16

People Like You Do Not Change

ONE of the benefits of being back at Woodhill was that security was far more lax. I had access to mobile phones every day and spoke to Aaron and others on a regular basis. He was back in the UK and went down regularly to Woolwich Crown Court, to listen to Kevin’s case and give me updates. When the trial concluded, they took me back to Belmarsh.

‘How do you think it went?’ I asked Kevin, when I saw him.

‘Disaster,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Total fit-up.’

He and I were called in for sentencing a few days later, joined in the dock by a character I had never met before, a lanky black guy with a bedraggled, hangdog face. Gerald, it turned out, was the accomplice Kevin had been using before I came back from Spain, the one he had dropped for being a liability.

A walrus-faced judge called Carroll presided and Gerald was asked to stand first. He wore a squalid tracksuit. His hand shook uncontrollably.

‘This is embarrassing,’ I thought.

Gerald had previous convictions for kidnapping and like me was up for conspiracy to commit armed robbery. Carroll gave him a telling off and ten years, which I gauged against my own case. Ten years would not be so bad. I could probably cut it to five. I had already served two.

‘John Michael McAvoy, stand up.’

I stood. All the familiar faces on the police bench stared my way.

‘There are a lot of aggravating factors here,’ Carroll said, his thick, white moustache undulating with the words. ‘Firstly, your age of offending. I have to bear in mind that whatever sentence I pass down today, you’re going to come out of prison a young man and on that basis I have to say that you will continue to pose a serious and persistent danger to society.

‘I also take into consideration your severity of offending at such a young age. You’ve gone straight from being a non-offender, to committing some of the most serious offences on the statute book. That is not to be taken lightly.

‘I must also sentence in light of your very deep-rooted connections to the criminal underworld. Connections of such a nature are not easy to break and will likely persist throughout your life, making your chances of re-offending very high.’

I began to get a queasy feeling in my guts.

‘In light of all of this and the fact that the firearm in your possession had a bullet in the chamber ready to be discharged, I have no option but to pass down two life sentences, one for possession of firearms and the other for conspiracy to rob.’

Bravado forced me to smile. The police leapt from their chairs, fist-pumping and high-fiving each other. DCIs Foreman and Currie shook hands gleefully. I stood there and grinned, grinned for England. What else could I do?

‘Now Mr McAvoy, if I were giving you a fixed term today,’ Carroll went on, ‘I would have given you ten years. But because I’ve passed a life sentence, I’m going to set a minimum tariff of five. May you use the time to re-evaluate your future.’

I sat down and processed the result. Life was a bit of a shocker. Although the tariff meant I could first be considered for parole at five years, whenever they let me out I would be on licence forever. Unless I got myself out of the country, they would watch me until my dying day. I would have to report to the probation services on a monthly basis and if I was even suspected of criminal involvement, I could be recalled to prison without trial.

Returning to the HSU was just as depressing as it had been the last time. The only positive was that the length of my tariff made it harder to justify keeping me there. Hamza shrugged and said I had to know what to expect. The authorities were preparing to charge him with setting up an Al Qaeda training base in Oregon, USA, which he adamantly denied.

‘The truth is I’ve been having meetings with the MI5 since 1992,’ he said. ‘They know everything I’ve been doing and permitted it, but because of 9/11 they’re using me as a scapegoat now. If they decide they want to get you, they will. I know they will send me to America eventually. It is the ordeal I must suffer in this life to prepare me for the next.’

Roger said he was applying pressure to get himself transferred, that it was inhumane to keep someone in the HSU for years on end. Other prisons had looser regimes with more time on association. That sounded good to me.

Over the next few weeks we had various official visits during which we argued our case. On one occasion, a female civil servant met with myself and Roger by the TV near the end of the spur. She was stocky, with short, gelled hair and wore a trouser suit and boots, which gave her a very masculine, almost transgender appearance. I had come to the conclusion that there was something a bit odd about most top government officials, as if they hid neuroses beneath masks of normality.

‘How’s your uncle?’ she asked me. ‘I remember him from 1990 in Leicester jail.’

