insidestories A supplement of Short Stories and essays written by prisoners Inside Time December 2011

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amion waved goodbye to his friends who gathered outside the high school gates. At fifteen he thought school a waste of time. He’d rather collect scrap metal from the derelict factory and trade it in for cash. His stomach rumbled as if to reinforce the correctness of his decision. He had not eaten that morning.

from up ahead. “The smell could be from a dead cat”, thought Damion and he still wanted to steal the copper boiler so he continued up the stairs. Suddenly he noticed a reddish glow emanating from the top of the stairs. The chill that ran up his spine when entering the property returned and made Damion shudder again. Something began to take shape. It was a thing wearing a cape and hood with glowing orbs for eyes. In the darkness, Damion could not make out any facial features but those orbs pinned him to the spot mercilessly like pinning a live moth to a board.

His mother, a single parent, struggled to provide food for him and his siblings. That morning there was cereal to eat, but only enough for three. Damion chose to do without and let his little brothers eat instead. That was when he made the decision to truant school and go in search of scrap metal.

“What do you want? What’s happening? Let me go!” Instinctively, Damion knew his inertia was caused by the figure ahead. A bony hand with claw-like fingers rose and beckoned. With each movement of the finger his legs carried him uncontrollably closer to the thing of terror.

The day was sunny and hot. The whole sky seemed devoid of cloud. With his light brown appearance, being mixed heritage, Damion looked Mediterranean and made for such weather. However, he was feeling the heat so took off his school blazer and tied it round his waist. The thought of stashing it somewhere briefly entered his mind, but should it go missing his mother would definitely not be able to afford another.

Reaching out he tried gripping the wall. In the rotting plaster his fingers felt the deep furrows from someone else’s struggle. If he had been able to see, he would have seen broken fingernails from another’s hand. His hands found no purchase. His body was out of control as he ascended the stairs.

In the distance, looming behind the houses of the street on which he walked, he saw the derelict factory. There was still quite a few streets left to navigate, but the hot sun was already sapping his energy. Damion looked through one of the houses he passed. The curtains must have been in the wash because he could see right through the house and the happy family in the back garden. They were having a water-fight. Damion angrily kicked a cola bottle, wishing he had a happy family and a nice garden. When he went into his back garden he took a stick in case rats attacked, and, as for happy families, he kicked the bottle again which floated on the heated air to land in a garden of a boarded up house. Damion had no memory of any happy family days as it had only ever been his struggling mother taking care of him and his brothers. Even though he had never had the care of a father, he wished he had so he could have Birthday and Christmas presents like normal people. With a father, when he was picked on at school, his dad would sort out the trouble makers. He was angry for not having a father and having a mother that spent money on cigarettes instead of giving him pocket money like normal kids. Wanting to take out his frustrations on the bottle, Damion leaned over the wall to retrieve it. However, when he saw the boarded up house an idea crossed his thoughts: he could get scrap metal from inside the house by ripping out the copper boiler, and he would not have to walk in such scorching weather. He jumped the wall, bottle forgotten, and walked towards an entryway between the boarded house and its neighbour. The entry way was a long dark tunnel with light at the end. Damion’s hand accidently brushed its wall and his hand came away slick. The entry was full of damp. Damion quickened his steps until he reached the light and the back garden. The garden was overgrown but underneath all the brush Damion could imagine how the garden used to be. He turned his attention to the house. As with the front, the back was also boarded up but the bottom square door square door panel had been removed. Moving

Dark Future Jason Smith - hmp birmingham close he looked through the hole. Apart from thin slivers of light around the edges of the boards all was darkness. Damion shuddered. In the darkness he sensed foreboding, but, never one to give into fear he took a lingering look at the garden and the neighbours’ fence- no-one could see. Bending low he entered the house. Inside there was a heavy silence. A silence that pushed out the light and filled the whole place. As soon as Damion was inside it was as if he has stepped into a sound booth; all was silent. All Damion could hear was his own breathing, which he tried to keep low as he was an intruder. Realising how affected he was by the oppressive and almost sentient silence, he deliberately crossed the kitchen and into the front room with heavy tread so his footsteps would sound out loud on the bare floorboards. The front room was just a square boarded up room with bare floor boards and old pealing wallpaper. Damion looked around for scrap metal, however there was only an old gas fire and he thought it too dangerous to tamper with the connecting pipes. He moved to the door leading upstairs. When he pulled on the door there was resistance. He gave the door a big heave which opened with a suction sound that sounded like the house had given a big sigh. Because there was a panel missing from the

back door, Damion shouted up the stairs: “Hello! Anybody there?” Receiving no answer he moved into the hallway. By the light from the front door he looked up the stairs. The steps were carpeted and a banister ran up alongside. The walls seemed to be covered with graffiti, which helped to banish some of his fear. Others had been there before him-he found that reassuring. Reaching out he gripped the banister and put a foot on the first step. Immediately he snatched his hand back from the sticky banister and looked at his hand. His hand was covered with something dark. Instinctively, he went to wipe his hand on his trousers, but stopped himself just in time. Damion took another step. His trainer squelched. He took another. Again, a squelching sound. Not knowing what it was he chose to ignore it and slowly continued to climb the stairs. He could make no sense of the graffiti. It was not normal graffiti of names or places. He recognised pentagrams from watching films about witches, and although he could not read the signs he was repulsed by something about them. At the top of the stairs there was a creak, as if a door had opened. Damion stopped. His ears strained to pick up the slightest sound, but there was nothing. He began to feel fear. Maybe there was someone in the house. He became aware of a rotting smell emanating

“Please! Just let me go! I’m sorry! Help! Help me someone!” Damion’s shouted pleas were absorbed into the silence. No one could hear. Reaching the top of the stairs, he swung wildly at the dark figure. However, it seemed to float backwards and out of reach whilst Damion walked uncontrollably towards a door. The door opened and he would have collapsed in fear at what he beheld had he not been held up by the mysterious force being wielded by the demonic thing. Inside the room there was another one of the figures. Although inside a big pentagram with black candles at each point, the darkness under the hood was not penetrated. Only red glowing orbs could be seen. The thing had no feet and floated above the ground. Damion was propelled into the room and the bedroom door slammed shut with a final bang. Damion was so terrified he was beyond coherent speech. He could only cry pitiful sounds as he moved closer to the demon. When the demon and Damion touched, Damion felt as if the thing was trying to push him out of his body. He felt invaded as the thing began to be absorbed into him. There was nothing he could do. The thing before his eyes became less and less as it penetrated his every pore. When he could finally hold on no longer the edges of his consciousness began to darken until his awareness snuffed out. Damion stood on the street outside the boarded up house holding the plastic cola bottle in his hand and was confused. He remembered the terrifying event in the house, but then, like trying to grab at cigarette smoke, the memory became less substantial and his grasp on what had happened disappeared like mist. He looked at his hand holding the bottle. It was covered in something dark red. He threw away the bottle and turned from the house. He did not see the letterbox of the house open and the glowing red orbs watching from inside. Nor did he see a brief answering glow in his own eyes and the bloody footprints he left behind as he made his way towards the factory and a dark future.

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Insidetime December 2011 www.insidetime.org

I marched into Mr. Jackson’s office. “I’m telling you, Jacqui that you’re talking rubbish. You are just trying to deflect attention from yourself.” “I’m not! You must admit it looks suspicious that he’s in work and not getting paid and then stuff goes missing. It’s him I tell you!”

Junior Stephen Marsh - Hmp Swaleside

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have no idea how I got stuck with this duty. Every Wednesday, at 2pm, I have to stand in the stationary cupboard and wait there for an hour just in case anyone in the departments wants to come and get paperclips or something. The only company I have is old Mr. Jenkins who sits there hardly talking. I know I’m not the cutest girl in the world but I am a passable 19 year-old babe stuck in a room 8 foot by 8 foot with a man that may or may not have had a woman since I was born! It doesn’t seem right to me. He’s very sweet though as he always listens to my moans and gives a bit of advice, but only if I ask him for it. He works in the basement and only comes up to do the stationary. I don’t get why he hasn’t retired. “What is it with you and work, Mr. Jenkins? I want to retire as soon as I can so I can lie in bed all day. Why are you still working?” “I’ve been working since my earliest memory. I had a milk round at the age of eleven.”

