THE LAVATORIES AND slopping-out rooms in older prisons can be miserable places and Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight, has its moments. On bad days, the sinks, the urinals, even the lavatories get blocked and overflow, sending a stream of evil-smelling swill across the already filthy tiled floor.
Most guys hold their breath and get done as quickly as possible, which isn’t easy, because there are always hordes of other guys trying to do exactly the same thing.
Not today, though. Today, Hamish Wolfe is alone. And afraid.
This should not have taken him by surprise. His first mistake. None of the officers on the corridor just now looked him in the eye. He should have known then. He should have realized when every other occupant of the room slipped out. Too late. The bloke in the doorway, a massive hulk of tattooed flesh, is blocking his way out and he hasn’t come alone. Behind him, Wolfe can see two other figures. In the corridor, silence. The sound of waiting.
Sex offenders rarely stay healthy and whole in mainstream prison. First to be picked off by the pack are the delicate, precious bits – the eyes, ears, genitals. Then they go for the essentials – kidneys, gut, brain. A lucky nonce doesn’t survive the first major attack on him in a mainstream prison, because if he lives through it he’s likely to be blind, toothless and pissing through a tube for the rest of his life.
Technically, Wolfe isn’t a sex offender. If he were, he’d be ‘on the numbers’, safe in a segregated wing. Nothing has been proven about how his supposed victims died, or what happened to them in the hours leading up to their deaths, but kill three, possibly four women and you’re going to get labelled a sadistic, sexual predator. That’s just the way it goes.
‘Don’t want any trouble, guys.’ Eyes down, palms held outwards, Wolfe takes a couple of steps backwards. There might still be a chance – slim – that he can make it out of this, but if that isn’t happening, he has a plan:
One – let them think it’s going to be easy.
Make yourself look small, easily threatened, cowardly. Don’t square up. Don’t make eye contact. Let them expect a walk in the park.
‘Murdering scumbag,’ says the murdering scumbag walking towards him. He’s big and strong but he’ll be slow. A fighter who likes to crush. Wolfe backs up further. His eyes still down, he can see just three pairs of legs approaching. A fourth, feet facing the other way, stands guarding the door.
Two – keep calm, keep breathing.
The biggest danger to an inexperienced fighter is that fear takes over. First hint of trouble, you feel anxiety, followed quickly by panic. You stop thinking, hold your breath. You quickly lose energy, you’re a dead man in minutes. So the air has to keep coming in and going out.
Three – assess the situation.
Wolfe has done this already. No windows. One door and that’s being guarded. Three open lavatory cubicles behind him. They’ll want him in one of those, where the chances of avoiding blows will be non-existent. Prison staff will prefer it too – easier to wash away the blood.
Wolfe is two large paces from the edge of the cubicles. No further. This is where he makes his stand. Directly in front, a row of metal washbasins that could work in his favour; and a line of steel mirrors, in which he can see the three men coming for him. Crusher is first, followed by a man of similar size who is wringing and flexing his hands. Bringing up the rear is a younger, slimmer bloke.
Wolfe keeps his eyes on the mirrors. If he doesn’t look directly at his attackers, he can’t give anything away.
Four – don’t let your body betray you.
Most fights are lost because of telegraphing, unconsciously signalling to your opponent the exact move you’re about to make. He’ll see the leap in your eyes when you’re about to throw a punch, the sharply indrawn breath, the backward pull of the shoulder. He’ll see the bounce of a leg before a kick. Be very conscious of what your body is doing and of what his is doing, because he’s going to be telegraphing too.
Right now, Crusher is squared on to Wolfe, keeping his distance, too far away to throw a punch, which is good because:
Five – use your fists as little as possible.
There is a reason why boxers wear padded gloves. Fists are delicate pieces of machinery. Twenty-seven small, fragile bones bound together in a complex structure that, in a street fight, you’re expecting to make contact with the hardest bone in the human body and do some serious damage. It rarely happens. Pit the skull against the fist and the odds are stacked against the fist. Break a fist in the first punch and the fight is over.
Six – stay on your feet.
Most street fights end up on the ground, and Crusher will want him down as soon as possible, because once Wolfe is on the urine-soaked floor, Crusher can bang his head repeatedly down, kick him in the face, stamp on his hands, bring the full force of his weight on to Wolfe’s ribcage. His buddies, Wringer and Slim, can weigh in with their boots. They might only have minutes before the guards feel obliged to step in, but minutes will be enough.
Seven – be ready.