It was a classic tactic. Start off with something known, to make you feel like they are authoritative, that they have done their homework and know all about you.

‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I should be on the main prison. I’ve got by far the smallest sentence in the place. I’ve already done two years and I only got a tariff of five. Move me off here, it’s out of order.’

‘Me too,’ said Roger, who by then had also been to court, found guilty of murder and sentenced to 33 years. The judge had been horrified at his use of an AK-47, describing it as a ‘weapon of war’. Roger refused to co-operate with police or divulge who employed him, which exacerbated the situation. Old Bill had uncovered coded references to an underworld figure known as ‘Dad’ but that was all they had. Their frustration led to Roger being given the maximum sentence possible.

‘Let us back on to the normal wing so we can do some rehabilitation courses,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t even be an expensive transfer to move us out of the HSU and into the Belmarsh main prison.’

‘Come off it!’ she replied. ‘We’re not stupid! You can’t fool us. We know people like you do not change.’

Roger and I exchanged a look.

‘I can’t believe you just said that!’ Roger retorted. ‘Isn’t the whole purpose of the prison system to rehabilitate offenders and make them productive members of society? Are you suggesting that as a representative of Her Majesty’s Government, you do not believe in your own system?’

She laughed but there was no humour in it. Her laughter was dry, like a bag of gravel being split with a spade.

‘Of course some prisoners can be rehabilitated. But not guys like you. Not criminals who work at your level. Men who do what you do, do not change.’

She paused for a little while.

‘You talk well and seem likeable but the first opportunity you get, you’ll take it. If that means running for the wall, you’ll do it. If it means bashing an officer, or maybe even worse, you’ll do it.’

After the meeting I went back to my cell and thought about what she said. In some ways, she was right.

Still, over the weeks that followed I did what I could to advance my case. Roger was transferred out to Full Sutton in Yorkshire. Whenever Governor Arden ventured on to the wing I would approach him and demand to know why I had not been moved.

’L-l-listen John,’ he’d say. ‘The p-p-paperwork has to be s-sorted. It t-t-takes a while.’

For three more long months I continued my routine until suddenly, in the depths of the night, I was finally awoken by the click-click of spur doors opening, followed by the rhythm of feet on the floor. I lifted my head from my pillow and saw four screws at my cell door, fronted up by Boyband.

‘You’re gone,’ he said.

I rose wearily and they took me out through the wing, down to reception and into a holding cell. I was strip-searched for the thousandth time, before Boyband gave me the now familiar yellow and green suit to put on.

‘Why am I wearing this?’ I asked. No one replied. They led me out through the metal detector and handed me over to another set of screws with northern accents. At that point it became obvious the main prison a few hundred yards away was not my destination.

The new set of screws loaded me into a waiting van and we set off. The journey seemed interminable. Four hours with all of them nattering like a bunch of old women. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore them.

We eventually arrived at Full Sutton near York where they placed me in yet another holding cell in yet another reception area. It was comforting to know Roger was already there, an eventuality they would have avoided if at all possible. The options for cat A and cat AA prisoners are few.

I hoped to meet up with him again but knew it would depend on our circumstances inside. Meanwhile the screws went through the stuff I had brought from Belmarsh. One shaven-headed, military-looking guy said, ‘We’re having your trainers.’

It was a nice pair of Nikes.

‘Piss off!’ I replied.

‘You’re not allowed those trainers in here.’

‘I’ve just come from the maximum security wing at Belmarsh. How come I can have them there and not here?’

‘No.’ He was implacable. ‘You can’t have them. We’re taking them.’

He left with the shoes and came back five minutes later with some plimsolls, the standard black, rubbery ones that everyone used to have at primary school.

‘Come on! You’re really taking the piss now.’

‘That’s the rules,’ he said. ‘Now let’s go.’

I had the feeling he was trying to rile me and the receiving officer on the desk did little to change my first impressions.

‘McAvoy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m going to give you a piece of advice, son. Keep your head down. It’s not in your interests having a surname like yours in this place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We had your Uncle Micky in here between 1997 and 1998. He had a lot of influence among other inmates and orchestrated a terrible riot. The prison was smashed to pieces.

