Category Archives: prison life

Made for Life.

The room is square and stuffy. The paint threatens to fall in big powdery blue flakes. The lino floor is scrubbed clean but still exudes a dirty look.  There are no windows. Only one steel door secured from the outside. There are 10 of us here.  There is a strange mix of despair and fanatical hope.  Me, I am resigned to my fate. Perversely we are all dressed well.  I wear a tie for the first time in years.  At least if Im going to be hammered I’ll look well.  My emotions flip flop. I don’t care, then I really do care. But I already know what is going to happen. A deal has been arranged. Plead guilty and you’ll get of lightly. Just ’ life’ my solicitor said. Sounds easy.  You wait your remand time until this day. Glad to get it over with yet afraid to get it over with.  The death of my free life. But then again I did kill someone, in fact a few people.  I joined the organisation to be a soldier.  To fight, kill and die if need be. It has led me here Court Number 1, Crumlin Road Courthouse.  Or Belfast City Commission if you want to be picky. People walk in and out of the room.  One man comes back from the reserve court crying. The man (I don’t know him) has got 2 years prison and he’s gurning.  I feel like going over and slapping him.  But he’s a crim.  Some of my friends have got 35 years minimum. Different standard.  Different people. I am one of the lucky ones. I have special category status. Many do not. All the talk at the minute is about the H-Blocks and protests. I will return to the cages in the Kesh. To talk and walk and study.

This is a Diplock court. Only one judge.  No jury.  Most times no evidence at all except a confession.  Freely given of course, not beaten or threatened out of people you understand.  I wonder at the logic of using a criminal system to deal with a political problem.

Soon it’s my turn. The screw barks out my name.  I exit the door and am surrounded by screws who will walk me up the stairs to the dock.  I enter into the bright light which hurts my eyes.  The colours are bright. Anything is bright after a while in ‘A’ wing of the Crum.  I feel the tension in the screws that stand beside me. And there he is. Sitting on his own, right in front of me. I’m not even told his name. The blood red robes give him away.  He does look silly.  But I think, this is what I am defending.  The court is huge. There loads of other people but it still feels empty. Barristers and hangers on.  Peelers.  The press.  No doubt the ‘Tele man’. More news to pass on. I have asked my family not to attend. Saves the pain on them and on me.  This is the loneliest place in the world. The people on my right I don’t recognise. Victims’ families? There is a curious expression on their faces.  Not hate nor hurt.  I did not know any of my victims nor do I know these people. I do feel sorry for their pain and misery. A loved one missing. I felt that way myself one time.  I expect some emotion, some outburst. But there is none.  I don’t want to stare. I catch one woman’s eye. It plain to see that she has been crying.

The clerk reads out the charges. There is a lot and it takes  a while.  At one point she takes a sneaky look at me.  ‘How do you plead’? I hear the word come out. It’s me but sounds like someone else.  ‘Guilty’.  The judge is saying something. I can barely hear him.  Can he not bloody speak up?  I lose interest.
I have a mix of feelings. Afraid yet calm. I did not do these things for myself but for my people,  my country.  Hundreds more will stand here like me,  young and idealistic.  Wanting to do their bit. Thousands will travel this path. Some will stay longer than others. I count myself lucky that Im here at all. I got winged by a .38 one night in an accidental discharge. It travelled through my shoulder without doing much damage.  We went to the back street doc who actually done a very good job.  I hurt for a while. Many of us have paid the full price for our beliefs and actions.  I wonder what,    “Dieu et mon droit”   means. Its written on the crest on the wall above his lordship.  God and my right?   It says ‘For God ‘on our badge.  I wonder who will get his backing.

Their voices drift off and I am suddenly back in primary school.  Its only 10 years ago.  Amazing.  I will be 20 years old in 3 days’ time. I’m sitting at my desk in school, looking at the window at the beautiful blue sky. I’m day dreaming of being outside kicking football or playing tig in the street.  I watch the fluffy clouds scud across the sky. I’m an ordinary boy interested in football, cheesers and going round to the sweetie shop.  ‘4 fruit salad for a penny please’.  I remember my Granny’s house. The smell of home baking, of fresh linen and  carbolic soap in the sink. My Granny spoilt all of us rotten. I loved her. What would she think today? I had never dreamed of killing people or belonging to one of the most violent organizations in Europe. But then again I never dreamed of the killing and carnage I would see as a child.  The bombs exploding.  My mother crying in fear.  I was a child but I put my arm round her shoulder. Walking behind a funeral with the anger and the sorrow.  We had played cowboys and Indians. In summer we ran and shot guns and arrows and laughed. We fell to the ground pretending to be dead. But we all got up at the end and went home for supper.  A thought comes to my mind that in my entire family not one person has been in trouble with the law. I’m about to make up for that.  Big time.

