Love Behind Bars

 My name is Bulldog, and I want to tell you a story about love — the kind you never expect, the kind that finds you in the most unlikely places.

I was thirty-two years old when it happened, locked up in prison. That was twenty years ago, but I remember it like yesterday. Back then, my world was small: grey walls, locked doors, the echo of keys in corridors, and the same faces every day. I thought love was something for other people — people who lived free lives on the outside. Me? I was just surviving my sentence.

Then she came along — my mate’s auntie. At first, it was casual, just someone who came to visit, someone kind enough to spend time with me when so many others forgot. She had this way of making the visiting room feel less like a cage and more like a meeting place between two worlds. The guards, the clatter of chairs, the clock on the wall ticking down our minutes — all of it faded when she smiled.

Those visits became my lifeline. She travelled all over the UK just to see me, no matter how far the prison was. Some days she’d show up tired from the journey, hair a little windswept, but her eyes were always bright, and that alone made the wait worth it.

When I wasn’t seeing her in person, I was hearing her voice. Two, sometimes three times a day, she’d pick up the phone. And you’ve got to understand, in a place where the hours drag heavy and every day feels the same, hearing her voice was like breathing fresh air. It reminded me I was still human, still capable of feeling something real.

Somewhere in those conversations, somewhere between the laughter, the comfort, and the little arguments about nothing at all, I realized I was in love with her. Not the kind of crush that fades, but the deep kind — the kind that grows even when you’re locked away.

But loving her came with guilt. More than once, I told her she should move on. I told her it wasn’t fair, that she deserved more than waiting around for someone like me. I didn’t want her trapped by my sentence, my mistakes.

Every time, though, she refused. She’d look me in the eye across that visiting room table, or say it steady and sure through the phone line:
“I’m in love with you.”

And she meant it.

I’ll never forget one of those visits. It was winter, cold enough that my breath fogged the glass as they led us into the visiting hall. The place smelled of disinfectant and cheap instant coffee. Chairs scraped on the floor as prisoners and visitors found each other, everyone trying to steal moments of normality in a place where nothing was normal.

And then she walked in.

She had this long coat on, buttoned up against the wind, and her hair was a little messy from the journey. But when her eyes found mine, everything else in that room disappeared. I swear, for a second, I didn’t feel like an inmate anymore. I just felt like a man seeing the woman he couldn’t wait to be near.

“Long trip?” I asked as she sat down across from me.

“Four hours on the train,” she said, shaking her head, then smiled. “Worth every minute.”

I laughed, even though my chest ached hearing that. I wanted to tell her not to keep doing it, not to waste her time. But I bit my tongue. Instead, we just talked — about life outside, about the little things I missed, like the taste of real food, the sound of music in a pub, the smell of rain when you’re not locked inside.

She’d lean forward when she talked, hands wrapped around a paper cup of tea, her voice soft but full of life. I drank in every word like it was freedom.

But then the officer’s voice would cut through: “Ten minutes left.”
That was always the hardest part. Her eyes would drop, mine too. I hated seeing her pack up her things, pulling her coat back on, bracing herself for the journey home while I stayed behind.

Once, as she stood up to leave, I said it out loud, what I’d been holding back:
“You should move on. Find someone who can actually be there for you. Not someone stuck in here.”

She turned, looked straight at me. And with a calmness that shook me, she said,
“Bulldog, I’m in love with you. Don’t you get it? I’m not trapped. I chose this.”

Her words hit me harder than any sentence ever could. For days after, I thought about them. About her. About us.

The hardest part of every visit wasn’t the waiting, or the guards watching us, or even the time ticking away on the clock. It was the ending.

I remember one visit in particular. She had come hours to see me, and the visit had been perfect. We’d laughed, we’d talked, even sat in silence, just looking at each other like that was enough. But when the officer’s voice broke the spell: “Time’s up. Visitors, please make your way out,” I felt my chest drop.

She stood slowly, pulling her coat tight, giving me that look — the one that always cut through me. Her eyes were wet, and though she tried to hide it with a quick smile, tears started to fall.

I wanted to reach out, to hold her, to wipe them away, but all I could do was sit there, trapped by rules and walls. My own eyes burned, and one tear slipped down my face, just enough to sting and remind me how much it hurt watching her walk away.

Twenty years have passed since then, and life hasn’t made things easy. In that time, she’s faced cancer — twice. The first time, I was broken. Trapped behind walls while the woman I loved fought for her life, I felt powerless and terrified. I cried in places where men don’t cry. I cursed the world for keeping me from her side.

But she fought. My God, she fought. Every call, every visit, she came back with that fire in her eyes. She beat it.

Then it returned. The second time, it hit harder. But once again, she rose up and fought, and once again, she won. Those battles showed me what real strength looks like, and it wasn’t in my fists or reputation — it was in her.

Through it all, our love didn’t just survive. It grew. Roots so deep that nothing — not walls, not years, not even cancer — could tear them out.

And now, looking back, I see it all clearly. From prison visits to phone calls, from the tears at the end of every visit to the battles with cancer, every struggle brought us closer. Every moment reminded me that love isn’t about the easy days — it’s about standing by each other when the world tries to pull you apart.

We’ve fought battles most people couldn’t imagine. And yet, here we are, stronger than ever. Every scar, every heartache, every fight has only made our bond deeper.

I see her now, and I feel that same rush I felt the first time I saw her walk into the visiting hall. But now it’s tempered with gratitude, with awe, with a quiet understanding that life is fragile, and love is rare. She’s not just the woman I fell for in prison — she’s my partner, my friend, my family, the person who has made the impossible feel ordinary, simply by being by my side.

We’ll face whatever comes next together. Life will continue to test us, but we’ve proven we can survive anything. Because love isn’t just what you feel — it’s what you survive.

And we survived. Together.

Former prison officer from Mitcham accused of having a personal relationship with a teenage inmate at HMP Cookham Wood in Rochester

 A former prison officer accused of having a personal relationship with a teenage inmate and taking cannabis into prison has denied the allegations.

Ruta Indrasiunaite is accused of having a relationship with 17-year-old Royston Perry at HMP Cookham Wood, a Young Offenders’ Institution in Rochester, between April and November 2021.

The 38-year-old appeared before magistrates in Sevenoaks on July 31, after being charged with three offences.

ndrasiunaite, of Pitcairn Road, Mitcham, Greater London, is accused of misconduct in public office, bringing a prohibited article to a prison and taking a restricted document out of the establishment the same year.

It’s alleged she engaged in a personal relationship with Perry, who is now 21, between April 29, 2021 and November 30, the same year.

She is said to have brought cannabis into the establishment and is alleged to have taken a restricted document out of the prison, namely a list of approved PIN telephone numbers for a prisoner, between the same dates.

She pleaded not guilty to all the offences when she appeared at the court in Morewood Close, via the Cloud Video Platform (CVP) from her home in Mitcham.

She had been granted permission to appear via CVP and not in person because she had just had a baby.

