Something has Hit Home

My friend Chloe and I arrived at HMP Grendon and Springhill prison in early April this year. The front tyres of the car bumped over disinfectant saturated lumps at the top of the drive. We were directed to halt, exit and paw the squelchy pads with our shoes, before the back tyres got their lethal drench.¹ Did they have sheep here? 

The prison officer uniforms began too. They seemed quite friendly when we asked where to park. The prison wall made us crane our necks upwards. It was crested with the inevitable coiled barbed wire, spikes of no man's land. Which was the way in? We took a wrong turn again, finding ourselves walking towards poly-tunnels and compost heaps. Maybe we were avoiding something, delaying the moment when we too would be locked in. But only for a day. Visitors day. 

We returned to the paved route that curved around the edge of the wall. There they were: the fortress gates with the pedestrian door, the door within a door, with the barred grill. Over the sill, keys clicked and jangled, medieval style. Door locked, blotting out the green hedges. I glanced up at the system of wires encased in pipes. School buildings. Institutions. We were asked for our identifications. Driving licence or passport. No mobile phones or cameras. No escape. No communication with the outside world. We were treated with professional suspicion, 'to make the event a safe and secure one for us all'. I moved away from our small group towards the notice board: 

"Her Majesty's prison Service serves the public by keeping in custody those committed by the courts. Our duty is to look after them with humanity and provide constructive regimes to enable them to live law abiding lives in custody and after release". 

The next portal was before us (a metal detector), the frisking ('prison service rub down search'), and the sniffing (wide, indifferent black lab, waiting for me to walk by half way along a short corridor, a nonchalant sniff, "the passive drug detection dog"). Into the canteen, being ticked off the list and told who was 'looking after us for the day'. Chloe and I were on different wings. 'Tom' approached me. He asked me if I would like a coffee. He seemed distracted, shy. A few moments later he returned with a polystyrene beaker full. We all milled around. Chloe and I found ourselves with a JP from Winchester. I observed Tom greeting someone else from our group (there were six altogether). I began to taste the anxiety in his mouth. He told me later that a Visitors' day is part of the therapy. It was part of mine too; I was soon to realise. 

The conference hall felt 'professional' with its various presentation techniques (lap-top to large screen) on stage, curved purple seating below. We were asked to 'spread out and mix together'. Tom sat on one side and a tall, broad man in his early 30's wearing a white nylon shirt on the other. Their badges marked them out as residents. Also a restless, pacing tension as if something was trapped inside. I sat in the middle strangely at ease and uncurious (it struck me later) about the crimes. Or was it denial? Where was Chloe? 

"Do you know what the theme is today?" the man in the white shirt asked, leaning towards me (affectionately?). "No, I didn't realise that you had themes." "It's victims. And when we were looking through the list of visitors we were told that one of them is the sister of a West victim." "That' me." I disclosed in a matter of fact way. His response was immediate and authentic. He showed curiosity and concern, which was shushed by the beginning of the presentations. He offered me a peppermint and whispered that he was 'on soon', and implored me to give him 'some eye contact. I'm dead scared'. I felt strangely maternal, nodding with encouragement. Soon he was up there. He began to speak, tearfully, discarding his written speech that he must have sweated over. " My name is 'Fred' and I'm serving 8 years for armed robbery. I entered the bank and held up a customer at gunpoint. I held her from behind in a neck hold and put the gun to her head." Silence. I suck the peppermint and catch his eye. "There isn't a day goes by when I don't think about her. There isn't a day goes by when I don't think about 'Anne'. I wonder how her life is now. I wonder if she had to give up her job because of my crime. I wish I could know. I wish I could tell her how bad I feel about what I did. I wish she could know that." He breaks off and says that's enough. Then he's sitting next to me. I pat his shoulder. His forearms and his huge hands agitate. So this is an 'armed robber'. Why don't I feel threatened by him, now that I know the violence of his crime? Our first contact was direct and empathic, no room for prejudice. I hope we can keep it that way. It would be easy to slip into fear or fantasy. 

The Governor of Grendon, Tim Newell, spoke about the 'culture of enquiry' that underpins the Grendon approach. (Tim looks and speaks like a biblical prophet with his broad grey beard and his calm, confident voice!). This phrase stuck in my mind. A community of seekers, that we were part of for a day. I felt privileged. We divided into our 'wings' and left the hall, walking past football pitches, raised flowerbeds until our small group entered D wing. 