“Jacqui! Come in here please.” “Coming, Mr. Jackson. What can I do for you?” “There is over 150 pounds worth of stationary missing. You will be paying for it out of your wages. Thank you. You can go.” “Wait there! I haven’t taken anything! I was never told I could lose money by working in there! How come I get the blame?”

The next Wednesday came around and I went into the cupboard and asked Mr Jenkins if he was happy about losing money too.

“There were no supermarkets back then.”

I thought that was the strangest thing I had ever heard. I began to tidy up in the corner of the cupboard and the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I was the only one losing money and I knew I wasn’t stealing.”

I felt like saying “how come it’s always me doing all the lifting and carrying in this little cupboard then”, but I didn’t. I liked him.

“Have you been stealing from here, Mr. Jenkins?”

“I know I won’t ever retire.”

“Did anyone question you about it?”

“Don’t you go and die on me in here! I couldn’t handle that, Mr. Jenkins!”

“No. Why would they. How could they?”

“I’ll do my best, Jacqui. I promise I won’t do it on purpose.”

“Well, it’s not fair. I’ve got to pay all that money back and I haven’t taken anything and they didn’t even ask you about it at all. It’s because I’m young and you’re old. It must be.”

“No, Jacqui. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m here to help you, Jacqui. I haven’t taken anything and it won’t do you any good to mention this to anyone either.” “Are you threatening me?”

I was called into the office on Thursday by my boss. I thought he may have changed his mind about my promotion. I was wrong.

“He was right. He never did stop working. Have you ever wondered why no-one else will work in that cupboard? That’s where Mr Jenkins died”.

I look over to the other beds and see Mr Jenkins waving back at me. He came with me to this hospital and has never left in twelve years. He has been a good friend over the years too; always there with advice.

“I love working. That’s why I come here.”

Mr Jenkins tried to do his best to cheer me up. “Don’t worry, Jacqui. Your time will come. I think you’ll do just fine in this company. As long as you stick near me.”

“He may have stopped getting paid four years ago but he still comes into help me in the stationary cupboard. He told me himself he would never stop working.”

I threatened to quit but nobody seemed to care - so I stayed.

“Why couldn’t they go to the supermarket then?”

Straight to the point.

“Because Mr Jenkins left the company four years ago.”

All of that happened over twelve years ago and as I sit here on my bed I know that I was right. They were mad and I was right.”

“You work here for nothing? Why?”

They said no.

“Why? Why can’t you do that one simple thing for me? Tell me!”

That was not a good day. With travel and food taken into account I was working for nothing that week.

“I used to deliver milk to peoples’ doorsteps from the back of a little truck.”

I went to my line manager last week and asked if I could have a promotion because I am really good at my job and have been here six months.

“I can’t do that, Jacqui.”

I left that office and sat down in the hallway. Either they were mad or I was. I decided it was them.

“I didn’t lose anything, Jacqui. I don’t get paid to be here so they can’t take any money from me.”

“I love to work, Jacqui. It’s what keeps me young.”

“What? I don’t do drugs at all. Why don’t you take me seriously? Get the bloke down here right now and ask him to his face.”

“You are in charge there. You have to learn that with responsibility comes consequence.”

“What’s a milk round?”

“Really? That’s weird.”

“Jacqui. I like you but you are really not helping yourself. Have you been drinking or taking drugs in or out of work recently?”

“No. I’m trying to help you. I don’t want you to lose your job. Or anything else either.” The guy was obviously nuts and I wasn’t having any of it. He was taking me for a fool. I was going back to my boss and demand he launch an investigation. If I could out the old fool and save the company thousands than that should get me my promotion.

The nurse is coming with my medication. I’ll sleep now. Mr Jenkins will keep me company in my dreams though. I am never alone.

What is a short story? Rachel Billington writes: There are as many definitions of the short story as there are interested writers but I would tentatively suggest the following as guidelines: A short story is a piece of prose fiction with a beginning, a middle and an end which usually, despite its length, under 5000 words, has a strong structure. As a general rule, a short story has characters that have conversations with each other. It should open in one place and have a dramatic development at some point which may lead to a conclusion with a surprising twist. Many people consider the short story the hardest form of creative writing because of its compression and brevity. Sometimes, there may be little action or character development but it will still give a sharply viewed snapshot of life. .................................................................. We welcome short stories (maximum 1500 words) for publication in Inside Time. Readers are strongly recommended to discuss their ideas and structure for a short story with their classroom tutor or writer in residence.

The Sad Dreams of Broken Bob Noel Smith

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don’t have much of a social life anymore. Not since a herd of armed Flying Squad caved my car windows in with baseball bats and informed me that I was under arrest for armed robbery whilst pointing a number of loaded firearms at my head and daring me to move. Despite my suddenly itchy nose I did not take up their dare. So, I duly faced a jury at the Old Bailey instead of the inside of a rubber body bag. One of my better choices in life, I think. Though I was later to wonder, particularly when I was standing in the dock listening to some old duffer in a dusty wig paraphrasing what a scumbag I was and how the public deserved a rest from my activities. Don’t get me wrong, I fully realise that leading one of the most prolific bank robbery crews in London was a little bit more than being a naughty boy, and I expected to get the proverbial book thrown at me, but I was expecting something along the lines of a thin paperback on fly-fishing, not the complete volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Life imprisonment with a 23 year tariff plus 200 years in concurrents is a little bit more than a slap on the wrist, know what I mean? So I haven’t really been out much lately, but I do like to keep my sense of reality pretty sharp if I can. I read the newspapers when I can get hold of them, and I watch the news occasionally, unlike some lifers. I was talking to my pal, Bob, yesterday on the exercise yard. Bob was once a big cheese at the armed robbery game back in the late 1960s, early 1970s. He has now been eating porridge (or ‘Grade 3 Canadian pig meal, as it actually is) in the Graybar hotel since 1975. Bob was never really the sharpest tool in the box, but decades in jail had robbed him of most of his faculties, he was now 73. The talk, on the yard turned, as it inevitably does, to what it might be like for us when (if) we are eventually released. ‘How are you going to survive out there after all this time, Bob?’ I asked Bob tapped a heavily nicotine stained finger (the result of years of smoking roll-ups to the butt) against the side of his broken hooter and winked at me. ‘Don’t worry about me, son.’ He said. I’ve got it sorted. I buried a nice chunk of dosh from me last tickle. I’ll dig it up, get meself suited and booted, buy a nice motor, maybe one of them top of the range Cortina’s. Then it’s up to Soho to pull a brass.’ I nodded. Cortina? I was thinking as I noticed the dreamy look that had invaded Bob’s time-and-jail ravaged features. ‘Yeah, sweet.’ I said. ‘But what about long term plans, Bob? Where are you going to live and that?’ Bob stared at the rusty coils of razor-wire that festooned the fence around the exercise yard. ‘I’ll buy a little gaff.’ He said. ‘Somewhere down the coast.’ We carried on walking our perpetual concrete circle for a minute in silence. Then I had to ask. ‘This bit of dough, Bob, how much are we talking about?’ Bob looked furtively around the yard to make sure no one was earwigging. Then he leant close to my ear and whispered. ‘Nearly 5 grand, son!’ He said. ‘All in crisp new one pound notes!’ Who says crime doesn’t pay?

