UTOPIAN DREAM

I must admit that I was not sorry to see Desmond go. He played his radio twelve hours per day, and whilst sitting on his own bed would put his shoes up on mine. He would also fill the piss bucket with his washing up water, instead of taking it to the wash room sluice, just two cells away. He also kept the window open all night, as he could not sleep without fresh air. Even though I was a firm believer in fresh air, I could not get to sleep as the cell was so cold. I got the feeling that he was deliberately trying to get my back up, so that I would cause trouble, giving him the excuse he needed to get the staff to transfer him, hopefully to the cell his mates were in. He had already tried to get me to ask the staff to move him on, and failed.

The previous day in the queue for meals, some of the gobshite had tried to jump the queue. The staff turned a blind eye. I got threatened by an inmate because I would not condone it. I later told Desmond that these kind of tactics could lead to a fit and a fight. He obviously felt concerned for his own safety, and asked me whether I wanted him to leave. I told him no, but he was not prepared to leave it at that. Inadvertently I had acted like my former cell mate on H wing, Roger Turvey.

By February 4th, 1987, I was beginning to get use to being on my own when my ninth cell mate in sixty-five days arrived on the scene. Whilst Desmond had looked like Stig in the pop group Police, my new cell mate Timothy Perm from Macclesfield, looked like the pop singer Rod Stewart. He told me that he was doing two years for assault, and expected to be transferred to a long term prison in a couple of weeks time, from where he would serve the remainder of his sentence.

Like Desmond he would also put his feet up on my bed. His other infuriating habit was to urinate in the piss bucket without picking it up, causing urine to splash up the wall, not to mention the thunderous noise. By his bed was the photograph of two young children which I assumed were his. Like many inmates, alcohol was to see his ruin. He told me that he would easily drink twelve pints per night. He generated an abundance of flatulence on a continuous basis, causing the cell to reek. He told me that it was caused by his drinking, but since he was no longer doing that, I concluded that it was due to the stress of being inside, and the mounds of prison bread that he ate. He would eat at least eight slices at each meal.

Tim felt bitter at the sentence he got, and was appealing against it. His story was that he had come out of a night club one night, when a female friend he was with accused another woman of stealing her money. Tim went over to the other woman, to sort the matter out. Two fellows came to the woman's assistance, whilst a couple of fellows backed up Tim. A nasty argument took place leading to ill feeling. Later Tim, his brother and another guy, attacked the other group with iron bars. Injuries sustained were serious, resulting in the police being called. Tim stated that at least one of the other two culprits did more harm than he did, but Tim evidently got the largest sentence, as the other two pleaded guilty and were either fined or given lesser prison terms before Tim's full trial took place months later. What made the incident sickening was the fact that the woman who said she had lost her money, later found it where she had hidden it, in a secret compartment inside her handbag.

That day I received a letter from my probation officer, stating that he had reserved a place for me in a hostel in Birmingham. Evidently the hostel had places for seventeen inmates, making it necessary for me to share a room. I felt relieved when the letter informed me that alcoholics and drug addicts were not accepted. There was no mention of misfits though. Evidently attempts were still continuing to find me a flat, which I would enter after my initial stay in the hostel.

I hoped that the hostel was nowhere near as bad as the accommodation I had moved into when I first arrived in Birmingham years earlier, in 1971. The accommodation, 9 Vicarage Road, Handsworth, consisted of a damp three storey terraced house, providing bed, breakfast and evening meal for about a dozen men. The house was owned by a grey haired, diminutive, sex starved, alcoholic widower. Each evening she would send one of the lads across to the off licence, to obtain for her a bottle of gin and a couple of tonics. At ten o'clock sharp, whilst all the lads were watching television in the lounge, she would switch off the electric fire from her room. There was no central heating nor double glazing. If you wanted warmth after that time, there was only one place you could get it, since all our beds were cold and damp. As it was, none of the lads wanted to know her, even when she made her occasional drunken reconnoitre in her negligee. She being quickly bundled back into her room.

That same day I received a letter from my mother, informing me that she had separately posted to me not only a chess set, but also a transistor radio. Since I was only told about the chess set, and the receipt book only stated 'post,' I developed the impression that someone was trying to rip me off.

That afternoon I received a second visit from Toff and Maxine. About a week before, Toff had undergone an operation on his bladder, so I was surprised to see him so soon afterwards. Both Maxine and I felt that Toff was out and about too early, particularly as the weather was so cold. Maxine again smiled at the children in the visiting room. We talked for ages as Toff plied me with coffee and chocolate biscuits from the servery. Suddenly without warning, the ever observant screws pounced on two young men at a nearby table. One of them was an inmate who was given two Mars bars by his visitor, who had brought them in. Since they could have contained drugs, the screws were taking no chances. The tropical fish swimming in the nearby aquarium appeared unconcerned by the commotion. The two young men were taken away.

In the news at this time was the death of Valentine 'Lee' Liberace, the popular pianist, extraordinaire, from the dreaded AIDS. NATO's Zircon electronic intelligence gathering spy satellite, being built by British Aerospace, was no longer a secret. The project probably cost around two hundred million pounds, and provided expensive news media entertainment for millions of British tax payers. Since the Russians now knew about the satellite, they now had plenty of time in which to construct counter measures designed to transmit worthless signals to it, or even jam it. The project was therefore cancelled. Clearly the Official Secrets Act was violated by someone, but no one was brought before the courts.

Evidently the act was reserved for retired British Intelligence officers like Peter Wright, whose book Spy Catcher hacked away at the secret closed nature of British government, an organisation which resented criticism of any kind. The case, fought in various countries in an attempt to stop publication of the book, or to wear down the publisher's resolve, was to cost the British taxpayer at least three million pounds. The Official Secrets Act would be used, and in some cases not used, in order to cover up the incompetence of government. The actions amounted to little more than blatant censorship, being a clear indication of the fragility of democracy in Great Britain at this time.

The Ealing vicarage rape trial ended with the gang leader receiving fifteen years imprisonment, and the two rapists getting ten and eight years each. One rapist later seriously injured the other, whilst the gang leader later had his appeal against sentence knocked back. Whether the sentences were of the sufficient duration, was in my opinion irrelevant, since a British prison was not an acceptable place to send anyone. I could well understand why people with criminal records were not allowed to do jury service.

On February the eighth I saw the movie The Cat People, with theme music by David Bowie. It was a very good movie, but poor audience. In my opinion the movie ranked second to The Emerald Forest. The film was not full of mindless violence. Someone had obviously slipped up. The film showed the only safe and dependable way of making love to a Brummie woman. She was tied to the bed first. The lads liked that idea, and there were a few comments on how the technique could have been improved. Being an excellent movie, we would no doubt have a few weeks of crap epics from then on.

Coming back from the cinema, I met Desperate Dan Sullivan. He was feeling quite sick at having been sentenced to six years imprisonment, whilst his brother who was on the YP's wing, had been sentenced to four and a half years. He no doubt wished that heroin had never existed.

The movie had been a bit blurred, which I put down to my eyesight. Tim told me that he had seen my name on the notice board, stating that my spectacles were ready for collection. When I went down to the twos at mealtime, I could not see my name on there. Surely someone would have informed me verbally, or handed the glasses to me. I did not know where to go to collect them, and following my mediocre eye examination, I was not in the mood to pursue the matter. That day I exercised my eyes further by writing four letters to my friends, telling them the good news about my parole.

The next day I received another letter from the Home Office. It stated that my request for terminal transfer had been turned down, as I could not be moved out of the region.

Meanwhile our governess had put up a notice on the black board on the twos, stating that;

I could not by any stretch of the imagination see inmates taking their posters down. There were no posters in my cell, just sickening graffiti. Cells decorated with posters, be they girlie or otherwise, looked far more homely. I wondered whether pornographic posters were being banned from the offices of prison staff. I had seen them in a few, the offices at the Hornby Hotel being no more than converted prison cells. I use to have posters on the wall of my office at work, as a counter to the despair my mother-in-law imposed on me each time I met her. The fact of the matter was that the inmates were only trying to rectify a problem which the Home Office cared little about, how to make a shit heap look homely.

That same day the entire landing was searched, including my cell. It was the first time my cell had been searched at the Hornby Hotel. The screws told us to take all of our bedding out onto the landing, where we had to shake them out, then drape them over the handrails. We stood on the landing whilst one officer stood at the cell door, and the other searched the cell. Upon returning to my cell I noticed that my bed had been pulled away from the wall. I kept my box under my bed with a blanket wrapped around it. Although the blanket had been pulled away, the contents of my box had not been disturbed. The incident left me wondering why the search had taken place. Were the screws looking for something specific, or was it just an exercise in deterrence? About an hour later, inmates from two cells opposite us were moved out, and workmen brought in for an inspection. Evidently holes had been found in the dividing wall. Some inmates just did not believe in giving up.

