THE BALLAD OF WORMWOOD SCRUBS
(With apologies to Oscar Wilde)
Peter Kurth
From “Wikipedia” (known to get its facts wrong): WORMWOOD SCRUBS
is a Category B British local prison (ie. an establishment that receives
prisoners from the courts, either on remand or after sentencing). It is located
on the south of Wormwood Scrubs in the London Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham.
It was built in the 1880s, using prison labour. Until
1902, it housed both male and female prisoners. It currently has accommodation
for 1239 prisoners in five wings. There have been numerous disturbances and
protest acts in the prison's history. In 1979 there was a rooftop protest over visiting rights
staged by IRA prisoners. In the rioting,
60 inmates and several prison officers were injured. In 1982, an inquiry into the rioting blamed much of the
difficulties on failings in the prison management. The prison governor, John
McCarthy, had quit before the rioting. He had described Wormwood Scrubs as a
"penal dustbin" in a letter to The Times.
In the 1990s, a police investigation into allegations of staff
brutality at the prison resulted in the suspension of 27 prison officers and
the convictions of six for assault (three of whom later won appeals against
their convictions). The Prison Service paid over £30 million in out-of-court
settlements with ex-prisoners who had alleged brutality. At the same time,
David Ramsbotham, Chief Inspector of Prisons, delivered a damning report on the
conditions and regime in which he gave the prison 12 months to improve or face
closure. Since then, the Prison Service has poured resources and relocated its
most talented governors to tackle the prison's problems. Subsequent inspections
have generally been favourable, and the prison is now held to be one of the
better local prisons in the UK.
The entrance to the prison
(the prisoners never see it – pk)
Note: This diary is transcribed
almost exactly as I wrote it by hand in the prison. I have expanded some short-hand notes into
full sentences and added in brackets some things that weren’t written down at
the time. Please know also that the
actual names of all the prisoners have been changed for their protection -- pk
12/12/06 -- "B-Wing” -- First “full” day here [after landing, arrest, night at Uxbridge
police station, Magistrate's Court and 3 nights in the "First Night
Centre” with Tomas – before today I did not have any paper – pens, yes – for
some reason, they let you keep those – but until “canteen” delivery tonight, I
had no proper notebook in which to write].
No HIV meds as yet -- this is my greatest worry. I try not to think about the future --there's no "future” in it. Try not to worry about home or anyone there -- I can do nothing. Walls -- reality -- no exit. Somehow this was needed -- I like to think so, but it's a hard way to go about it.
Endless fluorescent lights and
the TV is always on (too loud, junk
to make our junk look like ... junk).
The world is mad. All kinds of
Maury and "Springer"-type shows:
who's cheated on whom, did you sleep with your sister, who’s the real father of that baby, etc. All this with "experts” and
“psychologists” and lie-detectors and DNA tests and "body-movement readers,”
who can tell if you're lying just by watching your eyes flicker -- "and
you can't do anything about it!” -- as if these things are infallible. Generally, everything on TV is presented to
you as a threat and a fright -- everyone
is out to get you – you won’t get away
with it! -- either that, or it's SO
uplifting you could be sick. And so LOUD
-- a frightful noise. Unbelievable
commercialism -- everything's about
money and “products,” what you have and don’t have, but should have (in here, believe me, everyone “don’t `ave
nothin’”). It’s no different from the
Trying not to look anyone in the eyes or at them in the "wrong” way (although you don't know which way that would be).
Shower tomorrow -- first in a week. I stink.
Cigarettes -- you have no idea of their value until you're here. People are willing to trade anything for them (I suppose drugs would be worse) -- I gave away too many at first, to anyone who asked. I'll have to quit, I guess -- but how in this place?
Cannot think of the animals at home -- I have displaced all my emotion and anxiety onto them. Britain is filled with gloom over the looming extinction of species ... tons of TV shows about this, and you even get to phone in (more often, "text” in) your choice for which species should be saved first, above the others. Should it be polar bears, tigers, turtles, whales? You be the judge! It's disgusting.
They say this is a "good” prison to be in and I believe it [though I later learn otherwise].