I suddenly realise my wigman is saying something. He’s much more clear. He says such nice things about me. This place reminds of a school trip to theatre.  Everyone knows their lines and the story and plot has already been set out. Maybe Dylan was right. We live in a land were justice is a game.  I have missed the first part of the sentencing.   I get snatches of what he’s prattling on about. ‘Shame’, ‘disgraceful’, ‘waste of life’.  I wish I could say ’are you finished yet’. But that’s not part of the script.  20 Years for possession, 20 years for  attempted, 20 years for that. The court is holding its breath.  What do they want from me.  Tears?  Pleading? Outburst?  I say nothing and look straight ahead.

Suddenly the screw pulls my arm.  At last, ‘let’s go joe’. And it’s down the steps. I hear one screw say to another, ‘Life sentence’. Sounds strange. Is that me? And I realise it is now.  Back down to the happy room. Faces look up at me. I feel nothing.  Just get back to the cell. I’m reading a good book at the moment. Wonder how it ends. Wonder how this will end?  Friends ask me what happened and I tell them. The room goes quiet. Another man is taken out. He too will get life.  When it is all over we are handcuffed together and walked back through the tunnel.  Instead of going back to A wing we am taken to another part, a virtual dungeon, to spend the first night.  No longer remand but sentenced. My big day has come and gone. A total anti-climax.  Tomorrow will be the first day of my new life.
The cell is dirty, damp and dark. A single bare bulb hangs from the high ceiling. The puke coloured paint is flaking off. I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling and thinking. Of empty chairs and tearful parents.

A Belfast Boy.

Another little example—if any more are needed–to de-bunk the seemingly widely held pre or mis conception that we Loyalist prisoners passed our time by swallowing steroids and watching pornographic movies.

Studying in the Kesh.

When I went to Compound 21 in 1977 I already had a head start I suppose by being a Full time student at the then Jordanstown Polytechnic undertaking an HND course. However I had already gained 2 A levels at grammar school and 7 O levels. As they were then.

I was surprised when I was in c. 21 of the focus on education.  But as I was somewhat good at art I had a choice to make between art and education It was people like Gusty Spence, David Ervine and Billy Mitchell that directed me towards education as I had a very long sentence and was going to be staying for a while.

This was the first time I had been told of some guy called Descartes I think therefore I am. Well I was thinking these guys had lost the plot. One man was studying philosophy and talking about existentialism. I’d never heard of it never mind what it meant. So my first dive into education was an art class. Pretty simple and a good interest. Because men were already studying the Open University I was pointed in that direction. At this time none of the Republicans were studying full time education through the prison, as it was against their policy. The H Blocks were just coming online with all the subsequent events that would take place there.

 As I wasn’t much into maths or computers I plumped for the Social Sciences Degree which would take in effect some 8 years to complete to an Honours level. However along the way I decided to make as much use of the education as I could. So along the way I gained A levels in Biology and Statistics. I’m not sure how I got the A level Statistics but it is amazing when you have the time and motivation what you can achieve. I gained the O levels in statistics, biology and art. I then also was able to gain qualifications in football coaching, boxing coaching and weightlifting. I had also had my first taste of yoga. I couldn’t stop studying. I undertook Irish history something blatantly missing from my secondary and grammar school education. I completed a short course on the structure of the European Union.

The education gave me a purpose and structure to my day. As well as completing my running, football and weights I was into writing letters,  reading anything (bar romance and westerns)  and watching TV. As the years rolled on and I gained my degree I could go no further so I took what I thought was a logical step and started the next degree. Science this time. However enough time has elapsed and I was seeing the start of the end game. On being released in 1990 I obviously thought I hadn’t enough of the education lark and I enrolled in two courses at Queens. Firstly a small Creative Writers course and then a MSc Course in Computer Science. Since then I have kept studying and have completed Diplomas and Certificates. At the grand age of 57  I hope to complete more education as long as I can.

Primo.

I was only kidding.

