Chapter Text
29 January
There are fifteen doors between me and freedom. Fifteen doors and fifteen months before my first trial.
First of how many is what I want to know.
I haven’t seen my solicitor in who knows how long. I was on 23 hour bang-up for days for no good reason. For God’s sake I shouldn’t even be in here in the first place.
I’ve finally been allowed a pen and paper and I intend to prove my innocence by telling my story.
First off: I don’t belong here. I know everyone says that, but I truly and sincerely DO NOT belong here. I never knew a Jennifer Wilson. I had no motive to kill her. I’ve never had any motive to kill anyone outside of the military service. So what makes me the prime suspect? I don’t know.
All I know is my treatment so far as been unwarranted and unjust.
It started when police came round for questioning. Obviously I didn’t have the right answers because they requested I come into the station.
My car is still parked outside of Paddington Green Police Station.
I was processed there. All of my personal belongings, including my mobile, were taken from me. My wife didn’t know I’d been locked-up until the next day.
I have yet to see her.
The holding cell had a single bed with a thin blue mattress and that’s it. I had to press a button to alert the front desk when I had to take a wee. I soon learned that I couldn’t wait until the last moment before pressing the buzzer.
Sometimes they’d take one, maybe two hours to get back to me.
I was in the same holding cell where convicted terrorists had once slept. I had two guards escorting me at all times and I still didn’t understand why they were holding me for so long.
From what I could gather, I was accused of killing a Jennifer Wilson at point blank range with a Browning L9A1. Which, I admitted, was the same gun I kept in a safe under my bed. I believed cooperating with the police would maybe speed up the process, but instead it landed me in Hell.
I was cuffed and placed in the back of a police van with blacked out windows. I regret not taking in the fresh air while I still had the chance.
When I arrived at Belmarsh, I was greeted by five armed guards in riot gear. I couldn’t help but think what I had done to deserve such special treatment.
They performed another strip search along with a cavity check. I tried my best to be compliant but at this point I felt the panic sink in. I had tunnel vision. All I could focus on was the next security check point.
Once the primal fear consumed me, I couldn’t hear anything the guards told me. I clenched my jaw and stared at a fixed point on the wall.
I was immediately put in the box.
I lost track of time and space.
The perspex window was my only indication of day or night. If that isn’t Hell, I don’t know what is.
I was recently transferred to my more permanent cell: a single occupancy unit with two mattresses.
I told the guard there must be some mistake.
He took one look at the door number, “221-B. No, this is you.”
“I was told-“
“Well, forget what you was told,” he said, giving me a nudge into the cell. I nearly tripped over the mattress in the middle of the floor. “Hope you wasn’t planning on having telly. Genius here has gone and lost all your television privileges,” the guard said, pointing to the man sleeping on the mattress. “I’ll let you two get properly acquainted,” he said with a wink.
The cell’s door slammed behind me and once I heard the heavy lock turn, the reality began to sink in once more. I am to spend the next fifteen months in a 6 by 10 cell with a toilet, desk, and a convicted criminal not three feet from where I sleep.
There is no telling what the shaggy-haired man has done. I assume murder, but he could have been a serial rapist for all I know.
Last night, I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I watched my cell-mate sleep in the dark for hours on end.
Breakfast came at 8.10 along with a new guard.
He slid our trays through the slat in the door and shouted, “Twenty minutes!”
I debated whether or not to waken my cell-mate.
I decided to let him sleep and placed his tray on the empty desk. However, not twenty minutes later our cell door swung opened and the guard took care of waking him for me.
“Alright, princess, wakey wakey,” he said, banging on the cell door with his baton.
My cell-mate startled awake. He sat straight up in bed and immediately grabbed his head.
“Come on, I have to let you out,” the guard said with a sympathetic tone.
My cell mate rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.
“Suit yourself,” the guard shrugged.
He went to close the door and I shouted, “Wait!”
He stopped for a moment and looked down at me as if he hadn’t noticed me before.
“A pen and paper,” I pleaded.
“I’ll see what I can do.” His expression had changed entirely. I began to fear the worst, but within the hour he returned with a pad of paper and a pen. “Knock yourself out,” he told me. “Not literally of course,” he smiled.
“Thank you, thank you,” I said, taking them from him.
“I’ll be round later, so you can have your five hours.”
“Five hours of what?” I asked.
“Association time. They’re cleaning the spur at the moment. Don’t worry, we’ll see that you and your friend get some playtime.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“You’re lucky you’re in here, could’ve done a lot worse than him,” he told me.
“I don’t understand.”
“You soon will.”
I let his comment slide and took up my pen and paper. And that’s where I am at now.
30 January
Cell-mate still hasn’t spoken. I’m beginning to think he’s a mute. His brain seems to be fried, I’m thinking drug addict. That could have landed him in prison, but I’m fairly certain the high-security unit doesn’t take junkies.
He could have been a drug lord.
The HSU is overflowing with high-profile prisoners. This explains why the shaggy-haired man and I are together. I’m sure that what they’re doing is illegal, putting me in a cell with him.
It’s a bit awkward using a toilet that’s right next to his head.
I did get a good bit of sleep last night. I guess it helps having a silent cell-mate.
I’ve got to say though: his staring is a bit frightening. I prefer it when he’s asleep. When he’s awake he just stares. Not at the telly in the common area, like a normal bloke. He stares at the pool table, like he’s planning on murdering someone with the cue ball. Then it gets me thinking about how you could easily bash a man’s head in.
I guess that’s what prison does to you. It gives you this prison mind-set.
The other men seem amiable enough, just not towards me or my cell-mate. It makes me wonder what I’ve done to offend them.
They’re all murders, drug traffickers, and rapists. Some are even all three.
What did I do that was so horrible? How do they even know?
When I approach them, they scatter in all directions. I tried playing table football and I nearly scared the shit out of one of them.
It’s 20.30 and we’re in our cell for dinner. The guard tells me my cell-mate hasn’t eaten since last Wednesday.
It helps having someone normal to talk to. Inspector Lestrade isn’t half-bad. Of all the guards, he’s the nicest.
There’s a female guard on duty, I haven’t met her yet. Her name floats around though, Donovan. Apparently she’s brutally honest and doesn’t take shit from anyone, which is understandable. I’d probably be the same if I was a female guard.
Then there’s sergeant Dimmock. He’s ill tempered; probably because he’s a bit on the short-side. Napoleon complex.
Anderson, he’s an idiot. Plain and simple.
There’s also Inspector Carter, he’s on his way out though. Apparently guards are only allowed to stay in the HSU for three years before they’re moved back to the main prison. They’re afraid of them getting too friendly with the prisoners. Whatever that means.
The thought of rape has often crossed my mind. I mostly keep my back up against the wall just in case. But there’s little opportunity to commit anything with four or more guards breathing down the back of your neck.
I’m with the “exceptional risk” prisoners. They’re all in here for a reason, but sometimes it’s hard to remember when I see them interacting with one another.
I never expected prison to be so polite.
They joke with the guards; with each other. It’s astonishing how well they get on; when on the street they’d likely be taking turns stabbing one another in the back.
31 January
You do get used to the smell. It’s the heat that’s killing me. It’s stale and moist. I’ve been in the same clothes since I got here and it’s killing me.
The shower water is just on the verge of tepid and I get one bar of soap for all of me. My hair is stiff and I’m in desperate need of a shave.
In the main prison they have career services, vocational training, classes in art and cooking, access to the library... it’s a bloody holiday camp! No wonder they keep coming back.
When I get out I’m done; that’s it. I won’t so much as spit on a public walkway. Anything to keep me out of prison.