My Life in Prison
Marcus
When I left court for prison there were so many things going through my head: how was I going to manage? Would I get beaten up? Was I going to be a victim of racism?
When I got there it was about 7.30 p.m. on a Monday night. I was put in a cell with a guy from Bristol; we talked all night about a lot of things, and he told me what he had done and I told him my story as well. He told me that tomorrow he would be going into a single cell. He felt that if he stayed with me he would stress me out because he had a lot on his mind: his girl was pregnant and he couldn’t take it. Anyway, the next morning I was up early. I couldn’t sleep; there was so much on my mind from the night before.
After breakfast I had a shower. A guy came up to me asking for burn (another name for tobacco in prison) but I told him no, I didn’t smoke. He asked me what I was in for and I told him. We started talking. He said: let’s go to a table. He told me a lot about prison, that I must not be afraid if the other prisoners took the piss or bullied me. Our conversation lasted for the rest of the association.
I was in my cell one afternoon when an officer opened the door and asked if I would like to go into a double cell. I didn’t hesitate because I was really stressing on my own. So he told me to pack my stuff and go downstairs to cell 30.
I finished packing and went to cell number 30 as I was told. The door was open. There was an inmate inside with a mop and a bucket, cleaning it out. As I was about to say something, the same officer approached and shouted to the other inmate, “Owen, this is your new cellmate.” Owen looked at me and gave me his hand to shake, as they always do.
After I’d walked in, the officer shut the cell door and said, “Good luck, lads.” I put my stuff on the bed and started to unpack. While I was making my bed, Owen finally said something to me.
“Where are you from?” “London.”
“How come you are in here?” “I got caught in Cardiff.”
supplying Class A drugs. He was short, medium-built and of mixed race; he told me his dad was black and his mother white.
I carried on making my bed while he was cleaning the toilet area. As he came out to wash his hands, he took off his jumper. I was shocked to see his arms – they had lots of cuts and bruises. I wanted to ask him what had happened to his arms, but I didn’t know how he would take it.
While he was washing his hands, I could see how horrible the slices looked, like he had been in a sword-fight with someone. I couldn’t hold my thoughts any longer, so I asked him what had happened.
He looked at me, then took up his towel and wiped his hands. He didn’t say a word for about two minutes. As he took the towel from his face, I was wondering what his reaction was going to be. Then he asked, “You really want to know?”
“If it’s not a problem to you,” I replied. “I sliced myself up.”
“With what?”
He paused, then smiled a bit and said, “A blade.” “Why?” I asked.
He started to tell me how stressed he was after he got locked up and his mother didn’t want to accept his phone calls. He said he’d done it about three days ago. I knew he didn’t want to talk more about it so I just sat on my bed and started to watch TV. We never exchanged another word about it.
We were both unlocked for association that evening and, as usual, I took out my towel and gel to have a shower. Owen went over to the phone. For the whole of association I didn’t see Owen until the officers called ten minutes to bang-up, when I saw him running towards our cell. He came out with his cup.
“Do you want a cup of hot water?” he asked. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t you drink at night?” “I don’t mind.”
Owen came in and shut the door behind him. I was watching TV. He made his tea and said nothing.
I said my regular prayer before I closed my eyes. But for the whole night I couldn’t get to sleep; every twenty minutes the light would come on and I could hear someone at the door. There were times when I would look over at him on his bed and he would be well asleep; it looked like I was the only one affected by this. I couldn’t sleep. I was frustrated. I just lay there looking at the roof, saying to myself, “This is not my night”.
The next morning, when we got up for breakfast, I told him that I hadn’t slept, that the light kept going on and off, and that there was always someone looking through the hole at us. “That’s bad,” he said, “because it was the best rest I’ve had since I’ve been locked up!” I smiled and walked away to the servery for my breakfast.
I bumped into an officer called Jones. Mr Jones was well known to me; he was always polite.
“Good morning, sir.” “Good morning!”
“Last night my cell lights were going on and off every twenty minutes. Why is that?”
“Are you in a double cell?” “Yes.”
He told me to go and get my breakfast, then he would explain everything to me. I sat at the table to eat my toast and cereal.
“Sorry.” “What for?”
“We have to keep watch on your cellmate.” “But why?”
“He’s a self-harmer.”
I swallowed my saliva and took a deep breath. I looked at Mr Crook and wondered how I was going to get out of that cell.
