Letters

I write to you with a heavy heart. My tribunal recently concluded and I have been sentenced. It was a lot like a regular trial except instead of old men in robes and powdered wigs deciding my fate it was old men in military uniforms. You should have seen Brigadier William Talbot-Smith sitting there presiding over everything like he was king of the bloody world. He almost actually smiled when he announced the verdict. I'll never forget that. “Lance Corporal Desmond David Hume you are sentenced to seven years in the Southwick Garrison. God save the Queen.” Shortly after that I was cuffed (not actual handcuffs, more like a white plastic band that had to be cut off to be removed) and taken away. That was the most humiliating thing. Being marched like that in front of my mates and superiors. I was taken to a lorry and driven to the garrison. Southwick is one of the newer military prisons in the area. It looks like a nondescript group of gray buildings from the outside. It's not much better inside. It's modern and clean and very institutional. I'm not complaining though. I've heard that some of the older prisons are real hellholes. There are about 600 men here in the three wings, all military. Most of the prison in minimum security. I am to be in a section for ordinary rank and file soldiers of equal or lower rank to me. Officers have their own wing, as do the really dangerous criminals. I will be sharing a cell with one other man. That doesn't bother me. I got over any issues about lack of privacy in basic training.

Upon arrival I had to hand over my personal belongings (not that I was allowed to take much with me), sign a bunch of papers, and be fingerprinted and photographed. I was then given my prison uniform (blue trousers, white shirt, blue jumper) and taken to my cell. The C.O. In charge of getting me processed in seemed like a bit of a wanker. I hope they're not all like that. I can't totally blame him for having that attitude, considering some of the hard cases they deal with here.

I am prepared to serve my time with honor. I'm not ashamed of what I did. I know it was the right thing to do. One of these days I'll tell you that story. I'll try to write again tomorrow. Hopefully not much of my letters will be edited out. (I'm sure they read through mail before posting it)

16/3/1994

My dearest Pen,

I have more to tell you about Southwick. My cellmate is a Lance Corporal from Aberdeen named Liam Ferguson. He's here for dereliction of duty and going AWOL for a week to be with his girl in London. Liam seems to be a decent bloke and I could think of a lot worse people to have to doss with. He's helping me learn the ropes here, which I appreciate. Most of the blokes in this wing are here for rather minor offences, although there are a few lifers. Here is a bit about some of the other prisoners in B wing. (from Liam)

In the cell next to ours are Ian MacAvoy (known as Mac) and Julian Crowe. They're both sergeants from the fifth airborne division. Mac is here for statutory rape and conduct unbecoming. Julian for petty theft and fighting. He just finished ten days in solitary for starting a row in the canteen and stabbing a bloke in the chest with a fork.

On the other side is Benjamin (B-Side) Siderakis and Alex Bashir. B-Side is a half Greek, half Scottish Specialist. He's here for punching an officer and dereliction of duty. Bashir is here for aggravated assault.

Farther down are a couple of chaps Liam says I should watch out for. Mickey Rodgers (M-Rod, or worse, Sergeant sodomy) is a staff sergeant from Brighton who's here serving a life sentence for homicide, rape, and stealing a car. A lot of blokes around here are afraid of him. He's got spiky brown hair, a goatee, and a northern accent and struts around here like he owns the place. He's also a racist and a bigot and has assaulted several prisoners at knifepoint in the loo. (hence his second nickname). Michael Tennant (big Mike) is one of his thugs. This bloke is about 6'4 and 15 stone. He's also a sergeant and serving a life sentence. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer according to Liam. I'm not looking forward to running into either of these two. At dinner today I met several of Liam's mates. Peter Stangler, a Scotsman also from Aberdeen here for auto theft and possession of stolen goods and Justin Macpherson. (he's here for insubordination and possession of drugs with intent to sell). Justin is known around here as “the engineer”. If you want something he can usually get it for you. I'm hoping I won't have to avail myself of his services. Everyone here seems to go by a nickname. I shudder to think what mine will end up being.

