I invite you to join me as we take a step back and revisit HMP Chelmsford, my old stomping ground, not through the lens of a tourist, but of a former resident. I had landed back into this sturdy arm of law enforcement, not as a hardened offender, but to endure a short stint in a territory less familiar, the Healthcare Wing. 

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"In our life's journey, we encounter several searching moments, each with a unique lesson. For me, it began here, in a tiny cell, with a pot of paint, a pack of cigarettes, and freedom as distant as the stars."

 

Within the grey walls, I crossed paths with a memorable inmate, Luke, who ended up giving himself quite a shock in an effort to light up a homemade roll of tobacco. This stint wasn't just a return to the familiar, rather a journey of self-discovery and growth. Here, I would find a canvas in a place of confinement and let my art streak across the barren walls - shifting the monotony to color, forging resilience, and helping time play its tricks. 

 

"These 8 weeks were more than a sentence, becoming a metamorphosis, a dance with duality."

 

Packed and compressed onto this small cell, each week held the weight of two - every moment grew into a story. The cell transformed, soaked in art from top to bottom, resonating with an energy that tag-teamed with the passage of time. Here, in HMP Chelmsford, I was gifted my first Holy Bible by the chaplaincy, a gesture reciprocated with a humble sketch of our lady in prayer.  

 

"Then, just as the season shifted, my journey evolved, leading me to a gate shared by many but felt by few."

 

The day arrived when the gates finally opened for me, a privilege denied previously, a sentence served fully, offering a sense of completion. This tale, although set in the past, echoes in the present through the language of our shared human experience.

 

Upon my return to HMP Chelmsford, I found the familiar landscape was not quite as intimidating as remembered. Interestingly, they allowed me to retain my sneakers - a strict infringement of the past due to smuggling concerns. I suspect this shift could be a budget-saving measure; an austerity sign of the times. This penchant for penny-pinching seemed a common theme, even extending to the check-in process where inmates were now employed in processing roles. Shortly after arrival, I was corralled into a temporary enclosure with another inmate who generously offered me a cigarette. Two days had passed since my last smoke, and the buzz was intoxicating. Next up, I was designated to F wing, eagerly awaiting the commencement of this new chapter.

 

I found myself in a seemingly endless wait for cell allocation. Meanwhile, symptoms of my withdrawal from Clozaril were coming to the fore. A small grace was having cash enough to buy a welcome pack of tobacco and the privileged allocation of a single cell. 

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In an instant change of scenery from my previous stint, I noticed cages cladding the cell windows - an obvious crackdown on smuggling attempts, I assumed. My cell was far from a welcoming sight; ridden with grime and accompanied by a kettle which turned out water with a flavor reminiscent of used socks. Resigned to driking tap water, I attempted to distract myself with the TV - a challenge given its malfunctioning state. Yet, compared to the physical turmoil of withdrawal that I was experiencing, the TV's hum and flicker seemed a trivial matter. 

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My first night was defined by sleeplessness, a scourge that had haunted me since my time at the police station, making me a victim of insomnia for three consecutive days. With my mental state under surveillance, I was frequently visited through the night by a firm looking fellow who bore an uncanny resemblance to a younger George McFly from 'Back to the Future'. My saving grace in these times was my pack of tobacco - but its longevity was in question, given my incessant daytime and nocturnal smoking habit.

 

On the following day, they let me out, informing me I had an induction that I needed to attend. Despite my best efforts, I barely made it to the end of the wing before a wave of sickness forced me back to my cell. The guards didn't take kindly to this, reprimanding me with threats of punishment. By mid-morning, a nurse arrived at my cell, where I unveiled a litany of my symptoms – prominent among them were nausea, insomnia, stomach agony, and fluctuating body temperatures from hot to cold sweats. It was a scorching day outside, yet I had my jumper on. The sun beamed in through the window, but a sudden chill had me shivering. Upon seeing my goosebumped arm as she measured my blood pressure, the nurse got an indication of my aliment. Moments later, a sudden warmth surged and the goose pimples vanished just as quickly. It was this stark shift that convinced them that I was genuinely grappling with severe withdrawal symptoms and needed some respite to recuperate.

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Once sleep had evaded me for several nights, I was given some medication on a one-time basis to assist me in finding rest. Unsurprisingly, I fell asleep almost immediately after and in a slumber so deep, it felt as though I had closed my eyes for a full week. Opportunity to rest had revived me completely by the time I woke up in the afternoon for my review. Subsequently, it was decided that I would have to transition into a shared cell. I didn't necessarily oppose this, but I was acutely aware of the challenges I might face, particularly using the restroom in front of others. Nevertheless, I had made a pact with myself: HMP Chelmsford wouldn't break me. And so, despite the difficulties, I aimed to make lemonade out of lemons, as the saying goes.

