UTOPIAN DREAM

In addition to the two closed wards on the ground floor of the hospital at Risley Remand Centre there were three open wards above them on the north-south wings. 'A' ward was on the north wing, with stores and offices below on the first floor. On the second floor of the south wing was B ward, with C ward immediately below on the first floor. A and B wards were the noisiest. C ward being reserved for the physically ill and injured. All the open wards were the same size, having the same layout and furnishings. Each ward measured ten metres by seventeen metres, approximately. The windows ran the entire length of the two longest sides. They were of the same design as those in the ordinary cells on the ground floor. There were no curtains on any of the windows in the hospital. The doctor's offices and consulting rooms had the luxury of window blinds. There were twenty-two beds in each ward, although usually only fifteen would be occupied at any one time. Between each bed was a wooden locker. The wooden lockers and steel beds were of the same design as those in the closed wards.

In the dining area were four tubular dining tables, each with four tubular chairs, of the type you would expect to see in a school. There were also two similar tables with chairs further along the ward, used primarily for playing cards and other games, whilst other inmates were watching TV. Also in the dining area were ten easy chairs, for use whilst watching the television, or for catching up with some badly needed sleep in the morning. Behind the dining area was the wash room, which was the first thing one saw upon entering the ward. It was identical to those on the ground floor. Before reaching the ward office, were the two bathrooms, opposite the wash room, each containing one bath. There were no showers, except for the staff. Between the two bathrooms in A and B wards were the linen stores and an office. Each inmate was allowed one bath per week, though some like myself had more, whilst others tried their damnedest not to get wet at all.

On the first floor of the east wing, above the doctor's offices, were the consulting rooms, which the staff used to kip in, up until 3am, and no doubt at other times too. Opposite these rooms were the dentistry, dental waiting room, education officer's office and radiography room. Above this, on the second floor of the east wing, was the EEG room and welfare officer's office. The pharmacy was situated outside C ward. On each floor outside the wards, was a servery for the inmates. The staff servery was on the first floor, opposite the inmates servery. Few staff used the staff canteen, either because they did not like the meals served there or because of the unsocial hours they worked, so the staff would bring their own food and beverages for heating and eating in the hospital.

The hospital was manned by about ten hospital officers during the day, plus two or three doctors. At night the place was manned by one hospital officer and four night watchmen, for want of a better word. There would be one night watchman locked in with the inmates on each open ward, and another night watchman and the hospital officer in the ground floor office.

The routine was the same each day. The lights were switched on between 6-45 and 7am, every morning. You made your bed almost as you pleased. There was no boxing of blankets as at some prisons. Inmates then got washed and had a shave, after calling in at the office to collect their razor. At this time each inmate had his own razor blade, replaced weekly, which was kept in a canvas pouch in the office. The hospital officer would lock the blade into the razor, and after use, was returned by the inmate for disassembly. During shaving we used four ordinary mirrors, which were later locked up after use. For the rest of the day we used aluminium mirrors, which contained no glass. These quickly got scratched and were then replaced. Later, as a result of hepatitis amongst the drug addicts in the hospital, the staff decided that the practice of replacing razor blades led to the unacceptable risk of cuts from contaminated blades, so disposable razors were introduced. During the latter part of my sentence, the aluminium mirrors were withdrawn, probably for security reasons. It took the best part of an hour for everyone to get a wash and shave.

Breakfast was at 8am. We would troop out to the servery, clutching our plastic mugs and cutlery, then troop back to the dining area with our meal on a plastic plate. Plastic bowls were available for porridge, etc. After each meal, food scraps would go into a bucket by the grill gate, which was kept locked at certain times of the day. The steel grill gate was located at the entrance to each ward. The plastic plates were stacked near the bucket, after which we would then wash our own mug and cutlery. Each inmate kept his own mug and cutlery, since some inmates would abuse them, by biting the plastic knives and forks, and putting holes in the mugs. Anything to relieve the monotony. After breakfast came cleaning time, at around 9am.

Everyone fit enough, who did not have a job elsewhere, would turn to and scrub the ward floors. It did not take me long to realise that cleaning the wash room and bathroom floors, together with the recess in between with a mop, was a far more dignified occupation, and hence appealed to me more, even though it involved more work. It also provided me with meaningful exercise, for although there was a gymnasium, no hospital inmate was allowed to use it. I was told by an inmate of an incident that had taken place sometime before. As the inmates were returning to the hospital one day, it was discovered that a prisoner was missing. The staff went back into the gymnasium to find the inmate trying to hang himself from the wall bars. Since then the gym staff had refused to take hospital inmates, except the odd one requiring therapeutic exercise for injuries.

After cleaning the ward, came the cleaning of the stairs and ground floor landing. This was accomplished in about five minute's flat, if there were no staff standing over us. Occasionally we got called back to do it again. It did not pay to be keen, otherwise you found everybody slinking off, leaving muggins to clean a huge floor on one's own. Many of the inmates could not keep themselves clean, let alone a hospital. Cleaning huge areas of floor with a bucket of soapy water, cloth, green scouring pad and scrubbing brush I found to be an exercise in futility and degradation, rather than cleanliness. There were no mechanical floor cleaners in the hospital, and no lift to get them from floor to floor either, only a dumb waiter for lifting the food urns up to the serveries. The ground floor landing got dirty because it was used as the main thoroughfare from the reception and main wings, to the YP's wing. It was also used from all wings to the dentistry. The hospital was definitely not a quiet place as I was to discover.

After cleaning the stairs and ground floor landing, the rest of the morning was spent doing whatever you liked, bar escape. Chess, cards, draughts, reading books and newspapers, and writing home were the main pastimes. Each ward had a book case full of novels, but since I did not like reading fiction, I would either read a serious newspaper, or write out my statement to my solicitor in a couple of exercise books.

This statement took at least a month to write out. I then handed it to him on one of his visits. He then showed a marked reluctance to let me have a copy. The copy was only sent to me after I showed a marked reluctance to sign a document, or agree to give my consent to something. This statement I then expanded. Written into a red foolscap writing pad, which my mate Bill had sent me. It eventually covered eighty-two sides. There is no doubt that my writings helped me to pass the time, and after my trial spurred me into keeping a diary of the events I saw around me. Had I been given the opportunity to do meaningful work, or had the conditions been suitable for the studying of employment related qualifications, it is doubtful whether the diaries would have been written, thereby saving an awful lot of embarrassment all round. As it was, I was simply too doped up to study anything, except the futility of my surroundings. As for work, there were no workshops in the remand centre. What jobs there were, usually in the kitchens, were reserved for inmates brought in from other prisons, who were close to completing their sentences. The conditions at Risley Remand Centre were considerably worse than in a long term prison. This was reflected in the fact that most inmates served less than three months on remand before being moved on to a proper prison. Even killers only served about six months on remand, before being transferred immediately after their trials.

Lunch came at about 11am. The lunch was on compartmentalized metal trays, since it was a three course meal, with much to carry. After lunch, inmates could lie on their bed, until the television was turned on at 1am. The television would not be switched off until lights out at 10pm, although the official time was 9pm. At weekends the TV was switched on at around 9am. This meant that during a weekday the television was on for nine hours, whilst during the weekend it was on for thirteen hours. The television would therefore be on every day of the year, with the exception of days when the entire ward was being punished for doing something naughty. Those days I would end up praying for after my trial, as by then I found the noise too great to bear. I rarely watched the television since there were few decent programmes scheduled, and those that were, were generally on the other side when the time came. I did not like watching soap operas. I much preferred to watch something educational, like a good documentary or current affairs. Unfortunately, most of the television viewers on the ward, preferred to watch a programme in which their minds would drift into a world of never never. Never the trial, and never the sentence.

Dinner, for want of a better word, would like all the other meals, be collected by escorted inmates from the main kitchen. This was some distance away, behind the reception area. The meals, contained in large urns and trays, would be man hauled in trolleys to the hospital, then lifted up the dumb waiter to the required servery, arriving at about 4pm. For many, after dinner it was six hours of television. I regretted the fact that there were no separate TV rooms in the hospital, as the incessant noise got on my nerves. Other inmates would spend hours decorating envelopes and letters with cartoon characters. During the period leading up to my trial, if I was not writing, then I was playing bridge. We were fortunate at this time in having four inmates on the ward who were intelligent enough to understand the game, plus Mr.Pluto, a hospital officer. These good times only lasted until the end of my trial. After that the noise, filth and pointlessness of the place, wore me down to the extent that I did not want to get involved in anything.