 The place is the middle hut of Compound 21 in the Kesh prison. It is 1981. We are 90 odd loyalist paramilitary prisoners.  We have special category status.  We live as prisoners of war.  Each hut has an officer in charge and overall is Gusty. Our OC. It is a life of tedium,  conflict and uncertainty. Studying, the gym, weekly visit, locked up at 9pm, card schools, TV, football and so. Same old pattern every week. Some of us are life sentence prisoners. I am a lifer. We are going nowhere. The long termers have a mix of fixed sentences ranging from 15 to 20 years. They know their release dates. Some are serving short prison sentences like 8 and 10 years.  So anything to relieve the boredom and tension is to be welcomed. The odd ‘stand to’ with the screws. Well nearly every summer something happens. They just can’t do their time the way we can.  The odd prank to get tongues wagging and some poor sod humiliated.  Daily slagging about football,  girlfriends, mates and so on.

One stunt I pulled concerned the old style Belfast Telegraph. Only one copy came in that night and the screw shouted on me from the compound gate to bring it in. Before leaving it out for reading I went to the study hut where my typewriter was. It was an old Remington with black and red  typewriter ribbon and keys that flew up and down as you typed.  The typeface and size just matched in nicely. The Tele usually had, in those days, a blank column- ‘Stop Press’ -on the back page,  bottom right hand column. It usually was filled with details of the latest atrocity in N.Ireland.  It was blank tonight and I proceeded to type that the NIO had granted two thirds remission to all prisoners in NI. (This was the situation in England at that time) Fixed term prisoners in N.I.  had half of their sentence knocked off,  ‘for good behaviour’.

I left the Tele  on a table in the end hut and said nothing.  No one was about. Thank heavens as it turned out. It wasn’t long before the buzz started.  For any lifers this was not relevant or important news so they didn’t join in. However for any fixed term man this was electric news. For some it would mean they effectively had served out their term and could be released in days. For the 20 year men it meant years knocked off their sentence. The place was alive with speculation. People asked for radios to hear what the local stations would say. The 9 o clock news was on every TV to see what commentators would make of this audacious move.  The brass were puzzled as they usually had a sneak warning of important stuff coming back the track.  They had been speculation in the media but nothing serious. But here it was. In black and white. In the papers. And the Belfast Telegraph no less. It had to be true.

Well,  talk about throwing petrol on a fire. Very earnest conversations took place between the short termers as calculations unfolded about possible new release dates. I knew I was in the shit when I heard someone  talking about spending Xmas at home. Whoops.  Some were bursting to get a message to their family as soon as possible.  Someone asked me if I had heard anything about the two thirds being introduced.  ( I had a reputation of being a news junkie)  I said ‘no’.  Which in a way was the truth. I certainly had not heard that the two thirds was coming in. But I had doctored the paper to say that. No one asked had I done this and I didn’t feel like enlightening them just at that time.  I did spend some time thinking I should own up and say it was a prank. And maybe we would all have a good laugh and a chuckle. hmmm. Maybe not.  The local news came and went. Nothing. The morning papers, Newsletter and Daily Mirror came. There was a bloody queue to read those papers. Scoured back to front.  Nothing.

Theories  abounded. Maybe the paper leaked the story but it was so politically sensitive that it is being kept under wraps? Or. Maybe the screws had done this to wind the prisoners up?  The usual nutters muttered about mind games, British intelligence and black operations working on the loyalist prisoners.  As time went on, peace and quiet returned slowly.  I never did own up to any of the fixed term lads. Of all whom were released in due course. Some of them were good friends.  So now, after 30 odd years,  a belated apology to all. Sorry.  I was only kidding.  Better late than never.

Mea Culpa

FLASHBACKS.

The huge metal gate is for vehicle access only. The screws crack if you, a prisoner,  try to walk through the gate when it opens for a prison mini bus. Each gate has a smaller wicket gate for people to go through.  The Kesh, a hard world of barbed wire, walls and gates. The gate is rusting. We don’t see it. Each gate has a screw that opens and shuts as needed. We will spend over a decade and more of our lives behind these metal barriers.  We go through the metal monsters to see our loved ones. To go play football, talk to a solicitor or to go to the hospital.

My first impressions of this world famous gate is that it does not look much like a gate. But a trip to Berlin isn’t complete with a trip to the Brandenburg gate. I get a photograph taken along with many others doing exactly the same.  The Berlin wall is long gone but reminders remain in the city. A concrete wall. A metal gate.  For tourists. It prompts a memory. There are people from everywhere here. Asians, Italians, English, Americans.  It’s a long way from the Kesh to the Brandenburg.

