Two Years: In the Mind of a Recovering Alcoholic

By Stuart J. Cole

I was born in London in 1962. I spent the first 12 years of my life in a children’s home, struggling not only with the fact that my parents had abandonned me, but also trying to cope with being?of Caribbean decent. I was sent to Jamaica at the age of twelve to be with my Grandmother, Aunty, Brother and Sister all of whom I was to meet for the first time. In Jamaica I learnt to adapt to a different way of life and culture; I saw my father for the first time and lost a good friend in the Island’s capitol, Kingston,?during the violent civil unrest of the late seventies and early eighties. I returned to England in 1982 and after living a play boy type of life for a few years, I?decided to seek out my mother and find out what went wrong. The years which followed took me on a path towards self desruction, trying to hang on to someone I knew I could be, but just did not know how. Alcohol and drugs had created a different person within me and we would have continuous fights for the right to be me. It ended up in February 2006?with us both in?prison on the island of St Lucia, a hard core prison. I won. I started to write out of sheer boredom; what followed was a self therapeutic journey to the land of a reality which I had left behind a long time ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728356341

Book preview

© 2020 Stuart J. Cole. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/28/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5635-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5634-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

I would like to send out a special holler acknowledging the love and outstanding support of this project from my Lil Sis, D Lawson.

- S J Cole

With a loud bang, on some sort of a gong, at about 6am,

another day has started the same way. At 8am a guard opens the cells, one by one, landing by landing and the rowdy queue, for a bread roll and a cup of tea, is served by other prisoners who are lucky enough to have something to do. Breakfast, if you can call it that, is followed by four hours in the rec yard.

There have been arguments in the cell which I share with three other inmates, one of whom happens to be gay. Other inmates seem to dislike gay men in here even more than the murderers who are serving life. No fights today but quite heated. Most of the prisoners have taken a liking to me although one or two seem to have a problem with me just being here. Anyway, I stay away from them the best I can. It’s strange I should say that, because it’s a Lockdown, all prisoners must go back to their cells for a count and one of the Dons’, a lifer, meaning he will die in here and for which rules seem not to apply, has just come into my cell and offered me a piece of coconut.

A few more days have passed.

Same ole ritual but I have started to exercise now. No gym in here so it is back to the basics. My water bottles double for dumbbells and the iron bars of cell gate for whatever I can think of; push ups, sit ups, leg raises, anything to eat up some time and get fit for whatever may happen. It is March the fourteenth. I know this because an illiterate inmate has been bringing me books, every morning, to read for him. They are littered with prayers or verses for the day. I have to put a stop to this because one of these books has the date right across the top of every page, in bold writing. I can’t miss it and can’t ignore it. Date and time, at this moment, I am not interested in.

I heard from my son the day before yesterday, a funny thing though; I have spent the last six weeks trying to get in touch with him and as soon as I started writing a letter to Kayana, my youngest daughter, I got four lines into it and there was a banging on the cell’s heavy duty iron gate, ‘Mail, English!’ shouted a burly guard with a St Lucian accent. Letters from my son had arrived. I read the first and last two lines two days ago and I know all is well, but I keep putting the rest of it off. It’s as if I am waiting to be depressed so that the letter can cheer me up.

The drink, or the lack of it, goes well and I am off the medication which helped with the withdrawal symptoms. And now I am beginning to realise just how much I could have achieved if I had not let drink take control.

***

It’s another day and while I peacefully try to study monologues, from Shakespeare’s Othello, amongst the usual banging of dominoes and arguments over who is going to use the phone next -Big Brother with one hundred inmates-when in comes a group of school children with their teachers and a guard. It is the best I have seen the prisoners behave. The children were free to mix with us, without supervision, and ask questions like What crime did you do? and Why did you do it? There are no paedophiles in here, unless you count the lad who brutally killed his pregnant girlfriend, but the change in behaviour was such a storm before the calm. Although thinking about it, St Lucia’s population is about 180,000 and being the only prison on the island it was more like a family and friends reunion, with my exception of course. I stopped going to the zoo because I thought it unfair to keep animals in cages. I committed a crime so I deserve to be locked up, but still I will never go to a zoo again.