 

Living harmoniously with my cellmate was essential, particularly given my need to earn some basic commodities in this place. I found myself in a somewhat pleasant predicament when he proposed a unique proposition - sketch a drawing for him. In exchange, he'd provide me with essential supplies like coffee, sugar, and tobacco. Naturally, I agreed, hoping this gesture might stir up interest in my artwork amongst others. The challenge was real, trying to perfectly capture the intricate pose of praying hands intertwined with the delicate beauty of rosary beads. But, I pushed through, finally accomplishing the daunting art. Needless to say, my cellmate was taken aback by the piece. As he was set to leave in a few days, he decided to take my artwork with him, intending to use it as a template for a tattoo.

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Out of the blue about a week in I was being redirected to the Healthcare Wing - a place unfamiliar to me. Apparently, it was time for me to resume medication that demanded heightened oversight, thus leading to my temporary transfer. Interestingly, my previous stint at HMP Chelmsford had only left me with glimpses of the then-unfinished Healthcare Wing. Now, without an option to contest, I reluctantly packed my scant belongings. However, an unexpected act of kindness brightened the day. My cellmate, with freedom just days away, generously handed over his stock of essentials to me. After witnessing my creative side through the sketch I had drawn for him, he must have felt compelled to show his gratitude. My newfound treasure trove now included ample supplies of coffee, tea, sugar, milk, smoking essentials, and more, filling me with unexpected joy.

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Upon my arrival at the healthcare wing, the joke seemed to be on me. The first thing they did was search me, confiscating my lighter in the process. Then, after thoroughly examining every single possession I brought, I was unceremoniously deposited into a freshly painted cell. The irony of the situation was not lost on me when I discovered that this wing happened to be a non-smoking one, despite my being an avid smoker. Apparently, I was only permitted to smoke during designated periods, ten minutes in the morning and a mere half hour in the late afternoon, exclusively in the yard. At this point, frustration was mounting, and panic began nudging at my nerves, but at least I had a starting point - they let me keep my tobacco and rolling papers. If only I'd known about the lighter confiscation prior to introduction into this area, perhaps I could have found a way to conceal it. However, I had been left in the dark about this particular rule.

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My first impressions of healthcare were somewhat ambiguous, but one definite plus side was the considerable 'association' time we all had - an experience unheard of in a category B prison. The increased association time opened up further opportunities for sneaking in a cigarette during the day. Some had their lighters, while the rest got creative. The paranoia of getting caught was pervasive, almost evoking memories of my high school days. Out in the exercise yard, we had something called 'yard burn', essentially the most affordable pipe tobacco the prison could supply, given out free of cost. The problem, however, lay in the fact that a handful of individuals always took more than their share, hoarding some for post-lockup hours. With the yard burn being raided this way, the supply depleted rapidly. Once it was gone, it stayed gone, with resupply contingent on availability, perhaps once a week. But the moment that pouch cracked open, it barely lasted two days at best. 

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There was an individual in the wing, a bit of a recluse who took to enhancing his cell with sheets blocking out all natural light, leaving him to sit in darkness all day long. The tragic tale goes like this: his sweetheart addicted to drugs, overdosed while he was serving time. This incident left a deep streak of guilt within him; the notion that, had he been a free man, he could have saved her life. This man showed a hint of innovation, especially when it came to issues concerning lighters, and a particular interest in the cleaning cupboard was evident.

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He had somehow discovered that the storage for cleaning supplies was occasionally left unsecured. Inside, he found the perfect makeshift wick - the strands of unused mops. Whenever an opportunity presented itself, he would discreetly get hold of a few strands. His next step was to take these to someone possessing a lighter, allowing him to char the ends in order to make them easily re-lightable, which only requires some sparks to ignite. Now with the challenging part accomplished, he turned his attention to his jury-rigged kettle, which he had cleverly modified for easy dismantling of the wire casing. Once he had access to the electrical wiring, he generated sparks by rubbing the bare wires together, thus successfully igniting the makeshift wick. It's quite remarkable what solutions one might stumble upon when time stretches endlessly in a place like prison.