The day staff, who came on at 7am, would hand over to the night watchman at 8-45pm. At 8-30pm medicines would have been handed out, including my Prothiaden. Some inmates had medication three or more times each day, on a voluntary basis. For many of these it was a choice of taking the medication, or staying locked up downstairs. Most chose 'Dallas', one of the more popular soap operas.

At 10pm the television finally went off, and the four orange night lights came on. There was no real need for the orange night lights, since the floodlights outside lit up the ward, almost as bright as day. It was not pleasant lying in bed with one of these lights shining directly at you. I would bury my head under the sheets, lying on my side. Eventually my shoulder would hurt and I would then have to turn over. The snoring, flatulence, cigarette smoke, the smell of the night watchman's cooking, or the sound of his radio, or the sound of the shouting and howling between the wings, all ensured that sleep was short lived. Occasionally there was banging from some lunatic on the ground floor.

Breathing in a ward full of cigarette smoke I found impossible. For some reason the inmates had a tendency to close the windows at night, no doubt to deter burglars. I would keep my window open, but without another open on the opposite side, there could be no through ventilation. Whenever possible, I would leave a window open in the wash room, but invariably someone would close it. I would then get up and open it again. It was a game of cat and mouse. There was no ducted central heating, just radiators which some inmates in the cells on the ground floor delighted in banging at night. There was no rest for the wicked in Risley.

There was an absence of sound deadening materials in the ward. The partitions at every forth bed, were made of wire reinforced glass. They neither reduced noise, nor increased privacy, neither did they seem to fulfil any other function. The noise from the television was just as loud at the far end of the ward as it was in the dining area. The reason for me being brought upstairs to an open ward, was to observe me. All relevant matters concerning my behaviour, would be entered into the occurrence book, by the member of staff on duty, be it a hospital officer during the day, or a night watchman at night. The doctors would then read the occurrence book, and based upon this and their own observations at interviews, compile a report for the court. If necessary the judge could read the occurrence book at the trial. The hospital had no facilities for conducting operations. It was therefore not a hospital in the true meaning of the word. In reality it was a top security observation wing, as secure as any top security prison, but without the long term facilities for prisoners.

There was nothing to look forward to in Risley, except visits and being released. Few inmates in the hospital were ever released from there. They were usually convicted, assuming that they were fit enough to stand trial, then sent to either a mental hospital, or the Hornby Hotel, the nickname for Her Majesty's Prison, Hornby Road, Walton, Liverpool, an allocation or distribution prison, where they would usually spend about three months before being transferred to a long term prison, to serve the rest of their sentence.

Interviews were also worth looking forward to, in the hope that they would bring to an end the eternal waiting. A week or so after my arrival at Risley Remand Centre, I was interviewed by the senior medical officer Dr.Shrunk, in his office. I sat in front of his desk. Behind me was an aquarium containing koi-karp, whom I regarded as greater prisoners than I, since they should have been in a larger tank. Dr.Shrunk was an elderly man. He qualified in psychiatry in Glasgow, as did Dr.Shrink I believe. It was the usual job interview. He asked me many questions, but they never seemed to hit the mark. Finally in despair the doctor began to bring the interview to its conclusion.

"I'm sorry but there doesn't seem to be any way I can help you," said Dr.Shrunk.

For God's sake say something, a little voice seemed to say inside me. It was now or never.

"I don't wish to get you into trouble, but I think there's a few things you should know," I said in a desperate voice.

I blurted out all the problems I had had, and described all my medical symptoms. I was never to know whether what I told him made sense or not. After telling him everything that sprang to mind, I dried up.

"Thank-you for telling me all this. I hope you feel a lot better as a result, and I will obviously be taking this matter further. I'll definitely be seeing you again," Dr.Shrunk informed me.

It was the way in which my first two interviews at Risley were conducted that convinced me that only by writing out a long detailed statement would anyone understand why it happened. I set to work on it immediately.

Not even the meals were worth looking forward to. They helped to break up the daily monotony and kept one occupied for fifteen minutes, but they were the only highlights of the day. Most inmates ate fast, almost like pigs some of them. It did not pay to look at the meals for too long, in case the sight of it spoiled your appetite. As it was, I never felt hungry in that place, as I am sure my stomach developed an aversion for food. The only meal that was worth looking forward to was chicken on a Sunday lunch time, but even this was later replaced by sliced pork. Usually you could tell what day it was by the meal in front of you, as it rarely deviated from the standard menu.

The menu for a typical week was as follows:

The menu by itself does not look too bad. Remove the bread, potatoes and puddings, and what is left is very little. Looking at the breakfasts first of all, you will note that there is porridge every day except Sunday. The cornflakes failed to turn up that day because the inmates working in the kitchens would not hand out enough to go around. And the staff turned a blind eye as usual. The porridge failed to turn up on the Wednesday, not that it was missed much, as it tasted like cardboard. Less than a third of inmates ate it. The boiled eggs always tasted of chemicals, and for that reason I refused to eat them. They were obviously rejects, unfit for normal consumption, or were chemicals deliberately added, designed to reduce one's sex drive? The bacon was of the stringy type, not large slices. Jam consisted of one dollop on the side of your plastic plate. The cornflakes were usually of good quality and everyone ate them, since it was the only time of the week that we would get milk. The sausages were small, full of fat with artificial colouring. I ate them wrapped in bread, like a hot dog, but there was rarely any mustard or sauce, which usually came in an open bowl. Hygienic methods were seriously lacking at Risley.

To drink, there was half a pint of tea, poured into your plastic mug at breakfast and dinner, whilst Friday lunch time was usually the only time of the week when we would have a quarter of a pint of coffee. The soup was also a quarter of a pint and very hot, I found that only half of the soups were worth drinking, the others I simply tipped away. We also had half a pint of tea to drink at supper time, which was usually around 6-30pm. With our mug of tea we would have either rock cake, short bread, sandwiches or sponge cake, depending upon what day it was. Total fluid intake came to less than two pints per day. Under normal circumstances a person requires three pints to make up for fluid losses from exhalation, perspiration and urination. People under stress require even more fluids. To make up the difference, inmates would supplement their diet with orange squash bought from the prison canteen on a Sunday morning, or received during visits. Dehydration was something that few inmates thought about prior to roof top protests.

The curry was good, but amounts were inadequate during the latter half of my stay at Risley. In fact the longer I stayed at Risley the smaller the portions of food became, often to the surprise of hospital officers. It was probably a case of bad budgeting, I thought. The programme of new prison building probably meant less money being spent on the running costs of existing prisons. This was to affect inmates and staff alike, and ultimately to cost the home office dearly.

The cabbage, bread and baked beans had inevitable consequences. It was bad enough having to listen to the television all day, without the sound and smell of flatulence as well. Some inmates and even certain members of staff, took this pastime to its extreme limits, as I was later to discover. Boiled liver was not particularly to my liking. Even the boiled eggs defied their shells being removed at times, owing to the way they were boiled. Someone told me that they were boiled the night before then heated up the following morning, which I found hard to believe, since it only takes three minutes to boil one. Anyway, the outcome was that the shells stuck to the yoke. I often thought that an inmate must expend more energy in removing the shell, than he was to gain in eating the egg. Gammon was good, with the odd piece of pineapple. These were normally on a Wednesday lunch time instead of the meat pie. The meat pie was excellent even though it was made from soya meat. The rice pudding was good, but I got sick of the sight of it eventually.

The best day for meals was a Friday, provided the curry was made well and there was enough of it. I looked forward to the coffee and peaches. The fried dinner was also good by the standards at Risley, though I was one of the few who ate black pudding. The salad on a Saturday afternoon lacked variety but was filling. I would normally turn it into a luncheon meat sandwich, and a cheese sandwich. Pilchards sometimes replaced luncheon meat. There was insufficient amounts of cooked fish, whilst steak only came around once every three months, as regular as clockwork. I detested the processed peas which were often hard and cold. I do not think that we ever had tinned garden peas. Usually the carrots were diced, dirty and detestable. As for cheese and potato pie, and corn beef hash, they should definitely have been replaced by something more healthier, as there was simply too much stodge. We never had lamb chops, and I can only recall having pork chop once, an incident which I will later refer to.

