1976: Made in Yorkshire, #5

Warning

This book will contain large numbers of colloquialisms, phrases, and sayings that apparently make no sense at all. I assure you, I’m not utterly insane. That’s really how some of us speak in Yorkshire.

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Find out what happens to Richard Warren as soon as you can in James Farner’s Made in Yorkshire series.

Prologue

Doctor Jason Appleford snatched his stack of folders off the table and slung his coat over his arm. He always carried his coat. There was no telling what would happen to it if he left it alone in his office for more than a minute. He was always being watched. They would always take any chance to rifle through the pockets.

Today, he was attending a meeting with Governor Rawlings. He’d always hated him. A first-class bootlicker with friends in the Home Office. He knew nothing about how to manage a prison. It was Jason’s bad luck that had stopped him from finding a transfer to another prison when he’d arrived.

Jason made his way through the administration block, nodding to guards and waiting whilst they unlocked the doors. The administration block served as the heart of the prison. If it wasn’t for the bars on the windows, it looked like an office found in any city centre. The rest of HMS Pentonville consisted of steel landings with mesh floors and heavy iron doors to lock men in cages. Jason stayed away from there. He didn’t like to think about what went on in those halls.

He nodded to the secretary and she admitted him inside Governor Rawlings’s office. Jason found him reclining back in his chair, twizzling a pencil around his fingers and moving his palms through his hair. He found it hilarious because the governor had a fine mess of white hair around the side of his head, but was almost completely bald on top.

Good afternoon, Doctor Appleford. And how are we doing today? said Rawlings.

Very well, sir, thank you for asking. I’ve brought the files along, if you care to look at them. Jason put the folders on the table and sat down in front of the governor.

No, thank you, Appleford. I will take your word for it. This is a serious situation we have. Pentonville is a prison known for its discipline, but we seem to be lacking in it. We put our foot down and we get obstinate attitudes. We try to put forth the olive branch and we get nothing but suspicion in return. A serious case, indeed. Rarely have I dealt with such a difficult and awkward prisoner.

He has issues, sir.

Indeed he does, but it seems we can’t do anything about him. None of my predecessors on the wall would have done anything different to me, I’m sure. Rawlings cocked his head at the board where the names and terms of the prison’s former governors in gold lettering were kept.

Jason thought they were nothing but a monument to Home Office stooges. Well, we’ve continued our sessions. I think we might be making some sort of breakthrough.

I hope so. I heard back from the Home Office. A transfer isn’t an option. Every prison in the UK is overcrowded. In some of our wings, we have three men to a cell. I’m not sure how long we can keep this up. Rawlings shook out two tablets from a small shaker and swallowed them with a glass of water. Go on, Appleford, spare me.

Jason didn’t need to read from the folders. He already knew everything from the months he’d spent speaking to him. Sir, basically he’s still surly, angry, and aggressive. On some days, when he’s in a bad mood, he won’t speak to me at all. The guards have to escort him to my office, and when he’s there he says almost nothing. I’m not sure if he should be referred to a mental health specialist. I fear there’s something not quite right about him.

What about his behavioural record?

No record of solitary confinement. He’s an angry young man, but he’s never displayed any serious acts of violence. There were only two occasions where he confronted other prisoners, but nothing came of it. Prison officers were there to break them up before anything could happen.

Rawlings nodded with his elbows planted on the table. So what progress have you made again, Appleford?

Well, it took me a while, but I managed to get him to speak—or I should say write about himself. He wouldn’t speak to me in person, but I told the officer on his landing to allow him a pencil and some paper. He agreed to it. Would you like to read it, sir?

Rawlings was looking at something through the bars on his window. Every window had bars, even in the governor’s office. It was like the staff were as much prisoners as the actual prisoners.

Sir? Jason said again.

Oh, sorry, Appleford. I was miles away. No, you read it to me. Read it word for word so I can understand him. I have only spoken to him on one occasion when he first came to us.

Jason rummaged around in the bottom of the three folders he’d brought into the office. He wanted to mutter something obscene about doing all this work and the governor not even bothering to acknowledge it, but this was the norm. Someone would replace Rawlings and give him the recognition he deserved eventually.

A scrawl of black lead covered the sheet. The lettering was thick and it rarely kept to the lines. The writer had written it in some haste, as if they’d written a drunken love letter.

Jason cleared his throat. "Appleford, first of all, don’t ever ask me to do this again or I’m going to ram this pencil down your throat the next time we meet –"

Appleford?

Jason shook his head. "It doesn’t matter, sir. He wouldn’t do it anyway. He’s threatened me before and he seems to forget about it by the time our next meeting comes around. He continues. You know I’ve spent about two-and-a-half years in here now, and I’ll say what I told you before. I’m innocent. I was accused of a lot of things, but I didn’t commit any of them. I was set up by a chief constable, who I won’t give any dignity to by naming him here –"

Nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense. Rawlings guffawed. It angers me that prisoners who have been rightly convicted in a court of law can still carry this haughty attitude about with them. I’m afraid I can have no sympathy with men like this.

Sir, please, allow me to continue until the end.

