Norman Parker - The Complete Parkhurst Tales: Behind the Locked Gates of Britain’s Toughest Jails

TOM MANGOLD, FREELANCE TELEVISION JOURNALIST AND AUTHOR

I first met Norman Parker after discovering that he held more power inside prison than the Home Secretary. We had arrived at Long Lartin, permessos in hand, cleared by the Home Office, the Prison Department, the Prison Officers Association, the Governor and probably the Secretary-General of the United Nations too. All we wanted to do was film a sequence inside one of Britains more modern nicks. Norman, however, thought otherwise.

We were met by an Assistant Governor, Peter Quinn (then and now symbol of the new breed of enlightened and caring prison officials), wringing his hands with embarrassment. Yes, he knew we had clearances from everyone, but there was ah a little problem. The inmates were not happy. They couldnt ah quite see what was in it for them. We smiled indulgently. Thats your problem, we smirked, we are the media; whats more we have clearances. You sort your nick out. But it was not to be. Quinn held his ground, no one interfered with the chemistry of his prison without good reason. Impasse. Four coffees later I suggested I met the little bastard who was standing in our way. Quinn had me sign a form that exonerated the prison from any nastiness inflicted upon me, then inserted me thankfully into a cage full of lifers. And thats how I met 083395 Parker, N., their leader.

It was the beginning of a fifteen-year relationship conducted for the most part by correspondence, and although it wasnt exactly 84 Charing Cross Road, both of us did sharpen our wits and our writing styles against each other, and I hope he enjoyed the experience as much as I did.

Not once in the whole exchange did Norman ever whinge, gripe or display an ounce of self-pity. I lived with him through the endless parole knock-backs, the disappointments clinging like nettles to his mail, but he held on to his sense of humour and never gave up believing the day would come when he would eventually walk out. He was almost certainly one of hundreds of victims to endless government law-and-order campaigns engineered to bring the bluerinse shires to their feet at party conference. Political convenience, not penal realities, kept Norman inside for two decades.

I can remember, as a young reporter, the days when the average sentence for murder was fourteen years, of which the average time served was nine. Why nine? Because it was held that the personality begins to disintegrate in nick after ten years. It is a small tribute to Norman that his bottle has not gone after all this time. To the contrary. He kept himself half alive by watching Panorama as often as he could (even forcing groaning fellow cons to watch the most boring of our political problems), by reading various subjects for various degrees, and by honing his literary potential, usually at my personal expense. His letters to me are littered with unkind references to my occasional penchant for Krug 82, or to the general decadence of the Fourth Estate, to which I belong with such pride. There were times, goddamit, when Norman just didnt take me seriously.

Because, sociologically, Norman is not part of the famous criminal class, he has a detachment, awareness and objectivity that allow him the vision and insight to reflect not only with passion but also with sardonic understanding on those twenty years. Wasted? Well, not quite. He knew he had to do his bird; he just didnt know he had to do so much.

Together with the United States (and the old, white South Africa) we imprison more people, for longer, than most other civilized societies. Yet the recidivism rate is so appalling I cannot understand why there is not a taxpayers revolt of poll-tax proportions at such a pointless waste of public funds.

I havent been to any more prisons since I met Norman, thank God, but I doubt if much has changed since the late seventies. Im sure the Barmy Army still trundles its tiny tumbrels around Leeds Prison every dawn, collecting the little faecal parcels thrown out of the cell windows every night by men (three to a cell) not too happy about spending hot nights living with their own shit inside a bucket next to their beds. Im sure they still do the penitential conga around the courtyard, zombies taken out on a leash for a breath of Leeds air. Im sure Wormwood Scrubs still keeps its Cat. As in a large cage within the wing, filled with men going palpably crazy with nothing to do, year in, year out. And does the Scrubs still have all those psychopaths making life intolerable for screws, the rest of the cons and staff alike?

There are good men in prison, caring POA officers, AGs, some governors. Equally there are prisoners who regret what they have done and who would dearly like to atone and get out. There are, too, sadly some who must stay inside for a very long time indeed. The systems apparent inability in finding those who need help and in giving men back their dignity, while restraining their liberty, is a national scandal. But, as the great clich has it, there are no votes in prison. So we shall continue to inflate our sentences, waste their time and our money, and pander to a public half traumatized by fear into believing that prison will answer that deeper malaise that crime inflicts on us all.

Normans contribution to the debate is important. He has the credentials, and we should listen to him, for his is the authentic voice from inside, and it has something vital to tell us.