It wasn’t long into the new year when I received a letter from my captain—my solicitor. My stomach dropped as I opened it, and the moment I began to read, I felt the familiar wave of dread wash over me. I braced myself for what I thought would be the final blow, but then my heart fell out of my arse again as I read the words: Customs was putting a confiscation order on me for £1.5 million.
Shock coursed through my body like ice water. “I have not got it,” I muttered under my breath, barely able to comprehend the implications of what I was reading. The gravity of the situation was overwhelming—the thought that I could face an additional ten-year prison sentence on top of my existing sentence if I couldn’t pay was almost too much to bear.
I sat back in my chair, feeling the walls of my cell close in around me. How did it come to this? I couldn’t shake the feeling of despair as I processed the urgency of my new reality. My mind was racing, and the panic settled in like a vice grip on my chest.
When my solicitor came to visit, I could see the concern etched on his face. This was no longer just about navigating courtrooms; this was a battle for my future. “We need to start downloading all the information about your money,” he said, his tone serious. “They believe you spent or hid £1.5 million, and we have to show where it all went.”
I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders as I nodded, the enormity of the task looming before me. All the intricacies of my financial dealings, the pills, the business operations—it all swirled together in a confusing mass. Details I thought were inconsequential now felt like critical pieces of evidence against me.
The pressure bore down heavily as I began to retrace every step, every transaction. It was exhausting, almost like reliving my entire life in reverse. I recalled nights spent in bars with friends, exchanges with clients, and the trades that had once fuelled my lifestyle. I felt the knot tighten in my stomach as I further understood how entwined my past was with my present mess.
Each interaction, each decision I had made was now under scrutiny, and it served as a harsh reminder of my reckless past. I could hardly keep track of the money anymore, and the thought of having to justify every penny filled me with dread.
As I worked through the anguish, I realised this was not just a confrontation with the legal system; it was a confrontation with my own choices. I needed to face the music, but doing so felt terrifying. The walls of my reality were crumbling, and the future I had hoped to carve out was slipping further away.
Determined not to let my past dictate the outcome, I resolved to work closely with my solicitor to gather whatever evidence I could. It was time to fight back—because at this moment, anything less felt like surrender.
But this was only my memory I had to rely on to voice the spending, and if I’m honest, my memory wasn’t the sharpest. When I first spoke with my solicitor, I knew I must have sounded like I was holding back the truth. “I can’t help,” I confessed, frustration lacing my voice. “I have no paperwork or statements. Customs had them all.”
The reality of my situation felt suffocating. The way forward, as discussed in our meetings, was painfully straightforward: we needed to identify how many banks and credit cards I had, and with whom. That information seemed like a treacherous path to navigate, but I knew we had little choice.
After more discussions, we obtained a court order for my statements, but that process dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Every week felt like a countdown, with my past transactions haunting me. Each passing day was filled with anxiety as the dread of potential revelations loomed over me.
The nights stretched into restless hours filled with memories I tried to capture—nights spent around a table with friends, exchanging money for goods, and the whirlwind of transactions that had become second nature in my previous life. But now, all of that felt like a jumbled puzzle with too many missing pieces. Every detail I struggled to recall was another weight added to my already burdened mind.
I found myself waking in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling of my cell, wrestling with the ghosts of my choices. I tried to keep calm, reminding myself that I was fighting for my future, but the relentless pressure of reconstructing my past grew heavier with each passing day.
Even the visits from Catherine became tinged with unease, our conversations fraught with the underlying tension of my situation. I longed to talk about happy memories, moments that made us smile, but those were fleeting, overshadowed by the impending darkness of the case.
The reality that this situation would not go away loomed large, haunting me daily. The fear that I would be unable to account for my spending gnawed at me, and I was left grappling with the weight of uncertainty.
I started to realise that my life was now a continuous cycle of dealing with the aftermath of my choices. Even as I tried to stay hopeful, the shadows of doubt crept in, reminding me that the road ahead tightly intertwined with the mistakes of my past.
Still, I resolved to keep pushing forward. I had to dig deep within myself and find clarity, for if there was any hope of reclaiming my life, it was anchored in facing the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
To take my mind off my precarious situation, I immersed myself in helping others within the medical wing. I began offering Reiki sessions to the older inmates, the “old gits” as I affectionately called them. I was drawn to their stories and the struggles they faced, finding purpose in providing comfort where I could.
One of the guys, an inmate who had been through his fair share of battles, started writing a diary about my sessions with him. Every time I helped him with Reiki, he would jot down his thoughts and experiences, capturing the transformation he felt. It was a reminder of the healing power I could offer in a setting that often felt devoid of hope.
