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| ISBN-13: | 9781857825923 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Bonnier Books UK |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2006 |
| Pages: | 508 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.10(w) x 7.50(h) x 1.30(d) |
Read an Excerpt
The Complete Parkhurst Tales
By Norman Parker
John Blake Publishing Ltd
Copyright © 1994 Norman ParkerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-85782-831-3
CHAPTER 1
THE PLACE BY THE POND
If Parkhurst was an unlovely prison, then Parkhurst hospital was absolutely in keeping with the rest of the place. An ugly redbrick building, it stood on its own, away from the main wings. Cracked brickwork, peeling paint, broken slates and gutters clogged with leaves all added to a general air of decrepitude.
There were large sliding sash windows, but they were begrimed and massively barred. Heavy steel gates that were permanently locked stood in the place of doors. You could be forgiven for mistaking the building's function because it certainly didn't look like a place where people were nursed and cared for.
And it wasn't. The hospital screws were mean-spirited to a man. Perhaps, long ago, the milk of human kindness had flowed in some of them. But no more. Long years of watching the most abject human suffering had inured them to the daily misery that they were part of. If there was such a thing as a bedside manner here, it was characterised by indifference and downright cruelty.
The few 'medical' patients were confined to a surgical ward where they waited for, or recovered from, operations. The rest were detained in the hospital under mental-health 'sections', awaiting certification and transfer to one of the 'special hospitals' for the criminally insane.
These patients were mostly regarded as dangerous animals to be contained and their violent behaviour curbed. They were locked in cells for all but a few hours each day, the loneliness of solitary confinement exacerbating their already parlous mental state. Small wonder that, on occasion, some would attack the screws.
Then, they would be beaten; flung naked into strip cells; filled with mind-numbing drugs; or left for days in a strait-jacket. For these were not normal men, easily coerced. They were men driven by obsessions so intense that their sanity had crumbled under the pressure. Men whose every waking second was a painful torment. In some cases, they were men for whom death would come as a merciful release.
Yet in the midst of all this ugliness and suffering, there was a place that was an oasis of peace and beauty. Out of a side door from F2 landing was a small enclosed yard. In the middle lay a pond surrounded by neatly mown grass. Running around it was a white flagstone path.
On a fine day, the water of the pond would glisten with reflected light. Fish would swim lazily beneath the lily pads. Small insects would skitter across the surface. It was an idyllic setting, far from the smells of F2 and the haunting cries of lunatics locked behind doors.
For a short while, a man could remember he was human again. That there was another world, apart from the one of concrete floors, brick walls and iron doors. He could lie on the grass and think of days when he played with his children in a similar setting. Of days when he held hands with a wife or girlfriend and basked in the warmth of her love.
The frantic heart would still, the frenzied mind would clear and a man could regain something of his sanity.
But it was all too short. Hardly had they laid down but a screw would call out that exercise time was over for another day. Men would climb reluctantly to their feet and amble back into the building. The sweet, fresh air would be replaced by the acrid, all-pervasive smell of piss. In places, the sickly sweet smell of shit would assail the nostrils. Unfriendly screws would shepherd men back into their cells. The doors would crash shut with an awesome finality, leaving each man incarcerated with only his loneliness and recent memories of the place by the pond.
Vic was one of the lunatics. He was seriously, certifiably insane and waiting for a place in Rampton or Broadmoor. It was said that, on two occasions, he had been taken to the very gates of Broadmoor in a van, only to be refused admission because he was too violent.
And he was extremely violent. To himself and others, too. A powerfully built man in his early 30s, he was doing five for GBH. From gypsy stock, his swarthy skin gave him a Mediterranean appearance. Long, lank, greasy black hair hung down around hunched, muscular shoulders. His inordinately long arms were covered with hundreds of scars caused by self-mutilation. He walked bent over, with his long arms hanging down by his sides, giving him a definitely ape-like appearance.
Vic was on heavy medication. Every morning, noon and night, he was given tots of various psychotropic drugs. He would drink each of these like an alcoholic taking his first drink of the day. With each swallow, he would shake his head. He rarely spoke to anyone, just ambled about in a drug-induced fstupor.