The court heard two out of three of the offences were indictable only, and so all three cases needed to be sent to the crown court to be dealt with.

Perry also appeared in the dock at the same court during a separate hearing via CVP from the prison he is being held in after he was charged with three offences.

These were two counts of conspiring with another to bring prohibited articles into the prison, namely drugs and mobile phones, and bringing a prohibited article into the prison, namely cannabis, between the same period.

He didn’t give any indication of pleas in relation to his charges and the cases were also sent to the crown court to be dealt with.

Indrasiunaite was granted bail while Perry is currently being held in HMP Bristol. Both are expected to appear at Maidstone Crown Court for their preliminary hearings on August 29.

HMP Berwyn report

you can get accsess to the HMP Berwyn inspector report  by visiting this link and clicking on the file 
https://hmiprisons.justiceinspectorates.gov.uk/hmipris_reports/hmp-berwyn-2

Windsor prison guard who kissed inmate and sent explicit images is sentenced

 A prison officer from Windsor has been handed a suspended jail sentence after she sent explicit images of herself to an inmate and kissed them while on duty.

Chloe Hobbs, 23, was sentenced to 14 months’ in prison, suspended for two years, on a charge of misconduct in a public office at Oxford Crown Court on Wednesday (August 6).

Hobbs, from Gallys Road in Windsor, was also ordered to complete 180 hours of unpaid work, a 10-hour rehabilitation course, and pay court costs of £1000 at the sentencing.

Police said Hobbs' actions had ‘eroded confidence in the prison system’ and her conviction showed ‘misuse of authority will be met with decisive action’.

Hobbs was serving as a prison officer at HMP Huntercombe, near Nuffield in Oxfordshire, when her offences were uncovered in November 2023.

A contraband mobile phone had been seized from an inmate at the prison, which contained the explicit images sent directly from Hobbs.

Hobbs had also kissed the prisoner while on duty, she admitted in messages to a friend found on the phone.

Further investigation by police uncovered payments worth £2,800 sent from the inmates’ partner to Hobbs.

Hobbs was charged on March 4, 2025. She pleaded guilty to the charge of misconduct in a public office on May 8.

The investigation was led by prison intelligence officers from the South East Regional Organised Crime Unit (SEROCU), and HM Prisons and Probation Service (HMPPS) Counter Corruption Unit.

Huntercombe Prison is a jail in Oxfordshire for foreign national men, according to the Government's website. 

Head of SEROCU, Detective Chief Superintendent Steve Boniface, said: “We continue to work in close partnership with HMPPS Counter Corruption Unit to identify and bring to justice the small number of staff who violate the standards expected in public service.

“Hobbs’ actions eroded confidence in the prison system, all while she was serving in a role of considerable responsibility.

“This conviction sends a clear signal: no individual is above scrutiny. Misuse of authority will be met with decisive action.”

Pete Chatten, Head of HMPPS' Counter Corruption Unit, said: “This sentencing highlights the vital work of the Counter Corruption Unit in holding the minority of staff who break the rules accountable for their actions. 

"Through intelligence-led operations and our close collaboration with policing partners, we are intensifying efforts to clamp down on individuals whose behaviour undermines the security of our prisons."

another article from the inside times

 

article from inside times

 

the forgotten sentance. part 4

 Tomorrow I’ve got a legal visit. The first of many. These meetings aren’t small things for me—they’re the beginning of what feels like another war, another fight to prove who I really am against the stack of papers that say otherwise. Every page of my dossier, every paragraph written by people who don’t even know me, is a weapon being used to keep me locked in here.

This visit will be about peeling those lies apart, one by one. Highlighting the false stories, the fake claims, the fabrications probation love to write as if they were gospel. For them, it’s easy—sit at a desk, type a few lines, and suddenly their words become “fact.” But for me, those words are chains. Those reports are the reason I sit here year after year, watching the calendar bleed away my life.

I know how this goes. I’ve been through it too many times. The solicitor will sit across from me, dossier open, pen in hand. We’ll go line by line, and I’ll have to explain how each part is false, twisted, or exaggerated. I’ll have to defend myself against stories I’ve never lived, claims I’ve never made, and conditions I’ve never broken. It’s like fighting a shadow—you can swing all you want, but it’s always there, waiting to suffocate you.

And then there’s the licence conditions. That’s the part that burns the most. Probation dress them up as “protective measures,” but I know what they really are: traps. Designed to catch me out the second I step foot outside these walls. They’re not meant to help me reintegrate, they’re meant to set me up to fail. It’s modern-day entrapment, wrapped up in legal jargon.

I’ve already seen some of the conditions they want to slap on me if I ever walk through those gates. One of them says I can’t return to the area where my family live. My family—the only ones who’ve stood by me for thirty-five years. The people who’ve carried me through my darkest days. They’re not linked to my offence, they’ve got nothing to do with my incarceration, but somehow probation think banning me from them makes sense. They’re my lifeline, my support, my reason to keep pushing forward. To take them away from me is to strip away the last bit of hope I’ve got.

Another condition talks about towns and areas I’m supposedly not allowed to visit. Places that mean nothing to my case, but suddenly, on paper, they’re treated like danger zones. It’s laughable, really. They could write down anywhere, any place at all, and it becomes law for me. Miss a bus and step off in the wrong postcode, and they’ll say I’ve breached my licence. Straight back inside, no questions asked. That’s not rehabilitation. That’s control. That’s slavery in a different uniform.

I’ve heard the same stories from countless others. Lads who finally got parole, thought they were free, only to find themselves tripped up by impossible conditions. Curfews so tight they couldn’t even work a proper job. Areas so restricted they couldn’t visit their kids. Rules so petty it was like being punished all over again, just with a different set of walls. The system doesn’t want us to succeed. They want us back in here, filling beds, justifying budgets.

That’s why this legal visit matters. Because it’s not just about proving who I am—it’s about fighting against a machine designed to keep me locked down no matter what I do.

Tonight, before the meeting, I sit in my cell and think about how much of my future is already written down in that dossier. Words written by strangers, by people who don’t care, by people who’ve never lived a single day behind bars. They don’t know the reality of prison life. They don’t know what it’s like to lose family year after year, to live with the ghosts of your own mistakes, to try and rebuild yourself in a place that was built to break you. But still, they get to decide my fate.

So tomorrow, I’ll go into that room. I’ll sit across from my solicitor, dossier on the table, and I’ll fight. I’ll point out the lies, expose the contradictions, rip apart the fabrications. Because if I don’t, nobody else will. If I stay quiet, their story becomes the truth. And I refuse to let that happen.

This isn’t rehabilitation. This isn’t justice. This is survival.

The morning of the visit comes, and already I can feel the weight in my chest. It’s strange, how after all these years, you still get nerves over things like this. I’ve faced fights, lockdowns, riots, stabbings—you name it. But walking into a room with paperwork that decides your future? That still makes my stomach twist.

