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The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.combadminton, five-a-side soccer or soft-ball tennis. There was also aConcept-II rowing machine and I embarked on a manic fitness program,alternating 5,000m and 10,000m per session - and 20km on Sunday if wegot double-gym. Whittling down my times was the best antidote to myotherwise futile and pointless existence in prison.We were allowed to buy a daily newspaper and a couple of magazines aweek, using private money deposited with reception who ordered thepapers in bulk from a nearby newsagent. Only pornography and gunmagazines were banned. The eagerly awaited paper delivery arrived justafter lunch and then there was an impromptu flea market in the dinnerqueue to trade them. These papers, together with the small radiopermitted in my cell, enabled me to follow events outside prison. Myarrest was extensively reported and there were smaller follow-upfeatures about my bail refusal. The press had become much less criticalonce the hostility whipped up by I/OPS in the aftermath of my arresthad abated and truth about my minor offence had surfaced. The reportsbecame more sympathetic every time bail was refused.`Hey Rich, I'm more famous than you now!' Onion-head, a cheerfulLiverpudlian with a ruddy face and a Tin Tin quiff of blond hair waveda tabloid newspaper at me one morning. `They've even published me mugshot and number, just like Hugh Grant except better looking, eh!' heexclaimed, kissing his own image. It was considered prestigious to getinto the papers and Onion-head proudly showed me an article abouthimself. He was one of a gang who had carried out a series of armedraids against the homes of wealthy home counties families, robbing themat gunpoint. They had just been sentenced the day before, afterspending a year on remand. The Mirror published a full double-pagespread, which was the source of Onion-head's pride.`What did you get then?' I asked.`Sixteen years,' he cheerfully replied, licking the edge of a roll-up.`Flippin' judge just used his lottery numbers, the bastard. Steve got25, Neil got 19, Owen 22,' he added. `Still, looking on the brightside, keep me head down and me lighthouse nicely buffed-up, get paroleand there'll only be 418 episodes of Top of the Pops before I'm a freeman,' Onion-head laughed as he lit his roll-up. His flippant optimismcheered me up; my maximum sentence of two years seemed trivial incomparison.One morning in November, 8.30 a.m. came and went without the usualsound of clanking keys and opening doors. As the minutes ticked by theprisoners registered their rising impatience by banging their metalbins against cell doors. `What's up?' I shouted to Dobson through thehole by the pipe.`Dunno, I'll find out and let you know.' He called through to hisneighbour and after a couple of minutes shouted back to me. `Someladdie on the other spur, Colligan, went and topped hissel' last night,daft cunt. Screws found him this morning.'`How did he manage that?' I asked. It wasn't easy to kill yourself inBelmarsh; there was nothing sharp to slash wrists, no unprotectedbalconies to jump off or ropes to hang from.page- 179 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comÀpparently he ripped up a sheet, made a neck-tourniquet, then rolledover and over on his bed till he choked,' Dobson answered quietly. Ionly knew Colligan, a guy in his early twenties on remand for allegedlymurdering the wife of a millionaire, by sight, but it was sad news.Apparently the evidence against him was strong and he expected a lifesentence. `Lads like him, who want to be dead, should have the optionof asking for a lethal injection,' Dobson added hoarsely. Ìt's notfair, putting somebody through living mental torture that they end uptopping themsels' like that.'We were not unlocked until a doctor examined Colligan and issued adeath certificate, photographs and forensic evidence of his body hadbeen taken, and his body had been removed from his cell. The mood onthe spur was subdued for the rest of the day.During my early days in Belmarsh, it concerned me what other prisonerswould think of my offence. Former law enforcement personnel, especiallypolice, are usually victimised and have to request segregation underprison regulation 43. Most `rule 43' prisoners are sex-offenders; theso-called `nonces' so despised by Craggs. But my fears that I might beconsidered a `grass' (slang for an informer) were unfounded. In theprison heirarchy - armed bank robbers at the top and those convicted ofstreet crimes such as muggings at the bottom - most gave me `respect'for my offence. It was just as well, for one Friday night I saw thetreatment dished out to `nonces' whose crimes were regarded asunacceptable. Top of the Pops was on and the spur were congregated infront of the television, cheering Mockalenny who was breakdancingincongruously to a Celine Dion single. A young black guy, fresh from`Beirut', was sitting quietly on his own, sipping a cup of cocoa.Unobserved in the general commotion, Craggs filled a plastic mug withboiling water from the urn, sidled up behind him and tipped thescalding water over his head. The guy fell to the floor clutching hisscalp, screaming in agony. Craggs sprang back, arms aloft, vehementlyprotesting. `Sorry, mate, it was an accident, honest.' Other inmatesrushed over as the livid victim got to his feet, clutching his head andlunging at his assaulter with blind anger. Somebody pressed the alarmbefore a fight could break out and we were invaded by the usual hordesand herded back into our cells. Craggs was still protesting hisinnocence as his door was slammed shut, not with convincing sincerity,but just to let everybody know that this should be the version ofevents given by witnesses to the screws.Lying face down on my bed, I asked Dobson through the gap what it wasall about. `He was a fookin' nonce,' he whispered. `We just got wordthrough from t'other houseblock. He raped some lassie. Should've knownbetter than trying to mix it with us on this spur. I was goona do ìmmisself, but Craggsy beat me to it. We'll not see ìm again.'Another new prisoner called Michaels came in for the Craggs EnhancedNegative Vetting interview a few days later, after he appeared at theback of the lunch queue in a new prison tracksuit, fidgeting with hisCartier watch. `What are you in for, mate?' Craggs asked with anundertone of belligerence.Michaels, an elderly and educated fellow, hesitated for a moment,unused to being addressed by a scar-faced skinhead. À spot of fraud,'he nervously replied, adjusting his glasses.page- 180 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
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