First the smell of school dinners and the sound of loud rap music coming from the kitchens. I learnt that part of the therapeutic regime is to do their own cooking and cleaning. We would all be eating together later. I didn't see any prison staff around. We were shown into a room with a circle of chairs. Again we were offered a coffee. A few tablespoons of instant coffee granules sagged in the corner of a polythene bag, next to scattered tea bags and some dried milk. The stainless steel jug of hot water was getting cooler, and no one seemed to be serving, so we began to help ourselves. The tension was increasing. We sat in the circle. Six prisoners and six visitors. No one else. This was 'any questions' time. The prisoners were on line. So were we. Tom was the facilitator in our group. He suggested that we went around the circle saying why we were there. 

He began. His name, his age, the time he was serving, his crime. "Rape", he was in his early 30's is what I remember. I have never been raped although a friend once accused me of raping him, 'in a friendly way' (what did that mean?). The line between consent and coercion applies to all crime, but its expression in the criminal justice system in Britain seems clumsy and insensitive to the needs of victims, perpetrators and their communities. Retribution takes precedence over rehabilitation. We all suffer because of that. I was the first visitor to speak. 

"My name is Marian and I'm here because my sister, Lucy, was a victim of violent crime. She was abducted, gagged, raped, tortured and killed by the Wests. We didn't know what had happened to her for 21 years. Her body was dismembered, she was decapitated and buried in the cellar of 25 Cromwell street. I'm here because I want to bring something positive out of the senseless cruelty of Lucy's death. I need to understand how and why that happened and how to help prevent that from happening to anyone else. I have been searching for some sort of truth and understanding about this crime. 

Like all of you in Grendon, I have ended up having to search inside me, investigating my own cycle of violence and abuse. I have found debilitating grief, fear, shame and murderous rage. I would like to be able to understand what kind of circumstances lead to the acting out of the criminal impulses that we all have within us. 

Lucy was gagged when she died. That is one of the most difficult aspects of her death for me. She couldn't speak her truth. She became faceless; flesh and bones. Hidden for 21 years. I don't believe in labelling, writing off and locking away. The conspiracy of silence and denial. We need to find and share our truth as human beings, not remain separate and opposed as perpetrators and victims. 

I don't believe that punishment is the way to reduce recidivism. How can a regime that is based on fear and aggression hope to achieve anything but a continuing rage and terror? I'm here because I know that you have chosen to look for a way of understanding the context of your criminal actions, and the effect that they have had upon the lives of your victims, in the hope that you won't make the same huge mistakes again. I would like to listen to you." Where did all that come from? You'll end up pacing up and down Oxford Street with a billboard strapped to your chest. I go quiet. Rather a long silence - then, next. 

"My name is 'Rob'. I am serving 12 years for murder. I'd like to say that 'Bill' from A wing made me feel very angry this morning when he talked about himself as victim." (Yes, he'd spoken with emotional detail about his victim years, "on the day I was born my father was done for bigamy and three days later my mother left me on a door step. I went in and out of children's' homes all my childhood. I was severely sexually abused by staff. Eventually I became a perpetrator". It had felt authentic enough to me. But part of the therapy is to continually challenge each other and learn to express anger in words rather than physical violence). 'You can't con a con'? Rob continued, "None of us here on this wing would ever use that as an excuse for our actions in the way that he did. (I don't agree that he did). Yes, we know that we have all been victims in our childhood, but we would tear open the ass of anyone who used that as an excuse for his crime on this wing. I feel fucking angry about that." Vigorous nods of agreement. 

I find myself musing about the possibility that it must be more acceptable to identify with the part of oneself that has become a perpetrator (as a man) than truly own one's victim part. Also easier for women to identify with their victim rather than their perpetrator. I have certainly found and tried to face both within myself. The cycle of violence that we all perpetuate in extreme or subtle ways. Our society is full of structures that promote and condone humiliation. Soul murder abounds, even if capital punishment has been erased. Shame and the need for justice are at the root of all violence. 

I have come to see how the predominant penal system separates, locks away and humiliates. Perpetrators are removed from the victims and the context of their crime. Their punishment removes them further from the possibility of understanding their actions. The prison environment enforces the cycle of violence and abuse, within and without. There is no place for trust and understanding. They return to their communities driven further within their defences, a lonely place that fuels rage, shame and a feeling of dismemberment. How can they ever join any thing up, become more whole? Society has hacked them into further disintegration. They have become further decomposed. 