The sandwiches at supper time contained so little meat paste that you could not taste it, so I never had them. I also stayed away from the plain sponges which did nothing except bloat the stomach. The rock cakes were appropriately named, being almost as hard as Dartmoor rock. They were so hard that they hurt the bridge of my mouth, although they later improved and became quite nice. The meal that deserves my banana award was the Risley beefburger. It looked like cow-pat, smelt like God only knows, cut like a string bag, and tasted like,,,,,,

Well you didn't expect me to taste it did you?

I did actually swallow a couple of pieces, after which I refused to go anywhere near them. I am bloody certain it was 'minced rat a-la-sewer.' Whoever thought up that dish deserves to be tried for crimes against humanity. Fortunately the beefburgers only lasted about six months.

I well remember seeing my first meal at Risley. It was a salad consisting of a quarter lettuce, some radishes and a thick slab of cheese. Someone had literally gone chop-chop to the lettuce and I got one of the four pieces.

I could not understand why unconvicted people were subjected to such indignities. I wondered whether someone was fiddling the books, or was it that the Home Office really did not give a damn. I was eventually to learn that convicts in the kitchen were deliberately poisoning the food, and often swapping the designated menu for something less palatable, because they regarded all the hospital inmates as a lower form of life....sex offenders, etc. The supervising prison officers turned a blind eye. As the years went by, I was to learn that the average civil servant working for the Home Office, usually took the line of least work, unless someone was standing over them.

A society that believes that there is no alternative for offenders but imprisonment, in a country where over a third of all adult males have been convicted of a serious criminal offence, should back its beliefs with the necessary funding, which will prevent prisons becoming dehumanizing breeding grounds for resentment and further crime.

The crime figures released in the Home Office Report for 1985, were as follows;

Not including traffic offences, one in three males over the age of twenty-eight had committed a serious offence, for which they had been brought before the courts.

Most crimes were carried out by a hard core, five per cent of men, who had committed six or more offences by the age of twenty-eight years.

More than forty per cent of men would be classed as convicted criminals before they died.

One in eighteen women would turn to crime, not including prostitution or gold digging that is.

Only six per cent of prison inmates were first offenders.

These figures are without a doubt the epitaph of a failed society. You cannot tell me that four out of ten men have natural criminal inclinations. Increasing crime rates is a clear indication that there was something wrong with society and or the economy. And yet the government during this period preferred to act more against the criminal than against the causes. More prisons would be built, the police would become more numerous and better equipped, but the quality of society would not improve. Why?

By improving their detection and conviction capabilities the police would ultimately give almost everyone a criminal record. This was a retrograde step, since it would alienate the police further from the general public and create more fear within society. It was announced that year that the police national computer had stored in its memory:

The police reports to the government on the state of the nation, were by and large ignored. There were to be no plans for establishing a full employment, leisure orientated society, not even amongst the opposition parties.

At this time I received a visit from my friends Bill and Brian. They were not impressed with the filthy reception area for visitors. I hate to think what they would have thought of the rest of the place. It was during that visit that Bill gave me the eighty leaf foolscap writing pad, which I was to use for my prepared statement, which I wanted to read out at my trial. It was only on the morning of the trial that I found out that I was not allowed to do this, although police are allowed to refer to notes. There is no way that I could have recounted everything from memory, let alone expect my queen's council (QC) to ask sufficient questions to cover every aspect of the case. I had learned how inefficient this method was when dealing with the doctors at the remand centre. Why then had not court procedures changed to allow for this?

It was not long before the interviews proper got under way, with the senior medical officer, Dr.Shrunk and a colleague of his, Dr.Shrank from Lancaster Hospital, who was to represent the defence. Dr.Shrank was a thin elderly man whom I believe was semi-retired. I cannot remember much about the interviews. I did recount the series of events that took place on the day of the killings, to Dr.Shrunk, which eventually brought tears to my eyes.

"Don't feel ashamed," he said, "there's many a man whose sat in that chair and done that, I hope it makes you feel better."

I recounted the events to a number of people in Risley, both inmates and staff. It was always traumatic for me. I do not think it made me feel better. I have a feeling that the doctors thought I had suicidal tendencies, as they were very easy going on me. Whether they actually believed that I had fits, I simply do not know. Despite my introvert nature, I do wish they had seen one, as I am sure I could have induced it. It would have been greatly reassuring to know that they at last believed me.

I found it much easier to write my thoughts down than answer questions at an interview. I remember one exchange that went wrong.

"What do you read?" Dr.Shrunk asked.

"New Scientist," I replied.

"You're interested in politics, are you?" Dr.Shrunk then asked.

"Yes," I said without thinking, "aren't most people?"

"No, not really," said the doctor after some deliberation.

After the interview I thought about this rather peculiar exchange of questions, then it struck me. I came to the conclusion that the doctor thought I had said, 'New Statesman,' a political magazine.

I cannot help thinking that for a preliminary interview at least, it would be better to seat the inmate in front of a VDU, and let the computer ask the questions. It may not have instinctive ability, but it should be far more user friendly, to those who can read and spell that is. For most people, it is easier to tell a machine about things you feel deeply ashamed of than it is to tell humans. It should prove less ambiguous. It would form a sound basis for later interviews with a doctor, whose time is often scarce and expensive. Such a programme was developed some years previously at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, by a Professor Joseph Weizenbaum, and doubtless other computer programmes exist. Just how many inmates would smash up the word processor is anybodies guess.

There is no doubt in my mind however, that to get across a large percentage of an inmates experiences to a doctor, requires a different approach to that that existed at the time I was 'inside.' There were only two resident doctors at Risley, to about sixty-five male inmates in the hospital, most of whom were in for reports. There were also a number of female inmates on the women's wing, of whom medical reports were also required. The doctors not only had to interview these inmates, often more than once, but as in an ordinary hospital, they were required to do their rounds in the morning, to deal with the physical medical problems as well. They were also required to travel to inmate's trials in order to give evidence. This could involve a two hundred mile round trip, with no guarantee that the giving of evidence would not be delayed until the following day. Including time lost for ill health and holidays, it did not leave much time for the doctors to devote to each inmate. Relief doctors were called in to perform unexpected duties, particularly at weekends, when there was usually no doctor on hand. There was always the danger that not enough time was devoted to an inmate, who had not the intelligence to express himself clearly, or who failed to recognize a medical disorder ,or its cause.

Within a month of my arrival at Risley my mother sent me thirty pounds, as I had told her that I found it difficult to buy all that I needed on my prison pay, which amounted to one pound fifteen pence per week. Unknown to me however, my solicitor had sent me fifty pounds on my arrival at Risley, I was unaware of this until shortly before I finally left the remand centre for the last time. Inmates were not allowed to carry cash. Inmates relatives sent cash or postal orders through the post, and it was then allocated to the prisoner concerned on a balance sheet, which the inmate could only gain access to by asking the hospital officer on duty in the main office on the ground floor, who would telephone those responsible in the administration block. It was a far from ideal system, which deprived inmates from knowing what was going on. The system whereby envelopes, parcels sent by post and bags of goodies handed over at visits, were opened and searched without the inmate being present, were open to abuse by dishonest prison officers. During the years I was to remain in prison, I got the impression that either the Home Office revelled in the fact that prisoner's property was being stolen, or that it was not the Home Office that was running the prisons. At no time was I given a list disclosing date received, items dispatched, and names of people who had sent items to me through the mail. I did know that staff had pilfered some of this, but the magnitude of it I am still ignorant of, even to this day. Other inmates were less trusting, as I was later to find out.

The canteen where inmates spent their wages and private cash, took place on a Sunday morning in the visiting room on the ground floor, near the main entrance. We would queue up along the wall, shuffling forward until eventually our turn arrived. Only during the period that I was actually on remand, could I spend my private cash. For this I would write out my list of requirements on a signed white chit, the pay register would be marked with the letters TPC (to private cash) against my name. After which I would then carry off my groceries. Later the system was changed, whereby the goodies were delivered to the ward a few days later in a wicker basket. The canteen supplied sweets, toiletries, biscuits and orange squash, also writing materials and tobacco. Since I did not smoke, it was a financial burden that I did not have to endure. Many inmates found it hard to live with their smoking habit in Risley, and that is putting it mildly.

