It was bound to happen sooner or later. Given that I've been writing this column for three years now, I'm only surprised that it didn't happen sooner. Perhaps it was my description of a governor "bursting out of a shit-brown suit" in the last issue which was considered too sensitive. Whatever the straw that broke the camel's back, I am in the hot seat again, a fortnight after arriving at what I had been led to believe was "the cushiest nick in the south of England."
Forgive my reluctance to divulge my exact whereabouts. I feel a little like a soldier writing from the trenches in the first world war. Needs must, for the authorities are now trying to gag me. I am told I can no longer write anything at all which might identify where I am, or those (on both sides of the bars) with whom I cohabit. These restrictions are intended to put me in line with standing Orders 5B 34-the "guidelines concerning general correspondence."
I knew the matter was serious when I was told that a governor, in person, wanted to see me "immediately" in the principal officer's inner sanctum. You don't see many of that exalted rank down on the factory floor these days unless there is something momentous in the offing. Management stays at one remove from those it manages. A prisoner's right to make an appointment to see his governor was dropped years ago. Now you're lucky to get past a senior officer, no matter what the problem.
Mrs N got straight to the point. She had received a fax from her headquarters and was disturbed. It had come to the area manager's attention that I was writing a column for a magazine called Prospect. When I confirmed that this was indeed the case, she reminded me that there were rules concerning such activities, and that what I was doing might easily be construed as "running a business from prison."
"Are you paid for the columns? Have you sought permission to write them?"
I explained that my literary work formed part of my "sentence planning" file. For those not familiar with current penal policy, sentence planning is a relatively new concept: it nominates "goals" for individual inmates to work towards throughout the period of their imprisonment. Courses in offending behaviour, victim awareness, anger management and thinking skills are hawked along the prison landings like remaindered bucket-shop holidays. If your release date depends on the ever-diminishing possibility of parole, you would be wise to attend some of these courses. Everyone knows they are a waste of time, but you must be seen to be going along with the conditions of your sentence planning. A typical "goal" (this is my cellmate's) would be "to practice being more assertive with your peer group. On release, to work with your through-care and after-care probation office." Does this give you a sense of the breadth of vision of this crusade?
My sentence planning (at my bidding) has rather more practical objectives. With the knowledge and approval of numerous prison functionaries, I am supposed "to continue and to expand my portfolio of published work." Straightforward enough. My objectives are actually being met, especially now that I have two books to write for Fourth Estate. Wouldn't you think the governor would have been pleased that one of her charges was achieving at last? Wouldn't you think the authorities would look favourably on an inmate who'd begun to earn and save a bit, and thus stood a better chance of survival outside than those who have to rely on a ?40 discharge grant? Not a bit of it. In my experience, if any prisoner decides to take the initiative he is actively discouraged, if not directly shat upon from a great gubernatorial height.
Mrs N asked again: "Are you earning money from your review work?"
"Yes. Is that a problem?"
"Indeed it is. From now on you will not be allowed to have books in the post."
"But I've been writing my columns and reviews for years. Nobody has objected before."
"Did you think to ask anybody's permission before you began to publish these pieces?"
"Previous governors have always been acquiescent. You know, in the real world..."
"We are not living in a real world," she interrupted. "We are living in prison, Wayne, and the prison service is simply not going to allow itself to be embarrassed in such a public way. I'm not prepared to turn a blind eye to your activities-that's for sure. In future, all your mail is going to be double-watched and if you want to publish anything you must submit it to me first."
Um. She'd laid it on the line, but I knew what I wanted to say.
"Look," she added, more conciliatory now. "Can I make it clear that we are not trying to stand in the way of your future career, but you must understand that we have to safeguard ourselves..."
It was my turn to interrupt.
"You'll excuse me for saying so, governor, but that's exactly what it looks like you are trying to do. Surely I'm entitled to freedom of expression. Why, even in third world countries..."
Our fiery meeting came to a close with nothing resolved. I remain adamant that what I am doing lays bare, as it should, the foibles and idiosyncracies of a closed, secretive and paranoid world. Unlike the governor, I do not have to labour under the constricting harness of The Official Secrets Acts. I am a free spirit (a social anthropologist, if you like) recording honestly (and, of course, subjectively and satirically) the absurd situations and non sequiturs which touch our imprisoned lives. I hope that my despatches make a light-hearted but informed comment on our criminal justice system. Can Mrs N not see how counter-productive any attempt to silence me would be? Maybe the area manager would prefer me to return to robbing banks and country houses?n