Meanwhile, victims are left with the trauma, the uncertainty, and the insecurity. They can remain frozen and separate. They cannot express their pain to the perpetrator. They are often avoided and misunderstood by their community. The community has lost two members. Has become less integrated. One is locked away until s/he returns. The other is locked away with no prospect of healing because there is no context for reconciliation. The polarisation is hardened by the tabloid media's vengeful ignorance. 

My mind has digressed. It is good at escaping from the present moment into a polemic monologue, which keeps my ego intact and separate. Back to this circle and the 'culture of enquiry'... A Buddhist prison minister (now that interests me), a rapist ('I haven't done just one crime'), another armed robber, a probation officer, a woman who had set up a victim support service, a student of criminology, a dear older woman who is 'always popping in and out, these young men need someone to listen to them' and finally an arsonist who spoke of his experience of extensive sexual abuse as a child in various homes. 

The suffering of these men remains mostly unspoken but it seeps into the air, as if they have been flayed to the bone, aching to understand. The common soil amongst this group could be described as ruined childhood. Is it possible to heal from such social, economic and emotional deprivation, which we have created as a society? The fact that they are still alive seems miraculous to me in that moment. Or wanting to be alive. 

How would we continue? Tom took the lead. He turns to look me in the eye. "What you said has really affected me. Until I heard you speaking like that, I think I had just been playing at 'victim empathy'. Something has hit home.' A moment of contact and impact that leaves us both exposed and vulnerable. For me it goes something like this. In my gut (rather than my head where I had already worked it out) I am struck by the realisation that by sharing something of my experience of Lucy's death with men who have committed violent crimes it helps them to experience 'victim empathy', which may help them not to re-offend and to integrate their own victim pathology. 

Is that the positive outcome that I could help to bring out of Lucy's terrible death? Is this really happening? Another 'still point of the turning world', Lucy. I wasn't expecting this. Questions came from other visitors, gentle, searching. The tone was loving, encouraging. Shame was disclosed without fear of humiliation. An openness, a shared suffering. I asked if listening to my story would be something that would have to be carefully timed so that it came at the right moment in their therapy. The answer: "There is never a right time. But it has been important to hear it". 

Later Tom told me that he hadn't wanted to eat his lunch and chat to the visitors. He had gone to be alone in his room to stay with the feelings that had arisen during our session. Pacing, questing. Who am I? Who are we? As we queued for lunch I was approached by another member of our group. "What you said really did something to me." He was thin and younger than my oldest sons. "How did your life end up here?" He spoke intensely, urgently and honestly. We sit opposite each other with our plates of fish, chips and lurid mushy peas. Transport caf style. Wedges of chocolate cake, already choking in their imminent dryness. I listened to him and tried to eat. Suddenly aware that I had been cooked for and invited to share a meal with 'dangerous criminals'. All I could see were children trapped in adult bodies. Brutalised, betrayed children needing a safe space to find understanding and inner strength, to find a way of taming their rage and terror. Chloe discovered the same during her shared lunch. 

'Nod' told me about his father's violent discipline. He said he loves his Dad, because when he got into violent drug related crime in his mid teens until his early twenties (when he was caught) his Dad had acknowledged recently that it must have been something to do with the way he had brought him up. "But I told him last time they visited that I couldn't use that as an excuse. When I get out of here I'll do any ordinary job, like sweeping up in a supermarket. I just want a proper job. But you need to know that there are some people out there who would never want to change. The bloke I was doing robberies with. He couldn't go back to being straight. Never." I couldn't manage the chocolate cake. 

During the afternoon session, back in the conference hall, I was invited to join the panel on the stage. I appealed to our common humanity. What do I mean by that? As I reflect, unexpectedly I flash back to a time when I was 20 in 1968, when my friend and I were hitching back from Spain. Our glamorous racing car drivers had driven us off the road into a forest near Le Mans. We were trapped in the back seats as the car drew to a halt. My friend kept screaming, "They're going to kill us, Marian", as one of them pinned her down wrenching at his flies. The other was poised to pounce and I found myself staring into his eyes, appealing in French, to our shared humanity. He was taken aback. He pulled his friend away and they told us to get out of the car. They left us there. Then we saw the headlights returning. My friend started to scream again. We thought about hiding in the bushes, but it was too late. They pulled up. They said that they wanted to apologise and take us back to the road. I persuaded my friend to trust them. All the time speaking in French to them. Thanking them for their change of heart. They waited with us until we got another lift, from a woman. 

