Strangeways

by Neil Samworth

  I suppose you could describe her as middle class. Whether she actually was or not, it was certainly there in her attitude – I know the job and you are not telling me how to do it, was the gist of it. You couldn’t tell her anything. For my sins I was informed I’d be her mentor.

  The first day, in my Yorkshire twang, I said, ‘Listen love, what you need to do is open that flap, look in and see what you’re unlocking. You need to know there’s not someone stood behind there with a table leg ready to bash you on the head.’ Normally, I’d have said ‘twat you’, but thought better of it. As it was, she pulled me up over the ‘love’.

  ‘I don’t know you well enough for you to call me love,’ she said. ‘And we will never know each other well enough.’

  Yeah, yeah, I thought, avoid going shopping in Sheffield if you find ‘love’ offensive – and anyway, what about that table leg?

  The next time I tried she had her hand up again to stop me, ‘Don’t tell me how to open cells.’

  She continued to unlock cells her way, while I was left to work out whether to do my job properly and pull her up. Yes, I decided, I would.

  ‘Like I told you before, what you need to do is . . .’

  ‘And like I told you before, don’t tell me how to do this job.’

  I worked with this officer for a month. Nightmare. Most of the time was spent treading on eggshells. It was like that film with Danny Glover and Mel Gibson, Lethal Weapon. Only we didn’t end up as pals and it was her who was lethal.

  Near the end of her probation, there was a Rastafarian prisoner on the threes. I met a lot of Rastas in the prison service. Usually, they are peace loving and don’t give you any strife. This lad wasn’t cut from that cloth. Bit of an angle on his language: he began telling me he’d fuck me over, stab me – stuff like that – because he claimed I hadn’t come through on a promise to sort something out, can’t remember what. Our conversation was lively, although I struggled to grasp much of it due to his half being in patois.

  ‘Bumbo-pussy-rassclaat . . .’

  ‘Listen lad, I can’t tell what you are saying.’

  ‘Kiss mi rass . . . liar . . . batty hole,’ and he’d start pointing.

  ‘You need to calm down, I can’t understand you.’

  ‘I’ll cut you up, bloodcleet . . .’

  ‘I’ve never said I’d do anything . . .’ and on it went until I put him behind his door, gentle hand in his back. It had been heading for a restraint.

  ‘Well,’ said my mentee, who’d witnessed all this, ‘this is why I am here.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ I said.

  ‘For people like that.’ I’m figuring she meant black people. ‘The way you just spoke to him was disgusting.’

  ‘He threatened me with violence,’ I said. ‘It’s been sorted with as little force as possible.’

  Not that she was listening: never did. What she did do was walk down the landing, open his door and let him out.

  The kid couldn’t believe his luck. He walked straight at me and threw a fist. Bam! He went for my head but gave me a glancing blow on the collarbone. We were in a restraint situation, as feared. Troops piled in as usual, flooding in from the twos, fours – everywhere. And all the while I’m struggling she’s pulling at my shirt collar, shouting, ‘Get off him! Get off him!’ When the incident was over she went home upset.

  She put a complaint in, and before long I was in front of an SO. I didn’t pull any punches: the prisoner came at me with urgency and purpose, and I expected a fellow officer to back me up, not take the prisoner’s side. Security footage confirmed my account. I was no longer mentoring her when eventually she was moved sideways into an admin role.

  I think it was Morgan Freeman who said the best way to do away with racism is to stop going on so much about it – just treat people as people. Or, in jail, treat prisoners as prisoners.

  Corruption in prison officers is another big no-no, and again one that tars everyone with the same brush. As with self-harming, I’ve categories of corruption too. In my view there are three.

  One: officers who are weak and vulnerable and may as well have a target on their head.

  Two: officers who get off on the risk. The one who was banging a con with the office fifteen metres away knew what she was doing. There’s also an element of stupidity to it.

  We had another officer who fitted that bill – let’s call him Cash4U, another from the OSG ranks. He was on a restraint once and afterwards he told the nurse he’d had hot water thrown at him. She checked his back and it was badly burned and blistered, so she sent him off to the hospital wing. Then he put in a claim for personal injury.

  Thing was, the day before he’d been gardening out in the sun, and everyone knew he had because he’d been showing off his back to anyone who’d look. As one of those people who can’t keep their own shit, he told me he’d made a good few grand out of that.

  Another day he came limping in. ‘What’s up?’ said Bertie. ‘What’ve you done to your fucking leg?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m all right,’ he said, bravely soldiering on.

  ‘You’re hopping about like a dick.’

  Later on, another officer and me were watching the prisoners out in the exercise yard. For some reason, by the way, cons always walk around anti-clockwise – never clockwise: don’t ask me why. Like water down a plughole. Maybe in Australia they go the other way? Anyway, a fight erupted – full-on aggro, about twelve of them going at it and only two of us – and I hit the alarm.

  I didn’t see Cash4U arrive, I was too busy splitting them all up, but I did see the aftermath. He’d fallen to the floor, knee clutched up by his chest howling, ‘Aaagh! My knee!’ A sick note went in again.

  Later that year – by which time he’d been in three car crashes – he got a letter that he asked me to explain. It said he’d been flagged up by an insurance monitoring service as a likely fraudster: fourteen claims in twelve months – motoring incidents, accidents at work, paint on the carpet . . . If this pattern of behaviour continued, it read, he’d be unable to insure his house, car or anything else. He shat blue lights.

  The third kind of corruption among screws is opportunists. I worked with a few – basically contraband runners for the cons. One saw it as a business deal, got close to someone and they made him an offer. Later, he tried to portray what he’d done as weakness. Bollocks. His family weren’t threatened: he’d seen pound signs. They caught him bringing smack into jail. Seven years.

