Number One:
Lived here all my life and gonna be here for rest of it. What to do with myself? All those millions of minutes to fill. I know, take a law degree. Seemed like a good idea. I does it for several years. Gets fully qualified. Seriously knows my stuff. I can advise people around me and gets popular as a person because of it. Advises screws when their mortgage company start trying to take the piss. Makes sense. But how to actually make a living from it? Not allowed to make a living. Never getting let out. Knew how to jemmy a car door as a toddler. Took it from there. Record longer than long arm of the. And long leg. And the Empire State Building.
I know. Offer not only to defend people who need defending. Offer service as a person to blame when others need to shift blame to get off. Yeh, charge them for taking the rap on their behalf. Plead Guilty. On Oath. Money sent to Swiss Bank account. Can’t spend it but that don’t matter. Can’t prove that I was anywhere but inside but that don’t matter either. Can still live life vicariously through contacts on the out. And those that I get to know in here who are let out. They will be able to act on my behalf. Kushdee. Gives me a reason to carry on living. And wanting to live anyways. All I ever wanted to do was live.
Number Two:
They said that knowing that I was a sex offender was actually a good thing. Meant they knew what they were dealing with. That I could be helped. Could recover. Could get rehabilitated. They said the real problems were the ones who only thought about being a sex offender and never actually did anything about it. Thought it. Then buried it. Like they’d been taught to do when they were little. Alright to think nasty things. Just don’t ever do them. Think it. Bury it. Lost count of the sex offenders we’ve met who never actually did anything about it they said. Still out there. All of them. Living their nasty little lives. Being nasty for a living. And getting away with it cos just being nasty isn’t a crime. They also said I’d been brave to own up. To seek help. That I would get rewarded for that in the end. Maybe I will. What they didn’t tell me is that I’d get all the shit thrown at me first. The shit that can’t be thrown at the bastards who only thought it and then buried it and then channelled it into some other way of being a nasty little prick. I get them now sneering at me telling me they are the good guys cos they only thought it and then buried it whereas I went all out and did the whole kaboodle. I’m the bad guy. Doesn’t matter that I’m sorry. Doesn’t matter that I made a mistake. Just evil me. Sometimes it does feel like I was evil. Most the time feels like I was being totally stupid. Or ignorant. Still do feel ignorant. Can’t understand why I’m in here and they’re out there.
Number Three:
I don’t know what I’m doing in prison portraits. I’ve never done time. Never will. I work for the Gas Board. Or I’m a painter and decorator. Or a psychiatrist come to help you with your insomnia. Or a social worker for the council come to assess whether you qualify for housing benefit. I do any job that will give me access to your home. So I can come and have a look around and see what you’ve got. See if you are worth doing. I report on that and get paid for the information but if anyone asks, of course I didn’t. Just doing my job. For the Gas Board. Got my lanyard to prove it. And my squeaky clean DBS. Never even been done for pissing in my own bathwater. And nobody ever reported me of it nor accused me of it neither. They never would. In polite circles they call it diplomatic immunity but that’s just what the tossers call it. You can take your diplomatic immunity and stick it where you like. My protection is far greater than that. What I have is a certainty. A sacred certainty that no-one will ever tell on me. Grassless I am. More sacred than a man of the cloth. Don’t have to threaten or intimidate to keep my freedom and my good name. Kept for me. By the longest of long traditions. Silence. A beautiful certainty. Very calming. I’ll be working for the Gas Board or as a painter and decorator or a psychiatrist or a do gooder from the council and no-one will ever ever know that I’m that smashing chap who lives next door to you and would do anything for anyone. You’ve heard that said about people haven’t you when they die? That’s what they’ll say about me. Absolutely anything for absolutely anyone. Why else would you let me into your home?
Number Four:
Six foot nine and thirty three stone. Never bench pressed in my life. Don’t need to. Big and fat some say. Big yeh. But not fat. Fit and active life. Play rugby. Built like a Shithouse. In my genes. Just how I am. And I work on my own and with others who are held on their own. In solitary. There’s them and there’s me. Both of us alone. They call me the Pussycat because I’m softly spoken and actually think of myself as kind. I am kind. Don’t let the baggage they bring with them influence me. Usually come to my wing because they are unhappy. Don’t need me to compound that. I don’t exactly do much to make anyone happier. Not deliberately anyway. Just don’t see any point in making unhappy people even more unhappy. Yeh, I do tend to work alone because of how I look and some governors think just my size will stop anyone trying to take me on. But in all honesty no-one ever tries to take me on. And not because of my size. You act nice and decent in this place and it soon gets round. Some of them do get themselves into solitary just cos they’ve heard I’m there. And that it might be a cushy option. Like the library or the hospital. But I know my job. I ain’t cushy. Governors aren’t just saving money having me work there on my own. They know I understand security. And that I don’t take no shit. Never need to. Treat people as you’d have them treat you. Applies to prisoners as well. And the Governors know I entered the Prison Service to help people. I told ’em so at my interview. Some of my colleagues think I’m soft when they see me at work but it don’t last long. Not if they’ve got brains anyway. My gran says some are just the sort short of a shilling. I’ll lend ’em a bob. Just my way. Not all of them accept it of course. Why I work on my own. My choice. Get more done. When it’s just me on my own and them on their own. In solitary.
Gary Boswell
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