Welcome back to my old stomping grounds, a place that holds an array of memories - some good, some bad. Familiar terrain that once represented complete confinement, now, oddly, feels like home. Yes, I am speaking about HMP Highpoint, or as I jovially label it now, 'Spicepoint'. Remember that name, as over the next paragraphs, it will become a microcosm representing stories of resilience, desperation, and perhaps, with a little hope, redemption. 

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In this journalistic journey, ensconced within the bowels of 'Spicepoint,' we will immerse ourselves deeply in the clandestine world of prison drug trade, specifically focusing on one substance that has dominated headlines in recent times - yes, you guessed it right, 'Spice.' 

 

“Spice,” a synthetic cannabinoid often colourfully termed as a “zombie drug” has seen its use sharply rise in prisons across the UK.

 

No walls are impenetrable, neither the thick concrete ones of 'Spicepoint,' nor the insurmountable ones we erect in our minds and lives. We're embarking on a journey together to understand what leads people to use and distribute this drug within the prison's confinement. Get ready to unlock the complex layers of addiction, compulsion, and survival, forged on the anvil of desperation and delivered through mechanical precision that the prison system affords. So buckle up, and stay tuned... Fasten your seatbelt as we journey through seasoned tales of courage, despair, and resilience. I'm unveiling secrets, showing you what might be hidden deep down in the shadows; a complex world that, despite its darkness, may still surprise you with glimmers of humanity and hope. 

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Let's start with the 'why'. Why would someone knowingly endanger their lives with the use of spice? It's easy to pass judgment without considering the motivators. Helping you understand these incentives, we'll reach beyond the conventional narratives and hear from the ones living this reality in 'Spicepoint'. Forget the sugar-coating; it's about to get real. 

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Now, shifting gears, let's ask another 'why'. Why do inmates risk putting themselves in further trouble by selling spice? It's a dangerous gamble, punishable by extended sentences or, worse, the damaging reputation among other prisoners. What could possibly justify such decisions? Stick around, and let's uncover the reasons behind the risky business of spice in prison. 

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We'll delve deeper into the prevalent use and distribution of spice, unmasking behind bars, the grueling pressures that could lead an individual astray. This journey is more than just a superficial glance; we're going behind the scenes, recounting stories of confrontation, temptation, decision, and consequence. 

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Prepare to pivot your perspective, to see beyond the headlines and headlines necessary to progress our conversation around addiction and drug use. So, keep your mind wide open and your judgments on hold as we discover a world inside the walls of 'Spicepoint'. It's time for a reality check.

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I find myself back at my old haunting ground, HMP Highpoint, situated just a stone's throw from Bury St Edmund’s, on the outskirts of Cambridge. I won't lie - it felt surreal returning to a space that reeked of uncanny familiarity. Over time, a tongue-in-cheek moniker has emerged for Highpoint – Knifepoint, harkening back to the 1980s. During that period, every canteen day was like trekking through an obstacle course. Inmates would trudge their way across the prison site to collect their due canteen. 

Homeward journey, laden with bags, was fraught with peril. The so-called yardie's, they ruled the roost in an unoccupied field (which now houses a new wing and kitchen). Out would come their blades, menacing and uncompromising, only to dispossess you of your eagerly awaited canteen. Things have changed a great deal since my stint here back in 2003-2005. Yet, the nickname endures, clinging stubbornly to the walls of Highpoint like a stubborn ghost of its past.

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First off, I made my way to K wing, the go-to place for newcomers. Here, the process of being assigned to a permanent wing begins. Luckily, Highpoint, or as I like to call it ‘Spicepoint’, mostly has single cells now. Given my condition, I'm categorized as a high-risk inmate in this facility, which technically excludes me from getting moved to the 'pods'. You see, these pods are devoid of emergency cell bells that could be a lifesaver during a night time crisis. Generally, inmates spend around a week or two on this foundational wing, so it's all about biting the bullet and dealing with it.

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Within a week, I found myself assigned to Workshop 8, a place where discarded clothing gets transformed into useful fodder for car washes. Our task involved stripping the clothes of zips, buttons, and Velcro - in essence, anything that posed a risk to a glossy vehicle finish. Based on the dimensions of the clothing piece, it might be further sectioned to optimize yield. It was undoubtedly a decent job, with a curious fringe benefit - lost treasures tucked away in forgotten pockets. I've seen comrades stumble upon lost cash, typically Euros, but the possibilities were as broad as the spectrum of items people inadvertently forget in their pockets. I came upon numerous miniature drawstring bags that were ideally sized for a typical cell phone, and these became quite handy as secret stash bags. All I needed to do was conveniently loop them onto my boxer shorts - not that I had anything to hide.