As word spread, I began to gain a reputation as the “Reiki Man” within the prison walls. The label didn’t just come with recognition; it meant I was making a tangible difference in the lives of those around me. Inmates who once walked through the halls with hardened expressions began to soften.
One day, the Governor recognised my efforts and presented me with a commendation certificate—a nod to the impact I had made on the mental well-being of my fellow inmates. It was a proud moment, not just for me but for everyone who had supported me along the way.
I found it astonishing that I was helping murderers and various tough characters find a bit of peace in their tumultuous lives. The sessions calmed them in ways I hadn't anticipated. It was rewarding to witness the relief on their faces, to see that, even for just a moment, they could let go of their burdens and breathe.
“Who would have thought a place like this could offer moments of clarity?” I often reflected. Each session became a shared experience, and as I guided them in their healing, I, too, felt a sense of calm wash over me.
Those moments of connection became my lifeline. Every smile, every thank you, and every story shared helped to alleviate the weight of my own troubles, if only for a little while. I realised that while I was still trapped in this environment, I had the power to influence the lives of those around me positively. Yes, my past had brought me here, and yes, the road ahead remained uncertain, but I was determined to leave behind something better.
In the end, it reminded me that within the darkest places, we can still find the light— and sometimes, that light comes from the connections we forge along the way.
I also returned to my books, revisiting some that had previously sparked my interest. Each turn of the page brought me to an enlightened moment, and I found solace in the wisdom embedded within those lines. “I’ll be alright,” I told myself, as the comforting words washed over me.
In those quiet moments, surrounded by the chaos of prison life, I reflected on the lessons I was learning. It was clear that this ordeal was a choice I had made on some level—a lesson I was meant to embrace in this incarnation. “I’m here to learn for a reason,” I thought, clinging to that glimmer of purpose even as the shadows loomed.
As I pondered, I realised that I could rise above my circumstances. I resolved to let go of the dread surrounding my new situation, choosing to shift my mindset. “Fear is not real,” I reminded myself, recalling the phrase: FALSE EVIDENCE APPEARING REAL. I couldn’t believe how much clarity came from those words. It was a powerful reminder that so much of the fear we carry is constructed by our minds, an illusion we allow to dictate our realities.
Fear and control had intertwined throughout my life, but now I was equipped with the understanding that I held the power to reshape my thoughts. I embraced the notion that while I couldn’t change the past, I could certainly influence my future.
In the following days, I focused on cultivating this newfound perspective, surrounding myself with the light I found within my books and the friendships I had built in the prison. I channeled my energy into my Reiki sessions—providing comfort to others while reinforcing my own growing sense of inner peace.
Though my surroundings remained a constant reminder of my choices, I began to see them as mere chapters in a much larger narrative. I could shift and adapt, learning how to navigate the complexities of my life with a stronger sense of self.
With each passing day, I committed to this journey of growth, understanding that every setback was an opportunity for reflection and every moment spent in fear an invitation to discover my strength. I was slowly unlearning the chains of the past and instead forging a path toward a future defined by hope and resilience.
I knew now that this experience was not an end, but rather a trans formative process that would shape the person I was becoming—one who would emerge from this, ready to face whatever came next.
Little did I know at the time that I would have to live with this new monster on my back for around two more years. The weight of my circumstances felt heavier, yet I tried to find ways to cope and manage the situation as best I could.
I came up with a fabricated answer for my solicitor regarding the vast amount of money spent. “Gambling, women, and drugs,” I declared, almost casually. It was an oversimplified excuse, but it was my answer, and I stuck to it throughout the proceedings. “Enough said,” I thought, as if that would somehow protect me from the consequences of my choices.
Time, however, seemed to be moving quickly, and I began marking the months in my cell. Each month that passed was highlighted with a bold black marker on the wall—three months crossed off at a time. It felt oddly satisfying to see the days dwindle, the opportunity for release inching closer.
But with that satisfaction came a gnawing anxiety. “Will I actually get released?” I wondered, staring at the marks on the wall. The looming uncertainty of the court case pending sent my thoughts spiralling. They could still keep me in, and that thought plagued me day and night. The belief that everything now hinged on the whims of the system filled me with dread.
I could sense the frustration consistently bubbling beneath the surface. While I put on a brave face for those around me, the fear of being caught in legal limbo worried me. Every day held the potential for news—good or bad—and the unpredictability gnawed at my mind.
Despite these overwhelming feelings, I tried to focus on the positive aspects. My friendships with inmates like Robbie and Shayne provided some comfort, a support system in the confinement of prison life. Hoping that this phase of my life would soon come to an end kept me pushing through.