***

Another day a little different: an apparently well known band came and performed for us inmates. It wasn’t bad and for the first time I saw the female prisoners albeit from behind a fence. I thought I would have felt different seeing females in here but I did not really care. I still only have one woman on my mind. It’s funny being in different situations; the other three in my cell did not go to the concert. It seemed they preferred to stay in the cell but now that the concert is finished they seem totally bemused by the roadies clearing the stage as they crowd each other, comic like, peering through the two by four foot slit in the wall of the cell. Except for sleep they have never been so quiet.

***

It’s been 3 days since the band was here. Earlier on we were watching TV, in the open space dining/TV area of the block, when a broadcast periodically flashed across the bottom of the screen saying, This one is for our friends at Bordelais. Thank you for your hospitality. See you again soon. The movie we were watching was Escape from Alcatraz. Each time the message flashed across the screen there was a roar of appreciation but fifteen minutes into the movie, Roll Check! At first nobody wanted to move but after testing the warden’s patience and being threatened with punishment, we all returned to our cells.

***

Another few days have passed peacefully.

Today we have the tuck shop. It’s the first time, due to lack of funds, that I have been able to use it. They sell cigarettes, biscuits and toiletries. It is now pay back time for the cigarettes borrowed since the last shop two weeks ago. There are lots of arguments but it all seems in jest. Some are just so happy to be paid, others just happy to get a piece of a cigarette from fellow inmates who are now in a more generous mood. But moods can change at the drop of a dime in here. Earlier today I was informed of a gang who are planning to hurt, or worse, a fellow cell mate who up until now, for reasons I know not, has been quite cold to me. It’s got me on edge because in here you never know when, how, or even the reason something may happen to you although I must say, presently, people have been giving me pieces of cigarettes and it has been quite okay.

***

Yet another day.

The guy in my cell, who has been threatened by a gang of inmates, is now being extra nice to me as are the others who share the cell. Prior to this new found friendship they tried everything to wind me up; shouting to the guards lights out in (cell)9! whilst I was reading or writing. Now they ask me if I mind the lights being turned off. They used to speak in Creole with an aggressive tone and my non translatable name thrown into the mix, they now speak in English. I even get extra food now from the workers who get paid for trafficking all sorts of things between the blocks on their way to and from the job. It’s all so weird because the other two in the cell, who seemed to be friends with him at first, are now not speaking to him, so they are trying to outdo each other by being extra nice to me. This is okay, and inside I am smiling.

***

Yesterday I found a small insect in my food along with a strand of hair. With all this talk about voodoo and black magic I began to think about it a bit more than I probably should. Of course I did not eat the food and was happier going to bed hungry. At bedtime while I was reading Roots, the lad above me, Kenny, burst out laughing. ‘What can you possibly find so funny?’ I asked him. English, look. He leaned over his bunk, stretched out his hand and showed me the front page of the religious pamphlet he held. It said in large writing

What a Joyful Life!

I could not help but to burst into a fit of laughter. The two of us had periodic bouts of the giggles until we fell asleep.

***

Things that happened during the day: a small fight broke out over a bread roll, and Chelsea played Fulham, we watched it on the small TV, which is also in a cage, up on the wall in the dining area. I thought Jamaicans were bad when it came to football but this is different; one tackle that may or may not have been a foul gets disputed over until the next tackle. And this takes place at unbearable shouting levels. I swear they make more noise than the crowd itself.

Prisoners keep asking me for advice about everything from leprosy to going about finding work on an oil rig and, of course, the easiest and safest airports for trafficking drugs. It’s the English in me I suppose. So I have a certain position now, call it what you will.