Rosemary West was fifteen years old when she was abducted from a bus stop and raped. She was nineteen years old when Lucy (21 years old) was gagged into anonymity, raped, tortured and killed, or left to die. Lucy may have trusted a couple with a younger woman. She may have been forced into the car. It was certainly a huge part of my survivor's guilt that she was so against hitching and I that did it all the time. The 'it should have been me' syndrome that most siblings and friends suffer for a while. Le Mans wasn't the only narrow escape. 

Rosemary West is one of the few of the 38,000 prisoners in Britain who will probably 'never see the light of day again' (be released). 'Take her away', ordered the judge in grave theatrical tones. I have thought a lot about justice in relation to murder. I don't think that there is any human sentence that can appease or repair the hugely devastating loss of a loved one to murder. There seem to be four main routes (with numerous side roads) for the family survivors. 

Firstly, denial (i.e. - take her away, locked up for ever, this person does not exist and had nothing to do with Lucy at all, The End). This is usually the preferred option and has many subtle twists and turns. We will probably never know the truth. I have chosen to accept that, after much investigation. Denial is an important part of survival, but as a conclusive position it attempts to bypass, trivialise and negate or delay the pain of the healing process. To fix it, make it more comfortable to live with. Denial can lead to lethal, oppressive regimes. I have tried that one and sometimes wish that it would work for me, but it leaves me in a frozen silence which is driven by a wish to deny pain and carries a perverse power which can haunt, oppress and sometimes destroy vitality. 

I worked out (in my head), during a Buddhist retreat in 1995, that forgiveness offers the most creative, positive way forward. But how to do it? I made a vow to try. I could understand that it would involve giving up all hope of a better past and would be the kind of fullstop that would offer a new relationship with the present moment, with myself and with my environment. My initial motive for beginning this journey towards compassion was for the sake of my children. I have realised, in terrible depth, the reality of the cycle of violence and abuse: we pass on our unresolved pain to the next generation. I have been trying to explore my feelings and integrate the dreadful reality of Lucy's death in a way that does not pass on my struggle with anger, bitterness and grief as well as the aftermath of a difficult trial and media coverage. I needed to know how I could use my life to stop this cycle of violence/abuse and revenge, without denying the devastating effect that it has had upon us all. 

But my immediate experience after this vow to forgive was murderous rage. The emotion rushed up from my navel, dashing its heat and power against the inside of my skull, swilling, scouring, and eroding like a river in flood. It had no logic, no reason. Its energy was terrifying in its involuntary seizure. I pulled my hair, banged my head on the bed, screamed, rushed outside and stamped and clawed at the earth. I had no words, just a roar that tore the membranes of my throat. My desire to forgive was premature, pretentious and impossible. But in that moment, when the rage seized me with a physical power that obliterated thoughts I was connected to all humans who have killed. I could never lightly dismiss murderers again. I saw a long journey ahead. The hope of forgiveness became more urgent. 

Maybe denial lurks behind the hedge of the third route: suicide. This pain is too much I simply cannot go on living with it. It is never going to go away. There is no hope of change. My life is meaningless and has no value. It is too dark in here. I just don't want to go on breathing. I have touched on that place too. I was on another Buddhist silent seven day retreat. It was day four and I was about to have my interview with the Chinese Ch'an master. All I could feel was an apathetic depression that meant that I didn't want to go on breathing, too much effort. The grief about Lucy started to surface again. And I thought Oh No, I thought I had finished with all this. This self I have had enough, this snivelling, grieving mess. The pain was surfacing again. I will ask him if I have become too attached to this. Will it ever go away? 

But when the moment came in my only interview with the Ch'an master (with 5 other people) all that came out was a tearful blurting that I was struggling with an impasse (the wall of denial?) and that I was also feeling that I didn't want to go on breathing. John Crook (my Buddhist teacher) added the information that my sister had been murdered. Neither Master Sheng-Yen nor his dear Abbot looked at me. They spoke rapidly in Chinese and then the Abbot gave me an interpretation. 

He said that Lucy's death and my present grief was for the benefit of all living beings and that our suffering was relieving the suffering of others. It was not something that I had become attached to, it was real and it was important to stay with it when it arose within me. At that moment I realised that my whole life had led to this point, this privileged moment with 'a monk' (as he humbly describes himself) who has devoted nearly the whole of his life (from the age of 12 years to 70 years) to the Buddhist pursuit of wisdom and compassion in order to be able to help others move that way too. Somehow it felt natural and affirming of what I have been trying to do, but with a slightly different angle that may offer a clearer practice. 

