When comparing Europe and America, John Travolta’s character in Pulp Fiction says, ‘It’s the little differences’.
As I stepped off the sweatbox in Open Prison I noticed one little difference immediately – instead of military green perimeter fences topped with razor-wire there were two of the automatically raising red and white striped jobbies that would fit perfectly in a shopping centre car park. They regulated the flow of cars into and out of the prison estate. I had to cross the road, walking parallel to these barriers, in order to get to the reception and I struggled to get my head around the fact that I had to take traffic into consideration once again. There was a car slowly approaching as I stepped up to the kerb and my sense of perspective was shot – I had no idea how to gauge the car’s speed – would I make the crossing at a walk or should I jog? Instead I just waited for it to pass before I walked into the reception.
Inside I agonised while my paperwork was scrutinised by an officer. Unlike Erlestoke where I had built a good reputation for 6 years, to this man I was just a new face and number. It felt like the day I left Primary school at the top of the tree, only to turn up at Secondary at the arse end of the pyramid again. I was concerned that something might be wrong, a piece of paper missing or a signature short and it was only when the sweatbox left the prison (without me on it) that I started to feel at ease.
“Yo Moose!” I turned towards the door and saw three masks that contained three familiar faces, friends from Erlestoke. “We heard your name was on the list of arrivals, we tried to talk them out of taking you!”
“Oh don’t tell me that you know those idiots!” The kanga at the desk seemed amused that I knew these lads. Much pisstaking passed between them and I started to relax. “We’ll check in on you after the quarantine mate, let us know if there’s anything you need!” With that the trio headed off across the road towards their billets and I went through the reception process. After temperature checks and a whole load of paperwork I was handed a key with a cardboard tab denoting a cell number. My three travelling companions and I were headed to the quarantine hut for 2 weeks. After a few seconds of standing around the Kanga pointed across the road and said to the four of us ‘L-Hut is there buddy! Off you go.”
After years of waiting to be brought from one place to the next, of standing by locked doors and gates waiting for permission – we carried our kit across the road, down the path and around the hedge until we saw the sign above the door ‘L’. We stepped up and pushed the door open before stepping on to a landing with 6 rooms on each side. My key reads L-7, I’m on the corner and I head off to my cell. Big but bare, one bed, one dresser, one chair and one TV. There is a large window (with no bars) that overlooks grass, trees and the barriers at reception. I can see down the road towards a housing estate where real people live.
I drop my bags of property along an empty wall – no point unpacking when I’ll be moving again in two weeks – before heading back onto the landing and outside the billet again. I smell an old familiar friend – tobacco – and I instinctively look around for a Kanga, the last thing I want is to be accused of or get a nicking for smoking. Then it dawns on me – you’re allowed to smoke outside in open prison. I resist the urge to follow the smell like the Bisto kid and dig out the essentials for a cup of coffee. I make the brief introductions with the other lads on the unit – their quarantine finishes three days from now and they’re already trying to sort out which huts they will land on. As usual there are rumours that ‘M’ hut is the best and that ‘P’ hut is full of grasses – I’m respectful enough and thank them for their advice, then bin it off immediately. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed – lads who are ten days in a quarantined unit being expert on the intricacies of the wider prison estate. Bless their cotton socks. As an aside, the world’s shittiest unit can become the world’s best unit (or vice versa) when one person moves on or off. Similarly, best or worst is very much a matter of perspective. The lad who likes drugs and mobile phones will rate a unit differently to the lad who just wants a quiet life.
I have my coffee and make a couple of phone calls to let people know that I’ve arrived safely. Just around 5pm and our meals are brought from the kitchens. We had made our choices in reception and the food was decent – better than Erlestoke’s finest efforts even in this compromised capacity. After making my bed I am drawn to the window in my cell again. I watch as people start up their cars and drive past my window on their way home, red LED lights flickering every time the barrier lifts up.
As night falls I notice something by its absence – sodium glow floodlights. For the last decade I have lived, walked and slept under the torment of that piss yellow glare. Here there were streetlights built to guide rather than detect. As I muse movement catches my eye – something white flickered across the grass. Then a second, and a third. I turn off my room light and focus into the darkness until I identify three rabbits scurrying around between hedges.
At 8pm there is a roll check where we stand by our doors, then shortly after 10 I call it a night and get into bed. The lads are hyper-excited outside – I’ve come from the super-enhanced estate in my old prison where our cell doors are open, but for my peers it’s just too much of a novelty. They’re like kids at Christmas – fair play to them. If it’s outside my cell door I really don’t give a shit – and it’s only two weeks on here that I’ll have to put up with it.
The next day my acclimatisation window entertained me greatly. Some of my pals found out I was in L-7 and came to chat through the window. I would be waiting a while for my first canteen when I could buy anything and they came with various offerings, from tinned foods to fresh veg, pasta, rice and seasonings.
I was deeply shocked when I saw one of the lads I knew from Erlestoke, a prisoner, walk from reception onto the estate with a ladder on one shoulder, while carrying a bag with a skill saw and power drill in his free hand. Prior to this, not only would you be nicked for being in the vicinity of these items, but you could end up in CAT A as a flight risk!
But the funniest thing was the face on a Kanga when EZ went through the fence panel a few feet from him. I saw the whole thing. The fence panel was about 4 foot tall, the posts were a bit splayed, so it wasn’t the most secure to begin with. Anyway, EZ is about 5’10” tall and ripped, he loves the gym does our EZ – he’s an alright guy, but your instinct would tell you not to fuck around with him. Unless you’re a squirrel.
EZ was coming back from reception and walking on the path that led to the back door of L-Hut. Suddenly a fat squirrel scurried out of the tree on the grass outside and made for the path. EZ paused for a second and looked down at the squirrel, who in turn looked up expectantly at EZ. After a brief stand off the squirrel made a dart and closed down the distance between them. I can only refer to episodes of ‘You Been Framed’ when a brazen mouse chases a confused cat – because EZ was taken aback, he stepped sideways, lost his balance, reached out for the fence panel and ended up lying on it on the other side of the road where he met the aforementioned confused Kanga. In fairness to the squirrel, he stayed where he was as EZ explained what had happened. The panel was reinstated and all three parties went their separate ways.
I have since seen how the wildlife here is spoiled by the residents just being happy to be able to interact with nature again. Even the rodents and carrion feeders are a better class in open conditions – the squabbling, squawking crows that woke me with their raucous rows are gone – here buzzards glide effortlessly and silently through the air, while the rats of closed conditions have been replaced by squirrels – it’s no wonder they’re fat! And as for EZ, well I obviously told everybody that he had been taxed by a squirrel; not only had he screamed and jumped through a fence, but that he grassed the squirrel up to a kanga that was walking past.
