My bags were packed. George had been informed. In buoyant mood, with four other prisoners, I waited in the transfer cell to board the meatwagon which was to whisk me off (again!) to penal pastures new. In four hours I'd be sitting pretty in one of the cushiest nicks in England. In prison parlance, I'd "had a right result." We heard the rattle of keys outside. "We're off, lads. In-cell tellies, here we come." But when the door opened, a long-faced screw stood staring me straight in the eye."Wayne. Pick up your bags and get back to the draft."
My heart sank. A fortnight earlier, I'd been collared and marched off to the "drug-testing suite" to provide an "unadulterated sample of urine."
"You only did me five days go," I said. "I thought there was supposed to be a 30-day period between tests."
The porcine official drew himself up to his full height. "You're suspected of using opiates. They only take three days to leave the system. Under prison rule 48, Section 12, subsection 14, paragraph C, I can take another sample five days after the previous one." There was little point in arguing at this stage. "Take your clothes off. Into the cubicle. You've got four hours. No you can't have your tobacco. No, you can't have your notebook and pen." Conscious of Kipling's "unforgiving minute" I said, "I've got work to do. Why can't I write while I wait? I only had a piss five minutes before you came to my cell."
"You can't because I say you can't."
"But you..."
"Right. That's it. I've had enough of your backchat." He ripped the procedure sheet from a pad and scribbled: "Test Aborted Due to Prisoner's Obstructive Behaviour." He bundled me back to the wing, I pleading to be allowed to give him my piss.
The next morning at 6am, the nicking sheet arrived. I had "disobeyed a lawful order by refusing to give the sample of urine when required." I was off to the block where, for nine hours, I waited for a governor to arrive.
I determined straight away to plead not guilty on the grounds that the screw had aborted the test without due cause. There would have to be lengthy cross examination of the reporting officer; and as it was already 4.30pm, an acquiescent governor adjourned the case after the preliminaries because it was time for his tea and digestives. The screw was on night duty for the next three weeks, so I was in for a long wait.
It was during this waiting period that I was told of my transfer. Was I going to get off the hook by this unforeseen but timely deus ex machina? It certainly looked like it as they came to pick up my library books, paid me what wages were due, and gave me the early morning knock for the transfer box.
I shouldn't have counted my chickens. Having lugged my heavy bags all the way back from reception to the wing, the senior officer relocated me on a spur where, a month earlier, I'd been given two black eyes for being queer.
"I am not going back on to that spur."
"Oh yes you are."
"Oh no I'm not."
Prison can soon lapse from melodrama into pantomime. The senior officer was adamant. "I'm giving you a direct order to locate on C spur."
"And I'm refusing that direct order because I've already had trouble over there and I'm not prepared to put myself at risk again."
So it was back down the block for me. A week in solitary, which I have to say (given the privacy and absolute silence over there) was quite therapeutic.
On 23rd December the piss-testing adjudication reconvened. After three weeks preparing my defence, I was confident that I was going to win. I had concluded that this nasty business revolved around the interpretation of the word "obstruction." If I could prove that I hadn't obstructed the screw, then it must follow that he was wrong to abort the test. I had about 30 questions, which, given my gift of the gab, I was convinced would tie my accuser in knots. If ever pride came before a fall...
The first thing I noticed as I settled in the chair was the governor. It was the wrong one. Gone was the easy-going fellow of my first appearance. In his place sat a sumo wrestler of a man I didn't recognise, bursting out of a shit-brown suit. He was tapping his pen impatiently on the desk. It didn't augur well.
I got as far as question three: "Could you tell me, officer, why, when I questioned your decision to abort the test, you replied, 'It'll not be the first time I've ended up with egg on my face?'"
The governor interrupted my lawyerly flow with a tart: "How many more questions do you want to ask?"
"Well, I have quite a number... "
"Sounds to me like you're deliberately trying to protract these proceedings. The case has already been going on for three weeks."
"That's hardly my fault, is it?"
"Don't answer me back. Officer, could you tell me whether this inmate was in your view obstructive?"
"Oh, yes, governor. I gave him warning after warning," he lied gelatinously, sensing he'd found an influential ally.
"Right," sumo clacked, turning to me. "I find the case against you proved."
"But I haven't finished questioning the officer."
"Well, I've finished listening. The award is 30 days remission. Next one." I was left reeling, open-mouthed, half-expecting to be taken straight out into the exercise yard to face a firing squad.
I haven't dared tell George that he's going to have to wait an extra month for our trip to Monte Carlo. I suppose this column is as good a place as any to break the news. Sorry, Georgie. I'll make it up to you when I do get released. Believe me. I know I'm sometimes hot-headed, arrogant, unstable, self-destructive. In this case I really was a man more sinned against than sinning.
