One Time Thing
Pork and apple sausages, mashed potato and peas. The same as last night. I slide my pot of gravy over to Daniel and he slides his polystyrene cup of lemonade back. He’s a savoury man, I’m a sweet.
“Six minutes,” a guard shouts from somewhere in the hall.
“So, you all packed?” Daniel asks, peeling back the lid of the gravy and pouring it over the remainder of his mash.
“Pretty much,” I say, “only a few bits left.”
“Good luck, mate,” he says, “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”
This is my third attempt at an appeal, the first two got cancelled on the day – one in 2018 and the other in 2019 – something that seems to happen more often than the appeals themselves. Nevertheless, I’ll be up bright an early tomorrow, shirt and tie on, ready to prove I’m a changed man. 2022 is my year.
“Apparently Dean’s was piss easy,” Daniel continues, “he shed a few tears and they let him off. Joe reckons the judge had a thing for him.”
“Right,” I reply.
“Hopefully you get a woman,” he says, “pull on her heart strings ‘n that.”
I have no intention of hamming up my emotions, in fact I’m not sure I have the acting ability to do so. Perhaps back in my hay day, when I could convince even the most sceptical person of anything I pleased.
“Keep an eye on Molly for me, will you?” Daniel says, his eyes on his plate as he moves a pea around with his fork.
“Of course,” I say. In reality, I’ll likely never see Molly again if I’m released, or Daniel for that matter. My counsellor is repetitively advising me to leave my prison friends in the past, saying that they’re rarely a good influence. I’m not too worried about the influence side of things, I’m more concerned about ever having to introduce a prison friend to a non-prison friend. Oh, Daniel? Yes, we did time together. Daniel? He’s a friend, a friend from inside. Ah yes this is Daniel, we shared a room for five years. No, not as children. There’s just no appropriate way to say it.
“Two minutes,” the guard’s yell comes again. I wolf down the last few mouthfuls of my dinner and take the lemonade back to the cell. On the walk back, a few other prisoners wish me luck for tomorrow, patting my back as I pass. My somewhat tame charge has given me a fairly easy life in here. I’ve seen far too many blanket-covered stretchers leaving the cells of those whose sentences contain the word ‘child’. But if you’re someone like myself, in for a bland – albeit injurious – crime, then it’s not impossible to make friends. Although, friends is possibly an overstatement, not that I’d tell Daniel this.
The steel clang of the door lock rings out from behind me as I re-enter our cell, the walls of which are adorned with crayon drawings from Molly.
Daniel is on cleaning duty this evening so I have the space to myself for a few hours of what could potentially be one of my final nights behind bars. Entertainment options are limited, so I decide to read ‘Being Yourself’ by Dr. Douglas Howes, circling lines that particularly resonate with me. In the face of opportunity, take it. Dr. Howes writes. I circle this three times.
Counselling was never something I’d have considered had it not been for prison. Never would I have been the type to stroll into a psychologists office and ask to be examined. Not for fear of appearing weak or broken, but more-so due to the John of five years ago having no awareness of his own downfalls - he was a man with buried insecurity and imposter syndrome. A man who thrived on attention and neediness. But he is not the John who sits here today. He’s been renovated, re-designed and shaped into an upstanding citizen.
When Daniel reappears, we share a packet of liquorish that he stole from the tuck shop, my favourite. Perhaps I would call him a friend after all.
***
“Good morning everyone,” Judge Bevan begins, her hair pinned back in a tight bun. “Please be seated. We are here for the appeal of a…” she checks her notes, “Mr. John Harrison, on Wednesday third of May, 2022.” Peering above her glasses at me, her lips are tight and unwavering.
“Your honour,” I say with a nod. In preparation for this day, my attorney consulted me on when I should and should not speak. The latter being the majority of the time.
Judge Bevan begins to read out my charges, their verdicts, and sentence lengths, something I’ve not heard since the day of my initial hearing. “Guilty of five counts of impersonation under Section 90 of the Police Act 1996, four counts of possession under Section 5 of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971, and one count of possession of an offensive weapon in a public place, Section 1 PCA.”
I feel the eyes of the courthouse security burning a hole in my face – no member of authority is a fan of the impersonation charge. They take it very personally.