That afternoon I was called down to the PO's office to see the governess. She started reading a letter to me about my terminal transfer. The letter was apparently from Bedford Prison, stating that there were three inmates to a cell there. I interrupted her, informing her that my application for terminal transfer had been turned down. The governess then stated that she would look at my file and review the situation if I did not get full parole. I came away from the meeting thinking that the attitude of the prison authorities was far more positive here than at Risley Remand Centre.

February the thirteenth saw my cell mate Tim collect his radio from the personal property store. His wife had sent the radio in, but he was then required to make a formal application to obtain it, well in advance of the day of withdrawal, there being only one day per week when this could be done. The radio turned out to be dead. Tim was unable to unscrew the back without a screwdriver, so he pulled it off, breaking the casing slightly. I foolishly pointed out to him a broken connection. I advised him to resolder the joint using a lighted match, which he did. The radio was soon blaring away. My tinnitus was bad that day, but appeared to be on the decline, possibly due to less stress as a result of my forthcoming parole.

No sooner was the radio fixed than I had a visit from a welfare officer. It appeared from the conversation, that my probation officer had phoned him up, stating that I had expressed a desire not to go into a hostel. I told the man that I would tolerate a hostel, but that I would have preferred my own flat. He went away apparently satisfied with what I had told him. Maybe he had only come around to assess me. Another hurdle over, I thought.

Tim was belching and farting all day long. I could not help wondering whether there was something mental as well as physically wrong with him. I kept wondering how much longer I would have to put up with him. He seemed to wash himself an awful lot, probably in the hope that the cell would smell better. During the night he complained to me about the light from the landing lights, shining through the spy hole in the door. I wondered how he would have survived under the night lights and floodlights at Risley. The light through the cell window was not too bad either. Since the window was high up, and the cell being four stories up, meant that the outside floodlights lit up only a small portion of the cell ceiling. On the modernised wing with its large windows, there would be problems unless curtains were installed.

February the fourteenth, St.Valentine's Day, I received one card from my mother. Two days before I had sent her a letter informing her that I intended to go and live abroad for good, after my parole ended. The prison system and the uncaring society which I found myself in, had killed off any remaining attachment I had towards the British way of life. Since I did not wish to live in the European Community, I would probably have to become an illegal immigrant like Toff. Whereas the Soviet Union openly prevented its citizens from emigrating to the west, the British Government achieved similar results by giving most of its citizens criminal records. That day we watched the movie Flashpoint. As expected, it was crap. Just two weeks to go.

February fifteenth, 1987. I had not been in the exercise yard for some time, because of the cold. I had still not been to the gym, even though some of the lads said it was great. I was only interested in one thing, parole!

The next day was one of those rare days in the workshop. I spent the morning trimming shirts, which had already been trimmed, passing them on to inmates who would trim them for a third time. It was soul destroying work. Also working in the tailor's shop was Pugwash Games, but he was not engaged in making shirts. He had the interesting job of cutting up rolls of canvas for the production of mail bags. One of those making mail bags was Mack the Knife.

Shortly after the privatization of British Airways, it was revealed that some of their stewards had died from AIDS. Meanwhile it was rumoured that Jock, the AIDS victim from the hospital at Risley, was now in the Hornby Hotel, though I never met him there.

Tim Penn my cell mate, was expecting to be transferred on the eighteenth, but he was still there when I returned from the workshops on that date. Shortly afterwards I noticed that the box under my bed had been disturbed. It was easy to notice, since I folded the blanket over my box in a particular way. I did not know what to do about it. I should have asked the landing officer to move me, but I did not. Later that day the cell was searched again.

On the morning of the next day, my feelings as regards trimming shirts that had already been trimmed, came to the fore. I told the supervisor that I was not prepared to do it any more, as I found it pointless, He told me that if I refused to work then I would be put down the block. I informed him that I was not prepared to trim shirts, but that I was willing to work. After refusing to budge from this stance he offered me the cleaning job, which I immediately accepted. I now had a purposeful, none repetitive job. I could work at my own speed, which usually meant flat out. I did not have to sit around like everyone else either. Being a compulsive obsessive cleaner, I was in my element. I later learned that the job did not pay much, only another twenty-five pence per week. I did not mind however, as I knew that hopefully it would not be for long.

Whilst working that day I was apprehensive about the safety of my belongings in my cell. Later that morning I returned to it from the workshop, and waited on the landing for the cell door to be unlocked. Looking through the spy hole I could tell that my cell mate had gone, and that my bed had been disturbed. As the landing officer opened the cell I asked him to wait by the door. Evidently the blanket had been removed from my box, and my toiletries stolen. The screw told me that he could do nothing. I knew that my cell mate had stolen them, but proving it is another matter. It was just another parasitic example of prison life. I was not looking forward to sharing a hostel with umpteen of them.

I was on the verge of more manic fits when the landing officer came to my cell with good news. In his hand was a large white form with the words Home Office and Parole Decision printed in large letters. The form stated that I was to be released on parole on March 2nd, 1987, and that I was to reside where my probation officer decided, initially in an after care hostel in Birmingham. The address was given, It was clearly stated that the conditions of the licence could be changed or cancelled.

The full parole form which I had received was hearty news. To cheer me up further I received a letter that day from a friend on Anglesey. I was gladdened by this, coupled with the absence of my cell mate. He had a habit of switching on his radio when he stretched out for a nap, and would take the bulb out of the light socket when he was about to do some reading. And I thought it was I who needed a psychiatrist!

February the twentieth was apparently a day of rest, as I was not called out to work. Later that day my new cell mate arrived. His name was Howard Kinver, a young good looking lad with a quiet temperament. Apart from Gordon Harper, he was the only inmate whom I was able to communicate with fluently. The circumstances of his case should be a warning to all. He had a very attractive girlfriend whom he lived with. One day he went out with one of his mates, who introduced him to two young men, who talked him into doing a sub post office job. They went to the location immediately, scaled the walls and broke in. What they did not realise was that as soon as they entered the building, the silent alarm to the police station was activated. As they searched for the safe, the police arrived and arrested them. Within an hour of meeting the two young men, Howard was in a police cell. He kept the enormity of his crime from his girlfriend for as long as possible. When she learned the truth, she was naturally shocked. He felt sick at being in the Hornby Hotel. I could well understand why, since he had been sentenced to fifteen months imprisonment.

That evening the tea urn arrived for supper. It was normal practice for a couple of the inmates to slide it along the landing handrail from one cell to the next, whilst the landing screw unlocked each cell in turn. When our cell door finally opened, I stepped out and placed my mug under the urn's tap, but I was soon distracted by the sight of the screw reading a girlie magazine.

"Oi!" Yelled the inmate with the urn.

My lack of concentration had caused my mug to wander away from the tap, resulting in tea cascading onto the landing floor. The screw just grinned.

The next day I got the feeling that my cell mate was suffering from more than just flu. He complained to me about not having a clean towel each day, and could not understand why he had to share the prison nail clippers with anyone else. I thought he was taking the Hornby Hotel bit a little too seriously. I got the feeling that he was suffering from mild shock. Evidently he had not been on remand. A week or two earlier, he had been on holiday with his gorgeous girlfriend on the sun drenched volcanic isle of Lanzarote, part of the Canary Island archipelago in the Atlantic Ocean. The holiday snaps looked great. Yes I thought, he was going to find prison very hard to take.

Again I made the mistake of mentioning my mental illness and crime. I'm too honest. He bemoaned the fact that neither of us had a radio, resulting in the silence getting on his nerves. I did not apply for my radio, as I craved for a quiet life. He did not like reading the paperbacks that littered the cell, nor the magazines I offered him. He had evidently been in prison before, but did not act like it. He tried filling in a fine release form, but cocked it up. Evidently, whilst in prison all outstanding fines are cancelled, as it is assumed that the inmate will never pay them. I could tell from the printing on the form that he was of low intelligence. Why would such an attractive woman fancy a pillock like him, I wondered. The answer came from the back of my mind, but I wont write it down. At this point I had a mild fit. Just a shudder, as I stood by my bed.

"Are you all right?" Howard asked nervously.

"Yes," I replied, but my brief response later proved insufficient.

