Prisoner Page 2

  Fats opens the heavy doors and the heady waft of hundreds of caged men drifts over us. It’s a unique smell that sticks to the back of your throat. It reminds me of a men’s changing room after a competitive football match but with the added bitter sting of fear, resentment and regret.

  ‘After you, sir. Don’t worry, Dalton, I got your back this morning.’

  We enter the hub, which is a central octagonal room about four metres wide with the wings coming off it like the spokes of a wheel. Sometimes it’s messier than the wings. Only Officer Claire Lennox, whom I saw at the gatehouse, and Senior Officer John Bowell are present. Oddly, Lennox looks exactly like her namesake, Annie, except her cropped hair is black and she has a thick Welsh accent. Bowell is ex-army and has an enormous belly and grey hair. Lennox once asked him if his first name was large, which he laughed his head off at. He’s a much-respected SO. We might need a man like him today.

  ‘Welcome, ladies. I have some good news and some bad,’ says Bowell.

  ‘What’s the good?’ I ask.

  ‘I got four numbers on the lottery last weekend. The bad news is Bishop and Sharpe have rung in sick with flu.’

  ‘Shit,’ I whisper under my breath. ‘Put Lennox on with me.’

  I’m pleased some females choose to work on the male side. A few of the older officers don’t like it because it riles up the women-haters among the prison population. Naturally most females also have less upper body strength, and prison violence often comes down to power and weight.

  But I’ve been here long enough to know a balance works best. Women can defuse situations that men can’t. The quality I need backing me up is guts. If necessary, I can provide the violence. After Fats, I’d take Lennox over anyone else. Despite being just twenty-two, she grew up on a tough estate with three brothers. She’s wise to male bullshit, and has a razor mind to match her sharp tongue.

  ‘No can do, they’re sending two over from the female side,’ said Bowell. ‘Lennox is running Bravo wing today. You and her get one each.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asks Fats with a barely suppressed grin.

  ‘Peasbody and Sheraton,’ replies Bowell with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Aren’t they cartoon dogs?’ jokes Lennox, who then pauses. ‘Shit, I think they’re both off the last training course.’

  My skin contracts. ‘No fucking way. That course finished a month ago. You can’t put me on there with a newbie.’

  Bowell leans back in his chair with his hands out. ‘I’ll give you the biggest guy.’

  The rest of the shift filter into the hub. I check my cheap watch — cheap because they often get broken. Ten past seven. Five minutes to unlock. The buzzer sounds for one of the emergency buttons in the cells. Lennox picks up the phone.

  ‘Please state your medical emergency.’

  She listens, says, ‘Five minutes,’ and puts the phone back.

  ‘Fats, mush, that was cell forty-eight. He reckons you didn’t give him a goodnight snog last night.’

  Fats doesn’t miss a beat. ‘That’s bullshit. I kissed the entire bottom landing.’

  Everyone laughs except me. I’ve heard it all before. Apart from Fats, the rest of the officers only have about a year’s service each, although it will still feel like a lifetime, and they will have already changed. The person they were before they joined the prison service is gone. If you can last six months, you can last forever, is the saying, but it’s not true. Officer Sandringham lasted three years on the female estate.

  Few walk the male landings for more than two years. Those that do often have a short retirement or, like Sandringham, never get there at all.

  The door of the houseblock clangs open, and I shake my head as I look out of the window at the approaching officers. Their dark-blue trousers are a tight fit, but nothing compared to their dazzling white work shirts, which look as though they’ve been painted on. Their sleeves are rolled up, revealing sleeve tattoos. With their slicked-back hair, they could have stepped off the cover of a teen magazine. But they aren’t swaggering now.

  Fats stands next to me and rests a meaty paw on my shoulder.

  ‘Relax, the cavalry is here.’

  4

  I turn to SO Bowell, who’s smiling at me. The sneaky sod knew they’d sent a couple of kids over.

  ‘Come on, John,’ I urge him. ‘I’ve got Gronkowski and a traveller gang on there, not to mention Scranton. It’s not training day.’