“Sentenced to eleven years in H.M. Dartmoor, Mr. Harrison is appealing on the grounds of good behaviour after serving five years and ten months,” she continues. “After pleading guilty to both charges, Mr. Harrison is now claiming that thanks to regular counselling and rehabilitation, he is no longer a danger to society.”
My attorney stands, coffee in hand and his shirt untucked on one side. “Correct, your honour.”
Although not the same courtroom as five years ago, being here today throws me back to the moment I was charged. I remember sweating profusely in my second-hand suit as my mother sat in the pews behind me, gently sobbing. Then I remember the day I let myself lose it all.
***
October 12th, 2014
I’ll never understand why anyone would throw away a perfectly usable microwave. It’s still got the glass plate inside and the buttons are hardly worn.“I’ll take this one home, Ian,” I shout across the skips, “get a pretty penny for it.” Ian gives the thumbs up through his yellow gloves as he throws a roll of carpet into the blue bins, Simon standing behind him ready to pass the next item.
When I first got my job as Skip Assistant, I was shocked at the sheer mass of decent household appliances that go to waste. Then there’s couches, cutlery, children’s toys, clothes, computers. You name it, we see it at the skip. But it doesn’t always go to waste; a few of us have set up our own eBay accounts, flogging items that still have life left in them. I’m dubious of the legality of it, but Ian assures me he’s been doing it for years.
Having finished school with no GCSE’s, no A-Levels, and no drive to better myself in any way, I’ve spent my life jumping from job to job. Whether it’s stacking shelves, chopping meat, mixing cement, or chopping down trees, I’ve done a bit of everything. And now, here I am, sorting through people’s shit. It may not be the life of luxury, but I like it.
Next up to be thrown into the mouth of the purple skip is a keyboard with a few keys missing. Then a broken dishwasher, some old bedside lamps and a heated blanket. I plug the blanket into the mains and it instantly starts to warm. Winner. A bottle of Cif and it’ll be good as new! But as I turn to add it to my ‘keep’ pile, something shiny catches my eye. Wedged under the leg of a garden chair appears to be a medal or badge of some kind, its face silver and black. I pull it out to find the words ‘Cornwall Police’ branded across the front. The badge is heavy in my hands, its pointed spikes sharp to the touch. Having never seen a police badge in real life, I feel slightly star-struck. This isn’t something you’d usually find dwelling within the heaps of junk at a dump. Certainly not. I slip it into my pocket and peak over my shoulder at Ian and Simon, neither of which have noticed my find.
By the time I get home, the sun has set and the foxes are out. I waste no time in researching my newest discovery, clicking through the Cornwall Police website in the hopes of getting a glimpse of an official badge, but no luck. Google Images throws up no answers either, or Reddit. I decide that the only way to figure out the legitimacy of this badge is to test it. I grab my coat and head to Co-Op, sliding the badge into my wallet as I walk.
“That’ll be £14.79,” the cashier says as he scans the bottle of wine.
“I don’t suppose you do police discount?” I ask, pulling out the badge and holding it up. My heart races as his eyes flick onto it. He pauses for a moment, then begins pressing buttons on his touchscreen.
“£11.62,” he says.
Now, a 19 year old boy working in Co-Op may not be an expert in recognising police equipment, but it’ll do.
***
My attorney, whose name I should probably know by now, reads out my character testimonies with the voice of boredom personified. As he speaks, Judge Bevan is making notes, the creases on her brow deepening the faster she writes. Daniel wrote a testimony that described me as a “top bloke” with “a brand new mindset”, stating that I “never bragged about any crimes committed, as though shame had overtaken what were once boast-worthy achievements.”
Boasting has never been my forte, elusiveness is more my brand.
***
November 22nd, 2014
“Of course, officer. Head straight on in.”
I link arms with Amy, striding through the gates of Anfield Stadium past the bustling queues of revved fans painted in reds and whites.
After meeting Amy at a police security conference two weeks ago – she was serving for the catering team and I told her I was sent there to represent the West of England – she agreed to have a drink with me that evening. Since then, we’ve been drawn together like flies to cat food.
“Wow, I didn’t realise how huge it was in here!” she says, taking a seat on the front row.
I lean over and kiss her on the cheek, “You get used to it.”
