UTOPIAN DREAM

It was during one of my solicitor's visits, which I believe took place in the hospital visiting room, that he informed me that my wife had taken out divorce proceedings. I was required to sign a document that he brought with him. The document may have been an application for legal aid, but I am not sure, as my solicitor had a habit of not confiding in me enough. I think he suffered from the misconception that because I was suffering from a mental illness, I was no longer capable of administering my own affairs in a sane manner. I got the same feeling from others also.

My wife was being looked after by her sister in Holyhead. Although I wrote to her about half a dozen times, I was later told that the letters would be kept by her solicitor until after the trial. Why this was, I do not know. Since no statement had been obtained from her, it was obvious that she would not be giving evidence. As it was, I did not have my address book for at least the first two months. One of my mates gave me the wrong address, as a result of which my letters went to the bungalow next door. She probably never received them. I wrote to the local social services, who assured me that she was all right. I wanted her to carry on living at the bungalow until it was sold, as I knew it would take a long time to sell, and the accrued interest on the mortgage would leave nothing for the two of us. I wanted someone to look after her there in lieu of rent, probably an unmarried mother found by the social services, but nothing came of the idea. Karen's views were not conveyed to me.

My solicitor placed the sale of the bungalow in the hands of an estate agent, and also advertised it for sale in a newspaper at my request, without response. Various people showed interest in the property, but for one reason or another, pulled out. What to do with the contents of the bungalow was another problem. I did not have enough money for a removal firm to keep it in storage for years, unless I sold the bungalow quickly. I was writing letters to various friends and relatives, trying to get someone to empty the bungalow, without success. No one had an empty garage that could be used for years, whilst I suppose many people thought that the sentence I would receive would be an eternity. There was the divorce settlement to think of. Apparently nothing could be removed, until it was decided who should get what.

For the first three or four months, I was writing detailed letters regarding storage of furniture, and not getting a reply, without knowing why. At that time no one had told me about the divorce proceedings. Everyone else knew but me, and no one was prepared to tell me in case I took my own life. I was very frustrated, and fumed in despair when I received letters which totally ignored my ideas. These responses would be noted by staff and entered into the occurrence book, no doubt as symptoms of my mental illness. At times like these I found it difficult to understand the significance of the occurrence book, since the environment and pressures on an inmate were not like those on the outside. The conduct of an inmate was therefore rarely representative of what it had been at the time of the crime, or in the days before it. This led one to question the concept of an observation wing.

I think everyone, including the building society, realised that selling off my bungalow was not going to be an easy task, bearing in mind the troubles I had had with my neighbour, not to mention the added problem of disturbed spirits. My solicitor had to enter into correspondence with the local borough council, and lengthy correspondence with the building society who held the mortgage. Attempts were made to get the building materials removed from the cul-de-sac and the road surfaced, but just who did what and when, I was not told. I made preliminary attempts to let the bungalow, as a stop gap measure. As part of this plan, I asked my friends to move all my personal belongings and high risk items such as television sets, video recorder, music centre and computer, into the garage. Instead the high risk items were taken to my friend's addresses for safe keeping, with my solicitor's consent, whilst my personal belongings were left in the bungalow. No one seemed interested in letting the bungalow. I was no longer in control of the situation, whilst there seemed to be no overall plan by anyone. Over the months and years it was painful to hear of my belongings disappearing. I was to slowly realise that a home was only worth what someone else was prepared to pay for it.

The financial penalties I incurred because of my crime, were as bad as the prison sentence itself. The Home Office had no plans for putting a prisoner's belongings into storage, selling property or managing other financial matters. What was worse, there was no means by which an inmate could make his own furniture for the flat which should have been provided upon his release. There was also no means by which an inmate could earn enough whilst in prison with which to build a new life upon re-entering society. Even though forty per cent of males had acquired a criminal record by the time they died, the them and us attitude still prevailed. Inmates were still treated as lepers by the government, who felt that they did not deserve such humane treatment, even if it did make economic sense. Half of adult males, who had been sentenced to more than three months in prison, would return to prison within two years of their release, at who knows what cost to the tax payer in the long run. Conditions in prison were only improved, as a means of retaining staff.

Soon after entering the remand centre I wrote to the building society, informing them of my circumstances. I think I also asked them for assistance. Their reply to my letter was as follows;

Upon seeing this letter, my solicitor regarded the letting of my bungalow as a non starter. So much for the extra help they prided themselves on, I thought. Thereafter I received frequent letters from my solicitor, asking that authorization be given, to hand over the keys of my bungalow to 'them.' The thought of how much Allan had paid for his hovel, compelled me to refuse to give in. Soon after coming to Anglesey to work as a diver, Allan bought a small welsh cottage. The previous owner had paid fourteen thousand pounds for it. The place fell into the hands of a finance company, who asked for eleven thousand pounds. He finally bought it for eight thousand. What with instructions from me and threats from the building society, the necessary incentive should have been there for even the dumbest solicitor to sell the property soonest. Even so, for my own dignity I thought it best never to give in and end up with little, than give in to the building society and end up with fuck all.

The Xtra Building Society were eventually to take out possession proceedings in April 1985, a year after the last mortgage payment. This necessitated the presence of my solicitor before the registrar at Llangefni, as well as sending numerous letters to the building society, keeping them informed of progress. In the year 1985, there were twenty-one thousand repossessions of property by building societies in the UK, plus others by banks and local authorities. It was a very worrying time. The divorce, sale of the bungalow and the storage of my belongings, were to remain upper most in my mind for at least another year. The hardest to take was the divorce itself.

The divorce petition stated:

1. The marriage has broken down irretrievably,

2. The respondent has assaulted the petitioner, by striking her across the body and face,

3. The petitioner has locked herself in the bathroom, to prevent herself from further assaults,

4. The respondent, in the presence of the petitioner, unlawfully killed the petitioner's parents and is at present awaiting trial for murder.

There can, I thought, be few divorce petitions as bad as mine. To give me added status in life, Mr.Flight got me the job of cleaning the first floor landing on the east wing of the hospital, which included the consulting rooms, staff room and dental waiting room. This job displaced that of cleaning the stairs and ground floor with a scrubbing brush, which I loathed. The first floor landing was in a real filthy mess on my first day, as it had obviously not been cleaned for sometime. After a few days however there was not much work involved, so much of the time I spent reading and writing in the cleaner's room, which I had to myself. It was not possible to start work before 9am, as some of the consulting rooms were occupied by staff sleeping on the couches. They did not like the idea of being woken up by some impudent inmate, as Mr.Ansells made clear to me one morning, after interrupting his forty winks. The job got me away from the noise of the ward, but it did not last long. After my trial a member of staff, Mr.Barraclough, came to see me.

"I'm just passing on a message. You're not allowed to work off the ward any more," he said.

Well that was that. The end of even the slightest feeling of freedom. My trial was scheduled for late November 1984. My solicitor had sent me my blue suit but there was no tie. It was only later that I realised that they considered me suicidal. There was about eight of us inmates who were taken there from the remand centre, handcuffed in pairs. It was usual practice to handcuff the right wrist of one inmate to the right wrist of another. This made it difficult for two inmates to leg it whilst joined together. The escorting prison officers would also take away our hair shampoo, so that we could not squirt it into their eyes during any escape attempt, which I thought was stingily unsporting of them.

We arrived at the trial location the day before the proceedings were to commence, spending the night in the cells adjacent to the courtroom. Sharing my cell was a fellow inmate from A ward called Graham Tiler. Like me, he faced a double murder charge. During the months at the remand centre he told me his version of the crime he was charged with. During my years in confinement, I was to hear many such stories. I rarely knew if they were true unless corroborated by the reading of depositions or reports in newspapers. Though newspapers rarely published the full story, especially the social aspects of a case.

Tiler had a brother who was a policeman. In fact I often wondered whether we had ever met in my travels around Anglesey, which is the area where he apparently worked. His parents had thrown out their adopted son at the age of sixteen, and they would lock Graham out of the house if he came home late at night. He finally left home, travelling all over the country with his boss. He lay tiles in public buildings and underpasses. He had done his training at a college in Birmingham. He decided to buy a motor bike for which he borrowed money from his local bank. As the money had to be paid back by regular instalments, he would post the cash to his father, who would then take it to the bank. His father use to work in a senior capacity for the National Trust, including involvement in an unsuccessful firework display at Plas Newydd, but like many people in that part of the world, had been unemployed for sometime. As the family lived on a small farm, the DHSS refused to pay the couple any benefit. His father attempted to become self employed in some business affair that did not work out. One day Graham returned home from his distant work place. Upon leaving a local public house he was arrested by the police for failing to pay the instalments on his bank loan. After leaving the police station he returned home to have it out with his parents. According to Graham his father admitted pocketing the money.