The most amusing thing happened today: a guy got caught in the shower, masturbating, while the rest of the lads were all turned towards the Kung Fu movie on TV-it and football being the only time the lads are mostly altogether-but one man, coming out from his cell, spotted him and that was it; screams and shouts as if it was a fight were followed by bursts of laughter as the whole block began jeering at him. In the end there were pats on his back, thumbs up and fists against fists in approval as he came out of the shower and had to walk the length of the landing to his cell.

***

Another day starts.

I’ve been here about 7 or 8 weeks now. I’m still not sure if Junior got my letter. I would love to hear from him, Kayana, Nicky and Emilie. I was half watching TV today, the day I promised to post her letter, when an actor said, in answer to a question, My name is Kayana. It is the first time I have heard of anybody else with that name. Coincidently I am also at the part in Roots where Kunta is naming his child. He was stating the importance of naming your child. I am glad Emilie named her and I hope she is still there for me when I have finished with this messy part of my life.

As I sit down to write, my mind drifts upon Andy and the good times… Well, I guess I am getting used to prison life with the reminiscing now. Some days two years seems a long time, like when I think about the family after not hearing from them in such a while, other days I can feel the time slipping by.

An American/Lucian prisoner, whom I talk with quite a lot, asked me if I have strange dreams, because he and his cell mates were. I un-shamefully told him Yes, I have woken up twice screaming because of nightmares, which caused a flare up in the cell. I told him I put the nightmares down to, what Jamaicans would say, mine and some people’s spirit don’t agree. It made me feel better, in some ways, that I was not alone with the nightmares although perplexed in other ways as I haven’t had nightmares since I was a child. I wish they had a better variety of books. I could look for something under dreams. There is so much time in here and so little to do.

A female warden addressed the prisoners this morning concerning school children coming in for a visit. She said we should Be on your best behaviour. It bothered me her saying that because the last time they came, although they acted diffrent they behaved. Then I learnt why she said it. The time came for the guests to arrive. There were about 7 or 8 boys along with about 15 to 20 girls all in their early teens, older than the last group. It was so ridiculously funny watching the inmates change from their usual attitude of, I am a bad man, to, I am an even badder man. Those who used to walk and dip, dipped lower, those who screwed their faces screwed harder, the shorts, in a style observed by the younger generation in London today, came down even further and off came the shirts showing off their ripped muscles, which everyone under the age of about 60 has. Hardly had the group got into the centre of the open space on the ground floor when the inmates started their football racket. All at once but not together, they were shouting that the teachers should let them mingle or the young ones would learn nothing of the day. Anyway, after the guests got over the initial fright, they all mixed and explored the way we live. After that, back to normal with a fight to end the day about someone, who said something to someone else, about something that happened two years ago.

***

The weekend has come again. Same shit different day. The dinner is taking unusually long today and there is a strange silence in the air. Ah! I just realised Chelsea is playing today and apart from the workers all of the other inmates are locked up and have to listen to it on their radios, if they have one. Oh, and I have just finished Roots. I tried to make it last until Tuesday but it was so good I could hardly put it down.

***

Well, its Tuesday again, library. I have decided to read the classics so I asked for Kidnapped by Robert L Stevenson, but the inmate librarian thought it too small so he ended up brining me The Tip Toe Boys-Who Dares Wins.

The normal has been taking place and I begin to look at the inmates actions differently now. It seems that most of them are serving terms of 7-28 years- I will get back to this as an inmate has just walked into my cell and wanted to know what I was writing, I started to explain and we got onto the subject of sticking together and trying to make this place more liveable. He was someone who I thought looked very aggressive when I first arrived here, but talking to him, although his expression, like a warrior of sort, did not change, he seemed more passive. I even enjoyed our conversation. And now my cell mate has just lit up a massive spliff… The cell has emptied again.