I am in a punishment cell.  Solitary. For refusing to strip on a screws order.  It is a 10 feet by 6 feet concrete box. A living coffin for bad boys. The window is covered over and daylight filters in. the air is fetid and the heat turned up even though it is summer. I ask for the heat to be turned down. ‘We cant do that’,  even know we know they can. It is quiet. The bed is a concrete slab topped by hardwood. The mattress is taken out through the day. There is no chair. No radio. Nothing. I start by doing press ups and sit ups. Then some yoga.  I think back to my days on the farm. My memories secure me. I walk back and forth for hours. I can never look at a zoo animal in the same way again.  The day drags in. Meals come and go. I check for spit in the food. The sunlight is replaced by the lights of the Kesh.  I turn in for a fitful sleep and get another day over. I will be back here.

I have travelled to Knoydart. They call it the last great wilderness in Europe. It is amazing.  It is a three hour drive for me. I canoe along the long loch for easier access.  I have climbed to the top of a mountain and there is nothing but rolling hills.  They go on forever. There are no houses. No pylons. No walls. There are billions of midges. It is a world of purple heather , green ferns and hillside brown. Herds of red deer roam wild. One stag stops to stare at me. The loch below sparkles diamond white in the July sunshine.  A gentle breeze cools me from my exertions. The sky is the brightest blue with wisps of white cloud. It is July. Warm and sunny. To the west is the restless sea and the Atlantic.  North is the highlands of Scotland. This is a place apart. A long way from the Kesh to Knoydart. .

Day after day I walk round the wire wall that hems us in. We jog round the compound. 7 laps to the mile. Some have run marathons here. A lot of laps. In the evening before we are locked up for the night we walk and talk along the wire. It is heavy gauge metal, 10 feet tall topped with razor wire. Wooden posts every 12 feet have small lights that stay on all the time. Behind the wire wall is the concrete wall. Over 20 feet high and covered by the stalags look outs. A film producer could use this as set of a prisoner of war film. If we weren’t here.  Today it is raining. The grey ground merges with the grey wire and wall into a grey expanse of cloud. We are in a grey hell.  There is no colour. Only in our huts is there bright colours. Our identity.  Our resistance to a world devoid of sensation. We have painted our walls ourselves.

I stand in front of the grave. He was my grannies big brother. He died in 1915. His headstone is grey like millions of other Commonwealth war graves here in France.  I have a picture of him on my wall at home.  I look up. It is summer time. It is quiet and beautiful in this small cemetery.  I place our family tribute on his grave. I bought the flowers  in Albert. They are a mix of orange, red and purple.  They look great. Other graves have their small bunches of flowers. There are small plants growing by the graves. Outside the cemetery wall is a sea of red. Poppies are everywhere.  The rolling fields are a mix of green;  some dark, some yellow hued.  They stretch on to the sky topped by a cloudless brilliant blue sky. It is a long way from the Kesh to Albert.

There are over 30 men in the half round Nissan hut. It is home for over a decade of my life. It is warm in the summer and freezing in the winter. There is always life in the hut. You can never escape from the others. In the Kesh you can never be on your own unless you go to solitary punishment. As soon as you wake till you sleep there are people. Lots of people. You share a cube (room),  you train with others, eat with others,  walk and talk with others.  You go to see your family and a screw is in tow at every point. You see the doctor and a screw is there.  The TV is on in the hut, a radio is blaring. Someone wants a record on the old Dansette record player. A group is playing cards and shouting. Someone is telling a joke. The hut is jumping.  It is alive. At night the lights are out. The TV is off. But there are sounds. A man snores. A man grapples with his dreams. Or nightmares.  I hear the pages turning as someone reads the night away.  A tin pressure cooker full of people going nowhere.  You are never alone.

I sit on a cold stone slab. The roof rises way above my head. There is quietness in the vast space. It is summer and the bright light invades the interior.  The building is hundreds of years old and legend has it that St Columba came here to start his church.  Each stone put up by hand. A building that seen past glories, went into decline and was raised again. I am relaxed. There is no one else in the abbey.  It has power in its history and stones. In the distance I faintly hear the birds as they wheel about the graveyard.  I can hear my own breathing. There is peace here. A place on the very edge of Europe.  I am finally on my own. I am happy. It is a long way from the Kesh to Iona.

