The Mens’ Room

I am currently in Belmarsh, reputed to be England’s worst prison, awaiting trial for conspiracy to murder. Although the other men have been kind to me, I know I can never be part of their world.

When I was 13, I didn’t want to live in the men’s room. My mother was working in Jersey and I went to join her there for the summer. I was very dependent on her and we shared a room. Someone must have suggested that I was getting a bit old for that, because I remember being shown another room, in which several men were smiling and beckoning me to join them; I took in the masculine chaos and smell for a moment, and then decided I could not do it. I had to remain with my mother.

Now I am 51, my mother is dead, and I am in Belmarsh prison charged with conspiracy to murder her lover. Now, as then, the guys are willing to accept me in a superficial way, but the time is long gone when I could have become part of their world. Somehow, on the yard, or in the holding rooms, when the conversation goes into the technicalities of drugs or sex, I hardly understand what is being said.

In a way I am lucky to be in Belmarsh, or ‘Hellmarsh’ as it is more commonly known. Bang-up can be for 22 hours a day. Prisoners here are under Orwellian control and after a short period of sharing cells, here and previously in Brixton, I have been given a single cell on mental health grounds. I go a bit mad during so many hours alone; it is the price I pay for still not having fully entered the men’s room.

The contacts I do have are intensely important to me. In general, people are kind to one so obviously lost and unsuitable. Big friendly George, who has killed a man, tried to teach me pool. I managed two or three good shots but then lost the ability to shoot the cue. Later, George and another murderer, Terry, invited me to join them when they were eating their meal. They didn’t mind that some other guys were laughing at us. Jerry is another comfort; he and his uncle Willy are traditional East End villains, and I met them in the cells at the Old Bailey before I came to Belmarsh. Jerry often comes to sit with me when I am silently watching the guys play pool. Once he burst into song just as the screw was beckoning me to be banged up, and it felt like a moment from a film. I go to bed immediately after I am banged up, at half past six or seven, and that night I fell asleep as if blessed.

The nearest I have come to a friendship was with Peter, with whom I shared a cell in Brixton. He had breached an injunction and assaulted a policeman; he was a nice guy. Helping him read the Bible was a privilege, as was writing a letter for Derek. I could have gone on sharing with guys like those, and I would not have embarrassed them with the fact that I was gay, because I am long past it.

But then I was banged up with a couple of Africans and mentioned to them that I was gay. They burst into hysterical laughter and tormented me for two hours. I got into a panic that night and was moved to a cell on my own after I pushed the call bell repeatedly. Perhaps the day will soon come when I am forced to share again, and have the courage to do it.

As it is, I go into strange, obsessive-compulsive chanting in my cell, which fortunately everyone takes in their stride, although it can be quite loud sometimes. The worst reaction was one large screw satirically singing, “The hills are alive with the sound of music.” And I’m growing quite fond of my room overlooking the yard beneath which the pigeons cluck endlessly and I can brood on my lost life.

More than most modern prisons, Belmarsh is a place of punishment. High-profile prisoners, like Jeffrey Archer, come here to learn their place. I have seen the inside man on the Kent heist, a robbery worth £50m, every day humbly handing around trays of coffee and tea to the screws. There is, of course, no question of him getting one himself. I saw Ronnie Biggs when I was on healthcare. He cannot speak and holds up a card with letters written on it to make himself understood. But they still keep him locked in his cell. There was a suicide recently, a hanging on the cell bars … a young man of 22. We got an afternoon out of our cells to mark his death and he was mentioned in chapel.

There is much depression among the men here, but they maintain a face of cheerfulness. Jimmy, an old man, hobbles into the gym with the youngsters and sits throne-like on an exercise chair. A young man facing 30 years inside discussed how he might feel after 15. It is a moving sight in the visits hall when the wives, girlfriends and children leave with many an embrace. But these displays never go beyond the permitted bounds of manly emotion.

I find sustained conversations with my fellow prisoners difficult, but we who meet in prison are like ships that pass in the night, and I have had pregnant exchanges with strangers in which a whole lifetime of philosophy has been revealed. I met a Portuguese called Tex in healthcare who said that there were three places into which we can be cast by destiny where we lose all power and volition: prison, hospital and the grave. We who are in the first two must therefore pray only for good health. I am a highly anxious person, and felt this conversation had been sent by God, for I must serve a long sentence whether it be in prison or in a secure unit. They will be difficult and pointless years, because I can never fully enter the men’s room. All I hope is that I can find a way out of my despair.

<!-- AddThis Button END -->  <br />    <p><a href="#pagetop">