  ‘You can have the ginger one, Peasbody. All them redheads are feisty, although I will accept Peasbody’s not the best name for a screw.’

  The two young officers open the hub door and stand awkwardly in front of us. The allegedly feisty ginger lad looks as though he shaves once a fortnight even if he doesn’t need to, but at least he’s holding eye contact. The carpet fascinates the other guy.

  Bowell’s phone rings. He picks up and listens.

  ‘Bollocks, another one with flu. Okay, I’ll send him up.’

  He gently places the receiver back in the cradle and tuts.

  ‘Fats, they’re one light upstairs, off you go. Everyone else, get them unlocked. Be careful today – we’re short-staffed and there might be trouble.’

  I nod at Peasbody. ‘Follow me.’

  When we reach the wing, I let Peasbody open the heavy gates and keep an eye on his hands. They don’t tremble, which is a surprise. I stand still and listen while Peasbody relocks the fire hydrants and hoses. It’s silent otherwise, but on the other side of all those doors are unhappy people caged like rats. As the saying goes, this is the calm before the storm.

  I open the door to the office, which is the same size as a cell and contains only a chair, a desk and a cabinet. On the wall there is a whiteboard with fifty-six boxes and seventy-nine spaces. All of them have a name in them. I write five cell numbers down on a piece of paper, and hand it to Peasbody. I talk as I write our names in the observation book. Dalton and Peasbody on duty. Roll count. Seventy-nine.

  ‘Have you worked male side before?’ I ask him.

  ‘No, well, a few hours on the detox wing with the service users when I was training.’

  I glance up to see if he’s joking. He isn’t. That’s not what I call the residents of Bravo wing. The inmates there can be mouthy with withdrawal, but weak and skinny. It’s one of the easier wings to work as long as you don’t mind a bit of moaning and thieving.

  The sheen of sweat on Peasbody’s forehead, despite the cool hour, makes me think of Ivan at home. It’s much worse for Peasbody, though, because he’s awake for his nightmare. I have to try to pass on five years’ worth of jailcraft to him in thirty seconds.

  ‘Look, Peasbody. It’s different over here, so stay calm. Open the wing workers up, then the rest of the cons two minutes later. Stop puffing your chest out, or someone will do it for you. This is a remand wing, and it also includes immigrants awaiting deportation. Quite a few have been with us over a year. There’s a lot of anger here. It’s not far below the surface.’

  Peasbody looks at the list of names as if it will tell him who’s going to be trouble.

  ‘Many of these men are looking for a fight or answers to their situations – it’s not for us to provide either, but be polite. Anyone gives you any hassle, let me know. Anyone has questions, tell them I said to see me. Do not provoke anyone, or be provoked. Your job today is to ensure the inmates go back in their cells at lunchtime in the same condition as when they left them this morning. Do not be a hero.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. A fifth of the men on here could beat one of us up, but none of them can take us both. Remember that.’

  I think of Gronkowski and suspect I’ve just lied.

  ‘Keep away from Scranton and Gronkowski. Cells forty and forty-three.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And don’t worry about being new. They’ll know the moment they see you and will try to push your buttons or take advantage. When I shout bang up, start at the bottom and lock t
he doors one by one. Don’t worry if they’re not inside. Close the door. They’ll soon come running.’

  I watch him lick his lips.

  ‘And breathe. You’ll never forget today. Try to enjoy it. When you walk out of here at lunchtime, you’ll be a new man.’

  Peasbody’s Adam’s apple hammers up and down his throat like a faulty elevator. He nods, then runs up the stairs with the list to get the wing workers out. They tend to be time-served prisoners who will serve meals and clean the wing. They are desired positions because they are out of their cells for most of the day. The other workers will leave the houseblock to attend industries or education. Five minutes later, the servery has a queue of tired-looking men. Sleep doesn’t come easy in a prison, especially for those on this type of wing where they have an uncertain future yet to be decided by the courts.

  ‘Queries!’ I shout from the office door and prepare myself for the arguments that will shortly commence.