Each day became an exercise in patience and resilience. I clung to the promise of freedom, reminding myself that I was not alone on this journey. As long as I kept moving forward, I could face whatever challenges lay ahead.
In the midst of uncertainty, I found some peace in the routine of marking off the passing months, a reminder that time was still ticking, and each mark brought me a step closer to reclaiming my life.
I decided it was time to call up the captain—my solicitor—requesting he come to see me. I needed answers. I wanted to know if I could still be released or if they planned to keep me locked up indefinitely. Anxieties swirled in my mind, and I needed some clarity.
When he arrived, his demeanour was professional but I could sense a tension in the air. “I’ve got a few more questions for you,” he said, sitting down across from me. My heart raced slightly, knowing the gravity of each inquiry he was about to make.
While he began his line of questioning, I was always conscious of the lurking specter of the £1.5 million I had transferred in Gibraltar. They had never mentioned it, and that fact continually weighed heavy on my thoughts. “What if they bring it up?” I worried, the fear brewing in the back of my mind.
His questions flowed rapidly, hitting me with inquiries I wanted to avoid. “Where did the money go? Can you account for every expenditure? Did you ever deal with large sums before?” Those questions sent a shiver down my spine.
I instinctively fell back on my rehearsed answers, clinging to the narrative I had created. “Cars, gambling, women, and drugs,” I repeated, almost like a mantra, though a part of me felt the weight of the deception. When he pressed further, I finally admitted, “I’ve also been depressed, drinking more than I should.”
His brow furrowed slightly, and I could tell these revelations provided him with no small amount of concern. "It's vital you stay focused and honest, especially with your mental state. This can impact how the court perceives you,” he advised, a hint of underlying urgency in his voice.
I nodded, understanding the implications. But each time we veered away from my rehearsed lines, my anxiety spiked. I didn’t want to delve into the complexities of my past dealings, especially regarding Gibraltar. We had to find a way to navigate this labyrinthine mess without revealing too much.
As the meeting wore on, I felt the tension build around us, the weight of my choices pressing in. I knew I had to keep my cool and stay strong, but the fear of the unknown loomed larger than ever. The spectre of the past was still there, threatening to unravel the carefully woven tapestry of my present.
After the questioning concluded, I thanked him for his time, but as he left, I felt no sense of relief. Instead, the uncertainty remained, forcing me to confront the harsh reality of my situation and the potential consequences waiting just around the corner.
By now, I had mastered the art of blocking out all the negatives in my head. I became adept at pushing aside doubts and worries, convincing myself that nothing would faze me in the future. But despite my efforts, I still faced the pressing reality of my circumstances, and I had to find a way to get through this time in prison.
As my release date approached, I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety. I’d left it all in the lap of the gods—or some higher being—hanging onto the hope that freedom was just around the corner. The day finally came when I received the news: I would be allowed to go home for three nights at the end of the month, a special program called resettlement.
The thrill of it all sent a rush of energy through me. My first call was to Catherine, desperate for a sense of connection and a place to stay. I’d been longing for reassurance, for the comfort of familiarity after the turmoil of my time inside.
When she answered, I said, “Catherine, I’m finally going to be released! Can I come stay with you for a few days? I have nowhere else to go.”
To my shock, she replied, “No. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
The rejection hit me like a cold wave crashing over my head, leaving me stunned. I had not expected that answer, especially after the support she had offered in the past. We hadn’t spoken in a while, and now it was clear that she had moved on—an initiation I had unknowingly sensed.
The weight of loss settled heavily on my chest, but I knew I had to press on. I couldn't dwell on what I had lost; I needed to focus on my release and the steps ahead.
My next call was to my mum, who immediately understood the gravity of the situation. “I’ll talk to Catherine,” she assured me. “I’ll have a word with her and see what I can do.”
Whatever conversation they had changed the dynamics. I felt a renewed spark of hope as my mum’s reassuring voice filled me with determination. I was looking forward to my days out of this hellhole, regardless of the ups and downs.
As the days ticked down to my release, I envisioned walking out of the prison gates, breathing in that first breath of freedom. I pictured what it would feel like to be on the other side of those walls, thoughts alive with possibilities.
Even though my relationship with Catherine had taken a turn I didn’t expect, I stayed focused on the journey ahead. I knew I needed to rebuild my life, one step at a time, no matter how tumultuous the past had been. Freedom was within my reach, and I was ready to embrace it with open arms.
The day arrived when I collected my pass from reception along with my train fare. Stepping out of the gates of the prison, I felt an overwhelming rush of emotions. “I’m free!” I thought, even if it was only for three days. But freedom came with strings attached—restrictions that reminded me of where I’d been and the choices I had made. No alcohol, no playing with guns or fireworks, and certainly no drugs.
