Once Upon a Crime (22 page)

Everybody was happy to see me progressing to the Open Estate and I mean staff as well as cons. I also had to say my goodbyes to Donna McBride, Louise Bell and all the girls who worked under Louise: Sally, Joanne, Denise and Karen. On my final afternoon I gave them all a song! It had become my habit when things were a bit quiet to give the girls a song and it always brought a smile to everyone’s face. This was a sign that I really was getting back to my old self and the emptiness that
had almost always been my constant companion was now only an old acquaintance who would make an appearance from time to time. While my cup was not full, it would be fair to say it was now at its highest level for some time. I knew that I was going to be OK.

The ordeal of losing Ma and the shite with Lesley had been the real test for me and I had came through it all in one piece. In fact, I had emerged stronger. I had retained my dignity and my self-respect. I enjoyed feeling like that because I had spent too many years in the past with my self-esteem at rock bottom and it almost destroyed me. This time I worked had hard and earned the right to give myself a wee pat on the back. And let me tell you, it felt good!

I would also like to take the time to mention Bob Patterson, the prison chaplain. Bob is a very interesting man. Before he felt the call of God he had been a firearms instructor with Strathclyde police – now there’s a career change! I am not a church-goer, though I do enjoy reading my Bible and have always had one close to hand, even when I was at home. If you want a story with plenty of sex, violence, betrayal, love, war, murder, and redemption then I recommend you give it a try. Bob was someone who could discuss any problem. He was particularly kind when I had been worried about Cheryl. Bob not only listened to me but gave me advice and was very supportive. I always felt better after having talked to him. So thanks, Bob, I owe you one.

Someone else I would like to mention is a female officer who worked on our wing for a long time. Carrie-Ann Hall is a truly special lady and she supported me and encouraged me whenever I was feeling that times were tough. Carrie-Ann is a university graduate and I used to say that she was wasted working in prison. She was only 25, with her whole life in
front of her, and I used to tell her that the world was her oyster. She just happened to have movie-star good looks and I thought that she was a ringer for Cheryl Cole. She has since left the prison service and I wish her well. You were very kind to me, Carrie-Ann, and your advice was always spot on.

I arrived at the Castle at about three in the afternoon and was quickly processed, given directions to where I was to be billeted, and left to make my way there alone! Fuck me, it felt a wee bit strange to be able to walk about without being escorted by a screw. It gave me the chance to have a quick look around and the environment was so different to all the other prisons I had been in. There was green grass and lots of flower beds dotted about and no sign of any screws.

As I walked I became aware of the Castle itself – it really was a medieval castle with turrets and flags. I was shown to my room and turned out to be lucky as I was the only occupant. All the rooms were equipped with bunk-beds for double occupancy. I placed my kit on the lower bunk, rolled myself a smoke and looked out of my window, which had no bars to block the view. The sight that greeted me was unbelievable. Stretching out from under my window was a huge lawn with an enormous oak tree. Prancing about the lawn were numerous wild rabbits and around the corner came a family of ducks – five small ducklings led by their mother. Fields and farms could also be seen. This will do me, I thought to myself.

I
t had taken me just short of two years to arrive at Castle Huntly and I was now within touching distance of going home. Not for good, but I would soon qualify for home leave and that was a start.

The first guy I bumped into was Terry Curran and it was so good to see the wee man again. He quickly filled me in on what was what and how things worked. I wasn’t one of those guys who put himself about and I was very particular about whose company I kept. It wasn’t that I was anti-social, but I just wasn’t the type who needed lots of people around. John Kennedy was also in residence and it was great to see him again, as the last time had been in Glenochil.

Because my right foot was still causing me problems I was allocated to a work place in the education department. I was kind of the unofficial assistant to the head of education, Nickie Bressnaue. She was a civilian who was part of the faculty of Motherwell College. Nickie was brilliant to work with. She pretty much gave me my head and once I had
familiarised myself with everything she left me to run things as I saw fit. Eventually a new job was created for me and I was made education receptionist. It sounds a wee bit Julian Clary, I know, but really it was a great job. I had my own desk and computer and as well as logging in all the guys who attended classes I would also compile worksheets and timetables. I loved that job and formed a great relationship with Nickie, who was a truly nice person. Nothing was too much trouble for her.

This job also left me with free time so I signed up for a creative writing class run by a big Yorkshireman named Tim. He was a university graduate who taught English literature and was also a published poet. Tim was a lovely fella and had a brilliant sense of humour but he also happened to be a very good teacher and I loved being in his class. He would give us various assignments and go over whatever you had written and point out where it could be improved. He was full of praise whenever you had written something that he saw as worthy of merit.

It was after one of Tim’s classes that he suggested, as an exercise in writing, that I should consider writing my own story. He left it at that. Tim had been very subtle but he had planted the seed. Quite a few people had suggested this to me but Tim had said that he thought I was capable of taking this on as a project. The fact that he had enough faith in me gave me the impetus to make a go of it.