SONGS THAT MADE LIFE IN THE CAGES EASIER

SULTANS OF SWING

Around mid 1978 we in Compound 21 were in the formative stages of a kind of perestroika—well—at the least the UVF version.  The special category system had been granted nigh on 6 years and the loyalist side of the jail was probably at its fullest.  Apart from 21, 19 and 18 were also in existence to house sentenced prisoners.  A large percentage was life sentence men and there were many serving very long sentences.  We still got the odd trickle of men coming through who had been sentenced after the cut off date of March 1976, but by and large, it was the same old gubs we looked at each day.  The militaristic regime was starting to give way to a more relaxed environment..something welcomed by most..although we still had our inspections and parades, the obligatory lectures and classes had gone.  Education had taken over and by the next year the Open University would see a new dawn in the edification of many of the men.
On the whole the body of prisoners relied heavily on the television..And to a lesser extent the radio..To provide the bulk of the entertainment.  There were those who had their favourites..documentaries..wild life programmes..avid news watchers..those who watched anything..including The Dot…and contrary to popular belief I don’t remember anyone standing for the Queen at the end of the night…..Well…not outside their cubicles anyway.   Football of course was the thing that assured most seats on bums although thinking back now it’s a wonder we were able to differentiate between two teams who looked like they were playing in slightly different shades of grey kits.  Such were the delights of black and white televisions.  Music played a major part in everyday life behind the wire and the whole array could be heard during a 24 hour period.  There were only a few music programmes on TV around this time and of course Top of the Pops would have been the most popular.  Thinking back to those days and to the drivel that adorned the charts I firmly believe that the only motivation for watching TOTP could have been to see Pans people..or perhaps they were Legs and Co by that stage.  For those who had an alternative genre to sugar coated pop there was always The Old Grey and the dulcet tones of Whispering Bob.
In July 1978—in between Argentina winning the World Cup and us preparing..bulling and shining for the 12^th day..a new—short lived programme appeared on ITV.  A late night “progressive and asthetic” show..seen as an alternative to the TOTP generation.  Revolver aired on a Sunday evening and had the comedian Peter Cook as a co-presenter.  Great things were predicted but sadly the plug was pulled after only 8 shows.  During that short run though we were lucky enough to catch acts like Ian Dury…replete with Blockheads…a new and exciting Jam…Elvis Costello….Siouxsie…..Kate Bush and many others who previously we had only caught a glimpse of.  The acerbic Cook may well have been the reason for the brief run as I recall he could be very disparaging towards some of the acts.
In our hut ..the middle one..Messines..there was quite a few of us who considered ourselves to be music aficionados.  We exchanged NME’s and Melody makers and lent each other the new albums..to be played during your allotted time on the record player which sat in the study hut.  If memory serves me the most played albums around July 1978 were Bat out of Hell and Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours which had came out the year before.  Street Legal by Dylan had only came out and it’s fair to say that it became another one that “done the rounds”.
On one of the first shows..it may well have been the first in fact…a dozen of us sitting watching..had our ears well and truly pricked with the introduction of a “new” band.  Dire Straits.  Even the most knowledgeable amongst us drew a blank here, so didn’t know what to expect.  Being late at night the television was turned down to a very low level of volume..to placate those who went to bed early.  Even still, when Mark Knopfler starting picking and strumming his was through Sultans of Swing we collectively knew we were hearing something different…a new rawness..a departure..and something that heralded a vibrant, burgeoning talent.  The lyrics, on first hearing were a divergence from the saccharin sweetness of what was being served up in the Top Forty…after all John Travolta and Olivia Newton John were firmly planted at the top of the pile at this time with Rod Stewart on their coat tails with the Scottish World Cup anthem.  The lyrics delivered in a sexy gravelly tone, were street wise and immediate.  There were instant comparisons to Dylan and other memorable singer songwriters of the time.  Those who weren’t seated with us for Revolver, soon appeared.  The peeked out through their cubicle curtains…they shuffled in behind us clad only in Y Fronts .  Before the song ended most of the guys in the hut had gathered.  Save those who were sleeping or the ones that couldn’t see past Jim Reeves and Charlie Pride.  The rest of Revolver that night was tendered inconsequential and was lost in a babble of approval and a chorus of intent..to buy the album..of the same name..at the earliest opportunity.  Bobby Hat—the hut OC—poked his head out the curtain…not to join in the revelry..but rather to tell us all to “turn that TV and get into bloody bed.
It being a Sunday many of us wouldn’t have visits for 6 or 7 days.  And being a time before mobile phones the done thing was to write a letter to inform your folks to have the album in your next parcel.  This was done as a matter of urgency—many writing letters that night—for fear of being the tube that didn’t get the album.
Frankie C went one better.  He put his name down in the welfare book and got a phone call out to his Mum..who was able to get the album on Monday morning and have it brought up with the papers the same day.  How we were tortured that night..when he refused to let any of us hear it….Get Yer Own!!  One by one as we got our visits and parcels we got the album..LP’s they were called in those days.  And one by one we trooped out to the study hut to take our turn on the ancient Danzette…we even carried our own needle too…so we couldn’t accuse the previous participant of gathering a fur coat on the end of the communal needle.  Sultans of Swing was an anthem that summer.  It inspired those hitherto guitar buffs to go back to the drawing board..or in some cases the Bert Weedon manual.  First thing in the mornings the ablutions echoed to the refrains of the chorus..hummed and sang.  Today it is as relevant as ever…at least to me.  It still retains that immediacy that made me shift in my hard plastic sheet all those years ago, and sagely nod my head in recognition of something special.

