“A five-year sentence – even saying that makes me weak at the knees”
Chris Atkins studied at Oxford and made documentaries for the BBC and Channel 4. But his world was shattered in 2016 when he was sent to prison for fraud. In an extract from his newly published prison diaries, he recalls the chaos he encountered
On 24 June 2016, Chris Atkins’s life fell apart when he was found guilty of fraud at Southwark crown court. He had become involved in an elaborate tax scam to finance one of his films. A week later, he was sentenced to jail and transported straight to Wandsworth prison.
3 July
I keep failing to get my head round my situation. It’s like trying to look at a whole mountain while hanging off the side of it. A five-year sentence means I’ll serve two and a half years, which is 30 months. Even saying that figure out loud makes me weak at the knees. My cellmate Ted knows the system backwards, and maps out my prison journey. As a white-collar criminal on my first offence, I’ll qualify for Category D status, a big step on the path to open prison. Unfortunately, I can only get made Cat D once I have less than 24 months to serve. This means I’ll have to spend at least six months in Wandsworth.
Two pieces of pink A4 paper are shoved under the door. “These are the canteen sheets,” advises Ted, who has just been re-arrested after absconding from a long sentence for drug smuggling. The canteen is basically the prison shop. We can order toiletries and groceries, and have them delivered a week later. I only have 50p to spend. Ted is sitting on the giddy sum of £1, and deduces that we have both been put on the unemployed rate of 50p per day. It’s darkly ironic that I’ve been convicted of conspiracy to rob a million quid and Ted has been jailed for importing £10m of cocaine, but we haven’t got enough between us to buy a pack of Hobnobs.
Many of our neighbours are keeping themselves fit by pulverising their cell doors. “These lowlifes are all riddled with drugs,” says Ted. This, too, seems a pretty ironic criticism, given his line of work. “How do you know they aren’t on drugs that you’ve supplied?” I ask. “None of them could afford my drugs,” he scoffs in reply. “They’re all f***ed on spice.” A synthetic variety of cannabis, spice is a one-time “legal high” that was criminalised in 2016, but doesn’t show up on standard drugs tests. It’s the reason 50% of prisoners these days look like extras on a zombie film.
6 July
I am desperate to call home. I’ve submitted the necessary forms to get a Pin, so I can make phone calls – but there’s a four-week backlog. Sentenced cons like me have one induction visit, and thereafter two visits a month, each just an hour long. I cannot believe this will be the only contact I’ll get with my three-year-old son Kit, and the prospect is devastating.
31 July
A slip appears under my door: activity allocated – dry lining. I’m over the moon, though none the wiser about what dry lining actually is. Downstairs, one of the more affable screws is peering up at the huge wooden board that shows where each prisoner lives. “Afternoon, guv,” I say, sensing a chance to use my new job to secure a move to a less challenging section of the prison. “My cellmate’s moving to H Wing; are there any more spaces?” I ask. The screw looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “Are you on full-time work?” I brandish my slip. “I’m about to start dry lining,” I reply. “What’s dry lining?” I’m not ready for this curveball. “Well, it’s, er, quite commonplace these days... er...” I peter out. The officer peruses the board. “There’s one space free with a Romanian fella,” he says. “I’ll take it,” I reply.
I run back to the cell, tie my things together in a sheet, and head for the distinctly calmer environs of H Wing. When I get to my new cell, the door is locked, and the occupant is peering out through the observation panel. He speaks with a thick Eastern European accent. “Do you smoke?” “No,” I reply, and smile. “You sure you don’t smoke?” he asks a little louder. “I definitely don’t smoke.” He disappears back into the cell. A few minutes later, he returns to the door with a dark expression. “Do you smoke?” Hopefully his insistence is due to his strong aversion to smoking, rather than a serious mental illness. Eventually, an officer opens the door, and I’m overwhelmed by a deluge of pornography. There is smut on the doors, the underside of the bunk bed, even on the window frames. Standing in the middle is a stocky man in his 40s, who introduces himself as Dan. I ask him what he did on the outside. “I worked the London Underground.” “Were you a train driver?” I ask. His eyes narrow. “I was pickpocket.”
“Spice is a synthetic variety of cannabis that doesn’t show up on drugs tests. It’s why 50% of prisoners look like extras on a zombie film”
The door is unlocked for afternoon “Social and Domestics” – a brief window out of the cell. I head down to find that an Australian named Scott is marching around patting people on the back. “Welcome to the Ritz!” he calls to me. “Come and meet the rest of the White Collar Club.” I follow him into his cell, which is two normal cells knocked together, and resembles a small studio flat. A group of guys are playing board games, and Scott introduces me to his cellmate, Lance. “Ah, you’re Atkins. Film chap. Where did you go to school?” His loud public-schoolboy manner is utterly out of place. Scott and Lance have got this cell as a perk of being Listeners – prisoners trained by the Samaritans
“When my four-year-old comes to visit, he tells me about his new toys. We don’t talk about why Daddy is living in this strange building”
to comfort other inmates who are suicidal or self-harming. Their room also serves as a white-collar common room. They insist I’m welcome any time.
6 August
Kit is finally coming to visit. I have no idea what impact the past five weeks have had on him. For the previous three years, he’d been living with me half the week, and would usually insist on sleeping in my bed. Since coming inside, I’ve had nightmares about him not recognising me, or refusing to talk. But when I walk into the visits hall, he sprints up and hugs me tight. “Daddy! Read me a story!” He’s just had his fourth birthday, and he tells me about his new toys. We don’t talk about why Daddy is living in this strange building. He’s clocked that I’m not at home any more, but he’s unlikely to understand the reason. I can barely get my head round it myself. I neck a lot of coffee while Kit mainlines chocolate. Despite the surroundings, it is extremely uplifting to sit with my family for a while.
