5.The Injustice
In June, lost in a twilight world and going through the motions, I had to visit the shops. Taking the car down the road to Didsbury and all done, as I headed back to Burnage, clocking their dark blue Sierra parked on a street corner, as they gave themselves away, its occupants tried too hard not to see me and as I drove past them, they tailed me back to Lavister Avenue. I could lose them, but staying put, proving my point, I hadn’t run away.
As I reversed the Rover into the drive, their vans closed in from all directions. A swarm of dark blue uniforms and except for the dog handlers, each one carried an assault rifle. Over the top and no need for it, my spirit had died with Mum. As I climbed out of the car, ignoring their megaphone instructions, for all I cared, they could go ahead and shoot me. I didn’t mean to sprawl prostrate in the gutter for anyone. Eventually, by the tortured look on his face, believing that he was taking his life in his hands, one brave cop advanced and I handed him my keys. As he manacled my wrists, under arrest and the detective flashed his warrant. Next moment, as he led me inside the house, I yearned to say goodbye to them, heartless, he wouldn’t let me near the pets. Instead, he demanded to know if I had hidden any guns in the house. I didn’t waste my breath on daft questions, though it explained their weapons, given that British cops then still needed good reason to carry firearms, it seemed to me reasonable to surmise that MI5 had tracked me down and briefed them on my background.
Led back outside and shoving me into an unmarked car between two women cops on the backseat, while they kept an eye on me, I stared back at the house. Aching to run to him, as three dog handlers grappled with Duke; timid, they held him by a leash fixed to the end of a long pole. His sad brown eyes still haunt me. At the station, as the cops banged me up, I felt crushed. About an hour later, as a uniform escorted me into an interview room, did he never stop grinning, I faced Lauledge. Until now, it seemed that the cops were uncertain of my ID. Staring at me, as they gloated over their prize, one satisfied detective proclaimed
“Yeah she knows you – see the hate in her eyes!”
Time to leave and about to pass his desk, calling me back, the station sergeant invited me to sign a form. Unlike the other cops, compassionate, he promised me that the cats would go to good homes. Though, suggesting that Duke was too old and set in his ways for strangers, I could only agree. My heart bled as I ended his life and signed the paper. Bottling my feelings, as more cops marched me outside, another van conveyed me to the Central Detention Centre in the city.
Grudgingly, a miserable female cop booked me in as a woman, before a nice police matron escorted me to a cell in the women’s
In June, lost in a twilight world and going through the motions, I had to visit the shops. Taking the car down the road to Didsbury and all done, as I headed back to Burnage, clocking their dark blue Sierra parked on a street corner, as they gave themselves away, its occupants tried too hard not to see me and as I drove past them, they tailed me back to Lavister Avenue. I could lose them, but staying put, proving my point, I hadn’t run away.
As I reversed the Rover into the drive, their vans closed in from all directions. A swarm of dark blue uniforms and except for the dog handlers, each one carried an assault rifle. Over the top and no need for it, my spirit had died with Mum. As I climbed out of the car, ignoring their megaphone instructions, for all I cared, they could go ahead and shoot me. I didn’t mean to sprawl prostrate in the gutter for anyone. Eventually, by the tortured look on his face, believing that he was taking his life in his hands, one brave cop advanced and I handed him my keys. As he manacled my wrists, under arrest and the detective flashed his warrant. Next moment, as he led me inside the house, I yearned to say goodbye to them, heartless, he wouldn’t let me near the pets. Instead, he demanded to know if I had hidden any guns in the house. I didn’t waste my breath on daft questions, though it explained their weapons, given that British cops then still needed good reason to carry firearms, it seemed to me reasonable to surmise that MI5 had tracked me down and briefed them on my background.
Led back outside and shoving me into an unmarked car between two women cops on the backseat, while they kept an eye on me, I stared back at the house. Aching to run to him, as three dog handlers grappled with Duke; timid, they held him by a leash fixed to the end of a long pole. His sad brown eyes still haunt me. At the station, as the cops banged me up, I felt crushed. About an hour later, as a uniform escorted me into an interview room, did he never stop grinning, I faced Lauledge. Until now, it seemed that the cops were uncertain of my ID. Staring at me, as they gloated over their prize, one satisfied detective proclaimed
“Yeah she knows you – see the hate in her eyes!”
Time to leave and about to pass his desk, calling me back, the station sergeant invited me to sign a form. Unlike the other cops, compassionate, he promised me that the cats would go to good homes. Though, suggesting that Duke was too old and set in his ways for strangers, I could only agree. My heart bled as I ended his life and signed the paper. Bottling my feelings, as more cops marched me outside, another van conveyed me to the Central Detention Centre in the city.
Grudgingly, a miserable female cop booked me in as a woman, before a nice police matron escorted me to a cell in the women’s
- 103 -
quarters. Shortly, a sour faced fat arsed male sergeant led me from the cell and into a small room. Perfunctorily standing me in a corner, as he fetched his camera, about to capture my mugshot. Innocent and I intensely resented anyone who thought different. Ever since my pretend arrest back in Tel Aviv, the Mossad had educated me never take it for granted, always check out the law. On the margin now, where MI5 wanted me, a lot less rights than most and it didn’t take me long to suss out the few things that I had going for me. Unable to deny him maybe, but I knew about the loophole. In those days, still okay for me to hold up my hands in front of my face, as expected, the cop went berserk and bawled
“You’re not a fuckin’ Red Indian I’m not gonna trap your fuckin’ spirit – get your fuckin’ arms down!”
His outburst gave me mean pleasure. Not quite dead, my little stand began the fight back. As I circumvented the humiliating process of criminalisation, issuing threats, he yelled at me that if I didn’t comply, he would stick me in with the men. Grabbing my wrists, as he tried to force down my slender arms, I knew it would, on cue, adrenaline surged through me. Such strength from a feeble female he had not reckoned with and giving up he slammed me back in the cell.
Shortly, as the matron led me to an interview room, restraining the condemned from the free a perspex screen split the room into opposing entities. Sick of them regarding me as a villain, I had to take a pew in the damned area. Entering from a separate door and storming into the free sector, as he sat facing me, about 30, a plain suit and brusque, he began
“I’m not here about your arrest, I want you to answer my questions.”
“Who are you?” I challenged him.
“My name’s not important, I’m from Special Branch, I want you to fill me in with anything you’d like to get off your chest.”
I was a political prisoner and mocking him, I suggested he contact MI5 and ask them for my file. Not giving up that easily, he demanded details relating to my background, such as which schools did I attend and what were the names of my teachers. We could be here all day, clamming up, I told him nothing. Upon my return to the cells, the other girls invited me to join them. They shared a spare cell swanking a little portable black and white telly. In time for Granada Reports, as Bob Greaves read the news, reporting a local murder, I wondered if it were mine.
As we squashed up in the confined space, all the girls hailed from London. Part of a shoplifting ring, but not easily shocked and not terrorists, I couldn’t care less what they had done, their cheery chatter raised my morale.
“You’re not a fuckin’ Red Indian I’m not gonna trap your fuckin’ spirit – get your fuckin’ arms down!”
His outburst gave me mean pleasure. Not quite dead, my little stand began the fight back. As I circumvented the humiliating process of criminalisation, issuing threats, he yelled at me that if I didn’t comply, he would stick me in with the men. Grabbing my wrists, as he tried to force down my slender arms, I knew it would, on cue, adrenaline surged through me. Such strength from a feeble female he had not reckoned with and giving up he slammed me back in the cell.
Shortly, as the matron led me to an interview room, restraining the condemned from the free a perspex screen split the room into opposing entities. Sick of them regarding me as a villain, I had to take a pew in the damned area. Entering from a separate door and storming into the free sector, as he sat facing me, about 30, a plain suit and brusque, he began
“I’m not here about your arrest, I want you to answer my questions.”
“Who are you?” I challenged him.
“My name’s not important, I’m from Special Branch, I want you to fill me in with anything you’d like to get off your chest.”
I was a political prisoner and mocking him, I suggested he contact MI5 and ask them for my file. Not giving up that easily, he demanded details relating to my background, such as which schools did I attend and what were the names of my teachers. We could be here all day, clamming up, I told him nothing. Upon my return to the cells, the other girls invited me to join them. They shared a spare cell swanking a little portable black and white telly. In time for Granada Reports, as Bob Greaves read the news, reporting a local murder, I wondered if it were mine.
As we squashed up in the confined space, all the girls hailed from London. Part of a shoplifting ring, but not easily shocked and not terrorists, I couldn’t care less what they had done, their cheery chatter raised my morale.
- 104 -
Next day, I found myself waking up in the arms of a doctor, before my arrest, it could have been my future. As one girl urged me to keep my eyes open, I started to feel a bit better. Relieved, the police surgeon told me that I had recovered from a coma. My body was saying slowdown, but no chance of that, five minutes later, still feeling shaky, as I appeared in court before a beak. He declared that no room at Risley, I had to stay with the other girls indefinitely. That suited me fine, but one week later in July, up before another beak and he gave me a ticket to ride.
As before, once we reached Risley, one cop handed me over to the screws at female reception, expecting the women to reject me, however in for a surprise. As the female screws begged him not to do it, my reprieve short-lived, the so-called Medical Officer brushed aside all protest. A gross quack in every sense, refusing to budge, today they dare not do it, the bastard had me carted off to the men’s prison. Another massive violation of my human rights, far from the last breach and once more finding myself back in a strip-cell, I spent the night with my old muckers the cockroaches.
Next morning, as two screws freed me from the stinking pit, exchanging it for an ordinary cell in – a sick joke, they still called it the hospital wing. As another MO paid me a visit, news to me, telling me that I was a man, he refused to let me have my œstrogen. He said that the Home Office had ordered him to refuse me. Another cruel violation, they had done it to me before during my initial stopover in the prison, it had helped to send me mad. Forced to protest, it meant going on hunger strike. In no time skeletal, my corpse impression did nothing for the quack and as he waited for me to crack, Arafat and Sharon would share a bed first.
Four weeks later, as I crawled out of a bathtub and dried myself. An effort to dress and feeling faint about to fall, as he caught me, my Sir Galahad, steering me from the corridor back to my bed, a good man, the screw hopping mad, he raged
“You’re a good kid. I’m phoning the Home Office to give ‘em a piece of my ruddy mind – mark my words, Doris, you’ll get your medication!”
True to his pledge, the Home Office yielded next morning. The very same day, the quack prescribed my œstrogen. My famine over and more screws altered their attitude. I had won their respect. Until now, like before, they admitted to being afraid of me. A few days later, as I began to feel better, barging into my cell and Sir Galahad thrust a broom in my hands. My mate, he yelled
“If you’re half the woman you appear to be, you’ll have this landing spic an’ span. Sharpish – c’mon Doris, look lively!”
- 105 -
As before, once we reached Risley, one cop handed me over to the screws at female reception, expecting the women to reject me, however in for a surprise. As the female screws begged him not to do it, my reprieve short-lived, the so-called Medical Officer brushed aside all protest. A gross quack in every sense, refusing to budge, today they dare not do it, the bastard had me carted off to the men’s prison. Another massive violation of my human rights, far from the last breach and once more finding myself back in a strip-cell, I spent the night with my old muckers the cockroaches.
Next morning, as two screws freed me from the stinking pit, exchanging it for an ordinary cell in – a sick joke, they still called it the hospital wing. As another MO paid me a visit, news to me, telling me that I was a man, he refused to let me have my œstrogen. He said that the Home Office had ordered him to refuse me. Another cruel violation, they had done it to me before during my initial stopover in the prison, it had helped to send me mad. Forced to protest, it meant going on hunger strike. In no time skeletal, my corpse impression did nothing for the quack and as he waited for me to crack, Arafat and Sharon would share a bed first.
Four weeks later, as I crawled out of a bathtub and dried myself. An effort to dress and feeling faint about to fall, as he caught me, my Sir Galahad, steering me from the corridor back to my bed, a good man, the screw hopping mad, he raged
“You’re a good kid. I’m phoning the Home Office to give ‘em a piece of my ruddy mind – mark my words, Doris, you’ll get your medication!”
True to his pledge, the Home Office yielded next morning. The very same day, the quack prescribed my œstrogen. My famine over and more screws altered their attitude. I had won their respect. Until now, like before, they admitted to being afraid of me. A few days later, as I began to feel better, barging into my cell and Sir Galahad thrust a broom in my hands. My mate, he yelled
“If you’re half the woman you appear to be, you’ll have this landing spic an’ span. Sharpish – c’mon Doris, look lively!”