My cell is 20 x 20 and contains two bunks, a sink and toilet, and a small cabinet for each of us to put our things in. The walls and floor are grey and the blankets are an institutional green. I'm just glad there don't seem to be any vermin about. Liam was incarcerated in another facility for a while and he told me about waking up there and finding roaches or bedbugs crawling on the blankets. I'd be up all night in a place like that. I am allowed out of my cell for work, meals, and several hours of recreation. (only the really violent criminals and those in solitary have 24 hour lockdown. Reveille is at 0530. One of the guards walks down the block rattling the bars with his club. Most people are already awake since it's rarely quiet here, even at night. Lights out is at 2230. The guards come around and do bed check at that time. It's not as hard to get used to as it sounds. Basic training was very similar.

I have to go as it's getting late. I love you and miss you.

Desmond

(this is out of sequence because it was originally a Theatrical Muse post)

I want to tell you the truth about something, something I've never told anyone. You've probably been wondering exactly what I did to end up in the nick (and God knows what your father has told you). Around here the blokes think I'm in for punching my commanding officer and pulling a knife on one of my mates. I started that story so I wouldn't seem like the Nancy boy I would if they knew what I really did. I hope you don't think any less of me, my pet. I took an oath to follow orders when I joined the Royal Army, as I'm sure you know and I fully intended to uphold it. Something happened however that made me question that.

I was assigned to an intelligence unit as a medic. We were working in cooperation with the Royal Navy out of Stanchion house in London. (I know that sounds like a bad idea from the get go, but it actually worked very well) The Navy had just brought in a boat that had been used by IRA terrorists and was going to interrogate the crew. I had no problem with that. (I respect the IRA and their members for having the courage to follow their convictions, but I abhor their methods.) I was ordered to assist with the interrogations. As a medic my job was to oversee the administration of drugs to make the suspects talk freely and keep them docile. Everything went according to plan until we got to the supposed terrorist leader. This was a young man about my age with curly dark hair and freckles. He wouldn't break under usual methods so I was ordered to increase the dosage of sodium pentathol and sodium amythal I was giving him. The first two times I did it even though I had misgivings about it. The third time I hesitated. The prisoner appeared to be having difficulty breathing and maintaining awareness. He nearly coded once and it took all we could do to revive him. I knew another dose of the drugs would likely kill him. My conscience bothering me, I hesitated again. The young man began to have a seizure of some kind. My C.O ordered me to do nothing. Even though I hadn't taken the Hippocratic oath then I felt duty bound to try to save him. This duty over-rid my duty to the military. I tried to revive him, but it did no good. My C.O then got in my face about it. I was still feeling the adrenaline of the moment going through me and I shoved him slightly. (I also may have called him a cold hearted bastard)

The next thing I knew I was being hauled to the brig. I'm not ashamed of what I did. As it turns out the group weren't terrorists after all. (even if they were torturing them would still be wrong.) You know now my biggest secret. Writing this I feel a weight has been lifted from me.

1/10/2004

My dearest Pen,

Hidden: kept secreted away, kept from view, out of sight out of mind. I can think of several things I’ve hidden. I hid the fact that I did write to you while I was in prison and your father kept the letters from you. I bloody hated doing that but I felt I had no choice at the time. Maybe I was wrong, but I thought you’d just get angry and call me a sodding liar. He may be an arrogant bastard but he’s your father and you love him. It broke my heart to say nothing when you asked. I still feel bad about it and hope you’ll forgive me.
I also hid the fail-safe key for this hatch in my copy of “Our mutual friend”. Yes, I haven’t read it yet, if you’re wondering. I put it there because that is the thing I would turn to in a time of need, and a time of great need is also when the bloody key would come in handy. I just hope I can use it if it came down to it. Kelvin had to get himself completely blotto to even consider it, and even then he couldn’t do it. That brings me to the third thing I’ve hidden. Myself. Technically I’m hidden here in this underground bunker. It wasn’t actually my choice as Kelvin found me semi-concious and brought me here, then wouldn’t let me leave even for fresh air once in a while. This whole bloody island is hidden as are the “hostiles” that inhabit it. No one walking in the jungle would ever know there is a whole system of hatches under their feet. Even the main entrance doors are hidden with leaves and vines. (And the great big “quarantine” stamped on the doors certainly isn’t there to be welcoming.) Someone would have to literally stumble on them or dig up part of the metal to realize what was there.
One thing I’ve never hidden is my love for you and my devotion. I don’t know if you’ll ever get this, but writing it makes me feel better.