  One of the travellers is first, but he’s barely got warmed up about his clothes being at Reception still, when a big hand grabs him around the neck and yanks him out of the office. The traveller turns with a snarl, but, having looked towards a heavily muscled chest, and then upwards into what must be a daunting face, he decides his interests lie elsewhere. Standing outside the doorway in just a pair of shorts is Gronkowski. I recognise his chin, which is prominent, to say the least. His nose is out of sight due to the giant’s height. Gronkowski bends his back and edges his head under the doorway and into the room. The walls shrink in.

  ‘I want answers,’ he says in accented English.

  I step behind the table to keep some distance between us, even though he could probably reach right over it and grab me.

  ‘Fire away.’

  There’s a tut, and a ‘come on’ from behind the huge inmate. Gronkowski turns and bellows something in Polish and the remainder of the queue vanishes. His eyes are blazing when he returns his gaze to me.

  ‘I am innocent. I kill no one. Please, I just saw me on the news. Who do I talk to?’

  I’m still processing the size of the man. He reminds me a little of Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, but his chest is much more pronounced. With his shaven head and trimmed beard, it feels as though I’m being scrutinised by a Greek god, although now he leans towards me, the eyes are bloodshot and watery. I’ve dealt with lots of Eastern Europeans in this place, and they’re often easier to deal with than the local guys as they seem to have more common sense. Honesty is the best policy with them. Even so, my mouth is dry.

  ‘The only person who can get you out of here is a judge, unless the police drop the charges, which seems unlikely. You’ll have to wait for a plea hearing. To be honest, that might take months.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, and I must be home.’

  The volume of his voice is rising, so I speak slowly and quietly.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t surprise you, but half of the people on here say they are innocent when they first arrive. They soon realise that my job is to keep everyone in here safe. Nearly all of them return from court with a sentence and proudly tell me that they were guilty anyway. Ring your solicitor before lunch and see what he has to say.’

  Gronkowski slams a fist on the office table. Everything on it jumps an inch off the surface. I’m glad I haven’t had time to make a hot drink.

  ‘I must speak my girlfriend. She make baby.’

  ‘Ring her, then.’

  ‘I use phone. It say number not allowed.’

  I don’t fancy explaining to him that prisons run as reliably as cheap Chinese toys. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. Gronkowski’s permitted telephone numbers might get updated this morning, or it could take weeks. I hear a shout of, ‘Delta 1, medication.’

  ‘I have meds to do. Ring your solicitor, and try to stay calm. Everything takes time here.’

  ‘You not understand. My girlfriend make baby today.’

  I’m used to hiding my emotions, but my face falls. It’s hard to imagine a more deadly combination of circumstances to make a man anxious and desperate.

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ I say, ‘but I’ll see if I can get you a phone call from the office.’

  Gronkowski’s eyes have dried and he sizes me up.

  ‘Tak,’ he says and backs out of the room.

  I follow him, locking the door behind me. When I turn around, Gronkowski waves a thick finger in my face.

  ‘Do not let me down. I want phone call in one hour or I break everything. And everyone. I know prison. The timid mouse eats no cheese.’

  I step past him, thinking I’ll process that titbit later. Scranton is lurking outside the office and follows Gronkowski up the fifteen metal stairs to the top landing where both their cells are. Scranton is a career criminal who’s spent more of his adult life in jail than out. Prison doesn’t faze him because he knows the rules and nearly all the other inmates. It’s his school, and he’s the headmaster. Scranton’s wiry strength and ratty features reflect his true nature. There’s always a prisoner who runs the wing, and at least Scranton isn’t generally violent. He is mischievous though, and a real shit-stirrer.

  Peasbody and I soon get the men who have prescriptions out to the med hatch and back on the wing. I stand between the pool table and ping-pong table and bellow.

  ‘Gents, behind your doors, please.’

  I nip up to the top landing to lock the last few cons away. Scranton is at Gronkowski’s door. Gronkowski seems to consider something Scranton has said, nods, steps inside his cell and pushes the door to. I lock Scranton in, then swing Gronkowski’s door open to check he’s alone.

  ‘You have to wear a shirt when you’re out of your cell,’ I tell him.

