How do you  travel to prison?

After sentencing I was handcuffed to a man and led from the courtroom, downstairs to the cells. There I had a few hours to think and to process what was happening to me before being transported to prison. My cell was walled on three sides, with a tiny window at the far end, about two and a half meters up. The fourth side was barred by a metal gate, and on the other side of the gate was a wide corridor lined with other identical cells.

It was pretty loud, with guys shouting from cell to cell and occasional bursts of song:

“I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky…”

“I did it myyyyyyyyy wayyyyy”

I found myself smiling.

Two members of staff entered my cell. They spoke matter-of-factly, but not harshly, and recorded and bagged my belongings. They told me that everything would be sent with me to the prison.

I decided to calm my mind by conjugating Spanish verbs. Bit bizarre, but it seemed to help and I had this strong urge to be productive with my time right from the outset.

I felt like I had sidestepped into a film.

I thought of mum and dad and felt sad that they would feel sad. I thought of friends and felt so grateful for the support and kindness that they had shown me over the last few weeks and months. I thought of my siblings and extended family and felt ashamed that the effect of my past actions would travel so far.

I noticed blood splattered on the wall and looked up to see that it continued halfway across the ceiling. I thought about the interesting people I would meet in prison and the possible new friendships that I would form. I wondered whether my blood would soon be splattered across the walls and ceiling of a cell somewhere, but, to my surprise, I did not feel afraid.

I walked towards the urinal – which was like a bucket sticking out of the wall at a jaunty angle – then noticed that the floor was stained and sticky, so I stepped back again.

I noted the kindness of a big bearded staff member who spoke kindly to me and gave me a polystyrene cup of water.

I wondered how productive I could be in 8 months, without any of life’s normal distractions: I could do physio on my knee; get fitter; study computer coding; read philosophy; enjoy novels; study history. Was I being totally naive, imagining that I could do so much from inside a concrete box?

I tried some meditation, which I had begun to learn in my social work group. I imagined a swirling black flock of birds positioned up in the sky above the calm sea. This represented my confused, racing, unsettling thoughts. I kept the flock in sight, but…slowly… pushed it out over the water, little by little. I repeated my little mantra in my mind:

“That is out there. I, myself, am OK……….

That is out there. I, myself, am OK……….

That is out there. I, myself, am OK……….”

I thought of the inmates whose lives I could touch – perhaps giving comfort to people feeling despair.

I noticed that although I was feeling stressed, I had a surprising sense of calm and acceptance. A sense that I was serving my punishment and that I deserved it, even if I knew that prison would not help me in my process of reform.

A man unlocked the cell’s gate and handcuffed my wrist to his. I guessed that it was time for me to be taken to prison. “How do you travel to prison?”, I wondered. He led me along the corridor, back upstairs and into a van. The vehicle contained 14 tiny cells, seven off each side of a narrow corridor. Inside my cell was a seat and seatbelt, and a neat little arrangement of packages: sandwiches, a packet of crisps, a chocolate bar and a tub of water. It looked bizarrely cute.

Voices shouted at me from cells opposite and around me: “You look like a paedo”…“Are you a beast?”. I allowed these messages to wash over and off me and did not feel particularly upset by them.

I thought of the people in my social work group who have committed offences against children, and I found myself feeling protected of them. Although I have not been cursed with their sexuality I wanted to defend their dignity as human beings. As the shouts continued it felt to me that to deny the accusations being shouted at me would be to betray my group-mates. And so I remained silent. Instead I looked out of a small square red-tinted window…watching the city go past, red-hued and untouchable, like a creepy scene in some bizarre horror film. Beyond the shouts, all I could hear was the hum of the engine, rising and falling.