Penner , aka Michael Penrose, was released from Dublin s Mountjoy Prison last January. He d been in and out of the ironically named Joy since the early 90s, repeatedly getting caught stealing in order to feed his heroin addiction. Now he s clean for the first time in years. And he s discovered that he is a gifted writer.
Penner is one of a group of Mountjoy inmates whose writings have just been published in The Junk Yard: Voices From An Irish Prison. This superb collection edited and introduced by Marsha Hunt, the American novelist who now works as Writer in Residence in Mountjoy brings us the slavery of heroin addiction, from the sordid details of scoring to the tortuous pain of cold turkey, straight from the horse s mouth. Torn-apart families, guilt and betrayal, scarred childhood memories and the downward slide into oblivion are vividly portrayed in this wonderful anthology, which also encompasses humour, beauty, love and strength, despite the deathly subject matter.
These writings have been wrung from the veins of their authors. Penner and the others in Marsha Hunt s class have produced a revolutionary, groundbreaking piece of art, which blows the lid off the most marginalised group in our society prison-bound heroin-users. For the real deal on something that s effecting all of our lives, forget Trainspotting and try The Junk Yard instead.
When Penner, a music buff, heard that the famous Marsha Hunt was coming into the Joy to teach writing, he was over the moon. He already knew about her long career in music and her former relationship with Mick Jagger, with whom she has a daughter.
Now 40 years old, Penner has been in and out of the Joy for ten years.
I started occupying my time by writing rhyming verse and poetry, he explains, supping on a Bud in The Irish Writer s Centre on Parnell Square. Penner has dark hair, a moustache and a small neat build. He is chilled and intelligent-looking, but beneath his calm exterior I can see the evidence of a hard life, and a long, struggling ascent to lucidity and health. Under the watchful eyes of Beckett, Joyce and the other big-wigs, in quickfire nimble Dublinese, Penner sketches a picture of his past and present life.
I started taking heroin when I was 22, a late-starter by today s standards. But from 15 on it was cider and pills and hash. I went into prison for the first time in me life in 1983, when I was 25, and when I got out I got married, saying prison s not for me . Then I had a break of four or five years drug-free, just having a few drinks socially and playing pool, working. But I was back into the drugs in the early 90s, and then it was the downward slope.
Penner pauses for another gulp of Bud. This is the first interview he s ever done. He recommences, telling me how and why he got clean.
It was probably because I turned 40, he says. I said I might as well sort myself out now. I m after living a life of decadence and debauchery since I was 15, I might as well try something else.
Now writing s after replacing the hours I d spend out hunting heroin and stealing, says Penner. Seven days a week me time was only occupied by getting money and scoring gear. Nothing else occupied me time. Now I m out, I m still writing, and I m reading a lot as well. I m living in Wexford now. I moved down to a cottage there on me own. It s very isolated and lonely, but I m getting used to it now, I m down a few months. It s brilliant, I love it there. I m sleeping up in the mountains under the stars, without a tent or a groundsheet, just sleeping bags, a bottle of Black Tower and a radio, and it s grand. It s like getting back to nature. You can sit beside a brook up in the mountain or a stream, and just sit there and listen for hours. It s real therapeutic; it seems to be anyway, it s working for me.
Retreating to the countryside, away from Dublin s drug environment, is a smart move for a recovering heroin abuser. And there s no doubt that he s been through the wringer.
When I went into Mountjoy last time, he says, recounting the basis for one of his stories in The Junk Yard, me marriage was after falling apart. I was a #700 a week heroin addict. I had to go out stealing every day, including Sundays, because I wasn t on any methadone programme or treatment. Couldn t get into a treatment centre because of the waiting lists.
Compared to this kind of stress, and his failed attempts to keep away from the ubiquitous drug, Penner says that life in the Joy was a holiday. They tried to throw me out of Mountjoy three times on TR [ temporary release ], he says, but I refused each time.
Why?
The first time because I was only in there four weeks. I d had me two weeks methadone, I d just come off that, and it was two weeks later and I was feeling brand new. I was singing to meself and reading books again, and music magazines. I couldn t believe how good I was feeling. And then I heard Marsha was coming in as well, so that was the icing on the cake. A screw come up and said, Michael, they re sending you home. And I said ah no, it s grand here, I m staying for awhile. And then I got into the Mountjoy male choir. It was televised on RTE an all on Christmas Day.
Penner didn t want TR because he was using his time in prison to sort his head out, bring to light his innate artistic talent, and prepare himself for life outside without heroin.
