The Big Breach - Index of

The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.com`You've got to give the screws some credit,' Dobson muttered as Onionheadcavorted up to the pretty screw to collect his prize, giving her acheeky kiss, `they've had to give up their own Christmas day at homeand spend it in here with us bastards.' Dobson was right that theBelmarsh staff did an excellent job, and not just on Christmas day.Relations between staff and prisoners were generally cordial and therewas little of the confrontational `them and us' management style thatexisted in other prisons. And it couldn't be easy spending all dayconfined in a pressure cooker with a brewing mixture of depressed,psychopathic or violent criminals. They regularly got abused verballyand attacked physically by angry prisoners, and were at risk of beingtaken hostage or even murdered. The dangers they faced on a daily basiswere far higher than those ever faced by the bleating Redd, the MI6officer who had whined at my sentencing that my synopsis had`endangered the lives of agents'. And then at the end of what amountedto a very stressful day the screws had to go home to try and live on asalary a fraction of Redd's, in one of the world's most expensivecities.`You'll not believe yer ears tonight, Rich,' Dobson told meenthusiastically on New Year's Eve. `We're gonna have a reet party!' Afew prisoners had got themselves a joint prepared and there wererumours that there was some hooch about.It was customary for prisoners to see in the New Year by banging anyhard object against the heating pipes, cell doors and window bars. Itseemed pointless to me. `You'll not catch me joining in with thatnonsense,' I replied. `I'll be tucked up in bed.' I consoled myselfthat for once I would wake up in the New Year without a hangover.`Nah, yer big wuss,' jeered Dobson, `you'll be up bangin' wi' the restof us.'The first sporadic clatter and whooping started at about 11.30 p.m.,gathering in intensity until it became pointless trying to concentrateon my book. I had just put out the light when somebody attacked theheating pipe with their waste-paper bin, jolting me upright. Soonsomebody else joined in and, as midnight approached, the din became acacaphony as every inmate released a year's frustration in wild fits ofbanging, screaming and hollering. The joyful spirit was too infectiousto ignore and I got out of bed, picked up my bin and hurled it againstthe door, then again and again, and whooped and shouted with the rest.The only advantage of being an A-cat prisoner was automatic assignationto a single-cell on security grounds. Since my downgrading to B-cat,that privilege had gone and my days in such comparative luxury werenumbered. Sunday morning associations, when we were issued with a cleansheet, pillow case and Bic razor, were when the screws also reallocatedcells. On the first Sunday in January, Mr Richards bellowed out fromhis desk on the spur floor, `Tomlinson, get your stuff.' My time hadcome and resignedly I tipped my belongings into my bin liner, rolled upthe mattress, sheets, pillow and blanket into a bundle and presentedmyself to his desk. `Over there,' he indicated, pointing to the doublecell right by his desk, grinning as ever.page- 189 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com