I wear green trousers now. Putting them on is almost an existential act. In Belmarsh, they mark me out as a cleaner, whereas I have always thought of myself as an artist. They are a much-needed badge of status, though. Without them, I would be locked up all day in my cell.
And because I could hardly bear this, having tasted the freedom of being allowed out, I spend the hours pushing a broom or mopping the floor, indulging in a few tongue-tied conversations with my fellow cleaners. Or I do my own special job, making up the induction packs—stuffing envelopes, in other words. It all gets me out of my cell.
I don't want to sound self-pitying, but it is a huge strain. I have difficulties with the simplest practical task, which I believe came about because my mother did everything for me when I was a child. I can't wind the flex around the vacuum cleaner, and I tend to tear the envelopes when I stuff the papers in. I am frightened of spilling the bucket when I mop. Worst of all, I fear going mad over my tasks, which would be noticed but not understood.
Yet I'm not complaining. I believe it is doing me good. I face my fears and phobias while in prison, and it is part of my destiny to come here for that very purpose. I haven't broken down yet, because I would be sent back to my cell if I did. Fear keeps me calm. I do the envelope-stuffing at a special table outside the induction office, and the officers sometimes shield themselves from my view with blinds. My fellow cleaners and various prison workers often pass the table. Their presence bucks me up and keeps me normal.
I did break down when I was in Brixton, in the spring. My cellmate hit me one morning, and I went to the chapel, where I swooned around like a bird. I was eventually removed by officers and ended up in healthcare. There I became aggressive, fighting the nurses and once, shamefully, exposing myself to them. I have been more stable since returning to Belmarsh, where I am accepted well in my wing.
I am particularly fond of the film The Shawshank Redemption, which I watched first on a winter night of deep psychosis. It is about two friends in a brutal old-style American prison who achieve redemption by triumphing against their conditions. A modern British prison such as Belmarsh is boring rather than brutal, and I am now timid and cowed after my defiant stage. But I believe it may be my own strange redemption I am talking about here, after the unholy trinity of psychosis, suicide attempt and arrest brought me to the bottom of life's wheel.
It was a particularly deep crisis and disintegration that I went through before prison changed the direction of my life. It followed on the achievement of my long-cherished ambition, in summer 2005, of travelling around the whole world. I cried when I saw the Pacific from Bondi beach. Now I had nothing left I wanted to do. I began withdrawing into myself in my flat, brooding on murder. I cared for nothing other than this evil plan and I was all day in bed, like the baby my mother had made me. When I was finally forced to give up my murderous intent, because my best friend said he would have nothing further to do with me if I went on with it, I took out my frustration by trying to strangle a woman who was frustrating me. I was immersed in evil at that time. As the investigating police officer said, I was arrested for my own good. It may even have saved my life because I could have walked under a bus in my distracted state. I could also have pushed someone else under one.
Now, after months of waiting, I have my seven-year sentence. In the early months, I hung my head and talked to no one unless they first addressed me. From the first, in Belmarsh, the other inmates were kind to me, and I rely strongly on the companionship of these inarticulate men. I still often withdraw. Striking a balance between the demands of self and those of others will always be difficult for me. I spent two months on a ward in healthcare in Belmarsh, managing to live in the same room as five other men, before being moved to a single cell. I still could not share a cell at close quarters, but I have emerged from the purgatory of isolation into a more viable solitude. And days are more bearable with the green trousers of work.
I am on the mending spoke of the wheel now, although I fear the distant future of returning to the isolation of my flat. If any readers know of a different life that I could lead, I would be glad to hear from them. But I have at least three years in prison to reflect on my problem, and plan for a future that will be more tolerable. And I have a beacon of hope now without which I could not live. I have finally, after many years of vague interest, come to believe in God. I had given up my religion at the time of what I saw as my mother's betrayal. It took coming to prison to return me to the grace of God.
I still waver in my faith, and as yet I find little joy in it. But I hope this will come. For the present it is the cross of Christ that most attracts me, not his resurrection, for I know the former is relevant to my own experience. I cling to the cross as if for life and am lost in rapt contemplation of its beauty and power. This for me has been the redemption of Brixton and Belmarsh.