I said I might as well go to the end of my sentence. Because on all my previous sentences they d given me release each time and I took it. Since 91 every sentence I done it was all only minor, like 3, 6, 9 or 12 months, I ve never done any more than that, just for shoplifting but on each sentence they d let me out, and I d go at large immediately. I wouldn t sign back the following week, because I d be strung out at that stage. I d be straight for heroin.
When Penner finally left the Joy last January, he did so with a different mindset.
Instead of going for heroin, I bought a can of Budweiser and sat up on the Royal Canal thinking about Brendan Behan, the quare fella. He was one of our most famous tenants in the Joy.
Another major factor in Penner s attempt to kick gear for good was the fact that he had run out of veins.
I d used me feet, me hands, me arms, me neck, and I was just starting on me groin, he says. I was two months using me groin when I said it s time to sit back and have a look, I m getting too old for this game. So I said I better get off it now or I ll lose me leg or something. I know a couple of fellas who ve lost their limbs.
You re looking very well now, I say.
Well, I m after substituting the smack for the Jack, he smiles. That s the only thing. Jack Daniels. Me favourite Tennessee bourbon. Just in moderation, a couple of nights every weekend. Because I m down there in Wexford on me own, and you don t get much money on the dole down there so I get a little bottle of Jack Daniels for a fiver, and I d drink that, and then me Muse would come and I d write. It d inspire me to start writing, because it d get me mind thinking. It s a good way to work, but it s probably damaging me liver. But the gear would ve damaged it a lot worse.

Two-thirds of the prisoners are in the Joy for heroin-related crimes, says Penner. And they re all still addicts. When they go in there they think, ah, brand new, and they get two weeks of methadone, which is no good at all. And they re left on their own then, and they go through cold turkey. And when they get out they re still addicts. A lot of them make a lot of promises to their loved ones . . . I swear, I m back to meself, I m brilliant now, I m never touching that gear again I m sick of it . . . but the minute they get out the gate, it s straight to the nearest dealer to get a fix.
Sometimes in there you d hear through the grapevine, There s gear over in A-wing, 10 bags, so you d send someone over with money, which you get in on a visit or something. Otherwise people just come up on a visit and kiss over a bag of heroin.
Do the wardens know what s going on?
There s people getting caught every couple of days down in the toilets, because the minute they get gear on a visit, they go down to the toilet and inject it. Because they can t wait they ve been off drugs so long, they just can t wait to get a bit o gear into them. And sometimes the officers come down, and sometimes the prisoners have no one keeping watch, so the officer says right, and they get caught in the toilets, because it s only a half-board, you can see. And they d be searched. They never get caught with the heroin, but it s always with the needles.
And they do this, despite the high risk of getting caught and punished?
Your heroin need outweighs everything. You don t care. You just want to get the gear into you and that s it. You don t care if you get caught.
Nor do you care if the needle you re using is clean.
On one wing, relates Penner, there d be about 80 people, and there could be only one battered blunt syringe going around. And ye barely clean it out, because you re watchin all the time, you re all furtive, hiding in the toilets.
One of Penner s stories in The Junk Yard relates to a time when he was hauled in by the police and badly beaten. It s a harrowing tale of severe police brutality and torture, but according to Penner, it goes on every day of the week.
They don t understand addicts, and the sickness they go through, and the pain of withdrawal. I was watching Prime Time last week about methadone in Mountjoy. And they had John Lonergan, the head governor. He was brilliant, the things he was saying, he s a very compassionate man. Even though he s never been there with addiction, he understands the prisoners needs. I think he was talking about introducing clean needles. But we ll probably be waiting years for that to happen, after a lot more deaths.
What do you think of the word junky ?
I d rather heroin-users or heroin-abusers. That s what I use. I don t like the word junky . I read William Burroughs book Junky years ago, but still, I don t like it in today s terms it means scumbags, or people jumping over counters with syringes doing robberies, things like that. Even heroin-users retain a bit of dignity and respect, like I done. They say there s no honour among thieves, but you can still have a little bit of honour. Like the shoplifting I ve done, to me it s . . . I still term it as a victimless crime. Petty larceny out of shops, a few CDs here and there, and selling them just to keep your habit going. But that s all behind me now. Drugs are still there, they re present all the time, but they re not part of me life now. I don t need them now; I have an alternative in the writing and reading books. That s the power of the pen.
Good luck in your new writing career, man! You got what it takes. n