 

As fate would have it, I found myself behind the bars during the crowning of Charles - an event, unsurprisingly, I believe was as orchestrated as the bogus charges saddled on me. For the record, Charles, the figurehead they hail as king, certainly doesn't represent me. And his ladylove, hardly my idea of a queen, likewise. His brother, mired in distasteful scandals merely serves as a chilling reflection of their collective ethos. Here's to a reign characterized not by respect, but marred by public disillusionment and their persistent exploitation of those who couldn't care less about them. And to those pledging their loyalty to these royals, I can't help but wonder: Is this the mighty king you choose to stand by while the world snickers at your endorsement of a family that tolerates such grave impropriety?

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Danny Glass, a tormented character marked by aggression and an explosive temperament, crossed my path. His short fuse was evident as he laid bare his disciplinary records, painting a picture of havoc wreaked across Highpoint. He even brazenly invaded the officer’s hub, demolishing their computer gear without a second thought. Highpoint had been his home for several years, and his lease on freedom was far from expiry. It's not in my nature to pry into the reasons for incarceration, but whispers of grievous bodily harm charges hinted at his volatile nature. Anticipating his transfer, Danny left his wrathful imprint on the lifers' wing by destroying an array of penitentiary assets. His notorious reputation had trailed him through every corner of the prison, landing him eventually on the induction wing - his last stop before relocation.

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As the days roll by, everyone else seems to be moving forward while I'm stuck in the same spot. Truth be told, it's starting to grate on my nerves. First, those who arrived the same day as me moved on, followed by the newer arrivals. All I wanted was to switch wings. Then there's the influence of Danny, one who's known for his spice usage, and his constant presence made the lure hard to resist. This isn't a new dance for me; I first sampled spice back at Pentonville. But little did I know, this was when spice would sink its claws in deep, and boy, it had a firm grip.

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There I was, just another day on the clock when suddenly, I stumbled upon a pair of flashy pink hot pants while emptying out my bucket. Sounds peculiar, I know, but life takes unusual turns sometimes. An unexpected surprise awaited me in one of the pockets. My eyes darted around nervously as I reached in, ensuring none of the staff were observing me. What I pulled out was an ordinary lighter. But inside prison walls, post the smoking ban in UK jails, an item like a lighter is as precious as gold. It's often used ingeniously, to melt plastic for affixing razor blades. Nonetheless, it was a stroke of good fortune. 

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My buddy, Dredd, later got rid of the lighter. What was left was a reward in the form of a smooth piece of hash, a freebie that I'll admit, I savored to the fullest.

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At this juncture, I'm accumulating slices of spice, coined as 'cards'. Why cards? Well, these are simply sections of paper steeped in spice, then divided into smaller segments equivalent to the size of a typical credit card. The price of a card in prison ranges anywhere from £25 to £50, and at Highpoint, expect to shell out at the higher end of this scale. I admit, the cards at Highpoint tend to be on the smaller size, but such is the reality.

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Let me tell you, Highpoint was awash with spice, and its ready availability even in the induction wing spoke volumes. This place isn't laden with knives, it's brimming with Spice. Basically, Spice is nothing more than paper doused with a psychoactive substance, which can range from cockroach killer and cleaning agents all the way to plant food. Trust me, some of these substances can be exceptionally harmful. There's an ongoing epidemic in British prisons as individuals are dying left and right due to Spice consumption. For instance, there's this alloy wheel cleaner - if you develop an addiction for it and suddenly stop taking it, the withdrawal can knock you out cold. That's how lethal Spice can be. Yet, in prison, when you're desperate for an escape, Spice often takes the trophy. Unless you begin to understand this, any attempts to solve the problem will be in vain.

 

Now that I've logged five weeks, it's clear I'm the longest-standing inhabitant of the induction wing, from a prisoner's perspective. My patience is wearing thin, my fuse getting shorter, and spice, distressingly, has turned into my everyday bailout. To sour the situation, I landed in a laundry accident just when an electrical blunder struck, leaving me with a pile of soaking-wet clothes. Needless to say, you'll do what needs to be done. The lack of urgency from the prison authorities regarding the electrical issue was simply vexing. The entire wing is now knee-deep in a mounting tide of unwashed laundry, and it's been days without any resolution in sight.