As usual I didn't quite understand, but asked him for a method. How do I do that in practice? Did he mean that I should pray (a good method for transforming ones own pain into the desire for the well being of others in my experience), or practise tonglen (a Tibetan Buddhist technique for advanced practitioners which involves breathing in the suffering of others and breathing out compassion). But he said No. Just know that your suffering is relieving the suffering of others. I am still puzzling about this. Does it mean that by staying true to my own suffering, not trying to bypass it (by denial), allow it to destroy me (suicide), dump it on others (murder) I will eventually find the place of peace that allows me to express my life in a way that is genuinely free of all negative impulses, when I experience the reality of non duality and the universal nature of being alive (spontaneous forgiveness)? I have tasted that place and am deeply committed to that direction. 

It was 1997 and I was on day four of a Ch'an retreat. Grief had crept up unexpectedly, as it usually does. I have become familiar with this emotion during the past seven years. I began to feel a sense of panic. Where to put this feeling in the context of a Ch'an retreat? The expression of grief can become involuntary and can develop into wailing and sometimes barking when my body needs to exorcise the horror of Lucy's death. Yet I was committed to the medium of stillness and silence, with nineteen other people who had made very little noise so far. 

I decided to stay with the discipline of sitting and let it happen. The tears and mucous began to pour out of my eyes and nose. Where did all that liquid come from? How many bowls would it fill? I allowed my face to become wet and for the tears and snot to coat my face and drip off my jaw. Then my whole body began to tremble and I could feel heat circulating and being released as my body quivered with life. It felt like a purifying fire coming up within, balancing the wetness on my face. I felt as if I was being purged by fire and water. 

The phrase "The Vale of Tears" came to mind. At first I was alone, feeling a crippling isolation. What was this feeling about? It was something to do with acknowledging the enormity of suffering that humanity is capable of creating against itself, the realm of human atrocity, the realm of Hell. But as I waded in the lake of tears, bemoaning my isolation, I became aware that it was full of others who knew this pain. Victims and families of victims of the Holocaust, people who knew the reality of human demolition caused by centuries of war; Bosnia, Hiroshima, Vietnam. There were millions of people there, they were all groaning, wailing and weeping. The lake was becoming deeper. The salt water was etching more pain into our wounds. My breath exhaled with more sound. I was sighing and sobbing. I needed to allow it to be expressed. I had gone beyond feeling self-conscious and different about it. I felt proud of my grief. It felt pure and necessary as it was happening, as it needed to happen. I was not alone. 

At that moment of being able to embrace the pain and release it into a wider context, I became very still. I recognised the "still point of the turning world" that my sister and I used to muse about, from T.S.Eliot's " The Four Quartets". All I could do, all I wanted to do was to stay completely still, where I was. There was nothing else to do. I sat with no pain and the "massive stillness" for three sessions. 

I have chosen to work towards reclaiming the sacredness of my life, in honour of the sacredness of Lucy's life and ultimately the potential sacredness of Rosemary West's life. I would like her to be released within herself, to be able to unravel her lies and find some sort of truth. I know this is unrealistic. I hear the occasional rumours about her via the media. 'I may as well be dead', 'working towards an appeal'. She has always denied any involvement in Lucy's death. But it seems meaningless for her to be simply locked away and written off without any hope of change. Is that the 'punishment ' that our society desires? So nobody has learnt anything. We have all missed an opportunity to move away from cruelty towards compassion. It seems there is little room for anything beyond revenge and fear in our popular culture. The possibility of rehabilitation is too threatening. 

But, back on my cushion in 2000, after my interview with the Ch'an master, the grief flooded back again, and my desire to breathe returned. "Just know that your suffering is relieving the suffering of others". I thought of Rosemary West and tried to say to her, in my head, I am feeling a terrible pain, but I hope that it might help you in some way. And then the most profound realisation of the depth and extent of the suffering that she has created for herself filled me with a heart felt response of really hoping that this method works for her as well as for me. I could feel her terrible isolation, in a society that hates her, and how irrevocably her family is wrecked and fragmented. She is in the realm of hell. While I was experiencing this compassion (empathy with suffering), my isolated pain was transformed into a feeling of spacious ease that connected me with all forms of life. Yes, in that moment forgiveness was spontaneous. Through Lucy's death Rosemary West has become part of my life, and I have worked hard to find a place for her which allows me to go on living without hatred and bitterness. I have tried to face the effect of violence on my ability to go on living in a way that does not create further destruction. I feel closer to that place. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the fact that I would never have tried to explore these depths if dear Lucy had not died in such a terrible way. I feel joy and a deep gratitude to all those who have supported me on this journey. 

