{"id":3260,"date":"2015-05-21T08:12:26","date_gmt":"2015-05-21T07:12:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.longkeshinsideout.co.uk\/?p=3260"},"modified":"2015-05-21T08:13:02","modified_gmt":"2015-05-21T07:13:02","slug":"the-visit-primo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.longkeshinsideout.co.uk\/?p=3260","title":{"rendered":"The Visit: Primo"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Visit.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0 I wake at 6am. My husband is sleeping sound. I hear the rain on the window. But I don\u2019t need the blinds up to know its another rainy November day. I always wake up early – a left over from my days as a house maid. I have to be up early to get everything ready especially today. I\u2019m seeing my son up in the Kesh. I go down stairs and get the porridge on. I set the fire for later. Some newspaper, sticks and coal. I put on the single bar electric fire. It does all right but its very hard on the electric. Hubby has the works van home and he will be in extra early to get his days load on and out. But he has an extra delivery today.\u00a0 Sometimes these early dark mornings remind me of that morning 10 years ago when the police came to the door and took my son, our son,\u00a0 away.\u00a0 My beautiful boy becoming a man in that god forsaken place.\u00a0 We didn\u2019t even know he was \u2018involved\u2019.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

I wake in the darkness bar the orange light shining through the wired glass. It is deadly quiet. The tin Nissen huts are freezing. It\u2019s a Thursday in mid-November. In Long Kesh prison Camp. Compound 21. The doors will open at 7.00. Today is different. It\u2019s a visit day. Instead of getting up and doing chores, then studying and some craftwork,\u00a0 \u00a0I will train first ( a 5 mile run) and get ready for the half hour visit with my mother. My weeks allowance. Even though I\u2019m in the 10th<\/sup> year of imprisonment these visits are still special. The only good thing about the 10 year mark is that I\u2019m half way through my stipulated sentence. I\u2019m on the home straight. I may be 27 but I\u2019m still mothers youngest. \u00a0I\u2019m more proud of her each year that passes. I thought she would never get over my arrest and sentence. But each year she seems stronger, more confident. Assertive. She was never like that at home.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u00a0I still have his room ready when, god willing,\u00a0 he will return.\u00a0 Our eldest son is away working abroad which leaves our daughter at home.\u00a0 I check the cardboard box. This is his parcel.\u00a0 Some clothes, washed and ironed. Some food, especially fruit and sweets.\u00a0 Books. A couple of soccer magazines.\u00a0 He loves reading. Still football mad.\u00a0 I recall him singing,\u00a0 \u2018he\u2019s football crazy, he\u2019s football mad\u2019 when he was younger. Before the country went crazy.\u00a0 He was a good boy. Never in trouble until that awful day.\u00a0 He\u2019s my boy and always will be.<\/em><\/p>\n

We only get a Saturday visit per month when I can get to see my father, \u00a0relatives or else friends. I get up in the dark. I have my trainers and shorts ready. \u00a0I do some warm up exercises waiting on the screws to open the hut. We are all counted first thing in case someone went walkies in the middle of the night. We bounce about in silence. Then we out and off. Round and round the wire. 7 laps to the mile. It starting to rain. Its head down and churn out the miles. Once finished it\u2019s into the showers quickly before the warm water runs out. The shower window looks onto the dark grey tarmacked yard. The rain beats against the window. A brave soul walks the wire. Can\u2019t do 5. I walk back round to the middle hut. Its still bloody dark.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I have a part time cleaning job.\u00a0 I will get out early today. The boss knows fine well why I need the time out. The thing is that so many mothers either have , or had, sons\u00a0 in the Crum or the\u00a0 Kesh.\u00a0 Or God forbid,\u00a0 up in Magilligan. I will rush home and my husband, my loving \u00a0husband of over 30 years, will pick me up in his van, at the local shop. I find I can\u2019t carry heavy things, like his parcel the way I used to.\u00a0 Public transport isn\u2019t so great going to the Kesh. We don\u2019t use the buses set up by the organisation.\u00a0 Not because we fell out or anything, it\u2019s just we were always used to doing things for ourselves.\u00a0 On a Saturday,\u00a0 Billy down the street,\u00a0 would lend us his car to go to the Kesh.\u00a0 Like so many people who know where my son is, they never praise or condemn.\u00a0 Life\u2019s tough enough for us all. But many people will stop and ask about him and wish us well. I worry about not getting my lift. What if there\u2019s a breakdown,\u00a0 more searches,\u00a0 an explosion, traffic jams.\u00a0 I cant miss my visit.<\/em><\/p>\n