And now back to the inmates and their actions: there is one who screams and shouts, more so than the others, at the ref’s decisions during the televised football matches, I think he wants to be a singer and is only challenging his vocal cords because as soon as it gets quiet at night, he screams out Rod Stewart songs, which nobody objects to. And then there are the dominoes, which are played consistently through our free time. I found out, quite grotesquely, that the abnormal banging of the ivory looking dominos is to break a little piece off. The pieces are then shaped into small balls by rubbing them against the concrete walls. The small smooth balls are then used for sexual aids of some sort. Check this out, serious stuff: in the semi privacy of their cell, inmates slice the skin of their manhood with a razor blade and insert the ball or balls into it. They then wrap up their blood drenched penis with whatever cloth they can find until the wound, if they are lucky, heals. The balls move about under the skin allowing the muscles to grow around them with some mobility-some guys have up to nine balls inserted. When, or, if all goes well, it looks like the man has a serious case of leprosy on his organ. It is not for men to men but apparently this gives the multiple orgasms that they, the women, yearn for. How mad is that? I told one guy to try using two condoms and put the balls in between them It would be a lot less painful. He didn’t listen. And then there are those who cannot take the time, for their crime. They try to escape, which is not all that difficult. Once you are in the rec yard all you have to do is climb three fifteen foot razor barbed fences and then all you have to deal with is the thick jungle like bush and the large poisonous snakes and because St Lucia’s population is about 180,000, hiding on the outside is not that easy.

***

Another day in paradise:

First it’s the tuck shop. Pre-orders are taken in the morning and distributed during Lockdown in the afternoon. They give you all you ordered except for the cigarettes then they call Roll check! So we have to wait another three hours, which is a long and noisy three hours, before you get the most important commodity in this prison. It is currency. I am preparing for an onslaught because I owe quite a few guys. Another weird thing in here, you can buy cigarettes and smoke them but they do not sell lighters and if you are caught with one you get punished for it. Again, how mad is that?

Strange thing happened to me the other day: a tall slim afro headed inmate came into my cell, while I was reading, and asked me if I was a bad man because, now get this; he told me, that someone said to him, I said that I was going to pray for him which is like saying I’m going to use black magic or voodoo on him. So he, the tall man, tells me that he has been watching me for the last three weeks because he had to check me out. He then told me pretty much all of my movements over the last three weeks. It actually gave me quite a chill because there are over one hundred inmates on this block and I did not even know he existed until he walked into my cell telling me what books I had read, who I had spoken to and where I sat for dinner. I told him I didn’t have a clue what he was on about and that I do not really speak to many people in here. I just read my book and write. I know he said, They just want you to be in their gang. So I sat up, ready for any possible action and from the top bunk I said to him ‘ what are you going to do if you don’t believe me.’ ‘Don’t worry English’ was all he said, and walked out. That’s weird huh?

Two guys were caught having sex together last night, so no one slept because of the noise of disapproval from the other prisoners.

Guess what? A guard came to my cell last night and my cell mate said to him, I need some weed. I can see that. I’ll see what I can do… Oh well, he did not show.

I have been busy with cigarettes. What a palaver. The bad boys I thought would rush me didn’t. The few people I do owe cigarettes to are casual and I got to them first, but the people who I owe pieces or a piece to- and by the way you double what you borrow-were on me like flies to shit. At one time a few of the guys, who I had already paid my debt to, came running to me because they thought I was in trouble. I thought I was too but I said it was okay because Nobody ain’t getting nothing until I am ready, so it doesn’t make sense all this noise. But there are three inmates who never gave me any cigarettes and bugged me for three days straight; the one foot man who chain smokes everyone’s butts and you’ve never seen a man move so fast on crutches. When someone lights up he flashes across the floor then he just stands beside the smoker, begs, and waits for them to throw the butt away or for them to give it to him. He is a big fella who got shot in the leg by the police so he would stop running. I lost my temper with him and he actually congratulated me as if to say it’s about time. And the other two who I shared a cell with when I just came here and who conspired against me by stealing another prisoners skin oil and pointed the finger towards me, which actually caused quite a stir but I came out okay, they came with the lame excuse that one of them allowed me the space under his bunk on the concrete flooring when I just came here. I got angry with them too and have not seen them since except for when they just stand outside their cell, a few gates down, watching.