Eventually my mother and stepfather visited me. Whilst on remand I was entitled to one visit per day lasting fifteen minutes, with the exception of Sunday. When convicted I would be entitled to one visit every four weeks, lasting half an hour. For this I would have to apply for a visiting order (VO), which would allow up to three adults plus children, to visit me at the same time. The VO with the names of the adults on it had to be posted to them, usually in a letter. Since my friends and relatives lived over a hundred miles away, it seemed such a long way to come for such a short period. I applied for extensions. Although these were granted by the assistant governor, in reality I was only allowed one. An extension added fifteen minutes to a visit. The visiting hall for open visits at Risley Remand Centre, was very large. The tubular tables formed a continuous line forming a large U shape, on the inside of which sat the inmates, whilst on the outside sat the visitors. There was no privacy, not from other inmates, other visitors, nor from the ever watchful screws, who stood at regular intervals on both sides of the tables.

Closed visits occurred on a Saturday, in a smaller room, near the prisoners' reception. In this room was a continuous line of booths forming another U shape. Inmates were separated from the visitors by a glass partition down either side of which were small holes through which a person had to speak. If you had more than one visitor, it was impossible for the second visitor to hear what the inmate was saying, as Bill and Brian found out when they came to visit me. When my parents visited me, I found to my disgust that I was not allowed to have the fruit cake which my mother had brought me. As far as the staff were concerned, all inmates in the hospital were on a diet. Some of them were, but the staff just could not be bothered to differentiate between those that were and those that were not. Also, hospital inmates were not allowed alcohol, as this could interact with the medication that some of them were receiving.

Inmates on the wings were allowed one pint of beer or cider, or half a bottle of wine each visit, but they had to drink it immediately after the visit. There was no saving it up for parties. I assume it was unenjoyable, drinking it in the drab surroundings of the prisoners' waiting room. Another perk the inmates on the wings had was the choice of wearing their own clothes, or prison gear. If you were serving a week or so for failing to pay a fine say, then this perk was great, but anything longer and you had to put in applications to get the clothes cleaned at your own expense, plus another application to get replacement clothes sent in. By far the biggest advantage of being on the wings was that you only had to share your cell with one other person, instead of the fourteen or more in an open ward. You were also allowed association every other day, in the recreation room, where you could play games or watch a video. Later on during my sentence I use to dream of being transferred over there, but luck was never on my side.

I did not really miss alcohol, as I only preferred drinking it in amicable surroundings. During my parent's visit, they went to see Dr.Shrunk in the hospital, after leaving me in the visiting hall. After being interviewed by him, they waited for me to be escorted back to the hospital from the visiting room, as they had a hospital visiting order to see me. I was obliged to wait at least half an hour before being escorted back to the hospital. This was typical of the time inmates had to hang around.

Hospital visits were definitely the best type of visit to have. I only had the one with my parents, which lasted about an hour. In the quiet of the hospital visiting room you could hear yourself think. I thought the day was going great, with two visits in one day, until my mother opened her mouth.

"Have you written out your will?" Mum asked.

I could not believe my ears. What had Dr.Shrunk told her I wondered. Had brain tumours been diagnosed, I kept asking myself. The thought was never far from my mind for at least the next twelve months. After my release my mother told me that there was no basis for the question. I was to get two more visits prior to my trial. The first of these was from my ex-girlfriend Jill and her husband lan, who had both come up from London via her parents home in Solihull, ninety miles away. Jill's visit will always be remembered for the fresh strawberries and bananas she brought me, it being the occasion of the tennis tournaments at Wimbledon at the time. The second visit was from my brother and his wife, who had come up all the way from Northamptonshire, a distance of one hundred and fifty miles. The visit took place shortly before the trial. The main topic of conversation centred around how to keep the whole affair out of the newspapers.

After being at the remand centre two or three months I was given my first EEG test. I had seen my wife undergo one at Dudley Road Hospital, Birmingham a few years previously, so I knew what to expect. Mr.Flight, one of the medical officers, conducted the test in the hospital at Risley. I was explicitly told not to wash my hair on the morning of the test, as the dampness could interfere with the results. The process of connecting the electrodes to the scalp was very laborious. About eight sockets were glued to each half of my head. An electrolyte gel was then injected into the socket, piercing the scalp. It did not really hurt. The painful part of the process came later. An electrode was then pushed into each socket. Each electrode was connected to the EEG machine via a wire. On top of the machine was a pen recorder, through which moving paper would record the pen fluctuations which represented electrical activity in various parts of the brain. The sensitivity of the pens could be adjusted through a series of knobs mounted in rows on the top of the machine. It took a few minutes to adjust the sensitivity of the signals being received, so as to pick up only those signals in the immediate vicinity, and to overcome as much as possible signal distortion, known as attenuation, as it crosses the amniotic fluid which surrounds the brain. The machine did not have the capability to tell what a person was thinking, only to indicate which parts of the brain were not functioning normally. Some of the sockets had to be stuck back into place before the test could begin however.

The EEG test seemed to take ages, but in fact only lasted about fifteen minutes. I was required to lie down on a couch. The curtains were drawn and a lamp was switched on in front of my face. I was required to lie motionless for ages, opening and closing my eyes, as ordered. Then the light would flash on and off like a strobe light. During the test I was required to keep my mouth slightly open, and not permit my tongue to come into contact with the bridge of my mouth, as this would give false readings from the front half of my head, I was told.

After Mr.Flight had performed the EEG, the painful process began. Each socket that had been carefully glued to the scalp, had then to be removed using solvent. It was not an easy process. For the next three days I was combing pieces of glue out of my hair, or should I say tugging them off my scalp along with pieces of hair. At the age of thirty-five and with a slightly receding hair line, I was deeply conscious of any hair loss. I did loose more hair than normal during my stay at Risley, which I put down to stress.

Although Mr.Flight could read the traces, he was not allowed to give me his interpretation of it. I cannot remember who, nor when, I was told the outcome. Evidently an abnormality in the temporal lobe region of the brain had been detected. This indicated brain damage probably caused by a forceps delivery during birth. It was probably why I found it difficult to remember peoples names, faces and pass exams. I was informed that a second EEG would be performed, at some time in the future, at a hospital near Lancaster. I was told that Dr.Shrank would supervise the next one.

About a month or two later I was taken in a prison van up the motorway to Lancaster. It felt good to get away from Risley. I was wearing my own clothes and no handcuffs. During the journey I was accompanied by Mr.Flight, whom I got on well with, as we shared a similar interest, aerospace. He was interested in civilian airlines, whilst I was interested in aerospace technology and space research. Shortly after departing the remand centre, he pointed out to me the golf club where he use to work as a groundsman. He had now worked at Risley for twelve years, much of it in the hospital. The trip up the motorway was uneventful. Upon arrival the hospital looked grand. It was set in large landscaped grounds which were a pleasure to see, with no high walls, razor wire, nor guard dogs to be seen.

I was told that the department had closed down for the day, just for me. I wondered whether I deserved such treatment. The electrodes were connected by a female nurse. The EEG machine was behind a screen, so I never saw it.

Dr.Shrank conducted the test. The first part of the test was similar to the one conducted at Risley Remand Centre. For the second half of the tests I had been required to shave off my side burns earlier that morning. Blue disinfectant was then rubbed onto both my temples. A twenty-five millimetre long insulated electrode was then pushed through all the layers of my skin, and deep into my head in the temple area, working its way between my cheek bone and the cranium. This process was repeated to the other temple. The purpose of this cannibalistic procedure, I was assured, was to enable clearer readings of brain function in the front temporal lobe region, where neurological damage was thought to reside.

The EEG continued with indiscernible whispers emanating from behind the screen. I felt like a laboratory animal, rigged up for some ghoulish experiment. After the test had been going on for sometime, it came to an abrupt halt. I thought it was all over. Mr.Flight then came on the scene, carrying his box of tricks designed to read blood pressure. The inflatable cuff was wrapped around my arm, then pumped up. I had been lying on the couch, in the darkness for ages, without being allowed to move a muscle. I took advantage of this interlude period to satisfy my urge to fidget. Through the darkness Mr.Flight peered ominously at the pressure guage.

