Before I went to prison I thought a lot about what it would be like. Almost a year passed after I pleaded guilty to fraud and my sentencing, in February 2020. Informed by TV and film, I expected prison would be violent, dangerous and drug-filled. I was terrified.
On 6 February 2020, I arrived at Southwark Crown Court with a suitcase full of clothes, books, pens and paper. After the judge sentenced me to 45 months, a guard took me down into the holding area beneath the court. I handed over my property and had a brief meeting with my barrister. Then the guards locked me in a cell. The only objects in the cell were two small plastic benches, neither quite long enough to stretch out on. I sat. I wrote. I waited.
Eventually the door opened. Enough men had been sentenced, so now the ‘bus’ would take us to HMP Wandsworth. The guard led me out to the bus. You’ve seen these vehicles before, even if you never knew what they were. White vans, with small, dark, high windows down each side. These are the ‘sweat boxes’ that ferry inmates to and from His Majesty’s prisons.
A great stinking river of urine flowed under my door. I shuffled my feet, and tried to avoid it
I climbed the steps and looked down a corridor barely wide enough for one man. Down each side stood six small doors, each with a small window and heavy handles. The guard opened my door. A moulded plastic chair filled most of the space. A tiny, tinted window.
I sat down. They locked the door. No seatbelt. That surprised me. When did you last travel in a vehicle without a seatbelt? I realised prisoners are different. Someone might use a seatbelt to self harm. The normal rules of safety did not apply.
Some of the men on the bus shouted out to one another. They’d been ‘co-ds’, sentenced together that day. They bantered and laughed. I didn’t understand half of the slang they used. We crawled through south London. Bright sunshine outside. People walking to wherever they wished to go. I thought about how long it would be before I could walk to a shop, bar or park again.
The journey took so long that one man couldn’t hold his bladder any longer. A great stinking river of urine flowed down the centre of the bus. A stream split off and flowed under my door. I shuffled my feet, and tried to avoid it.
Eventually we reached Wandsworth prison. I disembarked in a small, high-walled courtyard, and walked through a door to ‘reception’, where arriving and departing prisoners are processed. At Wandsworth it is a small area containing a desk, a curtained-off search area, and ‘holding pens’. These are small, perspex-walled rooms. That afternoon the pens were stuffed full with waiting men. They put me in a holding pen. I stood there, in my suit. I must have looked lost.
‘Fraud, right?’
I turned. The man who’d asked the question had a slight smile on his face. Older than me, grey hair, maybe 50? I smiled back.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Well, yeah.’
He gestured at his own clothes, and then at the rest of the men. Tracksuits, jeans, prison greys. Eventually, the staff on the front desk took my photo and fingerprint, gave me a cursory search, and then told me that I wouldn’t be allowed half of my clothes. Black and white are reserved for prison officers. They issued me with grey prison kit. Tracksuit bottoms, t-shirt, tracksuit top. My pens were confiscated. I’d have to order biros from ‘canteen’. They let me keep a pencil. Reception also issued me with a PIN for the phones and some basic toiletries. I stuffed the property I was allowed into a bin bag.
I met a nurse who checked my blood pressure and weight, asked if I felt suicidal, and whether I wanted a vape. Then I’m led to the ‘Induction Wing’. Prisons decide where to house inmates based on factors including offence, risk levels, drug addiction and vulnerability. At Wandsworth almost everyone starts out on E Wing.
I remembered pretending that prep school was fine in just the same way
We passed through a central hub, five radial wings stretching from it. E Wing is a vast, high ceilinged space made of concrete, brick and steel. Two higher floors are served by narrow walkways. Steel cell doors run down the side of each floor. Nets are strung across to prevent men jumping from the upper landings.
I’m directed to a table where some prisoners, the ‘Induction Orderlies’ sit. They took me to a blue phone. I used the PIN to call my mother, and let her know I’m okay. I tried to sound as cheerful as possible. I didn’t want her to worry. I remembered pretending that prep school was fine in just the same way.
After a little while they directed me to my first cell. Most cells in Wandsworth are two-man. The Prison Service says Wandsworth can safely hold 950 men. In my time there it housed about 1,600. Single cells were rare.
I felt terrified. About to be housed with a total stranger. Would he be violent? A guard unlocks the steel door and I step into a tiny space. A short man, with cropped blonde-grey hair, and shaved face. About my age. I reached out my hand to introduce myself as the cell door closed behind me with a thud. The heavy lock clunked.
‘Hello, I’m David.’ I said.
The man spoke in a Polish accent. ‘I’m…’ he paused. Then he smiled. ‘I’m Peter.’
We shook hands.
‘I should explain. I’ve been living under a false name for so long, but now they’ve caught me, so I tell you my real name.’
As I unpacked I looked about the cell. Two metres by five. On the left-hand side stood a slim bunk bed with thin blue rubber mattresses. On the right of the cell stretched a thin desk. Between the bed and the desk a narrow walkway lead to a filthy steel loo and a tiny steel sink built into the wall. A small, high, barred window at the end of the cell.
That night Peter and I talked. He told me that he’s 41, married, with two young children. Originally from Poland, he moved to London in the early 2000s. As a young man, Peter committed a commercial burglary, was caught, and jailed. When he left Poland he still had probation commitments to meet, so once he arrived in the UK he changed his name.
Years passed. Peter thought he was safe. Then one day the police came looking for him.
That night as I tried to sleep. I wondered, what purpose was served by jailing Peter for something he did so long ago.
Comments