He could be tranquil for months at a time. He would stumble, beast-like, through his daily round, sedated from the intrusions of reality. But, when the medication wore off, he could become especially dangerous.
Vic liked to sit by the pond. Each day, he would amble out into the yard and lie in the same place. There was a small mound at one end of the pond. He would stretch out there with his head on the mound and stare at the sky. It was comfortable and comforting just lying there. The vast infinity of space seemed to pour in through his eyes and cool his fevered brain. It was nice by the pond.
For the past few months, Vic had had a friend of sorts. Tom was a young intense Scouser, with a pale emaciated face and a frail drug-raddled body. His corpse-like appearance only served to emphasise his eyes. They burned with a fierce intensity, reflecting the flames of madness that raged in his brain.
In the course of their solitary lives, Vic and Tom rarely met, except on exercise. Then Tom would come and sit by Vic as he lay by the pond. They hardly ever spoke, and then only in monosyllables. It could hardly be described as a friendship. Just two lost souls, warming each other with their company.
It was a fine summer's day. The heat in the hospital was stifling. There was no breath of wind, and the myriad smells just hung in the air. When their doors were unlocked for exercise, the patients hurried towards the brightness flooding in from the yard. As Vic burst free from the building, the sweet, fresh air filled his nostrils and his heart swelled in his chest. He headed for his usual place, then stopped.
There, lying in his place by the pond, was a new fella. He was stretched out, head on the mound, staring at the sky. It was exactly the position Vic usually adopted.
Vic stared at him more closely. The newcomer was plump, balding and middle-aged. His clothes were unbuttoned, his hair unkempt, his face unshaven. He stared upwards, totally oblivious to his surroundings, through dead-fish eyes glazed by drugs.
Vic moved past him to the other side of the pond. Tom shuffled along behind. Not a word had been spoken.
Vic looked around the yard. Three screws were supervising exercise. They were stood in a group by the doorway to the wing, engrossed in conversation.
Vic bent down. Pushing his fingers into the earth either side of a large white flagstone, he pulled it from the path. He walked quickly around the pond. Coming sideways on to the new fella, he raised the flagstone high above his head. With all his considerable strength, he smashed the edge of the flagstone into the unsuspecting face.
There was a dull, meaty thud, as stone struck flesh and bone. With a grunt of effort, Vic fell to his knees and rained more blows into the mess of blood and gore that, seconds earlier, had been a face.
A high-pitched scream rent the air as Tom appeared at Vic's shoulder and began smashing at the face with a smaller piece of flagstone.
The noise alerted the screws. One hurried to ring a nearby alarm bell. The other two ran towards the pond.
The first rushed at Tom and pushed him roughly aside. The second grabbed Vic's upraised arms firmly, but gently. 'Come on, Vic,' he said. 'Away you come.'
Vic rose slowly to his feet. He lowered the blood-spattered flagstone, then let it drop in the grass. He allowed the screw to lead him away, back towards the building.
Tom had also dropped his flagstone and was being gently pushed in the same direction. The new fella lay motionless on the ground. Not a word had been spoken.
Now there were dozens of screws in the yard. They poured in from F2 and through a gate in the wall. Some shepherded the rest of the patients in from exercise. The others stood in a semi-circle about the newcomer.
A stretcher appeared and he was lifted on to it. They carried him into the hospital. The bloodstained flagstones were left where they had fallen. They would eventually be examined by the police, for they would have to be called in. To the experienced eye, the newcomer looked like he would die.
But he didn't. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if he had. Massive brain damage would ensure that he never moved a muscle again. He was totally paralysed, a complete cabbage both mentally and physically.
At the subsequent trial, Vic and Tom were charged with attempted murder. Both were sentenced to life imprisonment. Strangely, their obvious insanity wasn't a mitigating factor. They were shunted off into different parts of the prison system, where they probably amble around under heavy medication to this day.
Back at Parkhurst hospital, everything was as usual. The water of the pond glistened in the bright sunlight. The grass grew lush and green, the blood long since washed into the mound by the rain. There were two holes in the path where flagstones had once been. Other lunatics lay in the sunshine. The place by the pond looked peaceful and idyllic, unmarred by its terrible secret.