My cube mate is still sleeping. A regular Rip Van Winkle. \u00a09am and the lights go on and its everybody up. People race for the boiler to get tea, the toaster (an upturned heater!) to get toast. The scrunch of cornflakes. The place buzzes. I don\u2019t complete my chore at 10am today in case my visit is called. I get the good clothes on. Boots gleaming like old Joe\u2019s baldy napper. A visit is the only time I wear the good stuff. Some weeks if I didn\u2019t get a visit I never left the cage. I get a can of coke to bring down. My mother is always happy to have a drink of something once in the box. I kick about the hut aimless. I want to stay clean and ready.<\/p>\n

Soon we are on the M1 and coming of at Sprucefield. I never knew these places but I do now. Up Blaris Road past the cemetery.\u00a0 Past the caravans.\u00a0 The ground is so flat. I overheard a visitor say one day that the Kesh was actually an airfield.\u00a0 Turn right onto the Half town Road and I get him to drop me at the junction with the Bog Road. I walk the last bit. The name of his firm is on the side of the van. And well. We don\u2019t want to tempt fate – do you? The car park is busy today. Some buses are in. From all over.\u00a0 I try and get in- before the queues start. First check in the parcel. And a letter. I cross my fingers. A good screw will not cause too much heartache. There is a checklist of what can and cant get in. A bad screw will go through everything .\u00a0 Pick holes. Refuse stuff\u00a0 that we got in last week. Argue. Lucky today.\u00a0 Got that nice country man.<\/em><\/p>\n

A screw will come to the small wooden nut at the compound gate. He shouts in to one of our lads who goes looking for that person. Psycho gullers down the hut. With a voice like that my mum probably heard him. I grab my coat and coke. I walk over to the gate and there are 2 others called at the same time. We walk through one gate getting frisked. Then through another gate and out to the waiting mini bus. We have a one screw per prisoner ratio here. And each of us has a security book which follows us once we\u2019re out of the cage. The windows are boarded up in the bus. But we know from years in here were we are going. \u00a0The screws chat to each other. The newer ones are nervous being locked in here with us. We have absolutely no intention of getting into them or assaulting them. Our visitors are more important than that.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0Then I bring the visiting pass to the funny little hut with the small window.\u00a0 The guy nods me through. I\u2019m in a large room with lots of cartoons painted on the walls. There are loads of plastic seats. There are 6 search boxes. I\u2019m called forward by my son\u2019s name. I go in and leave down my handbag. Take of my coat and cardigan. There are 2 female screws. I have my boots on due to the cold weather and they ask for me to take of the right one. They are OK. But there are some right bitches here. I cried the first time they upset me. I don\u2019t cry now. I give them a piece of my mind.\u00a0 These two are decent. Its a quick frisk. But they don\u2019t talk. Ones outside can hear what you say.\u00a0 They smile as they hand my coat back.\u00a0 I smile back.\u00a0 I\u2019m in another large room. A\u00a0 Portacabin. I wait until a mini bus comes. My sons name is called and I\u2019m up and away. Take my pass. The bus is cramped and noisy depending on who\u2019s there. You can feel the excitement. The young girl seeing her boyfriend. Mothers visiting sons. Wives visiting husbands. Some young fellows up seeing their mate.\u00a0 Finally we are out of the bus and through a turnstile to yet another Portacabin. But this is the visiting block. I hand in my pass and am told \u2018box 7\u2019. I walk down. I have got to know all these boxes over the years.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