"I can't find the blood pressure," said a distraught Mr.Flight.

That's right, I thought, I'm dead. They can all go home and I'll slip out the back way with a new identity.

I presume Mr.Flight did not know about my abnormally low blood pressure. The doctors were a little more persevering however. Finding a small flicker of life in the mercury tube, they proceeded to the next stage.

Out of the darkness approached Dr.Shrank, his quivering hand holding a hypodermic syringe. What's going on, I thought. Nobody told me about this. Down, down the needle descended, towards a vein in my left arm. I tried to say something but it came out in an unrecognizable mess. This is it, the lethal injection! The needle would not go in. Why didn't they let me have a last wish, I thought. At least I could have asked for a sharp needle. Finally, at the second attempt, the needle entered the vein, the unknown drug then entering the blood stream.

"You'll feel a bit sleepy afterwards," Dr.Shrank said.

Yes, I thought, like a thousand years, to be dug up by an archaeologist. The injection was in fact another method of obtaining those clear unambiguous readings. The drug was designed to lower my blood pressure. Since I already had low blood pressure, 110 over 70, the doctors had to make sure that it was not lowered too much, or it would never rise again. The blood that is. The agony of lying their motionless as the experiment continued, was almost unbearable. Finally the test came to an overdue end. I was unplugged, then wheeled into another room to sleep it off for an hour or two. We then returned to Risley. The blue dye on my temples stayed on for days despite frequent washing. After all that, I felt space qualified to become a life science experiment on a NASA space shuttle flight. And yes, those bloody needles did hurt!

The second EEG test confirmed the abnormality inside my brain. The doctors thought that the fits I was suffering from probably came from the temporal lobe region, and that the stressful thoughts I was occasionally subject to, triggered off these fits or paroxysms. I had been told that eighty-five per cent of people had something wrong with their brains, so what did it all prove? It was believed that the human brain had ten thousand million nerve cells or neurons. It is hardly surprising then that a few million could be damaged, during birth, in a car accident, or falling off a wall when a child, all of which had occurred to me. In fact, ten thousand nerve cells were believed to die naturally every day. Although nerve cells could not be replaced, duplication of function meant that surviving cells could take over the function of dead cells. In other words the brain is much like a transputer chip, designed with redundancy in mind. It may not be apparent that an abnormality exists in someone's brain until a stressful overload is sustained, resulting in a fit of some kind or other.

For me, observations did not end there however. It was normal practice for all mail, both incoming and outgoing, to be read by the staff. This served to gauge the inmates mind and sense the social background. The letters were also read for security reasons, and had to be opened anyway in case their was money inside. Inmates were not allowed to carry money as this could be used in an escape plan. No one had escaped from Risley since the perimeter wall had been erected, however. The occurrence book, that lifeline between doctors and their inmates, was a thick white covered book. Although I never read any comments in it, I do not think there could have been much about me. I spent most of my time sitting at my bed reading, writing, or picking my nose out of sheer boredom, and pacing up and down the ward. Tiger pacing I called it. Behind bars, I now knew how a tiger felt, particularly the anger it must feel inside.

When I was not writing my diary, or writing letters to friends and relatives, I would crave for a newspaper to read. The prison newspapers were stamped 'stage papers' for some reason. I would always be on the alert for a Guardian or Daily Telegraph. Later the Independent was launched. Only once do I recall seeing the Times. I rarely read any other newspapers. I was only interested in the serious stuff, which gave me hours of reading pleasure. Unfortunately, it did not do my eyesight any good, but at least it kept my brain occupied, and up to date with world affairs. Above all it helped pass the time. My mother and I corresponded once per week and I wrote to my friends every three months. There was not really much that I could tell them, as the situation would remain unchanged for a long time. The first occasion I wrote to them many found my circumstances hard to believe. Some failed to understand, and understandably drifted out of contact.

As an unconvicted prisoner I was allowed two standard prison letter sheets to write on per week. Each letter sheet consisted of a four page letter and envelope. A first class stamp would be stuck on the envelope, after it had been read in the main ground floor office. All letters were posted by inmates into a small red box, located on top of the radiator outside this office. The box was emptied by the staff each day, read then passed out, after the stamp had been put on. Unconvicted prisoners could also use their own stationary and stamps. They could send out any number of these letters provided they did not exceed four pages. Incoming letters were also restricted to four pages, as I found out when I got told off for receiving a letter from my mother which exceeded this limit. Later, as a convicted prisoner I would not be allowed to use my own stationary. I would be given one standard letter, and I was also allowed to buy two more standard letters from the canteen each week, from my paltry wages. Once convicted, private cash, that is money sent into prison and not earned, could only be used to buy Christmas cards, and batteries for radios, upon application to the governor. Radios however, were not allowed in the hospital. The television was bad enough.

Prison life was governed by rules for prisoners and prison officers alike. Upon entering the remand centre I was given a red booklet titled 'Information for Male Prisoners.' It did not seem to contain in its forty pages, things that I wanted to know, The minor day to day rules in the hospital were not contained in it. There were four main rules;

1, Keep off the beds from 7am to lunch time (11-30am), and from 1pm until after dinner (4pm).

2. Ask the ward officer for permission to have a bath.

3. Ask the ward officer for permission to go downstairs to post a letter.

4. Ask the ward officer for permission to switch on the television, or to change the channel based on a majority vote of viewers .(Unfortunately the majority were morons in that hospital.)

The last three rules were simply to enable the hospital officer to know where all the inmates were. When an inmate had a visit, this rule even extended to the screws who were required to come up to the ward and seek out the lucky inmate. Having found him, and prior to escorting him to the visiting hall, the screw would turn to the hospital officer and say, "One off!"

The red booklet told you little about visits, particularly the times. Even some of the hospital officers were unsure about that. Further information about visits and letters could be obtained from standing order number five, which I eventually got the librarian to deliver. I was not allowed to keep it, and attempts to buy a copy failed. I also was not allowed to see any of the other standing orders, which presumably were classified. Eventually, I got my hands on a fawn coloured booklet titled 'Communications in Prison' which gave a precis of standing order number five. The rules were quite extensive and worth getting to know.

Another useful booklet I acquired, at great difficulty, was called, 'Parole -Your Questions Answered.' It was based on the Criminal Justice Act 1967. I was not allowed to keep it, as it was so scarce at that time. There were probably other rule books which I never found out about. The assistance I was given by inmates, who had been through the system before, proved invaluable.

Apart from reading, writing, watching television, playing a game of cards, eating, sleeping, and attending visits from friends and solicitors, the only other way to pass the time, was to partake in exercise periods. If you were in an open ward you had no choice, since most of the staff were required to supervise in the exercise yard, as usually the hospital was short staffed, and few inmates could be trusted to be left in the ward on their own. If it was exercise period, then regardless of the weather, you went. Exercise period usually lasted an hour, and took place on average two or three times per week. The period of exercise invariably took place in the afternoon, usually commencing around 1-30pm. It took place in the courtyard which was bordered by the north and east wings of the hospital, a brick covered corridor on the third side, which linked the hospital with the wings, whilst the fourth side was enclosed by a high wooden fence topped by coils of razor wire.

There was a large square lawn in the middle of the courtyard, which took about a minute to walk around. Exercise consisted solely of walking around in circles. In warm weather the inmates sat in the sun, their backs to the wall that formed part of the covered corridor. They were also allowed to lie on the grass. After the first summer, sunny days were rare as the sun reached its solar minima. From the point of view of the weather, I did not feel that I was missing anything.

Each exercise period was supervised by about five members of staff, so if there were too many hospital officers off sick or on holiday, then exercise period could not take place. At times like these, prison officers from the wings did not want to assist in the supervision of hospital exercise periods, since there existed a strong bloody minded attitude within and between various sections of the prison staff. Many prison officers regarded working in the hospital as the lowest form of employment, and displayed abhorrence at the thought of coming into contact with someone who had a mental illness.

Exercise periods presented the opportunity to talk to inmates from other wards, and from the ground floor cells. It became a source of entertainment, watching the real loons. Insults and sarcastic remarks would be hurled down at them and us from the cell windows on the wings, which overlooked our courtyard. Most of the time I was not keen to go on exercise periods. The weather was often miserable, whilst I regarded the whole exercise as pointless, much preferring to pace up and down the ward. Exercising in the gymnasium would have been more meaningful. There was no swimming pool at Risley.