“They don’t give a damn about any trumpet playing band-
It aint what they call Rock and Roll……..”

Beano

He Was A Friend Of Mine.

Freddie S.

     I remember Freddie standing in the dock of the Crumlin Road number 1 court. There was uproar in the court when the sentences got handed down.  I was with the wives and families of the 6 men as they were given sentences of 7 years,  5 years and other periods of imprisonment. Not one of them had in trouble with the law before the Troubles broke out.

But Freddie and thousands of others felt in these times sometime had to be done. Freddie reacted to his sentence as I would have expected. A wry smile on the face.  Freddie had a face that truly said that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Having met thousands of prisoners during my stays in the Crum and the Kesh Freddie was one of those that always puzzled me. The young turks could easily use violence when needed but others like Freddie had a quietness and gentleness that belied his belief and determination.

Freddie was unassuming but he was easily one of the best artists I have ever seen at work.  He was a natural. You could ask Freddie to draw something and he would do it from memory in front of while you watched. Many of the wall paintings you see will see in associated photographs of the Kesh compounds will have been done by Freddie.  He also had a wonderful dry sense of humour. One time I had seen him before his health went down and we had the usual banter. ‘You’re looking well’ I says to him. ‘What’s your secret?’  “Breathing”, he says back with a smile. He would often walk past my father’s house and I would go out and chat. But the years rolled on and the Donegall Road got longer and longer for him to walk. I seen less of Freddie.

Freddie was one of the Border 6. A group of volunteers caught by the army in South Armagh.  Sadly 2 of the other South Belfast men have already gone. The Kesh had its fair share of characters but Freddie along with Tommy and Billy made for fun in the face of adversity.  They were 3 characters all right.  C Wing in 1974 was loyalist and it was a madhouse. A Belfast version of ‘Stir Crazy’ with more zany characters threw in.

One story about Freddie which borders on the unbelievable concerned his last day in Compound 21. A release date was eagerly awaited but always seemed to take ages to arrive. In the meantime men would give as much stuff as possible to those remaining.  I recall seeing Freddie sitting on his bed waiting for the bus to freedom. His room was bare. All his possession in a single brown bag. All the goodbyes were said and promises of writing letters made. Later I was in his hut and he was still there. He had to return from the gate as his release date was a day later. As good friends we done what good friends do. And slagged him all day. Finally he got away with that wee smile on his face. It would be over 10 years before I would see Freddie again.  No funeral is a nice occasion but it was good to see friends young and old behind his coffin.  It is nearly 40 years since I stood and watched Freddie in the Number 1 court.

Jeff.

Xmas Day in the Middle Hut.

A feature of the Special Category huts of the Long Kesh was that the tables for eating sat in the middle of the hut. Cubes or rooms set off this central area. Only once a year would everyone in the hut, all 32 of us, come together for  joint meal. This was Xmas day.  Most people ate at 5ish but today the meal was sent up at around 1pm. Generally it was a good time of the year but one overshadowed by the knowledge that your family had that empty chair for another year. However as the turkey was eaten and the banter started there was one little bit of compound culture that was still to come at the end of the meal.

It was accepted by all that on this day, and only this day, a game of cards would be played and the loser would wash ALL the dishes associated with the meal. At this time there were 3 huts. The end hut, like ours, had over 30 men. The half hut had about 12 men. As soon as the meal was over the pile of dishes would be cleared to one end of the row of tables. One deck of cards would be produced. The highest ‘hand’ would be out. And the cards would be dealt again round the table. For those good at maths this meant a few people got 2 cards while some only got one card. So to get a pair, or Ace, King etc. would pretty much see you out and safe.