Rawlings gestured with an open palm and leaned back in his high-backed leather chair.

But you don’t need to hear about that because you wouldn’t believe me.  I’ve given up trying to convince anyone, and it wouldn’t matter anyway because I’ve already done half my sentence. Did you know I once worked for a national newspaper? You’ve probably heard about Britain Today. I was set to take over as editor before my sentence. None of that now, though. I also had a family once. I bet you didn’t know how I was arrested either? That chief constable I mentioned earlier did it on my wedding day. And I haven’t had a single visitor since I started. I wouldn’t be surprised if nobody told them I was here –

Stop, Appleford. Does this have a point or does he just ramble about how he’s innocent? said Rawlings.

No, sir, he continues on. It’s a fascinating insight into his state of mind. When I’m finished, I will provide you with my recommendations. Jason cleared his throat again. I remember when you asked me why I don’t engage with the prison or my so-called rehabilitation. I didn’t answer at the time, but let’s ignore the fact I’m innocent for a moment. I don’t engage because I see no reason to. I have nothing to be rehabilitated for. I just want to pass the time until my release. I don’t expect to be released on good behaviour, nor do I expect to see myself being up for parole before my five years ends. Now, I have nothing more to say to you. Don’t ask me to write to you again.

Rawlings twiddled his fingers on his lap. Jason doubted whether he’d listened to anything at all.

Sir?

Go on, Appleford. I’m listening.

I don’t think we can change him this far into his sentence. If he believes he’s innocent, he won’t change that because we try to take away his privileges. It never does. Not one of the prisoners I’ve spoken to has ever changed because someone decides to step on top of them. My view is we need to try to understand what he will do afterwards and how we can ensure he doesn’t return to this prison. If you want my honest opinion, I worry what he’s going to do when he leaves. If he feels wronged by this chief constable, he might try to look for him, and that may mean he’s back here within a few months on a more serious charge.

Rawlings shook his head and signed a form on a clipboard that his leggy secretary had brought in. She was one of the only women in the prison and took the leering of the governor without any complaints.

Appleford, we’re here to keep these people locked in and nothing more. Rehabilitation is for the prisoner to deal with themselves. I have no view to directing resources towards prisoners who have no interest in engaging. Trustees are the only ones who deserve our time and effort. I’m tempted to simply take him out of your hands and let him rot. It sounds like the best option to me.

Sir, I respect your opinion, but I wouldn’t advise that. I think he does benefit from our sessions, even if he doesn’t admit it. On a good day, there’s something in his eyes and mannerisms. He seems to almost enjoy it. I don’t think he speaks to many of the other prisoners, so I think it’s good for him. We need to make sure he doesn’t turn that anger into outright violence, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve seen his kind before, and those are the people who cause riots.

Rawlings’s eyes widened. Jason had him. Any mention of a riot or trouble would always have him scrambling for some sort of refuge.

A riot?

Yes, sir. It happened during my apprenticeship in Parkhurst. You remember when Mad Frankie Fraser led the riot back in sixty-nine? They were on the roof and it made the national news.

Rawlings squirmed in his chair. Pentonville had stayed a quiet prison since he’d arrived. He’d managed to preserve a reputation of not having any trouble on his watch. Yes, you might be right. After all, you are the expert in psychology. If you feel its best, please continue your sessions. And keep me updated on the situation. We wouldn’t want to have anything untoward happen during his stay here. After all, it’s our duty to do our best by the men in our prison.

Absolutely, sir.

Jason picked up his files and left the governor to contemplate what would happen should a riot commence. He would brood on it for days, and sometimes weeks. All Jason had to do was try to make sure nothing did happen, or his job would drop on the butcher’s block.

Chapter One

HMP Pentonville chained two men to a cell and provided a luxurious few feet of space to move around in. A bunk bed rested along one wall, with a table and chair on the other. A sink in the corner, along with a small cupboard affixed to the wall and painted in a bland shade of green, held toiletries. Almost every cell was the same in Pentonville.

Richard Warren had endured two-and-a-half years of prison living and would have to endure two-and-a-half years more. It was nothing compared to what his cellmate, Freddy Bakerson, had to put up with, though. He was only three years into a ten-year sentence, and it wasn’t his first experience of spending time in prison, either.

The guards had switched on the standard prison fluorescent lights fifteen minutes previously. Slopping out time would start soon, where they would go through the daily humiliation of carrying their buckets out of their cells and emptying their own refuse into drains. Few people dared take anything but a brief water break in the night. Inflicting the stench of raw faeces on anyone would make the offender liable to having it tipped over their head at the earliest opportunity.

Richard waited for the guards to unlock the door. They would knock to make sure everyone was awake, before opening the door after ten hours of caging. He always hated the wait between waking up and being allowed to go outside. Watching the door like a dog waiting for its master grew tiresome quickly. All he had to do was make the two-step journey to the sink and dress up in the standard prison uniform: grey jackets, light-coloured shirts, and matching grey trousers with heavy black boots.

The bunk bed creaked as Freddy climbed down from above. He’d been here before him, therefore he automatically got the top bunk to denote his seniority. Not that it mattered much. Freddy was a hardened criminal who had been in and out of young offender’s homes and prisons since he was a child. He would get the top bunk whether anyone liked it or not.

