On ward three at Belmarsh prison, we have all committed crimes of violence. In my case I solicited murder, being incapable of the act, but three of the others actually carried it out.
It has broken one of them. Ahmad, a gentle middle-aged Asian man, killed a stranger with a pair of broken scissors in a moment of cannabis-induced psychosis. Now he paces the ward endlessly, wondering aloud whether he will eventually go to a mental hospital, as he hopes, or whether he must face a prison sentence. He has become a hunchback during his 11 months here, and shakes, even when he is standing still. His knees and feet hurt, and he limps, but the ghostly walk continues until he sinks, exhausted, on to his bed at night.
But he has a sly humour, some culture and great kindness. Just now he patted me fondly on the back as he approached me writing about him at the table in the centre of the room. He did not ask me what my writing was. Now he has gone over to Rashid and they are talking in Punjabi. Rashid has two wives and homosexual inclinations, and lies on his bed all day like a beached whale. The screws order him out for exercise in the morning, and he goes unwillingly.
Now Ahmad is with Jim, the blind old diabetic, an east end bruiser run to fat. He too spends most of his time lying on his bed, but he retains the courage, cheerfulness and plain-spokenness of former days. Now he is listening to a CD on his stereo, with his arms folded over his vest, his head bowed, eyes closed. They sometimes bring a dog at night to accompany the nurse who injects him and the screws who watch. He will presumably soon die, but at present he is cock of our roost. He treats me with cautious respect and friendship. Ahmad serves him humbly. He bullies Rashid, but since I reproved him for this he has taken to shaking Rashid's hand, only a little ironically.
Now Jameel, the stocky young Muslim warrior, rolls out his mat to pray. He is serving a 20-year recommended minimum sentence for killing his young daughter, but denies the crime, and rejected a plea bargain that would have meant serving seven years in a psychiatric hospital. Now he faces the agonising decision of whether to appeal on mental health grounds. Jim turns off his music and we are silent as Jameel prays.
The music goes back on and Ahmad and Jameel pace about the room, for Jameel suffers greatly too, unable to see his wife and remaining children. Then Jameel arrives back at his bed. "Why are you looking at me, Charlie?" he says with a puzzled smile. "I don't know why," I say, and it is true, except that I feel I love these men—all except Mustafa, the exceptionally quiet Turk, with whom I have no relationship. He mainly sits or lies on his bed and is now reading a Turkish newspaper. We are quiescent, with half an hour to dinner time.
Rashid, who speaks little English, waves to me. Jim, too, is on his bed, his feet bare. Ahmad approaches me again and I ask, "How are you now?" He says what I have heard a hundred times, that he cannot imagine what came over him at the fatal moment, that he is filled with remorse, that he is a gentle man. And then the terrible shake again, and my words of reassurance, and his resumed pacing of the room.
Ahmad was born in Kenya, and came to England as a teenager, but regards Australia as his real home. He lived there for 13 years with his wife and family as a Sydney bus driver before his marriage broke down and he returned to England, to his terrible rendezvous. I only briefly visited Australia but the fact that I knew it formed the first bond between us. Our memories of sun-swept Circular Quay were both bright—of the café, Puccini's, where they serve lovely cakes; of the ferries, and the boat to Manly, which we both took. To Ahmad, these were better days, but I have no memories to look back on with pleasure. My life is spoilt.
Yet I will remember these days on the ward, from which I may soon be moved, as having been full of bitter sweetness, which was compounded of these human beings whose destinies I shared for so short a time. They have been kind to me. Ahmad often says how much he likes me. Rashid, extravagant, says he loves me. Jameel is fascinated by my Oxford education and touched by my interest in Islam.
Now Jim turns off the CD, which is Irish traditional music. "What did you think, Charlie?" he asks. "I liked it," I say. "Oh, you like Irish traditional music, do you?" he says with grudging approval. He's on my side.
Ahmad goes over to him and asks solicitously about his injection, whether it might be early tonight. "Oh, I'm not going to die yet," he says. "Do you think I'd give them that pleasure?" Then Jim joshes Jameel and indulges in a few simple words.
No, they will be gallant to the end, these fine killers, and Rashid will be a beached whale and Ahmad a gently ambiguous person, while the sun shines on the boat that ploughs its way endlessly under the harbour bridge from the Circular Quay to Manly.
On 7th August, shortly after writing this, CAR Hills was sentenced to six years in prison for conspiracy to murder his mother's lover.