The first week of badge possession was one of trial and error, feeling my way around police privilege. It’s irrevocably opened my eyes to the number of people who will trust a shiny piece of metal. Not one person has questioned my authority – if anything, power is handed to me the second eyes are laid on it. Getting hold of a replica uniform was equally as hassle-free, the internet is like a worldwide dump. Someone somewhere is throwing away something you need.
Today, I gained priority access to Liverpool Vs Arsenal. Yesterday, I drove home in record speed thanks to the red flashing light I bought on eBay. Whatever tomorrow brings, P.C. Harrison will make the most of it.
***
“Okay,” Judge Bevan says, “let us run through the grounds of good behaviour. Typically, in a case like this, good behaviour can reduce a sentence up to half. You’re appealing to be released five years and two months early. Would you like to take the stand, Mr. Harrison?”
I approach the stand with weak knees, the nerves finally striking. The seat is harder than I imagined and with all eyes firmly on me, discomfort sets into my bones.
***
December 6th, 2014
“You’re lucky I’m not taking you down the station, buddy.”
The teen boy stands quaking before me, his white Adidas hoodie speckled with blood. Perhaps I tackled him too hard.
“I promise,” he gulps through the tears, “I’ll never do it again.”
The ketamine that now resides in my coat pocket is wrapped in tinfoil, the most common of drug containers. It’s only the size of a gobstopper but still enough for a youngster to overdose on. I let him go with a warning because, of course, I can’t actually arrest him - unless I want to handcuff him to my dining room chair, but that seems problematic.
Getting freebies and gaining early access became tedious after a matter of weeks so I’ve decided heroism is the next logical step. After some investigation, it came to light that the drug crime in Perranporth has doubled in the past eight years. A figure that I’d like to see decrease.
I get into my car and pop the ketamine into my glove compartment along with three small bags of cocaine, a collection of curiously shaped pills, and a full sandwich bag of marijuana. The back seat of my car has also become the home of a confiscated crossbow. The young lad claimed it was for fishing purposes but I thought best to err of the side of caution, the last thing this sleepy town needs is a mad man on the loose.
To catch these criminals, I simply spend my evenings wandering through the back streets of shops or the dimly-lit corners of carparks and public toilets. It’s not an easy job, but it’s necessary.
I adjust my bullet-vest, start my engine and move to pull away before blue and red flashing starts behind me. I check my own emergency lights, they’re off. Glancing in my rear-view mirror, I realise the lights I see are not from me, they’re from the police officer stepping out of the unmarked vehicle behind me. She approaches my window and gesture for me to roll it down.
“Good evening,” she says, “where are you off to at this time?”
I stare back in response, words failing to form.
Her eyes drop from my face onto my uniform, then onto the crossbow behind me. She lifts her radio and mumbles into it before turning back to me.
“Can you step out of the car for me, sir?”
***
Two weeks later, I step out of the prison gates and let the fresh air hit me. From beside me, my attorney pats my shoulder and walks away, his job done. For the first time in nearly six years, I am unaccompanied. Unchaperoned. Independent.
Carrying my box of belongings and the £60 the prison gift you on release, I head to catch the next train home. My parents are awaiting my arrival.
The journey to Perranporth is dreamlike. It’s as though I’ve never seen trees so green or people so happy. I feel reborn, like my prison time was simply a blip in what will be a long, wholesome life. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, destined to show me the light and teach me how to live life to the fullest. Perhaps this is the start of a journey of a lifetime. I feel like singing, like dancing through the chairs and hugging the commuters around me. But instead, I sit and grin.
After 45 minutes of watching the hills roll by, I hop off the train and step back into my hometown. Perranporth is vibrating with life. Sarong-wearing tourists weave between bracelet stalls, hands filled with ice-cream and grumpy toddlers. I suck in the smell of the ocean, already anticipating the chill of the waves.
But first thing’s first – a pasty, something I’ve been craving every day for five years.
Café Neu has a range of pasties on offer, from cheese and tomato to Nutella cream. I order three, two savoury one sweet, then head back out onto the street, ready for home. As I turn to head for the bus stop, a commotion catches my eye. A man lays flat on his back, blood pouring from his temple. The woman beside him is panicking.
“We need a doctor,” she shouts, wrapping a t-shirt around his head.
I run towards them, adrenaline raging through my chest. “I’m a doctor,” I say, “I’m a doctor.”