Meantime, serial killer on the
loose in
This "roommate” of mine [Mick] cannot sit still and can't leave anything on the TV to be actually watched. He literally stands at the machine and constantly switches the channel, as if he had a remote, which he doesn't. Total dislocation. He drinks endless cups of tea, all day and all night. Shits a lot in the (open) toilet, which has only a sheet strung across it. The thing is so wobbly you feel you could just pick it up and move it to some other part of the room. The cell is hot, stuffy and stinks to high heaven -- the windows don't open, and Mick always keeps the door closed, even when we're allowed out in the hall -- he doesn't want anyone to see him, and he never goes out.
It is dark here every day by
I am praying, literally -- at first this was just a response to anxiety -- to quiet my mind. Maybe it still is, but maybe it can go further [farther? I never know the difference].
I'm thankful for my previous "underground” experiences, for the dark places and times, because they make being here easier, less frightening. I can't believe that my fear isn't greater. I try to be calm -- I work at it. I behave myself. I show no impatience or reaction of any kind -- those are deadly directions to go in.
Mick is going to court tomorrow, so probably I'll have a new "mate” (more praying). Mick is homeless, Irish, and is in here for having beaten up his girlfriend, someone named "Jackie.” He keeps saying, "I tried to keep away from Jackie, but she wouldn't let me! She kept coming round to the hostel!” He's illiterate, and whenever a form needs filling out (which is constantly), he asks me to do it for him -- then signs with an "X” which I have to witness with my own signature. Go figure. We could be telling them anything and they’d never know the difference.
All is OK with the meds. Doctor today -- the first one I've seen (out of 4) who was decent and competent and knew what to do [remember that Indian jerk -- "Do you think I've got time to look on the Internet for the British names of your pills?” I: "Well, someone had better” -- a very unhelpful remark; see "patience,” above]. The doctor's assistant today was an American girl, obviously married here and flashing an enormous diamond ring, which I would never wear in this place. Blood samples taken.
Apparently the police at Uxbridge, knowing my HIV status, have scrawled "CONTAGIOUS” on my chart ... I am urgently warned by the guards to let NO ONE know about this, although plainly I can't be the only one here in that condition. If anyone asks about the pills, I'm to say they're for "high blood pressure” or "cholesterol” or both. “Just make it up.”
Things to be glad about:
1) It gets me out of Christmas and New Year's (and for all I know Easter)
2) A temporary but huge relief from financial worries ...
3) Plenty of time to write
4) Plenty of time to think
5) Plenty of time to read
6) Plenty of time to sleep
7) Great material
8) Character building -- are you a man or a mouse? (Or, as Alan Bennett says -- I am reading Bennett's Writing Home -- "You must learn to take it like a man. That is, like a woman, without complaint")
9) I am snapped out of ritual and routine -- only what is here is real
10) There may be more, but I don't know what they are.
The news is all about Diana and
"the princes” — vindication for the royal family, chagrin for Mr. Fayed,
who refuses to accept the results of the Stevens investigation. Mick says:
"They should just let her rest.
It's not fair on the kids.” Blair
is the first sitting Prime Minister to be interviewed by the police in a
criminal investigation (the "cash for honours” scandal) -- he has not been
"cautioned” (i.e.., read his rights) and is "not a suspect” (ha!). And always the
My life is very good compared to most I see here.
I'm trying not to "over-dramatize” anything. I have fantasies about the Romanovs in captivity, about Marie-Antoinette, Orwell, Arthur Koestler, de Marigny, etc., but these don't work. They were "innocent” and I am not (not in that way). I keep wondering if it's worse to be imprisoned unjustly or unnecessarily, but that doesn't help either.
Finished Bennett. I'm actually going to read The Da Vinci Code finally.
Characters: "Mr. Potter,” a painter, former winner of "the Cottesloe Award” (is there one?). He's sort of like Wimpy in Popeye -- a definite con artist, but awfully likable and always a gentleman. You expect him to start doing magic tricks. We sat together for ages in the holding cell at Magistrate’s Court – he was very indignant that his lunch was late in arriving (a microwaved shepherd’s pie, as it turned out) – apparently he’s been in and out of British prisons for decades. He seems to find it all very jolly.