I got post today. I was thinking it was J as he is the only one who knows I am here, or so I thought, but the return address was from Sweden. God I am thinking Emilie must be there with Kayana on holiday. I did not open it for hours. I just lay on my bunk thinking about who it could possibly be from. When I finally did open it, it was from a charity called Prisoners Abroad.

I knew these prisoners must have some talent. I was getting ready for those who I share my cell with to call the usual 6.30 lights out when one of the fellas started shaving the different colour bars of soap which he then moulded into a sphere along with other little moulded soap balls attached to it to go beside a photo frame, which I have only now realised is also made of soap.

***

Well, another day and I have spent a phone card trying to get through to Emilie, J, Kayana and Nicole but to no avail. That alone is getting to me. I have written and sent three different letters with no reply. An officer has told me that it could take up to six-seven weeks for mail to reach here. It depends on when the guards decide to pick the post up from the Post Office in town. I am not sure how Emilie is going to take this-me being here- or how I am going to take the way she takes it but I have a knack for survival and this time in life I promise to be a better father if given the chance.

Well, this package from Prisoners Abroad has been quite helpful already. It contains a newsletter with stories about other prisoners in different countries and there are puzzles and booklets on how to help you cope with your new way of life, etc.

***

Well, I have been as good as possible but it seems I am still resented by one or two, possibly all three of the others in my cell. One of the shelves that I was using for my toiletries has been taken back by the said person who gave it to me when he was speaking with me. And now they all insist on talking about me again in their own language again. They definitely suffer from B.B.S (Big Brother Syndrome).

New day, new prisoners, more fights, same ole same ole.

I have just finished reading another book. It’s at night I have the most profound thoughts I think, but I cannot remember them when I start to write. Bummer. Most of my thoughts are on the kids and Em, things I did and should not have done. I must get in touch.

***

Another week has passed with the same routine. There were a few scuffles, the biggest of which was a few nights ago. A new prisoner was put into cell 5. During the late of the night I was woken up to sound of screaming Officer in charge! Help! Help! I looked through the cell bars, across and down towards cell 5, to see the new inmate being beaten rather badly by the others in the cell.

I remember growing up in Kingston, raising chickens for a living. When the stock was running low my grandmother would bring in a new batch and there would be times when all the other chicks would gang up and peck to death, if allowed, one chick in particular. I never understood why then, I begin to now. I saved one once and we called him Thumper. After years of friendship hard times came along and Thumper was Sunday dinner.

A guard went to the new prisoners’ aid but with the ferocity of the beating he seemed too scared to open the cell gate so they just carried on with the beating. It was bad. I think it is something to do with him being gay, just different. Another brawl had the head warden involved.

My goods keep going missing, which my cellmates have assured me that it has nothing to do with them. Ha!

I have nearly finished another book which is based in Portland, Jamaica, where I spent my early adulthood.

I find myself on a roller coaster of emotions. A smile a frown a silent laugh, apprehension, anxiety and more can all come within minutes or seconds from each other. It all depends on the sudden change of the environment in here, the sound of silence, for example, which is very rare in here, the rain fall at night, a word or phrase on TV, a bird singing, also rare, or the constant bickering between inmates. Each sound sends my mind on a collision course with some part of my history. The ups and downs; a place of work, girlfriends wives acquaintances enemies, frightening times happy times, times of love and times of hate. It’s all there now, an open book playing over and over in my mind.

***

Well, it’s another 4 or 5 days that have passed since I have not written because it seems like same ole same ole. The exception is it is Easter now and we had Salt Fish Fritters for dinner, not much but a welcome change and something to write about. The big thing is I finally got in touch with my son Junior. He spoke of minor situations, but knowing him, I feel he is not telling me the full story. Possibly because he feels I would worry too much. He is probably right. When I asked him if Emilie was talking to me he said I don’t know. This got me worrying and writing and hoping that it has not all gone completely fucked up. Then, this morning, the phone got put on early and because the other three in my cell work, they get let out earlier than the other inmates and the open gate of my cell gave me the opportunity to call him again. He sounded much better and asked if I needed money. I said no but settled for ten pounds. I wished him a happy Easter and told him to tell the rest of the family. He said he would. He said Emilie had missed my call, after I told him I thought she was in France. Then I asked if she was talking to me and he said yes. He told me that at first she thought I was vex and on a suicide mission but after she heard my voice, on the message machine, she felt better. It is a good state of mind to be in now. I can do some time, wrapped in pleasant thoughts, oblivious to the other inmates dressed in blue and the pale cream walls that surround me. It is the most medicinal news I think I’ve had in my life but I must not go into obsession, for this is one of the reasons I am here. Now I must make the circle complete and get in contact with Nicole, my eldest daughter.