‘One wing was virtually burnt to the ground. All thanks to your uncle. We had to ship him out in the end. There’s quite a few staff in here will remember all that.’

I nodded and smiled, wise to his game. He continued leafing through my file.

‘Barnes!’ he said. ‘Was Kevin Barnes your co-defendant?’

I shrugged. ‘Well if it says it in there, he must have been.’

‘We had him here too, years ago. He was a proper piece of work. He killed the prison dog during a riot, snapped its bloody neck. He was involved in the Strangeways riots, violence, kidnapping. You’ve kept some right company, you have.’

There was nothing I could say.

‘We’ll put you on E wing,’ he said, and closed the file.

The screws took me out of reception and through an enormous, broad corridor which led to the wing. Like the HSU, Full Sutton was very modern, highly polished and sterile. E wing was on two floors, with the association area in the middle. As soon as I walked in, every set of eyes fell on me, just like the movies.

I looked from one cold visage to another, hoping to see a familiar face or a flicker of recognition. More than that, I hoped to see Roger. ‘John, John!’ someone called from the balcony. I craned my neck and saw Mukhtar and Yassin, two of the suicide bombers from Belmarsh.

‘At least I know someone,’ I thought.

Mukhtar and Yassin showed me around and while they did, other inmates approached with a familiar question.

‘Are you Micky McAvoy’s nephew?’

Full Sutton was renowned as a tough nick, with hard men doing hard time, but I knew from then I would be okay.

As luck would have it, my allocated cell was directly opposite the one in which Uncle Micky used to stay. A bearded Scot called McAteer appeared in my doorway, a thick-set man with a pugnacious look, a gangland hitman bearing a reputation as a complete homicidal fruit loop. His forehead was riven with a jagged scar. He certainly looked the part.

‘Are ye Micky’s nephew then are ye?’ he growled. I nodded. McAteer had famously killed a guy with a shotgun then taken a shit on his chest as a mark of disrespect, a semi-legendary bit of criminal folklore.

‘I am, yeah.’

‘I remember when Micky was in here. He was a top man. Do ye wannae come te mine for a cup o’ tea?’

I shrugged and followed him to his cell, where he boiled the kettle. A bookmarked copy of a Jeffrey Archer novel lay on the shelf by his bed.

‘Sorry pal,’ he said. ‘They only gae us UHT milk. Tastes like shite, but it’s the best ah’ve got.’

‘Do you know where Roger is?’ I asked him.

‘Roger who?’

‘Roger Vincent.’

‘Oh, him, aye, he’s on A wing.’

‘How can I get over there?’

‘It’s impossible pal. Forget it. If ye go te the screws and say ye wannae be transferred to another part ah the prison, they’ll think ye’ve got ulterior motives.’

‘No chance then?’

‘If ye wannae see him, the best chance is tae go tae chapel on a Sunday. It’s the only time lads from different wings can get together.’

Following McAteer’s advice, the next morning I went down to chapel and saw Roger. I didn’t get to speak to him, but caught his eye. He waved and mouthed something I couldn’t hear.

About three days later, after I got myself settled in, both the senior officer and the principal officer of the wing arrived at my door with serious faces. I was sat on my bunk reading The Times, which I received daily.

‘John.’

I looked up.

‘Have you got a dispute with Roger Vincent?’ the SO asked.

‘No, why?’

‘Because he’s asked for you to go on his wing.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you sure you have no dispute with him?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So if we asked for your opinion, would you want to be placed on the same wing as Roger Vincent?’

‘One hundred per cent. Get me over there.’

‘Okay, pack your stuff up, let’s go.’

It turned out that Roger, in his short time in Full Sutton, had become an extremely influential inmate, commanding the respect of those around him. If prison officers had an issue with a prisoner they would approach Roger to mediate for them. For that reason, the staff also did him favours. That was the quid pro quo.