- 105 -
Pleased with my endeavours, shortly, my champion told me that he had put my name down as the hospital orderly. The job gave me abundant time out of my cell and smiling, I queried
“Why Doris?”
“I served in Malta all the women there are called Doris – you’re stuck with it!”
As more weeks passed, appreciative, more screws told me that I had given the wing a welcome feminine touch. One night, as I lay awake in my bed, there it was again, someone tapping on my cell door. No nighties in this nick, I draped a shirt over my shoulders and jumping out of bed, my hatch always open, I made for the door. Whispering to me, the male nurse said that he could lose his job for telling me. Claiming that he wished to help me, he alleged that he knew what lay in my prison files. Guarded, I quizzed him
“What’s it to you, what do you want?”
“I think its like you say, dear” he confided, “You’re innocent. I can’t see they’ve got any evidence – what they call proof. I’ve to make my rounds, give me half an hour” and an old joke, he told me “Don’t go away!”
My mind in a whirl, I didn’t know this sort of thing went on in prison. Keeping his promise, as the nurse returned to my hatch. At once, he confessed
“I know that you look like a girl, but until I read your notes, I couldn’t be sure. We’ve had a few queer fellahs in here saying they’re girlies, but don’t you worry, I think you really are one.”
Next evening, the nurse returned to my cell. My confidant and bearing gifts, he presented me with fresh coffee and a newspaper, I had twigged that he was gay, but no advances the wrong sex and he didn’t fancy me. All heart and feeling sorry for me, I needed a soulmate and this guy wore humanity on his sleeve. Taking heed of the sensitive prison grapevine and still whispering, as he warned me that he had been through my file he counselled
“Take my advice luvvie, get a second opinion, the shrink’s report does you no favours,” he advised me, “Get a report that can’t be fixed.”
The report Malcolm’s idea, he had hoped that it might help dispel any strange ideas that some folk might entertain about my sexual status. A prison psychiatrist had prepared my report. No in-depth grilling, he gave me just ten short minutes. All that he asked me was how goes it in prison. Next morning, when I requested a second opinion, as expected, the quack flatly refused. I dropped Malcolm a line. In his reply, the brief advised me that we didn’t need another report. He asserted that one was sufficient. Not giving up that easy, when I demanded to see a copy of the report,
“Why Doris?”
“I served in Malta all the women there are called Doris – you’re stuck with it!”
As more weeks passed, appreciative, more screws told me that I had given the wing a welcome feminine touch. One night, as I lay awake in my bed, there it was again, someone tapping on my cell door. No nighties in this nick, I draped a shirt over my shoulders and jumping out of bed, my hatch always open, I made for the door. Whispering to me, the male nurse said that he could lose his job for telling me. Claiming that he wished to help me, he alleged that he knew what lay in my prison files. Guarded, I quizzed him
“What’s it to you, what do you want?”
“I think its like you say, dear” he confided, “You’re innocent. I can’t see they’ve got any evidence – what they call proof. I’ve to make my rounds, give me half an hour” and an old joke, he told me “Don’t go away!”
My mind in a whirl, I didn’t know this sort of thing went on in prison. Keeping his promise, as the nurse returned to my hatch. At once, he confessed
“I know that you look like a girl, but until I read your notes, I couldn’t be sure. We’ve had a few queer fellahs in here saying they’re girlies, but don’t you worry, I think you really are one.”
Next evening, the nurse returned to my cell. My confidant and bearing gifts, he presented me with fresh coffee and a newspaper, I had twigged that he was gay, but no advances the wrong sex and he didn’t fancy me. All heart and feeling sorry for me, I needed a soulmate and this guy wore humanity on his sleeve. Taking heed of the sensitive prison grapevine and still whispering, as he warned me that he had been through my file he counselled
“Take my advice luvvie, get a second opinion, the shrink’s report does you no favours,” he advised me, “Get a report that can’t be fixed.”
The report Malcolm’s idea, he had hoped that it might help dispel any strange ideas that some folk might entertain about my sexual status. A prison psychiatrist had prepared my report. No in-depth grilling, he gave me just ten short minutes. All that he asked me was how goes it in prison. Next morning, when I requested a second opinion, as expected, the quack flatly refused. I dropped Malcolm a line. In his reply, the brief advised me that we didn’t need another report. He asserted that one was sufficient. Not giving up that easy, when I demanded to see a copy of the report,
- 106 -
Malcolm refused. Bombarding him with loads more letters did the trick, he promised to visit me.
In the interim, as he reacted to a public outcry after a glut of hangings at Risley, then Home Secretary, Douglas Hurd, pledged to investigate. In response, a senior screw pressed me to get the wing spotless. A good bloke, for him labouring hard, I didn’t want the guy to lose his job. As he evacuated the fœtid strip-cells of their scumbags, the S/O hid them in ordinary cells and trusting me, as he warned don’t let the muppets see it they’ll gulp it down, keeping it stored in my cell, he ordered me to blitz the iniquitous pits with bucketfuls of powerful disinfectant and poison.
Next morning, cons not the only victims, armed with a brush and sweeping my old mates out of the strip-cells, I felt sorry for the dead cockroaches scattered all over the floor. The governors were well worried about Hurd’s visit. Unwilling to let him see reality, a diabolical farce, but I must admit that it amused me to take part in a plot to dupe one of Maggie Thatcher’s finest. Doubling for a surgeon, I had to laugh when some cons suggested that we play doctors and nurses. About to perform a very different operation and no joke, the S/O supplied me with boots, overalls, facemask, and where have I seen them before, a pair of rubber gloves.
As I entered a new theatre of war, assaulting each cell in turn, as I scrubbed ceilings, walls and floors. Armed with rollers and in went the cavalry, two cons spread lovely lemon emulsion all over once shitty walls and ceilings and bottle green gloss on the floors. When the governors inspected our endeavours, their jobs safe, the public would never know until now.
An hour before Hurd’s visit, all cons banged up and door hatches stoutly bolted, it vetoed naughty chancers from hurling nasty noxious missiles and fluids at the VIP. Curiously, my hatch left open and as the Home Secretary marched along a sweet smelling landing, stench for now gone, maybe he still thought it was a zoo. Careful not to disturb his trademark bouffant hairdo, it reminded me of whipped ice cream standing in a cornet. As Hurd poked his head into my cell, peering at me, his face expressionless, but his eyes piercing, I stared back at him. It seemed that the cat had his tongue and without a murmur, he moved on. However, as his scrumptious minder followed suit and popped his head into my cell. He made my day, appearing astonished, before offering me a shy smile and a cherished wink; he hurried to rejoin his charge. Before wending his way, standing on his soapbox as he faced a captive audience of assembled staff, as I peeped out of my porthole to eavesdrop. Then described by the media as the sick nick of Britain, Hurd gave it a clean bill of health. The next hanging in the pipeline, the gaol fast revisited its former glory.
Meanwhile, granted a second report, the shrink before me the same guy as last time. Readily admitting that he knew I might
In the interim, as he reacted to a public outcry after a glut of hangings at Risley, then Home Secretary, Douglas Hurd, pledged to investigate. In response, a senior screw pressed me to get the wing spotless. A good bloke, for him labouring hard, I didn’t want the guy to lose his job. As he evacuated the fœtid strip-cells of their scumbags, the S/O hid them in ordinary cells and trusting me, as he warned don’t let the muppets see it they’ll gulp it down, keeping it stored in my cell, he ordered me to blitz the iniquitous pits with bucketfuls of powerful disinfectant and poison.
Next morning, cons not the only victims, armed with a brush and sweeping my old mates out of the strip-cells, I felt sorry for the dead cockroaches scattered all over the floor. The governors were well worried about Hurd’s visit. Unwilling to let him see reality, a diabolical farce, but I must admit that it amused me to take part in a plot to dupe one of Maggie Thatcher’s finest. Doubling for a surgeon, I had to laugh when some cons suggested that we play doctors and nurses. About to perform a very different operation and no joke, the S/O supplied me with boots, overalls, facemask, and where have I seen them before, a pair of rubber gloves.
As I entered a new theatre of war, assaulting each cell in turn, as I scrubbed ceilings, walls and floors. Armed with rollers and in went the cavalry, two cons spread lovely lemon emulsion all over once shitty walls and ceilings and bottle green gloss on the floors. When the governors inspected our endeavours, their jobs safe, the public would never know until now.
An hour before Hurd’s visit, all cons banged up and door hatches stoutly bolted, it vetoed naughty chancers from hurling nasty noxious missiles and fluids at the VIP. Curiously, my hatch left open and as the Home Secretary marched along a sweet smelling landing, stench for now gone, maybe he still thought it was a zoo. Careful not to disturb his trademark bouffant hairdo, it reminded me of whipped ice cream standing in a cornet. As Hurd poked his head into my cell, peering at me, his face expressionless, but his eyes piercing, I stared back at him. It seemed that the cat had his tongue and without a murmur, he moved on. However, as his scrumptious minder followed suit and popped his head into my cell. He made my day, appearing astonished, before offering me a shy smile and a cherished wink; he hurried to rejoin his charge. Before wending his way, standing on his soapbox as he faced a captive audience of assembled staff, as I peeped out of my porthole to eavesdrop. Then described by the media as the sick nick of Britain, Hurd gave it a clean bill of health. The next hanging in the pipeline, the gaol fast revisited its former glory.
Meanwhile, granted a second report, the shrink before me the same guy as last time. Readily admitting that he knew I might
- 107 -
have expected to see someone else, he told me that my brief was forking out for this report. Tell me, how could he rubbish his previous findings? Anyhow, this time, a bit more like a genuine session, I had sure seen enough shrinks to know. A few days more, my agent reported
“The second report will do, trouble is dear, the new one‘s in the same file as the old one, hope no bastard bollocks it up by, eh, accidentally using the wrong one.”
He could read my mind. On another evening, as I always did, lay upon my bed in the dark, another nurse caught me thinking about Mum and Dad. As he took an instant shine to me and dried my tears, not gay, just perceptive, he asked me to trail him to the dispensary. As I joined him, to my amazement, breaking every rule, he thrust a crowded tray of various potent drugs into my hands. Very soon, best mates, a governor grade and never forgotten, I owe Dick Wood. Keeping my chin up, he told me
“Do me a favour – feed the muppets!”
Woody’s amazing gesture a massive measure of trust, as I passed them their drugs, preoccupied with schizophrenia and most cons didn’t bat an eyelid. My tray empty, I returned to the dispensary. Where was he? All alone, Woody had left the drugs cabinet door wide open and like a sweet shop, rows of bottles facing me. My opportunity to raise Risley’s death score and spoilt for choice, nobody would miss just one bottle until too late. Like Dad, an overdose would end my torment. Woody caught me at the sink rinsing out a busy pile of plastic pill pots. Right to trust me, I told him to lock the drugs cabinet. Curly-haired and beaming, Woody declared
“You’re one of us, Sexy-Legs!”
It marked a sea change in attitude. Next morning, another screw, brilliant guy, even though a scouser, Ricky Higgs had a word with the S/O. He agreed at once. Putting paid to it, until now not sure what to do, some screws still used ‘he’ and ‘him’ when talking to and about me. Upsetting, it robbed me of my ID. As more screws made friends with me, I found their attention fun and flirting, I had earned my novel nickname after visiting the stores. Once let loose, taking the pick of new prison garb and eager to make the most of my figure, choosing tight denims and clingy white T-shirts made not just my day, but also theirs!
A few days more I had to keep an eye on him, he had played a few pranks on me. As Mr White showed me a little black box, it sat in his palm, making me shudder, it brought to mind Konrad’s detonator, but this only a toy. As he pressed each button in turn, the box emitted assorted sound effects, not mentioning to him that I had played with the real thing, they ranged from exploding bombs to sub-machinegun fire. A softie really, the same man had
“The second report will do, trouble is dear, the new one‘s in the same file as the old one, hope no bastard bollocks it up by, eh, accidentally using the wrong one.”
He could read my mind. On another evening, as I always did, lay upon my bed in the dark, another nurse caught me thinking about Mum and Dad. As he took an instant shine to me and dried my tears, not gay, just perceptive, he asked me to trail him to the dispensary. As I joined him, to my amazement, breaking every rule, he thrust a crowded tray of various potent drugs into my hands. Very soon, best mates, a governor grade and never forgotten, I owe Dick Wood. Keeping my chin up, he told me
“Do me a favour – feed the muppets!”