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Danny Glass approaches and mentions that he's just sampled an exceptionally potent spice variant, adding that it's been years since he last stumbled upon such a version. His statement became irresistible bait, compelling me to want a taste, to experience first-hand what was causing the uproar. He comes back from his quest bearing a small square - a typical dose of spice, measuring approximately 3mm by 3mm. Danny presents it to me with a cautionary note, "this will lay you out flat", I retorted, "let's see about that". Sitting on my bed, I toast the minuscule paper square with my vape pen, making sure to inhale every iota. Its effects initially appear to be inconsequential, but with deceptive slowness a forceful wave of disorientation hits, causing a sudden loss of control over my body while I remain seated. I grappled with distortions of distance and garbled sounds as Danny attempted to converse with me. Sadly, the intense sensations were fleeting, lasting only about three minutes, launching me onto the unwelcome carousel of needing another hit. The inmates call this strain of spice 'man down' aptly named for its swift ability to floor you in an instant.

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As I hit the milestone of my 6th week on the induction wing, I made the resolute decision not to participate in compulsory work, using the solid rationale of being improperly placed on a wing with no laundry facilities. An additional grievance of mine was systematically returning from a hard day's work only to discover that no sustenance had been saved for me. These were not baseless complaints, but genuine issues. I was firm and persistent in my demand to be relocated, voicing my discontent by saying, "I wouldn’t mind moving to Unit 3, which, along with Unit 4, is known as the prison's dumping ground. Just pack up your belongings, Mr. Barrett. You are about to move to Unit 3." 

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Then, as swiftly as he entered, Danny Glass faded out of my life, although his impact lingered with an almost palpable presence.

 

South 3 at Highpoint, my old haunt from 2003 to 2005, stirred up a whirlwind of emotions within me as I returned. The staff had rotated, the walls sported a new splash of paint, yet it felt strangely familiar, almost like coming back home. I found myself residing on a different spur this time, but the accommodation wasn’t half bad. The prior tenant had caused quite a ruckus, resulting in a newly installed toilet and sink in my cell. My stint here on Unit 3, with four months left on my recall, couldn't have been more perfect.

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Certainly, my pursuit for spice took me straight into the path of an intriguing character, a man we all affably referred to as Borat. His real name still remains a mystery to me, yet his uncanny likeness to Sasha Baron Cohen's notorious character earned him that moniker. Borat, ironically, is a Syrian native whose life story commenced in the United Kingdom, having no recollections or familial links to his place of birth. His more than one-year stint behind bars presented the looming threat of deportation, a reality he dreaded. However, he found solace in the murky haze of spice, a ritual we partook in with daily regularity. 

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Most of the spice variants we indulged in were relatively mild, akin to the experience of smoking cannabis. If anything, it offered a slightly elevated experience, albeit with a shorter lifespan. If you were to light up a conventional joint, you could expect a sustained high for half an hour at the very least.

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Exploring the dynamics of the wing, alongside the various roles taken up by its residents, became my primary focus. Uncovering the influential presence of spice was a vital first step, which naturally led me to the company of spice dealers. My core group consisted of other spice consumers, including that individual named Borat. It's no secret that a vast number of prisoners have at some point indulged in spice. In fact, it's likely that one in ten also deal spice alongside their usage. 

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The lucrative allure of this trade becomes apparent quickly. To give an example, consider a bottle of ordinary cockroach killer. For £4, you can procure this from your local supermarket. It contains enough ingredients to make four A4-size sheets of spice, each costing £1 to produce. However, this £1 sheet can fetch a price anywhere between £125 to £175 within the prison's closed economy. When marked for retail, the value of a single sheet can skyrocket into the multiple of hundreds. 

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Consider the implications - incarceration often strips away a prisoner's ability to provide for their family. Given such circumstances, is it truly surprising that one in ten inmates would at some point turn to the lucrative spice trade?

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As my addiction grows, I'm sinking deep into a sea of debt - spice debt. Not only am I using my canteen privileges to buy this illicit substance, but I also find myself running errands as a means to fund my habit. Despite perpetually borrowing against future weeks of my canteen allowance, the cycle continues – rolling on and spiraling deeper into this grim reality.

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A lull in spice availability caused a stir, with a rife of speculation about a new variant about to circulate. Everyone's on the hunt for this new, enigmatic strain, and then, at last, it lands. Honestly, this new mix wasn't as potent as the knock-out hit Danny Glass once handed me, yet its strength was undeniable, earning it the "powers" title signifying a spice mix that's effective and delivers a potent high. Sharing is my default mode of operation, so when I score some "powers", I distribute it amongst my comrades, knowing they'll extend the same kindness in return.

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I initiated the journey with a quick visit to Borat, who already had procured a small package. After partitioning the spice, I retreated to my cell to indulge and was immediately hit with a profound high. I was caught up in my solo revelry when I was summoned to Borat's cell - he was battling some complications. I found him, reduced to a squealing mess, thoroughly overwhelmed and distressingly incapacitated, firmly in the clutches of the potent spice. It's an unpredictable beast, this drug - its effects contingent on the user and the potency on certain paper stripes, and Borat was a clear casualty. Once he recuperated, it was chow time, but being fresh out of his ordeal, he wolfed down his food. The thing about spice, you must know, is its seductive pull. People frequently overdose, and upon recovery, quite paradoxically, they typically crave for more of it.