Insidetime December 2011 www.insidetime.org

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The Knitting Group Catherine Anderson HMP Drake Hall

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or the past 20 years they all met together on a Friday afternoon. The only Friday’s that were missed was Good Friday’s and if Christmas day fell on a Friday. Each and everyone looked forward to these gatherings. Sadly there used to be eight of them but two died and now there were six. No one else joined the group and the amount of garments that left that room was amazing. They had all retired from work so knitting occupied most of their waking day. Some of the garments were given out as gifts and the rest were sold. The money made was divided amongst the group but they just pooled it together to buy more wool. Jenny sat and told them all about her test results from the hospital and it wasn’t that good, they were recommending an operation and at seventy four would she really bother? She had come this far, why would she put herself through all this pain and anxiety for just a chance of a maybe? Jenny, please give yourself a fighting chance, it could be all ok and you could live for another twenty years. This was the voice of her long standing friend Elsie, the only person she trusted in the whole world. I know what you’re saying Elsie, but I don’t think I have either the strength or the inclination to carry on I will have to think hard about my decision. You see this was no ordinary knitting group, all of the ladies in this group were in fact ladies who were serving whole life sentences for what was seen at the time as horrific crimes and they all had been here in the Special Lifer’s Unit in Woolham Jail for many years. This was the only unit of its type in the country and these ladies were the only ever inmates. Jenny had disposed of her entire immediate family and to this day no one knows why. Elsie killed her abusive husband and girlfriend in cold blood, then chopped them up and burnt their bodies on a bonfire in the garden. Agatha tortured and murdered her elderly parents to get her hands on their money. Claire set fire to the boarding house where she was lodging, killing every resident. She had fallen out with the landlady over a bar of soap. Lucy never pleaded guilty to her crimes, she had apparently given birth to six babies and after a few days got fed up and killed them, burying them under the floorboards. The father of the seventh baby took him away from her because she told him the baby wouldn’t be around for long to disturb them and he wasn’t to worry, she would see to everything, he called the police in and disappeared with the child. Little Miss Daisy, as she was nicknamed by the papers, her real name being Henrietta, poisoned all of her sugar daddies and buried them with lots of daisies, her favorite flowers. There was talk of her killing about ten or twelve, no one really knew how many and she never said. Maria, who never really said what she was there for, but they all knew anyway, was the gang leader of a very violent gang in the heart of London and she had killed anyone who she decided had got in her way or someone she didn’t like, it was claimed that she was one of Britain’s most evil women as she killed for fun, age didn’t matter to her, if she decided you were going to die, then you

did. Looking at these old ladies today, sitting here knitting and chatting, drinking tea and eating biscuits, no one would believe they were at one time such evil people. Over the time that these particular ladies had been inside, the law had changed and freedom had become easier for them to achieve, but for some strange reason they never made it. All had attended Parole Boards, all had completed courses that the Probation Service ran and being resettled into communities had been on everyone’s agenda at sometime, but no one had ever left the unit. The unit for them had met all of their required needs and from all accounts all of the ladies seemed happy with their lot. Jail was their life and family and they seemed to thrive on being there. Even stranger no one ever had any visitors or received any mail apart from legal stuff and that never seemed to bother anyone, it was like they were cut off from the outside world. Over the years they had all been featured in TV programmes and usually from them they received a surge of either fan mail or hate mail. Under instructions from all of the women, the governor was told to incinerate all of it, they wanted no part in what they deemed to be ‘profit mail’. All of the guards had a huge amount of respect for these ladies and all had at some time either received baby clothes for a new arrival or knitted toys for their children’s birthdays. To outsiders their world would seem to be very strange indeed. The governor did at one time have a waiting list for other ladies to go into the unit, but for the few who had tried to penetrate the domain they left after a few day’s feeling very unsettled. Charles had been in the prison service for almost twenty years and he loved his job. He had risen to the rank of senior officer and was held in high esteem by almost all of the inmates he had ever guarded. People had found out that yes he was fair and would always listen to any complaint made, but he wasn’t a person to be messed with either as he often said “being nice is not a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of respect”. Even the most hardened of inmates regarded him highly. When Charles was offered the manager’s job on the special lifer’s unit he couldn’t believe his luck, this was the next step up to being a deputy governor and the unit was famous, he had visited it many times during his career and had secretly wished over the years to be given such a prime role in the prison service like this. Henry Sayers said his goodbyes to the ladies. They had thrown him a little tea party and had given him a set of hand crafted jumpers with bob hat’s and scarves to match. Henry, the ladies knew loved his winter skiing holidays, these were treasures he would never part with. He had been the special unit’s manager for twenty-five years and had catalogued every little high and low of each of its resident’s. “Charles” he said “I am handing over to you a lifetime’s work and a piece of prison history, everything you need to know about each of these ladies is here in this office, please take very good care of them for me and if it’s not too much trouble would you keep me informed of any changes on the unit.” “I certainly will Henry, as we both know I am probably going to be the last manager on here, thankfully the service is allowing this unit to die a natural death”. “I know” said

Henry. “And maybe it’s for the best - only time will tell.” Charles stepped into Henry’s shoes with no problems; the ladies took to him very readily. The prison service had chosen well and as time went on some small changes were made by Charles always with the approval of the ladies and they in return made him some superb jumpers. Over time the inevitable happened, Jenny decided to refuse treatment for her illness and died in hospital one December evening and Agatha had to be transferred to the geriatric wing of the local psychiatric hospital where she passed away in her sleep,. These deaths brought a lot of sadness to the ladies and in some ways Charles felt they were never the same. About eighteen months after the deaths of Jenny and Agatha, Miss Daisy, aka Henrietta went to sleep one August evening and never woke up. Eight months after her, Elsie had a heart attack whilst having her lunch and she passed away two days later, which just left Lucy and Maria. Charles and Henry made sure that the press never got to know about the deaths of these ladies until after they were cremated, what monies they had in their prison accounts went to animal charities at their own request and the wool and needles they so often used went back into the box in the association room. Lucy and Maria continued knitting until Maria announced one day that she was going to have to give up knitting as her arthritis was becoming so bad; she could hardly hold the needles. Lucy was devastated but Maria promised she would come into the association room as normal to still keep her company. This arrangement only lasted a short while as Maria had to be rushed to hospital one night with pneumonia and later that week she died. Lucy never knitted again. From hearing about Maria’s death, she took to her bed and had all of her meals in her room. The unit, it seemed didn’t have long to survive. Lucy asked to see Charles one day and as he came into her room, he was shocked to see this little old lady sat up in her bed, surrounded by pillows. He knew she was fading fast and he intended to make her passing as easy as possible. “Mr. Charles” as he was always referred to by the ladies, “can I please have a word with you?” “Lucy” he said “you can have a thousand words with me, you have my full attention for as long as you like, and I am not going anywhere.” Lucy laughed at this. He had brought her a lovely cake for after her evening meal. “You spoil me,” she laughed. “You’re worth it Lucy, you’re my little star.” “I am the last of an era Mr Charles and I really am the last and I just want to tell you something before I pop my clogs as we say here”. “Don’t you be planning to pop them anytime soon young lady, otherwise I will be out of a job”. “I will try to hang on as long as I can” she smiled at him. “So what’s troubling you then Lucy?” She knew she had to do this. “Well you obviously know why I am here. It happened such a long time ago, I nearly have forgotten most of the details myself. I was accused of killing my six babies and I never at anytime said I did or I didn’t, well I have to tell you now Mr. Charles I did and I see each of those babies faces every

night as I sleep.” It was like someone had hit him with a hammer, she was confessing to him after all these years. Lucy went on to tell Charles about her life; growing up; about the torment, abuse and neglect she suffered, the story she unfolded was horrific - it took all of his willpower not to cry. She killed those babies because she lived in fear that the same would happen to them. “Lucy, all I can say is thank you for having the trust in me to tell me your story.” “Mr Charles I have a huge favour to ask of you.” “What is it Lucy? If I can do it I will.” “There was a baby, my last one that survived, his father took him away from me and told the police about his suspicions and he is the reason I am in here. He must have hated me for all of these years, but he did me a favour, he stopped me killing any more innocent children. I have only one possession that is worth anything, this gold cross and chain which belonged to my grandmother. I would like you to give it to him if he contacts the prison after my death is announced.” Charles took the cross and chain and said, “Lucy I will do more than that I will try to find him for you and give it to him personally, we might have some information on file somewhere.” “Mr. Charles, you are a diamond I knew I was doing the right thing by asking you and would you tell him, I have always loved him.” “I will Lucy, I will.” Lucy passed away peacefully in her sleep the next day and was like the other ladies cremated and her ashes scattered in the prison gardens. The unit was given a lovely makeover and the new residents moved in. Charles got his promotion to deputy governor and moved on to a new prison. He often thought about his ladies and had enough jumpers to last him until his retirement. Charles’s parents were overjoyed with his promotion and they had followed his career and were very proud of him. On the first weekend available he drove up to see his parents who lived in the Lake District and he brought with him some of the jumpers the ladies had knitted for him to show his mum. “This is very professional knitting Charles, what wonderful jumpers,” his mother appreciated these crafts as she was an avid knitter herself, “I told you they were good mum” he said. “Great news with the promotion then son, I bet you were sad when the unit closed though.” “Sad wasn’t the word dad, I loved that job and those ladies, and I will never meet the likes of them again.” “There is one thing dad; I have something for you.” “For me?” “Lucy, the day before she died admitted to me about her crime and told me about the child that survived.” Charles’s father was shocked. “She did, I cannot believe she finally admitted her guilt.” “Yes dad and she gave me this.” Charles pulled out the cross and chain, “she wanted me to give it to her son if he got in touch with the prison after her death was announced. I said I would find him and give it to him myself and she left a message to say how much she loved him and she never forgot him.” Charles’s father took the cross and chain and held it tight. After all these years she finally said she loved him. His father always said she did but he never really believed him. To think if his father never took him he would have ended up just like the other six under the floorboards. “Are you ok dad?” “I am now son - I am now.”

