HMP Parc's grim exterior belies the enlightened attitude of its managers. In every sense it is a prison, made of concrete and steel and echoing with the same ubiquitous key jangling as every other prison I have been in. It holds around 600 men and boys serving sentences from a couple of years to life. For a secure category B jail it feels surprisingly calm.
Thanks to the prison's arts intervention manager, Phil Forder, I found myself standing in the prison library front of 40-odd prisoners of varying ages sitting in rows, including a number from the young offender unit. Forder waved a copy of my book, A Life Inside, and introduced me as the author. I was embarrassed at the ensuing polite applause.
When I began I spoke for a while about why I had agreed to come. "When I was in," I said, "the only people I met who had been in prison and got out were those who had returned after some failure or other. I seem to be succeeding, so far at least, and I thought it might be interesting to share a little of the experience."
The group was attentive. Some heads nodded, a few faces smiled as they recognised events I described that had happened inside and out. I said I often tried to explain to people "on the out" that during all my time in jail, and of all the people I met, I never came across anyone who appeared to enjoy being a prisoner, a convict, a criminal. Was I wrong? People on the out are often led to believe that the "cons" are having a ball in these places. Is that true? "Hands up who is having a good time in here," I said. was relieved to see that not a single hand was raised.
I talked a little more and then gave a short reading. A sad little tale about my old prison pal Toby Turner, whose party trick was to set fire to his pubic hair. They had a good laugh and then I asked if anyone had any questions.
The hand of a big man with close-cropped hair in the third row went up. He said he was coming to the end of a long sentence. "When you get out," he said quietly, "does the tension and the anxiety of life in here stay with you." It takes a while, I told him, but it subsides eventually. He looked healthy enough, but I could see the fatigue in his eyes.
A fresh faced, fit looking man whose straight bearing made him stand out in the crowd put up his hand. "I was a soldier," he said. "I gave them 22 years. When I got out I was lost. There's more help for prisoners getting out of jail than there is for men coming out of the army." I wasn't sure that was true, but I had no answer.
We talked a little more and finally a young Welsh prisoner with a shaved head and a spider tattoo on his neck spoke without putting up his hand. "Lots of us in here can't read or write," he said. "It's brilliant to see and hear real writers, inspiring like..."
I was touched, really touched. But suddenly I realised that that was exactly the point. Back out in the rainy car park the young man's words echoed in my head. I think Phil Forder and the Hay Festival director, Peter Florence, are on to something. Literacy deficiency is a massive problem for those in prison. Around 60% of prisoners have a reading age below that of a 10-year-old. Yet being able to read is a fundamentally required life skill. Perhaps now is time for a national prison literary festival. It could be, "...inspiring like..."