"If you don't like it then shoot me with the shot gun," his father said.

Graham Tiler duly obliged, shooting dead both his parents. Was this the act of a son who had suffered a life long rejection from his parents? Was it a spontaneous act of despair, or a cold blooded killing, in order to get a substantial share of the estate before the debt collectors got the lot? Only one person really knew. At Risley Remand Centre, Graham Tiler suffered from an over extrovert personality (mania), a symptom of chronic anxiety or to give it its correct term, manic-depressive psychosis, thought to be the product of a guilty conscience. He was always fooling around in the ward and on at least one occasion was put in a stripped cell. At Risley, Tiler was very much an extrovert though in a statement his employer called him an introvert.

Tiler was to receive two life sentences before the same judge I was to go before. When Tiler returned to Risley, he quickly worked out roughly what he would get from the sale of the family farm, then started asking people around the ward about how he should invest it. He seemed totally unconcerned about his two life sentences, as if he had weighed it all up long ago. He thought he would actually do ten to twelve years. To occupy his time he said he would study for GCE 'A' levels to supplement his numerous '0' levels. After his trial he was interviewed by Dr.Shrunk again.

"He still doesn't believe me," Tiler said as he returned to the ward after the interview.

The only person that knew the truth was Tiler. If he was truthful, then why was he so content with the sentence? Maybe he could not even take that seriously in his present mental state. He was however a nice bloke. You might say frighteningly nice. I suppose you think the same thing about me?

My solicitor told me that the crown court had been recently renovated, so to justify the expense, my trial and many others would take place there. The courtroom may have been done up but the prisoners facilities certainly had not. The cell Tiler and I shared was in a deplorable condition, with graffiti all over the walls. The dates on the walls indicated that they had not been painted for at least seven years.

The cells were small, two and a half by three and a half metres I would say. Running along the end wall below the window, were two large diameter pipes which ran from cell to cell. The heat from these pipes was overpowering. The ventilation was totally inadequate, being supplied through missing glass segments in the window. There were numerous holes in the walls and surprisingly one large enough to crawl through, located between the heating pipes but extending only half way through the outer wall, which must have been about seven hundred millimetres thick and made of stone. It would not have taken much effort to have knocked the hole straight through the wall. The heat made me long for a pint of bear at the Black Boy Inn, a pub a few streets away that I had taken my wife to a few times. The only trouble was that neither of us had any money with which to get drunk on.

Neither of us wanted to escape despite the surroundings, I naively thought. I knew that I was better off in prison. I did not feel envious of those villains who had escaped from Great Britain to Spain, from where at that time they could not be extradited. Having stolen millions of pounds, they were in their villas behind barbed wire, supplemented by guard dogs and alarms, pestered by news media reporters, whilst Spanish police helicopters hovered overhead. I could not help thinking that there was a better atmosphere in a long term prison, even though it was less affluent.

Monday morning arrived, the day of the trial. I was taken to an interview room where my solicitor, barrister, QC and later Dr.Shrunk, came to speak to me. One by one they gave me the same advice.

"When asked how you plead say, not guilty to murder, guilty to manslaughter, on each charge. The prosecution will accept this."

The thought of me going in there and pleading 'not guilty' horrified them so much, that they could not bear to speak directly on the subject. I fully understood what they were saying. They were telling me to plead guilty when I felt that I was innocent, a victim of provocation, entrapment, mental illness and circumstance. How knowledgeable was the judge, I thought. My entire future seemed to depend on him knowing everything, but I knew that he did not know everything, for the only full statement written by me, and contained in the red folder, had not been read by anyone else except a fellow inmate, Matt Reid. The advice I was given that morning by my defence council sounded like an ominous warning. What they knew about the short comings of British justice, I was still to learn in the years ahead.

I handed my red covered writing pad, containing my complete statement, to my QC Lord Titch. The original version of my statement did not contain the detailed suffering that I had gone through with the DHSS. My QC could not accept that that sort of treatment could destabilize the human mind.

"If that was the case," Lord Titch said,"there would be thousands if not millions of people out there almost as sick as you."

I agreed with that statement, but he could not. How could you make a member of the House of Lords see that out there in suburbia, behind closed doors and drawn curtains, there were battles being fought in the minds of millions of people, unable to come to terms with the insanity of becoming a reject from the human production line. These peoples' problems the government refused to recognize, let alone understand and counter. Government bureaucracy and disregard, had created a nation of mind forged manacles leading to despair, crime and suicide. These were the seeds of the social unrest that would sweep through England, months later. Lord Titch read my remarks about whether I considered the killings to be an act of insanity. When he read the concluding remark, that I considered that an insane act must also be an irrational one, he was not pleased by my honesty.

"Don't let Dr.Shrunk read that," Lord Titch remarked.

It was obvious to me that I would receive no support from my defence council regarding a plea of not guilty.

"The newspapers would never print this statement the way it is written, and in any case you will not be allowed to read the statement in court," said Lord Titch, and my solicitor and barrister agreed.

About a month before the trial, my brother and his wife had visited me in Risley Remand Centre. My brother made it clear that everyone wanted a quiet trial, My grandfather, who was ninety-five years old, had still not been told about my 'spot of trouble,' as everyone thought that the shock would kill him. My stepfather was none too healthy either, after his heart attack eight months before. I therefore reluctantly decided not to give evidence, but to plead guilty to manslaughter. At the time I felt an absolute coward and still have emotive feelings regarding that decision. I was to plead guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility.

Late Monday morning I was handcuffed to an officer and taken to the courtroom next door. In the courtroom's anti-room the handcuffs were taken off. After the judge had entered the courtroom, I was led up the stairs and into the dock. On either side of the judge sat other officials, one in an RAF uniform. The jury benches on my right were empty. The press consisting of about six journalists, sat to my left. The public sat in a gallery high up behind me, out of sight. The police officer in charge of investigating the case, stood to my left next to the dock during some of the proceedings, and we exchanged nods. The courtroom was large with a high ceiling. It could have been a converted theatre or cinema, I thought.

As I stood in the dock both charges of murder were read out by the clerk of the court.

To each charge I replied, "Not guilty to murder, guilty to manslaughter."

The prosecutions representative then stood up and stated that the pleas of manslaughter were acceptable. I then sat down and listened to the proceedings. The acoustics in the courtroom were very bad. Although there was a speaker system, it was not operating. When my QC finally stood up with his back to me, I could neither read his lips nor those of the judge, who was obscured by him.

The judge then ordered the jury, who had been waiting in an adjoining room, to be discharged. Some of the jury decided to come in anyway and witness the proceedings. The prosecution started the ball rolling by explaining to the judge what had happened on the day of the killings. I was surprised by what he said about me, as none of it was derogatory. There were no emotional outbursts of rhetoric from either the prosecution nor defence councils. It all seemed fairly low key and straight forward. It was nowhere near as dramatic as what I had seen in soap operas on television. It was not as well rehearsed either, leaving me with a feeling that it was amateurish. Unfortunately, because of the poor acoustics, I could only make out about a third of what was being said.

All of the statements from the police experts, witnesses and people that knew me, were handed over to the judge. There was little for the journalists to write down, as so little was actually spoken, so after lunch only half of them returned. The entire proceedings generated a low profile, so hopefully publicity would be minimal, I thought. The only persons to give evidence orally in court were Dr.Shrunk and Dr.Shrank. They both stated that I was suffering from a depressive illness, necessitating further medical treatment. Much of what they said, I could either not hear, or understand. Whilst Dr.Shrunk was in the witness box, the judge asked him whether I had ever said that I was sorry about what I had done. Both Dr.Shrunk and my QC looked through their notes for what seemed like ages. At this point I felt like getting up and saying something.

Of course I wish that I had never killed them, of course I wish they were still alive, but definitely not as they were.

I presume that somewhere in my red writing pad the word sorry appears, but at that, moment it was in my cell.

