s resources are so depleted, his body is now consuming muscle tissue and facial fat, giving him that gaunt hollowed-out appearance.’

  I imagined Karen’s response if Clara had placed our normal Chinese order in front of him. His eyeballs would blow out.

  ‘I take it he didn’t fancy his chances with Kilkenny.’

  ‘No one does. Kilkenny’s a twenty-five-year-old weight lifting machine. In thi
s place, he is King.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he bother you?’

  ‘I helped him when he first arrived, like I will help you. Wait here, I’ll get you a bowl and your breakfast.’

  Was it possible to help a man like me?

  When the lad came back out of our cell, clutching two cartons of milk, I smiled at him. He shrugged at the fact he had taken two. The drugs must have consumed his conscience as well as his future.

  ‘Doc’s a nice guy,’ I said.

  ‘Not if you’re a young boy.’

  I gave him a look of confusion.

  ‘Aren’t you a young boy?’

  He leered a toothless grin. ‘Not young enough for Doc.’

  The answer to whether Doc was able to help me was yes and no. The only person who came through for me outside the prison was Frank. He organised the legal team and everything else, except Clara. She wouldn’t open the door to him. Just told him to go away. The flat and the savings account, where the lottery winnings resided, were in her name. All I had was my parents’ house which, after evicting the tenants, I had to sell at auction to raise the funds for my defence. It was 2008 - not a good time to sell.

  During that time, I couldn’t bring myself to believe Kirsty would stand up in court and say I’d done those things. As the months ticked by and I read the evidence against me, I saw it was her word against mine. I’d already admitted to half of it. What jury would believe I had got in bed with her and just cuddled? Even me going in her room and hugging her was going to sound like a horrific crime if told in the wrong context.

  My brother offered me a room at his place if I was given bail but it was too close to the flat. There were bail hostels, but again they were too near to Kirsty, unless I wanted to move to Nottingham. From what Doc told me of such places, they were not for the fainthearted.

  It was all academic because I was refused bail anyway. The judge was of the opinion I'd serve custodial time whatever happened, so I might as well start ticking the days off straight away. That's how he said it, like he was doing me a favour.

  Doc was right about Kilkenny. He gave me the odd filthy look but left me alone. The others were not so lucky. Every Thursday when our canteen arrived, he entered most cells, like a tax man, taking his dues. Some resisted and they would be bruised and beaten shortly after.

  As I said, he was smart. The officers looked for this sort of thing on canteen day, so he left it for a few days. I suspect he knew the waiting was almost worse. I’m not sure if the officers were aware the wing was being dominated by one person and ignored it, accepting that someone had to run the show, or if they generally didn’t give a shit.

  Most were professional in their dealings with us, but others were of the impression we were in prison for punishment. If you asked them for help, they laughed in your face.

  Kilkenny was sick and extremely violent, but he wasn’t stupid. He was polite and chatty with the officers. The wing was clean and tidy. No one caused any problems when it was time for bang up. Everyone existed within his reach. He was the leader, and he made the rules as he went along. The punishments were swift and ferocious. We lived in fear. Nobody could stand up to him.

  Even though I was left to my own devices, I was still humiliated. One time, as we sat cowering, I listened to him ‘visit’ the man in the cell next to us. There was no talking, just the sounds of someone being beaten.

  That poor victim snapped that night. He swallowed toilet paper and drank water afterwards so it expanded in his throat. They found him in time but I believe he was sectioned. He had seemed relatively normal before that too, friendly even. We never saw him again. Afterwards, I asked Doc why nobody did anything, or told the officers. His reply was chilling.

  ‘He’s too strong. Most of us on here are weak-minded and weak-bodied. If we attacked him, even a load of us, and it went wrong, he would be here when we woke up the next day. Then he would visit us individually like rats in a trap. As for telling the officers? It’s our word against his. This is a prison so information leaks. I don’t want to think about Kilkenny's revenge if he found out he’d been grassed up. So, we sit and suffer. Don’t get noticed. Better someone else than us.’

  Chapter 36

  In hindsight, it was the uncertainty of what was going to happen that damaged me. If you have an operation approaching, you want it over with, otherwise it dominates you, and you are reduced to being the sum of that worry. Our justice system takes months, sometimes years.

  When they brought me back from sentencing, six months had passed. I hadn’t absorbed the magnitude of what could occur by the time I returned. Even then, I would struggle to get my head round it.