It was great to see Roger again. Although he knew he was facing 30 years, almost half a lifetime behind bars, he maintained his positive manner, wit and intelligence. You had to admire him for that. In all my years of life, in or out of prison, I have never met anyone as genuinely affable, honest and trustworthy as Roger Vincent. I know that for people from outside that world, describing a convicted contract killer in those terms might seem contradictory, but they don’t know Roger. Roger the hitman and Roger the person were two sides to the same man, I suppose, but the Roger I knew could not have been more pleasant to be around.

Life settled into the familiar routine pretty quickly. I fell back on my habits of reading and exercising and found that status had its perks. With access to money from the outside, I had a kid that I paid a fiver a week to polish my cell floor. Roger and I had another couple of lads that cooked and washed up for us in the inmates’ kitchen, an arrangement that worked well for everyone. We used our cash to buy in food, which our boys could eat for free if they prepared it. We might have been prisoners, but we wanted to live as well as possible.

Yet with a larger inmate population than the HSU, comprising only of high-risk convicts, Full Sutton housed some real maniacs and there was a feeling that things could erupt at any time. Violence was everywhere, in faces and conversations. The men wore it on their skins.

The slightly freer regime made it a better place to live, but I had to learn to exist within a very delicate, volatile atmosphere. In the criminal lifestyle you have a different relationship with violence than regular people anyway, but living in such claustrophobic conditions with such dangerous guys brought high levels of stress. Alertness was key at all times. Threats could come from any angle.

The kitchen area in particular was a real boon. Being able to buy in your own food from outside and cook it yourself saved you from the godawful slop from the prison kitchen, but presented some serious dangers. Inmates could book knives to use for chopping ingredients. They would have to sign them in and out of the screws’ office, but that gave them limited access to dangerous weapons. I had only been on Roger’s wing for a week when I witnessed my first major incident.

It was a Saturday afternoon and I had been down to the gym for a workout, before heading up to the kitchen area where I busied myself making an omelette. Omelettes were the one thing I was particular about and insisted on cooking myself, with a certain ratio of whites to yolks that I read was good for fat loss. An Asian kid arrived, started cooking next to me and we acknowledged each other silently before carrying on with what we were doing.

Moments later, two black lads walked in, young guys, in their early 20s, convicted murderers on long sentences and I knew, straight away, by their stealth, their gait and attitude, that something was going to happen. The Asian had focused on his food-prep, chopping onions and garlic and was oblivious.

They advanced on him swiftly and silently from behind. It was like watching a documentary in which leopards stalk a gazelle drinking from a lake.

Despite the sense of impending carnage, there was no way I could warn him and it did not occur to me to do so. One of the first rules of prison is not to involve yourself in other people’s business. Who knew what had happened between these three to provoke the situation? In those circumstances all you can do is stand by and let nature take its course.

Before he had any chance to react, they were on him, hitting and hitting him for at least 15 seconds. From my position it looked like they were punching him, savagely and ferociously below the waist, but as they withdrew I saw blood-soaked blades in their hands. They had stabbed him more than 20 times in the buttocks and on the upper legs.

Screaming, the Asian kid sank to the floor, his grey tracksuit bottoms turning a repulsive burgundy, his face going white through loss of blood. The attackers ran out as the screws heard the commotion and charged in, pressed the panic button and carried the victim off. Thick, arterial blood from his wounds leaked on to the tiles, leaving a macabre trail. I was convinced the kid would die.

‘Bang up!’ the screws shouted.

My overriding emotion was not shock or fear, but frustration. The incident meant the wing was placed on instant lockdown and I was unable to finish preparing my omelette. I was hungry.

The principal officer came to question me, famished and irritable in my cell shortly afterwards.

‘Come on McAvoy, what happened in that kitchen?’

I shrugged. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘My officers said you were standing next to him. You must have seen something.’

‘No.’

‘Why aren’t you talking? Was it you?’

‘Does it look like it was me? I haven’t even changed my clothes. There was claret everywhere.’

‘Well if he dies you’ll have it on your conscience.’

‘Fuck off, I didn’t even see it.’

For the rest of the afternoon cell doors opened and closed while they conducted their enquiries. Eventually they checked the CCTV cameras and nabbed the guys responsible in early evening. The two black kids could not have cared less. The pair of them were serving more than 30 years each anyway and had lost all sense of consequence.