Eventually something was said to the judge which appeared to fit the question. I certainly used the word sorry a number of times in my letters to Karen, but sorry appeared to be such an inadequate word to use under the circumstances. I was depressed during my interviews with the doctors and as far as I can tell, it is difficult to be depressed without feeling sorry. For a judge to ask a senior medical officer such a question made me wonder whether he was serious. If he was, then I think he had an inadequate understanding of the workload placed upon such doctors. You cannot expect a doctor to recall from memory what was said at interviews which took place months before, out of perhaps a hundred interviews which have taken place since. Neither can you expect a doctor to recall from notes twenty millimetres thick or more, the exact point on a transcript where the word sorry was used. In some of the cases I became involved in at Risley the word sorry was out of place, since the crime was perfectly justified. Whether the killing of my in-laws was justified is open to opinion. Maybe the judge, possibly through inadequate knowledge, thought not.

Another awkward question raised by the judge left my QC in a hesitant state.

"Who was looking after Mrs. Allen whilst her husband was on his TOPS course?" asked the judge.

I got the impression that either the judge had not read the statement I sent to my solicitor, or that he failed to understand the motives of my in-laws. There was also the possibility that he was trying to convey to my wife and sister-in-law the fact that he was aware of the good their parents had done. Rather than answer the question straight, my QC hesitated then tried not to mention my in-laws, by stating that the day care centre in Erdington and my parents had looked after her. This was inaccurate. My QC should have made it clear to the judge that my in-laws wanted their daughter back with them permanently, and if they could look after her whilst I was on a TOPS course, then they were half way towards their goal. Because I could not hear much of what was being said, I had no way of knowing whether the judge got the full picture. Maybe he knew the answers before he asked the questions, in which case I thought that my sentence was likely to be longer than I had originally expected.

I was not impressed by the way the trial was going and I regretted not having submitted my statement somehow. Had the judge read it, then surely he would have understood. I found the proceedings depressing at times, and it maybe that I would have been too upset to give evidence without breaking down. Officials sat in front of me looking at photographs of the two corpses, photographs I had never seen. Sometimes the doctors showed photographs of the victim to inmates during interviews, as a means of stimulating a reaction. The only time I smiled in that courtroom was when Dr.Shrunk said that I could be obstinate at times. This was a reference to my insistence on giving evidence. He also said that when I was interviewed by Dr.Shrink a few days after the killings, I was suffering from euphoria. The word was used in a medical context, meaning relieved. It did not mean that I was going around boasting about what I had done and was glad that I had killed them. My QC told the judge about the problems I had had with the DHSS, then handed him a pile of forms which I had received from them over the years.

The question of the commando dagger cropped up. My QC tried to imply that it was not the sort of weapon one would use to kill someone with, as the tip of the blade had been broken off some years before. Only about four millimetres of the blade was missing however, so it was still a lethal weapon. I felt that my QC was scraping the barrel when searching for the correct rhetoric with which to form a defence. At this point I wished that my QC would sit down and shut up. Bearing in mind the complexity of the case, I cannot help thinking that my QC and I should have discussed it long before the trial, instead of on the morning of it. With Tiler's murder trial to defend that same week, it may be that he had simply taken on too much, or having read my statement to my solicitor, probably thought the case was easy to put over in court.

The trial went on into the afternoon. Both Dr.Shrink and Dr.Shrunk had asked for a lenient and determinate sentence. They stated that an indeterminate sentence would have a bad effect on me. I suppose there was also the fear that I would be locked up and forgotten by the DHSS in one of its mental hospitals. A fear that probably had more basis in this case considering the amount of involvement the DHSS had already incurred. My QC Lord Titch then surprised me by making a similar plea for a lenient and determinate sentence. I thought, surely the judge is intelligent enough to already realise that. I was however still inexperienced in such matters. Half way through the proceedings the other witnesses, including my friends and my sister-in-law were allowed into the public gallery, when it was realised that the judge would not be requiring them to give evidence. My wife Karen, was not at the trial, neither were my parents.

I thought that my QC had gone too far by telling the judge what to do. The defence probably felt that the judge needed directing as regards a sentence owing to the pressure on time, since the remainder of the week was scheduled for the Tiler trial. The judge was clearly troubled at being asked to give a determinate sentence to someone who was still mentally ill. How could he give a fixed sentence of the correct duration, when he did not know how long it would take for me to get better? Before the trial, my QC had told me that he had developed a good understanding with this particular judge over the years. I was now hoping that he was right.

I stood up as the judge and entourage left the courtroom to deliberate. The proceedings had taken about, five hours. The same length of time that it would have taken me to read out the statement from my red writing pad. During the months in Risley leading up to the trial, I got the feeling that I would receive three years imprisonment. Based on what I had seen and heard in court, I changed this to five years. After the judge left the courtroom I was taken downstairs, where in silence I stood, waiting and thinking. I thought about the commando dagger. I had plans to grind the tip of the blade that previous Saturday. If it had not been for the power tool burning out then I would have done so, resulting no doubt in a trial for premeditated murder.

Finally the judge returned, after which I was led back into the dock. The judge in his red and white robes reminded me of Santa Claus. Christmas was only a month away, but I was to receive the gift that meant most to me, there and then. I knew from the reactions of other inmates at Risley that no matter what the sentence was, it would come as a great relief. The judge gave what seemed to be a long summing up, ending with the sentence itself. The summing up was like a severe telling off from a school teacher to a pupil. My friends in the public gallery told me later that they felt that moment to be the most traumatic. I had already decided to nod in agreement with the verdict no matter what it was, as I wished to leave the courtroom in a dignified manner. I do not remember what the judge said in his summing up, as I was too interested in what the sentence would be.

The judge, his summing up complete, then announced that I would go to prison for five years. I nodded in agreement. Five years imprisonment after already serving five years of torment and abuse. Five years imprisonment as a result, of provocative actions by others which amounted to entrapment. Five years imprisonment in defence of my home, my wife and most of all, my sanity.

There was an exclamation of disapproval from the public gallery. I later learned that it came from my sister-in-law whom a few hours before, along with a woman friend, had verbally accosted a witness for the defence in the ladies toilets. The accosted witness was the proprietor of the garage, who had witnessed the incident between me and my in-laws at the bus stop years before. She was apparently in a state of shock when my ex-landlady Mrs. Jones, later came across her. I did not hear of this incident until some years later. My friends were reluctant to tell me in their letters, in case the letter was censored and they got a wigging for it. After the sentence was passed I was quickly led away back to my cell.

About half an hour later I was taken from my cell to the interview room, where I met my solicitor, Mr.Roberts, and my three friends, Brian, Bill and of course Mrs. Jones. It was a pleasure to see her after so many years, as despite her age she always radiated confidence, especially now when I needed it most. I told my friends there and then that I was unhappy regarding how so few details had come out in court. I knew that my wife's relatives and friends would never understand what happened and why, from what they were likely to read in the local newspapers. There was no talk of an appeal as everyone seemed satisfied. I never saw my QC and barrister again. I suppose they could not be certain how I would take the sentence.

Well there it was, I doubted whether Karen would understand, even supposing she received an unbiased account of the proceedings. I hoped that my sister-in-law would now let matters rest, and not pursue a long festering hatred of me the way her mother did. I hoped that she would present Karen with a positive future in which to enjoy the freedom she now had. As for me, if I am guilty it was only because society presented me with no alternative. I have no doubt that when I eventually stand before God, on this matter, I will do so with a clear conscience. What would you have done if you had been in my shoes?

That evening I returned to Risley Remand Centre in a hire car manned by prison officers. According to Dr.Shrunk's statement in court, I would be detained there for further medical help rather than be transferred immediately to the Hornby Hotel, or a mental hospital. I do not know whether I was detained there under the mental health act, but over a long period of time I was to realise that for some reason, no other establishment wanted me.

There were many inmates in the hospital at Risley who had progressed through various sections of The Mental Health Act. It must have been deeply frustrating to the doctors and nurses, when they saw the same inmates returning to the remand centre time and time again. As the months ticked by I was to see the same pathetic faces return to the hospital. It generated within me the feeling that government did not really care. For some, the end of their trial was to take them to one of the countries top security mental hospitals run by the DHSS at Park Lane, Rainhill (Scott Clinic), Broadmoor or Rampton. At this time I did not know how serious my illness was, so I was constantly afraid that I would end up in one of those places. Conditions in mental hospitals had improved in recent years, although the horrors of Rampton, which I had seen on television some years before, were still uppermost in my mind. Had I known the effect a prolonged period in Risley was likely to have on me, then I am certain I would have been more determined to get in to Park Lane Mental Hospital.