At slopping out I went to the lavatory. When I arrived back at my cell he had disappeared. About fifteen minutes after being banged up, the cell door opened again. Without saying anything Howard dashed in, collected all of his things together and dashed out with them, without even saying 'it was nice knowing yea.' He had obviously argued it out with the staff, telling them that I was a raving loony, and that he was afraid for his safety. It was obviously the way I tell 'em.

Get me out of here!

That day I saw the movie Brewster's Millions. It was an excellent comedy, and just what everyone needed in order to cheer themselves up.

Sunday, February 22nd, 1987, was pay day and a chance to buy things from the canteen, including of course, toiletries. I was paid one pound and fifty-five pence that week, which included my pay for sweeping the workshop floor.

February the twenty-fifth was another work day, along with yesterday. I received a letter from Toff, informing me that his brother had finally died. During her visit to me, Sheila had told me about her visit to Toff's brother. He was an elderly alcoholic who was incapable of looking after himself, and yet refused to go to Australia with Toff, or into care. Sheila described his home as a disaster area, with filth everywhere. The kitchen sink was full of pots and pans. The cutlery was all corroded to the steel draining board. His death was a relief to all. In his letter, Toff stated that he would meet me upon my release from prison.

February 26th was the fourth working day that week. I put in a lot of effort in keeping the workshop clean. I was inevitably covered in sweat by the end of the stint. It kept me fit. Whilst in prison I had gained over a stone in weight, and was now glad to lose some.

After returning from the workshop I received a note from my probation officer Cyril G Bezant, via the welfare department. Evidently he wanted me to call into his office on the day of my release, as he had further positive news regarding long term accommodation for me. I was to go to his office before going to the hostel. I did not know whether he meant a flat, or a place in a mental hospital. The thought occurred to me that the incident with Howard may have been discussed by the prison staff, and that it had been decided that such an incident in a hostel simply was not on. I had toyed with the idea of going to Dublin from Liverpool, via B + I Ferries on the day of my release. Now I was not so sure. Anyway, they were on strike. Typical!

February the twenty-seventh started off much like any other day. I was escorted together with the other lads from my landing, along to the workshop. After cleaning the toilets a screw came into the tailor's workshop, and called out my name and number.

"Weren't you told to go to the A ones this morning for discharge papers?" I was asked by the screw.

"No," I replied.

"One off sir," said the screw looking peeved as he escorted me away.

I was escorted together with another lad from number two workshop, which was below number three tailor's workshop, to A wing number one landing. There were about a hundred lads there, just sitting and standing around, waiting for their name and number to be called out. Some appeared to be new arrivals. What a thought.

After waiting ages I was called into a side room, another cell converted into a rudimentary office. Behind a desk sat a prison officer and a very smart woman whom I assumed to be an assistant governor. I did not take my eyes off her as she studied the desk top. I was asked by the prison officer to sign two identical forms. On the top of each white form was the word Licence in very large black letters. This was my official parole licence, all neatly typed out. I signed both forms just below where it stated my earliest date of release, August 27th, 1987. This was to be the date on which my parole would expire. Another form was presented to me. The form was in faint lettering with some large words in dark type. It was obviously designed so as not to be read easily. I have no idea what the form was about. My eyes strained to read it.

"Do you have any problems?" Asked the prison officer.

"No," I replied.

"Then sign there against the words, no problems," ordered the prison officer.

I did as he instructed. As I did so he spoke again.

"You are not allowed to possess firearms for life!"

I felt I had signed something more significant than I had first thought. It could have been my own death warrant. On the bright side there appeared to be no ban on steel toe capped boots, commando daggers, crossbows, throwing stars, nor even hatchets. Were flare guns and flame throwers considered firearms, I wondered. Not only was I not allowed time to read the small print, but neither was I given a copy of what I had signed, so that question remained unanswered.

"Right, wait outside," ordered the prison officer.

No sooner had I sat down than a hospital officer called out my name. I followed him into another room where I was weighed.

"Sixty-four (kilograms)," he exclaimed to a male civilian, whom I took to be the doctor.

"Do you feel OK?" The doctor asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"OK," the doctor replied, and beckoned me to leave.

I was then escorted back to my cell. It was that easy.

At that late stage I would not have said yes even if I had been suffering from gangrene of the mouth. I had been interviewed for five minutes by a doctor upon my arrival at the Hornby Hotel, to whom I had mentioned my tinnitus and dyspepsia. I was not impressed by his appearance or manner. I also told him about my anxiety neurosis.

"But you're not suffering from that now are you, not after all this time in hospital?" Said the doctor, more telling than asking me.

"No," I replied, feeling browbeaten.

At that late stage in my sentence I was in no mood to argue. So officially, whilst at the Hornby Hotel I did not have my mental illness. Unofficially, I had it when I arrived, and still had it when I left. I felt certain that only outside prison would I receive the medical treatment I should have received three years before.

Saturday the twenty-eighth saw me back in the cinema again for the last time, watching the movie Biggles. I did not think much of it. Maybe my mind was on other things. Whilst at the Hornby Hotel, I could definitely have done with watching 2010, ET or The Right Stuff, but no such luck.

That Sunday I was paid one pound and eighty-eight pence. I was told it included fifty-one pence for working. I had butterflies in my stomach all that week, hoping that nothing would happen to screw up my expectations. I was glad that the anticipation was almost over.

Monday, March 2nd, 1987 finally arrived. The early hours in bed passed slowly. The prison inmates had been shouting from their cell windows during the night, nigger baiting by the sound of it. Then Mighty Watt from upstairs on the fives started playing his tape recorder so loud, it could have been a ghetto blaster. It went on till the early hours of the morning.

"Dreamer, nothing but a dreamer," Mighty Watt would sing.

I felt like making him dream permanently. Finally the night duty officer switched on my cell light. After what seemed like tormented moments, an officer opened the door.

"Are you ready?" The screw asked.

"Yes," I said, as I stumbled out of bed.

I quickly folded my three blankets, two sheets, pillowcase and that heavy green bedspread. I packed my few remaining belongings into my box. I washed and shaved as the screw bellowed out my name from the twos. It would have looked good if they had left me there an extra day, I thought. No doubt the Home Office would have presented me with a bill for the extra days board.

Somehow I managed to pick up my box and bedding, and made my way down two flights of open stairs unassisted. I deposited my library books outside the PO's office, then proceeded along the twos through G and A wings to reception. There were about half a dozen lads to be collected on the way, who like me were about to be released. At reception we changed into our civies. I felt deeply conscious of the fact that my suit was not only covered in creases but also was very tight fitting, since I had put on so much weight. Someone told me that I could have applied to have a suit made for me in prison, ready for my EDR, but as I was given parole at short notice this was impractical.

Whilst getting dressed, one of the lads put an illicit letter down the front of his Y fronts. We were all given a rub down search, but the letter was not found. My box, filled to the brim with magazines, letters, books and my writings, was taken away into the office to be searched. My heart thudded heavily. The screw had not been amused by the sight of my box.

"All of this should have been searched last night," he said in disgust.

Whilst my box was being searched I had to sign various forms in receipt of my private cash, which consisted of forty-eight pounds and eighty-nine pence, plus twenty-seven pounds and seventy-five pence national assistance which was part of the sixty-two pounds that my probation officer had informed me would be sent direct to my hostel by the prison authorities. I was later required to hand over ten pounds of this to the hostel manager upon my arrival there.

I also signed for the belongings which had been kept in store for me, including my calendars, on the backs of which was part of my diary. I was given my computer chess set, which had cost my mother forty pounds. It was still in its box and padded envelope, along with a spare set of Duracell batteries. For some reason the screw appeared reluctant to let me have my radio and wrist watch. After prompting him, he looked at the back of the card he was holding and said, oh yes. I got a strong feeling that if I had not asked him for them, then I would not have seen them again. It was a good thing that I was not too ill to remember, unlike some inmates, many of whom would have been more interested in getting the hell out of the place.

My box was finally handed back to me, without comment. It appeared that it had not been disturbed too much. Nevertheless, I took the box into the reception dining area, and checked everything. There was nothing missing. Finally we were led outside, across the yard to the main gate, which consisted of two sliding doors. We had to give our name and number to the gate officer. It was eight o'clock when the outer sliding door was opened. As it did so, the inmates marched against a tide of workers coming in.