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Being incarcerated, for me, became an unexpected opportunity to immerse myself in my art and make the time pass more quickly. Unlike the other sections of the institution, the healthcare wing was never more full than about ten individuals, so scoring art related commissions was significantly more challenging. Regardless, I persisted. A man from Iran who possessed some appealing photos of his children caught my interest. We agreed on a deal, which had me working on two sketches, a piece of news that made me doubly thrilled. I had to resort to freehand sketching, as I couldn't access the education department, but I soon discovered that my freehand skills had vastly improved, unbeknownst to me. It turned out that the Iranian fellow was smoking some low-cost pipe tobacco. Making sure he was aware that my preferences leaned towards Amber Leaf or Golden Virginia, he wholeheartedly agreed. Every mealtime became a show-and-tell as I progressed through the artwork. Though I was out of cigarettes at that point, he would occasionally pass some off to me. Although it was pipe tobacco, it at least provided some form of nicotine fix. 

 

I once learned of a fellow inmate on the ward who owned a lighter. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued as I sought to understand how one might acquire such an item. My immediate suspicion was to explore if the kitchen or cleaning staff could be approached for such contraband. The gentleman, however, was quite resolute in his assertion that these staff members were not allies in this endeavour and were generously compensated by the prison for their loyalty. Needless to say, this created quite a task upon my shoulders, but I was eventually led to believe that the most susceptible links were the night guards. They were privy to the contents of our drawers and might be willing to dole out an occasional lighter for a peaceful night's shift. Regrettably, my pursuits bore no fruit, the night guard retained their integrity. It quickly dawned upon me that my informant on the wing might have deceived me, leading me on a wild goose chase while his real source was likely the diligent cleaners of the ward.

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After putting in several days of dedicated work on the drawings for the Iranian, they were finished and ready for collection. I had hoped the payment would be readily available in his cell, but he assured me it would come on canteen day, which was just a few days away. However, when delivery day dawned, I discovered the Iranian had duped me. He insisted that he had already compensated me with pipe tobacco, an absurd idea to say the least. The lesson here? Always secure your payment in advance, especially when you're dealing with untrustworthy individuals. Honestly, I should have known better from previous experiences. I tried to salvage the situation, arguing that his payment was insufficient and he would need to compensate me more over time. I thought I had remedied the situation, only for him to be transferred out a couple of days later. But what can you do? Sometimes, all you can do is find the humor in it.

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When I was filling out my canteen form, I decided to test my luck and listed a box of matches, a seemingly harmless request - or so I thought. As the canteen day arrived and to my disbelief, my request was fulfilled. Despite it being just a simple box of matches, I felt as though I had hit the jackpot. However, the thrill of this minor victory was short-lived, as the limitation of the matches quickly dawned on me. It had me ruminating on a more sustainable solution - a lighter, to be exact.

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Imagine my surprise when I met this Spaniard who had not one, but two lighters. Seeing this turn of events, I couldn't help but view it as an opportunity I shouldn't ignore. My aim was to convince this Spaniard that he should not carry both lighters himself and that I was more than capable of bearing that risk for him. The idea was to broaden his assets as a precautionary measure for later. Before I knew it, there I was, in possession of a lighter, and surprisingly, still having half a box of leftover matches too. In no time, I turned into a match-seller at a premium rate, offering a strip of striker along with it. Meanwhile, life in the Healthcare Wing was picking up pace, and I had managed to find my footing three weeks in, feeling confident but already dreading the sentencing in the week to come. Most certainly, to say I was holding onto hope for a court release would be an understatement, although I did not anticipate the turn of events to follow.

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You'll be serving sixteen weeks, Mr. Barrett. A hard pill to swallow, sure, but I was already halfway there and needed to muster the strength for another four weeks. Oddly enough, I found myself back on healthcare, but it was canteen day, seeing all the snacks I'd amassed for such an occasion. There was only one path for me then – to make the best of the remaining weeks, ensuring I needed for nothing. Up until now, I had enjoyed glueing pictures to the wall, now, I was intent on transforming the entire cell with decorations.

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This young fellow, on the cusp of a grueling stint behind bars and a potential move to a forensic unit, brought memories flooding back about my early encounters with the justice system. Like some silent ghost, Luke kept to himself, seldom interacting with others but never rude enough to ignore a direct conversation - his responses were always brief but polite. It was as if he was physically present, but his spirit was somewhere else. I could see he was at a delicate crossroad in his life. And like most of us inside these walls, he was a smoker; a smoker without a lighter, who'd been in this place far longer than I had.