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Insidetime December 2011 www.insidetime.org

Our People’s Song Graham Burton - Hmp Parkhurst

Our songs today remember all, even the coming of a new beast, many, many generations ago, long after the Great Cold. This was a beast so strange and savage that it could not even learn our tongue; a beast deaf to our screams for mercy, an animal that strikes from above in a world of air. It is a creature so dire that it must have been sent by the Gods to punish us once again and to destroy our Eden; we watch the beast as we jink and junk out of our watery world into their world of air.

O

ur people love songs. This is how we keep our history alive; by singing our songs that are passed down from generation to generation. Each generation adding its own history as we roam our world in search of food - our prey. I am Actsy, son of Mar and this is our song of who we are and the honouring of our ancestors with a rich history but a bleak future. What is our song? I will share it with you so that we can be remembered in generations to come.

The beast also takes our prey so that we starve. If hunger does not take our weak and young to the promised lands, then a strange web, so huge, can take whole families. These webs are hard to see, especially on a murky day.

Our people are an ancient people, from a time of Eden where food in our world was plenteous and bountiful. Also we would share our tactics with each other to herd our prey, making it easier to kill and feast. This is the first song we sing to our young; that only through cunning can we expect to fill our bellies.

One terrible day the beasts slaughtered nearly all of our tribe with their huge strange web. Even our cunning could not save us. Males, females and infants were screaming in terror, trying in vain to save themselves as we few rushed for safety, making our escape. We became painfully aware that the screams of the trapped diminished to a spooky silence as they met their end. We, now a mere few in a rag-tag band, are thankful that our priest and elders survived the holocaust. We are alone in the world with our songs to honour our lost ancestors, ever fearful that one day there may be no one left to pass on our memories ... no more immortality. No more of our people are old.

In a time long ago we feared nothing - not even death - because we knew that our songs would be immortal. The Gods were surely smiling upon us. We had no predators and all prey was ours to eat. Nor did we fear shark attack, which is the second song we sing to our young; how to be wise and overcome the primitive sharks. A shark, like any animal, wants an easy meal and does not want to be injured during its hunt; nor does it wish to be killed seeking food. Two rules that apply to all creatures-even us. By understanding the shark and its ways, by staying together when we forage for food and by cunning, the shark will always fear us. When a brave and hungry shark does venture near us, a group of our largest and strongest will wind it by bashing the shark in the belly with all their might. It quickly retreats, winded and bruised, in search of an easier meal. I, Actsy son of Mar, am nearly fully grown and happy to tell you of our proud tribe as we roam our world in search of prey. It is a real pleasure when we share our songs with other tribes that we meet along the way, and it gives us pure joy to hear another tribes’ songs. Our joining takes days, joyous days, as we enrich each other’s culture with songs that both sets of elders splice together, making two songs one. Their history becomes our history and our history becomes theirs during the time we traverse together; until that sorrowful day when our tribes must part ways to seek new hunting grounds. Our songs are many. They tell of times long, long ago. They tell of individual courage, of tragedy, sorrow and also of great happiness. Sometimes, just sometimes, they tell of revenge. It is not our way to kill another of our people - even those of other tribes. But sometimes, our honour demands revenge. Takis, a wilful one, of my age, once wandered away from our tribe on one of our long journeys to warmer climes. He inadvertently strayed near a new tribe, previously unknown to us, one who did not speak our tongue. Five of their gang beat him in the belly until he was bruised, winded and shaken. The moment our elders saw Takis limping and whimpering towards us, they felt that a great wrong had

been done, injuring our tribes’ honour.

cunning to win the day and save our honour.

Signis, the elder, stated nobly: “Your people is our people’s injury. We will sing of your plight, but we shall also sing of our revenge to return honour to our people.”

Demic, the leader of our brave avengers ordered the others to one side and readied to knock the ring leader out of his gang and into the path of our band, who would then spring their trap to bruise and wind. Like for like. Our brave band did just that, racing back and led by Demic, all before a counter attack could be launched by the tribe of a different tongue. Demic and his avengers raced back, zigzagging to fool any pursuers and lose them, bringing back a song of honour. These were happy days and happy songs.

A group of our largest and fittest were selected to match exactly the number who had hurt Takis and our honour. Our noble gang set off at once singing of triumph and not cursed defeat for our ancestor’s honour was at stake. Remember it is not our way to kill our own people, no matter what song and tongue they sing. They too would not have the same laws. We waited and waited; the excitement became tension which itself was almost unbearable for us all. Then tension merged into fear - a fear of defeat. A painful night and a day dragged by making us all snappy and tense: then slowly a figure emerged from the murky haze. Just one figure appeared; that could only mean that we had failed. No! But wait: more figures emerged. Yes. It was our foray returning singing triumphantly. We also sang, rejoicing in victory and tearful relief of their safe return. Our song will be added with great vigour to our history because our tribe and our ancestors were honoured that way. I will quickly share that song with you. The full song is known as “The Revenge of the Takis” and is sung thus: incensed with dishonour our brave group sought the tribe of a different tongue. Armed with Takis’s description, they tracked the tribe and sought the ring leader of the violent, vicious, and voracious gang. They were soon to find him. Now our brave group needed

There are songs of old, so old they tell of a different world full of snow and ice where the Gods were displeased and sent forth a great cold. It was so cold that our sky became white and our food scarce, forcing our leaders to take us south for warmer hunting grounds. It was a journey so long with a biting cold and food was so rare that it caused many of our young and old alike to perish. But their plight was remembered in our song called “The Great Cold”, honouring their memories, allowing them to live forever and a day. After the “Great Cold” our lives were bliss as our world once again warmed and food became plentiful. It seemed as though the Gods had forgiven us because we had told of their goodness and pleased them as we sang about the wonders of the world. Once again our songs became happy and joyous. Remember. When we say “we”, we mean our people as a whole; not individuals.

I, Actsy, son of Mar, and a desperate group of refugees travel the world in search for other tribes to join and warn about the beasts. Though we are still dazed after our slaughter, shocked by our losses and numbed by our grief, we sang the saddest songs as we remember the fallen. Sometimes we sought comfort from the sounds of huge docile animals-sounds that sound like a song although we do not understand it. It is a gentle sound that soothes our frayed nerves. Our songs, unlike the docile animals, are lively in pace even when sad. Now as we search in vain, lonely and desolate for the sight of other tribes, we are always in fear that they too have fallen foul of the beast. We sing you our songs; teach you our tongue in the hope that you will learn about our people of old and of our great journey not only in history but in the world; our exodus, if you will. Please hear our plight. Remember us, in song, as only our fates are known by the Gods, and keep our traditions alive from our proud but ailing people that you men know as the Dolphin. Yet it does not have to be that way between the people of men and our people. We have memories and songs of how we could and would live side by side. You have seen how we love to play and have fun. Our people pride themselves on being able to make a game out of anything just as you - a strange being with your arms and legs swimming and playing in your ungainly way upon the water. But that is your charm to us. We love to hear your excited squeals of laughter when we appear to walk on water with our tail flipper. You would call them legs if you had them. Our most favourite game to play with your kind is to leap and somersault as many times as we can for our fun and your delight.