CHAPTER 2ARRIVAL
I woke immediately and sat halfway up. It was purely a reflex action. I couldn't actually recall hearing the bolt being drawn, the lock shooting back or the door opening, but something had roused me. Now, through sleep-dazed eyes, I could see the crush of screws wedged in my doorway. There must have been ten of them, all hatless.
A frisson of fear followed by a rush of adrenalin brought me fully awake. Whatever it was, the situation was serious. You just didn't have ten screws coming into your cell at 6.30 on a Saturday morning.
'Pack your kit,' said the white shirt, who was obviously a PO or an SO.
I knew that it was a waste of time to argue. These were just foot soldiers acting under orders. You might as well argue with robots. The decision had already been made, and they hadn't been part of the decision-making process.
'Just tell me if I'm going to the chokey or out of the jail,' I said to the white shirt.
He looked at me, pausing while he made his decision. 'You're going out of the jail,' he said.
So I was being shanghaied. It wasn't the first time. My only concern now was to take all my stuff with me. If I left it behind to follow me on, all sorts of things could go missing.
'I'm not going without my kit, guvnor. So just give me 15 minutes to pack up,' I said.
He weighed this up, then agreed. He probably figured that if he had me dragged out it would take time anyway. Then there would be the legacy of dealing with my pals when they were unlocked later. It was a sensible decision.
I quickly threw everything into four large kit boxes that I had under my bed. I'd been in that cell in Wormwood Scrubs for two years, yet every trace of my occupation was boxed and gone in 20 minutes.
I sat in reception, reflecting on what I was leaving and what lay ahead. I felt a deep sadness for the loss of the friends I was leaving behind. But I had to stifle these feelings to gear myself up for the challenge to come.
By the time the escort was ready to leave, it was nearly 9.00 a.m. I was expecting a visit from my mother and sister that morning. Now I would miss it. It wasn't worth mentioning. As an 'A' man, they wouldn't tell my family I was leaving.
Ironically, as we drove out of the gate in the green van with the tinted windows, we passed my mother and sister waiting to come in. They were close enough to touch, yet I couldn't let them know I was in the van. How I hated those bastards for the unnecessary suffering they caused.
Soon, we were on the road. I had no idea where I was going and wouldn't give the screws the satisfaction of asking. They might not have told me anyway. I sat there and tried to work it out for myself. The further we went, the easier it would be to figure out my destination.
We were heading south, so that made it easy. There were only two category-A jails south of the Scrubs: Albany and Parkhurst, both on the Isle of Wight. I couldn't see it being Albany, as I'd been shanghaied from there two years previously for an escape attempt followed by a tear-up. They certainly wouldn't want me back. The feeling was mutual.
The thought of Parkhurst didn't exactly frighten me, but I didn't take it lightly either. I had heard so many stories about the place. It had the reputation of being Britain's toughest jail. There had been a bad riot there in '69, brutally put down by the screws.
Parkhurst had seen several murders and countless stabbings and coshings. It was a jail to sort the men from the boys. I felt that I could handle it but, as with any serious challenge, couldn't help but have some misgivings.
We duly reached Southampton and drove on to the ferry. Any thoughts of a breezy walk on the deck were quickly dashed. We all sat in the darkness of the hold. Half an hour later, we drove off at Ryde.
The 'Island', as always, looked quite beautiful. It was a sad irony that such a place should be blighted by the presence of Albany and Parkhurst. The lovely surroundings made the jails seem that much grimmer.
Suddenly, we turned off the road to be confronted by a massive pair of wooden gates, set in a weather-beaten gate lodge. The immediate impression was one of age. The chipped brickwork, the rusting iron, all showed the decay of years.
'Grim' is a word often used to describe jails, but Parkhurst personified all that was grim. It was as if all the grief and misery it had witnessed had lined and cracked its façade, just as misery cracks and lines an old face.
There was an air of hopelessness about the place. Nothing new could come to Parkhurst; it had experienced it all before. It had eroded the youth of so many spirited young men, and it would do the same to so many more.
Inside the gate lodge, it was just as depressing. Surly, chunky, middle-aged screws went about their business at their own pace. The outside world would have to slow down. It was now in the domain of Parkhurst, and Parkhurst wasn't going to be rushed for anyone.