I did a brief outline of my life, then I tore it up. If I was going to tell my story I would quite simply start at the beginning and tell it with as much honesty as I was able. I found the process relatively easy in the sense that I did not have to think hard to recall events. It is like turning on a tap and the memories just come flooding back. That is not to say
that it has been an easy journey – some of those memories were very painful – but in a lot of ways it has proved to be very therapeutic. I have now been able to put to rest some of the ghosts from my past.

Once I had written the first few chapters, Tim came over to my desk and had a look at what I had written and said that I should seriously think about having it published. I decided to print off some of my work and pass it around for some of the guys to read. One of the guys was Rab Docherty and I was to become closer to him than anyone else during this sentence. Rab has been a true friend to me and he, more than anyone else, encouraged and supported me when I started writing this book. Every day he would read what I had written and he was always there with advice and encouragement. I owe him big time.

Rab, like David Ogilvie, is into his 12th year after being handed a life sentence with a minimum tariff of six years at Glasgow high court. He had steamed into five guys outside a pub in Glasgow and had left them for dead. In fact Rab had been one of the most feared and dangerous men in Glasgow. Now, this makes him sound like some kind of ogre. He is anything but – he has a heart of gold and I would trust him with my life. He is real old school and, like Terry Curran, is a loyal and staunch friend. He is also highly intelligent and can be outrageously funny. I love Rab like a brother for his loyalty and his friendship. He turned 50 in November 2010 and, as he himself said, there is still plenty of life left in him. Rab has also been there for my Cheryl when I have not been able to. I also had the privilege of being introduced to Rab’s mother and one of his sisters and they are truly wonderful people. I have spoken to Rab’s ma on the phone quite a few times. She is a lovely woman who reminds me so much of my own wee mammy.

In July 2010 I was given a home leave from a Monday to a Thursday. It was a beautiful summer’s day when I stepped off the coach and waiting to greet me was my Cheryl and my sisters Sheena and Olive. We threw our arms around each other – it was a very special moment. Before we went to Olive’s house we made a small detour to what had been my ma’s home. I just wanted a moment alone to say goodbye to Ma, and I spent a few minutes walking around the outside of the house. Then we made our way to Olive’s, where the rest of the family were waiting. It was quite emotional for me, especially when the kids came running up and I held William, Sam and Aerin in my arms. It was in that moment that I realised fully just what prison deprives you of. My Cheryl was just so happy to have her dad back home and I knew that I never wanted to be parted from her.

I had settled in really well at the Castle. I was doing a job that I really enjoyed and my writing was almost addictive. On Tim’s advice I sent some samples of my work to a couple of publishers. Cheryl had contacted them by email and they had instructed her to forward some of my work. Cheryl was invaluable and just so efficient and helpful in anything I asked her to do. She made the long journey every Saturday to visit, a round trip in excess of 250 miles. What a lucky man I am to have a daughter like Cheryl and, in the words of Tina Turner, ‘She’s simply the best’.

I completed six home leaves successfully and was granted parole to run from 31 January 2011. It saved me six months of my sentence as my release date was 5 August. Just another couple of home leaves and I would be home for good. I was going to be home for Christmas for the first time in three years and I just could not wait. But when you least expect it, life has a way of creeping up behind you and biting you on
the arse, and that was to be the case on my home leave in the last week of November.

On the coach me and Rab Docherty sat together as we always did and finalised plans to meet up in Glasgow on the Friday. Rab, myself and Cheryl would go for a meal in a very upmarket restaurant in Sauchiehall Street. It had been laid on free for me after I had done a favour for a fella with a wee bit of bother. Nothing heavy, but the guy was keen to show his appreciation.

Cheryl, as always, was waiting for me. Also on the coach were my two good pals John Kennedy and Joe Mills, who by this time knew Cheryl. The four of us and some of the other guys made our way to a little place on West Nile Street and it turned into a great afternoon. Later Cheryl accompanied me over to Central Station where I would catch a train for East Kilbride and would be met by George and Margaret, Cheryl’s grandparents. Cheryl had an early morning job interview and I said I would phone her that evening. As it turned out I would not be able to keep my date with Cheryl and Rab, and the next time I saw Rab would be in the dog boxes at the reception area in Barlinnie.

It was so good to see George and Margaret again. They had been so supportive of me and I can’t thank them enough. They dropped me off at Olive’s house and I made arrangements to see them over the weekend. I went in to hear that Olive was very ill, having been diagnosed with cancer of the bowel. She had started to undergo chemotherapy and it had really knocked her for six. I was devastated as I had always viewed Olive as the strongest of us and she seemed almost indestructible. But my sister is nothing if not a fighter and she is facing up to this in the only way I would expect
from her – with bundles of courage and with a dignity that humbles me.

I stayed at Olive’s on that first night and I had a very sleepless night. In the early afternoon Olive got up and we had a cup of tea, but she was feeling so exhausted that she soon returned to bed. At around six o’clock Sheena arrived and said that I should come over to her place and she would cook me a nice meal. I agreed and before we left I went upstairs and told Olive where I would be.