Woody’s amazing gesture a massive measure of trust, as I passed them their drugs, preoccupied with schizophrenia and most cons didn’t bat an eyelid. My tray empty, I returned to the dispensary. Where was he? All alone, Woody had left the drugs cabinet door wide open and like a sweet shop, rows of bottles facing me. My opportunity to raise Risley’s death score and spoilt for choice, nobody would miss just one bottle until too late. Like Dad, an overdose would end my torment. Woody caught me at the sink rinsing out a busy pile of plastic pill pots. Right to trust me, I told him to lock the drugs cabinet. Curly-haired and beaming, Woody declared
“You’re one of us, Sexy-Legs!”
It marked a sea change in attitude. Next morning, another screw, brilliant guy, even though a scouser, Ricky Higgs had a word with the S/O. He agreed at once. Putting paid to it, until now not sure what to do, some screws still used ‘he’ and ‘him’ when talking to and about me. Upsetting, it robbed me of my ID. As more screws made friends with me, I found their attention fun and flirting, I had earned my novel nickname after visiting the stores. Once let loose, taking the pick of new prison garb and eager to make the most of my figure, choosing tight denims and clingy white T-shirts made not just my day, but also theirs!
A few days more I had to keep an eye on him, he had played a few pranks on me. As Mr White showed me a little black box, it sat in his palm, making me shudder, it brought to mind Konrad’s detonator, but this only a toy. As he pressed each button in turn, the box emitted assorted sound effects, not mentioning to him that I had played with the real thing, they ranged from exploding bombs to sub-machinegun fire. A softie really, the same man had
- 108 -
brought me the Complan and seeking out victims, a super guy, Whitey cried
“Let’s have a laugh!”
Like the army, a haven for black humour, in the nick, you would die without it. As I watched him and his daft antics, admittedly, relieved that he had not done it to me, I found it funny as he wound up the scumbags in the strips. Standing outside each cell door in turn, as he twiddled with his toy. One-by-one, calling out to each con trapped inside and having his fun Whitey queried
“Are you all right? You lose your marbles when you’ve been in there for a bit.”
In the morning, when the quack made his rounds, I fell about giggling. No con left out. Every victim griped
“Me ‘ead’s cabbaged, doc, I’ve ‘eard wars goin’ on outside me cell.”
As time passed the screws gave me more jobs, no complaints, glad to be busy time went more quickly spending long hours out of my cell. As the S/O let me sit at his desk every day compiling files, my chief chore to check out the cells on my landing every half hour. I had to report anything amiss to a mess room where the screws sneaked a fag. On good terms with one and all, cons didn’t mind my cosy bond with screws, depending on their age they would regard me like their sister or daughter. Reminding me that some gaolbirds were sex offenders and others in for murder, the screws warned me to exercise care. Not easily frightened, albeit steering clear of skulking paedophiles and bent cops, I had lived with terrorists and most of these lads not real killers, but in for crimes of passion.
Before long, as cons and screws alike sought my guidance I took on the mantle of agony aunt, then still politically outlawed, such a shame, most men claimed I would make a good wife. Well I had helped them avoid a divorce or two. Sorting out their troubles with wives, boy and girlfriends and keeping my eyes open for suicide cases, I had found a niche for myself. As more cons sought my help, unable to read or write, a great boon, I did it for them.
Where are all these holiday camps? A rum place, I found prison brutal and sad, alone in their cells as young cons cried, not sure how they got there, usually down to bloody awful parents. Without positive help, upon their release, armed with a hardened image and admired by their mates, such a waste, many would return. Old lags remembered long unseen families and glad of a natter, they pressed gifts of burn and sweets on me. I slipped a fair bit of it under strip-cell doors. Only human, though many prisoners admitted to their weakness for crime, many more victims of deprivation, mental illness, and zero education, crying out for reform, prison didn’t work for them.
“Let’s have a laugh!”
Like the army, a haven for black humour, in the nick, you would die without it. As I watched him and his daft antics, admittedly, relieved that he had not done it to me, I found it funny as he wound up the scumbags in the strips. Standing outside each cell door in turn, as he twiddled with his toy. One-by-one, calling out to each con trapped inside and having his fun Whitey queried
“Are you all right? You lose your marbles when you’ve been in there for a bit.”
In the morning, when the quack made his rounds, I fell about giggling. No con left out. Every victim griped
“Me ‘ead’s cabbaged, doc, I’ve ‘eard wars goin’ on outside me cell.”
As time passed the screws gave me more jobs, no complaints, glad to be busy time went more quickly spending long hours out of my cell. As the S/O let me sit at his desk every day compiling files, my chief chore to check out the cells on my landing every half hour. I had to report anything amiss to a mess room where the screws sneaked a fag. On good terms with one and all, cons didn’t mind my cosy bond with screws, depending on their age they would regard me like their sister or daughter. Reminding me that some gaolbirds were sex offenders and others in for murder, the screws warned me to exercise care. Not easily frightened, albeit steering clear of skulking paedophiles and bent cops, I had lived with terrorists and most of these lads not real killers, but in for crimes of passion.
Before long, as cons and screws alike sought my guidance I took on the mantle of agony aunt, then still politically outlawed, such a shame, most men claimed I would make a good wife. Well I had helped them avoid a divorce or two. Sorting out their troubles with wives, boy and girlfriends and keeping my eyes open for suicide cases, I had found a niche for myself. As more cons sought my help, unable to read or write, a great boon, I did it for them.
Where are all these holiday camps? A rum place, I found prison brutal and sad, alone in their cells as young cons cried, not sure how they got there, usually down to bloody awful parents. Without positive help, upon their release, armed with a hardened image and admired by their mates, such a waste, many would return. Old lags remembered long unseen families and glad of a natter, they pressed gifts of burn and sweets on me. I slipped a fair bit of it under strip-cell doors. Only human, though many prisoners admitted to their weakness for crime, many more victims of deprivation, mental illness, and zero education, crying out for reform, prison didn’t work for them.
- 109 -
Most screws confessed that my labours saved them from depleting their reserve of liquid cosh. Designed to treat schizophrenia, freely abused and injected into pests, sure of a lasting place in the nick, a swift jab Largactil downed cons daring to kick off. As he made my flesh crawl, one con confided to me that he was a sex offender. Steven Wallace had inflicted an evil assault upon a young girl and her mother. He had repeatedly tried to hang himself. Doing my duty, I always warned the screws. As most of them turned a blind eye, they all said the same thing
“Don’t worry about the bastard he’s in for rape and buggery he used a knife on a girl to, to accommodate himself, let him rot in hell!”
Keeping his shirt collar buttoned and hiding the raging crimson rings around his neck Steve fashioned his makeshift ligatures from strips of torn bed linen, they had caused his burns. He grumbled that the noose always gave when it bore his weight. When he told me that he had fixed the hitch, feeling duty bound, I grassed him up. Perhaps the Jewish notion that to save one soul ultimately saved them all had something to do with it. No judge, I don’t know if it applied to Steve. It made no difference the screws took no notice. As his trial drew nearer, only in his 20s and he proclaimed
“I’m ready to die!”
Steve’s shocking crimes greatly appalled me. Unlike others, unable to cast the first stone, I still didn’t want anyone dead. Right or wrong you tell me, I had had more than my fill of death and spent many hours trying to talk him out of it. Next morning, as he visited my cell, a lovely chap, I felt very sorry for him. Looking pale and very shaken, as he made a faltering announcement. Mr Bignall told me
“Steve’s dead, he…he hanged himself last night.”
When the cops showed up, a quick enquiry and no more Steve, they slipped his corpse into a bodybag on a trolley, wheeling it out to a waiting black van. As cons watched a sober scene, didn’t matter what he had been in for now, it shrouded Risley in silence. Before leaving, preventing its use until after an inquest had been held, the cops sealed Steve’s former cell with tape. As cons weighed up their futility, some declared that they fancied a similar end. I told them, don’t be daft and soon the shadow passed. A surfeit of tabloids suggested that they knew all about Steve’s death and crimes. Yet as the screws read the articles, armed with insider knowledge and spitting their contempt. They lamented
“That’s not right! Rubbish! They’ve got that wrong!”
Happiness a visitor and as mates and mums did their bit, smuggling in ‘H’ and Charlie, mainly spliff and don’t forget the Valium. Easily done and not stupid they knew, but watching
“Don’t worry about the bastard he’s in for rape and buggery he used a knife on a girl to, to accommodate himself, let him rot in hell!”
Keeping his shirt collar buttoned and hiding the raging crimson rings around his neck Steve fashioned his makeshift ligatures from strips of torn bed linen, they had caused his burns. He grumbled that the noose always gave when it bore his weight. When he told me that he had fixed the hitch, feeling duty bound, I grassed him up. Perhaps the Jewish notion that to save one soul ultimately saved them all had something to do with it. No judge, I don’t know if it applied to Steve. It made no difference the screws took no notice. As his trial drew nearer, only in his 20s and he proclaimed
“I’m ready to die!”
Steve’s shocking crimes greatly appalled me. Unlike others, unable to cast the first stone, I still didn’t want anyone dead. Right or wrong you tell me, I had had more than my fill of death and spent many hours trying to talk him out of it. Next morning, as he visited my cell, a lovely chap, I felt very sorry for him. Looking pale and very shaken, as he made a faltering announcement. Mr Bignall told me
“Steve’s dead, he…he hanged himself last night.”
When the cops showed up, a quick enquiry and no more Steve, they slipped his corpse into a bodybag on a trolley, wheeling it out to a waiting black van. As cons watched a sober scene, didn’t matter what he had been in for now, it shrouded Risley in silence. Before leaving, preventing its use until after an inquest had been held, the cops sealed Steve’s former cell with tape. As cons weighed up their futility, some declared that they fancied a similar end. I told them, don’t be daft and soon the shadow passed. A surfeit of tabloids suggested that they knew all about Steve’s death and crimes. Yet as the screws read the articles, armed with insider knowledge and spitting their contempt. They lamented
“That’s not right! Rubbish! They’ve got that wrong!”
Happiness a visitor and as mates and mums did their bit, smuggling in ‘H’ and Charlie, mainly spliff and don’t forget the Valium. Easily done and not stupid they knew, but watching
- 110 -
screws did nothing. All lovey-dovey and as cons kissed, not just tongues, as condoms slipped between them, one gulp and worth waiting for it to reappear, many cons would crack up without it.
It made no difference how cons departed. A regular hotel and one of my tasks was to make empty cells ready for the next guest and waiting until the court said open sesame, one screw asked me to help him remove all the sticky tape sealing the blighted cell. As it came unstuck, of course sardonic, he quipped
“Right, let’s release his trapped spirit.”
It didn’t half stink in there. As I watched the screw nip into the pit and jump onto the unmade bed, its covers twisted not unlike the mind of its last occupant. Arms outstretched, as he got the windows open, a welcome fresh breeze struck my face. Making a job of it, Steve had bound his ligature to the bars at the top of the windows. Producing a penknife from his pocket and a bit of a struggle, then to our relief, the screw cut the knot.
I had to snoop. An improvised gallows, it amounted to a pile of battered books all stacked up on top of his bedside cabinet. Evidently, Steve had leapt from the crude platform to end his existence. As I peered under the bed, resting in the fluff, a dog-eared paperback caught my eye. Utilising a handy strip of torn linen and wiping dead skin cells off the cover first, I picked up the book. Searching for it as I flicked the grubby pages, thought so, the cops had missed it. Secreted inside, I found Steve’s final note scrawled in lurid red marker. Ignoring the meaningless religious gobbledygook, at the end, it recorded his remorse.
As I rejoined the screw outside in the corridor and showed him the note, giving it a swift shufti, he said nothing, but screwing it up, he chucked the scrap onto the floor. As he lit fags for us, passing the first one to me, taking a drag, I checked out the paperback title and exclaimed
“The Holy Blood & The Holy Grail, he told me that he’d read this book many times. He claimed that it gave him answers he needed, he said it had restored his faith in God.”
“If it made him take his life, I certainly don’t wish to read it” a shudder and the screw added, “Eeh you know, it’s a reet funny thing death, a bloke like that what he did was awful, yet I feel a sense of loss.”
“It’s affected me too,” I confessed “My father took his life.”
As the screw placed a fatherly arm about my shoulders, a good bloke, he told me that he was sorry. Afterwards, I swept Steve’s remains into the bin.
As my trial drew near, Malcolm paid me a visit. His needle stuck, he urged me to think about pleading guilty. The brief claimed that it had proved impossible to get a copy of the garage invoice. He
It made no difference how cons departed. A regular hotel and one of my tasks was to make empty cells ready for the next guest and waiting until the court said open sesame, one screw asked me to help him remove all the sticky tape sealing the blighted cell. As it came unstuck, of course sardonic, he quipped
“Right, let’s release his trapped spirit.”
