The prisoner

Peter Wayne keeps a promise
January 20, 1998

What follows may seem far-fetched. Yet I offer it to Prospect readers as a completely true account of an incident that might have come out of another century. In fact it all began just two weeks ago, one dark, wet, miserable Monday afternoon, on the way back to the wing from Lindholme's clothing exchange store.

There was a belligerent screw on duty at one of the gates I had to pass through, who insisted that I needed a special pass to take with me a parcel of laundered clothes. For the past six months I had been passing unmolested through this gate with my washing. This screw was being plain awkward, wanting to give everyone a hard time and I told him so. Not caring for my tone, he pushed me towards the fence spitting out invective, "squared up" to me like a prize fighter and poked me hard in the chest with his finger.

A group of cons had begun to assemble-the beginnings of the universally-feared "mob." Aware that I had an audience, I grew bolder and more confrontational. So did the screw. To cut a long, distressing story short, he sounded the alarm and I found myself under heavy escort on the way to my block. The following morning I stood before the new governor charged with "threatening and abusive language."

Now, at last, I was able to study the man first hand. He sat behind an enormous table like a colonial administrator ready to dispense justice to the natives.

"So," he began. "You're Wayne are you? I've heard all about you. Smart-Alec writer who threatens to embarrass the prison whenever he doesn't get his own way. Been in the system 17 years haven't you? I'll tell you now: I'm not impressed." Oh dear, I thought, everything I'd heard about him seemed accurate. "Well I've been in the system for 35 years..."-hence the Audenesque lines in his face-"...and I've seen 'em all come and go: the Krays, the Richardsons, the Frankie Frasers, the fighting Smiths..."-whoever they might be-"...I am not going to have my officers' safety put at risk by the likes of you. You swore at and threatened Officer Histrop in sight and hearing of other prisoners, so you are going to be made an example of. Get out of my sight!"

Not too pleased with the result of the adjudication (the case for the defence had been rather overlooked) I was taken to a punishment cell and left to stew with only the Bible for company.

"You can't take my books off me," I said. "I've got work to do..."

"We can do what we like 'ere lad, so you'd better get used to it."

Within the hour I was half way through the book of Genesis and in need of headache pills. I rang the bell ("Emergencies only") and asked to see a medical officer. "Should 'a put down ta see 'im this mornin'," a voice replied through the door.

"Why don't you fuck off then," I shouted after him when I thought he was out of earshot. But he could hear all too well, and at teatime a trio of screws came to my cell with another nicking sheet. One of them read: "At 2.40pm you threatened Officer Wimbourne and..."

"I never threatened anybody! What are you talking about?"

"...and used obscene language as he attempted to carry out his..."

"Get out of the cell!" I shouted, now regardless of the consequences. I am 42 years old. Doing 13 years; ten weeks left till release-I didn't need this sort of grief.

From without came a shout. "In an' 'ave 'im. C&R to the strip cell." By this time the cell had filled with screws who must have been waiting on the landing. I was pushed to the back wall, bent over double, "jet-planed" and "wrist-locked" to the point where I had to scream. Long. Hard. The scream of a Banshee.

En famille we moved slowly and painfully down to the basement where the dreaded strip cell is situated. Once there, I was laid face down on a raised concrete slab. In that position, two more screws cut my clothes (all my clothes) from my body with a pair of large shearing scissors. Meticulously, the officer in charge gave the orders for the various locks to be taken off my now naked body. "Stay still, look down, don't move an inch till you hear the door close behind us," he shouted down to me. "Un'erstand?"

During a six-month period in 1995, three prisoners died as a result of injuries sustained through the use of so-called control and restraint (C&R) techniques. After being on the receiving end of what was later called "a professionally carried out exercise," I can see very clearly how accidents can (and evidently do) occur.

On the authority of another, equally hard-faced, "security" governor, I was held in the strip cell from 4pm until 9am the following morning. During these 17 hours I was naked except for an industrial nylon gown they threw in (you've seen them in pictures of lunatic asylums); I had no mattress-just the concrete slab; and in the early hours of the morning it grew so cold that I wrapped toilet roll around my feet to stave off death by petrifaction.

I must apologise that this column has been so unseasonal. I was going to write about the prison rock band in which I play, but I could hardly let my night on the slab pass without mention. Apart from that I promised the governor I would write about it, and I don't like letting people down. One thing is certain though: I shall be keeping a low profile until my release.