As I boarded the train back to what once was my home, a cocktail of anticipation and anxiety coursed through me. I couldn’t help but wonder how Catherine would feel towards me after everything that had happened. We shared a unique bond, a connection that transcended the complexities of our past lives. She had often said that I was her brother in a previous life, playfully accusing me of winding her up back then. “That doesn’t sound like me,” I thought with a slight smirk, even amid the swirling uncertainty.
As the train rattled through the autumnal countryside, the vibrant colors of the season took my breath away. I mused about how strange it felt to be on this journey toward normalcy. Yet, I also felt like an alien in this world I once knew so well. “I’m still a prisoner,” I pondered. The physical bars may have disappeared, but the mental and emotional toll lingered.
During the journey, I found myself reflecting deeply on the nature of freedom. I was a spiritual being now, able to see what was right and wrong in this world with a newfound clarity. The glimpses of everyday life—the commuters lost in their routines, working hard for a system that often felt oppressive—started to weigh heavily on my conscience.
I felt awake in ways I hadn’t before, questioning the very fabric of society. We were all slaves to the government, bouncing from paycheck to paycheck, toiling for a system that was supposed to serve us, yet often felt like it was working against us. It was eye-opening to witness the reality from an outside perspective after so long—a reminder that life could be so much more than mere survival.
As the train approached my destination, I felt a mixture of hope and trepidation. I wanted to reconnect with Catherine, to talk through everything that had happened, and to see if there was still a place for me in her life. But I also knew I had to be careful. The world may have moved on, but I had to tread lightly and be mindful of how I engaged.
Arriving at the station, I took a deep breath, ready to step into this new chapter of my life—one filled with possibilities, challenges, and the chance to rediscover what it meant to truly live.
Catherine picked me up from the station, and as I slid into the passenger seat, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. She seemed her usual self on the surface, but her cold body language told a different story. I could sense a disconnect, a barrier between us that hadn’t been there before. I remembered the importance of listening to my gut feelings—they had served me well in the past.
Upon arriving home, I braced myself for the familiar surroundings that felt foreign now. To my surprise, my parents were there to meet me, their faces a mix of relief and love. It was a comforting sight, anchoring me in a world that felt chaotic. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was out of place, not quite needed in the same way I had once been.
The weekend passed with a bittersweet familiarity. We sat down to discuss how to move forward, sharing stories and laughter, but I couldn’t help but notice that something fundamental had shifted in our relationship. Though conversations started to warm Catherine toward me a little, it wasn’t quite the same as before. A gap lingered between us, built by the trials we had each faced.
I was delighted to see Alfie the cat again. That furry companion had been a blessing in Catherine's life, helping to keep her sane during my absence. Watching him purr contentedly curled up in a box, in fact as i write this Alfie has never laid on anyone's laps until now he is 17 years old all in good time hey.
As the weekend wore on, I slipped back into familiar habits, letting loose with abandon. I got pissed and stoned, rediscovering the heady thrill that came with it. We played around with shotguns and set off a few fireworks, indulging in reckless joy that felt both exhilarating and fleeting. The distractions served as a temporary balm for the emotions lurking just beneath the surface.
But as the weekend came to a close, the reality of my situation began to settle back in. I had to go back to hell soon. The thought sent chills down my spine, and the weight of what awaited me on Monday loomed large.
As we said our goodbyes, I tried to cling to the positive exchanges we shared, hoping they would carry me through the difficult days ahead. “It went quite well,” I reassured myself even as I felt that old familiar dread creeping back. I needed to return to the prison and face whatever challenges were waiting, but a part of me mourned the comfort of these moments.
As I climbed back into that taxi for the ride back, I glanced at Catherine one last time, wishing I could freeze the feeling of connection we had rekindled. All I could do was remind myself that I would need to carry the memories of this weekend with me; they would offer me strength on the rough path ahead.
I dreaded going back, and every moment on the way felt like a countdown to doom. When I finally arrived at reception, the routine was as grim as I remembered. Yes, a strip search—nothing quite like being stripped of your dignity all over again. Thankfully, they didn’t conduct a drug test or a breathalyser, but I did have to sit on the machine that took a rather uncomfortable look up my arse. The process was dehumanising, but it was familiar territory.
Once it was over, I resigned myself to the fact that I was back home, albeit in a place far from any sense of freedom. It was bed time with cocoa and lights out, and I entered my cell, grounding myself as I settled back into the rhythm of prison life.