Love always,

Desmond

My dearest Pen,

I'm adjusting to life here as well as can be expected. Most of my days are spent working as a helper in the laundry. That probably sounds beneath someone of your background (and I know bloody well what your father would say about it) but it doesn't bother me.
The laundry is a large high ceilinged room with pipes and steam vents running above everything. One side of the room has industrial washers and dryers. The other has the Hadley-Watson pressing and folding machine. (also known as the mangler). It's doubtful someone could actually get mangled by it since there are failsafes built in to prevent injuries and a bar at the front to keep the operator's hand from going too far in. I'd be much more concerned about the super heated steam going through the pipes overhead. Working here brings back memories for me. My uncle Angus owns an industrial laundry in Prestwick. I worked there several summers in high school driving a lorry and unloading bags of laundry that came in.
The only part of my job here I'm not thrilled with is delivering the clean laundry to the blokes in their cells. Most of them don't pay me much mind when I come by with my trolley, but there are a few wankers who catcall or make snide comments. M-Rod is one of the latter group. I had my first run in with him the other day. I handed him his wash through the bars of his cell and turned to keep on with my rounds. He got all in my face saying " Oi, laundry boy, I'm in charge around here and you are a bloody nothing. Got that baby face?" I was taken aback and just nodded. I heard him laughing as I walked away. Liam says I did the right thing. M-Rod is one person you don't want to make an enemy of. You also don't want to be weak or different because then he'll pick on you unmercifully.I learned some more about him at supper from Liam and "the engineer". The first thing Engineer says to me when I sat down was "If you want to survive here you're going to have to toughen up, baby face." (I guess I have a new nickname.)" There are two kinds of people here. The dogs and the meat. I don't know about you but I know which I'd rather be." What a choice, yeah? "You don't want to end up like farm boy" Liam added. "Farm boy" is David Harkness, a 20 year old from a farm in rural England. He's M-Rod's current "boy". The last time he got assaulted in the loo he ended up in the infirmary all bloodied up. M-Rod and his mates like 'em young and tender, Engineer says. Just the thought makes me shudder. I'll tell you more soon.
Love always,

Today is the first day of summer. Not that it really matters a lot here. In the nick one season is just like the next. I've always loved summer though. The warm weather and going on

Holiday. I remember going to the Solstice festival on the Balmoral highlands when I was a wee lad. My dad didn't have any time for it but my mum and brother and I went every year. (the only bigger celebration I know of takes place at Stonehenge). There are bagpipers, dancers, jugglers, mummers, and other performers. Artisans sell their works, and tarot and palm readings are available. There is wonderful food and drink and traditional cakes and ale after the ceremony. The culmination of the festival is the invocation and circle ceremony in the evening on the 21st. At the end of it men dressed in loincloths and garlands of fresh flowers shoot arrows at the moon.

I have lots of good memories of the festival; drinking mugs of the honey mead they serve and eating almond studded moon cakes. My first kiss as a teenager with a girl from Cardiff named Saffron. Joining the sacred circle and dancing until I thought I'd drop. The last time I attended, right before entering the military I was chosen to be one of the archers. I can't tell you what an honour that was. (you probably would have laughed seeing me in a loincloth and flowers.) You probably think this is hippie neo-pagan nonsense. ( that's how my dad feels.) I enjoy celebrating the earth and her bounty. That's one of the things I miss most being locked up here, that and being with you.

Love Letters