They call my name over the tannoy, and I make my way down. The corridors smell of bleach and damp, like always. Every screw I pass gives me the same blank look, like they know but don’t care. To them, it’s just another appointment. To me, it’s my life on the line.

When I get into the visit room, my solicitor’s already there. She’s got a stack of papers in front of her—my dossier. The pile looks thicker than ever. Every page a piece of my history, written not by me, but about me. Written by strangers, liars, and “professionals” who wouldn’t last a week behind these walls.

We sit down. She doesn’t waste time with small talk, she just opens the folder and starts. And that’s when it begins—the tearing apart of my so-called profile.

The first page is some psychological assessment, full of buzzwords and empty phrases: “risk factors,” “concerns,” “limited progress.” I can’t help but laugh, bitterly. Limited progress? I’ve done every course they’ve shoved in front of me. I’ve kept my head down, avoided trouble, even mentored younger lads coming in. But all that gets ignored. Instead, they write what fits their narrative.

We move on to the probation reports. Same story. Fabrications dressed up as facts. Things like “he remains connected to criminal associates.” Who? Name one. They can’t, because there aren’t any. I’ve cut all ties to that life. The only people I’m connected to are my family, and yet here they are trying to paint me as someone waiting to reoffend the second I walk free.

I feel the anger bubbling up, but I have to keep it controlled. Getting angry won’t change the words on the page. So I explain, calmly, point by point, why it’s wrong. My solicitor listens, takes notes, nods. She’s good—one of the few who actually gives a damn—but even she admits how hard it is to get these lies corrected. Once it’s written, it sticks.

Then we reach the licence conditions. My hands clench before she even starts reading them out. No contact with family in certain areas. Restrictions on travel. Curfews so strict they’d make holding a job nearly impossible.

One condition even says I’m not to be in “unsupervised contact with minors.” My solicitor pauses before reading it out, because she knows how much that one cuts. My great-nieces and nephews—they’ve grown up without me. And now, even if I get out, this condition would mean I can’t even hold them, can’t sit in the same room with them, without it being seen as a breach.

The funny thing is, my offence isn’t even against minors. Never has been. So why is probation making these stories up? Why create conditions that have no connection to the truth, no connection to my actual offence? It’s just another way to twist the knife, to keep me further away from the little family I have left. Another fabrication added to the pile, another reason to set me up for failure.

That’s when it hits me again—this system doesn’t want me to live. It wants me to exist under constant threat, one slip away from being dragged back inside. Freedom with a leash so tight it chokes.

The meeting goes on for hours. By the end, my head’s pounding, but I’ve said my piece. I’ve exposed the lies, highlighted the fabrications, shown where probation twisted the truth. Will it make a difference? I don’t know. I’ve been through this enough times to know that sometimes it doesn’t matter how strong your arguments are—the system always has the last word.

When I’m escorted back to my cell, dossier still on my mind, I sit on the bed and stare at the wall. The noise of the wing carries on outside—lads shouting, screws banging doors—but I barely hear it. All I can think about is how much of my life is trapped inside those pages, how much of my future depends on people I’ll never truly know.

And I realise something: tomorrow, next week, next month—it’ll all be the same battle. Because for men like me, parole isn’t about proving we’ve changed. It’s about proving we can survive a system built to see us fail.

Unseen Battles: Life with Bulldog Behind Bars, part 3

The days after the visit feel different. The world hasn’t magically changed—my problems are still here, the weight of depression still lingers, the parole board is still a looming wall. But something inside me is lighter, like I’ve been carrying this boulder for years and finally set it down, even if just for a moment.

I catch myself replaying the hug in my head—the feel of his arms, the solidness of him, the way it wasn’t just a wave or a nod this time. It was real. And for once, I don’t feel like I’m chasing shadows of a family I never got to fully have.

School feels a little less like a battlefield. I don’t suddenly become the top student or the most focused person in class, but when the dark thoughts creep in—the ones that whisper I’m not enough, that I’m failing, that I’ll never make it—I push back with his voice. The way he said, “You’re stronger than you think.” The way he looked at me like I was worth every mile I traveled to see him.

At work, when exhaustion eats at me and I want to quit, I remember the patience in his eyes. The way he’s survived decades in a place designed to strip a person down to nothing, and still he found a way to give me hope. If he can carry that weight, then I can carry mine.

Even my depression feels different. It’s not gone—mental illness doesn’t vanish overnight—but it feels less like a curse I’m battling alone. It feels like something I’m allowed to admit, something I can talk about with him, something we both can hold without shame. Because if he can tell me his fears, if he can share the cracks he tries to hide, then maybe I don’t have to hide mine either.

I start writing more. Letters to him, letters I may never send, letters to myself. Stories about our visits, about my dreams, about the world I imagine us building once he’s free. Putting words on paper feels like planting seeds in the dark. They may take time, but someday, they’ll grow.

And slowly, I realize that hope isn’t just waiting for a future where everything is perfect. Hope is choosing to live right now, even in the mess, even in the heartbreak, even when freedom feels impossibly far away.

Because that visit taught me something I didn’t fully understand before: he isn’t just waiting for me to carry him. He’s carrying me too. And together, even across walls and years, we’re holding each other up.

The fight isn’t over. The parole board still sits behind their desks, unmoved by stories like ours. The distance still hurts. The nights still get long and lonely.

But now, when I close my eyes, I don’t just see the walls. I see the crack of light breaking through.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe it: one day, he’s coming home.

After that visit, something shifted in me that I couldn’t put back. Carrying his story in silence didn’t feel right anymore. It wasn’t just my private grief, or our family’s pain—it was a reflection of something bigger, something wrong that too many people were living through.

So I started speaking.

At first it was small—conversations with classmates when they asked why I looked tired after another long weekend trip. I didn’t give them the usual vague answers. Instead, I said it straight: “I was visiting my uncle. He’s been in prison longer than I’ve been alive. He should’ve been home years ago.”

Some people got quiet. Some gave me that pity look I’ve come to hate. But others listened—really listened. And a few even asked questions, questions that gave me the chance to tell them who Bulldog really is, beyond the label the system stamped on him.

That gave me courage.

I started writing about it too—on forums, in essays for school, even in the margins of my notebooks. I wrote about the bus rides, the waiting rooms, the way the parole board reduces human lives to paper. I wrote about the hole in my life, about the way love can survive in places designed to kill it.

And one day, a professor read one of my essays and told me I should share it more widely. That my words had weight. That maybe, just maybe, they could reach people who’d never think about what it means for a family to live this way.

It terrified me. But it also felt like the next step.

The first time I spoke publicly was at a small campus event. My hands shook so badly I could hardly hold the paper I’d written my notes on. My throat tightened, my voice cracked, and I kept waiting for someone to dismiss me, to tell me it wasn’t important.

But when I finished, the room was silent. Not the kind of silence that means no one cares—the kind of silence that means the words landed, heavy, in places people didn’t expect.

Afterward, a girl came up to me and whispered, “My brother’s locked up too. I’ve never told anyone.” And in that moment, I knew I wasn’t just carrying Bulldog’s story. I was carrying hers too. And countless others.

