A modern British prison is often a surprisingly gentle place. This is particularly true of my current establishment, Lowdham Grange, where large numbers of mature and thoughtful men are serving long sentences.
The authorities rule us according to a mechanistic philosophy. Progress within the prison is measured by movement between the residential houseblocks. We start out on a tough wing, where we are locked up if not at work or otherwise engaged. If our conduct is acceptable, we move to C-wing, where we can visit the prison yard during the day but there is frequent drugs testing. Finally, if we wish, and usually after about six months, we reach Houseblock Three. The regime is otherwise like that of C-wing, but we have a shower in our cell.
I have now attained Houseblock Three. The shower stays on, nice and hot, for two minutes. I find it wonderful for soothing the back. On the other wings you have to keep pressing the shower-button, which makes relaxation impossible. Water from the tap is rationed on Houseblock Three, which is not the case elsewhere, and the cell is slightly smaller to accommodate the shower. But the officers treat us with conspicuous friendliness and do not intrude without permission. I like it much better.
Houseblock Three consists of two wings, J Wing and K Wing. J Wing appears to be for men who like things neat and tidy, while K Wing, where I am, seems to be gathering representatives of the world's belief systems. We even have a Zoroastrian, an elusive young man with a beautiful smile. We are hoping soon to welcome our first atheist, and meanwhile three of us, two dodgy Christians and one slightly renegade Sikh, walk round and round the yard putting ourselves and all around us to rights.
Life has become enjoyable for me now. I was ill when I arrived at Lowdham Grange, and rumours were going round that I was a serial killer. Most people have now accepted this is not the case, and I will tell anyone who wants to listen that I am only guilty of soliciting murder and actual bodily harm. "You're a very popular man, Mr Charles," one handsome Pakistani said to me on C-wing, he of the huge hairy pectorals but chicken legs. How he works on his lower body in the gym! But the fact that his legs are no good means I don't miss him.
I have heard many life stories from all these friendly guys. Most of them are drug dealers, there is a smaller number of fraudsters, and we also have three animal rights activists. They are tall, gaunt vegans; their group inflicted psychological torture on the owner of a laboratory. I knew one of them quite well on C-wing. He was a boat-builder in civilian life, and now works in the kitchen, preparing food for his co-defendants. The judge at his trial described him as unspeakably evil, but that was not the impression he gave me. He spends much of his time in quiet contemplation on the yard, and says he is sorry for those who have not had this opportunity to come to jail.
My fellow prisoners are mostly ordinary people however, and I have become rather proud of my status as a violent criminal. There are a few other people here I find interesting. One man is a professional robber, specialising in country-house burglaries. He works as a gym orderly, training the weaker inmates on circuits. He has many talents, ranging from craftwork to poetry. But he lives for the thrill of crime. He went to his robberies without a weapon and spared his victims violence, but not humiliation. He has no bank account, so his profits weren't confiscated, and he is building up a portfolio of rental properties to provide for his retirement. He is estranged from his wife and children, and was brought up without love, in care.
I sometimes urge him to change his ways because I think they are evil, but he says he is happy. I too am using prison for my own purposes. It is protecting me from poverty in a period of recession. It has provided me with subject matter for my work and valuable publicity. I have lost a great deal of weight, made friends, and gained practical skills. I have learnt an enormous amount about life in here. Really, when you think about it, the benefits of my incarceration seem endless.
Of course, I don't like standing behind bars with a group of ruffianly men until some crop-headed and tattooed screw ticks off my name on a list. But our yard overlooks the sports field, and on warm days I can contemplate the guys playing cricket. I get a little sad sometimes when walking round and round. But often the others approach me, or come to visit me in my cell. And when I am sitting on the wing dunking Orange Custard Creams in my coffee and reading Anna Karenina I am the picture of felicity.
It is nine months now until I am released. The other men sometimes say they envy me, when they themselves often have so long to serve. And I, like most of them, am looking forward to being free and starting a new life. But meanwhile happiness is stealing up on me, and I believe on many others, at sunny Lowdham Grange.
