20

A Gift

ICOLLAPSED on to the floor mat next to the machine. As my adrenaline subsided I began to get a sense of how utterly fatigued my whole system was. It was a tiredness beyond tiredness, as if my very bones craved sleep. People in the gym filtered away and again I was left alone with Darren.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.

‘Sure,’ he replied.

‘How did I really look, in the middle of the night?’

He laughed. ‘Honestly? You looked like death. I was worried you were going to pack it in. Thank God there were no mirrors in front of you. If you’d seen the state of yourself you’d have given up in a second!’

I chuckled. He leaned in and spoke more quietly.

‘You’ve got a gift, John,’ he whispered. ‘A talent. Most of us spend our whole lives trying to find something we’re supposed to do. You’ve found it. You are exceptional. You could be one of the very best. You have to make the most of this.’

I nodded.

‘But listen,’ he continued, ‘and I mean this. If you get out in a year or two and end up re-offending, it will be the biggest travesty I have ever seen in all my years as a prison officer. People get locked into crime because they have no choice. You do.’

As we walked back to the cells, I resolved that when I regained my freedom I would distance myself from all my old associates. Leaving the game would be hard and would mean severing ties with people I cared about, even people I was related to, but if it was going to work, that was the way it had to be. I couldn’t just go back down to my old area and hang out in BlueEye and El Pirata socialising with the same faces. If I did, I would be back involved in no time.

Ever since Aaron’s death I had known I wanted something else, I just hadn’t known what. Now I knew, with absolute certainty. Sport was my way out.

Darren took me back on to the wing and when we arrived the boys all started clapping and cheering. It stopped me in my tracks and a lump rose in my throat, which I swallowed, hard. It was so unusual to feel an atmosphere like that in there. That touched me. My exploits had roused a positive, cheerful mood in a place where that never happened. Seeing the lads together, smiling, even if it was only fleeting, showed what my sporting ability could do. As well as benefitting me, I could inspire others and make them happy.

The guys in the canteen had kept loads of food back and I was served with more potatoes and chicken legs than I knew what to do with. I took it all up to my cell and sat on my bunk, where I ate through some of the pile hungrily. As my system adjusted to the process of digestion I became completely exhausted. Within minutes I was asleep.

Early the next morning the governor knocked on my door.

‘Well done mate!’ he said, beaming and offering his hand. ‘We’re all so proud of you. What you’ve done is unbelievable.’

I thanked him and for most of that day existed in a state of weary elation. The congratulations and backslaps continued, while I basked in my glimmer of glory. But that night, after bang-up, my left arm and face went numb. My heartbeat faltered while at the same time, my mind became sharply alert.

The thought occurred that I could be having a stroke. I was moments away from pressing the alarm button when the feeling began to pass, but it had frightened me.

The prison doctor explained that I had exhausted my adrenal gland, which secretes insulin. As a result, adrenaline was being released into my body when I was resting, which was causing irregular heart activity. I had to be monitored for a few days and eventually it abated.

That was my first clear insight into the physical toll that top level endurance sport can exact. The demands are different to those on a footballer or tennis player. Not only while you compete, but during the days that follow, you feel the effects of high performance. Muscular, cardiovascular and even nervous systems all undergo extreme strain. Recuperation and proper nutrition are key, but the latter was near enough impossible to organise in prison.

Within a week I was back in the gym and again enjoying my regular chats with Darren. I found his commitment to physical and personal improvement uplifting and looked forward to speaking with him more than anyone else. It was more than a case of shared common interests. He had helped me achieve the most significant accomplishment of my life.

Admiring attention continued for the next couple of weeks. A rower at university in Southampton tried to break my record but failed and a photographer was sent by prison authorities to take pictures of me in the gym. I enjoyed my status as some sort of star inmate. Yet despite another visit from the governor and many plaudits from other staff, it was not all fun and excitement. At times I even found old resentments returning. The system was a hard thing to like.

My success was wonderful, but moments of pure, fist-clenching frustration still occurred, usually after lock-up, back in my cell. Gazing down at the shadows of the bars on the floor, part of me remained bitter, even angry. I knew I had changed and internally, I was no longer a criminal. It was as simple as that. All criminal thoughts and ambitions had left me and if society could know that, I should be free. Yet still I was kept there, caged and denied. It didn’t seem fair.

To compound all of that, I knew by then I had a genuine ability, something to give to the world, but the prison environment was preventing me from using it to its fullest. I was 28 years old, in the prime of my athletic life, but incarceration would stifle my development.

As always, to cope I zoned in on training, reading and researching. Each session was like a mini rebirth – sweat out the old, drink in the new. Impurities gone, frustrations evaporated, flushed out by clean water and fresh perspective.

My parole hearings were scheduled to begin at the end of March, by which time I had already served more than the five-year minimum tariff Judge Carroll had laid out. I waited to hear what lay in store and appointed a new solicitor, from a firm in Nottingham, a pleasant, white-haired lady called Irene Tolley.