My first night back at Risley was spent in an ordinary cell on the ground floor of the hospital. Here were kept the violent and deranged prisoners, those unfit to stand trial and many whose minds had been destroyed through drug abuse. It was on that day that my prothiaden treatment was resumed. The next morning appeared the bird my wife loved the most, the Robin. I threw some of my bread out to it during breakfast. As I watched it darting amongst the shrubs, I wondered how my wife felt about my sentence. Did she still want a divorce? I hoped not but I had to look at it from her point of view. She was now dependant upon her sister for support, a woman who apparently loathed me, who would no doubt insist that her mother's wishes were fulfilled. Would her sister treat her decently, I kept thinking to myself.

A week or so after the trial, on December 4th, 1984 to be exact, I was interviewed by an Indian woman wearing a sari, who was accompanied by a tall gentleman. I believe they were a doctor and male nurse from Park Lane Mental Hospital, Maghull, Liverpool. They asked me a number of questions about my case. I got the impression that they had not read my statement which was in Dr.Shrunk's possession. On the other hand, maybe they were just making conversation in order to ascertain my mental capabilities. I was very pleased to see them, for at least there was something positive in the air. So cheerful in fact, that when I told them how my father-in-law had died.

I joked, "I always thought he would die of liver failure, as he drank too much."

Jokes in Risley were inevitably sick. The meeting ended without me knowing when I would be transferred.

Despite my prothiaden treatment my fits were increasing in frequency. Drug therapy was quite common in the hospital. Usually about half a dozen people on each ward would be on some form of medication. Only in extreme cases where an inmate was an obvious danger to himself or others, were drugs forcibly administered. Their was a genuine desire by most inmates to be cured, even if this meant a hypodermic needle in the backside. Fortunately all of my treatment was oral. There were inmates who failed to recognize the need for drug therapy. Sometimes they could be bribed with cigarettes into taking them, but there was always a hard core, not dangerous but not well, who refused to take treatment, or perhaps no acceptable form of treatment was available to them. These inmates were kept in a ground floor cell, unable to delight in the nine to twelve hours of television per day. I could not help thinking that they were the lucky ones.

As the months past, I could not understand why I was being kept in the hospital, as I was no longer under observation for assessment. Since inmates on the wings also received medication, I failed to see why I was not being transferred there. I should of course have realised that it was not the doctors or the governor that dictated where I was allowed to go. I was being shunned by the rest of the prison system in my locality, in the form of bloody minded officials.

Some inmates in the hospital had specialist jobs like looking after the linen stores, operating the meals trolley, working on the inmates serveries, cleaning the doctor's offices, cleaning the closed wards or best of all, working in the staff servery, which was the only job where perks existed. The staff would bring in their food and any 'left over's' would be consumed by the two inmates working in there. It was a hot smelly job which entitled an inmate to have a shower or bath each day. Since you were required to work all day, all the inmate's visits were held in the hospital in order to avoid long delays in getting back from the visiting room. These visits generally took place in the visiting room, or small library adjacent to the ground floor main office. The visits were generally more private and of longer duration. Unfortunately I never worked on the staff servery, but many of my friends did. None of these jobs paid any extra money, the reward, for most, was in having something to do to occupy one's mind. Special payments were however made to those who cleaned out the stripped cells on 'bad' occasions.

I could play chess but I only played two games whilst in prison, as I had simply lost the joy of living. The thought of going to prison in a game of monopoly did not appeal to me either. I played the game only once. Somehow I got seconded into playing bridge during my period in A ward. One of the bridge players was an orphan by the name of Malcolm Richards. He was being detained for credit card offences. On the last occasion he used one, he made the mistake of signing the wrong name whilst paying for a sumptuous meal in a restaurant. He was a lonely person who sought the companionship of others, by getting himself admitted to hospital with all kinds of phony symptoms. On one occasion he deceived the staff so well that an exploratory operation was carried out. Something went wrong with the operation, resulting in him being close to death for a while. I think he showed me a story about him, published in The Times, which he was quite proud of. When he was not in hospital he sought companionship in the London bridge clubs. He was in the hospital at Risley with suspected stomach ulcers.

Like Malcolm there were many inmates in the hospital who received only solicitors letters and bills. Prisoners could ask the welfare department to send in a volunteer visitor, just to have someone to talk to. Malcolm had tried this. A woman use to visit him often in one prison he had been a guest in. In the end he stopped seeing her, when he realised that all she wanted to talk about was his sex life. I have no doubt that there must have been many prisoners in the hospital who would have been only too willing to give a graphic account of such exploits.

As for me, I found reading the most exciting pastime I had, since my diet of serious television programmes like Horizon, World About Us, Panorama and the Money Programme, not forgetting Sky at Night, were all strictly out of bounds by popular vote. Soap operas, quiz shows and cartoons were to be the menu for the day, every day. The inmates would lounge in the easy chairs with their feet up, and enter a kind of nirvana, whilst hypnotized by the electrons bombarding the phosphorus screen. Occasionally they would achieve the impossible, and natter to one another louder than the decibels from the television set. To get away from that world, I employed my solicitor and mother to subscribe a number of magazines for me. I received regular copies of Flight International, New Scientist and later Spaceflight News. These magazines kept me in touch with the sane positive minded world that I craved to belong to.

Risley Remand Centre was surprisingly peaceful, apart from the noise that is. Inmates went out of their way not to cause trouble. Although there were a few exceptions, life in prison away from the problems and responsibilities of the outside world, was preferred by many inmates. Contact with the outside world was most traumatic during visits. I could not help wishing that they were not allowed. I found it far easier to write a letter, as I could not think quickly enough to hold a conversation with visitors, owing to the drug therapy I was receiving. Some inmates found that they were only getting visits from relatives and girlfriends who wanted them to sign over bank accounts and property to them. It caused great bitterness when the message sank in.

During a typical visit, an inmate was escorted to the waiting room adjacent to the visiting hall. After waiting perhaps five to ten minutes the inmates name was called. The inmate stood on a box whilst he was searched. To check his identity the prison officer would ask him for his number. A table number was then allocated for the inmate to sit at. A few minutes later the visitors would come in and deposit their bag of gifts at a hatch, behind which the contents would be searched whilst the visit was in progress. The visitors sat on the other side of the table from the inmate, Female visitors were not allowed to put their handbags on the table for security reasons.

Soon after my trial my stepfather and mother paid me a second visit. I sent them a VO, but they did not arrive on the date arranged. The day after however, they did turn up much for the worst. My mother was close to tears and it was not long before I found out why. My stepfather told me that his car had broken down on the motorway. It was towed into a garage but the engine was beyond repair. They were obliged to complete their journey by train and taxi, staying over night in a hotel. To add to the misery, the weather was very bad at this time. They both turned up looking like drowned rats. My stepfather's car had another engine put in it, but this later turned out to be unsuitable, necessitating the need for a proper reconditioned engine to be installed. During all this work the car radiator also got damaged. It took months to get it back on the road. I told my parents never to visit me again, as it was simply not worth the heartache. After their visit I went over to the inmates hatch and collected the goodies my parents had brought me. After a typical half an hour wait, I was then escorted back to the hospital. The visit had lasted no more than thirty minutes.

Being constantly called by my sir name whilst doped up, almost made me forget who I was. On one occasion I signed the pay sheet omitting my initials. I was H19992 Allen, for the whole of my sentence. I was that doped up that I could not work out in my head how much I had spent, and how much I was still entitled to spend in the canteen each Sunday. The staff in the canteen seemed to have little patience for those inmates who could not make up their minds about what to buy. One of the dehumanizing things that I detested was the refusal of staff to let me cut my nails with nail clippers. I never use to bite my nails. Other inmates got the nail clippers on occasion, but not I. For the whole of my prison sentence therefore I was to tear at my nails with my thumb nail. This seemed to solve the problem, as within a day my nails repaired themselves. I found the exercise initially degrading, but I soon learned that a person gets use to all kinds of degradation eventually, You become a mindless shit heap, learning the art of crime and acquiring an itching desire to get even with the mindless morons in the establishment that were responsible for your present predicament.

An inmate gets use to the excrement and mucus on lavatory walls, and the foul language of inmates and staff. As my wife and I lost our hard fought for home and contents, the incentive for me to re-enter society with all its problems diminished. The courts definition of freedom fell a long way short of what I wanted when I eventually got out, namely a pleasurable and meaningful life, within the law. Although I firmly believed in my innocence, even if I had been given my freedom, it would have turned out to be another trial in disguise, which I do not think so shortly after my trial, I could have faced. I was by now far too content with my Peter Pan existence, where inmates on drugs, float from day to day.