Tomas: My Pole at the "First Night Centre” --
how we came to be there together -- "Last chance to bunk up!” (otherwise
you're in a dorm with 8 or 9 others) -- he shrugged, looked at me, mouthed the
words, "Why not?” et voilà. He
has no liver left (drink), tells me tales of his native village in the Polish
forest -- "way outside
A Russian today (gorgeous) -- he
speaks no English at all. At
"induction” I was told that at least 60 per cent of the prisoners here are
foreign nationals -- this has something to do with its being so close to the
airport -- mainly it means Nigerians, Iranians, Chinese, Vietnamese, ANY KIND
OF MUSLIM, etc. -- quite a lot of Poles, too, Poland now being a part of the EU. On B-Wing, I am the only American, with the
exception of one other, a "lifer” from
Mick left this morning, hoping for release -- he was very nervous all night, and once they leave, you never see them again (I still have no idea what they did with Tomas – for that matter, I have no idea what he was in here for to start with). I thought I'd have a day alone and was looking forward to it -- at least I could pick something to watch on TV and just leave it there -- but no, suddenly the keys turn -- "Kurth! You have a legal visit!” I think it must be the solicitor, but it's not — rather, a woman from the embassy [Lilieth Whyte] -- very reassuring. Bless Susan for this. I sign a release forbidding any information about my case or situation to be given to the press, but that our congressional delegation be informed. Also get passport renewal papers, which I can't complete because there's no way to get photos made in here. And I can't get the expired passport number because they won't give me the expired passport, which is down "at reception.” Catch-22. Then on return: I'm being moved "farther in,” to C-Wing.
*
OK, C-Wing -- Landing 2, No. 14 — a vast improvement. It actually has a toilet with a DOOR!!!!
I'm waiting for Topper to appear, my new "mate.” (No -- THERE'S your title! "Waiting for Topper.") He works in the laundry and won't be back for several hours. Apparently, Topper is black. The screws [the guards] want to know: "Will this be a problem for you, sharing a cell with a black man?” After Mick, and looking around, I say I can't imagine anyone I'd rather share a cell with. They seem a bit confused by this. Generally, they are very nice (cordial, anyway, the women especially), but not the brightest bulbs on the tree. All of them are failed policemen (which means that their bulbs are pretty dim already).
I wake in the mornings hearing screams and shrieks -- at first I think it's the prisoners, but it's not -- it's the birds in the courtyard -- can't tell if they're ravens or crows. Some of them say "Caw!” and some of them, I swear, say "Cow!” (Everyone tells me that if I'd called the BA stewardess a "cow” instead of ... the other thing ... I wouldn't be here.) Anyway it all reminds me of the ravens on Tower Green & I try to imagine that I'm Anne Boleyn or Thomas More, but again, these fantasies don't work.
"Greene” is my best friend here so far -- we came in together, handcuffed, on that first night, and they've moved him to C-Wing, too, along with Mr. Potter. He's now down the hall. Silent but friendly -- on some kind of tranquilizing meds. One feels connected and protected. He's already been here once before, for 4 years (but for what? He never says).
Looking around the new cell, I can see that Topper is very neat -- I'll have to pay attention to that, keep it in mind.
This is a wonderful opportunity to practice my penmanship! No computers allowed except in the library,
where there's a long wait and they only allow you a few minutes anyway. And no Internet, of course, or email. [For the duration of my stay here, my
telephone “PIN number” will not work -- not a single phone call could be made.]
*
Indeed, Topper is VERY black -- originally from
William Hazlitt, "On the Knowledge of Character”
(1822): "Good nature, or what is often considered as such, is the most
selfish of all virtues: it is nine
times out of ten mere indolence of disposition."