It didn’t half stink in there. As I watched the screw nip into the pit and jump onto the unmade bed, its covers twisted not unlike the mind of its last occupant. Arms outstretched, as he got the windows open, a welcome fresh breeze struck my face. Making a job of it, Steve had bound his ligature to the bars at the top of the windows. Producing a penknife from his pocket and a bit of a struggle, then to our relief, the screw cut the knot.
I had to snoop. An improvised gallows, it amounted to a pile of battered books all stacked up on top of his bedside cabinet. Evidently, Steve had leapt from the crude platform to end his existence. As I peered under the bed, resting in the fluff, a dog-eared paperback caught my eye. Utilising a handy strip of torn linen and wiping dead skin cells off the cover first, I picked up the book. Searching for it as I flicked the grubby pages, thought so, the cops had missed it. Secreted inside, I found Steve’s final note scrawled in lurid red marker. Ignoring the meaningless religious gobbledygook, at the end, it recorded his remorse.
As I rejoined the screw outside in the corridor and showed him the note, giving it a swift shufti, he said nothing, but screwing it up, he chucked the scrap onto the floor. As he lit fags for us, passing the first one to me, taking a drag, I checked out the paperback title and exclaimed
“The Holy Blood & The Holy Grail, he told me that he’d read this book many times. He claimed that it gave him answers he needed, he said it had restored his faith in God.”
“If it made him take his life, I certainly don’t wish to read it” a shudder and the screw added, “Eeh you know, it’s a reet funny thing death, a bloke like that what he did was awful, yet I feel a sense of loss.”
“It’s affected me too,” I confessed “My father took his life.”
As the screw placed a fatherly arm about my shoulders, a good bloke, he told me that he was sorry. Afterwards, I swept Steve’s remains into the bin.
As my trial drew near, Malcolm paid me a visit. His needle stuck, he urged me to think about pleading guilty. The brief claimed that it had proved impossible to get a copy of the garage invoice. He
- 111 -
rejected my proposal to dispatch a gumshoe to my home in Cabus or to the caravan at Knott End to search for any overlooked evidence. Like Ali Baba looters in Baghdad, Malcolm told me the neighbours had stolen my valuables, trashing the rest. Sparing me the full details, he had meant to keep it from me. Nothing now remained, no trace of their life save a few photos, like all else, I had to take it on the chin. As Malcolm admitted
“The police don’t care, they’ve made up their mind that you’re a criminal.”
“What happened to my vehicles and all my things in Manchester?” I demanded.
“I’m sorry” he sighed, “Your van’s smashed up, your car’s been pinched, as for your landlord, well he’s a bigger crook than most, he should be in this place, he’s pinched everything else.”
“Can’t you do something?” I begged him.
“I’ve snooped around Lavister Avenue,” revealed Malcolm. “One neighbour said that your landlord what’s his name’s been arrested, the police charged him with fraud and deception, I believe it runs into millions.”
“So they got my old mate Mediratta then!”
Malcolm’s face comical, it read what’s next? Well I had to tell him. During my spell in Burnage, the postman had delivered a sack of letters addressed to the landlord’s wife from Newcastle Building Society. I wondered why they came to me and not her. Naughty, but well justified and having a pry, among the letters, I found a copy mortgage agreement. The document related to the house, which I then rented. According to the enclosed account, the mortgage deep in arrears, the landlord owed thousands and the Building Society threatened repossession.
My mind made up, not about to lose Mum’s shelter and armed with an account number and appropriate accent, I rang the Building Society pretending to be Mrs Mediratta. I learned that her greedy husband had acquired the house by fraud. More enquiries later and I discovered that he had let houses and flats all over Manchester, even the house next-door. It belonged to Halifax Building Society. A crooked empire, I aimed to demolish it. Using the names of his extended family, Mediratta had filled out loads of first-time mortgage applications. Aided by his wife and two sons, once they had the keys, breaching the contract, they placed ads in the papers and sublet the property. Avarice knew no frontiers, raking in the rent, it not only paid off the mortgages it yielded a luxury lifestyle and propped up more scams. Malcolm liked gossip, as I paused, bemused, he had to admit
“I don’t know how you get into such scrapes.”
“I’ll give you a demo, Malcolm,” I told him.
“The police don’t care, they’ve made up their mind that you’re a criminal.”
“What happened to my vehicles and all my things in Manchester?” I demanded.
“I’m sorry” he sighed, “Your van’s smashed up, your car’s been pinched, as for your landlord, well he’s a bigger crook than most, he should be in this place, he’s pinched everything else.”
“Can’t you do something?” I begged him.
“I’ve snooped around Lavister Avenue,” revealed Malcolm. “One neighbour said that your landlord what’s his name’s been arrested, the police charged him with fraud and deception, I believe it runs into millions.”
“So they got my old mate Mediratta then!”
Malcolm’s face comical, it read what’s next? Well I had to tell him. During my spell in Burnage, the postman had delivered a sack of letters addressed to the landlord’s wife from Newcastle Building Society. I wondered why they came to me and not her. Naughty, but well justified and having a pry, among the letters, I found a copy mortgage agreement. The document related to the house, which I then rented. According to the enclosed account, the mortgage deep in arrears, the landlord owed thousands and the Building Society threatened repossession.
My mind made up, not about to lose Mum’s shelter and armed with an account number and appropriate accent, I rang the Building Society pretending to be Mrs Mediratta. I learned that her greedy husband had acquired the house by fraud. More enquiries later and I discovered that he had let houses and flats all over Manchester, even the house next-door. It belonged to Halifax Building Society. A crooked empire, I aimed to demolish it. Using the names of his extended family, Mediratta had filled out loads of first-time mortgage applications. Aided by his wife and two sons, once they had the keys, breaching the contract, they placed ads in the papers and sublet the property. Avarice knew no frontiers, raking in the rent, it not only paid off the mortgages it yielded a luxury lifestyle and propped up more scams. Malcolm liked gossip, as I paused, bemused, he had to admit
“I don’t know how you get into such scrapes.”
“I’ll give you a demo, Malcolm,” I told him.
- 112 -
Relating the story allowed me to escape. When Mediratta planted a pair of ‘for sale’ notices in my neighbour’s and then my front garden, now scared of going to prison, he had elected to sell the houses to pay off his mounting debts. Too late, I called Halifax Building Society and told them about the house next-door. Deep in debt with them too, I found that Mediratta was also into benefit fraud. I tore down his sale signs and daring him, stuck ‘not for sale’ notices in the windows. It drew him out.
One dark night, a real gangster Mediratta called to the house with his two sons threatening to evict me. After a brief scuffle, one of his lads cut my arm with his knife. Enraged, I lost it. As they ran to the car, I chased after them. As she tried to kill me with a look of evil, Mediratta’s wife glowered at me from the front seat of the vehicle. About to conclude with a confession, I admitted
“I kicked in the door of his BMW, stupid man reported me to the police.”
“You did all this while still on the run!” yelled Malcolm, horrified.
“The cops took me down to the station” I unveiled, calmly.
“With two warrants out, bloody hell!” blurted the brief, aghast
Truth stranger than fiction, at the station the police told me that I could forget all about the damage to Mediratta’s car. Setting a crafty trap, they phoned him up and told him that he would have to come down to the station to make a statement before they could charge me. Craven by nature and Mediratta sent his wife in his place. The cops said that was even better, it split them up and meaning to spring a surprise, she was on their wanted list too While we waited for her to arrive, one cop made me a nice cuppa. About an hour later, having a laugh about it, the cops informed me that Mediratta’s wife had put her foot in it and was in a cell under arrest. As a posse rounded up Mediratta and his sons, the sheriff and his men told me that I deserved a medal. Better than that, shaking my hand, they said thanks I was free to go. Amused by the perplexed look on his face, I told Malcolm
“One dishy cop really fancied me,” I recalled “He chatted me up as he gave me a lift back home in his cop car.”
Suddenly overcome, unable to speak, it was thinking about Mum at the house. As tears traced my cheek, Malcolm held my hand. Pulling myself together, back to the future, I quizzed
“Any luck with Swansea?”
“They still say the records are missing” appearing doubtful, Malcolm admitted, ”It’s very peculiar!”
“I’ve been set up. Malcolm!” I retorted, feeling angry.
“I can’t accept that the police would go that far” he responded, unconvinced.
One dark night, a real gangster Mediratta called to the house with his two sons threatening to evict me. After a brief scuffle, one of his lads cut my arm with his knife. Enraged, I lost it. As they ran to the car, I chased after them. As she tried to kill me with a look of evil, Mediratta’s wife glowered at me from the front seat of the vehicle. About to conclude with a confession, I admitted
“I kicked in the door of his BMW, stupid man reported me to the police.”
“You did all this while still on the run!” yelled Malcolm, horrified.
“The cops took me down to the station” I unveiled, calmly.
“With two warrants out, bloody hell!” blurted the brief, aghast
Truth stranger than fiction, at the station the police told me that I could forget all about the damage to Mediratta’s car. Setting a crafty trap, they phoned him up and told him that he would have to come down to the station to make a statement before they could charge me. Craven by nature and Mediratta sent his wife in his place. The cops said that was even better, it split them up and meaning to spring a surprise, she was on their wanted list too While we waited for her to arrive, one cop made me a nice cuppa. About an hour later, having a laugh about it, the cops informed me that Mediratta’s wife had put her foot in it and was in a cell under arrest. As a posse rounded up Mediratta and his sons, the sheriff and his men told me that I deserved a medal. Better than that, shaking my hand, they said thanks I was free to go. Amused by the perplexed look on his face, I told Malcolm
“One dishy cop really fancied me,” I recalled “He chatted me up as he gave me a lift back home in his cop car.”
Suddenly overcome, unable to speak, it was thinking about Mum at the house. As tears traced my cheek, Malcolm held my hand. Pulling myself together, back to the future, I quizzed
“Any luck with Swansea?”
“They still say the records are missing” appearing doubtful, Malcolm admitted, ”It’s very peculiar!”
“I’ve been set up. Malcolm!” I retorted, feeling angry.
“I can’t accept that the police would go that far” he responded, unconvinced.
- 113 -
“Not the cops, the Security Service – MI5!” There I had owned up.
“What are you talking about?” quizzed Malcolm, bewildered.
“You can’t help me not unless I help you” I accepted, pleading
“Promise me you won’t repeat this least not without my say-so.”
“Anything you tell me is privileged information” he assured me.
My last throw of the dice, in a hole, I told Malcolm about my run in with MI5. Inevitably, he asked me why. I felt obliged to give him an edited history of my life in Israel. No place else to go, I simply had to trust him. Looking me in the eye, he knew I wasn’t mad. Malcolm queried
“How can we establish that you used to work for the Mossad?”
“I don’t know” I told him bluntly, “It’s where my problems begin, they’ll deny everything. It’s not just about their security it’s designed to protect me too. I’m cornered…look, here’s my army number – please keep it secret.”
Fed up with the lousy conditions, in September as a riot broke out at Risley, some cons scaled a wall staging a demo on the roof in front of the media camped outside the prison walls. No prisoners could pass through Risley’s gates until the protest ended.
It felt much longer, as I entered into my fourth month inside, I met Ged Corley. Once a Manchester cop and like me, doubtless many more, he too was a victim. Convicted of supplying the local underworld with firearms, he was given 17 years imprisonment. He had done no wrong. A gentle giant, the screws and cons felt sorry for him. As we chatted, making him a promise, I declared that one day, we would tell the world about our injustice. Ged wanted to believe me, but not easy to place much faith in my words, in prison you feel so helpless. No easy matter clinging to hope in a system designed to convict. Once arrested you’re guilty, it took only a week to throw me in gaol and the system fished for new victims all the time, although in his case, as the Court of Appeal overturned Ged’s conviction, it afforded me optimism.
As the rooftop protest ended, the cameras found a better story and as the main gate reopened, Malcolm paid me a visit and unveiled
“I’ve had no response from the Israelis. In view of where that leaves us, our goal must be to get you out of prison at the first opportunity.” Unable to meet my gaze he added, “Mr Lamb’s advised you to plead guilty to lessen your sentence.”
“I’m not guilty” and resolute, I asked him, ”What do you think Malcolm?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he responded “I’m not the judge.”
- 114 -
“What are you talking about?” quizzed Malcolm, bewildered.
“You can’t help me not unless I help you” I accepted, pleading
“Promise me you won’t repeat this least not without my say-so.”
“Anything you tell me is privileged information” he assured me.
