Chris explains entering Pentridge at seventeen.
The induction to the Big House from boys’ home was a terrifying change in dynamics, thrown in amongst hardened criminals at such a tender age.
Within weeks I was stabbed repeatedly in the yard by an adult.
This was, in part, my fault, as I mailed the seasoned junkie my intentions. Bad move by me.
I remembered this inmate from outside by the distinctive tattoo on his ear lobes.
Living in Footscray at the time, I’d run out of pot. It was the early hours of the morning, too late for my local dealer, so as a last resort I decided to catch a cab to St Kilda. I never used to venture out that way at all.
Approached by a shifty looking bloke asking if I wanted to score, I told him I did and gave him the money to buy an ounce of pot for me. He told me, wait here. So naïve I was, and he lashed me.
Now, spotting him in another yard on remand, I forewarned him of drama. I reminded him that he stole the cash and I called him into my yard to sort it out one on one.
He entered and when I began to throw punches he produced a shiv and stabbed me a number of times.
I never felt it at all. In fact, I got on top of him on the ground, pinned him down and bashed him with both hands, going crazy, adrenalin pumping, raining down blows on his face.
I disarmed him, and my friends then took the weapon from me before I stabbed him with it. The screw in the tower had now caught the scene, so we had to break it up before the screws ran in the yard to do a check.
He left bruised, I might say. I was bleeding, but patched myself up with sticky tape and toilet paper.
In the years to follow, this is something I come to experience time and time again.