Insidetime December 2011 www.insidetime.org

insidestories the thought suddenly occurred to me that the run-up to the American Election was only a couple of months away. Now, I am not an avid conspiracy theorist but... What a stroke of luck for what could have been a lame duck president. Up until recently, Obama’s been about as popular as herpes. Great speaker and good person that he undoubtedly is, he’s also turned out to be ineffective. You see, it’s all well and good addressing multitudes, proving to be an excellent orator and conveying the right image, but in order to be rated as a great president you are occasionally obliged to actually do something. Much like the man who shot Liberty Valance there’s something hollow and ineffectual about his tenure. I somehow got the feeling that behind the scenes there’s other people pulling the strings.

Captured in Poverty Sid Wright - HMP Lowdham Grange

I

got out of bed the other morning, shuffled around in my slippers, put the kettle on and reached for the remote to switch on the TV Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I took my cup from out of the sink, threw a teabag and sweetener then waited for the water to boil. I lifted a milk carton off the window ledge, sniffed it, deemed it OK then glanced at yesterday’s paper. I looked at my watch, it was 7.15. I reached over and popped two slices of medium white into the toaster. I removed the teabag from the cup, threw it in the bin and poured out the milk. I glanced out of the window and noticed that the thick grey cloud that had been hanging around for the past week was starting to break up, and gave way to bright shafts of sunlight that reflected off the roofs of the cars parked outside in the street. The toaster rattled as it threw up its contents and I sat down for breakfast. So what! I hear you say. What’s this got to do with the price of eggs? Why bother recalling the events of just another mundane morning? Well, I’ll tell you why. You see this wasn’t just any ordinary old morning.

remote and gave the picture some sound. That’s when it hit me. Like being slapped round the face with a dead Mackerel... This was not an old tramp’s bolt hole. It was, in fact, the final resting place of the most wanted man in the world! How the mighty had fallen. Osama Bin Laden had been captured and then killed in a violent struggle. Like Saddam Hussein before he was found to be living in a hovel. Not a glamorous scenario the World’s most wanted man. As villains go I think I prefer the James Bond variety. Megalomania should be drenched in luxury. It’s hard to imagine Hugo Drax or Ernst Stavro Blofel being holed up in a bed-sit above a Take-Away half way up the Uxbridge Road, with 007 shinning up the drainpipe. The locations of these hideouts seem to get progressively worse. Where’s it all going to end? Before long we’ll have the SAS heading a daring mission to capture an obscure group of militants holed up in the canteen of the local Seaman’s mission. MI5 setting up observation posts at specific Soup Kitchens in and around the capital.

This was the morning after the night before. A night where something major had occurred. Every TV station was covering the same story. Every reported projected an impression of excitement and a sense of relief across the screen. What could it be? I thought. What could it be about? One minute Barack Obama was on screen, the next what looked like an old tramp’s refuge in downtown Beirut. Was it a Famine Relief appeal? And if so where was Bob Geldof? Or was it an already bankrupt West dishing out more financial aid to yet another third world leader with a bulging Swiss bank account? I had to know more.

It took fifty Navy Seals and a fleet of helicopter gunships to bring down a withered old man hiding behind a pile of breezeblocks. And all this no more than fifty yards from a supposedly allied-friendly military base. I know that they couldn’t take any chances but it was hardly heroic. In actual fact I thought it looked pathetic. Hardly the stuff of a Hollywood blockbuster but give them time, poetic license and Tom ‘Thumb’ Cruise a leading role and Bob’s your uncle and Oscar’s your name! They’ve never let us down yet as to the glorification of a simple manoeuvre and trust me; this will prove to be no exception.

I pushed aside a Cornflakes box, picked up the

As I reached over the table for a slice of toast,

This seemingly weak administration is not all through his own fault, by any means. This poor blighter was handed a poison chalice by George W. Bush. By the time both he and his good old boys had raised their snouts out of the public trough, the writing was on the wall. America was in a deep financial crisis. The only time the Americans would hand over the keys of the White House to a Black man was after they’d ransacked the treasury. A rotten assumption I know, but that’s the way I see it. You see I think that the upper strata of the US is institutionally racist. It’s wrong, as we all know but it has to be said. To follow George W. into office is like following Kerry Katona and Tara Palmer Tompkinson into the toilet for a line of coke. He’s had a tough time this guy. But he must be a glutton for punishment because, no doubt with the backing of arms manufacturers and the conglomerates, in a complete turn of fortune, he’s back in favour and looks set for another 4 years in office. People are celebrating the passing of Bin Laden. They’re waving placards and shouting Obama’s name from the rooftops. He’s reinstated himself as the darling of the middle classes and looks sure of their support. The patriotic Mid-West should be a pushover. Throw in the black and ethnic vote with this new found favour and Obama’s a shoe in. All the dull and belt tightening measures of the previous four years pale in insignificance when it’s you who guns down the bogey man. All of a sudden you’ve gone from Ground Zero to National Hero. Watch out boys! There’s a new sheriff in town. Typically American. I’m not making light of this. This was a bad, bad man. What Bin Laden orchestrated on 9/11 was a heinous crime - unforgivable. It’s just that to make his killing the main reason for putting Obama back into the most powerful office in the world for another four years, strikes me as being a bit shallow. What people really want but never seem to get is a financial and ambassadorial genius. But there you go; American presidents are usually glossy but empty. True in George W. Bush’s case. Only, without the glossy bit. I drained the last drop of tea from my cup, put my coat on and went into the hallway. I realised then that I’d left the TV on. As I approached the door I just caught the tail end of a report that the Americans had just bombed Libya. I walked out on to the street, looked up at the sky and noticed that thick grey storm clouds were gathering in the west. I buttoned up my raincoat, raised my lapels and pressed on towards the High Street, well prepared for the deluge that was about to come.

The Life & Times of a Pound Coin Marg Covington - Hmp drake Hall

H

i! I’m a pound coin. My name is Pepperoni. Why? I don’t know. Apparently, I was named after some sort of pizza! What pizza has to do with a pound coin is anyone’s guess but that was the name I was given, in that very large container, in which I was born and that is the name I have had to live with. It was “mint” when I was born. The commotion and laughter could be heard all around the building. Clatter! Clatter! Clatter! It was great fun, bumping and jostling with all the other pound coins. On day two, I was piled into a neat pile with nineteen other pound coins and wrapped up in a dusky pink coloured paper, with some writing on it that I couldn’t understand. I introduced myself to the two coins either side of me. One was called Cornetto and the other Lasagne. I recall part of our conversation was to try to work out if we were British Currency or not, with the names we were given. We sounded suspiciously Italian, so we were debating whether we were pound coins or Euro’s. Then we heard the accents of the humans who were taking care of us and then sending us out onto the journey we were all about to undertake. They were very English accents, so, we assumed, we had to be pound coins. I arrived at a building called NatWest; whatever that was and was unceremoniously thrown into a compartment with my Italian sounding friends in some kind of drawer with pieces of paper with what looked like a woman’s head with some kind of crown on. As I was chatting to a pretty girl with a crown on her head - she was coloured blue - a human hand came down into the till drawer and whisked away my friend, Cornetto. I never had a chance to say goodbye. Lasagne, huddled herself closer to me in fear. Soon after, I was next. I wasn’t complaining though because the male instinct in me was to reveal itself. I quite fancied the blue girl but my romantic liaison was to be short lived because no sooner had I been thrown into a human’s purse, in the coins section, my first love was placed more carefully into the wallet section. I remember not being in the woman’s purse for too long before I was exchanged at a smelly Butcher’s shop for a pound of bacon. Myself and a few other coins. What a lot of strange characters they were. Some big, some small. Some silver and some gold like me. One was a bronze looking guy. He said he was a two pence piece. I asked him his name. He said: “Don’t be stupid! I don’t have a name. I’m a coin, you idiot”. “Charming”, I thought. Anyway, to cut a long story short. My life has been about being clattered about from purse to pocket, to till and back again. At one point, I was placed in a jar for about a year. Then, one week, the collector was a bit short of cash. So he sent me back into circulation. I have been in one armed bandits: even fallen out of a drunk’s pocket and been left on a path on a freezing cold night. As luck has it, I was found by the postman and spent in the pub after his shift had finished. After many years of being bumped about, mistreated on occasions, yet sometimes lovingly kept warm in humans’ hands, I have been returned to my place of birth to be melted down so I can start a new life. Also returned to the mint were my old friends Cornetto and Lasagne. We talked for hours about how our separate lives had been. Then, all of a sudden, I went very hot!?

insidestories

Insidetime December 2011 www.insidetime.org

Prison Works MacNutty - HMP Glenochil

T

ommo and Ray were awakened by the screw at the door carrying out the morning check. Keys rattled around the wing before a shaft of light entered into the darkened gaffe. Ray pulled the duvet over his head while Tommo stretched. The gaffe soon fell dark again as the screw locked the door and carried on down the wing.