We get to the visit complex. The usual high barbed wire, corrugated iron sheets. Rusting. Old portacabin style rooms. Put up on the stilts so we can\u2019t tunnel out inside the 30 minutes we have which is under constant watch. We go in the search box one at a time. A heavy frisk. Examination of anything we have. Into the next box room and await the others while they are searched.\u00a0 \u00a0Next its box number 7. We walk up a corridor.\u00a0 The visit box is about 8 feet by 6 feet with 4 plastic chairs and a wooden table. Screwed to the wall. Not a lot of room. There are no windows. We wait on our visitors coming in. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The closed door opens and there is my mother. I am so happy to see her. A hug and a peck on the cheek. For heaven\u2019s sakes mum, I\u2019m 27. She tuts me away, smiling. We sit down beside each other. I wait for the 20 questions routine. \u201cAre you Ok, are you eating sleeping, singing, dancing, etc, etc.\u201d\u00a0 Yes, yes, yes,\u00a0 I\u2019m OK. I don\u2019t tell her lies but maybe I give the truth a slant.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I open the door and my son is standing waiting on me. I grab him and peck on the cheek. He says he hates it but he\u2019s as glad as me. He looks well. He has got so broad. He tells me he trains in the gym, likes running and weightlifting.\u00a0 We sit down beside each other. I\u2019m excited and sad at the same time. My son, my flesh and blood, wasting the best years of his life in here.\u00a0 But having done such a terrible thing. Politics –troubles or whatever, he shouldn\u2019t have done it. I have so much to say and ask.\u00a0 He sits looking at me. I know he\u2019s thinking \u2018here she goes again\u2019. But he\u2019s smiling and that means the world to me. I say about all the family and yes, we still miss him. I don\u2019t mention getting out or reviews or anything. That has started rows before and I don\u2019t want that in these precious 30 minutes. I don\u2019t tell him any lies but I don\u2019t tell him the whole truth.\u00a0 Got to reassure him\u00a0.<\/em><\/p>\n

Then it\u2019s into family news. Who\u2019s sick and who\u2019s asking for me. In terms of the neighbours its, \u00a0who\u2019s doing what, to whom and why.\u00a0 My mum explains what she has left in the weekly parcel. We are Special Category Status men. We wear our own clothes, get parcels, and are grouped by our paramilitary allegiance. People come and go along the corridor as some come in for a visit and some have just finished. Some days a friend will pop his head and greets my mother. Some banter and my mother is happy. \u00a0I keep the smile on and reassure her that Im OK.Sometimes there\u2019s a little tension as when bad \/tragic\/ news is passed on to a prisoner. Got to be honest and say that some decent screws read the signs and give a little privacy by moving sideways if a family is discussing the loss of a relative. We don\u2019t get compassionate parole.\u00a0 Remember the day well that my father came in and his face said everything. I knew my granny (his mother) was unwell. I half lived with her when younger. She was the smartest, shrewdest, \u00a0caring \u00a0most lovely woman I knew. She had died in hospital. I had no chance of ever seeing her again and couldn\u2019t go to the funeral. A pain of imprisonment. I had to wait until lights went out that night before I could cry. Silently.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The 5 minute knock. God, \u00a0it goes so quick. I hurry and say I got this letter. Have left in money, any washing he wants done? Any messages for Dad? I\u2019ll be up next week same day and time. Fingers crossed. One last hug.\u00a0 Then I have to walk out. The worst part. I immediately feel down. I\u2019m walking away from my child. My grown up child. How much longer? And yet, while hes been gone for so long I feel we are closer than ever we were<\/em><\/p>\n

