I firmly believed that Reiki worked in many ways, particularly in helping set your negative thoughts free. With the world around us feeling increasingly chaotic—humanity seemingly going down the pan—its healing properties felt more relevant than ever. I embraced the idea that healing could transcend physical ailments, offering a pathway to mental clarity and emotional release.
However, the optimism I tried to cultivate was soon overshadowed by another heavy blow: I owed £550,000 to Customs. It was a staggering amount, but better than the £1.5 million they initially claimed. Still, without a penny to my name, the burden felt like a weight too heavy to bear. I was living hand to mouth, relying on small favours from friends to scrape by.
As I faced the reality of the situation, I stuck to my story with unwavering resolve. “I spent it all on gambling, women, and drugs,” I repeated like a mantra. Maybe if I owned it, it would lessen the burden of guilt that sat on my shoulders.
But as September 2012 rolled around, the day I had long anticipated finally arrived—my release date! Excitement surged within me. I blasted The Final Countdown at 7 a.m., the upbeat song ringing through the halls like a triumphant battle cry. The annoyance on my fellow inmates’ faces was evident, but I couldn’t care less. “I’m free!” I shouted, revealing in the thrill of my impending liberty.
As I gathered my belongings, I bid farewell to those who had become part of my journey during my time inside. Shayne and Robbie l left for another prison a few months ago, (we are still good friends today) It was better for me at the time to stay here. I said goodbye to my room after all it was a part of my life. The bonds we formed in those harsh surroundings would not easily fade.
As I walked through the reception I was greeted by the desk officer. I signed some paperwork and he said ti me that I would be back here soon. Stupid bastard I thought. When I walked out of the prison gates, sunlight flooded my senses, warmth enveloping me like a long-lost friend. This was what freedom felt like—a fresh start, I am honestly on ground zero I have nothing but a chance to reclaim my life. However, lingering behind were the shadows of responsibility and the spectre of the debt that still hung over me like a dark cloud.
But for that moment, I was determined to embrace the joy of being back in the world, leaving the confines of my past behind me. With a pocket full of memories and connections, I was ready to forge ahead, ready to face whatever the world might throw my way.
Now, I was onto a new chapter in my life, and I often found myself reflecting on how it all worked out. How did I survive the looming debt, the past, and the weight of my choices? My story continues, filled with questions and uncertainties, just like the world around us today.
“Wake up and smell the roses,” I often reminded myself, recognising that even amidst the chaos, there is always hope. Life, with all its twists and turns, had repeatedly shown me that resilience is born in the darkest moments. Just like when I found solace in the quiet corners of prison, I knew that hope could flourish in even the most unexpected places.
As I stepped into this new chapter, I was ready to embrace whatever challenges lay ahead. Every experience, every lesson learned, shaped me into who I was becoming—a person determined to rise above the past and create a brighter future.
I’d almost forgotten, but it was undoubtedly one of the most significant nights of my life in prison—a night that would remain etched in my memory forever. It was New Year’s Eve; the atmosphere felt deceptively calm, but that would soon change in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
We were jolted awake in the dead of night, confusion washing over us as we heard the distant sound of commotion. When I glanced out the window, I was greeted by an alarming sight: cars were set on fire just outside, flames licking the night sky. These weren’t just any cars; they were the staff cars, a blatant act of rebellion having unfolded in our very midst.
“What the fuck is going on?” I whispered to no one in particular, shock coursing through my veins as the reality settled in. It seemed like all hell was breaking loose.
The commotion continued outside, and an unsettling realisation hit me: most of those involved were young black men, while the white inmates—some of whom I referred to as "wiggers," a term for those who wanted to imitate their style—followed their lead without hesitation. It was a surreal dynamic I couldn't quite wrap my head around, witnessing how quickly chaos could spread.
As the uproar escalated, most of Wing A was suddenly awake. An officer shouted to us to remain in our cells, but it was clear that containment was slipping through their fingers. With adrenaline pumping, we all crept outside our doors to watch the spectacle unfold.
What we witnessed was nothing short of a war; shouting and laughter mingled with the crackling of flames as the fires blazed brightly in the night. The chaos felt intoxicating, a wild energy that crackled in the air. But amidst it all, I knew enough to keep my head down.
I called out to one of the guys, “Where’s Shayne?” To my disbelief, he was still asleep in his cell, oblivious to the bedlam outside. We had to shake him awake, a moment that felt absurd as the world around us erupted in anarchy.
As we all stood there, utterly transfixed, with cups of tea and biscuits in hand, we watched the mayhem unfold. It was a heavy irony as we enjoyed our makeshift comfort while chaos reigned. “Look at these idiots ruining their lives even more,” I muttered, shaking my head. It was hard to feel pity, watching how the events spiralled out of control.
While others were eager to throw themselves into the mix of chaos, we understood one critical truth: we needed to protect our wing. Our focus was on maintaining order within our little world. It was about survival—this was not our fight, and we knew that getting involved could lead to dire consequences for us.
As the night wore on, the situation continued to evolve, chaos echoing against the prison walls. This was the primal essence of our existence, a reminder of how quickly everything could disintegrate. And although I felt the thrill of the rebellion raging outside, I chose to stay grounded, aware that I had to forge my own path even amid the flames.
Things were getting serious, and it became increasingly clear that the chaos unfolding outside would have a profound effect on our well-being. The prison was in disarray; they had burned down the post office and gym, flames licking close enough that we could feel the heat radiating toward our area. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were teetering on the brink of disaster.