  As the day approached, I took my barrister’s advice and changed my plea to guilty. If I made Kirsty testify to what I had done there would only be one winner. Who would you choose? An innocent sobbing twelve-year-old or a forty-two-year-old pervert. I even shaved my hair off after thinking what that officer said about how I looked. Afterwards, I resembled a threatening nonce as opposed to a quiffed one.

  If I had pleaded guilty straight away, I would have been given a third off my final sentence. That’s for saving the taxpayer time and money, and for saving the victim any further suffering by having to give evidence. My late change of heart was another mistake.

  ‘Vincent Roach, you appear a measured man. One who isn’t prone to rash behaviour. This means I consider the events premediated and pre-planned. You groomed the mother and child over many years. In all my time in the courts, I have yet to come across such sickening and deceitful actions. These kinds of organised cold acts are hard to believe.

  ‘You are an extremely dangerous man. A person capable of such deeds is likely to commit further horrendous crimes. In my experience, these behaviours are present from a young age and I wonder what other sins you may have committed before this. Society, in particular the children, need protecting from evil men like you.'

  'I am compelled to give you a ten percent reduction in your sentence due to your late guilty plea as the law regretfully directs me. Therefore, I commit you to eighteen years. Take him down.’

  The officer booking me back into the prison looked interested this time. As though I may explode or sprout wings. Strange then, that it was such an effort to put one leg in front of the other. In fact, I wanted to lie on the floor.

  I’m not sure why I stopped myself having a breakdown. I thought it might be pride, but you leave that outside those walls. The little of mine I had left was still in the courtroom. They took me to a small room.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Roach?’

  My jaw froze. How did I feel? I felt like a terrible error of judgement had been made. One that, any minute now, someone would turn up and rectify. That was a feeling I carried with me for many years. I would come to hear many others say almost those exact words. There are cells full of people with a common state of mind. All of them thinking that they shouldn’t be there.

  ‘Do you want to speak to anyone? A Listener, maybe? Eighteen years is a long, long time. I would be terrified.’

  He summed me up in that final sentence. I was petrified. I was frightened about where I was going, what would happen to me, and, worst of all, if I could survive. When others looked at me though, they didn’t see my concerns. They saw an impassive face, and a man they didn’t understand. People struggle with the unknown, and it was easy to be afraid.

  Humans are amazing creatures. They have an astonishing ability to adapt. Even as he droned on, my brain was trying to process the information. Eighteen years meant serving nine years. Then I became free. On licence but away from this place. I was a sex offender so would have to inform the authorities of where I was all the time. How would I survive? As always, books would be my friends.

  Still, I could move. Maybe to the seaside, somewhere remote. Although the cash from my house was gone, wasted on an awful unnecessary defence. Screw them. I could live on benefits. I didn’t need money. There would only be me to support.

&nb
sp; The now irritated officer wrapped his knuckles on the desk to get my attention. He had the cheek for him to be annoyed.

  ‘I’ve got a form to fill in!’

  I stretched my jaw and spat the words at him.

  ‘Do I feel sad and depressed? Yes. Am I going to kill myself? No, I’m not. So, tick your boxes, sign your form and fuck off with your fake pity.’

  Again, a strange uncontrollable burst of rage had swarmed through me, out of nowhere. I could not have prevented it, even if I’d wanted to. His face was almost respectful.

  ‘Thank you. Sign here and you can go.’

  As the violent fury left my body, I just put a cross on his form. He avoided my stare. Somehow, I knew I would end up here. It’s as though I'd come home. That was always my destination, and each decision I made simply accelerated my arrival. As I stepped through the office door and looked for where to go next, his voice followed me out.

  ‘Yo, Eighteen! You left your I.D. card.’

  The name stuck.

  They called me Eighteen, but I didn’t do it.

  Chapter 37

  2009 - Age: 43

  Frank was the only person who came to visit me all year. You would think that depressing, but I was grateful. Many on our unit had no one at all. The things they found us guilty of are hard to forgive. Whenever children are involved, sympathy is in short supply.

  Suicide, self-harm and depression regularly swept through the wing like a virus. It would go quiet for a few days, then someone else would fold. This seemed to remind others of the futility of their existence and they would consider their options. Of course, fear was everywhere. Fear for the future was the real killer.

  Any kind of conviction for a sex offence against children was a death sentence for your old life. There would be no going back to your family or friends. The streets of your youth wouldn’t want you. Places of work, worship and play tried to forget you existed. Perhaps people whispered your name on dark days.