Topper is Christian, but not "evangelical.” He gives me a Bible, saying I don't know when I might want or need it. He is filled with practical and, let's say, "ideological” advice about how to survive in here. He is very clean and is in charge of this room, as he reminds me, until he leaves and I inherit it from him. He tells me the key is to "FOCUS.” He says I must quit smoking or I'll "lose it” -- everyone will be after me for a "roll-up” (a cigarette), or some "burn” (tobacco) or just a "Rizla” (a rolling paper) -- "There will be no end to it.” I am to leave the cell at every available opportunity, whenever the chance is offered, because you never know when the next one will come. ALWAYS walk whenever you can and ALWAYS shower whenever you can. He says he's glad I'm "over 40” and that he's not "banged-up with a kid” ("banged up” = "locked in the cell"), because the young ones do nothing but talk and talk and TALK about their cases, over and over, and how they've been ripped-off and there's been a misunderstanding and so forth.
I'm feeling an odd combination of things (well, duh!). The remark about my being "over 40” took me by surprise, because inwardly I feel about 19, as I always have -- no different, except not so bewildered as then. But I realize, of course, I'm 53 -- though I look OK, all things considered: Once you get to C-Wing they finally give you a (plastic) mirror & the events of the past days haven't altered me as much as I'd have thought. Something in me wants to look the part of a prisoner, though -- I want a shaved head and this beard taken off, although Topper says the barber upstairs (a prisoner, but "trusted") asks to be paid "in tobacco and worse” -- "He's got a right business going.” [I later discover that, while this may be so, he's very nice to me -- he asks nothing for his services but the "worse” part -- that is, not tobacco -- and he won't shave my head, either, dammit!]
So I'm feeling young, and somewhat starved for intimacy, even though there's not really any privacy and you're literally jammed up with 300 men, and you can't imagine that you'd want one of them touching you -- but -- you do. Just "friendly-like,” "buddies,” "mates,” like in the Army, but of course it doesn't happen that way. It's all very quick and furtive. [Remember Genevieve’s line: “I like a bit of sex, but it has to be brisk!”] I think this must be a part of how they break you, although obviously it's a perfectly natural occurrence in a place like this. No one speaks of it. Words are not wanted or required. I feel vulnerable and suggestible but not, somehow, threatened: You want these people to like you. Topper says: “Just join the club and you'll get along. Touch nothing that doesn't belong to you and NEVER enter another person's cell uninvited. You'll wish you hadn't.”
There's a big Chinese contingent
on C-Wing -- very noticeable -- and they keep entirely to themselves, except
for one, "Xiang,” who burst into tears in the shower this morning and put
his head on my shoulder. (I didn’t know
I had any shoulders left, and God knows what I said -- "There, there,” or
something.) It felt natural to be
suddenly so close to someone – the details don’t need spelling out. Xiang is from the north of
It's my unselfconsciousness that amazes me here -- where does it come from?
News: Blair is an idiot. Rumsfeld's departure is purely
nauseating. There's still a noticeable
difference between British broadcast news and ours -- the American propaganda
and HYPE are beyond belief (we get ABC News at
Topper: I notice that I try to avoid him whenever we're let out of the cell, as I don't want him to think I'm a pest, following him around, clutching his hand. He's right -- you're on your own out there in the halls ... You can't tell who's going to be "friendly” and who isn't, or when. You either get smiles and "hails” or you get totally blank and often very dark stares ... It's hard to move around in such narrow spaces among so many people and I'm constantly bumping into the others. I hear myself saying, "Sorry, mate!” quite a lot. Topper says: "Eyes to yourself!” but Topper seems pretty well put-together for a prisoner. He does push-ups. (I wish he did them naked.)
I can't think of the outside -- what I know is going on just over these walls. The TV is mostly a help here, as it's Christmas -- what they call "the festive season” -- so it's all unreal to begin with. But if you think about people right here in Hammersmith who might be on their way to or from work, popping into a Starbuck's for a cappuccino or something -- well, don't.
I thought this place would explode last night when "Leona” won the "X-Factor” contest. [Leona Lewis -- impoverished black girl from South London, pulled up by her own bootstraps -- "X-Factor” is where we get our "American Idol” -- same thing, and with that same revolting Simon Cowell at the helm.] God-damned Whitney Houston and all those pop divas who made the wailing "ballad” so popular -- apparently anyone can do it (anyone who can sing, that is) -- I suppose that's the point. But you've never heard such shouting and cheering and banging on iron doors as last night! One of "their own” was victorious!