The fight stopped being just mine and his. It became bigger. A movement, even if small. A ripple against a system that thrives on silence.

Every call with my uncle feels different now. I tell him about the people who heard his story, about the classmates who said they’d never thought about prison that way before, about the girl with the brother behind bars. And for the first time, I hear something new in his voice when he responds. Not just hope—pride.

He tells me I’m doing what he can’t. That while he’s trapped behind walls, I’m making sure his voice isn’t. That together, we’re fighting in two different ways—but fighting all the same.

And I think maybe that’s what family is supposed to be. Not perfect. Not whole. But a promise: I won’t let your story disappear. I won’t let you disappear.

The parole board still hasn’t changed. The system still grinds on. But I’m not waiting in silence anymore.

I’m speaking. I’m writing. I’m fighting.

And somewhere, deep in those walls, I know he’s standing taller because of it.

Just Stop Oil says just stop unfair licence conditions

 Jailed members of environmental pressure group Just Stop Oil are planning to bring legal action to have what they describe as overly-restrictive and unlawful probation conditions scrapped. They say that unjustified requirements such as being unable to associate with any person currently or formerly associated with the group, or being barred from participating in meetings or contributing to websites without approval, prevents them from leading a normal life.

One woman, soon to be released, describes the conditions as being “not measurable, clear, or defined”. She said: “In some respects my freedom is greater when incarcerated. If I break my probation conditions, the punishment will be a recall to prison where I will once again be able to make calls and have visits from my mates.” 

One Just Stop Oil supporter was told that he would not be able to attend any meetings including meetings of his local Labour party. Another has been forbidden from meeting with his girlfriend, on the grounds that she is also a Just Stop Oil supporter. The group says that its supporters are routinely treated like extremists, with licence conditions that go way beyond the standard for other offenders.

It agrees that conditions that forbid its members from undertaking the activities that led to their convictions, such as blocking roads, are understandable, but says that clamping down on commenting on the beliefs they follow and attending political meetings held by the party that is in Government in this country are infringements of freedom of speech. It further claims that banning people from being with their partner just because of shared political views is contrary to the right to a family life. 

Just Stop Oil members also point out that, whilst in prison, they could have two-hour visits with their friends, and call them on the telephone, and even publish articles in newspapers, but once out they cannot do any of these things.

questions i have been asked by you.

 

These are some of the questions I have been asked by you regarding my life as a discretionary lifer with 35 years under my belt. I will be answering them in the coming days

1. Early Life and Background

• What was your life like before incarceration?

• How did your upbringing influence the path that led you to prison?

• Were there specific events or circumstances you feel shaped your choices as a teenager?

---

2. Initial Experience in Prison

• What do you remember about your first days inside?

• How did you cope with the sudden change from freedom to incarceration?

• Did you have any mentors or allies when you first arrived?

---

3. Life Inside

• How did your daily routine evolve over the years?

• What were some of the hardest challenges you faced inside?

• Did you pursue education, work, or skills training while incarcerated?

• How did relationships with other inmates or staff change over time?

---

4. Personal Growth and Reflection

• How has your perspective on life changed since being incarcerated?

• What lessons have you learned about yourself and society?

• Are there decisions you regret or would have made differently?

---

5. Coping and Mental Health

• How did you deal with loneliness, stress, or fear over the years?

• Were there hobbies, routines, or practices that helped you stay sane?

• Did you have access to counseling, therapy, or spiritual guidance?

---

6. Society and the Outside World

• How have you seen society change since you were first incarcerated?

• What surprises you most about the world today?

• What would you like people outside to understand about prison life?

---

7. Advice and Legacy

• What advice would you give to young people who might be at risk of incarceration?

• If you could communicate with your younger self, what would you say?

• How do you hope to impact others, either inside or after release (if possible)?

Unseen Battles: Life with Bulldog Behind Bars, part 2

Some nights, I lie awake and imagine what it’ll be like when he finally walks out. The door opens, the world is waiting, and I’m there, just like I’ve always imagined. Will it feel real, or will it feel like I’ve been dreaming all these years? Will we know each other instantly, or will there be awkward pauses, years of absence folded into every word?

I picture us doing the simplest things—watching a game on TV, arguing over which movie to watch, making terrible pancakes on a Sunday morning. Things most families take for granted. Things I’ve never had the chance to take for granted.

I think about the people who don’t understand why I hold on so tightly to a man who’s been locked away longer than I’ve been alive. They ask why I care so much, why I make the trips, why I don’t just accept it and move on. They don’t get it. They don’t see the gap he’s left in my life, the hand that should have been there to steady me.

I’ve tried to explain it, but words feel useless. How do you explain a love that doesn’t fit neatly into their ideas of family or justice? How do you explain that every small victory I have, every step forward in school, every day I survive the depression—it’s all tethered to him, to his fight, to the belief that we’re not broken beyond repair?

Sometimes, I think he fights too. Behind those walls, through the routine and the monotony, he fights to stay himself, to stay strong for me, to make sure when he comes home, he’s still the man I’ve been waiting for. I imagine him reading, writing letters, maybe even doing push-ups in his cell—anything to keep the fire alive.

And in the quiet moments, when the loneliness and the anger hit hardest, I remind myself: he’s not gone. Not really. Not while I carry him in my stories, in my hopes, in the small ways I try to make him proud.

Maybe one day, we’ll get a second chance at normal. Maybe the system will crack, maybe justice will bend in a way that finally lets him walk free. And when that day comes, I’ll be there, running toward him like I’ve been running toward that moment my whole life.

Until then, I keep living in the space between visits and phone calls, between hope and heartbreak. And in that space, I find something precious: resilience. The ability to survive. The ability to keep loving. The ability to wait for a day that feels impossibly far away but is, in my heart, always coming.

Because love, even when trapped behind walls, doesn’t fade. It waits, patient and stubborn, for the moment it can breathe again. And I’ve learned something important: waiting doesn’t make us weak. Waiting makes us strong.

The day starts like any other visit day, but there’s a tension in the air I can’t shake. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s the mixture of both that makes my stomach twist like it’s trying to tie itself into a knot.

The bus ride is long, the hours stretching like they always do, but today, I hardly notice. I keep thinking about what it will feel like to see him again, to finally hold a conversation that isn’t rushed, that doesn’t end with a wave across glass.

When I step into the visiting hall, my heart skips a beat. And there he is—Bulldog. Older than I remember from the last visit, yes, but still unmistakably him. There’s a spark in his eyes, a flash of the man who taught me to keep fighting even when the world seems determined to break us.

This time, the rules are different. The glass is gone, and we sit across a table, just a few feet apart. I can see the lines etched into his face, the hands calloused and worn, but I also see relief. Relief that I made it. Relief that we’re finally here, in the same space, without barriers.