Soon, so soon the screw knocks the door. \u20185 Minutes\u2019.\u00a0 The fastest half hour of the week. Many of us have said \u2018pity the year couldn\u2019t go that fast\u2019.\u00a0 Then it\u2019s a rush of things that we should have said earlier. Next week\u2019s pass and who is coming up.\u00a0 Now there\u2019s a change in mood. For that short while we are happy but now the reality kicks back in. The bubble is burst.\u00a0 Im staying here. Mum is going home. A pang of sadness. How many more visits? How many years?\u00a0\u00a0 I see her out the door. Then it\u2019s back to the search box accompanied by my own private screw. Back on the minibus and that short, but slow, trip back to my temporary place of residence. This will never be home. I chat to the other two and swop stories of what has been happening in the real world.\u00a0 We jump out at the compound gate. It\u2019s still flipping raining. Give us a break. We run over to the huts and get out of our good clothes. That\u2019s it for another week. Back to whatever routine we have. Life in the hut carries on. Some play cards. Some are hand crafting leather. I have some studying to do and another essay to get ready.<\/p>\n

We repeat the process on the way out. Through a turnstile, into the bus out of the bus, in rooms, out of rooms,\u00a0 through the huge steel gates. Walls topped by barbed wire.\u00a0 Its cold, dark and wet. I wonder should I leave him in more thermal stuff? Then I get out to the car park. At last! I turn up the Bog Road to walk out to the Moira road. To get the Ulsterbus back to Belfast. Hubby can\u2019t wait on me but it\u2019s a short walk but many days I am soaking on the bus. The bus journey gives me time to think about happier days and the children growing up. The trips to Bangor and Portrush. The bumps and cuts that got healed by a mothers tender kiss. \u00a0But I have to think about going to the doctors about this lump I have. Im getting a wee bit more short of breath. He\u2019s always telling me off about my smoking. My only pleasure, I have I tell him. One day a nice couple offer me a lift out to the bus stop in their car. I know their son is a republican lifer. A Provo. They know fine well my son is a loyalist lifer. We chat on the way out. They say they don\u2019t agree with what their son done but\u00a0 just want him home. \u2018He\u2019s their flesh and blood\u2019 and they cant desert him. I say I\u2019m the same. Despite my protests they drop me in Belfast well out of their way. I say a wee prayer for them later.<\/em><\/p>\n

First of all – a cup of tea. \u00a0Later I will get my parcel and a letter that my mother left in. \u00a0I never wrote a letter in life before prison now I write all the time. They are a highlight of the week. I keep them all. I meet up with my friend and impart the latest news from the homeland. We are locked up at 9 and given the usual head count. Its my lucky day. There football on the box tonight. That will break the night up. My dear old mum has left in some paperbacks. That\u2019s me happy. Get into bed early and escape with Leon Uris or whoever. But I think of her and dad at home. What are they doing? How are they coping? I worry about my da more. Just a gut feeling. Lights out at 12. We have small individual reading lights but I turn in. I lie in the bed thinking about the day. The orange light comes in through the wired window. I quickly drift off.<\/p>\n

\u00a0I get back to our home. A two up two down which we are trying to buy outright. I never tell him about the price of things now and yes we do struggle with money. Never told him about the row between his Dad and me about money and rushing here and there and so on. We nearly parted that night. But we\u2019re over it now. I get in and light the fire. Get the dinner going. And do a bit of cleaning. The washing can wait \u2018til later.\u00a0 Before bed hubby and me have a chat. I wonder what my son is doing now. At least I know he\u2019s safe in there. Not out running these streets. We go to bed. I am so tired. I pull the blinds down.\u00a0 I toss and turn as I have a slight pain in my chest. But I\u2019ll not bother anyone with that. Just indigestion I guess.\u00a0 6 o clock will come early enough. Eventually I drift off to sleep to the sound of rain on the window.<\/em><\/p>\n

Primo.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"Share\"\/<\/a>