Not depressed, but restless ... There is no comfortable or relaxing position in which to read -- pillows hard as rocks and no head-boards -- and only school-room wooden chairs to sit on, with no desks. But I'm reading anyway -- The Da Vinci Code, as pledged. And what the hell's with that? HOW did it become such a giant success? It's not that it's "bad” — it's just not good enough — pedestrian -- everything is explained to you instead of revealed — not a moment's tension in it, or any doubt about the outcome, even though I couldn't have sworn before now that the Holy Grail was actually Mary Magdalene's vagina.
Topper has brought me a
"Good News” bible to assist with the King James if I need it --the
"GN” version isn't as lousy as I'd have thought, though I prefer the
poetry. I've started with "The
Acts” (already knowing the Gospels), wanting to find out how this "Church”
thing got started. Scripture, as always,
is filled with internal contradiction, as well as weirdness, madness, violence
and terrible vengeance. I really think
I need to rearrange the room now that Topper's gone and I'm in charge -- I need to grab the bottom bunk as well as Topper's extra pillow and blankets. They're thinking they may bang me up with someone named Lynch, who's a "cleaner” on the wing (that means he sweeps the halls in the mornings). I only ask for someone not too young. When I remind them I'm a writer -- did they know? -- they have all kinds of excited ideas about how I might be put to work -- teaching classes and workshops and tutoring "over in Education,” and then one of them says, "Aw, ya know, he'd have been good mates with "X."' But "X,” whoever he was, is gone now, too.
Later I'm told by the Scottish "Miss” (the one I like best) both that I won't and -- ten minutes later — that I might be moved to a single on D-Wing. No new mate as yet, but I'm told to expect one. I don't know which is worse, as today's isolation has been lonely. It's as though again I know no one here but the staff. Completely ignored by Greene.
I've applied for work and “education” and all that, as advised.
A letter from the Home Office shoved under the door, with an attachment from Fran asking if she may know where I am. They know I'm in prison but that's all -- she says they don't know why. It requires my signed permission to tell her.
Good old Fran! It's both heartening and upsetting, as one
wants this support and concern, but not to THINK about all that one doesn't
have available. So far, this is the most
interesting thing about the experience -- this reluctance to think about anyone
or anything "outside.” It was a
sharp pain in the first days (well, everything was) -- now it's more of an
aversion and a desire not to be disturbed or agitated -- it's difficult enough
to be in
My Benadryl arrived (Acrivastine) -- I've taken two, hoping they'll make me a bit loopy tonight -- cigarettes are all gone. I have a bit of tobacco left, but no papers. DEEP breaths!
*
Later: Entirely wrong about Greene. He just never comes out of his cell if he can help it. All I did during "association” was knock on his door and there he was -- he rolled me a smoke and we shared it. His roommate is cute, sullen, silent, unsmiling, but Greene says, "Yeah, he's aw'raght.” He admired the boots that Topper left behind and which I am now wearing, since they're so much more comfortable than these prison shoes. [Later these were taken away as "not belonging to me” and I almost got demerits for wearing them.] Greene says it's "just fuckin' noise ou’ in the 'alls."
“Much suspected of me, Most of it proved can be, Quoth the Idiot, Prisoner” (HMP Wormwood Scrubs, # TD9363 -- Kurth) [Note: a variation on the words of Elizabeth I, scratched on the wall of her cell in the Tower of London while imprisoned by her sister, Mary: "Much suspected of me, Nothing proved can be, Quoth Elizabeth, Prisoner".]
I really don't know if I want to
be moved to D-Wing -- everyone tells me "C” is the best wing to be on [later I learn it's generally regarded as the
worst]. Stanton was already here
once for more than a year, just two doors down in No. 12 -- he can't believe
he's back, but there's a kind of cheerfulness to him, as there is to a lot of
them -- "Nothing to be done about it.
Might as well enjoy yourself, know what I mean?” ["Know what I mean” is one word:
"No-wha 'ahmeen?"] So
now I'm not sure I want to start all over -- Greene is here, after all, and Mr.