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Well, Borat still had a little bit of the influence from the substance lingering about, and ordinarily, he would've laid low. But right after he finished his meal, he gives spice another go. Suddenly, I hear a shout from across the wing, "Borat! Borat going mandown!" As I approach, the sight is mind-boggling. Not only is he squealing at the top of his lungs, he is also vomiting uncontrollably. Don't ask me how he's managing both. I'm standing at his cell, contemplating my next move when a prison officer rushes in drawn by the ruckus. "Borat's having a spice attack," someone shouts out, and just like that, a routine for Borat is defined, courtesy of his toxin-fueled antics he will be on basic regime.

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We've already touched upon the fact that there's a substantial number of spice dealers behind bars. While the common perception among inmates is that the authorities themselves might be involved in smuggling contraband, a good deal of it likely makes its way in via visits. Among the dealers that I found to be reliable, the Davies brothers, Vic and Rik, stand out - they hail from my hood as well. These two brothers are serving separate jail sentences but are lodged in a large double cell at the dead end of the wing. Despite one brother being a teetotaler and the other an avid user, they've managed to earn quite a reputation for putting people mandown. However, their prices are generally on the higher side. As far as I knew, they limited their dealing to a select group of customers, even though their main business was primarily box deals, usually consisting of three or four squares.

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Meet my friend Lloyd, who handled the laundry duties and happened to be a spice user too, a common occupation here. I once decided to pay a visit to the brothers, who reputedly had a potent batch of spice and weren't shy about sharing. Interestingly, Lloyd was there already, in line to collect his unusual payment - spice, in exchange for his laundry services. Observing this transaction between Lloyd and the brothers inspired me to join in. The only issue was, I wasn't cashed up. Urged by curiosity, I begged one of the brother’s to give me just a taste of what everybody was raving about. They agreed, albeit reluctantly, extending me credit with a caveat that this particular batch was extremely strong, so strong that a dose no larger than a fingernail or half a square would suffice. 

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With my very own spice box deal in hand, I withdrew to the safety of my cell for what I anticipated would be a good lunch, bang up without question. As coincidence would have it, Lloyd, whose cell was directly beneath mine, had similar plans. I smoked the spice, and I cannot adequately express the profoundness of the delusion that ensued. I genuinely believed I had crossed over to the afterlife, and found myself engaged in an intense moment of life reflection. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Lloyd was experiencing a similar delusion. Gripping his crucifix tightly, he pleaded to have his love for his mother conveyed, should the worst occur. It was then that I realized that this spice was far more dangerous than I had ever thought.

 

Just when the blue magic spice started swirling about the wing, a character named Smithy waltzed into my existence. Blue magic got its name from the faintly blue hue of the paper it was coated on, and it was a dependable source of intense effects. Its popularity was sky-high and I, unfortunately, found myself drowning in a sea of debt, chasing the dragon of the blue magic experience. Smithy, with his disreputable charm and knack for trouble, didn't help matters. Surprisingly, he made his living by brewing illicit hooch and perfecting the art of distillation. Then one day, during canteen rounds, he approached me with a proposition - he wanted to set up his distillery in my cell, and in return, he'd pay me with blue magic spice. I consented to his proposal, temptation being a formidable persuader. Swiftly, Smithy transformed an ordinary mop bucket into a makeshift distillery, using a pair of tweezers connected to a TV plug. Once established, we left our little bootleg operation to simmer away.

Picture this: the wing SO sauntering onto our spur with the audacity of a hound dog on the prowl. Let me tell you, his presence sent waves of anxiety coursing through us all. I'm left in my cell with my door shut tight, thinking I should be safe, yet you truly can't ever be certain. As he saunters past my cell, he briefly comes to a halt at the next one, turns around and hones in straight back to mine. That's right, the rascal had sniffed out our secret distillery. Check and mate - it's game over. My response? Be a man, face the situation head-on and claim responsibility. That I did, at least initially, but the landscape of our little predicament began to shift over the weekend. 

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Diligently reviewing the CCTV footage, it didn't take long for the governor to trace the origin of our stealthy distillery back to Smithy's cell. A surprise raid led to the discovery of the secret hooch in preparation. In a surprising show of solidarity, Smithy puts up his hand, offering to shield me from the heat. So, when I had my hearing, I pleaded not guilty and brought Smithy forward as my witness. That should have been the end of it all. Yet, the CM of the wing had a bone to pick with me and tried pinning me to the basic. It was only after Smithy confronted the CM and claimed the blame that I was let off. At least, that's what I thought at the time.