I walked out into the early morning sunshine and fresh air. Standing in the car park I looked around me. I recognised no one. Toff was not there, nor were any of my relatives and friends. At that hour of the morning I was not unduly surprised. There were few people to greet the newly released inmates. Some obviously lived locally, as they walked off alone into the nearby housing estate. I walked off carrying my box, which must have weighed at least twenty-five kilograms, to the nearby railway station, The station was about four hundred metres down the road, so I had been told. I had to stop and rest a number of times, as my numb fingers lost grip of the smooth box. Just before the station, I came across a telephone kiosk. I put ten pence in and got twenty pence out. The telephone did not work, but it definitely appeared to be my lucky day.

Handling money again presented no difficulties, as I bought my rail ticket. After a few minutes standing aimlessly on the platform, the suburban train arrived. Sitting on one of the seats, I came face to face with the general public for the first time. There they sat, grim vacant faces, commuting to work. I had left the protected atmosphere of prison and been confronted by the rat race, that eternal struggle by citizens to keep their heads above water and out of the poverty trap. Responsibility and problems obviously lay ahead.

After entering the underground system I changed trains, before finally arriving at Lime Street Station. I telephoned my mother from the station, who informed me that my probation officer had arranged an interview for me the next day, regarding a flat. I caught the nine twenty from platform seven, arriving at Birmingham New Street at eleven twenty. From there I went via taxi to see my probation officer as planned. The taxi fare cost one pound fifty, the cabbie asking me whether I wanted a receipt. I said no, as I doubted whether I would get a refund.

At reception, I informed them who I was and whom I wanted to see. My probation officer was in the reception area, but neither of us recognised the other. Cyril G Bezant was wearing casual clothes, whilst I had considerably longer hair than when we had met in Risley. Cyril took me upstairs to his office, where he briefed me on my two appointments the next day. Everything appeared to be going smoothly. As he was going that way, he offered to give me a lift to the hostel. I naturally accepted.

The hostel was a large house in a well to do leafy suburb not far from the BBC Pebble Mill television studios. I think it would be true to say that after the noise and grime of prison, the hostel's calm and cleanliness was a welcomed surprise. I could not help thinking that this was what prison should have been like. There was a dining room that had seating for sixteen, a television room in which reading material was available, a living room below my bedroom, where we could make ourselves a cup of tea or coffee, a wash room where we had access to the washing machine, whilst upstairs was a shower room, bathroom and bedrooms. I shared a bedroom with one other lad. I was given a key to my bedroom and the back door, through which I had to enter when returning late at night. There were no restrictions on coming and going.

Also on the ground floor was accommodation for three members of staff. There were also two members of staff living out, plus two cleaners. Located on the ground floor was the kitchen, where the duty officer, an Irishman called Bert, surprised me by cooking me two large bacon and egg sandwiches. Such acts of humanity did not go unnoticed by me during the short period that I was to stay there. The hostel was run by a charity. I do not think the Home Office could have run a place like that in a month of Sundays.

That afternoon I had a shower, ironed my suit, got a haircut, then got some new batteries fitted into my wristwatch. I was now able to tell the time of day for the first time in two years and ten months. I needed a tie for the interview, but failed to get one. That day I tried out my radio for the first time. It worked perfectly. My mother had gone to a lot of trouble to get a radio without VHF/FM. It was a pity that now that I had it, there was no such restriction, as there were no guards at the hostel. I tested my computer chess. It worked, but I failed miserably. By the end of the day my entire body ached from all the carrying and walking, three miles at least. Both my body and brain needed a long awaited rest that night, as I went to bed at ten o'clock as usual.

At ten o'clock the next morning I visited the Department of Unemployment, by appointment. I first visited the Jobcentre next door, but when I told them that I had just come out of prison, I was told to register immediately as unemployed. As regards getting a job, I got the impression that it was an unrealistic expectation. The benefit office was very smart compared to that at Llangefni, where six and a half years before I had first signed on for supplementary and unemployment benefit. I filled in a couple of forms, and to my amazement was then given an application form for supplementary benefit, without having to beg for it first, which evidently had to be posted to my local DHSS office. I filled the form in at lunchtime that day, amongst the salad eating businessmen and women in the Yard of Ale in New Street, as I sipped my first alcoholic drink in almost three years. The half pint of lager and lime tasted great!

I told the DHSS nothing about my savings. After my experiences on Anglesey, in which I had told them the truth and got nowhere, I realised that the simpler the application for benefit was, the better my chances were of no complications arising. As it was, I was not called for interview by the DHSS, receiving my first benefit giro for eighty-one pounds forty-three pence per week within a few days. I was amazed by the quick response. The benefit consisted of sixty-two pounds twenty-three pence for the hostel warden, seven pounds seventy-five pence for myself for midday meals, together with ten pounds personal allowance. In truth a midday meal was not necessary, as breakfast and evening dinner were perfectly adequate. I later came to realise that I was financially better off in the hostel than in a flat.

After posting my benefit application form to the DHSS I visited Marks & Sparks department store, in order to complete my attire. I bought a tie to match my shirt, and knotted it there and then. I hoped that I now looked presentable for the second interview of the day, at a housing association. My probation officer had arranged the interview. I was not apprehensive, as I had been too busy to think about it since returning to Birmingham.

The interview took place in the city centre, just a short walk from the store. Reading the literature in the reception area, I was impressed by the new properties which the housing association had commissioned. I was interviewed by a Mrs. Norton, but I did not get the impression that I was being interviewed. She wanted to know how long I had been in prison, and when my parole ended. I assumed that she already knew about me from Cyril, so I was not reluctant in answering. As I answered the questions, she filled in a form.

The housing association already had a flat available for me. It was located in a tower block within easy walking distance of the city centre. She described to me the flat and the security arrangements, then stated that it would be available in three weeks time. It sounded all right. I was informed that the housing association would have to make a formal offer before I would be allowed to visit the place. I came away thinking that for once the interview had gone well.

That evening back at the hostel, I discussed the matter with the resident warden, whose name was Harry, together with my probation officer. Cyril told me that he would have to see the place before he could approve it. I told Cyril and Harry that I wanted to visit my parents and collect a suitcase of clothes from them, since I only had the clothes I stood up in. It was agreed that I could stay there until Sunday, if my parents OKed it. I telephoned my mother that evening, necessitating a long cold walk to a phone booth near Birmingham University, half a mile away. The road gritters were out that evening, so snow was obviously expected.

The next morning, a Thursday, I travelled down to Northamptonshire by train. The service on British Rail trains had improved during the years I had been out of circulation, no doubt as a result of the high unemployment figures and better management. These were the days of the Walkman or personal hi-fi, a rather depressing sight in my opinion, since it indicated to me the indifference users had towards their fellow man. It was probably the ultimate in social isolationism. That foundation to warped thinking, mental illness, crime and ultimately that eternal curse, tinnitus.

At the other end of the line my stepfather met me. He was now longer in face and short of breath, but seemed to cope well when driving his car. It was a short drive from the station to my parent's home, a modern detached chalet house on the outskirts of a village. Upon seeing my mother I realised that like her mother, she had lost height due to osteoporosis. She had obviously ignored my letter from prison explaining how it could be prevented. My mother was now harder in outlook, no doubt due to her strained marriage, and the disgrace I had brought upon the family. With all their money, I simply could not understand why they did not live in Spain, or somewhere equally as warm. That evening I went through my personal belongings, that my mother and brother had collected from Holyhead one year earlier. Much to my dismay a number of items were missing, including my brown anorak, which I now needed to ward off the cold. I felt sickened, but at least I still had much upon which to build a new life. My mother had done a good job at washing and dry cleaning my belongings, an act which I felt deserved more than just thanks.

Friday, March 6th, 1987 was the date the Townsend Thoreson ferry Herald of Free Enterprise capsized just outside Zeebrugge Harbour. The bow doors had been inadvertently left open or ajar, whilst the ferry itself was trimmed down by the bow, adding to the inherently unstable design. This contributed to the rate at which the sea water eventually gushed in. The vessel capsized in darkness. Half submerged, one hundred and ninety three passengers and crew died from drowning or hypothermia, as a flotilla of boats and rescue helicopters swarmed around it. Life jackets had blocked the exits, large floor to ceiling windows had shattered letting in more sea water, whilst hand holds to assist escape were notably absent from the listing vessel. There were no closed circuit television cameras or warning lights to tell the crew on the bridge whether the bow doors and other watertight doors were closed. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

The Herald of Free Enterprise disaster involved the largest loss of life on a British registered vessel in peace time since the loss of the Titanic. Although the captain, chief officer and bosun were reprimanded, the question of whether legal action should be taken against them, or individuals in the shipping company where warnings were apparently ignored, or the body that approved the design and operation of the ship, was left in legal limbo even though the inquest verdict was manslaughter. It had been two years since the capsize of another British ferry. How long it would be before watertight double bottoms, side buoyancy tanks, transverse watertight doors on car decks, and escape chutes were made mandatory, remained to be seen. Had the ship been Soviet registered then no doubt the punishment would have been swift. The disaster was another example of the apathy within government. I had left the merchant navy because I could not take the responsibility involved. Had I known that the penalties for negligence would be less severe than expected, my anxiety state would no doubt have remained submerged. As my parents and I sat in the warm living room watching the rescue on television, I was under no illusions about the problems passengers and crew would be facing. A few years before, Karen and I had walked around a new car ferry in Holyhead, during public open day. I was shocked by the narrowness of the corridors, and the apparent absence of emergency escape exits.