Back together, in the hall at Grendon the culture of enquiry continued. I could feel frustrated remorse which had no where to go, no structures in place for its appropriate expression. A cultural block on the potential healing process. Again, I experienced emotionally what I have recently formulated intellectually. Something about the needs of victims and perpetrators being ultimately the same. We need safe spaces to dare to feel the pain and horror, be vulnerable, help each other to face the truth about ourselves as human beings. We need to share that with utter honesty. To be able to face each other and listen to each other's questions and answers is the most profound, irreversible justice available. This is bringing the fantasies and the prejudices into a real situation. The remorse (which is always the result of a deeply painful, reluctant journey of facing the reality of the destructive effect of one's actions on oneself and others) and the accompanying shrivelling shame need to be witnessed and heard. Maybe not always by the people whose lives have been deeply scarred by their actions, but at least by people who believe in restoring human relationships rather than driving them further apart. 

The victim can benefit and possibly be released in some way by witnessing the authenticity of the perpetrator's shame and need for forgiveness. The reconstruction and rehabilitation of the victim's family involves the question why? The trial decides upon whether the perpetrator is sad, bad or mad. Details about the person's emotional and social context are not admissible evidence. It is possible to see the perpetrator at the trial, hear the facts built up by the statements from witnesses, pathologists and the questioning of the defence and the prosecution. But there are many questions that a victim's family are left with after a trial. For many there is a need to know all the details. 

This truth is beyond the sad, bad or mad of the court process. This truth is beyond the decisions about the sentence, the punishment, the locking away. To experience this truth it ultimately involves coming face to face with the perpetrator. The imaginations move into reality. It involves risk and preparation. It is a deep need that our present system does not cater for. For some victims, this need, if unfulfilled, increases their stress and leaves them unable to move forward with their lives in a positive way. This can lead to vengeful, violent deviant behaviour which carries the cycle into the next generation. The men in Grendon have understood this. It is why they are there. So have I. 

Sometimes there can be true healing. By wishing the perpetrator to be rehabilitated/ to be well allows the victim to come closer to the reality of the suffering of the perpetrator. This naturally involves compassion. If this can be felt and communicated it is a form of forgiveness that is healing for both 'sides'. It is a realisation of the interconnectedness of the lives, a bridging of the chasm created by the violence, widened by imprisonment. It is a way of facing our own potential for violence and beginning to understand the meaning of "there but for the grace of God go I". It is the most irreversible healing /form of justice that humans are capable of creating. The outcome can be a realisation by both 'sides' that more violence (revenge, punishment) must be stopped at all costs. The pay off is the deep liberation of both parties. 

So how can we re-structure our society so that our communities are safe, creative nurturing environments that foster genuine compassion and eradicate fear, suspicion, shame, cruelty (all the emotions that lead to murder, rape, child abuse and are present within each of us to some degree or other)? Somehow we all need to find the truth about ourselves and our shared, interdependent place in our society. We all need to be respected and valued as individuals. We need to develop the culture of enquiry that allows people to dare to find and speak their truth, to challenge each other, to learn to trust and love. The response to the child killers by the community in Trondheim, Norway, reflects this attitude. 

Research at Grendon has shown that therapy involvement over 18 months helps men reduce offending by 20% to 25%. For lifers it is more dramatic with recall rates reduced from 24% for the control group to 8% - 7 years at risk after discharge - a remarkable improvement. The usual re-offending rate is 80%. Lord Woolf has already highlighted the brutality of our adult and young offender prisons, by refusing to risk the undoing of the successful rehabilitation of James Bulger's killers. Until our tabloid press can be rehabilitated, the vigilante attitudes that they incite will continue to contribute to the seemingly inexorable violence in our culture. It is terrifying that a 'secure unit' is a safer place than 'outside' where all but 66,000 of us live.

I think of the poet Rumi:

'there is a place beyond
rightness or wrongness.
I'll meet you there.'

Something is hitting home.

Notes

1 A reference to precautions against the spread of Foot and Mouth disease in cattle and sheep.