Potter, and that little Quebecois with the “Thalidomide” arm, who actually
lives about 50 miles from Burlington -- with Stanton on my side, these are allies.
Smoking -- well, plainly I have no interest in NOT smoking. When I go out for "treatments” in the mornings I find myself scrounging the floors for discarded cigarette butts (ends, actually, as there are no filters, and anyway it's a good place to keep your eyes -- on the ground -- it also gives you something very real to concentrate on). Every now and then someone sees me doing this and pops out to say, "Aw, mate -- c'mon!” and pushes a wad of tobacco in my hand, usually without the papers to go with it. OR they'll give me the papers WITHOUT tobacco so I can squeeze out the remains of the fag-ends I've found and roll up some "fresh” ones. You're not supposed to smoke on the landings but everyone does. I suppose you can't get more disgusting or pathetic than this (well, yes you can), but to me it's like nothing. Health? I've risked more, with worse. [Note: there are signs all over about the risks of Hepatitis B, but only ONE -- way inside the nurses' station where no one can see it — warning about HIV infection: "A Condom Every Time!” or something like that -- as if they'd give you a condom if you asked for one: "And WHAT would you need THAT for??”? Ostriches. There's a clinic here --grotesquely called the "Fluker Clinic” -- which offers HIV counseling and testing, but nobody speaks of it and I've never seen anyone enter or leave it when I've been downstairs with the doctor. It is open only on Thursdays. Imagine what can happen between a Friday and a Thursday – just imagine what can happen.]
Now, suddenly,
a discussion with
Well, that's quite a lot before 10 in the morning, and on only one cigarette. "Scottish Miss” pops in to say that they're still working on the D-Wing transfer. I can barely hear her.
*
Yeah -- kids, just as Topper
said:
We're supposed to be let out for "association” this afternoon -- that would be nice.
[General note here: Somewhere we need to know about the daily routine and the actual working of the prison -- how things work -- the phones, the meals, the canteen, the landings -- the "Ones,” "Twos,” "Threes” and "Fours” -- "association,” "yard time,” "free flow,” visitations (legal and personal), your daily "salary” and the extra you can get for "education” and work, the endless "applications” for this, that and the other thing ... all of this. Otherwise context is lost -- as for instance, below.]
Well, fuck. No money in my "spends" account, thus, no tobacco. Alors, alors ... so the canteen money from last week must have been taken from the twenty pounds I had on me when I got here. I've asked for a hundred of the American dollars to be converted to pounds, but it has to be sent to a bank and this can take up to two weeks .... they think, but aren’t sure. Apparently, “reception” and the staff on the wings are entirely divorced.
Bollux at Greene's. I'd popped in for a smoke during association, when suddenly we were all 3 "banged up" and the screws told me to stay right where I was — no explanations. Everyone else was ordered back to their cells. There we were in the dark with the sullen roommate, on his bed, for more than an hour (guess the rest). I finally had to push the "call button" to get out, which you're not supposed to do unless it's an emergency. But apparently they never noticed I was "missing" from my own cell.
You need 4 days' notice for prescription refills -- remember that. The nurses are already asking how long I'll be here, as the HIV meds are costing the NHS an awful lot of money. I simply shrug my shoulders -- how would I know?
Saw "The Weakest Link" for the first time -- they're right: that woman (Anne Robinson, is it?) is a sadist. All of these game shows are sadistic and designed to humiliate people.
I am not allowed to join the "smoking cessation programme,” as this is reserved only for convicted prisoners. Note shoved under the door about this.
Letters tonight -- 2 from Susan, one from Fran -- I dread them because of "news” they might contain. Will save them till morning.
Dreary, dreary, dreary day --
depressed -- last (half) cigarette smoked already.
Oh, hell!
Something on TV with
Saw the doctor again --
There was a man with only half a nose at the doctor's. Also a guy in for "weapons possession” -- glasses, white, thin hair -- you'd think a kind of milquetoast until you look closer and hear him speak. Otherwise, all were black, and all were Muslim. Some of them very scary. There was a great debate over whether people choose to be in prison -- somebody says, yes, they do, "as God gives you the strength to help yourself.” Big objections to this from some of the others -- oh, no, He doesn’t'! I stay out of it.