We start talking, slowly at first. Tentative words that feel like testing the waters, like trying to see if the other is still the person you’ve been imagining for years. And then the words flow, unbroken. He listens when I speak, and I finally get to hear him speak without the muffling of distance or barriers.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like a real family. Not stories, not fleeting moments squeezed into schedules. Real. Present. Alive.

He asks about my school, my friends, my struggles. I ask about him—about the years he’s spent away, the fights he’s had to fight just to stay upright, the dreams he still holds. We laugh at small things, share memories, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the years apart never happened.

And then, something shifts. I see the weariness in his eyes give way to something else—hope. And I realize, maybe for the first time, that hope isn’t just mine to carry. It’s ours. Shared, doubled, stronger than it’s ever been.

When the time to leave comes, it’s hard, harder than ever. But this time, there’s a hug. Real. Solid. And it’s enough to remind me that while the world outside still moves in cruel, indifferent ways, inside these moments, we are unbroken.

The bus ride home is quiet, but this time it isn’t heavy. It’s full. Full of possibility. Full of plans. Full of the knowledge that one day, the waiting will end, and until then, we’ve got this. We’ve got each other, and that is more than enough to keep fighting.

the forgotten sentance part 3

I’m in the sixth month of my parole window. Six months of ticking clock hands, endless forms, and pointless meetings. I’ve been dragged into plenty of appointments with so-called “professionals” who are busy putting together my dossier—the stack of papers that will supposedly decide my future. But here’s the truth… I’ve still had no contact with probation. Not a call. Not a visit. Nothing.

And that’s no surprise to me. They’re fabricators and liars, every last one of them. They sit in their offices, miles away from reality, pretending to know what life in prison is like. But they don’t. Not one bit. They have no experience of what it’s like to live day after day behind these walls, to survive in a place where violence is normal, where hope is something you have to protect like it’s your last possession.

I’m supposed to have contact with the hostel at least four months before my parole hearing—time to sort out where I’ll stay, how I’ll adjust, how I’ll try to live outside again. But probation aren’t working with me. They’re dragging their heels, pushing everything to the last minute, like they want me to fail before I even get the chance to stand in front of the board.

It doesn’t take a genius to see where this is going. If they keep this up, I won’t be getting out. Not because I’m not ready. Not because I’m a danger. But because the system is built to fail people like me.

Every day in this window feels like walking on the edge of a blade. You know the hearing is coming, you know your whole future could depend on it, but you’ve got no control over the people holding the pen. I can prepare all I want, attend every meeting they throw at me, sit through endless “offender management” nonsense—but if probation want to stall me, they will.

They make you believe it’s about progress, about showing change, but it’s not. It’s about paperwork and politics. They’ve turned my life into a file full of lies, exaggerations, and made-up risk factors. They’ll write that I’m a danger, that I can’t be trusted, that I’m “not suitable” for release. But none of it is based on fact—it’s all opinion. The opinion of someone who’s never walked a wing, never lived in here, never had to fight just to survive another day.

You’re supposed to work with probation, but when the only contact you get is through rumours and second-hand messages, what’s the point? I’ve had probation officers in the past who didn’t even bother to meet me before writing reports. They’ve got their minds made up before they even read my case. This one’s no different.

And then there’s the hostel situation. That’s the supposed first step to getting out—getting a place sorted where they can “monitor” you. But I’m six months into my parole window and there’s still been no move to set it up. That’s a four-month process, minimum. Do the maths—it’s already too late. Which means I’ll go to the board without an address, without a release plan. And without that, they’ll just say “come back in two years.” It’s the same cycle, over and over.

I’ve been through this too many times. I’ve stood in front of the board, told them the truth, shown them the progress I’ve made, and still been knocked back. Every time they say the same thing—“more work needs to be done.” I’ve been doing that “work” for 35 years. When does it end?

The truth is, it’s never been about rehabilitation. That’s just a word they throw around to make the public think they care. The real aim is to keep the machine running. Keep the beds filled, keep the funding rolling in, keep the statistics in their favour. We’re not people to them. We’re numbers. Numbers that make money.

I’ll go to the hearing when they finally set it, because I have to. I’ll sit there and listen to the same speeches, the same fake concern. And deep down, I’ll already know the answer. That’s the worst part—not the waiting, not the lies, but knowing your fate’s already been decided before you even walk through the door.

The closer it gets, the more the pressure builds—not just in my head, but in the whole wing. Other lads start asking, “When’s your board, Bulldog?” and I just shrug, because half the time I don’t even know myself. Dates change. Meetings get pushed back. One week you think you’re moving forward, the next you’re right back where you started.

Nights are the worst. Lying there staring at the ceiling, thinking about what freedom might actually feel like after all these years. I try not to get my hopes up, but you can’t stop your mind from wandering. I picture walking out the gates, breathing air that isn’t laced with disinfectant and damp. I picture sitting with my family without a Perspex screen between us. Then reality creeps in—probation’s lies, the lack of a hostel, the fact that the board will probably use those excuses to keep me in.

I’ve seen what this process does to people. Grown men, hard as nails, crushed after hearing “refused” for the fifth, sixth, seventh time. Some never recover from it. They just give up, stop trying, stop caring. I promised myself I wouldn’t be one of them, but each knock-back chips away at you until there’s barely anything left.

The worst part is knowing I’ve done everything they’ve ever asked. Every course, every piece of work, kept my record clean, stayed out of trouble. But it’s never enough, because the target keeps moving. One year it’s “do this program,” the next year it’s “we want more evidence of change.” They want to keep you jumping through hoops until you trip.

I’m not naïve. I know my past is my past, and I’ve owned it. But if the system can’t recognise when someone’s served their time and proved they’re ready, then it’s not justice—it’s just control. And that’s all this is.

So I wait. I keep my head down, keep going to the meetings, keep pretending like the outcome isn’t already written in someone’s file. Deep down, I already know my fate. But until they say it, there’s still that one tiny spark of hope—and that spark is what keeps you alive in here.

The morning of the hearing starts earlier than most. They bang on my door before the sun’s even up, telling me to get ready. I barely sleep the night before anyway, so I’m already dressed and sitting on the edge of my bed when the door opens.

They take me to a side room—a cold, echoing place with peeling paint and that faint smell of damp paper that all prison offices have. A table sits in the middle, too small for the weight of what’s about to be decided on it. On the table is my dossier, a thick stack of paper full of words about me that I didn’t write, stories that don’t belong to me but will decide my future.

Then the board comes in. Three of them. They don’t look like people who have ever spent a single day behind bars. Clean shoes, crisp shirts, that smug air of people who believe they understand you because they’ve read a file.

They start with the usual questions—where I’d live, what work I’d do, who I’d be around. All questions I’ve answered a hundred times before. I tell them the truth: my family are my anchor, my stability, my lifeline. And then I watch one of them scribble something in their notes without even looking at me.

They bring up the probation report—the same one that says I can’t live near my family, even though they’ve never been connected to my offence. I ask how that makes sense. No answer. Just the same look, the same fake nod, the same script they’ve been using for decades.