At this point I start to worry. I never have been able to play cards right.  But the odds are with me. Surely in 30 hands of cards I will get a good enough hand to get out? There is genuine excitement around the table. My first few hands are terrible. Those who play cards use what I can only describe as a gambling term, namely crap.  Various people have pairs and are soon out. When the number of men reduces to 26 then we get 2 cards each from the pack.  Someone shows a pair of Jacks with a smug smile. Until someone waits his turn and shows a pair of Kings. I’m still OK until the banter starts about who is the favourite.  Over the racket I hear my name bandied about as the ‘bookies’ favourite to be making the long walk.

There are no washing up facilities in each hut. One wash hand basin and two toilets accommodate 32 men (and more at times) all though the night. The toilet and shower block is at the end of the compound. It has 2 large Belfast jaw boxes and 8 normal sized washing sinks. However, the problem is not to be carrying over 200 items of various plates, bowls, cutlery, etc. round to the sink. The problem is hot water.  There is one large tank of water. Once the tank  is empty it takes ages for it to reheat. And when men are constantly trying to wash, shower, etc. it can take all day. So speed is of the essence to get in while the water is hot.

My luck is not in.  I cannot get a pair and this is taking for ages.  Only for bad luck I’ve have no luck at all. At this point a person gets to know his real friends. They are the ones giving me the most grief and slagging. One offers to go round and get me a good fresh scouring pad because he says, ” I’ll need it”. There are 17 of us left, that means 3 cards each. Maybe now I will get a decent pair. I get a 3 of clubs, 2 diamonds and 4 of spades. I hate the guy who pulls out 3 Queens. Is this fixed? We keep going. It is like a knockout football completion. The closer it gets to the final the more pressure there is. The deal goes from person to person around the table so when I deal I know I’m not cheating but I deal myself an even crappier hand.  Im hoping against hope here but it’s not working.  There now is 13 of us left at the table. Four cards each. Its getting more like a proper card game. I still haven’t  a pair. Maybe I should just get up now. More people from the other huts come in, just for the laugh, to see what sucker is sweating. My friends are very supportive now. One drapes a drying cloth around my shoulders just in case I need it.

Down to 10 people and 5 cards each. Surely this time?  If there were prizes for terrible hands I would be unbeatable.   There are 5 of us left. Funny enough I recognise that each of us would not be the regular card players of the hut.  By now we get 5 cards each and get 3 more cards if we require. If you show an Ace you can get 4 new cards. But I just knew I would, on the law of probability,  get a good hand. I have 2 tens and an Ace. I ask for 2 cards and get a ten and an ace. I feel the relief spreading over me. I wait my turn to show.  I try to keep a poker face but someone asks me why Im grinning. I throw in my ‘house’. The guy opposite throws in his straight flush.  Just to add to the atmosphere I can hear the rain bouncing off the tin roof.  Everyone not playing is laughing. Suddenly it is the final. Myself and Bastardface (not his real name). Half the hut is with me, half are backing him. However I am a bit unclear at present if my friends want me to lose or to win. I get a flash back to watching Cool Hand Luke when he was trying to eat all the eggs and the crowd where getting in a minor frenzy.  This crowd just need to see a sucker (aka loser) to do the long walk. (While also carrying loads of dirty dishes). The absolute worst part of this is that, if you lose, it is a full year before someone else takes on this mantle. No one, as far as I know, has lost two years in a row.

It is a straight contest. One hand. Losing hand will be doing the dishes.  The only comfort I can take is that my discomfort is giving so much pleasure to so many on this special day. I am dealt a very strong hand. Like hell I was.  I have to take in 3 cards. Usually a sign of a weak hand. He takes in 3 cards. Some hope still flickers.  I look at my cards. I have the ace of Hearts and that is it. And there is no bluffing here.  We have to show our hands. I do what a mature person should do. I lie. Two aces, I say. He says, ‘Let’s see’.  I throw the hand in. He lets out a big whoop and throws in two pairs. The hut erupts into one loud roar.  The crowd then rapidly disappears to relax, watch TV or whatever.  A good friend brings more good cheer by saying I should take my time. The water is already freezing.  I start ferrying all the dirty dishes round to the toilet block.  There is one guy there finishing the ‘end hut’  dishes.  ‘You caught too’ he says ? I want to say ‘No, Im doing this for fun’. Instead I say, ’ Yeah’.  There is a hot water boiler in each hut. I get a bucket and take some boiling water round to the wash block. At least I can start until the water heats up again. It is a long afternoon.