During exercise periods I would lie on the grass, and whilst soaking up the sun, escape within my mind. I felt that I had entered a better world during these moments, but these periods were altogether too brief. On one occasion I fell asleep whilst lying on the grass and had to be woken up by a hospital officer, just as the last inmates were trooping indoors. I deeply missed those times when the foul weather set in. In winter there was to be no escape into one's mind. It was the nearest thing to real punishment.

A book published at this time titled "Prison Health Care" by Dr.Richard Smith, stated that half of the inmates of British prisons at this time were considered to be either mentally or physically defective in some way. To me the meaning was clear. Having a mental illness did not mean that I would necessarily end up in a mental hospital. I could serve an entire sentence in prison and be released with my illness intact. What a thought. A government deliberately unleashing mentally ill criminals onto an unwary general public, not to mention the wasted opportunity and associated tax payer's money. Surely I thought, the government cannot be that uncaring.

During the first few months of incarceration, I often thought about the penologists idea of criminals coming face to face with their victims as a form of group therapy. I wondered whether my sister-in-law would have welcomed this. I doubted it, but I really regretted that I had been unable to talk to my wife face to face, in the hope of salvaging what remained of our lives. All I had to look forward to was a transfer to a mental hospital run by the inept DHSS, or to be simply forgotten in the prison system somewhere. My mind kept telling me to look on the bright side of life, but there was no bright side, not even a light at the end of the tunnel. It was a day to day existence, never knowing what would happen next. Inmates arrived, had their trials and moved on, whilst I stayed in the hospital at Risley, watching, listening, writing and waiting. I would crave for an end to the monotony, the noise, the pointlessness of it all. Studying the inmate's idiosyncrasies, whilst the next 'incident' was the only thing worth really waiting for.

During my long stay in that hospital, I had the pleasure and often the displeasure of meeting some interesting characters, both inmates and staff. Usually a third of the inmates on the ward were killers, a fair proportion of these being as a result of a domestic dispute. Other inmates kept in the open wards included tramps and sex offenders brought into the hospital for protection, the latter known as beasts or nonces. The tramps and other pathetic individuals became the target of ridicule and abuse on the wings, so they were brought into the hospital for their own peace of mind. Usually they were charged with very minor offences, such as shop lifting or exposing themselves. They did not belong in prison but within a sheltered community, but there was none. Many anyway, shunned the assistance offered by the Salvation Army and the church. The workhouses were long gone, whilst the government did not give a damn about rehabilitating them. Looking at them, it was hard to realise that somewhere there were relatives and friends who were wondering what had happened to them. At times I felt like suggesting euthanasia, but gradually during my months at Risley I came to realise that they were capable of improvement. Unfortunately there special needs were often ignored. Other inmates suffering from physical ailments, such as broken limbs and heart problems, also abounded in the hospital, as did epileptics.

Worse off than the tramps were the brain damaged inmates on the ground floor. They banged on their doors and talked aloud to themselves frequently. Many appeared unfit to plead, their brains wrecked by drugs and alcohol, their lives I felt were effectively over. Occasionally a relative or friend would visit them, to remind you that there really was a human being in that cell. Some were decent ordinary folk, their lives almost shattered, being no longer able to look after their loved one at home. For the parents it must have been worse. All the years they had devoted in care and attention. The long term plans for the future. Where had they gone wrong, they must have thought. All those dreams were now dead, as they looked at a son they hardly recognized and who barely recognized them.

Was it caused by cannabis, glue sniffing, cocaine, heroin, amphetamines, LSD, or simply alcoholism? Maybe the ultimate cause was government apathy. People living in full time purposeful well paid employment, with encouragement in establishing a family within a caring stress moderated society, do not destroy themselves with drugs as a rule. Why in an island nation were these drugs flooding into the country at this time? Sniffer dogs, gas chromatography and X-ray equipment all existed, whilst the customs and excise departments complained of under-manning. The real external threat to British society came in the form of illicit drugs and AIDS, not the Warsaw Pact, and yet the financial resources to counter the first two paled into insignificance compared to the latter's defence funding.

The inmate stared and talked gibberish. The relatives and friends could not think of a worse place to come to for a day out. Somewhere along the line of drug abuse he had simply taken too much and overloaded the liver's ability to break down the poisons in the blood stream. The poisons had passed through the blood brain barrier and done irreparable damage, producing one cabbage. There was always the hope in the parent's minds that he would improve. Certainly some days were a considerable improvement upon others, but he would always relapse. In truth there was no hope. They who once had everything to live for, had thrown it all away and had become the living dead. I could not help thinking that there should have been open days at the hospital, during which school groups would be shocked into obedience, parents shocked out of complacency, and politicians shocked into action. I would listen to the stories the ground floor cleaners would recount to me of such inmates. I was later to get first hand experience, as I in turn became a cleaner down there.

I was surprised by how many young inmates there were in the remand centre. There were relatively few inmates over the age of thirty-five. Crime, or more accurately impulsive crime, was the preserve of the young repetitive offender. From Merseyside in particular, imprisonment was just another environmental hazard, something which all their pals experienced. A large percentage of inmates had tattoos, sometimes covering large areas of their chest and arms. Many of these tattoos had been self inflicted. They looked awful. Some people say that there is no relationship between intelligence and the criminal type. Since over a third of males ended up with a criminal record, that would seem to confirm this statement. It all depends however on how you measure intelligence.

Intelligence is not simply based upon memory and whether one can differentiate quickly the difference between shapes in a so called IQ test. Determination to see a task performed well and the refusal to consistently seek the easy way out in life, are other values that reflect a persons worth, as are loyalty to friends and society, and of course honesty. All of these values are in a way part of intelligence. Independent reasoning ability and the determination to stick to a decision which you know to be right, are also fundamental aspects of intelligence. I was surprised by how many inmates had been talked into a crime, which they would normally have never committed. They appeared to lack a strong character of their own. Their parents and schoolteachers, their authority probably undermined by mass unemployment, had in that respect taught them little.

In the hospital however, existed the extreme personalities of the prison system, both inmates and staff. Less than half the inmates were of average or higher intelligence, being either killers, physically ill or having been brought off the wings for protection. There were many of low intelligence, so low in fact that it was difficult to see how on Earth some of them had the intelligence to break the law. Low intelligence could be caused by a number of factors. Most of this type had been like it since birth. Their mother's had indulged in excessive smoking and drinking of alcohol during pregnancy, mistakes had been made during child birth, stunted development of the brain caused by quarrelling or uncaring parents, or a serious accident involving brain injury. All these causes I came across in Risley, not to mention inadequate schooling, often coupled with a deprived negatively minded community.

A person of low intelligence stands little chance of keeping out of trouble in a society geared only to creating high technology jobs, to the detriment of everyone else less able. Far more obvious than intelligence was the uncaring way inmates had been brought up by their parents, often because the father was mentally or physically disabled, or simply too old, or because there was no father. There were many inmates who did not know how to make a bed properly, who would not flush the toilet after using it, nor wash their hands afterwards. They would not push their chair back under the table after finishing their meal, something which my mother had driven into me at an early age, along with everything else.

When it came to cleaning the ward, I was left almost on my own. All the keen workers had jobs elsewhere, and although they were not officially allowed to, would go to them before the ward cleaning began. Many of those that were left felt that scrubbing floors was beneath their dignity. I must admit that no sane housewife would have got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed those floors, for they were too extensive in area. Easy divorce, gay rights, women's lib and the acceptance of one parent families, I felt would only exacerbate the crime problem.

One of the inmates that fell into the low intelligence bracket was Neil Peters, a small warn out individual. He arrived on A ward late one evening. I did not exactly see his arrival as smell it. He moved into bed number two, which was next to mine, separated by a glass partition, which unfortunately failed to prevent his body odour from drifting up my nostrils. Each time I smelt it that night, I had to use every ounce of will power to stop myself exploding with rage. He was a simple soul, so the following morning I took him to the linen stores to get some clean clothes and bed sheets for his use. I even convinced him politely that he should have a bath, which to my joy he indulged in enthusiastically. I shudder to think what I would have done to him if he had refused.

He spent his days rummaging amongst the ash trays and dust bin, looking for dog ends, which he reconstructed into full sized cigarettes, for his own use. What they were like to smoke, I hate to imagine, as they stank awfully. As soon as he lit up, the windows in the ward magically opened. Coughing and wheezing, he would carry on smoking regardless. The tobacco he used was a combination of cigarette and cigar. The cigar butts came from the hospital officer, Mr.Stick, a Scotsman who smoked incessantly by day and apparently drank all night. Invariably I would find him in a semi-collapsed state in the staff servery each morning. How he managed to get to work I do not know. He must have had the sense of a homing pigeon. Just before I finally left Risley, somebody told me that his wife had kicked him out. I could not imagine why any woman would want him, except to pay the bills. Looking at Mr.Stick and Neil, it was not too difficult to see how one could lead to the other. I think Mr.Stick got a sadistic delight in watching Neil's pyrotechnic masterpieces turn everyone's face green.