At one point, one of them leans forward and says, “Do you think you’ve changed?” I tell them, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t still be here talking to you. I’d have given up years ago.” They don’t react. Just another note in the file.

An hour feels like a day. The questions keep coming, some twisted to catch me out, some so vague I’m not sure what they’re even asking. And all the while, I can feel the decision already hanging in the air. You can tell when a room’s already decided your fate—you can see it in the way they avoid your eyes.

When it’s over, they say the words I’ve heard too many times: “We’ll let you know in due course.” Which means days, maybe weeks, before I get the knock on my door with the answer I already know.

Walking back to my cell, the weight settles back on my shoulders. But I’ve learned something over the years—no matter how many times they knock you down, you can’t let them take away that last bit of hope. That’s the only thing they can’t lock away.

The days after the hearing are the slowest I’ve ever known. In prison, time usually blurs together—one day bleeding into the next—but when you’re waiting on a parole decision, every second drags.

You start hearing every set of footsteps in the corridor, wondering if they’re coming for you. Every time a screw stops outside your door, you think, This is it. Then they just move on, and the silence that follows is deafening.

I keep myself busy—reading, doing laps in my cell, writing letters I’m not even sure I’ll send—but your mind still drifts back to that room. You replay the questions, the looks, the scribbles on their notepads. You start thinking about what you could have said differently, even though deep down you know it wouldn’t have mattered.

The other lads on the wing, they’ve seen it before. They don’t bother giving false hope. A few of them try to keep me distracted, talking about football or the news, but every conversation eventually circles back to the board. It’s like this unspoken cloud hanging over me, and everyone can feel it.

Nights are the worst. Lying in the dark, all you’ve got is your thoughts. And mine are split in two—half of me daring to picture the gates opening, the other half preparing for another knock-back. It’s a mental tug-of-war, and neither side ever really wins.

I think about my family a lot. Wondering if they’re thinking about me, if they’re counting down the days like I am. Wondering if they’re scared to get their hopes up too, just in case. That’s the thing about this process—it doesn’t just punish you, it punishes everyone who loves you.

And so I wait. Every day the same routine, every night the same thoughts. Knowing that at any moment, a slip of paper could decide whether I walk out of here or sit in this cell for another two years.

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Unseen Battles: Life with Bulldog Behind Bars, part 1

 I’m 20 years old. My name doesn’t really matter here, but what does matter is my uncle—Bulldog, we call him. He’s been in prison longer than I’ve been alive. That’s not just a fact—it’s a life sentence that’s stretched across my entire world.

I only really know him from stories. Stories told by family at gatherings that don’t happen often enough. Stories shared in quick phone calls that are always cut short. And the few hours we get during visits, squeezed between long, exhausting journeys and the crushing weight of prison walls.

This isn’t a family life. A family should be together. They should argue, laugh, share meals, and lean on each other when things get tough. But for me, those moments are rare and broken up by distance and locked doors.

I suffer from depression. It’s a battle I fight every day, mostly alone. There are days when the weight feels unbearable, when I crumble under the pressure of school, work, and just trying to figure out who I am without my uncle by my side.

When his voice comes through the phone—rough, tired, but steady—I can hear it. I can hear the pain beneath the words. I can tell he just wants to be here for me. To catch me when I fall. To help build me back up when life tears me down.

But he can’t.

Because of the rigged parole board, because of the system set up to keep him locked away, he isn’t here. I don’t have him to hold me when the nights get dark. I don’t have him to tell me it’s going to be okay. And that hurts him as much as it hurts me.

I think about all the things we’ve missed—the birthdays, the holidays, the simple moments like watching a football game together or just sitting quietly in the same room. It’s like there’s a hole in my life where he should be, and no matter how loud I try to fill it, it’s always there.

Sometimes, when the silence gets too loud, I wonder what life would have been like if he was here. If the parole board wasn’t just a rubber stamp designed to keep him away. If family actually meant more than a checkbox on some official’s list.

But I hold on to the hope that one day, things will change. That one day, I’ll get to call him my uncle—not just in stories, not just in fleeting visits, but in real life.

Until then, I carry both of us. His fight is my fight. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going.

The day of a visit is like walking into a different world. From the moment I wake up, my mind races—what will it be like this time? Will I see him smile, even just a little? Or will he look tired and worn down, like the weight of the years has been pressed into his face since the last visit?

Getting there isn’t easy. The prison is nearly 400 miles away, which means hours on a bus or train that’s always late or overcrowded. The money it costs is another mountain—bus fare, food, the small expenses that add up when you’re already stretched thin. But none of that stops me. I’d walk a thousand miles if I had to, just to spend a few hours with him.

When I arrive, there’s the security checks—lining up with dozens of other families, all with the same mix of hope and dread. Metal detectors, body searches, ID checks. You get stripped of everything but yourself, and even that feels like it’s not really yours anymore.

Then comes the waiting. The waiting to be called, the waiting to walk through those heavy doors. And finally, the moment you see him.

He’s sitting there, behind the glass or across the table depending on the prison rules, and for a second, it feels like time stops. The world shrinks to just the two of us. I see the lines on his face, the tired eyes, but also the strength that’s kept him going all these years.

We talk through the glass or across the table, and it’s hard not to feel the distance—not just physical but the space that all these years apart have created. He tries to keep his voice steady, but sometimes I hear the cracks—the pain he tries so hard to hide.

I tell him about school, my friends, my struggles with depression. He listens, really listens, like I’m the most important thing in the world to him. And for those few hours, it feels like we’re family again.

But when it’s time to leave, the goodbye hits hard. There’s no hug, no handshake—just a wave or a nod. The glass or table between us feels like a wall that’s too thick to break down.

I walk away, trying not to look back, but tears blur my vision anyway. The bus ride home feels longer every time. The silence louder.

And in the quiet after the visit, I think about the parole board again. How they sit behind their desks, deciding whether my uncle gets to come home or not. How they don’t see the person, only the file. How their “justice” means a family stays broken.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this—the visits, the waiting, the heartbreak. But for my uncle, for Bulldog, I’ll keep fighting. Because family means more than walls and distance. It means hope.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of life I’d have if my uncle wasn’t locked away all these years. If he was here to watch me grow up, to guide me when I stumbled, to just be there when I needed him most.

But I know that wishing won’t change the past. What I can do is carry his story with me. The story of a man who’s been fighting a battle far bigger than most people understand. The story of a family stretched thin but still holding on.

I’ve learned that pain shared is pain halved, and even though we’re apart, I feel his strength through the phone calls, the visits, the stories passed down.

I’m still young, and the road ahead feels long and uncertain. But I hold onto hope—the hope that one day, the system will change, that parole boards will see us for who we really are, and that families like mine won’t have to live in the shadow of locked doors.

Until then, I’ll keep fighting in my own way. For my uncle. For myself. For the family we deserve.

Because even behind walls and bars, love doesn’t disappear. It just waits—for the day it can be free again.