Blood-work back -- everything fine. 757 CD4s, undetectable v.l., 49% -- bilirubin is VERY high [Jeff P. tells me later that this is a side effect of the Reyataz]. Doctor wonders why I'm not jaundiced. And this: "You didn't tell me you'd had syphilis before.” I say, "You didn't ask -- anyway it was 25 years ago, probably at the same time I was HIV-infected.” He's giving me a Tricor substitute called Bezalip Mono (Bezafibrate, 400 mg.) -- says it'll do the same thing. We'll see. He can't prescribe a nicotine patch -- he's not allowed, but recommends it on the chart, as well as a transfer to D-Wing, where he says people normally BEG to be admitted. I'm getting very good at shrugging my shoulders. [In any case, I will never hear another word about any of these things.]
Canteen arrival
-- nothing for me, as no money, but lots of tobacco (thank you,
Apparently I am known prison-wide as "the airline geezer.” There's another title if you need one, as God knows no publisher has ever used a title of my own choosing for any of my work.
So now I've got Phil. He's "of an age” (mine, probably a little
older) [in fact, 7 years older], whom
they've put in here, as he explains, because they told him he and I are
"both intelligent and first-time offenders and you ought to get
along.” Phil is a white South
African, also from Jo-burg, in for drug smuggling -- some huge amount of
cocaine -- which he brought in from
I was called for "Education”
today around
I loved the magazine staff and
already have a kind of crush on its editor, "Andy,” who was quick to tell
me, nonetheless (I had said nothing, nor “looked” at him in the wrong way) how
he could "really stand to see a woman right now!" (Somehow I doubt that too -- he does have
a single on D-Wing, as does the magazine's graphics' designer, but I've already
learned -- from Stanton -- that anyone in this prison who presents himself as
"openly gay” will be beaten to a pulp.) Andy is very reticent as to how he
ended up here, saying it's sort of like what happened to me -- apparently he
"just lost it” somewhere, "and then everything changed forever.” Janet, the creative writing teacher, is a
kick. She hands out candy because it's
Christmas and we won't be seeing each other again until after the New
Year. So, just when I finally get a job
and something to do -- it stops for 12 days.
["Education” is undertaken by
contract with the
I have absolutely NO emotion about
Christmas -- in fact it's better than usual.
I haven't enjoyed Christmas in years, and now I just want to get through
it without a lot of "carols” and recycled sermons about "peace,”
since it's nothing but commercial now — nothing. As it is, the screws are all walking around
with Santa Claus hats on – there was a complaint about this in “Inside Times,”
the national prison newspaper, which Rachel Billington publishes and edits [Note:
RB is the daughter of Lord Longford, a great “prison reformer,” and the
sister of Antonia Fraser.]
Curiously, they don't allow you any visits for a few days before and
after Christmas, when you'd think they would -- but I suppose it would
overwhelm everybody: the staff (half of
whom are "on holiday" now), and both the prisoners and their
families. It'll be interesting to see
how the mates react to this -- whether depression and anger increase [they did]. Elizabeth [my niece] has sent a card
with a picture of Little Anthony on it, saying, "Hey, Uncle Pete — hope
this Christmas suits you better than most.”
I think it will. [Later, cards came from Mother, Claire and
Janet Collier -- very nice -- Mother trying to seem calm, when I know she's not
-- the other two just themselves. Janet
says, "Well, a fine mess you've got yourself into THIS time, Ollie!” -- we had a hapless Aunt Ollie, who lived in a trailer in the
Have touched based with "Jack,” whom I'm supposed to be tutoring here on C-Wing, and brought him the books he needs to have (little "Dick and Jane” things). Having been very growly and sulky with me before now – he works in the kitchen, serving meals, also sweeps up and hauls trash – he’s now ultra-friendly and apparently grateful. His cell mate, “Vic” [at least I assumed Vic was his cell mate] is obviously on thorazine or something – I see him every morning at treatments and he’s one of the ones who always gives me tobacco without my asking. Altogether, a very solid, “matey” collection of criminals in that particular corner of “the Ones” [BROTHER, WAS I WRONG ABOUT THAT!!!], including “Scottie” across the hall, who also works in the kitchen: “He’d kick you when he was through,” as KW and I used to say.