I found out later the incident had been triggered by a game of pool. The Asian had accused one of the black boys of committing a foul, hitting the object ball with his cue, which he denied. There had been a minor exchange of views, the Asian accused one of being a ‘cheat’ and the individual felt disrespected.

‘Apologise,’ he had demanded.

Rather than say sorry, the victim had repeated his trivial accusation and walked off. That was all it took.

The first social rule in prison, particularly a high category one, is to respect the hierarchy. Violent criminals, particularly those with lots of money, armed robbers and gangsters, are at the top. Sex offenders are at the bottom. Drug addicts are just above them. Everyone else fits into the pecking order as best they can from there.

Jostling for position occurs all the time. There might be a queue to use the hotplate, for example. In normal society it would just be a queue, but on the inside it is a demonstration of social standing. Maybe a top prisoner can jump it, while one with less status will be kept waiting. Any perceived slight, any attempt to buck this system, can be met with extreme violence. If the wrong guy tries to step in front of someone else he will have to fight for his life and face repeated future reprisals if he wins.

Blood is a prison currency and some of it is worth more than others. Favours will be asked and barters paid for in food or cigarettes. It’s not uncommon to see someone half-killed or maimed over a pouch of tobacco or a can of tuna.

‘Let’s go in the showers and have a straightener,’ someone might say, in a petty dispute. But if he’s talking to one of the main men he would get short shrift.

‘I’m not about that. I’m not fighting you man against man, why would I? But if you want to have it, we can have it. If me and you have a problem it could come on you anytime, anyway. In fact, forget we’re in prison. We’re not in reality here. I’ll find out where you live and we can take it to the real world. I’ll get my boys to come up. They’ll find your people. I’m not gonna just walk into the showers like an idiot.’

Shortly after the kitchen incident, a lad was attacked in the toilets by a heroin dealer with mental health problems. That one was caused by the victim paying for his drugs debt with chicken drumsticks, but being two short. His face was slashed and he received seven separate wounds around his ribs and abdomen. He had to have 180 stitches. On the outside those two chicken drumsticks probably cost about £1.50, but in Full Sutton their value was mutilation.

This sort of thing, heads slammed in cell doors, beatings to the point of unconsciousness or broken bones, stabbings with faeces on the blade to cause septicaemia, all of it becomes normal. In that environment it happens every day. Even for those like Roger and I, whose status placed us above reprisals, the anxiety of living among it can get to you. You are always looking, just in case someone has your number. Nobody can live in that world and be unaffected by it.

Two doors down from me lived a psycho called Mickey Boyle, a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic with a hopeless heroin problem. I kept him sweet by giving him the TV supplement from my newspaper every Saturday.

‘Thanks so much mate,’ he would say. ‘That’s very kind. If you need anyone killed or anything, just let me know.’

Boyle had been transferred to Full Sutton after a serious assault in his previous jail. Apparently a guy in a nearby cell had a heroin packet secreted in his anus and made the schoolboy error of telling Boyle about it. Mickey predictably insisted he remove it from his innards and hand it over free of charge. He refused and that was where the trouble started.

Affronted by this audacity, Boyle had taken him hostage, barricaded the guy’s cell door and started slashing his face with a shank (a home-made prison knife). After the first few incisions and faced with the prospect of losing facial features or losing his stash, the victim made the wise decision to hand over the heroin.

When his victim had shit-out the drugs, with screws waiting outside to apprehend him, Mickey then refused to leave the cell unless the prison governor personally brought him silver foil, a lighter and a spoon to cook up with. The governor did as requested.

Mickey took his time, spent ten minutes sorting his fix, then opened the door with a beatific grin and let the hostage go. As the screws barged in, batoned him, tangled him up and threw him in the block, he was rushing his knackers off and barely even noticed.

For HMP management, Mickey Boyle was the very worst kind of prisoner. He had undergone various psychological exams, been declared mentally ill, spent time in Broadmoor and was waiting for a bed to become available in Rampton, a high-security psychiatric unit in Nottinghamshire. In mainstream prison terms, this gave him great power. Officially he was a medical rather than a criminal case, meaning he could do virtually anything and there was little the screws could do back.