The Forgotten Sentence. Part 2 the letter from the inside

Six years on, I’m still doing my time. The days don’t change—they just stack up on top of each other until you lose track of when one ends and the next begins. The pain’s the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that. Time doesn’t heal anything in here—it just freezes it. I think constantly about the losses I’ve had. They don’t drift away like they do for people on the outside. In here, they loop in your head like a broken tape.

And I know—deep down—that when I do finally get out, that’s when it’s going to smash into me like a train—the realisation that I’ll never see my dad again. That I can’t just pick up the phone and hear his voice. I won’t see his face, his smile, or hear the way he used to laugh at his own bad jokes. People talk about “closure” like it’s a thing you can get. In here, there’s no such thing. There’s no rehabilitation for that kind of loss.

Truth be told, there’s no rehabilitation for anything in here. It’s all a show. A load of glossy brochures and carefully worded reports to make the public feel like the system is fixing people. In reality? It’s smoke and mirrors. They run courses that teach you how to answer questions in a way that sounds “rehabilitated” but doesn’t actually change a thing. At the end of the day, prisons are just human warehouses—storage facilities for bodies. Modern-day slavery camps.

The only thing they’re rehabilitating is the government’s bank balance. The system runs on heads in beds. Every occupied cell is worth money—contracts, staffing budgets, funding streams. That’s the real business model. Justice has nothing to do with it.

And I want to talk about the silent killer in here—suicide. It’s the shadow that follows you down every landing. People think it’s only the weak who take their own lives. They’re wrong. I’ve seen the strongest lads crack. Seen them carry themselves like steel for years, then just… snap. No warning, no signs—until you hear the shout, the rush of boots, and then it’s too late.

I’ve had my own run-ins with it. I’ve had days when the walls felt like they were closing in, when the thought of another year—another month—was too heavy to carry. And I’ve had staff put blades in my hand and tell me to “crack on” if I wanted to do it. That’s the level of care. That’s the attitude. You’re not a person to them. You’re barely even a number. You’re a problem they’d rather see disappear than deal with.

They pretend to care. They’ll pull you into a little interview room, nod their heads, say “We take your wellbeing seriously.” But I’ve seen the way they look at their watches, already thinking about their next tea break. I’ve watched them laugh and joke minutes after finding someone hanging in their cell.

They talk about family ties like it’s the magic key to turning your life around. They print leaflets about how important it is to stay connected. But here’s the truth—they don’t actually care. If they did, they wouldn’t keep me locked up nearly 500 miles from my family. My loved ones struggle to visit because of the distance and the cost. And the prison? They don’t lift a finger to move me closer. Why? Because they don’t care.

Like I said, we’re not even nobodies—we’re just numbers on a spreadsheet. And spreadsheets don’t have feelings. They don’t have grief. They don’t have sleepless nights where you stare at the ceiling wondering if you’ll survive another year in this place.

And then there’s parole. As a discretionary lifer, I get a parole board every two years. For the last twenty-seven years, it’s been the same routine. You stand in front of them already knowing you’re going to be knocked back. You can feel it in the air. You’re not there to be given a chance—you’re there to tick their boxes while they quietly set you up to fail.

Take my current probation officer. I don’t even know her, and she doesn’t know me. Yet somehow, she’s written a report saying I’m not allowed in the area where my family live. Think about that—for thirty-seven years, no other probation officer has ever said that. But now, suddenly, if I get out, I can’t even visit my own family.

My family has nothing to do with my offence or my incarceration. They are my lifeline. My support. My rock. And this probation officer wants to cut that away from me before I’ve even walked out the gate. That’s what I mean when I say they set us up to fail before we’ve even had a chance.

Like I’ve said before—probation officers like this aren’t here to help. They’re fabricators, pure and simple. They’re here for the paycheque, nothing else. And if there truly was such a thing as rehabilitation, don’t you think I’d have been out a long time ago?

And I’ll tell you what a parole hearing really feels like—because most people have no idea.

You walk into that room and the first thing you notice is the silence. Not the peaceful kind—this is a heavy silence, the kind that sits on your shoulders. Three people usually sit behind a desk. They’ve got your whole life spread out in front of them in a thick folder—pages and pages of reports, statements, assessments. Half of it’s made up. The other half is twisted to make you look worse than you are.

There’s always water on the table, but it’s for them, not you. You sit in a chair that’s just slightly too low, like they’ve measured it that way on purpose, so you’re looking up at them the whole time. Makes you feel smaller. Makes them feel bigger.

The chair of the panel will glance at you over their glasses like they already know what the decision is. They’ll start with something like, “Frankie, thank you for coming today. We’re here to consider whether you are suitable for release…” But you already know it’s not happening. You can feel it.

They’ll bring up every mistake you’ve made in the last thirty years. Even ones you’ve explained before. Even ones you’ve already done time in seg for. They’ll read out bits of your probation report—like the one my current probation officer wrote—saying I can’t go anywhere near my family. And when you try to speak, to tell them your side, they nod politely but their pens don’t move.

Sometimes they’ll ask about your “risk factors” or your “offence-related work.” That’s parole-speak for Do we think you might do it again? But the truth is, they’ve already decided. You could say all the right words, smile at all the right times, and they’d still find a reason to keep you in.

The worst part is the waiting. After you’ve said everything you can say, they tell you they’ll send the decision in writing. Which means you go back to your cell and sit there for days, sometimes weeks, until a screw slides that envelope through the flap. You can tell by the thickness whether it’s a yes or a no. The no’s are always thin.

I’ve had so many no’s over the years, I can almost smell them before I open the envelope. The paper feels colder in your hand. You read the words—“The panel is not satisfied that you can be safely managed in the community at this time”—and it’s like your chest caves in.

And then it’s over. You’ve got another two years to wait before you get to do the same dance again. Another two years of pretending that if you just keep your head down, tick all their boxes, it might be different next time.

But deep down, you know. It won’t be.

The hours after a parole knock-back are the hardest. You get that envelope, you read those words, and for a moment everything inside you just… stops. You can hear the background noise of the wing—doors slamming, screws shouting—but it’s distant, muffled, like you’ve gone underwater.

Some lads tear the letter up straight away. Some chuck it in the bin without reading the reasons. Me? I always read it. Every single word. Even when I know it’s going to be the same old rubbish—“lack of progress,” “insufficient risk reduction,” “further work needed on victim empathy.” The same recycled phrases they’ve been using for decades. They could save time by photocopying the last decision and changing the date.

When you get back to your cell, it’s quiet. Too quiet. That’s when the thoughts start circling like vultures. You start thinking about how many more years you’ll be in here. How many more Christmases you’ll spend staring at the back of a steel door. How many more funerals you’ll miss.

The first night after a knock-back is always the longest. Sleep doesn’t come easy. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, and the cell feels smaller somehow. Like the walls have moved in an inch. Your mind plays tricks on you—you start hearing your family’s voices, seeing their faces in your head, then realising you can’t touch them, can’t be there. That’s when the darkness really creeps in.