My mind strays to next year as I scrub the grease from the plastic plates. If I was on the boards i.e the punishment cell,  I wouldn’t have to clean one plate. Hmmm.

The Leaving.

It is June 1988. A little part of prison history is taking place. Set inside the history of the troubles this event does not rank high. However we are the remnant of the men who conducted the violence of the early 1970s.

I am special category prisoner, a lifer who has served most of my time in Compound or Cage 21 of the Long Kesh prison camp. But today we are leaving that all behind.  We remaining lifers are going to H 2, across the wall. We have packed all our stuff in boxes that have been sent on ahead.  We are taken, a small group at a time, in the prison mini bus. The windows are covered over ‘for security reasons’. There are many mixed feelings.  Firstly there is fear.  We are placing ourselves in the hands of a prison regime that for years was hostile, vindictive and political in it treatment of us. We are now trusting them to honour an under the table deal that sees us go to a H Block in order to end the compound system and the reward is that we will get out sooner.

Another feeling is excitement. We are going somewhere new. Over the last decade we have walked every square inch of this space. We watched summers come and go, endured the winters which painted the wire white with hoar frost.  The rains that battered the round tin roofs. We seen 1000 sunrises and sunsets. And on a grey overcast day with the greys of concrete walls we were like in one giant grey foreboding box. This move is a step along the life sentence.

Another feeling in this strange mix, and one that puzzles me,  is one of sadness. How can I be sad to see the end of this? My dream was to get out of it? But this place has seen a full decade of my life. I came in as a teenager and now I’m leaving as a thirty something. I suppose its the memoires. God knows there was some dark times.  Days of fear. Fights, disputes. A furious rage as maturity takes hold and you know what you are missing. But it is the memories, the good ones, that outsiders won’t understand. We had good times. We had to make the best of our situation. And indeed there where many more good men here than bad. There was the joker s, the fools, the wise, the deep, the psychos and the rest. This is where you find true friends. I recall on night crying with laughter at the antics of some of men in the hut. Wee H from the Bay playing the waw waws. A from of music that will never reach the charts(I hope).  But this still is a hard place. Kindness and softness  aren’t in abundance here but they exist between friends. We were a small community bounded by our past deeds and beliefs. Our common purpose.  A meaning that will survive these walls.

During our time here, and through all our protests,  we seen the hunger strike pass by. Only 500 yards over a wall but a million miles from us. We watched and cheered in ‘85 as Mc Guigan took a world title. We watched the space shuttle burn and crash. We spent a Saturday watching Live Aid, first in London then New York. A great day. We had raised money for the charity by donating money from handicrafts.  We enjoyed the Boys from the Blackstuff. We watched in with disbelief as Stoner done his thing. Feeling and anger was stirred as we watched 2 men, 2 soldiers, being slaughtered. Supergrasses trials came and went. The screws strike. Stand offs with the screws. An attempted escape ending in death.  The Cup finals and Matches of the day.  Men released never to return.

I got a Degree and also learned how to fight properly. Met up with an American Kennedy and men from the International Red Cross. We learned about ourselves and the ‘other side’. The endless drilling now a memory. How many wallets and purses  where produced in those years? All the visits from family and friends. The many times we cleaned those toilets, the study hut, the canteen and our cubes. Painting the huts.  All those searches. The Christmases. Snowball fights and pushing weights. A unique jumble of memories. I leave this all behind.  I am sad. I am happy.  The mini bus door shuts. I will never be back here.

Primo.

This remarkable excerpt from a daily newspaper dates back almost 40 years.  The original cutting was kept as part of a scrap book which had a starting date of October 1976 and was the property of a UVF Life Sentence prisoner who at that particular time was incarcerated in Compound 19.
It clearly shows that even in those darkest of days that many of the so-called protagonists were thinking of a positive way forward.  As was aptly illustrated in Tony Novosel’s recent book–The Frustrated Promise of Political Loyalism–loyalists-in the shape of the UVF/RHC were quite prepared to take chances for peace.
It is through articles such as this that people of today can look back and learn about the attitudes of ex combatants.  It will also illustrate in a very clear way that many of these far sighted initiatives were condemned to the dustbin by those who are now firmly esconced in power–the same people who were quite prepared for the “commoners” to continue fighting until their own selfish dreams were fulfilled.