My last throw of the dice, in a hole, I told Malcolm about my run in with MI5. Inevitably, he asked me why. I felt obliged to give him an edited history of my life in Israel. No place else to go, I simply had to trust him. Looking me in the eye, he knew I wasn’t mad. Malcolm queried
“How can we establish that you used to work for the Mossad?”
“I don’t know” I told him bluntly, “It’s where my problems begin, they’ll deny everything. It’s not just about their security it’s designed to protect me too. I’m cornered…look, here’s my army number – please keep it secret.”
Fed up with the lousy conditions, in September as a riot broke out at Risley, some cons scaled a wall staging a demo on the roof in front of the media camped outside the prison walls. No prisoners could pass through Risley’s gates until the protest ended.
It felt much longer, as I entered into my fourth month inside, I met Ged Corley. Once a Manchester cop and like me, doubtless many more, he too was a victim. Convicted of supplying the local underworld with firearms, he was given 17 years imprisonment. He had done no wrong. A gentle giant, the screws and cons felt sorry for him. As we chatted, making him a promise, I declared that one day, we would tell the world about our injustice. Ged wanted to believe me, but not easy to place much faith in my words, in prison you feel so helpless. No easy matter clinging to hope in a system designed to convict. Once arrested you’re guilty, it took only a week to throw me in gaol and the system fished for new victims all the time, although in his case, as the Court of Appeal overturned Ged’s conviction, it afforded me optimism.
As the rooftop protest ended, the cameras found a better story and as the main gate reopened, Malcolm paid me a visit and unveiled
“I’ve had no response from the Israelis. In view of where that leaves us, our goal must be to get you out of prison at the first opportunity.” Unable to meet my gaze he added, “Mr Lamb’s advised you to plead guilty to lessen your sentence.”
“I’m not guilty” and resolute, I asked him, ”What do you think Malcolm?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he responded “I’m not the judge.”
- 114 -
Like Kathy’s doll, I needed something to hang onto and imploring him to judge me, looking very troubled, Malcolm took pity and a big sigh, he confessed
“I believe you’re innocent,” then he added “There’s something I’ve not told you about the enquiry agent that I hired. He’s found a witness. An old neighbour at Grappenhall told him that he’d seen a black Rover like yours parked outside your home. He said it wasn’t your car, two men sat inside it, he got the number it was a later model.”
“Why did you keep this from me?” I demanded, suddenly feeling outraged.
“He’s frightened he claims two men in suits paid him a visit, they warned him to keep his mouth shut and made up strange tales about you” Malcolm insisted “I’m not repeating them – I know you and what they said is crap!”
Malcolm told me that the witness had said he liked Dad. They had served in the 8th Army and used to chat. His wife was an invalid. While Malcolm’s agent had made huge efforts to make him change his mind, worried about her and reprisals, he refused to go to court. As eleventh hour hope rushed to my heart, I cried
“Subpœna the man, force him to go to court!”
“I’ve faced this situation before,” said Malcolm. “Believe me, forcing defence witnesses to go to court against their will helps only the prosecution. I didn’t tell you about him for your own sake I didn’t want to raise false hope.”
“What about the vehicle number” I probed.
“Swansea told me it’s false” unveiled Malcolm “No such number issued…”
“They would say that if it’s one of Five’s cars” I begged him “Please Malcolm, try the witness one last time.”
One month later in October, on the morning of my trial, I took time out to pray for strength and justice. As a prison bus delivered me to Knutsford Crown Court, the sunny weather matched my mood. A couple of hours later, joining me in the cells, as Lamb brought up the rear, unhappy, Malcolm told me
“Our witness refuses to go to court, he said he has to think of his wife, they’re old folk and scared of comebacks.”
In court, as I stepped into the dock, it gave me a clear view of the chamber. At once clocking a curiously subdued Lauledge. In an odd way, finding his presence inspiring and exerting all my effort in a clear strong voice, I pleaded
“Not guilty!”
- 115 -
“I believe you’re innocent,” then he added “There’s something I’ve not told you about the enquiry agent that I hired. He’s found a witness. An old neighbour at Grappenhall told him that he’d seen a black Rover like yours parked outside your home. He said it wasn’t your car, two men sat inside it, he got the number it was a later model.”
“Why did you keep this from me?” I demanded, suddenly feeling outraged.
“He’s frightened he claims two men in suits paid him a visit, they warned him to keep his mouth shut and made up strange tales about you” Malcolm insisted “I’m not repeating them – I know you and what they said is crap!”
Malcolm told me that the witness had said he liked Dad. They had served in the 8th Army and used to chat. His wife was an invalid. While Malcolm’s agent had made huge efforts to make him change his mind, worried about her and reprisals, he refused to go to court. As eleventh hour hope rushed to my heart, I cried
“Subpœna the man, force him to go to court!”
“I’ve faced this situation before,” said Malcolm. “Believe me, forcing defence witnesses to go to court against their will helps only the prosecution. I didn’t tell you about him for your own sake I didn’t want to raise false hope.”
“What about the vehicle number” I probed.
“Swansea told me it’s false” unveiled Malcolm “No such number issued…”
“They would say that if it’s one of Five’s cars” I begged him “Please Malcolm, try the witness one last time.”
One month later in October, on the morning of my trial, I took time out to pray for strength and justice. As a prison bus delivered me to Knutsford Crown Court, the sunny weather matched my mood. A couple of hours later, joining me in the cells, as Lamb brought up the rear, unhappy, Malcolm told me
“Our witness refuses to go to court, he said he has to think of his wife, they’re old folk and scared of comebacks.”
In court, as I stepped into the dock, it gave me a clear view of the chamber. At once clocking a curiously subdued Lauledge. In an odd way, finding his presence inspiring and exerting all my effort in a clear strong voice, I pleaded
“Not guilty!”
- 115 -
About to commence, handing him a note, a court clerk interrupted the judge. After he had read it, citing a backlog in court listings, as the beak adjourned the hearing, I felt cheated and in deep despair. Back to Risley as the bus closed in on the grim Remand Centre, very depressed, for me it symbolised the gateway to Hades. As the bus braked outside the male reception, lurking inside the hideous building, three callous screws pounced upon me. Obscene and one screw yelled
“Get in that fuckin’ cubicle and strip!”
As the screws demanded that I stand naked before them, it swiftly reduced me to tearful begging. When they threatened to strip me, on the edge, I could take no more. Bereft and trembling, I prayed to the General please help me.
“C’mon, get yer tits out fer the lads!” bawled the screws.
Abusing their power, the depraved screws urged leering cons to draw up seats for the show. Cornered, I made no move. As the screws advanced and made to strip me, answering my prayer, just finished his shift and as he passed through, sickened. A nurse named Geoff saved me. Tall handsome and erudite, he called them scum. As he gripped my arm and sped me to the hospital wing, once inside the cell, desperately alone and unloved, feeling suicidal, I fell upon the bed and shed floods of tears.
That night when Mr Poll found me, he claimed that his wife had baked him too many and handed me a paper bag filled with little cakes. A lovely Scot and saving my life, I had planned to end it like Steve. Mr Poll’s humanity restored my spirit.
As I resumed my duties on the wing next morning, distracting my thoughts, as a screw named Mick entered a strip-cell alone, a chancer, he should have waited for another screw to join him. The pit housed a distinctly gross con, meaning to plead insanity and hoping to impress the judge, he had smeared himself head to toe in his own shit. Thirty and muscular as he rained blows about Mick’s head, racing down the landing, I spotted two more screws sat at a table finishing a crossword. I could have burned the place down for all they cared, but then, never into arson, I pressed the alarm bell and as it clanged, I screamed for help. Rushing to be first, an army of screws charged into the hospital, like a traffic cop, I directed them to the strip-cell where they liberated their battered colleague. As Mick approached me, a bit smelly, his shirt filthy, pride bruised. Pausing by my cell, he gave me a rueful wink and the least I could do, he said thanks.
A few days more, I received a note from Malcolm. He revealed that my trial was listed to take place at Mold Crown Court in Wales in November. More than a fortnight away and given too much time to dwell upon it; despairing of justice, I had already
- 116 -
“Get in that fuckin’ cubicle and strip!”
As the screws demanded that I stand naked before them, it swiftly reduced me to tearful begging. When they threatened to strip me, on the edge, I could take no more. Bereft and trembling, I prayed to the General please help me.
“C’mon, get yer tits out fer the lads!” bawled the screws.
Abusing their power, the depraved screws urged leering cons to draw up seats for the show. Cornered, I made no move. As the screws advanced and made to strip me, answering my prayer, just finished his shift and as he passed through, sickened. A nurse named Geoff saved me. Tall handsome and erudite, he called them scum. As he gripped my arm and sped me to the hospital wing, once inside the cell, desperately alone and unloved, feeling suicidal, I fell upon the bed and shed floods of tears.
That night when Mr Poll found me, he claimed that his wife had baked him too many and handed me a paper bag filled with little cakes. A lovely Scot and saving my life, I had planned to end it like Steve. Mr Poll’s humanity restored my spirit.
As I resumed my duties on the wing next morning, distracting my thoughts, as a screw named Mick entered a strip-cell alone, a chancer, he should have waited for another screw to join him. The pit housed a distinctly gross con, meaning to plead insanity and hoping to impress the judge, he had smeared himself head to toe in his own shit. Thirty and muscular as he rained blows about Mick’s head, racing down the landing, I spotted two more screws sat at a table finishing a crossword. I could have burned the place down for all they cared, but then, never into arson, I pressed the alarm bell and as it clanged, I screamed for help. Rushing to be first, an army of screws charged into the hospital, like a traffic cop, I directed them to the strip-cell where they liberated their battered colleague. As Mick approached me, a bit smelly, his shirt filthy, pride bruised. Pausing by my cell, he gave me a rueful wink and the least I could do, he said thanks.
A few days more, I received a note from Malcolm. He revealed that my trial was listed to take place at Mold Crown Court in Wales in November. More than a fortnight away and given too much time to dwell upon it; despairing of justice, I had already
- 116 -
endured a life imprisoned in my body. On the brink of release and full womanhood, cruelly torn from me, I had to end my captivity.
In my endeavours to win a fair trial, ignoring Malcolm’s advice, a last throw of the loaded dice, I tried to sack my counsel. The court claimed that it was too close to the hearing and refused. In the event, a tall Welsh screw delivered me to Mold. Honest, he admitted that it was a bugger to keep me in a men’s nick. At the court, he banged me up in a ghastly tiny cell that to my troubled mind closely resembled a tomb. As I tried to kill my mounting anxiety, I read the wicked graffiti covering all four walls at least loads of times.
All morning alone and my blood racing, heart ballistic, made worse by violent palpitations, my health the stuff of severe stress. As I sank deeper, it was a far far better thing that I do now. In the Conciergerie, at least she had a mirror, now I had an authentic idea of what it must have been like for Marie Antoinette. While the mob in the courtroom above me, ate cakes, perhaps not the guillotine, but the fate I faced, embodied an outcome, which for me, felt much like it.
As I tried to pull myself together, another screw led me into an anteroom where Malcolm offered me only a bleak smile. Wasting no time, Lamb begged me play the game plead guilty. Finally broken, as I stared at the harsh concrete, steel bars, heavy locks and everyone willing me to perjure myself. Striking a stinking deal, for sure not justice, my destiny. I summed up
“I’ve been set-up, fighting makes it worse, my health’s gone. I’m innocent, I’ve no choice, I must survive I’ll do whatever you want.”
Another tactical withdrawal, aiming to fight and win another day, too weak now to sustain my struggle I had no reinforcements. My enemy too powerful, it had taken me by surprise. Standing alone in the dock dazed and humiliated, as I claimed guilt for crimes committed against me, even the charge wrong. Aware that I had been the legal owner of the destroyed home at Grappenhall, as if I would, a final insult, they alleged that I had set fire to my father’s property.
As MI5 won the injustice, for Mum and Dad’s sake, I will never forgive them. My sentence still to be decided, once more, returned to Risley.
Next day, feeling lonelier than ever, as I resumed my duties on the wing, a new screw turned up on the landing. Younger than the average, about 23, bearded, tall and fit for a scouser, making his first mistake, as he released all the cons from their cells an hour too early. When Mr White showed up, noting my dejection and seeking to raise my spirit, impassive, he told me
“I put you in charge of this landing, put the rookie right will you.”