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Approximately a week had passed since my liqueur-fueled adventure when I was summoned for a compulsory drug screening, and I had just had a dose of spice prior to walking in. I was well aware of the unfavorable outcome that was likely to follow, but what irked me more was the constant targeting due to their inability to pin me for the distillery episode. Predictably, the test results came back positive, landing me in trouble. Fortunately, my friend Tommy, a seasoned vet in these matters, suggested a potential fallback plan–request a confirmation test that verifies whether the detected substance level was indeed above the permissible limit. This procedure could take up to ten days, giving me some breathing room. As such, my disciplinary hearing was temporarily adjourned, awaiting the test confirmation.

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Meet Tommy, a lifer with a story that's entwined with mine in more ways than one. He served his country bravely and, as a result, suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. A condition, I might add, overlooked by the cold confines of the judicial system. He may be a murderer serving a prolonged sentence, but beneath that exterior, there's a sincerity that's hard to ignore. Tommy and I would often find solace in the shared use of spice, an unfortunate bonding experience that ultimately solidified our camaraderie.

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The news hit like a punch. I was over the limit and the official proceedings were about to start. However, first call was a visit to the CM's office. It was there I was bumped down to basic. In walked another officer who, to my protest, removed my only source of entertainment – the TV. In an instant, I urged him to reconsider, citing my mental health. When dealing with mental health, such actions aren't supposed to be taken. Defeated, I fell into self-harm, getting locked in my cell while the world moved on outside. Adding fuel to the fire, my meal was snatched away at lunchtime due to my self-harming – a brutal instigation. The locked cell became my arena; I unleashed my anger on the confined space. I began with the sink, then the toilet, and ended with crude artwork adorning every wall. Eventually, exhaustion claimed me and I rested. Meanwhile, the officers took their leisurely lunch break. Upon their return, they came to lock me down even tighter, ready to impose it forcefully. Donned in riot gear, they flung open the door as I was stretched out on the bed, elevated slightly from the water-soaked floor. Their handling was undeniably rough; I'd say, unacceptably harsh.

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As they haul me down the corridor, I return fire with a relentless barrage of sharp words. At one point, my threats take on a personal note, even reaching their children - a desperate attempt to gain a semblance of control. To the point that one guard backs down, his position quickly filled by an awaiting colleague. They march me with unnecessary force to the solitary block - a display of power I find utterly excessive. Left with any hint of choice, I'd have made the journey there voluntarily.

 

Life in the hole isn't the best, yet they made sure I had a radio and a steady supply of batteries. Time seems to crawl to a standstill in isolation, but armed with vapes, I knew I could cope. While I was in solitary, there was a sudden surge of inmates from units 3 and 4, indicating that trouble was brewing. Prompted by the circumstances, we hatched a plan to create chaos and did we ever, successfully overturning the order of the block. 

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After I shattered the observational panel, they decided to move me to another cell while others partook in flooding their spaces—an absolute mess. They thought they had me figured out and placed me in a cell with an unbreakable observational panel. Little did they know, I torn off a loose tap. Then, I decided to take a rebellious step further: I smeared the cell door with feces in an act of dirty protest. 

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While attempting to shatter the external window using the tap, it ricocheted and struck me on the head—unpleasant yet a solid indication that I had taken my rebellion far enough. Some might call it karma; I considered it my wake-up call to rethink my approach. 

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The number of penalties I received was so numerous, the reasons for them blend together. As my release date, just nine short weeks away, drew closer, I found myself slapped with loss of earnings for the rest of my term. In addition, I was facing £400 in damages. I had no intention of paying that bill, but the consequence was steep—the deprivation of my canteen privileges for the remainder of my sentence. It was clear that I was staring down the uncertainty of navigating this recall the old-school way.

 

It took me two and a half weeks in the block before I was presented with the opportunity to take up space on A wing, an offer I readily accepted. Within minutes of settling in on A wing, I had obtained some spice. Just five minutes – that's how rapidly this happened. My first impression of A wing wasn't exactly thrilling; it exuded a sense of confinement, and the size of the cells felt a tad too restrictive. However, as the day wore on, I managed to accrue spice from a variety of sources, paving the path for my evening's activities.

