My Prison Journey part 1 – Sweat Box Odyssey

Part 1 of the ‘My Prison Journey’ set of short stories

Sweat Box Odyssey

“Tell them you’re a racist lad! You’ll get a single cell.”

There is an abundance of advice shouted through doors on sweat boxes. The compartments that prisoners are transported in are like porta-loos without the toilet bits. They are counter-ergonomically designed, you will not find comfort in any position. Often you won’t have seen your fellow travellers, generally we are shackled and loaded one-by-one from the court.

“Who’s on the bus lad?”

It was my first experience – I didn’t know the protocol so I said nothing. I was already shell-shocked enough. One by one my peers announced themselves like contestants on a family game show.

“Hi, I’m Paulie, 28, aggravated burglary from Manchester.”

“Hi, I’m Macker, drug importation from Leicester.”

Introductions done and acquaintances made (or renewed), I discovered that the first man to shout, the compere, was also a mathematician.

“Is there a fuckin nonce on here? I know there’s 7 of us on here and I only heard from 5 others. Who’s missing? Speak up lad!”

I stayed quiet, but all I managed to do was to wind up the rest of the travellers. I didn’t know what a ‘nonce’ was.

“Who else is on this bus? Step the fuck up now lad or you better hope that you don’t get off at the same place I do!”

“What do you want?” I replied.

“Who the hell are you lad?” said my mathematically minded inquisitor.

“Nobody important.”

“I’ll decide who is important here, right? What are you in for?”

While he spoke there was not a peep on the bus. Everybody else was listening intently.

I said one word. “Murder.”

There was a bit of a pause followed by a sudden shift in tone as the mathematician said “Oh!”

There was an extended silence on the sweat box. What can you realistically say? It reminded me of a one-time struggle to speak to a friend when they told me that they had cancer. I was self-censoring before I spoke for fear of causing offence or upset.

But among the mental fog of those early experiences of the judicial process, I can clearly remember the next thing that was said. One of the travellers spoke up. I could actually hear him drawing breath before speaking in a deep base and sonorous tone.

“You will get through this my friend. You just need to be sage.”

I do not trust all of my memories around that time. I know I was in shock, and these many years later I am wary of my recollections. I can never be certain that what I am remembering is actually true OR if my subconscious has constructed memories in order to fill in the gaps. But the reason I remember the deep voiced advice is because he spoke again a few seconds later to clarify his statement.

“Of course, when I say ‘sage’ I am talking about being wise. It’s not the herby sage that goes in chicken.”

There was no laughter. No joking. I don’t think that my sage friend was being ironic. I never got to ask him. I never laid eyes on him in my life. The Sage got off the box before I did. When the sweat box left the court it went on a tour dropping prisoners off at various destinations. Some went back to police custody before others were dropped at prisons and detention centres. I had never realised how many prisons there are around us!

The journey on the Sweat Box was like a melancholy movie montage, complete with the sepia tone effect supplied by the smoked and scratched portholes that offered a distorted perspective on the world of the free. I knew that I would be in prison for years or even decades. I had earned my fate. Like Odysseus, I did not know how long my Odyssey would be, but I had already realised that these would be my last experiences of the real world for quite a while. I was casting my eyes around for landmarks, anchors in this ‘now’.

A bus shelter advertisement proclaimed that the Double Cheeseburger at McDonalds was still 99p on the Pound-saver Menu. How much will that cost when I see a McDonald’s next?

I saw people doing people things; answering phones, lighting cigarettes, talking to each other, scolding children – all of them oblivious to us.

I have since wondered how often I had been passed by one of those sweat boxes? Years later I had a philosophical discussion with a friend of mine as we considered the vagaries of fate, the consequences of our actions and the gossamer thin divide between prison and freedom.  (See:  Short Story – Mr. Shoes’ Pie

While the bus was moving I half-listened to the conversations going on amongst the other men. I was shocked at how brazen they were in their conversations. There were tips on who to see for what sort of contraband. What the going rates were for Heroin, Cannabis and Mobile Phones.

Even as an absolute criminal novice, and one in shock to boot, I couldn’t help but think that this sweat box was a treasure trove of security intelligence waiting to be gathered. There was advice on which wings to go on. Which gangs controlled where. What jobs to look for and what not to eat off the servery. What did shock me most was the belief that there were benefits in being racist.

Prisoner A: “Tell them you’re a racist lad! You’ll get a single cell.”

Prisoner B: “But what if they put me in with some other white geezer? How can I be racist to him if I’m white too?”

Prisoner A: “Then tell them that you fucking hate queers too – that you will batter anybody that they put you in with.”

I was shackled and ushered off the box on its third stop. As it transpired I was joined by the Mathematician and one other lad. Seeing Mr Maths taught me a lesson in pre-conceived perceptions. When I heard the voice on the box I had been picturing the stereotypical hardened tattooed prisoners of American TV.

I was shocked when I saw that there was about 5 feet of Mr Maths between his trainers and bald head. He was skinny as a rake and incapable of sitting still. He was a minor celebrity, a frequent flyer if you will. He knew all of the prison officers by name – and I got the sense that this reunion was like a new episode of a cartoon. The Officers would be the Coyote and Mr Maths, the Roadrunner. I did not know what my role would be – or my Odyssey. (See – Short story – ‘Leaves on the Line’)