She confirmed what I suspected. It was unlikely I would be released, even though my tariff was served. The most probable outcome, which we could request, would be transfer to an open prison. That was better than nothing. At least it represented progression and I was eager to make it a reality.

Just three days before my hearing was due to commence, HMP bureaucracy intervened to disrupt my plans. I received a request to go to the office and arrived to find the wing officer sitting with the probation clerk. Both had grim faces.

‘Sit down, John. We’ve got some bad news for you,’ the PO said. ‘Your parole hearing’s been deferred.’

‘What? Why?’

It emerged that years before, when I had been sentenced and returned to Belmarsh, the officer responsible for my paperwork had misunderstood the situation, leading to an error on my file.

Judge Carroll handed down a discretionary life sentence (as opposed to a mandatory which is given for murder), but the officer had recorded this wrongly, as an IPP – an indeterminate sentence for public protection. This mix-up meant that the magistrate booked to chair my parole hearing did not have the necessary authority to do so. Any life sentence review required a crown court judge. None of this was my fault but it meant that progress would be delayed.

‘In reality,’ the PO went on, ‘you should never have been moved to this prison in the first place. We don’t accept discretionary life-sentenced prisoners here.’

His words stirred up my reflections on fate. Although it was a massive annoyance, if the officer at Belmarsh had done his job properly, I would not have transferred to Lowdham, I would never have met Darren Davis and perhaps I would never have started indoor rowing.

This screw-up meant that I served several extra months at Lowdham Grange before my hearing was able to be convened. Every day I would go to the office and ask for news. Every day I was met with shrugged shoulders and blank faces.

It was disheartening, especially after all the effort I had made in the gym. I felt let down and I think the old me would have become openly hostile and confrontational, but my positive relationship with Darren prevented that from happening. I had a prison officer I could speak to, who I liked, who understood my exasperation and knew how to help me channel it.

To alleviate the stress, I naturally used training, my new go-to solution for all problems. I broke two more British records in no time. They weren’t really challenging enough, so I spoke with Darren about going for something bigger.

‘What do you fancy?’ Darren asked, showing me the list of world times.

‘One hundred thousand metres?’

He nodded. ‘It’ll be a very different challenge, in some ways more intense than the last one. You’ll need your foot on the gas for a sustained period.’

‘I know.’

The pre-existing record stood at six hours 48 minutes, meaning that to attempt it, the only special arrangement needed was a pass to be out of my cell over lunch. For this one I would be able to attempt some specialised training and with Darren’s help began to read up about training zones. They would not allow me a heart-rate monitor in prison, which was a small hindrance, but at least with the knowledge I was able to approximate proper methods.

We concentrated on training my body to hold a fast split time of one minute 52 seconds per 500m, which I did until it felt easy. If I could sustain that for the whole distance, we knew I would have it in the bag. I performed lots of 20–30km rows working at that split, seeing how it felt. The idea was I would be keeping my heart rate at about 150 beats per minute for six and a half hours which would have to be gauged on feel.

To manage my nutrition, I exchanged my tobacco allowance for meat from the serving hatch and had five or six kids giving me chicken legs, along with cans of tuna, mackerel and plenty of porridge. It was not a perfect diet by any means and certainly not by the standards of high-performance meal plans in the wider world, but it was protein rich and as low-fat as I could manage, with plenty of omega oils from the fish.

Darren said he would bring some energy gels in for me to maximise my performance on the day, which strictly speaking, he was not supposed to do, but the positive publicity generated by my success would encourage the authorities to turn a blind eye. I felt very confident. We may not have had a professional set-up but I was sure I was capable of professional standards.

I woke early on the morning of Sunday 1 May 2011 and ate a large porridge breakfast. At 8.50am I walked into the gym, laid out my provisions and stretched. There was no messing about. Darren set up a camcorder and wished me luck. Bang on 9am, we began.

Up until 50km I rowed freely and smoothly, held the splits with ease and did not even feel like I was exerting myself. That all changed when I hit 75km and when it changed, the change was drastic.

The failings of my nutritional regime meant that I lacked replacement electrolytes, while profuse sweating was losing me lots of salt and potassium. My obliques and hamstrings started cramping up, then to make matters worse, shortly afterwards my latissimus dorsi muscle across my upper back went into spasm. It shook uncontrollably as I rowed, contracting and flexing like someone pinging a rubber band. The pain was excruciating, making me grind my teeth. My speed sagged.

‘Just ease up and stretch out,’ Darren said, with worry on his face. ‘You’re well within record pace, just relax your body then continue when you’re comfortable.’

‘No,’ I told him. ‘I ain’t stopping. I’ll keep going.’