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As night fell, I found myself grappling with dark thoughts, so potent they pushed me to the brink of suicide. Gripped by despair, I etched deep, painful cuts on my arms and penned an apology to my family, my heart heavy with remorse. I had sunk deep into the abyss of a life-threatening despair. The moment the prison guards glimpsed my state, they pounded on my door, pleading for me to hand over the razor blade. Their concern was embodied in one woman, her genuine kindness radiating so strongly, I found myself complying. That night, sleep was elusive. The slashes on my arms throbbed with a stinging pain, a stark reminder of the darkness that had consumed me.

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When dawn breaks, the prison doors swing open to a chorus of disgruntled voices. They were disgruntled by my nocturnal disruptions, and their discontent was palpable. I received not so subtle hints suggesting a change of landing was in my best interest. Being one who values harmony, I commenced packing without hesitation. In the midst of this activity, I was beckoned by Ms. Large for my ACCT review. Interestingly, Ms. Large is a fresh generation to Mrs. Large, the previous prison officer during my last stint here. As the review progressed, my emotional dam gave way. The words flowed freely about my past as an informant when I was younger. Adding to the complexity of the storm broiling within, I declared my intention to renounce my British nationality upon my release, embracing instead my latent Irish roots. Letting go of my guarded emotions, it was starkly clear I was balancing on a precarious edge of stability.

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Wrapping up the last items in my cell, distinguished by a burn mark near the entrance, I endured a particularly emotional day. Even lunch did not provide the distraction I needed. Post meal, a woman informed me that another move was in store for me. My destination? Unit 9, reputed as the best wing within this carceral complex, a status I did not yet possess. The rationale behind this shift was clear; in the event I required constant surveillance, the facilities were readily available there. Despite the unexpected change, I was keenly aware of the positive side as I was stepping into the most prestigious wing of this prison. An opportunity, I resolved not to let go in vain.

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Welcome to Unit 9 - a modern addition to the prison complex, established on what was previously a haven for the foot soldiers. In stark contrast to the other units with their stringent schedules and confinement periods during janitorial duties, Unit 9's exercise yard is constantly available during association hours, offering far-reaching liberties.

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Typically, the wing was staffed by only two members, a manageable situation given that everyone maintained enhanced status and incidents were rare. The inmates were mostly of an older age bracket, exhibiting more maturity. This made acquiring spice difficult, but not entirely impossible. I enjoyed the independence that came with having my own key to my cell and a wall-mounted safe where I could securely store my belongings. In my mind, this was the epitome of a Category C prison experience, an ideal set up in contrast to the remaining parts of the prison that felt more like a Category B minus the security of a perimeter wall but rather a fence. Even though the quality of the food left much to be desired, I had landed in the best possible place and resolved to ride out the remainder of my recall period here.

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As fate would have it, I reconvened with an old buddy, Malyon, back from the induction wing. Dealing with diabetes, he had recently had foot issues in an operation meant to treat ulcers. The complications had initially left him wheelchair-bound. Now, however, his medical woes were the least of his concerns. His agenda for the day revolved around one simple but seemingly elusive goal. Spice. Try as he might, his efforts to secure a page of spice fell flat due to a lack of funds. As he shared his predicament with me, the mutual desire for some spice kicked in the gears of our joint endeavor. I agreed to foot the bill, pledging £150 towards this odyssey for spice. 

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The conditions were simple. A mere quarter of the procured spice page would serve as Malyon's commission for facilitating the transaction. One would think the measure was astoundingly high, but it suited both our needs just fine. As I wired him the funds, a sense of anticipation hung in the air, thick as a pre-storm humid summer's day. 

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Enter day two. The wait was finally over. The page arrived. Its potency left something to be desired, veering towards the lower end of the spectrum of powers. However, it resonated sufficiently with my previous experiences, and I was content. Once it came down to distributing the spoils of our venture, I did the math, weighed our portions and surprised Malyon with a third of the entire page. You wouldn't believe the grin that spread across his face. A simple token of gratitude, bringing unexpected joy to a fellow spice-head's day. In this world within walls, these were the fleeting moments of happiness we lived for.

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Here I am, tucked away in Unit 9, spicing things up, creating a high that lasted a good week. But as it goes, when I found myself hauled away from Unit 3, I'd racked up a fair share of debts. Naturally, thoughts came to mind to dodge these debts, but I figured I might cross paths with these folks elsewhere in the prison and didn't want that additional headache. So, I took the initiative, penned a letter, and sent it out, calling for all debt claims to be lodged. I had my buddy Marley Wagner route it for me. 

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While not everyone responded, the ones with the largest claims sure did. The total sum turned out to be nearly £600. Instead of wriggling out of the situation, I dealt with it - paid off the debts to those who reported them. Believe it or not, the simple act of paying off my debts earned me a respect that's hard to come by in a place like this. Most folks would skip debts along with changing their wings, but not me.