They rarely spoke, other than to occasionally ask a question. Richard preferred it that way. He wasn’t a hardened criminal and he didn’t want to get mixed up with them. He just wanted to get by.

A guard knocked on the door from the outside and the key made a grating sound as it scraped against the lock; the sound of–relative–freedom for another day.

Up, the guard said before moving on to the next cell.

Freddy was late as always and hadn’t even got dressed yet. Richard picked up his refuse bucket anyway and went out onto the landing. Prisoners from the rest of the wing were already making their way onto the multi-tiered landings. The mesh flooring rattled as they travelled to the drains carrying their buckets. The 1970s were supposedly awash with colour, but Pentonville had drained it all away with an enormous damp rag.

After the ritual humiliation of crapping into a bucket and having to empty it, it was time to go to work. Every prisoner had a job according to their talents. The trustees, which were practically prison royalty, were given the best jobs—in the library and acting as Governor Rawlings’s personal servants. Richard had never gained any privileges. The guards still thought he was too arrogant. That meant sewing fishing nets and mail bags for him. Six hours of sitting at a table and performing the same action over and over again. When he’d done it the first time, his hands were left raw and bleeding. Now, they were hard and callused, and he could do the job without thinking.

It gave him time to ponder. A chance to ponder what he was going to do when he left, and why everyone had seemingly abandoned him. Did anyone even know he was in Pentonville?

Richard finished another day putting together bright orange fishing nets for the men in the North Sea and trudged back to his cell. This was the time where prisoners were able to speak to each other. It was known as ‘association time’, but really it was about sitting downstairs on a row of three tables and playing board games or watching bad television.

He’d never bothered with association time. There was nobody he wanted to speak to in Pentonville. They were all from rough backgrounds, and he’d yet to meet anyone who looked truly remorseful about what they had done. Everyone on his wing treated prison like an occupational hazard, or just a spot of bad luck.

For Richard, he would spend association time lying on his bed, trying to count the number of whitewashed bricks in his cell, or reading whatever material he could get his hands on. Pentonville had a tiny library of books, and he’d read most of them already. His only respite was the newspaper.

Today, they were talking about how time had stopped in London. Something had gone wrong with Big Ben and the clock had come to a standstill. It hadn’t done this since the Second World War. Still, it was so easy to lose track of time in prison the story seemed rather inconsequential, and so he turned to the daily crossword.

Oi, said a voice.

Richard turned around to see the jolly face of Wayne Mallone. Nothing seemed to ruin Wayne’s day, and this irritated Richard constantly.

What do you want, Wayne?

In a bad mood today, are we? said Wayne.

I’m fine, not that it’s got anything to do with you. Now come on, out with it. I’m trying to do this crossword.

Wayne sauntered inside and looked over his shoulder.

Do you mind? said Richard.

No need to get so tetchy. Only came to tell you Lavender wants to see you again. He’s got something you can help him out with. There might be a few bars of chocolate in it for you.

So what does he want me to do this time?

I don’t know, go and see him in his cell. He’ll tell you all about it. And make sure you do this time. He’s starting to think certain things about you.

And what things does he think about me? Richard continued to browse through the crossword with the pencil between his teeth.

Arrogant.

What did you say? He flew from his seat and squared up to Wayne. Wayne wasn’t a hard man and even he could take him if he had to.

Seven across. It’s arrogant. Wayne pointed at the crossword, apparently unaware of his threat.

Oh, right, yeah. He filled the word in and sat back down again.

Anyway, he said to me you’re one of his best. That’s why he said he might have some other things for you to do, if you want to. Should I tell him you’ll be along soon?

I’ll be there in my own damn time. Before they lock us up tonight.

Wayne nodded. He’ll be in his cell, as always, then.

Richard waited until he heard Wayne’s footsteps leave the room, then went back to his crossword. Lavender could wait. He needed to realise he couldn’t summon him whenever he wanted and expect him to turn up. He had to learn he was still independent and Richard was the one doing him the favour.

Ten minutes later and he was no further to completing his crossword. There was still another hour of association time left. Richard tried again. Another ten minutes went by and he found himself throwing the pencil at the sink and stomping out onto the landing. He’d never managed to complete one of those horrible things.

Lavender’s cell was on the landing above. Richard clattered up the stairs in his heavy boots and eased past the other men on his wing. There were all sorts mingling around. Pentonville had gangsters, first-time criminals, people expecting a long stretch, the odd poof, one or two blacks, and even an Irishman who claimed he had history with the Irish Republican Army (IRA). It was probably the most successful attempt at multiculturalism this decade.

Richard knocked on Lavender’s door. Anyone who hadn’t met Lavender yet soon found out why he’d gained that name. Everything in his cell had a sweet, sticky scent to it, and the guards didn’t seem to care. There was also that rumour that he preferred men to women, but in his words that was never proven.

Come on, Richard, Lavender said in his thick Birmingham accent. Sit down if you like.

Lavender sprawled out on his single bed. He was one of the lucky prisoners who managed to get himself a single cell.