I resigned myself to doing my full stretch in prison. I swallowed. It was painful, as my mouth was dry. I felt like someone who was trapped in a maze and, after hours of searching, seemed to have found a way out, only to realise it was yet another dead end. It was very frightening. I tried to stay focused and in control. I failed. My breathing became laboured and I had to sit down. I buried my face in my hands. ‘They’ll bloody well kill me in there. You can’t send a copper to Armley.’
Mr Stewart closed his briefcase, ready to leave the cell. He told me that he would work hard on my appeal. This was little comfort to me, as it had paled virtually into insignificance. My short-term welfare became the priority. For the first time in my life, I felt completely helpless. I was now in the hands of the prison service and the inmates at Armley. Anything could happen in there.
He slammed the door shut as he left. The lock was bolted into place making a loud metallic clunk which echoed down the cell passage. It was a sound I was to become all too familiar with whilst serving my sentence. Hearing anything similar today is a stark reminder of those very dark times I spent in prison. The silence in the cell was in stark contrast to what I had just heard and, once again, I was left with my own company and my autobiography of Tony Adams, the Arsenal and England footballer. My mum and dad had given this to me the day before as a birthday present. It was the only item I had taken to court with me, in the hope I’d be allowed to take it with me. I loosened my tie and opened the top couple of buttons of my shirt. The optimism which had been my main strength for the past two years had deserted me. I felt physically sick, as I really didn’t know how I would cope in prison. Throughout my whole service, I had been so proud of being a police officer. Now it was the worst thing in the world for me to be, but I was one, and I couldn’t change it. My fear of how the other inmates would treat me intensified. I began to think of my mum and dad. I hadn’t had the opportunity to see them since being given my sentence and I desperately wanted to speak to them, so that I could tell them that I was okay, even though I felt far from being so. I couldn’t begin to imagine Mum’s reaction. I knew that Dad would now be feeling the strain, too. He’s a tough character and had worked his way up the ranks in the police service through hard work. He’s self-educated, with few formal qualifications, which goes some way to show what a remarkable achievement it was for him to get to chief inspector, a rank that nowadays is often held by under-experienced academics with very little practical, hands-on knowledge. Dad was now Mum’s only hope of surviving the forthcoming months. I knew I could rely on him. I’d have to. I exhaled slowly through my lips. The loss of my identity had begun.
‘Boss, can I have a phone call?’ someone shouted from a neighbouring cell. (Criminals call law officials ‘boss’ when they are locked up.) This was the kind of question that I’d been asked whenever I worked in the police cell areas. I knew that, from now on, I would be asking it. I would have to ask for everything for the next four months, even a drink of water. I certainly wasn’t ‘boss’ now.
I tried in desperation to think of something positive. I failed, so I listened intently to what was going on outside my cell. I still hoped someone would open the door and tell me that a huge mistake had been made. Of course, this wasn’t going to happen. All I heard was a relentless jangling of keys and the distant slamming of cell doors. The place seemed very busy, yet in my cell I felt abandoned and alone. It was as though the world had forgotten I existed. My cell walls seemed to close in, and this prompted me to start walking around. In just a few paces, I had walked its length. I desperately searched for something to occupy my mind because I knew that worse was to come. I knew, with dread, that the fight against the boredom was going to be as hard as the fight against the conditions and other inmates. I needed to develop a strategy in order to get through the long days ahead.
I sat on the bench and tried to think as I flicked through my book. Even Tony looked frightened on the front cover. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood up again and put my face right up to the closed hatch in my cell door in the hope I’d be able to see out. I couldn’t; it was too dirty. Then suddenly, the hatch fell open with a loud bang. Two eyes appeared at the slot. ‘Stand away from the door,’ came the forceful command. I complied and stood at the opposite side of my cell. My experience as a police officer had taught me just how daunting entering a cell is when it’s occupied by an unknown quantity, which is how I would be being viewed by the officers. As the door opened, an overweight individual confronted me. His uniform clung tightly to his bulging belly, but he had a pleasant demeanour. He had an air of superiority over me because he could go home and I couldn’t. He took me out of my cell to a door which led to the outside world. Two other Group 4 security officers waited for me. One of them was spinning a pair of handcuffs around his index finger, joking with his colleague about something. This made me very uneasy. I was relieved when his expression became more serious as he saw me walking towards him. I knew that he had probably been laughing at something entirely unrelated.
He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, mate, we’re gonna have to put these on,’ he said as he held out the handcuffs. The reality of the situation hit me again and I really did not want to be restrained. I had no intention of trying to escape and to think that I was a risk to the safety of the officers was ludicrous.
The officer handcuffed me with my hands to the front and a second pair of handcuffs was used to handcuff me to the second officer. I felt like a gangster. I looked at the officer. ‘I’m not gonna kick off, mate,’ I assured him.
‘I know, but we have to do this,’ he said.
‘I know you do, but I’m here for a common assault that I didn’t even do. I’m a bloody copper, for God’s sake.’
‘I’ve got to, mate. Sorry.’
I wasn’t annoyed with them; they were just doing their job. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m just pissed off about all this now. It’s been going on for two years and they’ve fucking stitched me up because I’m a bloody policeman.’ I realised that I was beginning to get a little too vocal. ‘Sorry,’ I said again, ‘it’s not your problem.’
With this, there was a buzzing sound and a green light lit up on the door handle, indicating that the officers could open it. One of them put his thumb up to a camera over the door. I assumed that he was thanking a colleague who had remotely unlocked the door for him. ‘Come on then,’ he said.
As the door opened, I saw a Group 4 car waiting. Large metal shutters surrounded the yard. Another officer sat in the driver’s seat and the engine was running. The two officers led me to the car. We all got in, with me in the middle. It was very cramped and finding a comfortable position with my hands chained together was impossible. The driver switched on the radio. It was as though I was being given my last taste of civilisation, freedom and the outside world. The song, How Do I Live Without You?, by Leanne Rhymes, was playing. I find the irony of the song title quite amusing now, given the position I was in between the two guards. If I ever hear it, though, I feel physically sick, too. Every so often, the officer I was handcuffed to would glance at me. ‘If it’s any consolation to you, we’re all on your side,’ he said. ‘You should have a medal for what you did; you shouldn’t be getting this. It fucking stinks.’ I didn’t tell him, but it was a consolation, a big one.
The drive to Armley Prison took about ten minutes and I cherished every second. I wasn’t a free man, but this was the nearest I’d get to freedom for a while. People driving their cars had no idea how lucky they were to be free. It seemed that way, anyway.
Then, the sight I’d been dreading was in front of me. Armley Prison is an old stone building, blackened with pollution, and it looks similar to an ageing castle. It’s massive; it has to be, as it holds over a thousand inmates, some of the nastiest criminals in the UK. It stands as a visual representation of institutionalisation and is an enormous warning to anyone contemplating a crime. The walls are high and topped with about three feet of closely coiled barbed wire. There is no way out of this place. Stunned, I shook my head in despondency. The driver pulled up in front of two large doors. They were about ten feet tall and looked Victorian. We waited. I saw scores of prison