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Once we had our fill of the sheet, our minds immediately leapt to the next and so on. I confide in Malyon that I have the funds for 3 sheets per month, providing me with enough to last until my exit from the institution. However, Malyon ran into issues. Prior to our subsequent adventure, he was sidelined due to disciplinary action. Recognizing the routine, I knew he would not be returning to our wing after such an incident, leaving me in a predicament with the absence of an alternate spice vendor in our quarters. Malyon left me with warnings about individuals at Unit 9 and strongly advised me against sharing Spice with them due to the disproportionate number of informants, all aiming for their downgraded D-category status.

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Lacking access to spice, I found myself scavenging the floor for remnants of the burnt drug. The bits I found were just enough to tide me over for a short period. Soon, it became necessary to intercept the brothers on their return from work. Successfully engaging them in a deal for a card they readily agreed to, I managed to stay under the radar of the authorities. Sharing always brings me joy, so I shared my spice bounty with two new companions - Ryan Campbell and Dean Bellew. Despite Ryan turning out to be more of a burden than anticipated, and Dean's patience subtly appealing, they both became solid companions during my stint there.

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Shortly after my bond with Dean strengthened, he tragically lost his brother to kidney failure. In a bid to alleviate his pain, my main objective evolved to ensuring Dean was persistently high on spice. While occasionally he would return the favor, thanks to his job enabling him access to different wings, the majority of the supply was my responsibility. It was a harsh reality but the prison authorities only confirmed Dean's attendance to his brother's funeral the night before. According to fellow inmates, his friends outside were more than ready to ensure Dean joined them at the funeral, boasting about having bolt cutters ready in their car's trunk to break his handcuffs. Try putting yourself in the shoes of the prison officer at such a funeral. However, with just a couple of months left to serve, this seemed like a tiny blip in a much larger picture for Dean.

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Enter the world of Ryan, an ardent spice-user pushing the limits within these cold prison walls. Ryan's mate from Unit 9 had his intermittent supply of spice - even though it was always mild, barely a blip on the authorities' radar. But for those in desperate need, like a parched wanderer in the desert, any oasis is a charm. For Ryan and many other inmates, going without spice isn't an option; the prison norm, alas, is starkly different. You see, unlike cannabis that leaves you mellow, spice transforms you into the equivalent of a meth addict. The moment your cell door swings open, if the spice is accessible, it becomes an obsession - occupying your mind to the exclusion of everything else. Acquiring spice in this environment can be as challenging as finding water in a drought-drenched landscape. Interestingly, the addiction isn't physical but deeply psychological.

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A new arrival joined us on the wing - a somewhat eccentric individual by the name of Carl Weighman. In no time at all, I discovered that he'd been dealt a tragic hand. He'd recently been through the traumatic experience of losing his brother to suicide while both were inmates at Chelmsford prison. He contested this unfortunate event, claiming negligence, but who's to say how these things unfold? Carl had a privilege of sorts, access to controlled prescribed medication, which he'd willingly swap for spice. This established him as my newest - and arguably closest - acquaintance. However, he was wary of attracting undue attention and made it explicitly clear that he didn't appreciate being trailed to his cell upon his return from the medication distribution point. The intention was to avoid raising suspicions. Suffice it to say, from the moment Carl arrived, he served as my primary source of spice.

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Days blurred into one another. My routine? Securing spice like clockwork when I was in Unit 9. Sometimes, I procured it from surreptitious slip-throughs in the fence, thoroughly following the instincts ingrained in me. At other times, it came disguised amid food trolleys being shuttled to and from the kitchen. But my major supplier was good old Carl. 

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See, I've always considered it important to take care of people - Carl was no exception. To keep the spice coming, I faithfully topped up his canteen account. In return, he ensured my spice never ran out. We even endeavored to score a big sheet together, but alas, Carl's contact had less than scrupulous intentions. That venture didn’t pan out, landing me in a financial funk.

 

As part of my insightful journey, I crossed paths with Fletcher - a known spice peddler operating out of Unit 4. Our initial interaction saw us striking box deal agreements where he magnanimously offered credit. However, Fletcher's constant grumbles regarding habitual rip-offs didn't go unnoticed by me. We broached the topic of acquiring a sheet, and at a mere £100 for a 'man down' operation, it appeared to be a head-smackingly sensible move. 

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However, as you would expect in such a shady world, not everything runs as smoothly as one could hope. The money, which I was under the impression had been successfully transferred, hadn't actually made it through. Blame it on Fletcher's convoluted payment system that added an unwanted layer of complexity and delay to the whole operation.

