David Shipley

On my first night in prison, I slept well. Perhaps the previous day’s stress and exhaustion played a part. Neither the thin rubber mattress, scratchy orange nylon blanket nor my feet hanging off the end of the bed stopped me falling into a deep sleep. Banging and shouting from other cells woke me a couple of times, but I soon slept again. When I woke, I felt surprisingly calm. My cellmate in HMP Wandsworth, Peter, seemed fine: stable, calm, not on drugs. And the bad thing I’d dreaded for years had finally happened. Here, imprisoned – sentenced to 45 months for fraud – I no longer had to torture myself with those fears. I looked about the cell. No kettle or TV. Two pieces of paper on the floor, just by the door. I climbed down and picked them up.

Before I went to prison I thought a lot about what it would be like. Almost a year passed after I pleaded guilty to fraud and my sentencing, in February 2020. Informed by TV and film, I expected prison would be violent, dangerous and drug-filled. I was terrified. On 6 February 2020, I arrived at Southwark Crown Court with a suitcase full of clothes, books, pens and paper. After the judge sentenced me to 45 months, a guard took me down into the holding area beneath the court. I handed over my property and had a brief meeting with my barrister. Then the guards locked me in a cell. The only objects in the cell were two small plastic benches, neither quite long enough to stretch out on. I sat. I wrote. I waited. Eventually the door opened.