Despite the anxiety that tugged at me, I felt a new sense of worth beginning to grow. I had formed meaningful friendships and carved out an identity as the "Reiki Man." When the prison magazine was published with my picture prominently displayed, I felt a bittersweet mix of pride and disbelief. “Look at that,” I thought, “even in here, I’ve left a mark.”
The prison dynamic had shifted slightly; inmates were seeking me out for healing, and I was establishing a reputation beyond the walls of my cell. People spoke of Jesus, of healing, and there I was—part of the dialogue, a source of light in a place filled with darkness. It felt surreal to be able to offer comfort in such a troubled environment.
Then came an unexpected turn: I was called into the governor's office. My heart raced as I entered the room, wondering what this meeting could entail. The governor had news that spoke directly to my aspirations. There was an outside charity interested in taking my healing practices to other prisons and teaching others the art of Reiki.
I felt my pulse quicken with excitement. Could this be my way out, a path to something meaningful? I imagined working for the charity, using my skills to bring comfort to others in similar circumstances. I had manifested this possibility in a way—a chance to turn my experiences into something that could help change lives.
However, the excitement was quickly tempered when I learned that they couldn't secure a license for me to leave the prison, and that dream slipped through my fingers. I wondered what path that opportunity could have taken me down. It felt like a door had closed, yet another reminder of the constraints of my current reality.
Still, the notion of helping others fuelled my desire to maintain a greater purpose during my time in prison. I wouldn’t let the setback define me. Instead, I focused on the connections I had made and the impact I could continue to have, even within these walls.
“Keep your head up,” I told myself. “There’s still something to fight for.”
Determined not to let the closed door deter my spirit, I resolved to pursue every chance I had to create meaning in this life, knowing that even behind bars, I could forge a path filled with potential for growth and healing.
I want to tell you about two of my clients during my time in the prison's medical wing. One of them was a guy named Martin, only 56 years old and an accountant who had stumbled down a dark path, ultimately robbing a company. As I got to know him, I learned that he suffered from Parkinson’s disease.
The first time I saw Martin, he was trying to eat his dinner, and it broke my heart to watch. He was throwing his food all over the place, struggling to get it to his mouth. I felt an immense wave of empathy for him. It was painful to see how others around him were taking the piss, mocking his struggles rather than showing compassion.
Recognizing the need to help him, I offered my Reiki services, eager to test my abilities further. Martin agreed, and we set up a session in his room. I guided him through the process while he listened to soothing chants. As I worked on him, I noticed a miraculous change: Martin’s shoulders stopped shaking. “Fuck me!” I thought in disbelief; it seemed like my powers were actually working.
After about 15 minutes, I gently woke him up. For a moment, it was like he was being reborn. To my astonishment, he got up and started walking around his cell. The sight of him strolling around, albeit with a bit of hesitation, felt surreal. “Is this really happening?” I thought, incredulous as I witnessed the transformation. Excitedly, I told the other inmates, and they couldn’t believe their eyes either.
“Martin looks well,” one of the officers remarked, astonished by the change. He appeared almost normal, like he had cast away the chains of his condition. Sadly, the fleeting miracle didn’t last; by the next day, Martin had returned to his previous state, shaking just as before. It was a bittersweet reminder of the limitations of what I could do.
Then there was Fred, another inmate I encountered who was confined to a wheelchair due to a brain tumour. His circumstances were grim, yet he had this spark in his eyes that showed he wasn’t willing to give up. So, naturally, I thought, “Let’s see if I can help him too.”
During one of our sessions, something unbelievable happened. As I worked on him, Fred suddenly stood up out of his wheelchair. I was in total disbelief. “Is this real?” I thought, my heart racing with excitement. No way! It can’t be happening.
He began to jog—a whimsical thought that felt completely out of reach. “What the hell?” I exclaimed in shock, but just as quickly as it happened, I realised it was a product of my imagination. The vision of Fred jogging down the hall was too outrageous to be real; I could hardly believe it, let alone remain serious about it. I had to shake my head; it was a fantasy that reality simply couldn’t support.
In truth, as inspiring as those moments were with Martin and Fred, the stark reality was that healing often eluded those who needed it most. While I was grateful for the brief moments of hope and connection, I knew bodies often fall back into the rhythm of their ailments.
Amid the laughter from inmates and the disbelief from the officers, I was reminded that my journey was less about miraculous cures and more about the connections we formed and the support we offered each other.
Though I couldn’t always fix their problems, I could be a source of light in their lives, just as their friendships illuminated my days. And with each interaction, I learned to embrace the value of small victories—moments of laughter and fleeting snippets of joy that kept the shadows at bay.
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