***

Well, roller coaster kicks in again. It’s Wednesday evening. I have not written for a few days but not for any other reason than I just thought of giving up. All in one day I go from the top of life’s tree to the bottom. I phoned Emilie and she told me that she and Kayana were doing better without me and that she was glad I was gone. And, that I had also done a few things she did not like, for example, I went into Kayana’s money box to get money for a beer and I left her, Kayana, at home to run to the shop. And she told me that I could do nothing about her not letting me speak to my daughter. When I heard this I wanted to hang up the phone and have a drink but I did not want to give Emilie anymore excuses for us not to be in touch. I listened to her tearing me apart, tears in my eyes, surrounded by about 80 inmates waiting to use the phone and who didn’t give a shit about what was happening to me, after all, they have their own issues. I didn’t take the drink that was offered to me when I got back to my cell. I told myself I was going to get better no matter what and that this was just a trying obstacle. It took less time than I thought it would to get over; two days of feeling like shite.

So, back again to now: everybody in the cell is pissed off with me and probably a bit worried because I spoke to another inmate-a bad man-about them stealing my stuff. Of course I should just let them take my goods. I don’t think they can remember the times when none of them were actually speaking to me so it really does not make any difference, as it happens it’s quite amusing watching and listening to them talking amongst themselves in English, pleading their innocence and wondering what, if anything, I am going to do next.

***

It’s the first time I have written in the morning. No one in the cell says good morning or acknowledges that I exist. It’s eyrie. In the usual regularity of the guys in the cell, two of them go about the arduous task of shaving, sweeping and cleaning and the spreading of the bed immaculately as though they were in a hospital or in the army. At this time I start to read a book. The other lad sleeps as long as he can after staying up all night winging about something or the other. Then the workers will go to work in the kitchen or the field. Yesterday they found and killed a large snake and paraded it around the block.

So let’s see what happens today.

After breakfast I watched Jerry Springer on the TV but my mind was far away, with the exception of the occasional glance over my shoulder for obvious reasons. I was asking myself; Why am I here? I had everything and lost it, for what? I asked myself, is this part of the torture, or more of the cure? Maybe it’s both. I am sure I can do the time but what will become of me? The beginning has come. I can feel my mind reversing to what it once was. I have had joy and happiness in my life but it seems I did not respect it, big mistake. Will I get another chance? Will I leave here? Fuck this.

***

I am now amongst inmates who seem to be wandering around like the living dead and do not seem to be here. The dining area, the rec yard and the cell, it all seems so surreal at the moment. It’s like a dream where I am the only reality. It feels like it could just all disappear, as if I was on the holographic deck of the Enterprise in Star Trek The next Generation, and it would not surprise me one bit. Maybe one day it will disappear. Maybe one day I will be happy again and hold on to it.

Half an hour till lunch, tinned tuna and rice, not as nice as Juniors’ but edible none the less.

Roll Check!

Clang! One of the officers has just opened the cell to let the workers out again. I have to wait another ten minutes or so. But since the guard has moved off to open other gates I stepped onto the landing. He has just come back and locked me in. At least I got my food before time. I think this guard is waiting for me to be out of line for some reason. It’s as if he wants to be the first guard to punish the English man. It does not bother me though. I just read write and think. Boy do I think.

Well, I have watched (not listened to) a movie called Just friends and slept for an hour. And now it’s time for tea a