Of all the people I saw spew up, Neil did it with the greatest effect. Just the sound of that agonizing groan coming from the deepest recesses of his stomach, reverberating off the lavatory bowl, was enough to churn over the strongest stomach. We often felt that he would never get out of the lavatory alive, but much to our disappointment, he rebounded back to life. Sitting in the staff chair outside the ward office, Mr.Stick would simply shake his head in amazement at such feats.

Neil spent the evenings drawing. Quite a few of the lads considered themselves artists, and proved quite good at it, but Neil was pathetic. Not just content with drawing, Neil would make models out of paper. All of the models would be put along the window sill, then over his bed and locker. It was impossible to tell one model from another, as they all looked the same. It reminded me of sea gulls on a council refuse tip. Neil would often go around the ward trying to cadge a light off someone. The lads would tell him to go and ask the Hospital officer or night watchman. Needless to say, it was not necessarily the cigarette that started flaming when he did so.

The hospital officers had a soft job most of the time. As with the inmates, the main problem was in how not to get bored. Some simply put two chairs together and slept off the previous nights drinking in the office. At times like that I was not certain whether the locked grill gate was designed to keep the inmates in or the principal officer out. I think Mr.Pluto was the worst offender. As for Mr.Stick, it was difficult at times to see whether he was asleep or awake, as he tended to drift between the two states during most of the day. As for qualifications for the job, some had been trained in radiography and EEG work, whilst others had previous medical related experience. Mr.Parrot was qualified in pharmacology, whilst Mr.Pardon spent his time swotting up for a medical exam, during those initial months. Other officers took City & Guilds or BTEC exams in various subjects, just to pass the time.

The staff certainly knew how to stick a hypodermic needle into an inmate, and if all else failed there was always Mr.Barraclough, a man of the cloth, to administer the last rites. Most of the time it was only necessary for hospital officers to lock and unlock doors, count the inmates regularly and try to keep awake. Being locked in a ward with so many idiots, it was a soulless, thankless task. The job was however well paid and presented plenty of spare time in which to plan the next holiday with the misses, swot for exams or pursue some hobby. Mr.Flight would pass the time by listening to the airliners making their approach to Manchester International Airport, formerly Ringway. I let him and other members of staff read my Flight International, after I had finished with them. I never found an inmate interested in them. Many could not even read.

Some of the hospital officers had become screws on recommendation from a relative or friend, who was one. Half the prison staff came from the armed forces, simply because it was the thing to do, whilst many others were gay. Mr.Willie's father was a screw, Mr.Pluto had been in the parachute regiment, Mr.Bump in the Royal Marines, whilst Mr.Stone had been in the RAF. One of the screws had been a boxer. To stop the staff from becoming 'home sick', Mr.Parrot would go around whistling regimental tunes. He had been in the army, the Salvation Army. Also straight out of the armed forces, one assumes, was the swearing. By far the worst culprit was Mr.Bark. I well remember our first encounter. He was sitting on the landing between A and B wards, whereupon I went up to him and asked a question, politely.

"What the fuck are you fucking doing in this fucking place, fuck off!" Mr.Bark replied.

For a brief moment I thought I had achieved my life long ambition of coming face to face with alien intelligence. He was literally incapable of saying anything without swearing. I wondered whether he had a family, but could not bring myself to ask. I do not think that I ever got use to the foul language and flatulence. It all helped to make the sickening environment I was in, even sicker. The Home Office was to later describe my treatment as 'supportive psychotherapy'.

Quite frankly I could not wait to get out. I had been given a fixed sentence of five years imprisonment. According to my booklet, 'Parole Your Questions Answered,' any sentence over three years was eligible for parole. Upon my return to Risley Remand Centre after my trial, I had been informed of my earliest date of release (EDR), and my parole eligibility date (PED). The EDR fell due after an inmate had completed two thirds of his sentence, provided he had not lost remission through bad behaviour. PED came into effect after an inmate had completed a third of his sentence. This meant that I would be eligible for parole from Boxing Day 1985, whilst my EDR would fall on August 27th, 1987. I thought that I would have little difficulty in getting parole, since my crime was hardly likely to occur again. I had no previous criminal record and I was determined to keep my nose clean, no matter how much shit was thrown at me.

I was lucky, as many inmates who passed through the hospital at Risley got life sentences. A person could receive a life sentence for murder, manslaughter, arson, rape, or a sex assault against a child. Life sentences usually meant eight to fifteen years in prison. For the killing of police officers, prison personnel, terrorism, or killing a person with a firearm in a robbery, the life sentence could be twenty years or more. For serious crimes the judge may feel compelled to give a life sentence followed by a minimum sentence of imprisonment for that lifer. No matter how long or short the life sentence in prison, upon release, this is followed by a life licence. This lasts for the rest of that person's natural life. People on life licence could be recalled to prison if they had done something wrong, or seemed likely to do so. Persons recalled to prison could then be detained for twelve months. At this time there were moves by the Home Office to make all those serving life do twenty years imprisonment, and increase remission to other inmates to half their sentence instead of a third. Neither idea got off the ground. As for my particular case, the seriousness of the offence was to prove the main stumbling block to getting parole.

The thought of a third remission for good behaviour was the main factor which kept the lid on the British prison system. I only saw three or four violent incidents whilst in prison, and usually they were between inmates. In one incident Neil was on the receiving end when another inmate punched him in the mouth. The inmates not only detested his smoking habits, but worse, they did not like being put in the same 'class' as him. Inmates could get very touchy regarding mental illness, especially the question of whether or not they suffered from it themselves. Neil had been getting on peoples' nerves by rummaging through the dustbin, whilst many inmates watched TV. It sickened their enjoyment of soap operas. Finally he started playing with himself in full view of everyone, He would often slink off to the loo, where he kept a grubby pornographic magazine hidden behind the cistern. The magazines came from the staff, who would 'read' them in prison without their wives finding out. Many of the magazines were years old, folded, worn out and stained. You could usually find some in the bottom draw of the office desk. After being assaulted Neil was moved downstairs, whilst his assailant was reported in the occurrence book.

Inmates in general wanted to get better, and like me asked for help from the doctors. Some would prove more successful than I, sometimes resulting in unforeseen side effects. There was Mary for instance who took a cocktail of three drugs each day, including lithium carbonate, used in the treatment of manic depression. In addition he was injected in the backside with depixol (flupenthixol decanoate), a major tranquillizer, every two weeks. All this helped put him in a semi-comatosed state. In fact he slept half of the day usually. It also made him talk and move in an effeminate manner, hence his nickname, Mary. He was really a nice chap, whom you could get to know easily, in his drugged state at any rate.

Separating truth from fiction was impossible. A typical example was Glynne Williams, a sex offender. He was aged about fifty I would say and came from North Wales. He said he was a great landowner and that his wife was a member of the well to do. One day he told a group of us, at great length, how he met this girl who against all his protests eventually seduced him. The story took a couple of hours for him to recall as he went into great detail. It took a long time to narrate, not just because the story was so long winded, but also because he stuttered, an affliction he said he had suffered from ever since a tractor rolled on top of him. He was charged with having sex with this under aged girl, and was not looking forward to his trial in Caernarfon.

He described how he met the girl's mother and how when he went around her house one day, finding the mother was out, her daughter tried to seduce him. He managed to repulse this temptation, on this and a second occasion whilst he was lying on a beach naked. In cold wind swept North Wales? On the third occasion she met him in the lane leading up to his farmhouse. He had just finished work and she insisted on going home with him. In the farmhouse she started to take off her clothes. He was already stripped to the waist after washing at the kitchen sink. Well you can imagine how half a dozen lads in A ward were feeling, after being confined for months. The worst part was when he kept on stuttering, whilst everyone was trying to find the next word for him. Anyway, after fighting her off for what seemed like months, he finally gives in to temptation and damnation. We were all relieved that the story was finally over. At the trial the story turned out to be quite different. He was only a farm labourer apparently. The girl was not fifteen but twelve years of age. He lived in a caravan where the offence took place in a sleeping bag whilst two schoolboys were reading pornographic magazines in the next compartment. The outcome of the trial was three years imprisonment, so I was told. After the sentencing he immediately stopped stuttering. Needless to say, the inmates on the ward felt very angry at being conned.