On the evening of the next day I went with my brother and his wife for a drink at my parent's local, The Bell, one of the oldest pubs in Britain. The large open fireplace was a stark contrast to the cold outside. It was the first time since leaving prison that I felt really relaxed. As they returned home that evening it began to snow. The next day I returned to Birmingham with a suitcase of clothes. About seven centimetres of snow had fallen whilst I had been away. I had a longer walk than usual to the hostel, as in the darkness I missed my bus stop. Walking from the bus stop I fell over a number of times on the ice, but finally, feeling very cold, I reached my haven. How old people coped, I simply could not imagine, as the snow and ice hung around for days.

The next day, Monday, March the ninth, I visited Cyril in his office. We did not have much to talk about, as I was still waiting for a letter of acceptance from the housing association. At lunchtime I visited another of my old haunts, the Bar St Martin, located at the base of one of the most distinctive buildings in the city centre, the Rotunda office block. I was disappointed. In the three years I had been away it had not changed. It was badly in need of redecorating, and as I was to discover later, it now seriously lagged behind the competition as regards decor. I signed on at the Department of Unemployment at two o'clock.

On the following Wednesday I at last received a letter from the housing association. They offered me the studio flat described to me at my interview, at a rent of one hundred and twelve pounds eighty-four pence per calendar month, which included a charge of ten pound forty-five pence for communal heating and hot water. After discussing the matter with my probation officer, he later picked me up at the hostel, then we headed into town to see it. Upon our arrival I was immediately impressed with the architecture, which I initially thought to be of a higher standard than council tower blocks. Called Trident House at Granville Square, it was a brown bricked tower block thirteen and nineteen storeys high, built on an east-west axis parallel to a busy road, containing about three hundred flats for single people. The grounds were well maintained, with closed circuit television cameras with infra-red capability located at strategic points. The place was definitely the sort of prison I would have liked to have been kept in.

The television cameras were monitored at the reception, which was occupied by a very attractive woman. The place looked more like a hotel, with a plaque on the wall inside the main entrance, indicating that the place had been opened by some bigwig in 1981. The receptionist, called Mandy, took us up to see the studio flat. I found it difficult to remember much of the building after that, as my eyes became transfixed upon Mandy's wiggly backside, which in the black tight fitting dress she wore, looked magnificent. Her honey blond hair, which stuck out in all directions, looked very erotic. She fulfilled my view of what a call girl should look like. Unfortunately I did not believe in going with such women. As we went up in the lift, I noticed the electronic pager she was clutching, or was it a rape alarm?

Like many of the other flats, there were two locks on the door of the one that we viewed, together with a spy hole, which unlike in prison was used for looking through from within. The studio flat was four metres by six metres overall. The hall was two metres long, to the left of which was the kitchenette housing a refrigerator and electric cooker, plus wall cabinets and sink. To the right of the hall was the shower room, housing a flush toilet and hand basin. At the entrance to the combined lounge/bedroom was a storage room one metre by two metres. The living area contained a table and two chairs, a single bed, wardrobe, easy chair and a chest containing three small draws. Considering the amount of gear I had at my parent's place, there appeared to be inadequate space in the flat, and certainly the storage space for clothes was less than I needed. The flat was however a great improvement on the flatlet I had lived in for three years in Aston. I measured the windows for the curtains which my mother said she would provide.

The disadvantages of the flat were not immediately obvious to me, although Cyril soon pointed out that as the windows looked north, there would be no direct sun light, what little of it there was that year. I needed the sun to cheer me up and get me up in the morning. Below the ninth floor window there were car parks, used constantly. Across the road there was a night club and public house which would obviously prolong the noise of the day. Fifty-metres away was the main road, which would provide almost continuous noise and grime. The windows were draught proof, ideal for keeping out the decibels and air pollution, providing of course you were not forced to open them. The communal heating system was to bring that problem to the fore, Since the charge was fixed, it did not matter to some tenants how often they had the heating on, and how often they had the windows open.

The heating consisted of radiators without thermostatic control. Being primitive Great Britain, there was of course no air conditioning. Ideally the tower block, located in a noisy dirty environment, should have had thermostatically controlled ducted air central heating and air conditioning, with sealed windows. As it was I had great difficulty in controlling even the radiator, which when manually turned off would not only stubbornly remain hot, but would amplify noise generated in the heating system. The radiator valves were pressure sensitive, designed to open in warm weather when too many tenants turned their radiators off, thereby preventing the still turning pumps from blowing the pipeline gaskets. After a few months of torture I finally cured this problem by turning off the radiator isolation valves with a screwdriver. Even so, during the summer I sweltered in the heat from the flats below, cheered only by the knowledge that those living on the south side were broiling.

Had I known about these problems at the time, I doubt whether they would have made any difference to my ultimate decision. I desperately wanted a place to myself, in which I could relax and shed off the stress that had haunted me for so long. Meanwhile the tour continued. Back on the ground floor Mandy showed us the resident's lounge and garden area. There was no tenant's association, but why I simply could not figure out, as the place looked great. The answers were to slowly dawn on me in the coming months. The housing association's brochure mentioned discos and film shows organised by the tenant's association when it was first opened. It would have been nice for me to have enjoyed such facilities, particularly as there were so many single people living there. Also on the ground floor was a shop and the main launderette, with mini launderettes on every fifth floor, which were later converted into flats.

That afternoon I visited the housing association's office and spoke to Mrs. Pritchard, who was responsible for dealing with the tenants in the tower block. I told her that I accepted the offer of accommodation. She informed me that the housing association required four weeks rent from the DHSS before I could move in, and advised me to go and see the DHSS in Northfield. This was contrary to the advice I had received from Cyril, who had told me to go to the DHSS Ladywood. I decided to accept Mrs. Pritchard's advice, and went to Northfield, a considerable distance by bus. Upon my arrival I was informed that I should have gone to Ladywood. I returned immediately to my hostel feeling mentally and physically worn out, and wrote a letter to the DHSS in Lady wood instead. I also wrote to Mrs. Pritchard telling her what I had done, and to my mother stating the sizes of the two windows in the flat.

That day I received a letter from Toff. It did not say much, but what it did say explained clearly to me what Toff wanted of me.

He wrote....'friendship is like a flower, it requires constant care and attention.'

It was clear to me that Toff was bisexual, but no matter how much money he had, he was not going to get the chance to screw in my shit. I never wrote to him again after that, and threw his letter away in disgust. He would have to be content with his wife's anus, or a rent boy I thought.

Friday the thirteenth of March was the date I applied for a cheque book and cheque card for my bank account, which had contained about six hundred pounds without interest for the best part of three years. I also wrote to the Extra Building Society, instructing them to close the account. I still felt very bitter about the way I had been treated by all.

That evening I hoped to meet my friends in the Bar St Martin, as I had written to them. My friend Ellis turned up with his girlfriend Ann and another friend called Herman. He was a negro car mechanic who later became a probation officer. I was very pleased to see Ellis after so many years, and embraced him. We stayed there all evening, drinking lager and moving to the groove of the music put out by the DJ. For the first time since my release I felt a part of society. I later concluded that my next step was to find a girlfriend. Most of my problems I was to overcome with little difficulty, but the problem of not having a girlfriend was to become insoluble. Maybe I did not have the incentive, for I had nothing to offer a woman except the pain that I felt deep within me.

I thought that the best way to find a decent woman would be at evening classes. I tried to find out details of evening classes commencing in April. I visited the central library, municipal buildings known affectionately as the council house, education department and careers department, but got nowhere. No wonder our prisons were full of alcoholics, I thought. I did eventually get information by post about council run adult education classes, and classes at the local university, but since neither enclosed a map showing exactly where the centres were, just a street name a mile long, I eventually got pissed off with the problem and gave up. In my mental state I simply could not afford to dwell on problems.