Calling Planet Earth Mike Taylor - HMP Maidstone

M

y dear Earthshine, I’ve just had a word with the sun and she suggests I write to let you know what is on all our minds. Honestly, Earth, this has been making us all go round and round in circles for aeons. I might only be a lowly moon, but this does not mean my opinion counts for nothing, and they all thought you would prefer to hear it from me before it all gets out of hand.

oh-so-abundant oxygen and water nothing would be able to get about. Well, let me tell you this, my dear orb, you’re not the only one with an atmosphere! Mars complained of a tickling sensation on his surface that could ‘only come from something that moves’. He said he did not feel as dirty as me but he’s never been the sensitive type. Others have started to feel odd pricks too.

It’s difficult to know where to start. You know I love you and this is only for your own good! The problem is this project you have on the go; I think you call it ‘life’? Well it’s gone far enough! This is not the first time, Earth. Do you remember a while ago Juno had to have strong words with you - I can’t remember what the issue was but things came to blows? I remember how upset you were that some dinosaurs, or something, had all but died out as a result, and how well you thought they had been doing. We all thought you would see sense and bring this silly idea to a close before some serious damage occurred.

So then, what to do? I’m sorry but we are prepared to take matters into our own hands, as it were. Either you sort this one out for yourself or Jupiter and the Sun will sort it out for you. They are planning on using one of those big comets from the Oort Cloud, way out beyond Pluto, to ‘take you out’. That’s exactly the phrase they used. I know the effect this will have on our relationship but I’m prepared to take the consequences because I love you. Things will settle down again, in time, even if our paths are a little less circular than they already are.

And then there was the time you caught a cold. Remember how we all called you snowball because you were so iced over? You were as frozen as a comet. Pluto was so jealous! Anyway, I digress, the point is that you shivered for millennia but all you could worry about were those stupid life forms of yours. It’s not natural, Earth. I’m telling you, it’s all a lost cause and brings nothing but grief, saying nothing of the disrepute to the entire Solar System. Well, the point is this - we’ve just about had enough. Me, for instance, I’ve just had one of your little ‘visitors’ on me! How horrid that was. It was disgusting, moving all over my surface. I still feel dirty because it has gone and left things on me - I don’t even want to think about what they may be. And I can’t even get one of the asteroids to get rid of this because it’s all on the side facing you and they say it’s ‘difficult’ for them to reach. Difficult! They either can or they can’t - I don’t care how ‘difficult’ it is, call a star a star, is what I say. Mars has just sent me a note to say how sorry he is about all this stuff and nonsense. He said you said it would never be able to spread like this. You said, apparently, that without your

So, please, Earth, see sense. We are prepared to compromise a little bit. Let them go back to the seas. That was nice, in its way. Your seas are so beautiful and no one has anything like them. Only Saturn’s rings come anywhere close, or, at least, so I think. Come on, be kind to yourself. I’ve been looking closely at you and there’s a rather big volcano sitting on one of your continents, the top one of that nice pair with a pretty little strip of land of land joining them. You haven’t used that one for quite a while so it must be nicely full. If you let vent in one big go that ought to do the job. In fact, if you do it well enough then you can have a nice new sea in the middle of the land. You like those! Anyway, I must go. Apparently there’s to be a supernova in the Andromeda Galaxy, or so the Sun says. (How she knows these things is a mystery to me). I want to get myself in just the right position. But I love you – we are of the same stuff after all. Think about it, lots of circles and spins.

Noise levels increased on the wing as both lads decided to face the day. It certainly was morning and after another late night it was a struggle getting feet on the cold floor. Ray was first one to move from his bunk, his first task switching on the kettle. ‘Coffee Tommo?’ asked Ray. ‘Yeah mate, two spoons in mine, gotta get ready for my big day’ replied Tommo. ‘Big day?’ enquired Ray. ‘Directorial debut my man’ Tommo responded. The two lads sat down to coffee staring at Sky Sports News, while they planned their day film club for Tommo and education for Ray. That wind turbine project wouldn’t finish itself. ‘Sheds, education!’ roared the screw. Tommo headed out while Ray gathered his books for a day researching. The two mates soon caught up with each other in the metal detector queue, no matter how often you went through this rigmarole they’d still go off. The cause of which was normally a watch, a belt, or a buckle. Eventually, they made it through. Tommo headed towards the education department and Ray to the library. Over at the film club, once the lads had said their hellos the tutor delivered the bad news to the group. ‘Sorry lads, the management have withdrawn their consent for the script.’ George announced. ‘That’s fuckin’ bollocks man. How we gonna pass now?’ asked Jay.

While it was kicking off, Ray found himself up to his neck in National Geographic magazines. Articles on wind turbines were proving elusive. Ray looked at his watch and decided to call it quits and head back to the wing. ‘If only I had internet access, this would be so much easier, going to have to get good old Mum to help again’ thought Ray leaving the library. Back at film club the anger had begun to subside as the lads decided to try and not only save the project but to combine the original footage and make a documentary on censorship. The way ahead was to request a management interview asking them to explain their decision, add a voice over when the two movies intersect narrating events. This would allow them to submit a movie, passing outcome three and complete ‘An Introduction to Film-making.’ The way ahead agreed it seemed an ideal time to pack up for the day as no further action could be taken. The project would resume next week, goodbyes were being said as the guys headed out into the reception area before being escorted back to the wings. Once Tommo arrived back on the wing, he noticed that he had mail. He noticed that Ray was on the phone and waved to attract his attention. Ray waved back. Tommo raised his hand in a cup motion. Ray responded by giving him the thumbs up. Ray arrived back at his gaffe. He switched on the kettle, followed by the radio, prepared coffee mugs and sat down to roll a smoke. He listened to Radio 4’s From Our Own Correspondent while waiting for Ray to return. Tommo had finished his smoke and was in the process of rolling another as Ray walked in the door. ‘That for me?’ Ray asked pointing at the half rolled cigarette.

‘Fuck’s sake’ added Tommo. ‘Settle down lads, don’t shoot the messenger, they’ve given me a statement to read.’ The room fell silent as George adjusted his reading glasses. ‘Due to the graphic violence depicted throughout the script, we feel we have no option but to close down this project and withdraw our consent to the filming of the aforementioned project. We will require all recorded material to be handed in and will return appropriate footage at a later date. Apologies for the disappointment and the inconvenience caused. This has been decided to ensure good order and enable us to maintain discipline.’ George read aloud. ‘Violence, that’s fucked up, what about Sky Movies piped straight into our gaffes?’ asked Tommo. ‘I agree but the management they see differently. The truth is they’re concerned about the reaction of the tabloid press if news got out.’ George answered. ‘Is that the official stance?’ enquired Jay.

Your Moonshine xxx PS Any chance of putting a stop to those ‘things’ leaving your surface again?

‘That is up to you guys’ responded George as he surveyed the room.

‘Mate, you can roll your own’ said Tommo passing Ray his tobacco pouch. The two guys sat smoking, sipping coffee, while they waited for lunch. Tommo recounted the day’s events. Before they knew it they heard, ‘last shout for lunch.’ Ray and Tommo got to their feet and collected their plates. They then headed to the hot plate to collect their meals. A strange silence fell over the clink as the lads sat eating. Some were eating at the tables, whilst others had taken their meals in front of the television in their gaffes. With lunch over, the shout for mail rang out. Tommo collected his mail. D-day had arrived. Today could be the first day of the rest of his life. After signing for his mail he made his way back to his gaffe. This was one letter he’d need to open after a roll up. Tommo contemplated opening the envelope. Sitting on his bunk he listened to the news on Radio 4. Kenneth Clarke once again publicly stating that ‘prison works’.