Despite its chaotic unpredictability, I still preferred life at Full Sutton. Most important was that we got to use the gym frequently, while the facility itself was much better equipped and had staff that knew what they were doing. Like a fitness suite on the outside, the gym was divided into two rooms, one with weights and strength training equipment, the other with cardiovascular machines.

Most inmates wanted to build muscle and pump iron, so the weights room was always packed. I quickly grew bored of having to queue up for the dumbbells, benches and bars so would take myself off to the cardio room instead, where I pounded the treadmills, exercise bikes, rowers and elliptical machines. Whatever I did, I would sustain for the full hour, having increased my fitness in Belmarsh, but it was totally unstructured. Exercise was still simple escapism for me, rather than being anything you could call sport.

That first began to change when I learnt of the Full Sutton Christmas competition. Run by the gym staff every year and a big deal among inmates, it consisted of a Superstars event for fitness with a separate strength/powerlifting contest. Victory in either was seen as a major badge of honour on the wings. Some men had been in there 20 years, training as hard as they could and the comp was the pinnacle of their year.

The fitness challenge consisted of a variety of cardiovascular activities, some with minor resistance, while the strength one, which was adjusted for bodyweight, involved squats, bench presses and deadlifts. The gym officers at Full Sutton were serious guys and knew what they were doing. Both tests adhered to national standards.

I entered both purely to maximise time out of my cell and surprised myself by coming third in the strength comp, even though I had not trained for it, beating some huge, hairy gorillas who pumped iron on a daily basis. Compared to them I was relatively small, but even at 5ft 9in and 73kg, I was able to bench press 140kg, squat 190 and deadlift 200. The screws were very impressed by my natural power, which did wonders for my ego, but it was the following day, during the Superstars event when things really got interesting.

Greg and Norm, a couple of scallies from Manchester, had the reputation of being the fittest boys in the prison. Norm had won the comp for the previous three years and was hot favourite, while Greg was most people’s tip to come second. The challenge consisted of a 500m row, a 1km treadmill run, 25 reps of 65kg bench press, 50 reps of lat pull-down on a medium weight, 50 reps of shoulder press with a 30kg bar, 50 bunny hops over a bench, 50 step-ups holding dumbbells, then finally another 500m treadmill run with a steep incline. The idea was to complete all the exercises in as quick a time as possible.

Norm went first and looked impressive. He was lithe and lean, with barely any visible body fat, like a greyhound. Greg followed and failed to beat Norm’s time, as did four or five others. The general feeling in the gym was that Norm was a dead cert again, but as the time for my turn neared, something kick-started inside me.

From my chest rose a burning need to prove myself, a determination that appeared out of nothing. I had no idea whether I was capable of beating Norm, but was gripped by a passionate knowledge that I had to. I would win that competition no matter what.

At the moment when the screws read my name and told me to prepare myself, I had a similar sensation to how I used to feel waiting for a robbery. There were no nerves, just focus. Everything other than the circuit and what I had to do faded into the periphery. It was all or nothing, life or death.

It was on.

I absolutely tore the arse out of those exercises. Everything around me smudged. Time compressed and became meaningless. Before I knew it I was finishing on the final treadmill and turning to the screws. The whole line of them gawped at me in disbelief, open-mouthed like a row of baby chicks.

The officer in charge of the gym, a national fitness competitor called Mark Elliot, double-checked his stopwatch then broke the silence.

‘Fucking hell John,’ he said at last. ‘That is really quick.’

‘So have I won?’

‘That circuit you have just done is a nationally recognised circuit used in super-fit competitions. The time you clocked would put you in the top three or four in the country.’

I was elated.

‘To have done what you have just done, while in prison, on a regular diet, with no specialist training is absolutely outstanding.’

‘Yeah, that’s great. So how much did I win by?’

It turned out I had obliterated Norm’s time by 43 seconds. Officially I was the fittest prisoner in Full Sutton jail by some distance, which gave me massive kudos among the boys. The staff presented me with a box of chocolates as a prize. At that point, that was enough.