28 August
I’m still short of prison duties and worry that I’m miles from the Enhanced status that I need to secure more favourable treatment. Meanwhile, my new cellmate Martyn has started running the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. He admits he’s not actually an alcoholic, but the job gets him out of the cell in the evening. He returns from his first session mildly miffed. “The AA is full of Muslims, who are all teetotal anyway,” he says. “They’re just doing it for the bloody unlock.”
He fails to notice the irony.
5 September
I embark on my own new career as education orderly – a step up from dry lining (which, it transpired, involved putting up internal walls). On my second day working in E Wing, utter carnage unfolds on the landing outside. When things kick off, a screw blows a whistle and officers come running. I’m initially shocked by the constant violence, but it quickly fades into the background. This new job allows me briefly to meet most of the new arrivals in Wandsworth and get a fascinating insight into how everyone else has f***ed up their lives. A young lad slouches in boasting that this is his 16th conviction and his eighth time in prison. I take his date of birth and realise he’s only 19. Another guy is shaking with fear and shock, and I assume he’s received a life sentence. He tearfully explains that he’s got ten weeks for a driving offence.
15 September
I’m chatting with Lance in his outsized pad when Officer O’Reilly runs in. “We’ve just found a noose in some idiot’s cell. Can you come and talk to him?” In their role as Listeners, Lance and Scott are on call 24/7 to deal with prisoners who are suicidal or selfharming. “It’s the only worthwhile thing I’ve done inside,” Scott says. An epidemic of mental illness and endless bang-up is fuelling a rise in self-harm and suicide attempts. The Listeners are a vital safety net, and the Samaritans visit every few months to train new recruits. Scott encourages me to sign up. “It’ll change the way you look at the world.” He points at his palatial cell. “And you’ll pick up some serious perks.” I tell him to put my name down.
25 November
I’ve developed a sense of anticipation about who will walk through the door of the Listener Suite. It’s like a penal version of Stars in Their Eyes: “Today, Matthew, we will be talking to... Mitz! A man with danger in his eyes and blood on his arms.” Mitz is pretty terrifying. One minute he’s calm and lucid, the next he’s screaming blue murder. He constantly hears voices instructing him to self-harm, and usually keeps the TV on to drown them out. Right now, he is apoplectic as his TV has been confiscated, apparently by a vindictive screw. Mitz portrays himself as the victim of officer brutality. I actually witnessed this altercation. Mitz was blatantly hustling spice on a landing, and the officer politely asked him to get behind his door. Mitz told the screw to “suck your f***ing d***, you f***ing p****-hole”, and then everything kicked off. I just nod sagely while Mitz vents – but back in my cell, I turn into a gibbering wreck. I start stuffing handfuls of peanuts into my mouth. “That man should be treated in a secure mental health unit,” I rant. “Not counselled by amateurs!”
9 December
My ex-partner Lottie, my son Kit and my parents are coming to visit – but in the hall, I find my mum sitting on her own, looking bewildered. Lottie and Kit are queuing for coffee, and I realise that my father isn’t here. Apparently his name wasn’t on the list, and his path was blocked by a security officer. Then the scanner didn’t recognise my mother’s fingerprints, and an officer asked for her date of birth. My mum sometimes loses her memory, which gets worse with stress, and she forgot her birth date. The screw leapt on this to claim initially that she wasn’t really my mother. Quite why a 72-year-old woman would enter this s***hole for any other reason than visiting her son is beyond me. The screws often treat relatives as if they’re criminals as well – as indeed they sometimes are. Kit realises something is wrong and sits quietly holding my hand. I only get this one precious hour with him all week, but our time is poisoned by how my mother has been treated. At the end of the visit, I’m pulled aside for a strip search. As I undress, a passing officer recognises me from Listener work. “Hey, don’t waste your time with him,” he says. The visits officer stands firm. “I have to fill the quota. It doesn’t matter which a***holes I look at.”
10 March
I’m working on E Wing when a whistle goes downstairs. As I take up position to watch the ruckus below, several screws run into a cell to wrestle with a troublesome prisoner. Supervising the melee is a large officer who I realise is Custody Manager Chaplin from the Offender Management Unit – my gateway to Cat D status and the magic ticket to an open prison like HMP Ford. I buttonhole him. “Mr Chaplin? I wondered if I could ask you about my recat[egorisation] appeal?” Blood-curdling screams are emanating from the nearby cell. “PUT THAT DOWN OR YOU’LL GET A WEEK IN THE BLOCK!” Chaplin calmly sips his tea. “You’re Atkins, aren’t you?” “I CAN’T BREATHE!” “We emailed the court. They said your ‘confiscation’ [i.e. the penalty applied by court order to deprive a defendant of any financial benefit obtained from his or her crime] was two hundred grand.” “IF YOU STOP SPITTING THEN I’LL GET OFF YOUR BACK.” “That’s not quite correct,” I say, trying not to sound like a smartarse. “GO F*** YOUR MOTHER, YOU FAT C***!” “I spoke to HMP Ford and they’ve said they’ll have you at that figure,” replies Chaplin. “STAFF! WE NEED MORE STAFF!” “We still have to process your appeal. It shouldn’t take long.” It’s really time to quit while I’m ahead. “I don’t suppose I can get on tomorrow’s bus?” I venture. Chaplin laughs. Then he goes to assist in pummelling eight cans of crap out of the guy in the cell.
Extracted from A Bit of a Stretch by Chris Atkins, published by Atlantic Books at £16.99. To buy from The Week bookshop for £14.99, call 020-3176 3835.