The next evening I met Ellis and Ann in the Bar St Martin, later moving on to Millionaires, its name making it the most popular night club in the city. I could not stand either place, for the music was too loud for my ears to endure. Perhaps my hearing, which had been subjected to constant noise for almost three years, had become too sensitive to sudden outbursts of really loud noise. I did not like traditional pubs, favouring those with disco sounds frequented by women I preferred, namely dolls and tarts. Unfortunately the speaker systems in the pubs and clubs that I went to were hardly conducive to the promotion of conversation, the volume of the music being in the range of one hundred and twenty decibels plus, or so I thought. The night clubs were the home to artificial plants, mirrors of all sizes and shapes on the walls, plus motion lighting, glitter balls and smoke generators in the ceiling.

As it cost three pound to get into Millionaires, I did not buy a drink, but concentrated instead upon getting a dance. I got nothing, except a loss of confidence. Over the years Birmingham had not changed. It was still an unfriendly city. Some chaps chatted up the women for fifteen minutes or more, and got nowhere. All they wanted was a dance, instead they would become either violent or neurotic. Judging by the response from the women, you would have thought they had asked for sex. Standing at the side of the dance floor was a very attractive and intelligent looking woman, wearing a black figure hugging dress. She was definitely the sort of woman I could go steady with, I thought, I plucked up the courage and walked over to her.

"Would you like to dance?" I asked.

"No tar," she replied.

I was struck dumb by the body blow, and moved away feeling very sick. For the rest of the evening she gave me occasional glances, but I could not bring myself to ask her again.

At one night club my mates took me to, there was no verbal response at all. She just stuck her tongue out at me. I presume she did not want a French kiss. I never knew in advance whether an incident like that would bring out my neurosis. Some did, but that evening she lived, no doubt to do it to someone else later. What had happened to society I wondered. Why was there so much distrust? Why was there so much disrespect shown to men by women? Why was there so much hatred in the hearts of many women, that they found it impossible to even tell you their first name?

I went to numerous night clubs, visiting Millionaires twice, Bobby Browns twice, Burberries three times, Powerhouse once and Pagoda Park once, all in a period of four months. I got precisely one dance and one dance only, and that was from a nurse called Kay in Burberries. Maybe she felt sorry for me. Eventually I stopped going to night clubs altogether. I got a deep seated impression that women only went there to piss fellows around, though just why took me a long time to figure out. It left me wondering whether Birmingham really deserved to be the location for major exhibitions, conventions and of course the Olympic games.

That night I left Ellis and Ann at Millionaires, returning to the hostel on the hourly night service bus, fare one pound. Total expenditure that evening had been seven pounds, with little to show for it except ringing in my ears. Whilst the drinking glasses on the tables had danced to the sound of the music, I had not. Unlike some, I was not prepared to dance with a fella at any price. I came to the conclusion that next time I would have to take some ear defenders, and my computer chess in order to while away the time.

On Sunday night I went out on the tiles alone, to Cagneys, a pub run by Davenports, its brewery being just a short distance from where I lived. Cagneys was a small but popular pub. Located underground, the mirrors on the wall made it look larger than it actually was. Needless to say it also had lights and a DJ producing an abundance of loud music. Since I was never a great conversationalist, and had little to talk about anyway, being on the dole and having a shady past, these types of public houses appealed to me more. Gradually I was to find out where most of them were.

On the Tuesday morning I made my weekly visit to see Cyril in his office. After some discussion I spoke to Mrs. Pritchard over the telephone from Cyril's office, and asked her whether I could move in if I paid the four weeks advance rent myself, on the proviso that it would be returned as soon as the DHSS coughed up the money. She agreed. At this meeting with Cyril, I told him about the problems I had in living at the hostel. The hostel was a large old house. My bedroom contained the water tanks, which ran constantly up until midnight. The room had no ceiling to speak of, whilst the large sash windows were a source of considerable heat loss. Despite going to bed early, I was kept awake by the inmates talking in the lounge until three o'clock in the morning. My room mate was also coming and going all night. The mind boggled as to what he was up to. The place was wearing me down. I desperately needed a room to myself. A self service breakfast and excellent three course meals in the evening were not enough.

That afternoon I gave Mrs. Pritchard four weeks rent in cash, receiving in exchange my tenancy agreement. Immediately after this meeting I went to the rental company, to hire a van for the next day. I had never done it before. They asked for details about my employer. I got the strong impression that if I had no job, then I would not be allowed to hire a vehicle. I showed them my driving licence, which had my Welsh address still on it, and my ten year passport. I also gave them the address of an ex-employer, and hoped that they would not check up on me. The following morning I went to the rental company.

"Which division of the company do you work for?" The woman behind the counter asked.

They had evidently checked, but as it was a large company they could get no positive response. I knew which division I use to work for, but I did not reply to the question. I gave them the telephone number of my destination, my parent's home, and they seemed satisfied with that. After handing over the money, I picked up the ignition keys and I was off. It was the first time I had driven a vehicle for over five years, and the first time since my manic fits had become apparent. It was only the second time I had driven a large van. Quite frankly, I was scared stiff of having an accident.

I drove the Ford Transit van to the hostel, where I picked up my belongings and settled my financial affairs. It was at this point that I was handed an envelope from the safe. It turned out to be my four weeks rent from the DHSS, which I would later give to Mrs. Pritchard. I then drove to my new home, picking up the keys at reception. I took my box and suitcase of belongings up to the flat, but I was unable to unlock the door. I left the keys at reception with instructions for the lock to be fixed, then returned to the van with my belongings. I set off for Northamptonshire using the motorways and expressway. I made rapid progress, arriving at my parent's place two hours later.

With the help of my parents I quickly loaded the van, but I did not like the idea of unloading it by myself when I arrived back in Brum. One of the disadvantages of not having a girlfriend, I thought. Fortunately my stepfather came up with the answer, a collapsible trolley. I did not hang around at my parent's place, as I wanted to unload during daylight, which at that time of the year was in short supply. I returned to Birmingham, arriving at four o'clock. Unloading took two and a half hours, which was far shorter than I thought it would be. I had left all my car maintenance and gardening equipment back at my parent's place, along with many books, writings and paintings which I felt I would not need for a long time, if ever.

The only casualty was my large free standing lamp, which I later stuck together as it added character to the place. The electricity in the flat came on at half past seven. As for the trouble with the lock, there was nothing wrong with it. I had simply turned the keys the wrong way. I got the distinct feeling that I could never have been a screw. I had trouble with the living room light. Each time I threw the switch the hall light would come on, but not the one in the living room. I changed the bulbs, but that made no difference. I complained to the staff on reception about it, to which they made a note of it. A few minutes later I realised why the light had not worked. I had thrown the wrong switch. Feeling a right fool, I rushed down to the reception and told them that I had fixed it. My brain was obviously feeling cabbaged. The drive had been long and exhilarating. The first time my brain had been put to good use for years. It was reassuring to realise that during all those hours of driving, at no time did I have a fit or feel that I was going to have one. I was however far from out of the woods in that respect.

The next day after returning the van, I sorted out my flat. I amazingly found room for everything, partly by putting excess belongings behind the wardrobe. I fitted the two pairs of curtains my mum had given me, then bought a weeks' supply of groceries from the local supermarket.

On Thursday the nineteenth I returned to the supermarket buying a new upright kettle, as I discovered that although my old electric kettle looked great, it did unfortunately leak. At the same time I bought a mini fryer, something which came into heavy use owing to my strong liking for chipped potatoes. That evening I tried out my video recorder, but the drive spindles would not turn the new cassette I had bought. I later sent it off for repair. It was five weeks before I got it back, even though the repair company had the parts in stock. I think they were afraid that I would not pay the bill. All it needed was a new drive wheel. Evidently the rubber perishes on them after three years. Something which no one had warned me about when I bought it. I rarely used my video recorder. Indeed I was to watch my teletext TV only about twelve hours per week, compared to twenty-seven hours for the average British family.

All my old video cassettes were missing, and so was the television lead to my home computer. I bought a new lead for it a couple of weeks later, and was pleased to discover that my computer and video games worked well. It was then packed up and never used again. I got no enjoyment out of playing it on my own. Whenever I saw it I was reminded of one thing. The smiling face of Karen. She was never to be far from my thoughts, as my life remained in limbo. I regretted not having given the Sinclair Spectrum computer and video recorder to my wife when she had asked my solicitor for it. My solicitor said that she would never be able to operate them alone, and in my drugged state I had agreed. Like the police, my solicitor had written her off without speaking to her.

