18
IWAS accompanied on the drive to Lowdham by Andy, a kid from Manchester being transferred with me. When we arrived at the latest stop on my tour of penal institutions, the manner of the officers who met us was so different to what we were used to. I almost felt I was home.
‘Do you want tea?’ one said as they showed us into the building.
‘Tea?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘Would you like a tea and something to eat?’
‘Err…okay.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
After refreshments, they began going through our belongings. There were items in there I had never been allowed to wear, trainers and t-shirts that Mum and aunties sent in for birthdays, things from my old life that were forbidden in high-security environments. At Lowdham, all of it was allowed. I could hardly believe it. In comparison to where I had come from it felt like a holiday camp.
With our clothes piled up into trollies they sent us over to F wing where we would be staying. A screw opened a door at the back of reception and that was it, we were outside, beneath the sky! There was no strip-searching, no helicopter wire and we were accompanied only by a lone female officer. Freedom seemed closer than ever.
Each cell at Lowdham had its own phone and you were able to make and receive calls from the outside world, an unbelievable luxury. Beyond that, pretty much every guy in the place had a mobile, although they were officially prohibited. To begin with the change in culture was disconcerting. We were out of our cells more. We had more time to ourselves. It took me a couple of weeks to adjust.
It all meant that I was able to begin to make small arrangements for my eventual release. I could speak to Aaron, Johnny and others, not that I would openly talk business, but there were ways and means.
I had a gym induction and took a job as wing cleaner, as I had at Full Sutton. With about 14 months to serve until my parole hearing, although I hoped for the best result, I thought it unlikely I would be granted release at that stage. What I expected was a reduction in status to cat D and a transfer to an open prison, at which point my arrangements on the outside would kick in and I would bunk out, get myself a fake passport, head to the continent and disappear. That made a lot more sense than trying to organise an armed escape from Lowdham, although it would have been perfectly possible, as it would draw a lot less attention from the police and media.
For the first six months I purposely kept myself below the radar, spending a fair amount of time in the gym, as had become my habit. One day I got talking to an inmate called Mickey Steel, who was always rowing on the machines. He explained that he was pulling a million metres for charity, so the officers allowed him extra time out of his cell. He was in the gym half the day, every day.
The idea attracted me straight away. I spoke to one of the gym staff and asked if I would be able to participate as well. They were thrilled that I wanted to join in, as charity work looks great in your file, demonstrating a level of empathy for others. I chose the Rainbows’ Children’s Trust, a hospice for children with terminal illnesses, as my cause. Lots of the boys from the prison sponsored me meaning I raised £400 and was able to begin.
As a result of signing up I became entitled to gym sessions seven days a week, an opportunity I used to its fullest. I went at it hard, with the intention of doing the million metres as quickly as possible. To begin with I set a target of 32km (20 miles) of rowing a day.
Within a month I completed my first million metres, but was enjoying the extra time out of my cell so much that I asked if I could do another million.
When I blasted through that as well, I asked to do it again. My energy and dedication attracted attention. I had rowed three million metres in three months, which is no mean feat for anyone.
Darren Davis, the officer in charge of the gym, seemed particularly intrigued and began speaking to me often. He explained that 5,000km is the equivalent of rowing the Atlantic. I asked for permission to go for that too.
The end result was that for five solid months I hit the gym every day, rowing and rowing and rowing. I understood nothing about technique or water skills, but my fitness climbed to even greater heights and without realising it, I built up muscle memory as my physique moulded to the demands of the discipline. My body and mind underwent a process of adaptation.
One day, at about the 3.8 million mark, I was tearing through my metres while Darren sat behind me, watching intently. I finished a 10km session and he came over to examine the digital display on the machine.
‘John,’ he said, a trace of excitement making his voice quiver slightly. ‘That’s extremely quick, do you realise that?’
I looked at the time, which did not mean a great deal to me. ‘Yeah, I suppose it is.’
When I returned to the gym the next morning, Darren approached holding a piece of paper.
‘Look at this,’ he said.
He had printed out a list of British and world records for indoor rowing. Together we read through. The times were similar to mine. In some cases, they were even lower.
‘I can beat most of these now,’ I said.
‘Can you really?’
‘Yeah. That 10k time for example. I’m within seconds of that.’
We spoke no more about it that day and I pulled my metres as usual, but Darren had planted a seed of something in my mind. British records? World records? This was not just exercising in the yard or winning prison competitions. I could perhaps be the best in my country at something, maybe the best anywhere. The thought captivated me and during quiet moments in my cell, I kept returning to it.
For the next few weeks things continued the same way. Darren had opened my eyes to how fit I really was, but for John McAvoy the criminal, it was a diversion, not a signpost.
I received a letter from Aaron written in a code we used. It talked about visiting girls in different places, but the real gist was that we were ready to rock ’n roll. As soon as I got my transfer to an open nick, he would be there. We had a passage to Germany lined up and a few bits to get me started, so I could hit the ground running. At that time I was just over five years into my sentence.
When people talk of a day that changed their life for the better, they usually mean some great success, achievement or slice of luck – winning the lottery, getting married, the birth of a child. For me that day was 14 November 2009, a Saturday. And it was nothing like that.
It began normally enough. I rowed 20,000m in the gym, had some food then watched the first half of an Ireland v France World Cup qualification match in association. Despite having been born and raised in London, I always supported Eire, a McAvoy thing. As the ref blew the whistle I went up to my cell, to phone my cousin Bill.
‘Are you watching the football?’ I asked him. ‘I can’t believe how well they’re doing. They might even win it!’
Curiously, he did not share my excitement.
‘Mate,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.
’ ‘Thierry Henry’s hardly been in the game, I can’t…’
‘John.’ He sounded so serious. ‘I’ve got something to tell you mate.’
‘All right.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘Of course I’m on my own, I’m in a fucking prison cell!’
‘Aaron’s gone.’
The words touched me too deeply, too suddenly, like a knifepoint in my ribs. I pushed them away.
‘What do you mean he’s gone?’
He said it again, more slowly.
‘Mate…listen…he’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘John, I want you to listen to me mate. Aaron’s dead. He was on a job. It all went wrong. He’s gone.’
‘Nah, he can’t be. I got a letter off him a couple of days ago. You’ve made a mistake.’ My voice started to crack. ‘What’s happened, Bill?’
‘I don’t know all the details. It was in Holland. There was a car crash. I’m sorry mate. I’m sorry.’
I put the phone down and sank on to my bunk. Disbelief gave way to anguish. Tears trickled down my face.
As usual the floodlights were on outside and the bars on my window cast a stark, striped shadow across my cell. I sat there and wept. Aaron Wild, my best friend, the charmer and ladies’ man, ex-private schoolboy and nearly a city banker, who belatedly joined me on my path, was now only a memory.
At just 27, he had lived fast and died young.