In 1994 I was released from prison after 24 continuous years. Lest anyone should think that the appropriate reaction was to perform cartwheels down the street and party ‘til dawn, I should add that I had spent the previous nine months partially free on a prison hostel and for three years prior to that been in Ford open prison. So rather than being a major, individual act of being released, it was more a succession of minor degrees of increasing freedom.
With each increasing degree came the greater realization that, whatever novelty I found in my new surroundings and whichever problems I had in coming to terms with them, there was one inescapable reality that I would have to deal with sooner rather than later. I would have to find a way to earn a living.
My immediate prospects were not particularly good. I had passed a Bachelor of Arts, Honours degree in prison, but had no actual work experience of anything. Coupled with the facts that I was now 50 years old and had a conviction for murder, it made for a CV that was anything but attractive to a prospective employer.
However, I had started to write in my last months at Ford. ‘Parkhurst Tales’ was a collection of short stories, factually based on incidents that had happened in various jails. My incarceration notwithstanding, I had managed to accumulate a wide circle of friends and acquaintances over the years. Now I used them to ‘network’ my way to a book deal.
My work came to the attention of Frank Delaney, the writer and TV presenter. He was impressed, agreed to write a foreword and set out to get me a two-book deal with Random Century. At the same time, Mike Mansfield, the music impresario, had visited me at Ford with a view to pitching a TV series to the networks based on ‘Parkhurst Tales’.
It had been all too easy really. But I was soon to come face to face with the reality of the false promises and let-downs of the media world. Frank Delaney suddenly got the job of presenting ‘The Book Program’ on Sky and backed away from any involvement with me. After a series of meetings, the TV project also came to nothing.
I still managed to get a book deal with a £3,000 advance though. ‘Parkhurst Tales’ was duly released and promptly became a best-seller, selling over 20,000 copies in hardback. I did the rounds of the many TV chat shows and found that it was a medium I handled quite well. I had realised by now that to be a successful author, one who actually makes a living out of writing, one also had to be an ardent and resourceful self-publicist.
My second book, ‘The Goldfish Bowl’, was a full length story set in Kingston Prison, Europe’s only prison exclusively for lifers. The book launch was long on location, but short on timing. ‘Grouchos’ might have been something of a media cliché, but it still had plenty of potential for publicity. However, the Dunblane shooting massacre was all over the media. The main question the, mostly female, journalists asked was, “Why should they write anything positive about somebody who had also killed by shooting?”
For me, trying to establish myself as a serious writer, it was a major, if not unexpected, disappointment. I had discovered very early on that, for many people, I would always be ‘Norman the Murderer’ rather than ‘Norman the Writer’. It wasn’t something I agonised over or railed against the unfairness of the world about, but in my heart I knew that I would never escape the shadow of my convictions.
For that reason I had always kept one foot in the, for want for a better term, underworld, a milieu where my criminal convictions were never held against me. To the contrary, in fact. I was widely known, trusted and respected, useful qualities for someone trying to make a living by crime.
But I was well aware of the high percentage of people fresh out of prison who had gone back in again. Further, my long-suffering and ever-loyal mother was doting on the fact that, at long last, she had me living with her again. I was ever mindful of the fact that I could easily break her heart.
Tragedy though, was but a heartbeat away. Whether I was ill-starred, or actively sought misfortune out by my choice of equally ill-starred and self-destructive companions, I couldn’t discern. When it came, everybody was agreed that I hadn’t had much luck in life.
I had met Janice through an old prison pal down on his luck. She was a petite, pretty, 23-year-old, mixed-race girl, with a serious drug problem that she funded through shop-lifting. She used Ian’s run-down flat as a base for her shop-lifting forays.
It was a tempestuous relationship from the start. My character, fired in the furnace of the institution, was hard, unyielding, uncompromising and totally focused. It wasn’t so much that I was selfish, rather just completely self-oriented from having to care only for myself for so long. At times it must have seemed to Janice that I was inconsiderate.
For her part, she was also moulded by the institution, courtesy of the various sentences she had served. This was further compounded by having to live by the chaotic and fratricidal rules of ‘the street’. If her paranoia wasn’t a clearly defined clinical condition, then its practical effects still served to make her distrustful of everyone. If it was a ‘marriage’ made in heaven, then the Great Creator must have been smiling whilst in the process of creation.
Before long we were deeply in love. That our characters and lifestyles were mutually self-destructive didn’t seem to matter. And even if it had there was nothing we could do about it. Our love for each other was an addiction in itself. Both of us, in our own ways, were very strong. Together, when in unison, we were indestructible. Friends often commented on the fact that, at times, we seemed to ‘shine’ together.
Janice died in front of a train. Afterwards, the police told me that she had been the victim of a ‘suicide-pact, serial killer’ (see my ‘Life After Life’). I was too devastated to consider the facts logically. Secretly I blamed myself for not being there for her. It coloured every aspect of my existence.
My one remaining positive passion was to gain recognition as a serious writer. Painful though it was, I embarked on writing my fourth book (number three, ‘Parkhurst Tales 2’ had been published a short time earlier). ‘Life After Life’ was to be an account of all that had happened to me since my last months at Ford. If I had thought that it would exorcise the ghosts, then I was to be disappointed.
Fearful that my latest literary effort might be ignored when finished, I set out to raise my public profile. Shortly after ‘Parkhurst Tales’ was published I found out that, as a published author, I was entitled to apply for a journalist’s card. I had done so at the time with no journalistic intent whatsoever.