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During our time in the penitentiary, I used to lend Luke a lighter whenever the cells were unlocked, despite knowing it was a gamble. He always struck me as a bit of a risk -- one wrong move and I could be caught red-handed. Still, it was a surprise when I discovered Luke had his own methods during lockdown. He had fashioned a unique, if not entirely safe, lighting device using a dismantled kettle. His method was rudimentary at best; he'd dampen his cigarette tip with water before lighting it using sparks from his little 'invention'. To spark and inhale at the same time must have required some knack, but it seemed to do the trick for him. 

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One day at lunch, I visited his cell to offer him a light like usual, only to find he had quit smoking and given away his tobacco stash. I recall questioning "What's up?" to which he confessed that he had accidentally electrocuted himself the night before while trying to light a cigarette. Let's just say he learned the hard way that water and electricity make a disastrous mix. 

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Time to socialize presented a much-needed break from the confines of the Healthcare Wing. Visits, in particular, were moments to indulge in treats like soda, candy, and sandwiches, sold at the visitors' snack stand for the benefit of the inmates. From the onset, the system was manipulated to sneak, typically chocolates, back to the cells. Random searches were done, yet seeing others slip through the cracks, the lure to participate grew strong, leading me to succumb to it. After a few successful attempts, I was caught. However, to my astonishment, there were no repercussions. It led me to conclude that the excess of similar infractions left the authorities without the resources to hold everyone accountable.

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The chap who initially led me astray with the promise of a lighter eventually came through. As fate would have it, I found myself in possession of not one, but two lighters. The cost? Well, I can't quite recall, but I'm certain it involved trading food supplies. Now, armed with two lighters, I decided to keep one as a backup, tucked away in my cell, in the event of a cell search where they might discover the one I carried with me. A scruffy fellow was transferred to the healthcare wing around this time. I remember earning him the nickname "Spotty" due to his acne which I often advised him to take care of. He was in desperate need of a lighter, so I swooped in and relieved him of all his snacks in exchange. As a prisoner, you quickly learn about the dynamics of supply and demand, understanding that maintaining a good stockpile of desired items can significantly cushion your experience inside.

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Nabbing paint was an easy feat from the hobby storage, but reaching the towering ceiling height for my artistic venture was a challenge in its own right. My aspiration was to transform the entire wall from ground level up, but the intentionally unreachable ceilings were designed to prevent ligature access. My first maneuver was to smuggle a chair from our shared space into my cell, a prohibited action that barely brought me any closer. My next ingenious scheme involved piling up stout books borrowed from the library and common area, today's companion for my daring attempt. Armed with a long paintbrush, I fabricated an extending handle and affixed it, marking my third plan of action. For all my efforts and inventiveness, however, the ceiling remained cruelly out of reach, silently taunting me with another foot or so of void space. I mulled over adding more books but shook my head, sensing the impending risk. Days rolled by until I made an unexpected find in the shower room: a metallic waste bin that suddenly held immense potential. Picture this: an inmate perched atop an inverted bin, teetering on a stack of books precariously arranged on a chair, all for the noble cause of painting that stubborn wall. Despite the foolhardiness which could've ended up with a fractured limb, the heady exultation of conquering the 'unreachable' ceiling, defying its very purpose, was liberating. It served as a powerful example of what an idle mind could achieve in prison, where the will to act opened up unexpected ways of emerging victorious, connecting those elusive dots.

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Spotty had only possessed the lighter for about a week when it ran out of gas. However, he informed me about the situation, and naturally, I offered to get rid of it for him. It became apparent that he'd been persistently trying to light it, resulting in a broken flint on top of the depleted gas. Now, what can one do with a lighter that has neither gas nor a functioning flint? If nothing else, prison teaches you about the power of opportunities and the necessity of being imaginative in order to seize them. Here, I had proposed the perfect solution. Specifically, I noticed that for our outdoor smoke sessions, we were permitted access to a prison-approved lighter which, luckily for me, nearly mirrored the one I now rendered useless. It struck me that all I needed to do was switch this working lighter with the defective one, unnoticed by a prison officer, particularly one who didn't smoke and owned a lighter virtually identical to mine. This officer, as fate would have it, was one of the most intimidating figures in the facility. Indeed, pulling off this feat was no easy task, but I managed it one sleepy afternoon. The very next morning, that prison officer was on duty again and conducted our morning smoke session. That was the moment everyone discovered the lighter didn't work, much to his perplexity and disbelief. He firmly stated, "this is a brand new lighter; it can't be. It's impossible." I was fortunate not to have been present at that moment, as I'm sure my contained laughter would have revealed my cunning scheme.