By Friday I was short of money. My bank account had still not been reactivated, and when I transferred my building society money, I was told that it would take ten days to clear the cheque. Clearly the building society did not trust the Xtra Building Society any more than I did. Also, the housing association had still not returned my four weeks rent, now that they had the money from the DHSS. I was not amused by all this chicanery. The British pastime of patient queuing had never come naturally to me.

In the city centre that day, my feelings were to sink even lower. Quite by chance I met my friend Jackie in Corporation Street. She had not replied to the letters I had sent to her during my last year in prison. She looked old, and the friendly sparkle in her eyes was not there any more. She told me that she was no longer living with her husband, and that she was now divorced. Apparently her life had changed completely, as she no longer came into the city in the evenings. She would not tell me where she now lived. She hurried off back to her car. I felt so empty inside. I was never to see her again.

That evening, after seeing Ellis and Ann in the Yard of Ale and Bar St Martin, I went to Pagoda Park night club, alone. Without a doubt it was the most lavish night club I had ever seen, and from an engineering point of view was well worth the price of admission. The night club was on two or three levels, between which the DJ's booth travelled. A waterfall about seven metres high descended into a pool. There were at least three dance floors of various sizes. The place deserved an architectural award, Obviously some of the customers were not as impressed as I, for the evening was marred by a running fight which originated behind me near the head of the waterfall, involving drunken young men. The fight rapidly descended towards the main exit.

"This is not the Dome," shouted the DJ, a sarcastic reference to a supposedly better class of night club nearby.

The bouncers moved in as women scattered. I spent most of the evening looking at a very smart jungle bunny, as she looked at me whilst dancing by herself. She was very beautiful and I wanted her, but it could never be. It had been bad enough between English and Welsh. Between black and white was unthinkable. I never danced that night. Instead I thought of Karen. It upset me so I left, taking only fifteen minutes to walk home. I had no need for buses or a car. Living near the city centre whilst on the dole, was definitely the place to be.

As for the Dome, my friends advised me to go there. One of the vast number of women I chatted up told me that there were eleven bars in the place.

"Do yea mean you need an A to Z to get around it?" I asked jokingly.

Months later I did go to the Dome out of curiosity. Yes there were many bars. For once perhaps too many, as I rarely bought a drink in a night club. The place was too big, too dark and after watching the drag artists in the cabaret, I concluded that it fulfilled my view of what a gay convention on Mars would look like. The sight of this under the geodetic dome spanning the dance floor, almost put me off my interest in space research.

Saturday, March the twenty-first did not go well for me. I tried to put up my bathroom cabinet by mounting it on self-adhesive hooks. Unfortunately the wall curved outwards at the point where I wished to hang it, there being nowhere else to put it. Eventually this arrangement caused the cabinet to pull the hooks off the wall. There was an almighty bang as the cabinet fell, knocking the toilet roll bracket off the wall and smashing the toilet seat. Why did it have to happen to me, I kept thinking. I realised that I had no option but to screw hooks into the wall, next time. As for the lavatory seat, I realised that I would have to buy another one before the maintenance men or my probation officer noticed, otherwise they would think that I had smashed it deliberately. That day my tinnitus ran wild.

By now I was making myself good meals. Each week I would cook myself a steak with thick chips, sweet corn and excellent coffee. I also devoured a cheesecake each week, cherry cheesecake being my favourite. Good food and good sounds from my music centre cheered me up just as effectively as any drug could. I did not watch many television programmes. I usually watched the news, but it did not affect me the way it use to. The world could go to blazes, and quite frankly I could not give a damn. I failed to find comedy programmes funny, probably because I neither had the energy nor inclination to laugh. Fortunately I never lost my own sense of humour. As for programmes glorifying violence, I looked upon it as nothing less than brain washing and refused to watch. As for exercise, all the walking, fetching and carrying I did, I regarded as enough physical effort for the time being. I never did get into meditation. Sleep was always a problem at this time. Usually the nights were too hot or too noisy, depending on whether I had the window open. I would invariably wake up at about three thirty feeling hot, and cool down with a glass of milk.

That evening I went out alone in the hope of finding a pub which I would find really friendly and at ease in. It was to prove a long search. The search was to take me to Sam Weller's and the Kaleidoscope (S&K). They were the most popular pubs in the city, being close to bus stops, taxi ranks and night clubs.

Together with Boogies, Edward's No,7 and the Paramount, they formed the official bright light area known as John Bright Street. There was no official red light district. According to the news media it stretched along Balsall Heath Road, a place I was never to visit. The verbal insults and gestures from the dolls, tarts and scrubbers in city centre pubs I found bad enough. Cold unloving sex, with a nerve racking smattering of VD or even AIDS, was not my idea of light relief. There were also at least three escort agencies in the city, but I never used their services, although I suspected that some women I knew belonged to them.

S & K were more like sweat boxes, with little to see except bodies. Later that evening I went to the Powerhouse. At one time it had been called the Locarno, a ballroom where divorced women hung out. The nearest equivalent now was the Tower Ballroom at Edgbaston Reservoir, a place I stubbornly refused to visit despite prompting from Ann. I was disappointed at what I saw in the Powerhouse. Above the large dance floor were three large pieces of stainless steel scaffolding carrying bright lights of all description. As the scaffolding slowly moved, it reminded me of scenes from the movie Close Encounters. Unfortunately the speaker system dominated the place. It was far too loud, causing intense stress. My neck went ridged with pain, and worst of all I began to yawn. It was unexciting. More like torture to stay, so I left after an hour. I had paid three pounds admission, which included a thirty pence meal ticket which I did not use. As I left, the doormen rushed past me towards the dance floor. The alarm was bleeping in the foyer, I was evidently leaving at the right moment, as more suckers queued up to go in.

It was dispiriting to see so much aggro. Alcohol brought out underlying feelings in people, particularly their frustration, neurosis and paranoia. At Risley, inmates who had committed crimes whilst under the influence of alcohol, were given a pint of beer before being given their EEG. The medical profession recognised the evil influence of the demon brew. It was a pity that many ordinary people did not. During those evenings out, I never drank more than three or four pints of lager. I had seen too many alcoholics in prison to want to go along that slippery path myself. As for the establishment, the local authority paid little attention to controlling the number of customers in a bar, noise levels and more importantly the quality of ale. As for under age drinking, if a bird was under twenty then she was jail bait as far as I was concerned. If she was over twenty then she wanted you to buy her a drink and make lewd suggestions to her, whilst her husband was drinking with his mates nearby. There should have been a law against that sort of thing, but as it was I rarely saw the police in pubs. They never went in in uniform unless they were called out to a riot. Most pubs now had doormen who effectively policed these places, frisking customers at the entrance in their search for alcohol, drugs, weapons and bombs. I remember one incident years before when I was sitting with Karen in the bar at the Repertory Theatre. Suddenly this young woman came into the crowded bar, and plonked her heavy bag on the floor next to me.

"You don't mind looking after this for me whilst I go to the bar do you?" She asked.

"No of course not," I replied.

She disappeared into the crowd near the bar. It was only then that I realised the significance of what I had said. I looked at the bag suspiciously, giving Karen a worried look. Already I had forgotten what the woman looked like, as I stood up and looked amongst the crowd. I looked into the bag. It was full of books, at least the top part was. I sweated. Why me, I thought. I tried to recall whether she had spoken with an Irish accent. I was just about to delve further into the bag when fortunately she turned up. Never again, I thought.

On Sunday I went to the Costermonger, one of the few pubs which had retained its name over the years. The decor was the same, but my mates no longer went there. The clientèle had changed in character. Since the closing of Bogarts, the Costermonger was one of the few pubs which catered for heavy-rock music. There were no females there that I could see myself going out with. Female punks abounded, wearing fish net stockings, multicoloured spiky hair, black leathers and chains. Mother would not approve.

Monday, March 23rd. I had the luxury of my first real lie in for almost three years. My body however felt very tired, whilst my legs ached after all the walking and carrying of the last three weeks. I sorted out the books I had brought back from my parent's place, which included my apprentice's journal, industrial experiences manual, a dissertation on rocket research which I had also written as a student, plus two photo albums. I had instructed my mother to get rid of a suit case full of books, mainly from my student days. My former past was already vanishing, I thought. I opened a blue file and discovered that it contained all the forms and letters I had received from the UBO and DHSS, and copies of letters I had sent them during my marriage. It brought out mixed feelings. All that wasted effort, the anxiety, the financial hardship, the suffering, and most of all the anger towards a system I no longer believed in.