A few years later, as I was walking through a new shopping arcade in Bangor someone tapped me on the shoulder. I was filled with a feeling of dread. Oh no, I thought, the in-laws. I turned around and low and behold standing before me, as fit as an ox, was my old friend Glynne Williams. With a haversack on his back, he looked as if he had already climbed Mount Snowdon half a dozen times that day. He had evidently had it rough in prison and was glad to be out. He still maintained that the girl had been fifteen and was now seventeen years of age. Somehow the maths did not make sense. Evidently he was still screwing her, so he said, though by now he had shacked up with a twenty-three year old. He said that he had been sentenced to two years for under aged sex and two years for threatening the father. This caused him to swear at the judge who then made the sentences run consecutively instead of concurrently. Just how much of this yarn was true is anyone's guess.

One of the characters who went in and out of Risley like a boomerang was John Boon, a short stocky character. His offences were quite minor, such as steeling a pullover. He was known as the human magpie. He looked like something made from spare parts. During my stay in A ward he was usually kept downstairs in a cell, but during one overcrowded period we were blessed by his presence for two weeks. He collected everything in sight that was not nailed down. His pockets bulged with pens and tooth brushes.

One day a photograph of my wife disappeared. The request for a search was turned down. I had a good idea who had it, but trying to prove it without causing trouble was impossible. On some nights after lights out, we could hear a squelching noise coming from John's bed. The thought of him having that photograph made me sick. John was eventually returned downstairs. Not before time in my opinion.

About six months later, whilst I was in B ward, John joined us. I was surprised by how much he had improved in both appearance and behaviour. Obviously someone had put a lot of effort in. It was also clear that further improvement was also possible, but I knew he would not get it at Risley.

Another character so easy to remember at this time was Tiny, all twenty-two stone of him. He was so big that none of the prison clothes fitted him, so the authorities were obliged to get some specially made. The ward had been presented with some really comfortable tubular chairs for watching the TV from. Evidently the chairs did not recline to some inmates liking and so it was not long before they were all bent back, some into uncomfortable angles, by his enormous weight. He said he had been arrested for kidnapping a policeman who had attempted to arrest him for some reason or other. One look at his size made you believe it.

A less likeable fellow in the ward at this time was Bob Wells. I clearly remember the day when half a dozen lads sat around him and methodically questioned him. Wells had a life history of mental illness which included Broadmoor. He had been arrested because a mentally retarded young girl had accused him of sexually assaulting her, by ramming a pole or branch up her vagina. At the inquisition that day in A ward, Wells simply said that he could not remember anything. The lads got nowhere, but they passed a verdict none the less. Guilty! Wells did not have to prove his innocence. The prosecution had to prove his guilt, but with only the evidence of a mentally retarded girl, they stood no chance. Wells' defence council quickly reduced her statement to dust. Under British law that was what they were supposed to do. I was coming to realise at this time that British courts were not there to ascertain the truth, only to arrive at an expedient decision, the consequences of which mattered little. Although found not guilty, he was not released, since his case history fell within the mental health act. He was therefore sent to Rainhill Hospital, Liverpool, the outcome of which was to lead him back to Risley at a later date.

There always seemed to be a prankster in the ward. Bedsprings were disconnected from the bed frames, causing unsuspecting inmates to fall through. This was dangerous and on one occasion the entire ward was punished for it. Bed sheets were also sabotaged so that the user could not get into it at lights out, unless he remade it, whilst everyone else was snuggled up and giggling in theirs. There were of course foreign objects placed in beds, particularly sugar, the occasional dead cockroach, whilst the mention of a live one would quickly cause the unsuspecting inmate to shoot out of bed and investigate, praying of course that a squashed insect was not found since all the clean sheets were locked in the linen stores. On one occasion I fell victim. I had been lying on my bed after lunch. I got up at 1pm and whilst putting my shoes on, which had been under the bed, I realised that they felt funny. At that moment there came a chuckle from the 'joker' who was sitting in an easy chair in front of the TV. I picked up my shoes and looked inside. They were full of syrup. I washed my shoes and socks but it took the best part of the rest of the day for them to dry. I felt like taking the matter further but did not.

The Joker even went as far as putting banana skins on the floor outside the ward office door. This kind of behaviour proved infectious. One of the other inmates then started imitating the ground floor night watchman. It was normal procedure for this night watchman to visit each ward at regular intervals from 9pm to 6-30am. One particular night watchman had the habit of snapping his fingers when he arrived at the locked grill gate, which was kept locked all night as the staff did not have the key. This particular inmate would imitate him by walking up to the grill gate, snapping his fingers then nipping into the wash room for a 'slash'. Upon hearing the snapping fingers our night watchman would grudgingly get out of his chair and step outside the office to see what the ground floor night watchman wanted. After a couple of fruitless journeys he got wise to what was going on, and would just sit there in the office ignoring all further sounds. When the night watchman eventually appeared, virtually everyone on the ward started snapping their fingers. The ground floor night watchman had to stand at the grill gate for some time before our staff got wise. There were plenty of threats from the night staff to send one of us downstairs, but the inmates were usually one step ahead. They only did it when they knew all the punishment cells were full.

As for the Joker, he was charged along with another youth of burning a school to the ground. He was a problem child who had gone to a special school for delinquents. He intended pleading guilty to the arson but always maintained that a girl had talked him into it. He said there were forty witnesses to that effect. When the girl went for trial she simply said that although she told him to set fire to the school, she was only joking. The jury found her not guilty. The Joker was sentenced to three years imprisonment. The last joke had been on him.

Another extrovert character on the ward at this time was Philip Marsden. Considering he had all of his faculties and was of average intelligence, he had no one to blame but himself for the pathetic person he had become. Like a child, he had to involve himself in every scheme going, including those at Risley. He was a very worried man and went around the ward asking people for advice regarding his case. He had apparently been involved in the theft of a large amount of money from a public house, during which the elderly manageress was stabbed to death. It was not long before the police picked him up. Philip's finger prints were found on the money bags. He would not say who the other gang members were, believed to be two men. One of Philip's relatives received threatening phone calls from the other gang members, so the police then traced the calls and arrested the people concerned. Just who killed the manageress was not clear, although some of the lads, having spoken to Philip, concluded that he had done it, then panicked. He was scared out of his wits when Dr.Shrunk told him that he would go down for twenty years. At the trial, one of the gang was found not guilty, whilst Philip Marsden got seven years. Dr.Shrunk was not amused.

James McBride was another inmate suffering from chronic anxiety. After watching the film Zulu on television he kept singing 'Men of Harlech' for weeks along with his favourite phrase, "they're coming to take me away ha! ha!" He was a Glaswegian and had the infuriating habit of coming up to me and asking me whether I was well, as if it was me who might be around the bend and not him. He regularly wrote letters to his wife who lived in Scotland, decorating the envelopes with Chinese characters. Whether the staff went to the trouble of deciphering them, I do not know. Personally, I thought he was a screw-ball. He was accused, along with his brother, of killing an antique dealer. The only trouble was that the police could not find the other half of the gang. Under Scottish law a person could not be held on remand for more than one hundred and ten days. In England and Wales there was no such restriction, so James stayed on remand for what seemed like aeons, whilst the police scoured the country for the missing fugitive. Whenever James went for remand appearances, he was given an armed police escort, as his brother was known to have a strong liking for firearms, including machine guns.

For some reason James liked me and got on with everyone else too. I got to know him well despite his broad Glaswegian accent, which I found a bit of a handful. I do not think he had a regular paid job as his nerves were shattered when his home caught fire 'started by the fairies' a few years before, causing extensive burns to his body. He had a small son, whom he showed me in a photograph, standing next to his father. In the photograph James was wearing a Chinese martial arts costume. He had at one time been quite a leading member of the sport of Kung Fu, and had evidently appeared in a tournament in Birmingham. His hobby was the collecting of military medals and regalia, which he displayed at exhibitions. So the Chinese characters and military music did not look out of place after all. His habit of talking quickly, in short bursts, with little emotion, I found unnerving.