You tell yourself you’ve been here before, that you can ride it out like you always do. But there’s a little voice in the back of your head that whispers, What’s the point? That voice is dangerous. I’ve seen it swallow people whole. One day they’re walking the yard, laughing, making plans for the next visit. The next day, they’re gone.

And the staff? They carry on like nothing happened. Someone dies, they lock the place down for a couple of hours, write up a report, and then it’s back to normal. No grief counselling, no real support. Just another statistic on the prison’s books.

After a few days, you force yourself back into the routine—gym, work, bang-up, repeat. Not because you feel better, but because there’s nothing else to do. Routine’s the only thing that keeps you from falling apart completely. But the knock-back sits in your gut like a stone. And you know, in two years’ time, you’ll be sat in that same chair in that same room, playing that same rigged game.

People on the outside say the system’s broken. That it needs fixing. But from where I’m sitting, it’s not broken at all—it’s working exactly the way they want it to.

Prison isn’t about rehabilitation. It’s not about preparing you for release. It’s about keeping you here. Keeping the beds full. Keeping the money flowing. They call it “public protection,” but that’s just the sell. The truth is, prisons are a business, and business is good when people don’t get out.

Every parole knock-back, every fake probation report, every unnecessary transfer hundreds of miles from your family—it’s all part of the same machine. And once you’re inside it, it grinds you down, year after year, until you either give up or you break.

And me? Thirty-five years on, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. But I know the game’s rigged. I know they’ve got no intention of letting me out until they’re good and ready.

That’s the reality no one on the outside wants to talk about. The headlines talk about “justice” and “public safety,” but they never print the truth. They never talk about what really goes on behind these walls.

And I’m not done telling it. Not by a long shot.

When Part Three is released, it will be about the upcoming parole. I’m currently in the window waiting for it—the interviews with the so-called professionals, the same old questions, the same tired game.

But don’t worry, we’ll keep you updated with Part 3 and our other stories about life in prison.

Jimmy Bell: Five Years in the Grave

 

Jimmy Bell wasn’t born bad. He was born in Sheffield, in a terraced house that stank of chip fat and damp, the youngest of three. His dad was a boilermaker who drank too much and hit the walls when the telly signal cut out. His mum, a quiet woman with tired eyes, worked nights stacking shelves at Asda. It wasn’t a tragic life. Just a forgotten one. You grow up in a place like that, and you learn to survive by blending in, by keeping your head down, by doing what you're told — until the day you don't.

Jimmy left school at sixteen. No GCSEs, just the skill of nicking motorbikes and running faster than the coppers. He floated around, picking up jobs as a brickie’s labourer, helping a mate at a scrapyard, pulling pints at a dodgy pub where the landlord kept a bat behind the bar.

Then he met Sophie, working the till at a Tesco Express. Blonde fringe, pink nail polish, gave him grief for buying White Lightning at ten in the morning. He asked her out anyway. She laughed in his face. Two weeks later, they were shagging in his mate’s Vauxhall Astra. A year after that, they had a baby girl: Maisie. Jimmy was 21. Terrified. But he straightened up. Swore to be a proper dad. Got full-time work, kept his head down.

And for a while, he was happy.

He didn’t know the clock was already ticking.

It happened on a Thursday. Cold, grey, drizzling rain like it always did in November.

Jimmy had been laid off from a roofing job two months before. Bills were piling up. Food running low. Maisie needed nappies. Sophie was working late shifts and barely speaking to him. He was desperate — the kind of desperate that makes you reckless.

So when his old mate Dean offered a “quick run” for a bit of cash, Jimmy didn’t ask questions. He should have.

It was meant to be simple — drive to Leeds, drop off a bag, pick up an envelope, come back.

What was in the bag?

Heroin. A lot of it.

Police swarmed the car on the M1. Jimmy didn’t even resist. Just sat there as they shouted at him, face pressed to the bonnet, his entire world unraveling.

Five years.
Possession with intent to supply.

Sophie didn’t come to the sentencing. She didn’t answer his letters. She didn’t bring Maisie to visit, not even once.

The first Christmas inside, he got a card. Handwritten, shaky — from his mum.

“We love you. We miss you. Don’t give up.”

He pinned it above his bunk like a lifeline.

By the second Christmas, the letters stopped.

He found out why in February. His cellmate, a scouser with too many tattoos and too few teeth, had managed to nick a mobile. One night, Jimmy used it to check Facebook. His hands were shaking.

The first thing he saw was a black-and-white photo of his mum.

“Rest easy, Maureen Bell. 1958–2021.”

No one told him. No one called. She’d had a stroke. Died alone in the council flat. No funeral invite. No goodbye.

The real kick in the guts came a year later.

A letter, official-looking. From Social Services.

Maisie had been taken into care.

Sophie had started using — heroin, ironically. Lost the flat. Lost custody. Lost everything.

Jimmy begged for updates. Begged for visits. They sent back a single typed letter: “Due to the nature of your conviction, contact is not deemed appropriate at this time.”

He spent three weeks in the block after that. Lost it. Punched a wall. Broke his hand.

He’d failed. As a father. As a son. As a man.

He was released on a rainy Wednesday in March. The same kind of rain as the day he got nicked. Five years to the day.

The world had moved on. Sheffield looked the same but felt different. His old estate was boarded up, graffiti over every door. The corner shop was gone. Replaced by a vape lounge.

He had no home. No mum. No Sophie. No Maisie.

He stayed in a halfway house, got a job washing dishes at a Wetherspoons, shared a room with a bloke who talked in his sleep and smelled like old cheese.

At night, Jimmy lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

He didn’t drink. Didn’t use. But he smoked now. Ten a day, minimum. Said it helped with the silence.

He went looking for Sophie. Found her six months later. Skinny, grey-faced, teeth like broken keys. Living in a hostel in Doncaster. She didn’t recognise him at first. When she did, she cried. Told him she was clean. Told him she was sorry.

He believed her. For a while.

Then she vanished again.

He never found Maisie.

She was somewhere in the system. He wrote letters. Made phone calls. Hit dead ends. Red tape. “Due to safeguarding...” “Due to your history...” “Due to data protection...”

He started to understand that some mistakes stay with you. Some doors never reopen.

People like to say “You’ve done your time.” But Jimmy knew better. You don’t leave prison. You just trade bars for invisible fences. The punishment never ends. It just gets quieter.

Now he works nights. Cleans train carriages after they’ve been emptied. Finds needles. Used condoms. Vomit on the seats. Just another ghost in a yellow vest with a mop and a past he doesn’t talk about.

He doesn’t tell people about Sophie. Or his mum. Or Maisie.

He just does his job. Smokes his fags. Keeps his head down.

Sometimes he walks by a school playground on his way home. Watches the kids laughing, running around. Looking so full of tomorrow.

And he stands there for a moment, fingers trembling, heart sinking into his stomach, wondering if maybe, just maybe, one of those girls might be her.

But she never is.

And he keeps walking.

The names have been switched out to protect the family of "Jimmy"