The last 10km was sheer, prolonged agony, spreading from my body to my mind, shrinking my field of vision to a tiny spot on the wall, which I fixed my eyes upon. Silently, I counted strokes, while Darren kept shouting out my progress. It felt like my teeth would be worn down to nubs, but if I relaxed my jaw I would have screamed. All I thought of was reaching the end and being able to stop.

When the electronic display flashed ‘100,000’ I released the handle, allowing it to clatter back to its holder, and let out a growl of pain. I rolled off the seat and on to the floor, letting my back flatten itself. Still, it convulsed. Beneath the physical torment came a wave of joy. Darren confirmed I had beaten the world record by 18 minutes.

The feeling was the same as before, elation mixed with satisfaction. Alongside that lay a sense of destiny. With two world records to my name, this new direction had to be leading somewhere? My destination remained unclear, particularly while parole was delayed, but I felt sure it was not in a prison.

Arriving back on the wing I was treated to another hero’s welcome. Men whose normal posture was to demand respect, aggressively if necessary, gave it to me freely. I made a conscious effort to control myself, to accept their acclaim without swagger. These things were becoming habits.

Just as the excitement from that one started to fade, my parole hearing was convened in June 2011. A female criminal psychologist led the discussion.

‘You’re a very interesting case,’ she said, looking right through me over her glasses, as if I was transparent. ‘You’ve come in here with no drink or drug problems and no mental health issues. You can read, you’re articulate, you’re well dressed. You weren’t abused as a child. What’s it all about?’

‘It used to be about money,’ I told her. ‘Isn’t that what motivates most people?’

‘Perhaps, but what I’m seeing with you is that you treat criminal activity like a corporate venture. You see crime purely as a risk to reward equation, don’t you?’

She looked at my wrist on which my Rolex was coiled. I nodded, thinking I should have left the watch in my cell.

‘You apply that to every aspect of your life, don’t you?’

I was unsure what to say. ‘Yes and no.’

‘You could have come off a campus or a boardroom to be here today, the way you’re presenting yourself. You’re a puzzle John, you really are.’

The discussion became personal, interrogating the differences between the way I portrayed myself and my real motivations. Doesn’t everybody, in every walk of life, exist within that paradox? How others see you and how you see yourself? What were they trying to prove? That I was human? It felt as if they were trying to push my buttons, to drag a reaction from me. I didn’t let it work.

I had been through so much self-analysis already and had come to the conclusion that I am a goal-oriented person. My old goals had all been to do with goods, possessions, status and cash, but now they lay within the world of sport. When I focused on something, I didn’t like things that stood in my way. Before that might have been security guards, in my new reality it would be competitors, but the essential process was the same.

Ultimately, after an hour of intense and uncomfortable questioning, they approved my request to be transferred to open conditions. I was already well over my minimum tariff, part of the heavy reality of serving a life sentence. Another parole meeting was set for 12 months’ time, meaning that if all went well, I could be considered for release at that stage.

Buoyed by the positive result and expecting an imminent move, I returned to the wing in jubilant mood, but I should have known better. Prison bureaucracy had another trick up its sleeve. Days turned into weeks and kept ticking by. Three months after the hearing I was still at Lowdham.

I spoke to Darren, who went to the governor and did his best to hurry things along for me, to no avail. Eventually my solicitor had to threaten them with a high court review as they were keeping me in closed conditions unlawfully. As soon as this threat was made, my transfer miraculously came through. I would be heading to Sudbury, a cat D prison in Derbyshire.

On 12 August I cleared out my belongings and trollied them down to reception. Darren came to shake my hand as I waited downstairs.

‘What you’ve achieved here has meant a lot to me,’ he said, ‘and I’ll keep in contact with you, however I can.’ Professional ethics meant he was unable to express too close a friendship but we both knew we had forged strong links. Prison officer or not, I would never be able to overlook the help and inspiration he provided. Darren had been there when I needed him and acted as a catalyst for my new direction. I would never forget that.

As was usual on these occasions, they left me in a holding cell for what seemed like forever before finally opening the door and asking if I was ready. I nodded and they led me out to the desk, where a group of other prison officers stood around. I could only tell they were prison officers because they said so. They were dressed in normal, civilian clothes.

For the final transfer of my prison career, I left Lowdham Grange in a Vauxhall Corsa. There was no bombproof lorry, no Perspex box, no helicopters and no machine guns. One guy drove, a female officer sat in the passenger seat and another sat in the back with me.

It was more than seven years since I found myself in a regular car and able to look out of the windows, to watch the landscape roll past. A simple pleasure but at that moment it was magical, like being at the movies.

‘You’re the guy that’s broken world records then?’ said the woman, as we pulled out on to the motorway. ‘We’ve been told about you. You’ll like it at our place. We’ve got a decent gym.’

Soon the others joined in too, chatting away, making jokes. They did not even behave like screws. I began to suspect that Sudbury would be quite a different experience.