“Can I be removed?” “No. Not at the moment.” “But I couldn’t sleep last night.” “I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Breakfast time was up and I ran back to my cell. I saw Owen looking through the window. He was crying.
“I can’t take this!” he shouted. “Calm down,” I whispered.
“I can’t calm down. This place is doing my head.”
He turned to face me and I saw he had a piece of blade in his hand. That was when I started to fear for my life, because he had a weird look in his eye. The cell door was closed and I couldn’t run.
I acted brave. “Put down the blade, Owen. Let’s talk.” “I don’t want to talk,” he muttered.
“At this moment, Owen, you are stressing me out and I’ve got problems of my own.”
With relief I heard keys shaking along the landing. An officer was coming. Owen hid the blade. The door opened.
“Mr Owen Price!” shouted the officer. “Yes?”
“Come with me.”
“Where?” Owen was wiping his tears away. “There’s a psychiatrist here to see you.”
He walked off, and the officer looked at me and asked if I was alright. I told him yes, but I guessed that he must have seen my shocked expression. He closed the cell door and left.
Sitting on my own in the cell, many thoughts went through my head. Finally I jumped off my bed and went for the blade. I’d seen where he’d hidden it – in the bed-box.
I threw the blade through the window, then rang the intercom and asked to speak with Mr Jones. He wasn’t in. Another officer, Mr Jackson, came.
“What’s wrong, boy?”
“I need to get out of this cell.” “Do you have a problem?” “Yes I do.”
As the months went by, I would often see Owen when I went to play football. He would always be at the fence looking at the game. I haven’t spoken to him since I left that cell, because he was moved to another wing. I heard that he had a four-year sentence, which makes me wonder if he is still a self-harmer and how he is coping now.
I have been in for four months now and I have seen a lot of things. One day this guy on the third floor climbed up on the pipes and threatened to jump if the officers didn’t meet his request, which was to change cells. It was frightening. I just looked up to the sky and said a prayer.
And I’ve been in one fight, which will definitely be my last. I was working in the industries department, packing teabags for the wings in the prison. The shop that I work in has about twenty inmates, but I was the only one from London. Most were from Bristol, Cardiff, Swansea and Newport.
Anyway, we started working about nine o’clock in the morning. I work with two guys on the table packing sugars. I took a break and went to the toilets for a while. After I finished I washed my hands and got back to my work area. About two minutes later, this guy came up to the table I was working on. He was a massive-looking guy about twenty-five years old and looked like a rugby player. He was from an adult wing. He asked me if I had just used the toilet.
“Yes,” I answered. “Man, your shit stinks.”
“It’s meant to, and is it a problem for you?” “Don’t get cheeky!” he yelled.
He walked back to the table that he was working on and started to talk with the three guys he was with. They all started laughing as if he was telling them jokes. Then he suddenly shouted out so everyone in the workshop could hear. “Your shit smells like spoiled eggs.”
It wasn’t funny to me so I said, “Shut up and act your age.” “Who are you talking to like that?” he asked.
“You!” I shouted.
He grabbed a handful of sugars from my table. “You little rat.”
“Don’t talk down to me, you stinking bastard.” “You are a stupid and a childish guy for your age.”
He paused for a while without saying a word. Then suddenly everyone started to laugh at him. I could see changes in his face. He just stood staring at me. Then he threw his packets in my face.
The workshop went quiet. I sat still with a smile on my face wondering what to do. Then I got up from the table, staring at him, and laughing as if it was funny.
“Let’s see how you like that,” he said.
I stepped closer to him. I could feel the tension rising between us. “What are you going to do about that?” he asked.
I punched him on the left side of his face. I was shocked; I never knew I could hit someone so hard. He almost fell to the ground, holding his face.
“Come on! Come on, you bastard!” he raged. Then he was running around like a boxer.
If only he’d known that mine was a coward punch. I just stood there watching, anticipating what he was going to do.
“Lucky punch!” he yelled.
I knew I couldn’t fight him, but still I didn’t move. “One punch knock-out. Come on!”
He must have repeated that ten times, while running around like Frank Bruno. Luckily the instructor returned and pulled him away. I felt like a free bird. Three other officers came in and one took me to a room, while he was led off in a different direction.
When I returned to the workshop, all the guys started shouting, “Good punch! Good punch!” The instructor called me over and asked me what I would have done if he had punched me back. Bravely I replied, “Fight him!” He said that often big guys tried to bully the smaller ones, when in fact they couldn’t fight.