Even though free from jail, in truth I had only been released on ‘life license’ and was forever under threat of being recalled to prison by the Home Office for any infraction of that license. One of the restrictions I was under was that I couldn’t travel abroad without Home Office permission. Received wisdom was that this was very difficult to get.
I reasoned that, as an accredited journalist, the Home Office would be reluctant to put me back in jail just for traveling abroad without permission. I knew that the European Court didn’t even accept the legality of the ‘life license’, so even if the H.O. did ‘recall’ me I would have a good case at ‘Europe’.
Now, just before the publication of my latest book, I thought I would use my journalist’s card to get some articles published. But where should I start? Would the national press even consider someone with a criminal record like mine? And even if they did, what would I write about?
As part of the round of launching my books, mostly in the media watering holes of Soho, I had met and become friendly with some of the young men who worked and wrote for the ‘Lad’s magazines’. These had recently become something of a publishing phenomenon. Initially I dismissed the medium, mostly because of the ‘tits and bums’ format.. However, it was explained to me that the readership included many ‘city boys’, young men who worked for City banks and other financial institutions and had large, disposable incomes. They were looking for a light-hearted and irreverent read to take their minds off the serious business of dealing in money. As a result these magazine had become very fashionable.
The market leaders amongst the ‘Lad’s mags’ were ‘Maxim’, ‘Loaded’ and ‘Front’, with fluctuating circulation figures per month of 500,000, 300,000 and 250,000 respectively. It was further explained to me that, on average, two people read every copy bought. So the prospect of reaching a readership of up to a million suddenly became very attractive to me.
One of the guys I had become friendly with was Bill Borrows, features editor at ‘Loaded’. A highly talented writer himself, he asked me to write for the magazine. He said that, if I could come up with a project, he would back it up by recommending me to the editor. I immediately began searching for a suitable subject.
I had always been interested in politics and was well-informed about most of the ongoing conflicts in the world. I reasoned that I could hardly compete with most of the established journalists, who, through the power of their organisations, would have things largely sown up. That ruled out many of the most easily accessible places. It left only the most dangerous and inaccessible places.
Fortunately, my political viewpoint was decidedly left wing, so I would have little difficulty in sympathizing with many of the guerilla movements. Whether this provided me with any sort of ‘in’ with them was another matter entirely. In jail, through the natural comradeship that springs up in shared, oppressive situations, I had become friendly with several leading IRA men. One in particular, Gerry Kelley, was now a senior figure in Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA. I rung him and asked if he could recommend me to any guerilla groups and provide an introduction.
Gerry baulked at the idea. He explained that, as a party, Sinn Fein just didn’t do things like that. He went on to say that there had been cases in the past where they had recommended someone and things had gone badly wrong. So I was back to square one.
Reading through some old newspaper articles that I had saved I came upon one about Colombia. There had been a guerilla war going on for almost 40 years. The article focused on the fact that the Government had ceded a large area of land to the main guerilla organization, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC.), where the latter had set up an unofficial ‘capital’ of their armed struggle. It was generally referred to as ‘Farcland’. Government forces stayed out of the area. I had my idea for a story. I would go to Colombia and do a story on ‘Farcland’.
The next problem was for me to convince ‘Loaded’ that I had some way of getting the story, that is, that I had some special access. The newspaper article had mentioned that FARC had a website and gave it’s address. I immediately e-mailed them, explaining that I was a journalist who generally sympathized with left wing revolutions and asked permission to come to their ‘capital’ and do a story on them.
Their reply two days later was as disappointing as it was unhelpful. Firstly, it was in Spanish, a language I didn’t speak at all With the translation came the second disappointment. They asked me to submit my request in Spanish.
However, I was confident that, once in Colombia, I could make contact with the guerillas. As dangerous as the place was I was savvy enough to know that modern-day guerilla movements tried to avoid harming or killing journalists, because that only brought down a storm of criticism from journalists of every persuasion. Anyway, Parkhurst prison had been a pretty dangerous place and I had survived that. So Colombia held no fears for me.
As non-committal as the reply from FARC had been, at least I could now say that I had been in contact with them. It was just a short step to saying that they were expecting me. With the encouragement of Bill Borrows it was enough to sway ‘Loaded’. Perhaps they figured that if I got myself killed there would be a story for them in that!
A meeting was duly convened at ‘Loaded’s offices where they introduced me to my photographer for the trip. ‘Loaded’ is 90% a visual magazine, so that part of the story had concerned me. Now, with my own professional photographer, that was taken care of.
I had met several photographers during my Soho jaunts and, in general, I hadn’t been impressed. I found them mostly to be narcissistic and obsessed by social status. Despite a thoroughly working class accent, my photographer, wasn’t to disappoint.
Trent was a sharp-featured, anxious-looking guy in his early thirties. Stylish, well-pressed clothes fitted snugly to his slim figure and he hadn’t a hair out of place. The word ‘fastidious’ immediately sprang to mind. The first twenty minutes of the conversation was all about him and his work. Then he touched briefly on all the celebrities he knew, segueing neatly at the end into a story about him and his close friend, a famous DJ.
This was my first assignment. I wasn’t about to grovel, but I would try to get on with everyone. In ‘underworld’ mode I would have been readying myself to give this Trent a strong put-down. Instead I focused on the promising things, namely his East End upbringing and his support for West Ham. I walked out of ‘Loaded’s offices with an air ticket to Colombia, £1,200 in expenses and my first journalistic assignment.