“How can you be so calm?”, The Furious One asked me. It was the evening before my parole hearing and Furious is a great sounding board. He looks a bit like Michael Stipe from REM and goes from zero to ‘toys out of the pram’ quicker than Donald Trump tweets, but in a harmless, ‘ranty’ kind of way.
But I was feeling remarkably calm – it wasn’t just a front, but ironically my own sense of calmness was making me feel uneasy.
“My head would be spinning if I was in your shoes Moose”, Furious continued. “Do you not see the significance of this? Your whole sentence, every minute from day one until now has been building up to this hearing. Just a few hours will decide what happens for the rest of your life – and you’re just shrugging your shoulders? I just don’t get it!”
“I think it’s because I don’t have to remember the story – that’s why I’m calm. I only have to speak the truth and answer the questions honestly. I’ve not been denying anything Furious, I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m not worried that they might find out something new – they know it all. It’s also not as if I’m thinking that they might ask a question that I haven’t prepared for. I had years of talking through everything with my offender supervisor’s, psychologists and course facilitators.”
“Surely you have to be worried up, at some level?”, Furious is a couple of years away from his own parole hearing and has made no bones about the fact that I was his ‘Hamm’, named after the chimp that NASA fired into space to test the mercury rockets.
The hearing was a little over 12 hours away. I had a decade of work behind me. I was prepared. I knew that I was worried at some deeper level, but I also knew that worrying wasn’t really going to do me any good. If I hadn’t put the work in before now that there would have been little hope for me. It would have been like me opening my textbook the day before an exam.
We parted ways and I went looking for The Fish. I am a man of many skills and talents, but ironing is not one of them. In prison I learnt that squaddies are the best men with an iron, most of them find it therapeutic where I find it exasperating. The Fish is a hell of a man and a squaddie par excellence. His hearing is a year away, and like Furious, I’m the Fishes space monkey. He answers his cell door and sees me with my shirt on my shoulder. His broken nose wrinkles as he smiles, nods and we head for the ironing board in the association room.
“This time tomorrow it’ll all be behind you boy!”, he told me in his Welsh accent while he ironed. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay all things considered. Nothing else I can do now!”, I replied.
“When you’ve done everything that you can now. I don’t think you could have made a better case for yourself so one way or another, when you leave the hearing tomorrow you can be at peace. Anyway, I’m rooting for you to get – because if you don’t get it then I don’t think I’ll even bother going to mine!”
He handed me my shirt as we parted – God bless the squaddies – and I went back to my cell. I prepared all of my paperwork, my dossier, glasses, notepads and multiple pens then double checked everything before I put them in my bag on the back of my cell door ready for the morning.
I had a number of visitors during the evening wishing me good luck and after road checked the last man I saw was Big Willie. This is the guy I work with every day, well bred, spoken and heeled. His refined demeanour conceals the mischievous nature that lurks under the surface of a posh veneer. With steely grey hair and neatly coiffured beard under his aquiline nose if you saw him at an ancient Roman orgy you know he would be the guy with the gold laurel wreath in a bath of larks tongues being tended to by buxom slaves.
“So Moose, after the hearing, will they just laugh directly in your face or will they deliver the knock back by post?”, my dear friend enquired.
“Well seeing as it’s being held over the phone due to the Covid lockdown I expect that they will mute the speaker at their end while they laugh uproariously.”, I replied.
“And quite right too! There is no élan in hawking down at those below one’s own exalted station. Ah well, I find it reassuring that the lower classes are being given the illusion of due process. Night night!”. Thank God for Big Willy.
After a little bit of TV, I went to bed at the usual hour and fell asleep in the usual manner. Still calm. I woke up unremarkably and carried out my ablutions without incident. The countdown was now 2 hours and I was still calm. I had my breakfast in the association room while chatting to a few of the early risers. After a shower and shave I went back to my cell where I got dressed, smart shoes, trousers and a militarily ironed shirt. The parole board wouldn’t see me, the hearing was by phone, but I felt that the process deserves respect. Look professional, feel professional – take the process seriously. I checked myself in the mirror – all good.
With 10 minutes to go before I was to be collected from the wing I figured I should use the bathroom. I walked along the corridor and as I came to the shared toilets I could scarcely believe my eyes. Stood by the sink was Big Willy – in his hand was a knob – a shiny knob from a tap. That tap was gushing water into the air like a geyser.
“Ah! Good morning Moose!”, said Big Willy, “I seem to be having a bit of bother with my plumbing?! You couldn’t lend a hand could you?”
This has to rate as one of the most surreal moments of my life. I just knew how the gods had scripted this to play out. I was meant to help Big Willy and in the process get soaked – at the very least in the groinal area, if not head to toe. As if reading my mind Big Willy added, “At least I’ve caught you before you made yourself presentable for the parole board!”
I couldn’t help but smile, but I walked past Big Willy, emptied my bladder and washed my hands – at a different sink. When I left I went to the office and told the Kanga on duty – “Big Willy is in the bathroom smashing the place up. You’d better get onto it!”
On seeing the confusion on the Kangas face I deemed myself happy with my work. I collected my bag and coat and headed for the unit’s reception area in perfect time to be collected by my offender supervisor. “One off, Gov!” I declared as we headed for the Offender Management Unit (OMU), where my hearing was due to take place. We made small talk as we walked and on arrival I sat in the OMU lobby. I was still remarkably calm. I noticed a screen that I had been seeing periodically for more than 5 years in this prison – I had often wondered when it would apply to me – ‘Quiet please! Parole hearing in progress!’. Today would be the day.
10 minutes to go and I was still calm. My offender supervisor gave me the nod and we went into the conference room for our socially distant hearing. We sat at opposite ends of the room where up to 8 people could usually be gathered for hearings.
“I’ll dial into the conference call and we will wait for the parole board panel members and your community based probation officer to join.” She pressed a button on the conference call machine and I heard the dial tone.
My heart rate accelerated and my chest started to tighten. It was like my calm had literally been switched off. I forced my rib cage to open so I could draw long steady breaths. I breathed heavily as I heard other voices join the conference and start to introduce themselves. The panel chair open proceedings and said, “This is a closed hearing and as such it is forbidden to repeat any of the subjects discussed during the hearing, the names of the members of the hearing or anything that they say….”
Sorry guys.