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He was more interested in securing my contact's details, rather than giving me his own. Moving from a supposed phone call to a text with payment instructions had an unnerving effect on my contact. I had every gut instinct telling me to distance myself from this deal, yet, at the end of the day, the allure of the spice was overpowering; I made the payment. Subsequent attempts to confront him proved unfruitful. When Carl finally got to him and demanded answers, he was met with a barrage of excuses. That lost £100 was the unfortunate finale of my major spice transactions, with this last one leaving a bitter taste in mouth.

 

As my final stretch at Highpoint raced towards the finish line, the promise of release loomed brightly before me. A sigh of relief greeted the knowledge that I was leaving behind the shackles of probation as well as the damning clutches of spice. Dubbing it Spicepoint had not been merely metaphorical. It had turned a once sane inmate into a full-blown spice-head. As grim as the reminder may be, extending my stay could have very well dragged me to the unsettling brink of becoming another body-bag statistic, shattering the hearts of the ones I hold dear back home. My mission here was to decipher the perplexing world of spice, to understand its users and sellers alike. To my surprise, I'd say the mission was accomplished.

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It's undeniable that we're facing a stubborn spice epidemic in prisons, a problem that seems to stubbornly persist. If your loved ones are behind these bars, be wary. Pay sharp attention to continuous money activities and more notably, spice usage. Sadly, the prison system proves insufficient in safeguarding your family members from the harsh reality of spice addiction. Sure, they offer programs and attempt interventions, but I'm speaking firsthand when I say, they're not entirely effective. I participated in these programs while heavily entangled in spice usage, and I wasn't alone. Several peers were in a similar predicament, merely using these programs as a shield from possible sanctions.

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Upon my release from what we've come to call Spicepoint, my mother thoughtfully arranged for a vehicle to bring me home. In tow were my beloved Aunt Yvonne and my darling niece, Penelope. No longer an infant, Penelope was up on her tiny feet, her beautiful blonde hair catching the sunshine. Like a mischievous sprite, she was crafty enough to be stuffing pebbles into the exhaust pipes of cars parked by the prison staff. You've certainly got spunk, my dear niece!

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As I stood there, observing this angelic sight of childhood mischief, I couldn't help but admire the stark contrast between Penelope's innocent antics and the grim reality that we adults had created for ourselves. Like the pebbles Penelope was thrusting into the exhaust, spice had been able to penetrate the lowest depths of prison life. You see, dear reader, the very place meant to rehabilitate and deter crime had become a hotspot for the sale and consumption of this potent drug — hence the portmanteau, Spicepoint. 

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Now, you may be wondering — what drives people to not only take but also sell this harmful substance within the prison walls? Why do they fall prey to the cycle of drug addiction, especially when the costs — both financial and health-related — seem to outweigh the momentary euphoria? I found myself asking these very same questions when I first encountered the ubiquitous presence of spice during my stint in HMP Highpoint. Let's delve together into the answers. 

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As my investigations in Spicepoint unfolded, it became clear that most of the inmates saw spice as an escape, a way to numb the harsh realities of their existence. Can you imagine the strength of desperation that leads one to willingly inhale chemicals potentially potent enough to cause seizures, hallucinations, and even heart attacks? The pain, frailty, and despair that such a choice reflects is far greater than our initial judgments might suggest. So, ask yourself, dear reader, would you choose such a path if not driven to extremes? 

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Yet on the other hand, why would someone choose to sell this dangerous drug? At first, the answer may seem simple — easy money. However, digging deeper, it was clear that their reasons were as layered and complex as the addicts themselves. The dynamics of the prison setting, the lack of opportunities, and in some instances, a misguided attempt to gain respect or power, bred an environment conducive for spice trading. And like a virulent disease, the trade had infected every nook and cranny of Spicepoint. 

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This Key is an attempt to bring to light the reality of this situation. It's an imperative to spark conversations and actions that challenge the status quo, pushing for a system that nurtures rehabilitation instead of perpetuating the cycle of addiction. Because like Penelope, every individual deserves a chance at a future that doesn't involve stuffing metaphorical pebbles into the exhaust pipes of their lives.

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Paper Chase by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Lost in the haze of twisted dreams,
A life unraveled at the seams.
Whispers of solace, they turn to screams,
Falling deeper into the shadows, it seems. 

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Chains of smoke and fleeting highs,
Moments of clarity turn to lies.
Hope flickers, then swiftly dies,
Another face behind hollow eyes. 

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A quest for peace, a search in vain,
A fleeting ease, returns the pain.
Promises broken, left in disdain,
Caught in the endless, destructive chain. 

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Yet still, within the darkest night,
A spark remains, a hidden light.
A chance for healing, a future bright,
With every step, reclaim the fight.