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The Bible study became more than just an escape from my cell; it marked the moment I received my first-ever Bible. And there it was, brand-new and yearning to be held. Eager to make it my own, I offered my meticulous sketch of a praying woman, hoping it could find a home in the interfaith gathering space. My fascination with this holy book grew to a point where I adorned it during my stay behind bars. At one point, I bought a crucifix that I eventually lost, but the string it was attached to was saved. Against the odds, I found solace by attaching it to my Bible's spine using glue. Can't quite explain why, but it felt right, salvaging something good from an unfortunate circumstance. This was a revelation - negativity begat negativity, but blending hard times with optimism and resolve yielded fruitfulness. In hindsight, this seems like a turning point, where I realized the errors of my ways while being blissfully unaware. It felt like completion, it felt like I had served my time and was ripe for freedom. Sadly, not everyone navigating the prison system gets to experience such a poignant moment.

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Encountering a gentleman with a brain injury in the healthcare unit was a sobering affair. He'd been involved in a prison brawl, resulting in a significant trauma to his head and consequential disabilities. Strikingly, this was our second meeting; we'd previously exchanged matches. Although the source of his wealth remained a mystery, it was impossible to ignore his plentiful stash of canteen items. Whether Golden Virginia or Amber Leaf, he always possessed the coveted tobacco, which, during that period, held considerable value in our confined society. I eagerly desired to initiate a trade deal, not with Spotty, but with this gentleman of Asian descent. My empathy for his situation encouraged me to contribute to his comfort, regardless of our mutually enforced predicament. Nevertheless, trade involved an exchange of goods, which in this case amounted to £2.50 worth of snacks—an assortment as diverse as it was sundry. Regrettably, a mere two days post our trade, they moved him back to general population where the need for a lighter was less pronounced than in healthcare. Had I been blessed with the ability to foresee the future, I wouldn't have found myself confined within prison walls, would I?

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As the clock ticked down to my release, I immersed myself in an unconventional decorating venture, acquiring an eclectic collection of adult magazines through various trades and even enlisting my mother’s help to source some from a local newsagent. My grand design was to cover the entire restroom area with these images. However, this meant that my cell, clearly visible from the prison's central area or 'bubble', would be unhinged display whenever my door was ajar. A confrontation was inevitable, and it came from the toughest prison officer, a man from whom, in a fit of daring, I had once stolen a lighter. Understandably blustered by the incommodious décor, he demanded I remove them. Surrounded by the risque wallpaper, I realized that the prison's grip on me was waning - with only a few days left on my sentence, the likelihood of any serious repercussion was minimal. In a moment of stubborn pride, I refused his command, secure in the knowledge my cell would be subjected to a full makeover once I left. My departure was imminent. 

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On the significant day of Armistice Day 2014, I found myself approaching the end of my journey. This was my second time navigating through the system, this round, a brief stint. Yet, I had not only survived, I had managed to avoid getting hurt or falling to the despair that often consumes those in confinement. By this point, almost every inch of my cell bore my artistic mark except one. I let the vivid pastels I saved dance across that wall with the phrase 'Barrett Rides Again 2014', marking an end to this chapter of my story. In celebration of my first true gate release, I had bought myself a cigar. Rather than waiting for the outside world, I chose to indulge in its smoky delight within the ad-hoc art gallery that was now my cell. I reveled in the chaos of my creativity that had been my solace during the challenging weeks on the healthcare wing. The moment the prison gates swung open, an overwhelming wave of joy took hold of me - a joy that had been cruelly denied during my previous stint. This experience of unfettered freedom left me feeling complete, satiating a part of me that had long been deprived. As I savored this treasured sensation, I made a solemn promise to myself - never to return to the confines of a prison cell. This hard-earned joy of liberation was a long time coming, but oh, how worth the wait it was.

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Lucky Luke by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Luke, confined within these walls so bleak,
In his eyes, a spark, a story unique.
With tobacco in hand, he sought the light,
An electric dance, a desperate night.

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Fate's cruel jest, with current's bite,
Yet in his heart, a will to fight.
Through pain and scars, he'd often tread,
Silent battles waged within his head.

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A roll-up charred, but spirit bright,
In every shadow, he found his might.
With every jolt, a lesson learned,
Resilience in his veins, he yearned.

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Luke, a testament to finding grace,
In the unlikeliest of spaces, embrace.
For even in the darkest night,
A spark of hope can ignite.