As the clock edged closer to 3 a.m., the press arrived, lights flashing, and helicopters hovered above, capturing the madness for the evening news. I felt a strange sense of relief that I wasn’t living in those billets; being implicated in the chaos would have added another layer of nightmare to my already tumultuous experience.
As the night wore on, I decided I’d had enough. “I’m going to bed. Wake me up if anything happens,” I told my friends, fatigue quickly taking over my senses. The pandemonium outside echoed through the prison walls, but I sought the comfort of oblivion amid the confusion.
Suddenly, the sound of police vans filled the air, announcing the arrival of the military police. When they stormed into the prison, I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—it looked almost like a scene from a comedy sketch. “What are they doing? The Keystone Cops?” I joked to my fellow inmates, feeling the tension break momentarily with a laugh.
Despite the humour, the situation was dire. The military police moved with an impressive urgency, and eventually, they managed to calm the firestorm that had erupted among the inmates. The adrenaline from the chaos wore off, and many of the troublemakers—exhausted from their antics—began to surrender, realising the futility of their rebellion.
One by one, they were rounded up, and I silently thanked whatever forces had intervened to restore some semblance of order. As exhaustion began to creep back in, I felt a sense of cautious relief settle over our wing. The fires outside had been contained, but the events of the night would surely linger in everyone’s minds.
As I lay in my cell, I reflected on the night’s chaos and how quickly everything could spiral out of control. But with each passing day, I learned to navigate this unpredictable environment. Though the prison was fraught with challenges, I held on to the hope that the experiences I gathered during this time would ultimately shape a brighter future.
As morning broke and the daylight spilled into the prison yard, we were put on lock down until further notice. No one was allowed to move around, and the uncertainty hung in the air like a thick fog. Those of us in A Wing, the long-timers, were labelled as sensible inmates by the guards, and I felt a strange sense of pride in that.
The governor even praised us for how we had protected the main building. I couldn’t help but think, “Yes, we did. Because those fuckers would have burned it down.” While chaos reigned just beyond our doors, we had maintained some semblance of order, isolating ourselves from the madness that had erupted the previous night.
In this strange twist of fate, it turned out we were safe where we were—not being shipped out to deal with the mess left behind. We kept our heads down, even as the buzz of gossip swirled around us, focusing on the aftermath of the night’s events.
The main culprits—the ones who had sparked the uprising—faced serious consequences, with sentences of up to eight years for arson. I couldn’t believe it. “Bloody idiots,” I thought, shaking my head. They had made their own path, and now they would have to bear the weight of their choices.
While I sat there, reflecting on the strange dynamics in the prison, I found a sense of calm. In a way, the events of the previous night had reinforced the bonds among those of us who had been here for a while. We were navigating this turbulent environment together, learning to read the mood of the place and supporting each other through the uncertainties.
Day by day in lock down, I focused on maintaining my routine, continuing my Reiki sessions, and nurturing the friendships I had built. I realised I needed to protect my mental state, especially after the chaos of the night before. With Catherine and the outside world feeling so far away, my days were now centred around these walls and the people within them.
“We’ll get through this,” I told my friends during one of our discussions. And with the rising sun filtering through the windows, casting light into our corner of misery, I hoped that we could reclaim some peace in this unpredictable existence
Prison gradually returned to a semblance of order; you could say that a makeshift post office was established to handle correspondence. It functioned as the main communication hub for goods and money sent in for our canteen. I felt lucky not to have lost any letters in the chaos; my connections to the outside world remained intact.
Despite life in prison feeling restrictive, I had already shed three stone. The necessary adjustments to my diet and limited access to food were forcing my body into a reset—a strange blessing hidden in the confines of this place. I imagined leaving this hole with a cleaner body, ready to tackle whatever awaited me beyond the walls.
One inmate I grew particularly close to was a lifer named Mark. He was about 56 and had become quite the fixture in the prison’s daily routines. He did my washing and ironing with care, a mundane task that felt oddly comforting amidst the chaos. But there was more to Mark than met the eye; he was a killer, having taken the life of his son. Despite that grim past, he possessed a quiet dignity that had garnered respect among fellow inmates.
The day finally came when Mark received a few days of home leave, a chance to prepare for his eventual release. I hoped that he could navigate this leap into the world outside, where he would have to adjust to everything that had changed in over 30 years.
I went to collect my clothes one day, only to realise that he had never returned from his leave. The news hit me hard: he had been re-arrested and given another two years. “How about that?” I thought, the weight of disappointment settling in my stomach. He had seemed to thrive behind those walls, and now he would have to face the cruel reality of a second chance wasted.
Prison had become his life, a complex existence woven into the bars and routines, and now it would reclaim him. I never saw him again after that day, and the loss left a hollow ache within me. His story served as a solemn reminder of how fragile the threads of freedom are, easily unravelled by choices made in fleeting moments.
As I processed the bittersweet twist of fate, I felt a growing determination within me. I knew I had to stay the course, keep moving forward, and focus on what I could control. Each day brought its own challenges, and while I would miss the sense of connection I had made with Mark, his story flickered in my mind—fuelling the fire in my gut to carve out a different destiny than he had.
As the world outside continued turning, I resolved to redefine my life when the time came, vowing to rise above the shadows that threatened to consume me.
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