I asked him about the killing and got a number of conflicting stories. He told me that his brother had shot the antique dealer in an argument over a ten pound note. James being across the road at the time. During the same conversation he said that he and his brother had come down from Scotland to kill the antique dealer, because he had assaulted James' wife, during an occasion when the dealer went up to Glasgow. James and his brother had on these visits acted as minders, whilst the dealer went around the antiques market. I honestly did not know what to believe. I got the feeling that maybe he did not know what the truth was any more. He said that he did not know where his brother was, but apparently his relatives did know. Gradually, during his months at Risley, James became less euphoric. He worked most days on the ground floor servery. When I met inmates like James I wished I could compare notes with the psychiatrists. In all the time James was at Risley, I could not make out whether he was good or bad. I was so naive then. Gradually over the years I came to realise that inmates only gave an inkling of what they are really like after they have been sentenced. In that case, what was the purpose of keeping inmates in observation wards?

One of the most handsome and intelligent inmates at Risley during my first few months there, was David Jarret. He occupied bed number two in A ward, before Neil arrived. He was the same age as myself, and we played bridge together quite a lot. He was probably what every woman dreamed of, but David only wanted one woman, and that was the wife of a solicitor. They had once worked for the same company. As their friendship developed he wrote numerous letters to her in flowing hand writing, almost copperplate in style. His interest in her became an obsession, but despite getting another job, as the manager of a bus company, he could not forget her. Finally he made the fateful decision to kill the husband. He knew the husband made regular visits to a cottage, in order to renovate it. David went to the cottage, boarded up the windows, then waited in the dark. Upon his arrival he beat the solicitor unconscious, then dragged him into the solicitor's car. David used his experience as a rally driver to overturn the vehicle, making it look like an accident. He poured petrol over the car then set it alight. The fire spread to David's track suit, badly burning his leg. He made his own way to hospital, after dumping the suit, crash helmet and petrol cans in a rubbish tip.

The police found the death suspicious. The solicitor's wife was asked to give the police a list of all their acquaintances, who were then interviewed. After a few days, with no word from David, the solicitor's wife phoned him up at work to learn that he was in hospital with burns. She then notified the police. The game was up.

It was hard to believe that he was suffering from a mental disorder, but that was to be the basis for the defence. He had an EEG but no abnormalities were found. The defence psychiatrist said at the trial, that the accused had been suffering from erotomania, something which David found amusing. As the trial wore on he became increasingly worried. He was finally found guilty of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. His appeal against sentence was later turned down. It was a waste, I thought, to keep such an intelligent bloke in prison, but then the person killed had also been a tragic waste. When he was not playing bridge or writing letters he would lie on his bed, no doubt struggling with his conscience. Whether there was more to the case, I simply do not know, for he refused to discuss it with anyone on the ward.

Probably the nicest bloke I have met in or out of prison was Matt Reid, a builder, electrician and former gun shop proprietor. In fact a Jack of all trades. I found him very much a fatherly figure, particularly as he was similar in appearance, age and personality to that of my stepfather. He was charged with the attempted murder of his business partner. It was very difficult to imagine Matt as being a murderous type, as he simply did not have an aggressive nature. I suppose Matt's problems started with his previous business venture, an engineering company worth at least one hundred thousand pounds, which he and his partner had started from virtually nothing. According to Matt, his partner was skimming the profits, so Matt one day decided that he had had enough and left the company. He did not even ask for a proper financial settlement.

His next business venture consisted of converting an old vicarage into an old folks home, but he needed a partner to provide the necessary financial backing. A distant relative, who was a butcher by trade, supplied some of the money, the remainder being borrowed from a bank. Matt worked on converting the vicarage on his own for about a year, putting in seventy hours of work each week. Eventually all the building modifications were complete. It was approved by the DHSS and the clients moved in. Matt was very proud of what he had achieved.

No sooner did the place start earning money, than his partner decided to buy him out for 'peanuts.' This news came as a terrible blow to Matt, who was looking forward to the income from the old folks home to retire on. Enraged at the thought of being conned a second time, he went to the butcher's shop with his revolver. The revolver had been converted to fire bird shot, but the ammunition was old and as a result, only about thirty per cent efficient. Upon arrival at the butcher's shop he shot his partner five times, the sixth round failing to go off.

He showed me the photographs of the injuries inflicted. I thought they would make a nice presentation over the fire place. I could not help thinking that his partner got less than he deserved, although of course I did not hear the other side of the story. Matt unfortunately did not know when it was best to keep his mouth shut. He certainly did not have anything nice to say about his partner in court. All the jury saw was an unrepentant man, who was still enraged. I got the impression that Matt tried to cover up his pleasant inner self, as he was deeply conscious of people thinking that he was soft in the head.

The jury found him guilty of attempted murder, for which he was sentenced to four and a half years imprisonment. I think the jury was wrong but it was not their fault. They simply did not have the time nor opportunity to get to know him. Since Matt knew all about firearms, he could have picked a more lethal weapon, if he had meant to kill him, and in any case, he could have finished off his partner with a meat cleaver, but he did not. I do not believe he could find it in his heart to murder someone.

In the months leading up to his trial, the DHSS closed down the old folks home and it was then put up for sale. His wife in the meantime had virtually no savings and certainly no income. The DHSS refused to pay anything except child allowance for their two young children, who had to hand over their life savings to their mother to buy food. The DHSS, who knew full well what the financial circumstances were, refused to pay any more money, until the old folks home was sold off, as technically his wife was still a director of the company which ran the home. Letters of protest to her MP got nowhere. In addition to the prison sentence, the 'victim' was entitled to compensation for criminal injuries sustained, from Matt's share of the business. It could so easily happen to anyone, I thought. A person's mind will only take so much, then the fuse will blow. Some people can take more stress than others, for their fuses have higher ratings. Others are less fortunate. There were no doubt many people like that in prison. Inmates who did not deserve to be shunned by relatives, friends and the establishment at a time when they needed them most.

Only two inmates stood out as being more depressed than myself. One of these was Alan Hurd. Alan was probably the same age as myself, bigger build and tough looking. He looked the criminal type, but he said he had never been in prison before. His wife had been an alcoholic for three years. Things went from bad to worse. She had sex with a man who took her home from bingo one night. Her husband found out about it and confronted her with it. She was a very mixed up woman apparently, saying she was going to get a divorce then changing her mind. She finally left home to live with relatives, taking the children with her. The way he told it, it sounded as if she was trying to hurt her husband as much as possible.

Although the social services department was involved, it did not seem to make much difference. If Alan had been violent against his wife then he was certainly not admitting it. One day she returned to her former home. There was an argument during which Alan shot her with a sawn off shot gun. He had sawn the barrels off because he said he had considered committing suicide with it. Whether that was the full story I do not know. He was certainly a depressed, remorseful and defeated man. After being on remand for a year, he was tried and sentenced to life imprisonment. During his time at Risley he occupied a bed in the far corner of A ward. He told me that the best way to do your bird is to sleep it off. How he could sleep so many hours in that hell I could never figure out. He now had plenty of sleeping hours ahead of him.

I think it is fair to say that none of my fellow inmates in that ward, nor in any other I was later in, sat down and wrote out their confessions, as I did. "These deps are a load of shite!" many inmates would say after looking at the depositions their solicitors had sent them.

There were many who laughed at the legal system, at least outwardly. They would not plead guilty as they could not bring themselves to confronting their guilt in court, let alone writing it all down first. For many, that would have been worse than a trial. Many inmates seemed to have lived by their own set of rules on the outside, rules that they would take up again upon their release. They had no faith in the establishment's way of doing things as they came from deprived areas, accepting their crimes as inevitable and their sentences philosophically, as if to say, "we have been victims of the system all our lives, and whatever we say or do, we will remain victims."

From my observations at Risley, I concluded that the outcome of a trial was strongly dependant upon the intelligence and determination of the accused. The sentences handed out for killings in domestic disputes, ranged from life imprisonment to three years probation. There seemed to be no consistency whatsoever in the length of sentences handed out. If you lacked the intelligence or willingness to co-operate with police, psychiatrists, solicitors, barristers and QCs, then there was little that anyone could do for you.

The thought that defence council were more interested in seeing their definition of justice carried out, sprang into mind on a number of occasions. The treatment inmates received from their defence council and prosecution, depended greatly upon their character and previous criminal record. Although the jury was not made aware of the accused criminal record, that record is read out in court either after the accused pleads guilty or after the jury reaches a guilty verdict. The judge is therefore aware of the accused criminal record, and this is taken into consideration when determining sentence. Where previous custodial sentences had failed to deter, a judge had little choice but to pass a longer sentence designed simply to keep the miscreant off the streets. Many inmates regarded this as being sentenced again for a previous crime. Looking at it from the establishment's point of view, for many inmates it was their tenth to twentieth offence, and nothing less than a stiff sentence, designed simply to keep the accused out of circulation, was going to be worth passing.