We drove through a big green iron gate, past some low buildings and stopped outside the reception. We all got out of the van and I went in with the screw I was handcuffed to. While the others unloaded my boxes, the cuffs were removed.
A stern-faced screw was waiting behind a counter. There was no negotiation. He stated what was allowed at Parkhurst and what wasn't. I had entered the reception with several boxes. I left with one. The rest would stay in the property room until I moved on to a more liberal jail.
Carrying my box, I walked up a steep hill towards the wings. There were no neat paths or flower beds, just dirt, gravel, weeds and rubble.
We entered 'D' wing through a dingy corridor. It was quiet and deserted. I realised that it must be the dinnertime bang-up.
There was a con sitting on the hot-plate, just inside the gate. As he looked at me, a smile lit up his face. It was Jeff Bunning, a little raver who had been in the Albany trouble with me two years before.
'Hello, Norman,' he said. 'You've come to a right piss-hole here.'
I nodded a quick 'Hello' as we swept past. Within seconds, we were through into 'A' wing. A cell was open on the ones and I went inside with my box. The door banged shut behind me. I sat down in a dirty, dusty cell that obviously hadn't been occupied for weeks. Apart from my encounter with the reception screw, not one word had been said to me. I had arrived at Parkhurst.
Just before 2.00 p.m. the wing was unlocked. I heard a considerable hubbub as men hurried along landings and clattered down stairs. As I left my cell, I nearly bumped into someone coming in. The fat, balding face above the massive chest broke into a broad grin. It was Ken Cohen, an old pal of mine who I hadn't seen for several years. Then, he had been doing a five for long-firms. In the early Sixties, the Twins had several front-men running frauds for them. Sometimes, these front-men would forget who was really running things. It was Ken's job to remind them.
A Jewish boy who knew his way around a pound note, Ken was a big lump. A fattish 16 stone with a bull neck, his most striking feature was his chest. Heavy bench presses had pumped it up to enormous proportions.
Ken was no lumpen thug, though. He had both intelligence and style. His trademark had been to walk into the office of the offender all booted and suited, complete with an expensive briefcase. He would start off reasonably enough but, at some point in the conversation, would suddenly pull a steel hatchet from the briefcase and embed it in the desk in front of the petrified fraudsman. If the latter had had the presence of mind to look carefully, he would have noticed that Ken had gone to the trouble of having the hatchet gold-plated. No doubt this concession to style was lost on most of them.
'Glad to see you, Norman,' he said now, as he threw his arms around me and hugged me. 'Come and meet some of the fellas.'
We walked out on to the ones to find that a small crowd had gathered. I was introduced to about ten fellas. I immediately felt at ease, realising that I was in the company of my own kind. They were all Londoners. Most were robbers, but a couple were in for just violence. Although I had never met any of them before, some I had heard of and most were friends of friends.
About half were 'A' men like myself. I began to feel more at home. In most jails, Londoners stick together. It was almost traditional that they welcome one of their own on arrival.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Complete Parkhurst Tales by Norman Parker. Copyright © 1994 Norman Parker. Excerpted by permission of John Blake Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Dedication,
Foreword by Tom Mangold,
Preface: To Hollywood,
Introduction: Heart of a Killer, Soul of a Poet,
1 The Place by the Pond,
2 Arrival,
3 The Old Bailey,
4 Top-cat,
5 Shuffling Bob and the Slow-walkers,
6 Lennie and the Phantom,
7 Scouse Roy and the Twins,
8 Cooper's Troopers,
9 Dave the Rave,
10 The Submarine,
11 Billy G and the Drainhole Cell,
12 Albert the Terrorist,
13 Freedom Beyond,
14 Horace,
15 The Bomb,
16 Give 'Em a Body,
17 The Centre,
18 The Treatment Queue,
19 Wally and the Turds,
20 The Mackerel,
21 Baron Blunt,
22 Nut-Nut,
23 Mr Nice Guy,
24 The Poof Doctor,
25 Somebody Loves a Fairy at 40,
26 Hitler's Child,
27 The Albany Wall Game,
28 Of Escapes, Principles and Prison Politics,
29 The Food Protest,
30 The Sit-down,
31 The Chokey,
Glossary,
Copyright,