Amongst the DHSS papers was a letter stating that they had finally sent me invalid care allowance just a few days after my arrest. As far as I knew I had not received this money. I mulled over this problem in my mind for a long time, whilst also wondering where my missing belongings were. I was never one for making an important decision quickly. I had hoped to have no more to do with my solicitor. Finally three months later I decided to write to my solicitor in Holyhead, in the hope that these matters could be sorted out amicably. The letter was as follows:

In the reply it became obvious that money was not forthcoming. My solicitor had received the invalid care allowance, half of which had been spent on magazine subscriptions, an electricity bill and home contents insurance, the other half being placed into my account when my bungalow was sold. As for the monies sent to Risley, my solicitor did not want to get involved, suggesting that I write to the governor. I did not. The missing belongings however produced a mixed response. The present owner of my bungalow, according to my solicitor, 'found' some of the missing items including two duvets, an electric blanket, and also Christmas decorations and lights. These I got my mate Bill to collect and store, for when I next returned to North Wales. The thought did occur to me that I could have asked the local police to investigate. I did not. I had received no help from them in the past, and therefore no confidence in them in the present or future. As for the outstanding statements, my solicitor informed me that he no longer had them.

As far as I could see, I had now gone as far as I could without taking the matter up through official channels. In my present state, that was the last thing I wanted. Officialdom would have dragged the matter out for months, causing enormous stress at a time when by main concern was to get well. Prior to the killings I had strived for perfection and order. At home everything had been in its place, with no loose ends. In an imperfect society, I realised that to expect the same would only result in more mental illness, so I decided not to pursue these matters further. Life I decided, was for living towards the future, and not for delving into the murky past.

Later that Monday, my probation officer visited me in my flat, as arranged. Cyril was most impressed by the progress I had made in getting all of my belongings here, and sorting everything out in a relatively short period of time.

"Now I can see you in your own surroundings," he said.

I knew what he meant, for in prison with everyone wearing the same grubby uniforms, it was difficult to assess inmates easily. I pointed out to him the pink elephant on the bedside cabinet, which Karen had made. I then showed him my two photo albums containing pictures of Karen, myself, Fluff, the bungalow, relatives, friends, girlfriends of the past, and pictures depicting my life in the navy.

"Now what do you think is your next goal to aim at?" Cyril asked.

A woman I thought, but obviously that was not what he was getting at. I did not even have time to relax before he was talking about employment prospects. Quite frankly I did not want to know, although I did not say that. I had no wish to become another rat in the perpetual race to success. I was constantly afraid that my neurosis would regress. I had gone through the stages of car ownership, marriage and home ownership. Only parenthood I had not experienced, but there was no way that I wanted to be held responsible for introducing a child to such a sick society. As far as I could see, there was no incentive to get me working again, although the idea of spending the rest of my life on the dole frankly appalled me. There appeared to be nothing in life worth aiming for, whilst the thought of going through another divorce, and ending up financially and mentally back at square one sickened me. At the end of the meeting Cyril and I arranged our next get together, to be in a week's time on the thirty first at my place.

On Tuesday, March the twenty-fourth I received a letter from the bank accompanied by a form for me to fill in. I was not amused, as I had still not received my cheque guarantee card, without which my account was effectively frozen. I walked up the road to their local office in order to sort the matter out. I would have to return on Friday in order to collect my card I was told.

That day I registered with the local health centre, but did not see the doctor, as I really did not know what to say to him. As far as I could tell, seeing a doctor would complicate matters at a time when my mind was flustered by my unnecessary financial problems.

I later went to the housing association in order to get my four weeks rent money returned to me now that the DHSS had paid it. Mrs. Pritchard stated that she would send me a cheque. I could have done with some cash, as I only had ten pounds and needed a new bog seat, amongst other things. At Cyril's instigation I called in at the nearby Jobcentre.

The Jobcentre was large and crowded. There were many people there waiting to be interviewed. Most sat patiently in a long row consisting of about twenty seats. As one went to be interviewed for a vacancy, the rest moved up one seat. About ten people stood at the far end, there being no seats for them. I looked at the job ads on the wall. There was not one that paid as much, let alone more, than what I had been paid six years before. The only well paid jobs on offer were at twelve thousand pounds per annum, for nurses to work in prison hospitals. I found the place depressing, and to some extent frightening. It was a living monument to government apathy and ineptitude. Whilst the government spent billions of pounds importing Trident missiles and AWACS, real employment creation and job training involving similar finance did not exist. Only the government's useless job creation schemes and outdated job training was on offer. The government's vindictive hatred of the trade union movement through treatment of the unemployed, was brazen. That week the government's rigged unemployment figures showed the biggest drop in fourteen years. They were to continue to fall for well over a year, mainly due to a lack of government interference in the economy. British industry had some how weathered the monetarist storm, and provided the fair weather continued, would no doubt recover completely from the government's economic vandalism. Just how everyone was going to end up with a job, quite frankly I could not see. Surely not everyone would be able to find a job in an exhibition or convention centre, modern shopping mall or theme park.

The next day I decided that rather than be forced to go through that system again, I would commence writing my manuscript immediately. If for no other reason, it would keep me occupied and hopefully free from depression.

On March 26th I posted my mother's day card, and hoped that my mother would receive her flowers as planned. It was the least I could do for all she had done for me. The next day I telephoned the bank and was informed that my cheque guarantee card had still not arrived. I then called in at the building society. My cheque had still not been cleared, so in disgust I told them that I would withdraw the lot in cash on the Monday. I had suffered enough. I returned to my flat through the wind and rain. I was almost blown off my feet near Alpha Tower, a tall office block. My barometer read stormy. That was an understatement.

I asked Mandy the receptionist, whether my money had arrived from head office. After telephoning head office, she told me that Mrs. Pritchard was on holiday. I was not pleased when I heard that. Later that afternoon I returned to the city centre, calling in at the housing association. I was in no mood for a cheque. I had experienced a fit earlier that day in my room, and had also spent the last five days in my room owing to inadequate funds. At times I wished I was back in prison, where financial problems were relatively few. Never put a woman in a position of responsibility, I kept thinking to myself over and over again. Mrs. Norton took charge of the situation upon my arrival, informing me that, I could pick up the cash from Mandy at three-thirty.

Upon leaving the building I thought that she might be trying to fob me off, but sure enough my call girl had the cash when I visited her. It was the only relief I was likely to get from her. Returning to my flat from reception, I noticed a key in a nearby door, I knocked on the door. The young woman that answered was very beautiful, a part time model called Amanda Strong. She did not say much as I handed her the key. I could not figure her out. It was as if she wanted to know me, but could not bring herself to. After similar incidents in the weeks ahead, I was later to call her Birdbrain. I was already beginning to suffer from loneliness, the opposite of what I had suffered from in prison. The day before I had tried chatting up some women in the launderette, but they simply did not want to know. I could not figure out why. Apparently I was in a society full of individuals wandering alone through life. It was not what I wanted. That evening I went to the Yard of Ale and Cagneys alone, looking for the woman of my dreams. I returned to my flat intoxicated and disappointed.

Saturday, March 28th, 1987. I received my first bill, the price of freedom I thought. It was a water rates demand. I was not sure whether I paid it, or the DHSS did. I remembered all the hassle I went through on Anglesey over my rates. I spent the day writing my manuscript, then went to see Ellis and Herman in our local. I became too engrossed in drinking to notice a very attractive woman on her own behind me. A blonde doll in glitter is probably the best way to describe her. She got chatted up by a drunk. I cursed myself for not seeing her first. Looking around at the fellows I got the strong impression that there were more misfits around than there use to be, or perhaps I disapproved of their slovenly dress. They just did not know how to put a Windsor knot in a tie. And what ties! Some fellows appeared to be gay. I was beginning to understand why women had such low opinions of men.

Reading the newspapers they were either muggers, sex mad rapists, AIDS infested queers or unemployed wimps ready to hand over the running of the nation to Mrs. GG & the suffragettes. For the last seventy years British women had been empowered with the right to vote, and this was the result. I wondered how the population of the country was going to be sustained under such conditions. I felt that men would be treated merely as sperm banks. After a night of sex during the high season, the male would simply be discarded. Months later when the child was born a false name would appear on the birth certificate, giving mum sole rights. What a society.

Sunday was mother's day, so I telephoned my mother. She had received the flowers, but I had so much trouble finding a public telephone that worked that I forgot to wish her happy mother's day. That evening I went out to meet Ellis in the Yard of Ale. I did not see him, as I had failed to change my watch to British summer time. I was therefore an hour behind everyone else. I had obviously been working too hard on my manuscript.