Elephant & Castle (Westbourne Park)

Frank Morris (Escape from Alcatraz)

Back in old Clinky again. They found me doggy-paddling in the Frisco Bay near the Fisherman’s Wharf. Gave me two 25-year sentences to run concurrently. That means back to back. Parole denied. I ain’t gonna see daylight for a long time. And forget San Quentin or Alcatraz. I’ve copped for bird in the worst prison of them all: the Elephant.

Many years ago armed robbery was my game. Not bad at it too. Until I got my ass busted over in Atlanta. Caught red-handed like a son of a bitch. But the real reason I’m here is my multiple escapes from various institutions. I transferred outta Atlanta to Alcatraz with a ten-stretch. And from Alcatraz to the Elephant. The end of the line.

The Elephant and Castle is for cons who are too bad for Alcatraz. Al Capone and Birdman Stroud never made it this far. How people get by in this slammer I’ll never know. It’s a council estate penitentiary – you know the ones. Skinheads and jokers tend to end up here. The saloon bar on the left may not be as small as a cell on the Rock but it’s not so different. Same four grey walls. And you can still score drugs just the same. Or get a scarred with a shiv if your face don’t fit. The sight and sounds of the world go by but we’re not part of it. Stuck in here drinking pints. There’s a whole life out there but we’ve managed to land ourselves in here. Cashing dole giros and spending them on pints of Carling Extra Cold. Maybe I’ll play a lousy game of pool with some British Bulldog types. ‘Bish-bosh geezers’ they call them over here.

Okay, just one more drink and then I’ll go watch some daytime TV on the couch. Jesus.

The Elephant has bigger windows than the Rock but I’ll be damned if you can see out of them. At least on Alcatraz I had a view of the Bay. Here - if I can get past the grime and dirt and all - then all I got to look at is this stinking stretch of Elgin Avenue. There’s a lot of fruitcakes walking around by the way. Sure there is. They’ll come up to you while you’re minding your own business (buying smokes in a corner shop) and then flip out at you. Maybe start chasing you round the streets. And old farts close to death hobble past the front of the pub from the doctor’s surgery next door. It’s the fear of everyone that they’ll croak in the can. Well if the squares from the surgery stop in here a while then maybe they will. This place can finish people off that’s for sure.

Across the road you can just about make out the Costcutter on the corner. That corner is hot. Crack City they call it. At night you can smuggle moonshine and cans of Stella out of the Costcutter and into the Elephant. They give it to you under the counter in black plastic bags to take back to your cell. You have to run back across the road with it. Running the gauntlet we call it. Make sure you don’t run into a number 28 bus on the way. They have around five or six of those things parked up outside the Elephant at any one time. The transport to get here ain’t too bad. They’re in a rush to get you inside the joint. But try busting out.

Next door to the Costcutter they tried to open a fancy fish take-away one time… crab and yellow-fin tuna, that kind of thing. It lasted about five minutes before the boards went up and the bailiffs came in…. Yeah, it’s getting tougher.

When I escaped off of the Rock it was a cold night. No one thought we could survive the icy waters. Especially as we made for Devil’s Island: we went the long way round. The water temperature was below zero. Mind you I used to think that was cold until they transferred me to London.

That famous night we broke out we used raincoats to make life-rafts. We had a hard time getting hold of the coats, bribing guards and smuggling them out of the laundry. Matter of fact it would been easier if we’d been doing time in the Elephant back then cos I reckon there’s enough dirty old men in anoraks in here. Would have been plenty of raincoats to go round.

There’s one hack in the Elephant for every three cons. No one’s ever gotten out alive. Only one way out of here and that’s in a coffin. It’s just one long count. We count the hours and the hacks count our money. £36 a week we get on income support, but the pints are £3.60. That’s one tenth. The suicide rate is pretty high too. They have a local darts team. Play on Tuesdays. The cons use the darts to stick in their own necks. They have Bingo on Wednesdays. It’s deadly. Some of the old timers smash a bottle of Magners and chop their fingers off like the Doc did. Just so they don’t have to read out the numbers. On quiz night most cons go to the john to top themselves. They bend down, pick up a bar of soap and Wolf does the rest. Watch out, Wolf coming at ya.

No one in the Elephant has seen a new face in six months. They give outsiders the silent treatment here. I don’t what’s worse – when the place is empty or when the place is full. When it’s empty the joint is depressing as hell. And lonely … like being in the Hole. But when it’s full it’s like being in the Yard. You never know what’s going to happen next or who’s gonna stick a knife in your belly. They got proper yard segregation inside both bars as well. And the cops raid us pretty often. Shakedown. It’s a regular D-block. There ain’t no pretty boys neither. Everyone in the Elephant is ugly as sin. Every guy has a face like a bag of spanners.

Me and a couple of boys we got a plan to bust out of here. We’re going to scrape away at the walls bit by bit with spoons. There’s plenty of cement so it could take some time. These walls are solid 1960s council estate rock. Each breeze block contains 6 bars of re-inforced steel. We’re going to use dummy heads so that no one notices we’re gone. No one moves around in here much you see; they tend to sit in one place and rot all day. So if you’re not on your stool then the hacks will know you’ve made a break for it. I was thinking of using paper mache for the heads. Someone has chucked the bog roll down the pan in the john so we’re almost there. Most of the people in here are dummies anyway. Maybe we could use their heads.

Yeah. Bit by bit with spoons. I’ve stolen one spoon already but it’s a little edgy. I gotta get myself another one and weld the two together with someone’s bad breath.

Once we dig our way out we can make a run for it from the front beer garden. The front beer garden is just drab concrete and railings by the way. Even Alcatraz had flowers and plants. Hell, what do you expect?... this is the Elephant. Once we’re outside the compound then we can make a right turn into the estates or hang a left onto Harrow Road. What a choice.

Like I say… it’s getting tougher and my spoon is bent already. Anyhow you take it easy now. I’ll write you when I get out. See you on the other side.

“Hey Guard, can I have another spoon? This one looks like it’s been sticking in someone’s ass.”

Frank Morris rates the Elephant 2/10

Savage Cheyne

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