Sheena had made a lovely stew and I wolfed down the food. I had not realised just how hungry I was. After we had finished Sheena went upstairs and came back with a large box containing hundreds of family photos stretching back before the Second World War. We sat on the floor going through them and both of us lost all track of time. The telephone rang and Sheena answered it and I saw straight away that something was wrong. When she had finished she said, ‘That was Olive. The police have just been round at her house to check that you were there and they have to report that you are not at home.’

When you are on a home leave there is a curfew in place. You have to be in between the hours of 11.00pm and 7.00am. I looked at the clock on Sheena’s mantelpiece and it was just after 11.30pm. I knew at once what this would mean. I would be downgraded and returned to closed conditions. I would not be home for Christmas and I would almost certainly lose my parole. I explained as much to Sheena and said that at this late hour there was nothing to be done and that I would phone the Castle in the morning. I remained very calm, as I always do in this type of crisis, but I was gutted inside. I had worked so hard to get where I was, and now I was about to lose it all. I thought to myself, ‘Right,
OK, Jimmy boy. This is another wee test for you. So let’s see what you are made of, eh?’

In the morning I phoned Castle Huntly and explained the situation to them. While they were sympathetic to the circumstances they pointed out that I should hand myself in at Barlinnie otherwise a warrant would be issued for my arrest. Failing to do so would have meant subjecting my family and friends to having their homes searched. I phoned Cheryl and told her how sorry I was but she told me not to be silly and that I had nothing to be sorry for. My Cheryl is nothing if not a wee toughie and she simply said that she would be up to Barlinnie to see me as soon as I was able to arrange a visit.

I phoned Rab Dochery and told him that I was sorry that I would not be able to make our meeting later that day. ‘Don’t fucking worry about that, wee man,’ said Rab. ‘All that matters is that you are OK. Phone the Castle and tell them you are handing yourself in and maybe that way you’ll have a bit of a chance with your parole. I’m really going to miss you, Jimmy.’ I am not too proud to say that there was a tear in my eye after I had spoken to Rab. A bond had been created between the two of us during those few months in Castle Huntly. Rab was truly like a brother to me and I know that he felt exactly the same way. I also spoke to John Kennedy, who was also gutted for me but he told me that he would keep in touch with me through Cheryl.

I packed a few things into a small holdall and then Sheena, Jack and myself left for the Bar-L. Sheena was close to tears and I had to tell her not to start crying or she would set me off. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself but it was upsetting to see how badly this had affected Sheena. If I am honest, though, it was quite tough to have to hand myself in
to Barlinnie on a Friday lunchtime when I knew that I had a dinner date. But I just bit my lip, squared back my shoulders and thought, ‘What’s for you, doesn’t go by you.’

I was shown through to a processing area accompanied by Sheena and Jack. I gave Sheena a hug and kissed her on the cheek and told her not to worry. I then shook Jack’s hand and watched as they walked away. I could see that Sheena had broken down and my heart was breaking for my sister. She had been so good to me and had supported me, along with Jack. But now I had to be strong because I was back at square one.

I was escorted through to the prisoners’ reception and did what I had done so many times in the past. I stripped off and was handed prison issue. The only thing I was allowed to keep was my trainers. I was surprised to be told that I would not be going to any of the halls but instead the segregation unit, the infamous ‘Wendy House’, where I would be placed on a rule for ‘the safety of other prisoners’ until a decision could be reached about what to do with me.

I knew a few of the screws on duty and I have to say they were very good with me. I was quickly shown to a strip cell and I mean strip cell, because there was absolutely fuck all in it. No TV, no kettle, no nothing. Only a bed board, a small toilet and wash basin. I did what I had always done during previous visits to segregation units in other jails. I stripped down to my underwear and began to pace back and forth from the door to the wall opposite, roughly five paces. Then a curious thing happened: I laughed out loud – really laughed, not just a small snigger. In that moment I knew I was going to be OK and I do not mean only that I would be able to get through this. It was much deeper than that. I suddenly realised that whatever life was to throw at me from now on, I would be able to handle it.

Even though I might be expected to feel very down about my present circumstances, I had never felt better, and the reason for that was that there was absolutely no feeling of emptiness – not a single iota. My cup was full. There was a calm and peacefulness about me that I had never experienced and I knew that the inner turmoil I had felt for most of my life was gone. Whatever life may have waiting for me, I would embrace it.

After five days in the Wendy House I was taken out and allocated a cell just along from the one I had been in two years previously. The good thing was that I was in the cell on my own, as I had made it quite clear that I was not prepared to share. The down side was that the cell I was put into was absolutely freezing – fucking brass monkeys!

At least I now had a TV and a kettle, so I quickly made a cup of tea, lit a smoke and gathered my thoughts. I had been told that it was now in the hands of Castle Huntly to decide what my fate was to be and that an assistant governor was to travel down to see me. But bad luck: a really severe snow storm blanketed Scotland over the weekend and all main roads and rail lines were closed. I didn’t hear anything from anyone at the Castle and was stuck in a kind of no man’s land.