The only way I could really get away from it all was during remand appearances. I had a choice, I could elect for weekly or four weekly remand appearances. I chose the latter. I did not like the idea of going through the cage every week, with all the waiting that involved. But for that I would have gone weekly. In practice however, the four weekly remands took place every three weeks. The purpose of a remand appearance was to let the court officials, and ones own solicitor, know that the accused was still available and in good health. It also gave a solicitor the opportunity to converse with the accused. There were occasions when an inmate was unfit to attend a court appearance. This would require a medical report. Doctors were loath to report the excesses of certain officers, which were stimulated by the negative minded attitude of inmates, whose feelings of non co-operation were brought to the surface by the disgusting conditions in which they were kept. These disgusting conditions doubtless affected the attitude of hospital officers, for it had clearly affected the minds of some who had been there many years.

There were two remand appearances that I will particularly remember. I liked going to Anglesey. I saw more of Wales during those trips than I had during all of the four years I had been unemployed. At that time I could not afford to take my wife anywhere except to Bangor and Holyhead. As things turned out, I was to see more of Wales from prison, than anyone had bargained for.

On this particular day I was to make a remand appearance on the north side of Anglesey, not far from where my mate Allan lived and worked. We travelled in a hired Dormobile, driven by its owner. There was one prison officer in the front and two in the back, with us two inmates. I did not know it at the time but apparently none of the officers had been to Anglesey before. The driver had been there twenty years previously, but I was later to conclude that he had since had a brain transplant.

Leaving the prisoners' reception, handcuffed to my reluctant travelling companion, we battled through the exhaust fumes emanating from ten coaches and numerous mini vans and taxis, parked in the square. The drivers of these vehicles all seemed to try and be the first to leave Risley, after loading their passengers. This early morning battle, seen from the windows of A ward, was great fun to watch, especially if there was a collision, the square not being very big. There must have been at least a hundred and twenty inmates making remand appearances, or going for trials each week day. Being a non smoker, I found the exhaust fumes which drifted towards the hospital, decidedly unpleasant. Eventually we penetrated through the blue haze and main gate. Before long we were entering the green scenery of the surrounding countryside.

Everything went fine until we came to a roundabout at Llandudno Junction. I was in one of my dreams at the time, as were the prison officers. When I came out of it there was no longer the Irish Sea to my right, but a narrow river. I realised that we were now heading south, up the Afon Conwy valley, with Castell Conwy disappearing in the distance, instead of coming towards us. My fellow inmate was Welsh, so I thought he knew where we were going. I later realised that the prison officers, now awake, were having the same thoughts about the driver. We were heading towards Llanwrst, where I thought we were going in order to pick up another prisoner. Llanwrst however, came, then vanished out of the back window.

"Where are we going?" I asked the Welshman.

He just shrugged his shoulders. I was beginning to get worried. We were heading south. Why should I be worrying when we were heading towards extradition free Spain, I thought. The dormobile came to a sudden halt when it met the A5 highway at Betws-y-Coed. Which way would he go now, I wondered.

"I seem to have taken us a bit out of our way," said the driver, as the prison officers looked at one another, bleary eyed.

The next part of the journey proved to be a marvellous excursion through the mountains of Snowdonia and past the tranquil waters of Llyn Ogwen, all at tax-payer's expense. The Home Office cares after all, I thought. I enjoyed every minute of it. It was now six years since I had first driven along that road, taking in such a marvellous sight. I do not think the prison officers saw it that way, as they anxiously began looking down at their wristwatches.

Finally we reached the Bangor by-pass, which had been opened a few months before. I naturally assumed that the driver would use it but he did not. He had obviously not looked at his road atlas recently, assuming that he had an up to date copy. We headed into Bangor. So much for public works, I thought. We followed the old scenic route across the suspension bridge and onto Anglesey. I took a particular delight in seeing the yachts in the water below. I regarded this part of the island as the most picturesque part to live in, and loved seeing it every Saturday on my way to do the shopping with Karen.

On we drove, whilst I wondered what mistake the driver would make next. We headed towards the north part of the island. The road led straight to our destination and so did the road signs, but somehow the driver managed to drive straight past the port. Next stop, the Irish Sea, I thought. No surely he wouldn't. Suddenly the brain in the drivers backside woke up.

"I think we've past it," the driver said.

We turned around, found the village, and after getting lost in the one way system,,,,, I finally decided enough was enough, and if no one else was going to say anything, I would, handcuffs or no handcuffs. With firm direction, the driver eventually reached the police station. We were put in separate cells (not the driver unfortunately), where we had to wait for an hour or two, before the remand appearance was made. The cell was cold and dark, more like the dungeon in a castle. After a short period in there my solicitor, Mr.Roberts arrived. It was always a pleasure to see him, well at that stage of the proceedings anyway. He would ask me how I was and tell me what progress had been made in the case. Soon afterwards I was taken into the courtroom next door, where the remand proceedings would take place. It only took fifteen minutes at most to ascertain who I was, and to set another remand appearance date.

With my help we managed to get off the island using the new route. I was most impressed by the by-pass. Eventually this by-pass would form part of the coastal expressway which would take another ten years to complete and cover a distance of about eighty miles, from Chester to the Irish Sea ports. The tunnels through the cliffs near Penmaenmawr would test engineering skills to the full, whilst the tunnel across Aber Conwy would comply with environmental tastes. The only fact to be regretted was that since the completion of Wylfa nuclear power station, Tinto smelter, and Dinorwic pump storage power station, the expressway was now the only major construction project in the area. Government attitudes had changed greatly in recent years. The present government extolled the virtues of Victorian beliefs, whilst ignoring the fact that Victorian engineering skills linked and helped civilize the empire. Now those job opportunities were gone. The empire was no more.

Our trip back to Risley Remand Centre saw us reach the motorway without incident, and it was here that the driver made what can only be described as a comedy of errors. At that moment it was necessary for the driver to turn off the motorway, he failed to do so. He therefore decided to turn back at the next interchange, but when we reached it, making a normal U turn was not possible. Much to our horror, there was no roundabout. Instead the road took us for another mile or so to the local airport. By now I was passing the time, spotting aircraft. The prison officers were looking despondently at their watches again. No overtime allowed, I bet.

The gears were now grating harshly. I am sure the driver wished that he could follow the aircraft's example and rotate, as we headed down the slip road and back onto the motorway. By now the prison officers were looking at one another nervously, no doubt wondering if the driver was heading for a nervous breakdown. Well there we were heading back down the motorway, and yes you've guessed it, we drove past the correct interchange again, but at the next interchange the driver was taking no chances. He turned off the motorway somehow ending up in the back streets of Warrington, the driver having by now developed an allergy for motorways. More than once we nearly ended up in the Manchester Ship Canal. With four million people on the dole, why oh why did we get that driver, I kept thinking to myself. We were all being driven by now, though not the way the driver intended. If the guard in front had killed him, no jury in the world could possibly have found him guilty of murder.

The sun was getting low on the horizon and the sight of all those public houses which I had not seen for months, made me feel very thirsty. It was obvious that I had missed evening dinner, and I was not hopeful of getting back before supper. By now the prison officers were no longer looking at their watches. Their faces were a blank stare. They were obviously overcome by all the new places they had seen that day. I had no idea where we were, as the only time I had been there before was on a ship, sailing up the canal to the oil refinery at Stanlow. I was pretty certain the vehicle could not float even with all the light headedness. The gears grated again and again, whilst street names, and more importantly the names of public houses, flashed before my eyes. We were lost in Greenhall Whitley land, the name of the local brewery. It was like a mirage in the desert. You could see it, but you did not stand a cat in hells chance of drinking any of it. Finally the caravan headed out into the desert. Sorry, I mean countryside. On and on we went until the overpowering white walls of Risley could be seen on the horizon, like a scene from Beau Jest. We did get home for supper and because of our late arrival, I did not have to go into the cage before being transferred to the hospital. It had been a nice day out for all. Thanks taxpayers!

