IMPRISONED

1

        As the bus reaches the top of the hill I get my first look at the prison in the distance. I've been to quite a few prisons over the last couple of years, more than anyone else I know, but I still get that knotted feeling in the pit of my stomach.

        One time, one of my first, I was taken to a maximum security prison in California. Have you heard of Pelican Bay? My stomach got so bad that I threw up over the seat in front of me. I was lucky that no one was sitting there. Of course no one ever sits in front of me. Or behind either. I always travel alone; except for the drivers and they never speak to me. They know what I am, what I'm capable of and it makes 'em nervous.

        The knots in my gut aren't as bad as I thought they'd be. It's probably 'cause I'm used to it now. I've been shipped around so much it all becomes normal. A few years ago, when I realised that I could be doing this for the rest of my life, I decided to keep a list. It's folded up in my shirt pocket and I just keep adding to it.

        I've been to a lot of prisons see, and like with everything in life, there are the stars, the famous ones, the big deals. I don't get a say in what ones I visit so it's all pot luck. But every now and then I get a doozy.

        I've crossed off a lot of the big names; Rikers Island in New York, La Santes, Paris. There was Bang Kwang in Thailand. I was lucky that time. I was leaving just as a riot broke out. And of course there was Carandiru in Brazil. I ticked that off my list about three weeks before they closed it down way back in 2002.

       There's still a fair few to go and I know I might not get all the ones I'm after. I still can't believe I've never been taken to Pentonville. Fingers crossed I guess.

        Today is still a big name I'll be crossing off. HM Prison Tartaralin. She's a legend of the British prison system and if you knew why I was on this bus, you'd wonder why I had not been brought here earlier. This place, this hell hole, growing ever nearer with each passing second, is where the worst evil of my home country gets locked away, hidden from the UK's law abiding citizens. Within the walls of this prison are some truly awful characters. And today I'll be joining them.

        The bus slows down and turns left off the main road. I catch the bus driver taking a quick glance at me. He thinks I don't see but I do. All drivers are the same when I'm on board. Almost everything they know about me is based on rumour. They heard it from a guy whose brother knows someone . . .

        I don't mind. I'm kinda used to it now. It's fun to have people fear you. It only took a few journeys like this to discover that the further back I sat, the more intimidated the driver was. I never go right to the back. I'm not one of those dick head schoolboys who have to sit at the very back as if it's a throne or something. No, I sit about two rows from the back, same side as the driver. And then I watch 'em sweat. It sounds awful and childish but I don't get many freedoms in life so I take pleasure in strange, silly things.

        It's not much longer now and I'll be heading in. Tartaralin prison looks like a lot of British facilities. Built more than a hundred years ago it clings onto and has roots in every decade it's stood. You can see turn of the twentieth century brickwork, large and grey, within the main structure. The central building and main gate look like they were based on a castle. Behind those are the largest buildings within the prison walls. Three massive cell blocks lined up. Dubbed 'The 3 Sisters', they look like post war factories; four walls, tall chimneys and lots of small windows. Most of the rest of the site was worked on during the nineties and is the most modern. This includes the high level maximum security building on the other side of the grounds and it's there I'll be heading today, thrown in with the scum of this fair nation.