In my endeavours to win a fair trial, ignoring Malcolm’s advice, a last throw of the loaded dice, I tried to sack my counsel. The court claimed that it was too close to the hearing and refused. In the event, a tall Welsh screw delivered me to Mold. Honest, he admitted that it was a bugger to keep me in a men’s nick. At the court, he banged me up in a ghastly tiny cell that to my troubled mind closely resembled a tomb. As I tried to kill my mounting anxiety, I read the wicked graffiti covering all four walls at least loads of times.
All morning alone and my blood racing, heart ballistic, made worse by violent palpitations, my health the stuff of severe stress. As I sank deeper, it was a far far better thing that I do now. In the Conciergerie, at least she had a mirror, now I had an authentic idea of what it must have been like for Marie Antoinette. While the mob in the courtroom above me, ate cakes, perhaps not the guillotine, but the fate I faced, embodied an outcome, which for me, felt much like it.
As I tried to pull myself together, another screw led me into an anteroom where Malcolm offered me only a bleak smile. Wasting no time, Lamb begged me play the game plead guilty. Finally broken, as I stared at the harsh concrete, steel bars, heavy locks and everyone willing me to perjure myself. Striking a stinking deal, for sure not justice, my destiny. I summed up
“I’ve been set-up, fighting makes it worse, my health’s gone. I’m innocent, I’ve no choice, I must survive I’ll do whatever you want.”
Another tactical withdrawal, aiming to fight and win another day, too weak now to sustain my struggle I had no reinforcements. My enemy too powerful, it had taken me by surprise. Standing alone in the dock dazed and humiliated, as I claimed guilt for crimes committed against me, even the charge wrong. Aware that I had been the legal owner of the destroyed home at Grappenhall, as if I would, a final insult, they alleged that I had set fire to my father’s property.
As MI5 won the injustice, for Mum and Dad’s sake, I will never forgive them. My sentence still to be decided, once more, returned to Risley.
Next day, feeling lonelier than ever, as I resumed my duties on the wing, a new screw turned up on the landing. Younger than the average, about 23, bearded, tall and fit for a scouser, making his first mistake, as he released all the cons from their cells an hour too early. When Mr White showed up, noting my dejection and seeking to raise my spirit, impassive, he told me
“I put you in charge of this landing, put the rookie right will you.”
- 117 -
When no one was about, the new screw fervently insisted, not Mr Brookfield, big deal, I could call him Ian. As the day wore on, he paid me loads of attention. I knew his game. My mind elsewhere, getting on with my work, as I entered the bathroom intent only upon scrubbing clean the tub and running hot water into it. Unaware of him, as Ian crept into the room, sneaking up behind me, his arm swift around my waist as he pulled me to him, kissing my lips, he declared
“Oooh, I wish I could share a bath with you!”
Needing love not sex. Before I could stop him, his hands groping my breasts, then footsteps outside. Letting me go, Ian confessed
“I couldn’t help it I was overcome – quick, I’ve gone hard feel my cock!”
Pushing him and his bulge away, I felt shocked. Avoiding him for the duration of his shift, unable to rest, that night I lay awake thinking.
Next day, eavesdropping on two more screws, appalled, I soon discovered that Ian was married. When he arrived on the landing and told me
“I’ve missed you.”
Failing to respond, I shunned him all day. About to end his shift, cornering me, Ian wanted to know why I was spurning him.
“I’ve found out you’re married!”
“Its okay – my wife doesn’t understand me.”
“You’re a cheat,” I retorted, disgusted with him.
“I can’t leave my wife” he began, downcast, adding, “It’s not my fault…its not working in bed” I didn’t want to know, but still clinging to my arm Ian told me “Look – you’ll go to another prison any day, I ache to make love to you, think, on your release we can enjoy endless nights of sex…”
Ending his fantasy, next day, I appeared once more at Warrington Crown Court. As Justice Daniel executed the coup de grâce, he decreed
“I’m giving you credit for a guilty plea, you’ll go to a men’s prison – you must deal with any problems which may arise yourself. I sentence you to three and a half years imprisonment – you may go down.”
A great bitterness welled inside me. In Britain still a non-person, for me this is what they called justice. As Malcolm slipped into the cell, Lamb joined him at the slaughter. Looking ecstatic, the counsel cried
“Well done – your sentence could have been much longer.”
“Oooh, I wish I could share a bath with you!”
Needing love not sex. Before I could stop him, his hands groping my breasts, then footsteps outside. Letting me go, Ian confessed
“I couldn’t help it I was overcome – quick, I’ve gone hard feel my cock!”
Pushing him and his bulge away, I felt shocked. Avoiding him for the duration of his shift, unable to rest, that night I lay awake thinking.
Next day, eavesdropping on two more screws, appalled, I soon discovered that Ian was married. When he arrived on the landing and told me
“I’ve missed you.”
Failing to respond, I shunned him all day. About to end his shift, cornering me, Ian wanted to know why I was spurning him.
“I’ve found out you’re married!”
“Its okay – my wife doesn’t understand me.”
“You’re a cheat,” I retorted, disgusted with him.
“I can’t leave my wife” he began, downcast, adding, “It’s not my fault…its not working in bed” I didn’t want to know, but still clinging to my arm Ian told me “Look – you’ll go to another prison any day, I ache to make love to you, think, on your release we can enjoy endless nights of sex…”
Ending his fantasy, next day, I appeared once more at Warrington Crown Court. As Justice Daniel executed the coup de grâce, he decreed
“I’m giving you credit for a guilty plea, you’ll go to a men’s prison – you must deal with any problems which may arise yourself. I sentence you to three and a half years imprisonment – you may go down.”
A great bitterness welled inside me. In Britain still a non-person, for me this is what they called justice. As Malcolm slipped into the cell, Lamb joined him at the slaughter. Looking ecstatic, the counsel cried
“Well done – your sentence could have been much longer.”
- 118 -
“That was a travesty!” I screamed. “Now I’ve to pay for it!”
Wanting Lamb out of my sight, just then, another suited bloke entered the cell. I had not seen him before, alleging that he was a Probation Officer, he offered me a fag. Seizing his chance, as Lamb made his escape, my blood pressure so high that for the past few weeks, I had relied on cigarettes to help me quell my anxiety, but nicotine fed my adrenaline and only made me worse. I tried the quack, of course no examination, he claimed that I was trying to pull a fast one. As he expressed his surprise, Malcolm remarked
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I never used to” I admitted, “Now they’re all I have for company.”
“With parole you’ve got barely a year to serve” held the brief, trying to make light of it he claimed, “All this will be over, you’ll have a clean slate.”
“Clean slate you’re crazy – my slate’s smashed, they’ve murdered my life I’ve nothing left.” Biting I vowed, “One day I’ll screw this bloody corrupt system!”
As the coach sped down the motorway, I had no care where it was taking me. It doesn’t always hit at once, indeed, as I have found, sometimes it can take years before the full impact strikes. Thankful for small mercy, like an anaesthetic, the injustice had numbed my mind, as I checked the window, a filthy night, unable to see outside, only my ghostly image staring back at me.
As the bus halted before an ugly monstrosity one screw informed me that it was Liverpool Prison. Beyond the gates and hustled into another male reception area, smiling to hide my fear, I braced myself for more violation. However, a surprise, these screws proved more timid than me. After lengthy deliberation, nothing in the book about women, their rules applied only to men. As he scratched his head, one screw suggested that I went behind a screen and take off my bra. Shortly, as I passed the flimsy garment to him, it attracted a few ribald laughs. Unsure what he should do with it and blushing, as he swiftly handed it back to me, I put my bra back on and taking off my other things, except for my knickers, I donned another prison uniform meant for a man.
In the rules, but never any kosher food for me, and grabbing a veggie curry and a cuppa, before a male nurse whisked me off to their purported hospital wing, on the way, he asked me if I felt suicidal. Keeping my chin up I told him that I meant to see the injustice through. Once in the cell, I leapt upon a green-cloaked bed and tried not to think. Shortly, a key clattered in the lock and as the door swung back, I climbed off the bed. Confronted by a sour-faced prison quack, rude, she quizzed
“Need anything?”
Wanting Lamb out of my sight, just then, another suited bloke entered the cell. I had not seen him before, alleging that he was a Probation Officer, he offered me a fag. Seizing his chance, as Lamb made his escape, my blood pressure so high that for the past few weeks, I had relied on cigarettes to help me quell my anxiety, but nicotine fed my adrenaline and only made me worse. I tried the quack, of course no examination, he claimed that I was trying to pull a fast one. As he expressed his surprise, Malcolm remarked
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I never used to” I admitted, “Now they’re all I have for company.”
“With parole you’ve got barely a year to serve” held the brief, trying to make light of it he claimed, “All this will be over, you’ll have a clean slate.”
“Clean slate you’re crazy – my slate’s smashed, they’ve murdered my life I’ve nothing left.” Biting I vowed, “One day I’ll screw this bloody corrupt system!”
As the coach sped down the motorway, I had no care where it was taking me. It doesn’t always hit at once, indeed, as I have found, sometimes it can take years before the full impact strikes. Thankful for small mercy, like an anaesthetic, the injustice had numbed my mind, as I checked the window, a filthy night, unable to see outside, only my ghostly image staring back at me.
As the bus halted before an ugly monstrosity one screw informed me that it was Liverpool Prison. Beyond the gates and hustled into another male reception area, smiling to hide my fear, I braced myself for more violation. However, a surprise, these screws proved more timid than me. After lengthy deliberation, nothing in the book about women, their rules applied only to men. As he scratched his head, one screw suggested that I went behind a screen and take off my bra. Shortly, as I passed the flimsy garment to him, it attracted a few ribald laughs. Unsure what he should do with it and blushing, as he swiftly handed it back to me, I put my bra back on and taking off my other things, except for my knickers, I donned another prison uniform meant for a man.
In the rules, but never any kosher food for me, and grabbing a veggie curry and a cuppa, before a male nurse whisked me off to their purported hospital wing, on the way, he asked me if I felt suicidal. Keeping my chin up I told him that I meant to see the injustice through. Once in the cell, I leapt upon a green-cloaked bed and tried not to think. Shortly, a key clattered in the lock and as the door swung back, I climbed off the bed. Confronted by a sour-faced prison quack, rude, she quizzed
“Need anything?”
- 119 -
“Yes I take œstrogen and…” that’s as far I got.
“Liar!” she shrieked, “You want it just to boost the size of your breasts!”
She slammed the door in my face. Endeavouring to remain philosophical, well I knew that my survival would prove harsh in another men’s prison. Next morning, after a fitful night, I needed to rally my spirit and like back in Beirut, selecting my most precious luxury and unwrapping a fresh bar of perfumed soap, it had cost me half my meagre wages, but I was worth it. As I splashed icy water on my face from a plastic washbowl, throwing open the door and looking me up and down, an evil scowl. The S/O made me jump when he bawled
“Breakfast!”
Outside the cell, as I joined a short queue, which had formed on the landing, as expected, at once, all the cons gawped at me in disbelief. Some men leered, many others gents, they all agreed
“A woman! Look a woman!”
Wishing to cut a good impression with the screws on my first day. No novelty well used to it by now, I took no notice of them. Instead, approaching the S/O and intending to tell him about my kosher diet I began
“I’m Jewish and…”
“Piss off!” he screamed, “I don’t give a fuck!”
Painfully grabbing my arm and hauling me off my feet, he violently thrust me back into line. Heedful of their advice, cons warned me stay well clear of Tapley. Too late and malicious, he had already made up his mind to target me.
A lousy start, no breakfast for me, still adamantly determined to keep my chin up. As the quack returned to the cell, she had since read my medical file and for a change no need for hunger strike I could have my œstrogen. My relief short-lived, aiming to give me a hard time, as he unlocked the cell door, a smirk and Tapley barked
“Shower!”
I grabbed a towel and outside the cell, Tapley had vanished. So waiting in the corridor for him to resurface, at the far end of the passage, a small huddle of cons, all carrying towels like mine, had started to congregate. Shortly, as he made for me, a malevolent grin split Tapley’s features. Pointing to the men, he ordered me to strip off and join them in the shower block. Looking him in the eye, I fumed
”Go take a shower with them yourself!”
- 120 -
“Liar!” she shrieked, “You want it just to boost the size of your breasts!”
She slammed the door in my face. Endeavouring to remain philosophical, well I knew that my survival would prove harsh in another men’s prison. Next morning, after a fitful night, I needed to rally my spirit and like back in Beirut, selecting my most precious luxury and unwrapping a fresh bar of perfumed soap, it had cost me half my meagre wages, but I was worth it. As I splashed icy water on my face from a plastic washbowl, throwing open the door and looking me up and down, an evil scowl. The S/O made me jump when he bawled
“Breakfast!”