The only other trip I remember in any detail was my journey to Beaumaris, to make my final remand appearance, known as a committal. Remand appearances took place at numerous magistrates' courts, the exact one depending upon where in the circuit the magistrate was holding court on that particular date. A committal is where all of the prosecution's evidence, from witnesses, police, social services, and the forensic department are handed over to the court. The defence council then get the chance to see a copy, in order to prepare their case for the trial. Beaumaris court house was a foreboding place, built in the nineteenth century at the same time as the local gaol, which was no longer used for such a purpose and had become a tourist attraction. A few months later prison officers from Risley attempted to hand over an inmate to the staff there, much to everyone's amusement. My solicitor told me that the court house was the only one where the jury sat looking down at the judge. Across the road was the castle with its fine battlements and moat. Unquestionably, it was a beautiful place for a holiday if you liked travelling around, seeing places steeped in history. I was certainly getting the full tourist treatment.

It was not the castles, neolithic mounds, museums or fine countryside that made this trip memorable. It was two women. I had been in Risley three or four months with virtually no female to talk to, let alone chat up. At Risley, there was a female dental assistant, the welfare officers were female I think, and so was the woman working in the dispensary. None of whom I fancied. Further afield, one could see the office staff walking past the hospital at 9am, and of course half a dozen female inmates would tow their food trolley to the kitchens each meal time, passing about forty metres from the hospital. A closer analysis during trips to the visiting hall, revealed most of them to be a real poxy lot.

In a rented dormobile, returning to the remand centre from Beaumaris, we called in at Colwyn Bay police station. It was there that we picked up a female prisoner and escorting policewoman. They sat in the front. The female prisoner had her feet on the dashboard most of the way, which must have distracted the driver. We called in at Mold crown court, from which point the two females came and sat in the back. The female prisoner sat next to me, whilst the policewoman and her male colleague sat opposite. In the time I had spent in Risley I had seen many policewomen but none as beautiful as this one. I would gladly have surrendered to her arms.

The female prisoner was also attractive, and wore a jump suit with zips all over it. I can still see it now in my mind. Being a caring sole I asked her what she had done wrong. She told me that she had been caught trying to cash a stolen building society pass book. My naive outlook never once questioned this explanation. I felt very sorry for her, particularly as her husband was also inside, and her baby in care. She asked me how long I had been in Risley. I told her, four months. She looked at me very sympathetically, whilst I leered at her. I knew what she was thinking, and she knew that I knew. And there sitting opposite us were two members of the police. Well that's life. She came from the smoke and her name was Helen, the same as my deceased mother-in-law, I remarked. The policewoman offered me a Rowntree fruit pastel, no doubt as a consolation prize. There were stars in front of my eyes until she told me that her name was Karen, the same name as my wife. I did not ask the policeman sitting next to her what his name was, as I was already a bit overcome by the coincidence. We somehow got back to Risley without meeting phantom highwaymen, nor struck by lightning bolts. I cannot help thinking that it was more than a coincidence, and I will never forget the woman I thought was too nice to be a policewoman.

In the mid 1980's the British Government tried to introduce female hospital officers into British prisons. Quite frankly I never saw a prison fit for male inmates, let alone female staff. I cannot imagine many women wanting to work in an environment containing pornographic pictures and lurid graffiti on cell walls. Seeing men masturbate and defecate. Hearing men making lewd remarks, not to mention the ever present risk of being assaulted. The only reason why there were female probation officers operating through the prison welfare department, was because they were seconded from their local probation office to do a two year stint in prison as part of their work experience. I do not think they would have done it otherwise. Looking at the problem from the point of view of the inmate, something which the Home Office seemed to be incapable of doing, we see that the main cause of medical problems is stress. This stress was caused by noise and lack of privacy in the main. By introducing more women to the equation, you reduce the amount of privacy to the level of that of an animal in a zoo. Some might say that that level had already been reached.

The introduction of female officers was an attempt to instil a civilizing influence in staff and inmates alike. There was no consideration of the dehumanising appearance of the buildings, nor the deep seated neurosis of some members of staff, nor the strong negative attitude which many inmates had lived with all their lives. The idea that female officers could change all that was laughable. It showed that the government failed to appreciate the enormity of the problem that successive years of government neglect, in the penal system and in the city areas, had created. The government was trying to paper over the cracks, when nothing less than a revolution in the way society and the prison system operated, could really put matters right.

In the open wards, it was possible for female staff and visitors to see the inmates sitting on the lavatory pedestals, or standing at the urinal as they entered the ward. Although there was a partition between the recess and the wash room, it only consisted of wire reinforced glass. The recess was the area between the wash room and the bathrooms, through which everyone had to pass in order to enter the ward proper. Whilst sitting on the pedestal, inmates would sit with their hand covering their face, in the hope of not being recognized. Having a bath posed similar problems, as there were small windows in the doors and a window between the ward office and the adjacent bathroom, the office often being frequented by female staff. The hospital was specifically designed to be a top security observation unit, denying inmates any form of privacy. There was apparently no limit to the length of time an inmate could be kept in such a place.

If you wanted privacy, including peace of mind and quiet, you were better off in a ground floor cell. Although some inmates down there occasionally made a lot of noise, they could rarely match the nine hours of continuous decibels from the television in each open ward. For entertainment there was a loud speaker above the ward entrance adjacent to the wash room. This speaker was linked to a radio in the main ground floor office and was usually tuned to BBC radio one or two. The music helped soothe the troubled minds. Most inmates disliked silence, as then their conscience would start irritating them, resulting in outbursts. Occasionally a welfare officer would need to talk to an inmate down there. Pepsi, the welfare officer who dealt with my case, would always ask a male member of staff to check that the inmate was presentable first, and not playing with himself when she visited him. How she tolerated the conditions for so long, I will never know. During my stay in that hospital, I was to insist on going down stairs at least five times, due to the intolerable conditions in the open ward. What I went through, during the period I spent in that hospital, was nothing less than sensory deprivation, a form of brain washing.

Denied privacy and adequate sleep for months on end, it was inevitable that my health would suffer. Certainly the conditions there counteracted any beneficial effects that my drug therapy was meant to provide. This became obvious to me in at least two respects. After my trial I was to develop tinnitus, a high pitched whistling noise in the inner ear. In mid 1984 I was to have a haemorrhage, though at the time I did not know what it was. Also, during my stay at the remand centre, I was to get aching pains in my chest during the first year, ulcers in my mouth and floaters in my eves. The tinnitus and floaters both proved to be permanent conditions. Without a doubt, the hospital at Risley Remand Centre was to prove to be the most unhealthy environment that I had ever set foot in. There was never a moment when I did not wish that I was somewhere else. There was no doubt in my mind that if more women were to work in men's' prisons, then the prisons needed rebuilding first, in order to provide dignity to inmates and staff alike. The British prison system had a long way to go before it could match the prison conditions in Scandinavian countries for instance.

Occasionally there were visits from groups of people in the legal and medical professions, and probably members of the board of visitors too. We were never introduced to them. They stared at us, and we stared at them. Occasionally someone would come up and ask an inmate whether he had any complaints. Hardly anyone complained in a remand centre, and the Home Office knew it. That is why they could get away with such atrocious conditions. All the inmates wanted to do was keep a low profile, and keep their nose clean, until after their trial at least, by which time they would have been transferred. They did not want anything bad written about them in the occurrence book. No, nobody complained at Risley. Put shit on their plates and they would eat it. There was no point in complaining to the assistant governor or governor. They did not run the prison. They were powerless. Just one look at Risley each day told an inmate that no fucker cared.

Their were cockroaches in the hospital, hundreds of them. Of course the visiting dignitaries did not see them, since they only came out of the cracks, crevices and door frames after lights out. They fed on the food scraps dropped on the floors by inmates. No one apparently thought of sweeping up the ward prior to lights out, whilst insecticide, during the early days at least, was either useless or scarce. Although I never went on the wings, I was told that conditions there were even worse. They not only had cockroaches, but also mice, in swarms apparently. Some inmates even kept them as pets. I well remember the experiences of one inmate whose job on the wings involved the use of a food trolley. Returning to the food trolley half an hour after leaving it, he had no sooner started to push it than mice leapt off it, speeding off in all directions. There were at least half a dozen of them in that incident. I shuddered to think what state the kitchen and food stores were in.