‘That’s strictly off the record’ replied George. ‘What happens to our project?’ asked Tommo.

Tommo just sat and looked at the Parole Board stamp on the envelope.

insidestories

Insidetime December 2011 www.insidetime.org

‘Ricky, Crime Doesn’t Pay so Watch Yourself’ Gary Holden - HMP Swaleside

I

t was a hot summer afternoon in July. The corn field was busting with ripe stems of corn, swaying in the light breeze, the sky was a lovely blue with just a few scattered cotton wool like clouds. A sky lark sang as it hovered high above the meadow next to the field of golden corn. A barbed wire fence stapled to thick wooden stakes separated the two fields. An elderberry bush stood high and wide and hanging heavy with ripe fruit. A scurrying could be heard from within the bush, short scampering then silence, from amongst the lower branches a pink nose appeared the whiskers trembling as the nose snuffed the air. The words still ringing in his ears Ricky the field mouse sniffed even more at the air. ‘Watch out for the Kestrel firm, I’ve seen them over the meadow’ Ricky’s Mum warned him. ‘OK Mum,’ Ricky had replied. ‘And take your two brothers with you’ she added. ‘Mmuuumm’ Ricky whined. ‘Just do it,’ Ricky’s Mother had repeated. She was two years old now and had had two litters – the first one gone. This new one was six strong at first but one had been taken by a fox, the youngest had just fallen asleep and never woken up. The eldest was under arrest and in the ‘mouse clink’ an old toilet system that was dumped in the corner of the meadow, this acted as the ‘local mouse jail.’ His Mother visited him when she could and today was one of those days, which explained why she wanted Ricky to look after his two younger brothers. ‘Be good’ she called as the trio of mice scampered toward the berry bush where they could play for hours. They were all three playing together, scampering and hanging from the low branches, playing ‘Add’ rolling and tumbling. ‘We’re tired!’ The two young field mice cried. ‘Mum’s not about yet’ Ricky told them. ‘Just settle down and have a half hour kip.’ ‘OK’ the two young’uns said as they yawned and within no time both were sound asleep. Ricky was just checking out the plump elderberries on this bush when he heard scampering coming from near the barbed wire fence. ‘Who’s there?’ He shouted. ‘Ricky, how’re you doing bruv?’ came the reply, two larger field mice appeared. ‘How is your brother doing?’ One of the mice asked. Ricky looked them both in the eye, ‘He’s still doing time, two weeks to go and he’s home’ he said. ‘OK that’s good you know he’s good stuff, he kept his mouth shut‘ one of the larger mice said. ‘Yeah, and neither of you have done anything for him’ whispered Ricky to himself. ‘You fancy a bit of work Ricky’ asked one of the pair. ‘Sshhh’ Ricky hissed, ‘my two little brothers are asleep in those leaves.’ ‘This’ll only take ten minutes’ said one of the pair. ‘Well OK’ Ricky said reluctantly which he didn’t want to but looking at the two big mice he felt he had to. ‘What do I do?’ He asked.

‘Just watch that no-one comes in or that the mice police don’t see us’ said the biggest mouse. So, off they scuttled, they had only gone some five yards along the barbed wire fence where they saw a mole talking away to himself. All three peered through the tall grain that grew wild along the fence. There was the mole so fat he looked like a black bubble with pink paws holding two small bags, both dripping dark liquid. ‘That’s what we’re having’ whispered one of the mice. ‘Four more bags and we’re in. You ready Ricky?’ ‘Yeah’ said Ricky in the bravest voice he could ‘let’s go.’ All three ran toward the hole, where the mole had disappeared down. ‘You wait here’ the big mouse said. ‘If anyone comes or the police turn up you call out’ ‘O-O-OK’ said Ricky his voice almost trembling. The two mice pulled masks from their belts and pulled them onto their heads. They ran down the hole. Inside the hole, the mole was putting the two last bags down onto the pile of six. ‘Who’s that?’ He cried, ‘leave my blackcurrant alone. It was too late; he couldn’t see the faces of the two robbers. ‘Give us the bags, now. Don’t say or do anything different. Just give us the bags you slag’ the mice screamed loudly. The mole froze and the two mice grabbed 3 bags of blackcurrant berries and ran, pushing the overweight mole into the corner. As they exited the burrow they shouted ‘Run!’ to Ricky. Ricky ran blindly straight into the path of one of the escaping mice and one of the bags fell from his grip. Ricky stopped to pick it up. Panicking, he sprinted around and began to run in the same direction as the other two mice. ‘Stop them, they’ve robbed me!’ Cried the mole all round and confused. Bang. Ricky reeled back as he collided with someone. ‘Ricky, you little sod’ a voiced exclaimed. Ricky sat up rubbing his bruised nose and as he focused he saw who he had collided with. ‘Oh No... Mum’ he said. ‘What you up to Ricky? Where are your brothers?’ What’s in the bag?’ Ricky’s mother asked. ‘The kids are asleep in the elderberry bush and I fell over the bag’ Ricky responded. Just then the mole appeared accompanied by two large policemice. ‘Did you see two mice run past here?’ asks one of the policemice. ‘No’ says Ricky. The mole looked Ricky up and down before saying ‘No, he ain’t one. Squinting in the daylight, he couldn’t see properly in the bright sun. ‘They must have gone this way. Look, there’s one of the bags’ the mole and the policemice scurried off. Ricky’s Mum looked at Ricky. He was trembling and in shock. ‘Lucky boy, ain’t you?’ Mrs Mouse said. Ricky nodded, embarrassed. ‘Moles can’t see in the sunlight, now get your brothers and get home.’ ‘I love you Mum’ Said lucky Ricky. So, the lesson Ricky learnt is do what you think is right and don’t be pushed into crime by others. It doesn’t matter what they think of you if you say no. Not everyone is as lucky as Ricky.

Outcast Ash Walker - Hmp Notts

He couldn’t.

What does it mean to be a prisoner? Who are they? Who am I? Too many questions to face on a daily basis. I am they. I am a prisoner.

As days pass the food continues to be lousy but beggars can’t be choosers. The island is in the distance. We shall all be trapped there. We all shall be outcasts. If I disappear, who will notice I am gone? Nobody in here cares. In the end, we all die alone. But life on the island may be a chance of a future. We are now arriving at the docks. A rumble is heard. The ship shudders. The island is paradise we all survived the journey. The sky is blue and the sun shines bright. Not a cloud above; this is serenity. We are at peace and are prayers have been answered. On the beach, we sunbathe. Some of the prisoners play volley ball, some swim in the sea. Is this heaven? Are we still prisoners? I’m not sure. Where are the guards, the officers, the Captain? Where is the ship? Is this a dream? I pinch myself; no pain. Is this my fantasy of freedom? Is that what we all dream of? Do we all share that dream? I hoped for a better tomorrow; is this it? Is tomorrow the Paradise we all dream of? When I am lost, I can be found.

But what is a prisoner? Why do we hurt the ones we love? In the end, a prisoner is an outcast. We are castaways, adrift on an ocean liner. An island is our destination, away from everything we know. We are lost at sea. We are all in this boat together. None of us can jump overboard. There is no escape. We can’t run; we can’t hide. We all face a turbulent future, together. There is no rest stop. We have a pad that has a view of water and sky. The window, it will be barred. The ship we travel on - it has three decks, 3 levels. I am on the bottom, close to the hull. I hear the engine as it powers us to isolation. The sky is cloudy. The view is depressing. Some of us are alone-others share a pad. The Captain is a mean old git. He thinks he is right, but he’s always wrong. He orders the officers to make our lives a misery. We have no hope, but we must survive together. At least we have a television and a kettle. Some of us even have a stereo. I look out my window again, I see the clouds parting. The sunshine is upon my barred window. I am alone in my pad, as I am a recluse. I am lost; I will never be found. But do we all want to be rescued - or do some of us prefer to disappear altogether? Will the island have the answer? I aim to find out. The weather takes a turn for the worse; a storm is upon us. An alarm on the wing. The prisoners are kicking off. They shout; they are fighting. Officers rush in. We all have to return to our pads. We are now in lock down. Silence on the wing. What happened? Is there a man overboard? The man is not overboard, but is now wearing blue and yellow. He tried to jump overboard as the fight caused a distraction. How could a prisoner survive in a storm anyway?