Phil is really OK, very nice, mainly cheerful, intelligent, and not overly bitter (yet) about what I think he realizes might be the last years of his life. If they do give him 10 years, and he has to serve it all, he’ll be 70 when he leaves. [Note about the peculiarities of the British sentencing procedure, i.e., you normally need to spend only half of your sentence in the actual prison, provided you behave well – after that – you’re released, but monitored.] Odd that smuggling drugs – a LOT of drugs – gets you sent only to Magistrate’s Court, whereas my little “episode” has been bumped up to Crown – welcome to the War on Terror – I guess.
More later if there’s anything to say, which tonight there is not.
Then we’re somewhere else – back
in
Back to the chapel again. It turns out that this funeral isn’t for the
Duchess of Windsor, after all, but for this old Russian grandmother, whoever
she is, so HM is allowed to be there.
This Russian lady had married an American, and her grandson is giving a
speech, loudly, angrily, like Earl Spencer when Diana died – and the room is
filled with Americans now, great, big, elephantine, poor-white-trash women in
t-shirts, all of them smoking. I
realize I’m underdressed, wearing shorts – wonder if anyone will notice, but
hear myself saying to HM, “Well, I don’t know, but I’m quite sure we don’t yet
know everything that went on in
Then I woke up. Happy Christmas.
*
Rooks. The birds in the courtyard. Phil says they’re rooks, not crows or ravens. This leads to some jokes about the food. Rook pie? Roast rook? Rook à la crème? Rook anglaise?
There’s something about my feelings that has ceased to be acute. A dullness over them. Or is this stability?
A Christmas gift from -- ? I
never got his name – a wild Iranian on the Ones, kept in a cell by
himself. He wears one of those little
hats, the Muslim version of a yarmulke.
While I’m waiting for meds, he peeps out of his cell window and sees me
fishing butts off the floor. He bangs
on the door – “No, no, wait!” he cries.
Apparently he wants to give me some tobacco, no strings -- but his door is locked. He wraps some of it up in TP and slides it
under. I say loudly, “I’ll pay you
back!” but he says no, it’s a gift. He
asks what I’m here for (all of this is shouted) & can’t believe it when I
tell him. Later, I see him outside at
exercise. He’s chatting with the guard
(“
I see
I think this is going to be a long day. Here's a day not to go crazy. That damn TV. That god-awful book (Da Vinci Code), which natters on about nothing for what seems like 8 centuries and should have taken about 6 hours to read. And it's Boxing Day (literally) -- I'm sure that even if I were to report this, nothing could be done about it until after New Year's. "Cynical? You bet!"
*
Oh, this is a bad day -- a bad day. Now I really am frightened -- this place suddenly seems utterly hostile. Depressed and anxious ~ what else to say? At dinner, Jack's "mate” made a point of glowering at me and drawing his finger across his throat. As he handed me my "breakfast pack,” I again told him that he had made a mistake -- in fact, that he was "full of shit” -- but this is dangerous, this is dangerous. I spoke immediately to one of the guards, leaving out the "taking turns” part of it, but simply saying I was being threatened. She said she'd "have a word with him,” which will probably make things worse, of course.
Tomorrow I'll speak to the landing staff and get serious about the D-Wing transfer --because I need this kind of trouble like a hole in the head.
Phil goes to court tomorrow – who will I get stuck with next? There was more menace today, when one of the screws burst in and accused us of tossing trash out the window into the courtyard, which we have not done and never do (Phil said bravely, "Sir, I do not
litter!"). I get the feeling today that I really am powerless against harm.
Apparently Susan has called, but there's no one here to tell her anything -- they're all away: "Call back.” I just want to be somewhere safer.
*
"A crime of no very deep dye of turpitude" -- Dr. Johnson
*