  ‘That not important.’

  ‘It is to me.’

  He smiles, grimly. He does know the game. I bang his cell door shut and lock it.

  Peasbody has done well getting everyone out for medication and then locked up again. He’s shown grit and pushed back the right amount when necessary. Confidence is the key to being a prison officer. The officers don’t need to be hard nuts; men like that are often a liability. The service needs strong men and women, mentally, and then only physically when someone erupts under the strain.

  Even so, I look through the thick bars of the wing gates down the line of cell doors, softly cursing. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

  5

  All the officers gather in the hub, where I get the printout that lists which workers are to leave the wing at 8.30 a.m. We spend ten minutes pulling each other’s legs, then we’re back on the wing unlocking those prisoners with jobs or education. When the inmates have left the houseblocks, the prison officers have their daily meeting back in the hub. SO Bowell runs through the usual messages and asks for any other business. I raise a hand.

  ‘The murderer on our wing, Gronkowski, says he’s innocent and that his girlfriend is due to give birth today.’

  ‘Ooh, nasty,’ says Lennox.

  ‘Yes, and his phone numbers aren’t on his pin. I said I would try to get him a call in the admin office. That’s okay, yeah?’

  Bowell quietly clicks his fingers as he considers his reply.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. One, he’s been accused of murder, so I’d rather we kept him in his cell or at least on the wing. And two, he might be yanking our chains. He probably ate his last girlfriend.’

  We all laugh. The first thing you learn in prison is that most prisoners lie to your face. You can’t blame them because there are no prizes for honesty. I’m not happy, though.

  ‘Look, if we give him the phone call, he may calm down. I don’t reckon it’s his first time in prison, and the wing feels wrong. I’m not sure if everyone’s scared of him or it’s something else.’

  ‘Okay, tell him I’ll come on and have a word with him this morning. That all right?’

  I’m not listening though. I’ve picked up the previous day’s visit list.

  ‘It says here that Scranton had a visit yeste
rday afternoon. Can anyone recall if he went?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, I remember him leaving,’ says Fats.

  ‘Shit. He’s supposed to be on closed visits, but there’s no mention of it on here. I bet that’s what it is. His visitor probably brought in drugs and he’s returned to the wing with them stuffed up his arse. The cons are quiet because they all know.’

  ‘We could spin his cell?’ offers Lennox.

  ‘There isn’t any point. He won’t have anything on him by now. It’ll have been split up and sold all over the wing or passed through the gates. Did the night staff leave any messages?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Bowell, reaching for the night report. ‘She said there was a strange smell on Bravo 1 and Delta 1.’

  ‘Spice!’ Fats and I say together.

  ‘Right,’ says Bowell. ‘I’ll ring Security and see what they say. Keep the wing workers locked up, but send those with healthcare appointments. I’ll check with Visits to see if Scranton’s visit was closed. To be honest, I doubt Security will have the staff to do any major searching and we certainly don’t, so that means get straight on with your daily cell checks. You know their hiding places. If a cell stinks, tell me, and we’ll get it fully searched.’

  Peasbody and I walk back to the wing. I pass him the healthcare slips and go in search of coffee. There’s no one on self-harm or suicide observations on our wing today, so in theory we have an easy day ahead. No one’s nicked my Nescafé, so I fill my cup from the big urn of almost boiling water on the landing. Drink in hand, I sit down at the desk in the office, take a sip, and flick through the day’s paperwork. There is a master list for the healthcare appointments. As I glance at the names, the unmistakable aroma of sweet tobacco filters into the room.

  British prisons are smoke-free places now, so someone’s breaking the rules, but the smell has a touch of herbs about it. I’ve come across it many times before. It will be tobacco mixed with spice. Spice is synthetic cannabis and the effects, good and bad, are similar to the real thing. Some users feel happy and relaxed, giggly even, and become very talkative. Others just feel ill or paranoid. Neither of the latter states are desirable in a cell. Synthetic cannabinoids react more strongly with some of the brain’s receptors and are way more potent. It’s easy to use too much and then we’re in trouble.