When I disappear, someone is around. Beyond the horizon, freedom is there, but, to reach it, the system must learn to care. But they don’t. And that is totally unfair. We all have morals; we all have dreams. We must all survive and work together in order for a dream to become a reality. If you can’t feel the pinch, you are no more. You must live in order to be free. The boat is not real - it is nothing more than a prison. We are all prisoners. We are all outcasts ignored by society. That is what it means to me to be a prisoner. Who are they? They are us. We are them. Who am I? I am one of them; I am one of you. We face so many questions on a daily basis; it’s about time we got them answered.

insidestories

Insidetime December 2011 www.insidetime.org

Barred Citizens - The Stove to the Stove to make bread. The remaining Liddites carried on living on the Lid to keep an eye on the gently simmering stew in the Pot. Once this was done our little stove no longer lived in fear of the contents of the Pot and lived happily ever after. The gas in our little fable is primarily heroin and the darling police forces around the globe, cocaine. The grief and expense brought about by these two overrated, overhyped panic inducing commodities beggars belief. Both of these drugs were perfectly legal up until 1914, and then abolitionists and do-gooders pestered the life out of politicians to ban them. We all know what happens when you order people not to do something, especially youngsters, and perhaps even worse get a bigger kick out of the defiance of their elders than they do out of the drug.

Sid Wright HMP Lowdham Grange

W

e live in a society and in any society Law and Order is essential. Ever since mankind came down from the hills or emerged from the forest, humans have banded together and formed communities. Small communities that, over a period of time, went on to become the villages, towns and cities that make up our nation. Over the years we’ve set forth a set of rule and law designed to bring structure out of what would have been chaos. The structure of law, as regards to a peaceful and harmonious existence, is as vital as the food we eat and the air we breathe. We have, over the millennia, absorbed the teachings and traditions of superior cultures; Greek, Roman, Anglo-Saxon and then Norman and woven them into the intricate tapestry that has become the British Constitution. We then went global with it by means of the biggest empire the world has ever seen.

By turning off the gas I’m not suggesting the re-legalisation of these drugs. That would only give rise to a new age of abolitionists. The Women’s Institute, Daily Mail readers and the ‘blue rinse’ brigade would come out of the woodwork and make everyone’s life a misery. No, what I’m proposing is control for both the European and the US Government’s to send out their envoys and broker a series of deals with farmers in Afghanistan, Peru and Colombia who grow the stuff and buy their annual crop off them at cost price. It would come to a fraction of what they spend on policing it. It would put food on the tables of the Cartel exploited poor in the Americas and put a stop to the impoverished, vengeful Afghani’s running off in their droves to join the Taliban. The massive savings could be spent on a whole range of positive projects designed to improve the lives of all peoples and safeguard the future of our planet.

Over the centuries we have sorted the wheat from the chaff. We have repealed the unjust, amended the outdated and introduced new legislation to keep up with an ever changing world. All this willingly funded by the people that the said Constitution sets out to protect – its citizens. So far it’s done a pretty good job. Incarcerating the guilty and exonerating the innocent. Making some mistakes along the way but that’s only to be expected. Nothing’s perfect. Crime and punishment have trundled alongside a developing society and managed to keep pace with it without ever really treading on its toes, having an average of 0.1 percent of the population in prison at any one time. At least that was the case up until about 40 years ago. With the emergence of the drug culture things changed for the worse. It’s said the 75 percent of all crime is drug related. That is astonishing! Both the expense and misery foisted upon our people by a problem that’s easily solvable is scandalous. The cost and manpower involved in dealing with the problem is immense. Its effect on the coffer of the treasury is that of a mortal wound haemorrhaging forth the lifeblood of a nation. It has created a whole non-productive section of society that feeds on the misery and addiction of those less fortunate. This is not a condition exclusive to us. This applies to the USA even more so. In fact the DEA employs more people than all its European counterparts put together. It also has Naval and Military personnel, Borders and Customs officers, FBI, Police drug squads and God knows who else wasting everybody’s time and money whilst trying to convince honest taxpayers that they are doing a great job. All this from a country that is staring bankruptcy in the face and whose majority of key industrial cities are no longer famous for having streets paved with gold but for the tumbleweed they roll through the heart of them. Now we are heading down the same road. From the surveillance and policing to the arrest, prosecution and inevitable lengthy incarceration of offenders the costs to the taxpayer are horrendous. So much money. Money that could go on housing, education, healthcare, industry and the general progression of our species is wasted on this pathetic

game of cops and robbers. For every criminal jailed for a drug or drug related crime there’s at least a dozen others, either through poverty or greed, ready to take their place. I’d like you to give that some thought and bear with me for a moment. I want to tell you a little story. I want you to imagine that Britain, or the US for that matter, is a giant Stove. The Stove is pretty clean and seems to work OK but it has a bit of a problem. For sitting on one of its many hobs is a Pot and not just any old Pot. You see this Pot contains a bubbling concoction that is the nation’s crime. Its contents boil away and rise ever closer to the top. Now, on top of this Pot is a lid. A lid that stops this pungent brew from boiling over, if anything does pour out, it’s immediately scooped up and placed in a more secure Pot simmering away on yet another hob. Let us, for the sake of the story call the top of the lid Lidland and its resident’s Liddites. Below Lidland live the Stove Dwellers. All the nation’s bread is made by the Stove Dwellers who, in trust, hand over most of it to the Liddites with the exception that it will be dished out widely. The Liddites are, supposedly, a respectable bunch. They’re made up of policeman, solicitors, judges, barristers and politicians. No problem there, you would say. But you’d be wrong. You see there are too many of them. Over the years young Stove Dwellers have seen how easy life is on the lid and rather than make bread down in the Stove they opt for the

easy life of a Liddite. Now, they’re a clever eloquent lot these Liddites. Amongst other things they’ve managed to convince the Stove Dwellers that they would be lost without them and whilst the Stove Dwellers do need some Liddites, the great majority are surplus to requirements. Now these Liddites have an insatiable appetite for bread. No matter how much the Stove Dwellers give them they always want more. And as nothing is produced in Lidland, it’s left to the Stove Dwellers to make sure they don’t go without. In return for all this, all the Liddites have to do is make sure the lid stays on the Pot. But alas, one day the Pot almost boiled over and threatened to ruin the nice clean Stove. So, the people of Lidland, although it was already overcrowded up there, called for reinforcements. But when they duly arrived, the extra weight only increased the pressure in the Pot. The Stove Dwellers couldn’t make enough bread for the every growing mass of Liddites. The future of the Stove was in great jeopardy. Then, one day a brave Liddite, who thought the well-being of the Stove, took priority over the life of luxury on the lid, reached over the Pot and turned the gas down. Thus enabling the crime in the Pot to settle to a reasonable level. The pressure in the Pot all but disappeared. Hordes of Liddites, albeit reluctantly returned

Then this wretched, wasteful era could be looked back on and viewed in the same light as that of the Prohibition Era of the 1920’s. An era that made a few criminals unimaginably wealthy, imprisoned many others and added glitz and glamour to substances that would have otherwise gone comparatively unnoticed. Then, ushered into office a whole host of outrageously expensive police and intelligence services loaded to the gunnels with personnel that could have been gainfully employed elsewhere. The empty prisons, intelligence centres and police stations could be grade 2 listed and held up as monuments to the senselessness of wasted taxes. The ones left standing could get on with real police work and house the people who have no sense of decency and no intention of ever being part of a moral cohesive society. Let the shipwrecks of our generation be the seamarks for the ones to come. Finally, once a year, preferably on Sir Robert Peel’s or J. Edgar Hoover’s birthday, the US and the EEC could hold a parade along The Champs Elysee led by cheerleaders, brass bands and the two cohorts of the Dagenham Girl Pipers. At the Arc de Triomphe there could be a huge bonfire made out of all the world’s opium and coca leaf. Then, they could set light to it and broadcast the whole event live around the world by satellite. Little kids could run around with sparklers and join in all the fun, just like they do on Guy Fawkes Night. Grown ups could stand round their barbeques, knock back their Budweisers and eat their burgers, look up to the heavens and thank God for the passing of parasites and the demise of drugs. Amen.