Outside the cell, as I joined a short queue, which had formed on the landing, as expected, at once, all the cons gawped at me in disbelief. Some men leered, many others gents, they all agreed
“A woman! Look a woman!”
Wishing to cut a good impression with the screws on my first day. No novelty well used to it by now, I took no notice of them. Instead, approaching the S/O and intending to tell him about my kosher diet I began
“I’m Jewish and…”
“Piss off!” he screamed, “I don’t give a fuck!”
Painfully grabbing my arm and hauling me off my feet, he violently thrust me back into line. Heedful of their advice, cons warned me stay well clear of Tapley. Too late and malicious, he had already made up his mind to target me.
A lousy start, no breakfast for me, still adamantly determined to keep my chin up. As the quack returned to the cell, she had since read my medical file and for a change no need for hunger strike I could have my œstrogen. My relief short-lived, aiming to give me a hard time, as he unlocked the cell door, a smirk and Tapley barked
“Shower!”
I grabbed a towel and outside the cell, Tapley had vanished. So waiting in the corridor for him to resurface, at the far end of the passage, a small huddle of cons, all carrying towels like mine, had started to congregate. Shortly, as he made for me, a malevolent grin split Tapley’s features. Pointing to the men, he ordered me to strip off and join them in the shower block. Looking him in the eye, I fumed
”Go take a shower with them yourself!”
- 120 -
Swivelling on my heel, I stormed back into the cell and shortly, standing before me, gloating, as the Principal Medical Officer paid me a visit. I had made his day
“Three and a half years it’s a long time, three and a half years…it’s a very long time – there's nothing wrong with you!” he bawled.
I knew his number, but not the name of the beast or believe me, it would appear here. As he turned to Tapley, denying me my identity the Chief Quack roared
”Put this man in a shared cell on the wing!”
“Surely, no, no you can’t do that” I screamed ”Its inhumane!”
“You have no choice!” merciless, the quack sniggered.
The things you do to survive. Accepting the lesser of two evils, as they left me, moving fast and snatching up a tube of toothpaste from my kit, made of soft alloy, but as I scraped its bottom corner against coarse bricks outside the cell window, it produced something resembling a sharp edge. Futile as a cutting tool, at first glance, it looked a little like a carpet knife. Rolling back the thin mattress on my bed and prising free a cross-wire underneath, I scratched its sharp edge across my wrist until it drew a little blood. At once, bending the wire back into its original position, I dropped the mattress. Rolling up my sleeve, the procedure had taken less than three minutes, just as well, I heard approaching footsteps outside.
As unseen eyes spied upon me from the Judas hole, completing my ruse, I grabbed the decoy tube and let them see me rubbing it against my bared wrist. Barging into the cell, as he gripped my arm, Tapley snatched the tube off me and clocked my wrist. About turn and quickly leaving me alone, not for long, when he returned, not a word, his finger pointing outside, he led me straight into a strip-cell. Hurling a canvas tunic in my direction, as he watched, Tapley bawled
“Get all your fucking kit off!”
As Tapley slammed the door, I surveyed my new surroundings. A stinking pot sat in one corner and in another, two blankets lay strewn on the grey concrete floor. No mattress, indeed nothing else at all. Reeking of stale piss and for good measure, like at Risley, I found shit smeared over the blankets. Getting on with it, never thought I would, heeding Tim Leary’s advice and tuning in, switching off and dropping out. Not drugs, my mind dwelt on chess moves, not only saving me from madness, time passed more quickly.
Intent on keeping up my appearance, still denied a mirror, comb and tweezers, using my thumb and index fingernails, clamping them together made a makeshift tool and as I plucked them, it
“Three and a half years it’s a long time, three and a half years…it’s a very long time – there's nothing wrong with you!” he bawled.
I knew his number, but not the name of the beast or believe me, it would appear here. As he turned to Tapley, denying me my identity the Chief Quack roared
”Put this man in a shared cell on the wing!”
“Surely, no, no you can’t do that” I screamed ”Its inhumane!”
“You have no choice!” merciless, the quack sniggered.
The things you do to survive. Accepting the lesser of two evils, as they left me, moving fast and snatching up a tube of toothpaste from my kit, made of soft alloy, but as I scraped its bottom corner against coarse bricks outside the cell window, it produced something resembling a sharp edge. Futile as a cutting tool, at first glance, it looked a little like a carpet knife. Rolling back the thin mattress on my bed and prising free a cross-wire underneath, I scratched its sharp edge across my wrist until it drew a little blood. At once, bending the wire back into its original position, I dropped the mattress. Rolling up my sleeve, the procedure had taken less than three minutes, just as well, I heard approaching footsteps outside.
As unseen eyes spied upon me from the Judas hole, completing my ruse, I grabbed the decoy tube and let them see me rubbing it against my bared wrist. Barging into the cell, as he gripped my arm, Tapley snatched the tube off me and clocked my wrist. About turn and quickly leaving me alone, not for long, when he returned, not a word, his finger pointing outside, he led me straight into a strip-cell. Hurling a canvas tunic in my direction, as he watched, Tapley bawled
“Get all your fucking kit off!”
As Tapley slammed the door, I surveyed my new surroundings. A stinking pot sat in one corner and in another, two blankets lay strewn on the grey concrete floor. No mattress, indeed nothing else at all. Reeking of stale piss and for good measure, like at Risley, I found shit smeared over the blankets. Getting on with it, never thought I would, heeding Tim Leary’s advice and tuning in, switching off and dropping out. Not drugs, my mind dwelt on chess moves, not only saving me from madness, time passed more quickly.
Intent on keeping up my appearance, still denied a mirror, comb and tweezers, using my thumb and index fingernails, clamping them together made a makeshift tool and as I plucked them, it
- 121 -
kept my eyebrows tidy. Fingers did for a hairbrush. Colour gone, my locks grey before my time.
Seven days on, doing his rounds, intent on thieving all remnant of my identity, the PMO turned up once more. Leering at me, he demanded had I had enough. Meaning to ‘do his head in’ as they say in the nick and relying on Luther-King-like passive resistance, I warned him
“I‘m blanking you, denying you your existence, as you’ve denied me mine.”
After another week and my ploy with the PMO working well, as he paid me another visit, dishing out more, banal bluster, he tried ever so hard to goad me. It had no effect and spoiling his fun, he had to give up.
Next day, as Tapley threw a prison uniform onto the cell floor, he watched me dress. Denying him his thrill, turning my back so he couldn’t ogle my boobs, I trailed him out to the landing. As he trailed me down miserable corridors and up a flight of stairs, Tapley shoved me into a lacklustre oak-panelled chamber.
As he sat sneering at me, doing his best to look important. In his 50’s, and old enough to know better, the governor asked me why I was incarcerated in a strip-cell. Unimpressed by his ill-mannered performance, I had met folk just a bit more significant than him and spirited, I revealed
“The PMO is punishing me because I refuse to be placed in serious danger of sexual assault. He wants me housed in a cell with two men.”
Toeing the line, as he denied me my identity, alleging that he could do nothing. You live and learn, feeling bloody sorry for them now. I had a better idea of what it felt like to be Palestinian, but in Britain, we know best…don’t we? Failing to spot the bleeding obvious, I tried again and queried
“I’m a woman in a men’s prison – do you have no humanity?”
“I can’t interfere with the PMO’s decisions” and that was that.
As he entered the room, a tall bloke, a governor at Risley, I recognised him and his bushy beard at once. In a rare flap, the horny incident in the bathroom had leaked out. In unison, they asked me
“What was the nature of your relationship with Mr Brookfield?”
When I described the naughty encounter, naturally, thinking me a liar, in prison they always do and warning me that my wicked allegations were very serious and wishing to sweep it under the carpet, they assured me that we could just forget it. Making my point, I retorted
- 122 -
Seven days on, doing his rounds, intent on thieving all remnant of my identity, the PMO turned up once more. Leering at me, he demanded had I had enough. Meaning to ‘do his head in’ as they say in the nick and relying on Luther-King-like passive resistance, I warned him
“I‘m blanking you, denying you your existence, as you’ve denied me mine.”
After another week and my ploy with the PMO working well, as he paid me another visit, dishing out more, banal bluster, he tried ever so hard to goad me. It had no effect and spoiling his fun, he had to give up.
Next day, as Tapley threw a prison uniform onto the cell floor, he watched me dress. Denying him his thrill, turning my back so he couldn’t ogle my boobs, I trailed him out to the landing. As he trailed me down miserable corridors and up a flight of stairs, Tapley shoved me into a lacklustre oak-panelled chamber.
As he sat sneering at me, doing his best to look important. In his 50’s, and old enough to know better, the governor asked me why I was incarcerated in a strip-cell. Unimpressed by his ill-mannered performance, I had met folk just a bit more significant than him and spirited, I revealed
“The PMO is punishing me because I refuse to be placed in serious danger of sexual assault. He wants me housed in a cell with two men.”
Toeing the line, as he denied me my identity, alleging that he could do nothing. You live and learn, feeling bloody sorry for them now. I had a better idea of what it felt like to be Palestinian, but in Britain, we know best…don’t we? Failing to spot the bleeding obvious, I tried again and queried
“I’m a woman in a men’s prison – do you have no humanity?”
“I can’t interfere with the PMO’s decisions” and that was that.
As he entered the room, a tall bloke, a governor at Risley, I recognised him and his bushy beard at once. In a rare flap, the horny incident in the bathroom had leaked out. In unison, they asked me
“What was the nature of your relationship with Mr Brookfield?”
When I described the naughty encounter, naturally, thinking me a liar, in prison they always do and warning me that my wicked allegations were very serious and wishing to sweep it under the carpet, they assured me that we could just forget it. Making my point, I retorted
- 122 -
“I’m in prison for something I have not done. Why should I let the guilty go free?”
After I had signed my formal statement, Tapley escorted me back to the strips and a couple of days more, he came for me again. Making him wait, while I made myself decent, he led me from the strip-cell and this time to the main wing where he left me in the charge of a real S/O. The guy didn’t know it, but behind his back thrilled by erotic anticipation and a glut of cons made disgusting lewd gestures aimed at me. Bewildered, the senior screw told me
“This can’t be right, I can’t put you in with men – they’ll rape you!”
“How do I get back to the hospital?” I asked him, remaining calm.
“There’s only one way,” he advised me, “Tell me you’re suicidal.”
“Okay, I’m suicidal” I lied.
“They’ll put you in the rubber room!” he warned me.
“I’ve already done two weeks in the strips” I responded.
“Fucking hell!” he blurted, shocked.
Tapley dumped me back in the strips and once more, rearing his ugly head; the loathsome PMO paid me another visit. As I calmly returned to my game of chess and blanked him, making me ever more determined, he pledged
“I’ll break you – you’ll beg me to get you out of there.”
‘That’ll be the day’ I mused. Way out of line, making his own rules, the PMO had forbidden me to write or receive any letters.
On another night as he opened the hatch in my door, quickly handing me a pen and paper, our little secret until now. In his delightfully soft Caledonian brogue, Mr MacKenzie unveiled
“We’re not all bastards here, tell no one how you got these things, do you know the name of a good MP?”
As I nodded, urging me to trust him, Mr Mac pledged to return to the cell in one hour. Addressing my letter to Doug Hoyle, old Labour and few about today, an honest politician, he still represented my former constituency in Warrington. A virulent opponent of the British penal system and I believed that he must help me.
After eight long weeks and no begging, I had broken the PMO. My letter forced him to free me from the strips. Not suicidal and no trouble, he had no right and no excuse to torment me. As I defeated him, he had to return me to an ordinary cell in the hospital.
Soon afterwards, an Elvis lookalike, the screw refused to let me have my post until he had locked me in my cell. As he opened the
After I had signed my formal statement, Tapley escorted me back to the strips and a couple of days more, he came for me again. Making him wait, while I made myself decent, he led me from the strip-cell and this time to the main wing where he left me in the charge of a real S/O. The guy didn’t know it, but behind his back thrilled by erotic anticipation and a glut of cons made disgusting lewd gestures aimed at me. Bewildered, the senior screw told me
“This can’t be right, I can’t put you in with men – they’ll rape you!”
“How do I get back to the hospital?” I asked him, remaining calm.
“There’s only one way,” he advised me, “Tell me you’re suicidal.”
“Okay, I’m suicidal” I lied.
“They’ll put you in the rubber room!” he warned me.
“I’ve already done two weeks in the strips” I responded.
“Fucking hell!” he blurted, shocked.