There was no military type regime at Risley. Cleanliness was not enforced the way it would have been in an NHS hospital. Even searches for contraband occurred no more than once every two months within the hospital. Inmates kept food in their lockers, even though they knew they were not supposed to, as it encouraged the cockroaches. Some inmates stank to high heaven, as they had refused to have a bath or change their clothes for weeks. Why smoking was allowed in the hospital I just could not understand, as keeping the hospital clean was made virtually impossible. No one seemed to care. It was as if the staff had been there so long that they had forgotten what a decent hospital looked like. For the cockroaches however, life must have been bliss, since the only thing they had to fear were the crickets!

I doubt whether there were many visiting dignitaries who realised just how hellish the place really was to live in. How many I wondered, could put themselves in the shoes of the inmates and imagine what it was like to endure just twenty-four hours in such an environment. The visitors would generally come around in the morning, whilst the floors were still clean and the wards tidy.

In one such group of visitors was a very smartly dressed young woman, in a blue vertical stripped jacket and skirt. She looked as if she had just stepped off the front page of Vogue magazine. She was very beautiful, and her clothes expensive. I fell in love with her at first sight. There she stood at the office door trying not to look at us, but smiling all the same, because she knew that from our easy chairs, we were all leering at her. She did not stay long, just a few minutes, I could imagine myself dreaming about her. In my dream she would come straight up to me, smiling.

"Is there anything you would like?" my doll would ask suggestively.

My heart rate would climb as the aching pains in my loins escalated. Moments before the words came to my lips, my thought processes would be shattered. Bang! Bang! Bang!, as those bloody keys repeatedly hit the office door, first thing in the morning. It would invariably be either Mr.Pluto or Mr.Parrot, come to wake us up that way at 7am, disturbing my dream. Where do you meet a nice woman like that, except in prison. There was I in my prison rags. Trousers concertinaed around my ankles, and that infernal fly zip that just would not stop coming undone. She would never remember me, even supposing she had noticed, but I would always remember her.

If you did not see women, then you did not miss them. For some inmates, seeing their loved one during a visit, or being reminded of her in sexy photographs, could have depressing results. I received no visit from my wife, and there was no other woman in my life. My mother sent me a couple of photographs of Karen, which I kept on the window sill by my bed. I missed her and Fluff a great deal. Taking my medication each night kept such thoughts away, as it quickly put me to sleep, hopefully. After a few months my body got use to it. Since I had to take it at 8-30pm, the tiredness which it created could wear off by 10pm, lights out. There was no point in going to bed before then, as the television was still on, with its inherent din.

The sex offenders never seemed to think of anything else but women. The fellow in the bed next to mine was one. He would stare out of the window every day, watching the female inmates go by with the food trolley. On some days the women came closer, for once or twice each week they would come to the dentistry. If we were having exercise period at the time, they would look down at us from the dental waiting room, and we would look up at them. God knows what they must have thought of some of us, in ill fitting trousers, out sized shoes and torn shirts. It was bad enough just trying to keep your flies up. Some did not bother. Wearing their own clothes reflected the more humane treatment which female inmates received inside. There was no sex equality in prison.

Other visitors to the hospital included male and female students, usually trainee nurses from mental hospitals like Rainhill, Moss Side and Park Lane. They came to see how the place was run. This was an excellent opportunity for a medical officer to get off his backside and give them all a load of bull shit. The group would be herded into the ward's office, to look at the inmates' names displayed on the notice board. Against each bed number would be the name of an inmate, his religion, date and place of next remand appearance or location of trial, and special work duties which involved leaving the ward. If you were a killer like myself, the letters MC (murder charge) were also displayed. No other offences were shown, since many were sex offenders. This information was usually kept secret to avoid trouble between inmates. Yes, I could imagine what the hospital officer would be saying.

"And in bed three we have H19992 Allen, double murder, very shifty character, we have to keep our eyes on him."

And the whole Group would turn around to see if they could spot the shifty looking one. I felt that given the chance they would carry some of us off for medical experiments. I hated the sight of the little bleeders.

Employment, as a prison officer or hospital officer was a good career, which if society was to continue its downward slide, was certain to offer good pay and excellent job security. Although I did not believe in the type of prison system that I experienced, I was certain that a prison on Anglesey would certainly help mop up unemployment and put vitality back into the community. It was sad that at this time, many communities in Great Britain were being restored in just such a way.

Most of the meetings between me and my solicitor, took place during remand appearances, although some necessitated travelling to the remand centre. Interview rooms adjacent to the closed visits area were allocated to solicitors. Meetings took place by prior arrangement with the prison authorities. An inmate would be escorted down to the waiting room, and if your solicitor did not turn up, then it was just too bad. Hours of waiting for nothing, in a dirty featureless room. Each interview room had a table and chairs, with a large window through which staff could view proceedings from the landing if necessary. The place was often cold. It was certainly depressing. I do not think that there was any part of the remand centre that could be described as cheerful.

I can only recall two meetings taking place there. On the first occasion my solicitor came alone, and allowed me to read statements from my friend Bill, my ex-landlady Mrs. Jones, and my sister-in-law. I was pleased with the first two, but not surprised by the latter. My solicitor did not let me read all the statements, I did not as far as I know, pursue the matter at that time, since most of my effort was concentrated just in getting a copy of the statement I had written to him. I thought initially that he would send me a copy of these statements as a matter of course. That meeting took place immediately after my committal.

The second meeting took place about a month before my trial. On this occasion my solicitor and barrister turned up to assess matters. I had secretly stopped taking prothiaden a week before, as I wanted my faculties restored before the trial. When I received my medication at 8-30pm, I would hold my medicine in my mouth after drinking it in the office in front of the medical officer. I would then spit it out at the drinking fountain, located in the recess. Maybe I should have reduced the dosage gradually, for what happened next was caused by this error, and my ever present anxiety state.

I was not wearing a pullover or vest as I entered that cold interview room. I sat at the table. My solicitor, Mr.Roberts, introduced me to my barrister, Mr.Smart. He sat there in a three piece suit wearing what I assumed to be the old school tie. Not a secondary school, I bet. I started shivering. It was like being in a dungeon, with no heating whatsoever. I cannot remember saying anything, for my defence council stole the lime light.

"I don't have any sympathy for killers like you, no sympathy at all," said Mr.Smart.

I could not believe what I was hearing. What the fucking hell is my solicitor up to, getting in a guy like this, I kept thinking. By now my body had gone into uncontrollable shakes. I tried saying something as tears and mucus rolled down my face. I had no handkerchief so I used my sleeve. My solicitor and barrister said nothing. I felt so cold and alone.

Nothing else took place at that meeting, but the anger that I felt afterwards remains to this day. The medical profession had turned me from a man into a gibbering mass of jelly, giving me no chance to defend myself in any way at my forthcoming trial. On top of that my solicitor was sitting on statements related to my case, a copy of which I should have been allowed to check, and now I had a barrister who apparently hated my guts. Soon after that meeting I wrote to my solicitor and told him to get me another barrister and QC. Considering all the trouble I was to have later, I should have sacked all of them. At that time I had no idea about how to get myself another solicitor. My brain simply would not function on that level. According to my red booklet, I should have put in an application to see a welfare officer, who could have provided me with a list of suitable solicitors, though how you can select the right one from an anonymous list of names, I simply do not know. As it was, I was to remain ignorant of this procedure until well after my trial.

Whether there was ever a realistic alternative, I will probably never know. My solicitor wrote a long letter to me asking me to retain my QC and barrister, I came to the conclusion that my barrister had only been trying to assess whether I was able to give evidence in court. Based upon the incident in the interview room, the answer to that question was a resounding, no! I reluctantly decided therefore to retain my existing defence council. At this stage I still had not seen my QC, Lord Titch, whom my solicitor told me was the best in the business. I hoped he was right, but why had I still not seen him?

Shortly before my trial, my medication was officially stopped, but it was to resume again immediately afterwards. The staff made it clear to me at times that they did not like the thought of me coming off it. I got the feeling that they regarded their own position as being much safer if I was doped up, comatosed in other words. The medication was not to my benefit, but theirs. I do not think that anyone gave a shit for my mental well being. Everyone knew that I had a mental condition, but no one seemed to be interested enough in finding out just what it was, and more importantly, how it could be overcome. That apparently was not in anyone's job description at Risley.