Tapley dumped me back in the strips and once more, rearing his ugly head; the loathsome PMO paid me another visit. As I calmly returned to my game of chess and blanked him, making me ever more determined, he pledged
“I’ll break you – you’ll beg me to get you out of there.”
‘That’ll be the day’ I mused. Way out of line, making his own rules, the PMO had forbidden me to write or receive any letters.
On another night as he opened the hatch in my door, quickly handing me a pen and paper, our little secret until now. In his delightfully soft Caledonian brogue, Mr MacKenzie unveiled
“We’re not all bastards here, tell no one how you got these things, do you know the name of a good MP?”
As I nodded, urging me to trust him, Mr Mac pledged to return to the cell in one hour. Addressing my letter to Doug Hoyle, old Labour and few about today, an honest politician, he still represented my former constituency in Warrington. A virulent opponent of the British penal system and I believed that he must help me.
After eight long weeks and no begging, I had broken the PMO. My letter forced him to free me from the strips. Not suicidal and no trouble, he had no right and no excuse to torment me. As I defeated him, he had to return me to an ordinary cell in the hospital.
Soon afterwards, an Elvis lookalike, the screw refused to let me have my post until he had locked me in my cell. As he opened the
- 123 -
hatch, handing me a reply from Doug Hoyle, appalled by my plight, he had taken it up with the then Prison Minister, Douglas Hogg.
Enclosed with the MP’s letter, as I read Hogg’s reply, he described me as ‘an effeminate man’. He had never seen me and didn’t know me. A bloody disgrace, certainly another lie, he claimed that my captivity in the strips ‘necessary for my own protection and was never intended as a punishment.’ Hogg finished his stupid letter by ludicrously stating that the PMO had my best interests at heart.
Blazing mad by the cover up, as I vented my wrath, now I knew why he had locked me in my cell. As Elvis risked a peep and opened my hatch, cutting short my fury, he told me
“I’ve read Hogg’s letter and I agree its a whitewash – what did you expect?”
1989 and the final year of Maggie’s appalling eighties, during the term of my punishment in the strips, indeed part of it, the PMO had refused to let me order anything from the prison canteen. My pay amounted to less than £1.50 per week and unspent, over the weeks, it had almost reached the princely sum of £12. Me the tycoon, I had not had so much cash to spend in many months.
Another bonus, deeming me a martyr, as hardened cons honoured me for not cracking, life eased just a morsel more, apt, All Fools Day in April and to my joy demoted, no more an S/O, just an ordinary screw and Tapley looked crestfallen. The reliable grapevine said that he was only on probation. His demise was down to other screws blackballing him a sadist – I would second that.
Next day, fed up with 23-hour bang-up, at slop out, I asked the work allocation screw for a job. Tapley’s spirit lived on
“I don’t fucking like you,” he told me, ”Fucking pansy, you should be on the wing getting shagged.”
Instead, I requested drawing materials and passed my time sketching pictures for a visiting rabbi. Ex-Royal Air Force, he loved the Spitfire I drew for him, but it was the scene of Arab and Jew shaking hands that we loved most. A charming gentleman, when he brought me a pot of honey, apples, and freshly baked bread, as Norman joined me, we celebrated Pésach together.
Meanwhile, as the odious PMO courted poor press, he decided to haul three HIV-positive lads out of the hospital. Dumping them, like he did me, on the main wing. Ignorant and fearful that they might be infected, the other cons on the wing reacted badly. It forced the HIV lads to barricade themselves into a cell. Forced to change his dense decision, the PMO had to let them return to the hospital wing.
- 124 -
Enclosed with the MP’s letter, as I read Hogg’s reply, he described me as ‘an effeminate man’. He had never seen me and didn’t know me. A bloody disgrace, certainly another lie, he claimed that my captivity in the strips ‘necessary for my own protection and was never intended as a punishment.’ Hogg finished his stupid letter by ludicrously stating that the PMO had my best interests at heart.
Blazing mad by the cover up, as I vented my wrath, now I knew why he had locked me in my cell. As Elvis risked a peep and opened my hatch, cutting short my fury, he told me
“I’ve read Hogg’s letter and I agree its a whitewash – what did you expect?”
1989 and the final year of Maggie’s appalling eighties, during the term of my punishment in the strips, indeed part of it, the PMO had refused to let me order anything from the prison canteen. My pay amounted to less than £1.50 per week and unspent, over the weeks, it had almost reached the princely sum of £12. Me the tycoon, I had not had so much cash to spend in many months.
Another bonus, deeming me a martyr, as hardened cons honoured me for not cracking, life eased just a morsel more, apt, All Fools Day in April and to my joy demoted, no more an S/O, just an ordinary screw and Tapley looked crestfallen. The reliable grapevine said that he was only on probation. His demise was down to other screws blackballing him a sadist – I would second that.
Next day, fed up with 23-hour bang-up, at slop out, I asked the work allocation screw for a job. Tapley’s spirit lived on
“I don’t fucking like you,” he told me, ”Fucking pansy, you should be on the wing getting shagged.”
Instead, I requested drawing materials and passed my time sketching pictures for a visiting rabbi. Ex-Royal Air Force, he loved the Spitfire I drew for him, but it was the scene of Arab and Jew shaking hands that we loved most. A charming gentleman, when he brought me a pot of honey, apples, and freshly baked bread, as Norman joined me, we celebrated Pésach together.
Meanwhile, as the odious PMO courted poor press, he decided to haul three HIV-positive lads out of the hospital. Dumping them, like he did me, on the main wing. Ignorant and fearful that they might be infected, the other cons on the wing reacted badly. It forced the HIV lads to barricade themselves into a cell. Forced to change his dense decision, the PMO had to let them return to the hospital wing.
- 124 -
A mind-numbing experience, as I wandered around the exercise yard with the other inmates, placed on Rule 43 and segregated from us by a high fence, many cons hurled abuse at bent coppers and paedophiles shuffling about in the next yard.
During association, as they dished out the roll-ups, hard cons insisted that I join them in the best seats on the front row to watch telly. Many blokes wanted me to sit on their knee and just for a giggle, sometimes I did, but no kissing, well only on the cheek, I had to draw the line somewhere. As they let it all hang out, stoutly rebuffing their offer, as they showed me their pride and joy, some lads asked me if I could do anything with their erection. Naturally, gay men displayed no sexual inclination towards me. Indeed, clearly jealous of the attention I received, some of them bitchy, while others enjoyed my company, for them I took the place of their mum.
I didn’t mind the colourful company, murderers, and gangsters maybe, but none of them terrorists. An Irish con fixed it for me to have a visitor. As he set it up, I received a letter from a guy claiming that he was my brother. In reality, a hack from the Daily Sport, he offered to pay me handsomely for my story. I refused him, but too much of a scoop he published a bawdy made-up tale. It amused the cons and I’ll admit tickled me.
As autumn breezed in, the new S/O, an ex-Para named Charlton, but no gent, like Bobby, he asked me if I was willing to have my still outstanding mugshot taken. In response, I told him
“I’m no criminal – I don’t want it taken.”
Suddenly, the door burst open as five burly screws rushed into my cell. As one screw pulled my hair, the pain made me scream. Then as they kicked my legs from under me, more screws seized my arms forcing me down onto the cell floor. As they forcefully wrenched back my head, another screw stuck a camera in my face. Screwing up my eyes and sticking out my tongue, I distorted my features before the camera flashed. A Polaroid, the colour exposure developed before our eyes. Not a pretty picture, useless as ID to them, I felt intensely proud of it.
“Rapists!” I screamed enraged.
A violent assault and against my will, it felt like serious violation to me. Europe would denounce it as another human rights horror. Tails between their legs, as the screws trooped out of the cell, incensed and cursing them, I collected handfuls of my hair, torn out by the roots, it lay strewn all about the cell floor. Feeling sore and swollen, my limbs smothered in livid bruising, later that same month, I experienced a sharp pain in my right arm at the same site where years earlier, I had received a wound during my days in the army. Worse at night, it worried me. Examining the limb, I felt a small lump.
During association, as they dished out the roll-ups, hard cons insisted that I join them in the best seats on the front row to watch telly. Many blokes wanted me to sit on their knee and just for a giggle, sometimes I did, but no kissing, well only on the cheek, I had to draw the line somewhere. As they let it all hang out, stoutly rebuffing their offer, as they showed me their pride and joy, some lads asked me if I could do anything with their erection. Naturally, gay men displayed no sexual inclination towards me. Indeed, clearly jealous of the attention I received, some of them bitchy, while others enjoyed my company, for them I took the place of their mum.
I didn’t mind the colourful company, murderers, and gangsters maybe, but none of them terrorists. An Irish con fixed it for me to have a visitor. As he set it up, I received a letter from a guy claiming that he was my brother. In reality, a hack from the Daily Sport, he offered to pay me handsomely for my story. I refused him, but too much of a scoop he published a bawdy made-up tale. It amused the cons and I’ll admit tickled me.
As autumn breezed in, the new S/O, an ex-Para named Charlton, but no gent, like Bobby, he asked me if I was willing to have my still outstanding mugshot taken. In response, I told him
“I’m no criminal – I don’t want it taken.”
Suddenly, the door burst open as five burly screws rushed into my cell. As one screw pulled my hair, the pain made me scream. Then as they kicked my legs from under me, more screws seized my arms forcing me down onto the cell floor. As they forcefully wrenched back my head, another screw stuck a camera in my face. Screwing up my eyes and sticking out my tongue, I distorted my features before the camera flashed. A Polaroid, the colour exposure developed before our eyes. Not a pretty picture, useless as ID to them, I felt intensely proud of it.
“Rapists!” I screamed enraged.
A violent assault and against my will, it felt like serious violation to me. Europe would denounce it as another human rights horror. Tails between their legs, as the screws trooped out of the cell, incensed and cursing them, I collected handfuls of my hair, torn out by the roots, it lay strewn all about the cell floor. Feeling sore and swollen, my limbs smothered in livid bruising, later that same month, I experienced a sharp pain in my right arm at the same site where years earlier, I had received a wound during my days in the army. Worse at night, it worried me. Examining the limb, I felt a small lump.
- 125 -
Next morning, rolling up my sleeve, as I showed him the swelling, not even a cursory glance, the MO promised me that it would go away. I didn’t believe him and tried twice more. On day three, the quack cautioned me to stop wasting his time. As the lump grew larger and more painful, I could do nothing except seek help upon my release.
In November, as the Parole Board convened again, its members interviewed me. Wasting no time, they began by asking me why I sought early release. Not shy, I told them
“Despite the difficulties I have endured as a woman in a men’s prison, I have always tried to behave as a model prisoner.”
“What difficulties?” They enquired.
Not real, they appeared baffled, as though it’s fine to put women in men’s gaols. As I enlightened them, their puzzlement soon changed to shock. They quizzed
“How do you feel about your convictions?”
“I’m innocent, let me go, let me clear my name. I have experienced only death, humiliation and depravity. I nearly lost my mind. My life’s gone…in God’s name you have to release me,” I rejoined.
Afterwards, as we discussed my interview, one screw worried me when he said that refusing to admit guilt could prove fatal. Maybe I had impressed them with the truth. As they gave me a great send off the night before my release, the three HIV lads ambushed and showered me in talc. I’ll never forget David from Wales, Jacko from Bolton or my mate from Manchester.
As the main gate clanged behind me, it ended my long days of slopping out. It was throwing it down, absolutely drenched, my hair a frizzy mess, dancing in the Merseyside streets, joyful and I cried.
“Freedom!”
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
In November, as the Parole Board convened again, its members interviewed me. Wasting no time, they began by asking me why I sought early release. Not shy, I told them
“Despite the difficulties I have endured as a woman in a men’s prison, I have always tried to behave as a model prisoner.”
“What difficulties?” They enquired.
Not real, they appeared baffled, as though it’s fine to put women in men’s gaols. As I enlightened them, their puzzlement soon changed to shock. They quizzed
“How do you feel about your convictions?”
“I’m innocent, let me go, let me clear my name. I have experienced only death, humiliation and depravity. I nearly lost my mind. My life’s gone…in God’s name you have to release me,” I rejoined.
Afterwards, as we discussed my interview, one screw worried me when he said that refusing to admit guilt could prove fatal. Maybe I had impressed them with the truth. As they gave me a great send off the night before my release, the three HIV lads ambushed and showered me in talc. I’ll never forget David from Wales, Jacko from Bolton or my mate from Manchester.
As the main gate clanged behind me, it ended my long days of slopping out. It was throwing it down, absolutely drenched, my hair a frizzy mess, dancing in the Merseyside streets, joyful and I cried.
“Freedom!”
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