  10. Born of Frustration

  Those first years on K Wing were among my most enjoyable in the prison service, and it was because of the management team. Bertie, ably backed up by PO Pennington, dealt with everything head-on but was also very astute. So many things in the prison service could be sorted in the way he did it.

  But in 2007 the time came for Bertie to move on. On K Wing, he’d been a fantastic officer and superb SO, so his promotion came as no surprise to anyone. Good luck to him. He became a principal officer for a while, before ending up a governor. Even then he was exactly the same. He’d swear and shout, bawl you out, rarely using PC language. You’d have a go back and it would be right as rain.

  Colin Edwards was our replacement SO. He hadn’t done his JSAC nor sat an exam, but was made up anyway as he’d been on the wing a while and was a respected regular officer. Once settled in he did a top-class job and – like Spongebob, who was still with us – he was a Bertie clone. He had lots of bottle and was straight as a die, with great interpersonal skills. Colin did the job like Bertie, having been taught by him, and for a while it carried on being a very disciplined wing. Every prisoner who came on was read the riot act: stay in line, no problem; fuck about and the staff will be all over you. It worked. When a prisoner was in danger of going on basic, he’d have a word: ‘Listen lad, wind your neck in.’ Perfect.

  He went on to do three years as senior officer, Colin, and during that time failed his JSAC three or four times by similar scores. In the end he was demoted back to off
icer status. Given what I’d seen in Birmingham, if the governors had really wanted him to be an SO they would have passed him. Everyone on the wing signed a letter saying what a top job he’d done, pleading his case. It didn’t work.

  I did once apply to be an SO myself, but was told by my PO that I couldn’t. I complained and a governor told him he had no power to stop me. If I wanted to go for the job I could. So this PO told me he’d reconsidered and would now put me forward. Thanks but no thanks, I said, which is me to a tee. Once I got more experience, I realized I’d had a lucky escape. I’d have been a good SO, I reckon, but would have had to bite my lip too often. Most POs are useless, and I couldn’t have been arsed with the politics. No, I was content getting on with the job.

  Then a new bunch of staff and managers came on the scene.

  The best new bosses in most jobs don’t tip things upside down immediately. They get a feel for a place, so that when change does happen it is built on knowledge. Not this time. Our new senior officer was a more guarded personality, quite definitely no Bertie Bassett. Our new PO – Venables – was very well respected at first, but that soon changed, with me anyway. Of the rest of the intake, many were inexperienced or from the ranks of the OSG, so the joint had a different feel. A gigantic broom swept our well-drilled regime away.

  All our little routines were gone. Half past seven – get people out for medication; lock them back up. Labour, education, off they’d go at eight o’clock. Quarter past, we’d have a brew and then the rest of the prisoners would be out. Lock them back up at half eleven, then out in the afternoon and out again at night. Suddenly, we were told to unlock everyone at half seven, full stop. We stuck at it for nine months and tried to take this disruption on the chin. We maintained the same volume of staff, and Nobby Nobbler and I would still have a laugh and look out for each other.

  Then PO Venables asked me what I thought of the wing now and I made the mistake of telling him.

  ‘You want me to be honest?’ I said; the days dragged, there wasn’t the same vibe. I wasn’t enjoying it as much. It was better with Bertie in charge. I was having problems with his replacement by then too.

  Shortly afterwards, a couple of young officers confided in me that a prisoner they’d escorted to this SO’s office wasn’t bollocked as they’d expected, but clobbered. They were in shock. They said this senior officer – let’s call him Clyde – had accused this con of calling one of our female officers – let’s call her Bonnie – a slag, and cracked him. Another senior female officer in the room had walked out. I had no idea if any of this was true or not, but it was a shocking allegation.

  Not long afterwards, SO Clyde told me and an officer that I got on well with, through our shared love of motorbikes, to bring in a French lad, probably our politest prisoner at the time. He spoke pretty good English and his manners were impeccable. It seemed odd that he should be in for a roasting, but we took him along as ordered. A third officer, female, was already in there.

  Our man made as if to sit down.

  ‘On your fucking feet,’ Clyde said, and the next moment leapt over the desk and twatted this kid, who went down like a sack of spuds. Bewildered, the biker and me had to drag the SO off. The other officer asked if she should press the alarm and I said no, best leave it.

  ‘Fucking pack it in,’ the biker said, with a hand on the SO’s chest. The bloke was slavering. He’d completely lost the plot.

  I got this French lad up, he was obviously unhappy, and told him to go back to his cell. When he’d gone, Clyde told us that Bonnie had accused the kid of being abusive, which he denied.

  Either way, what we’d seen was a sacking offence. We three were in disbelief, as was the SO, Spongebob, when we told him. I asked what he was going to do. If the female officer told a governor she’d seen this SO hit someone and we’d said nothing, the biker and I would be as guilty as he was in the eyes of the prison. Spongebob said he’d have a word.

  There are officers – even now – who’ll get violent and punch prisoners. It’s hard not to when your adrenaline is going and you’re being attacked. Some cons deserve it, they’re almost begging you to lose control. You are trained, though, to be restrained and proportionate in your response. I’ve been in restraints when officers were hit and punched back, big style. Down the line, I’d find myself in exactly that situation and I regret it to this day. In the modern era, though, it’s not so common. The prison service is more PC, managers more aware of their behaviour. But when anything bad does happen, staff fear speaking out.

  A couple of days later, my biker mate collared me. ‘We are in bother,’ he said. ‘The governor knows.’

  PO Venables got me in and I ended up having to write a statement. So did the other two officers. In mine, I didn’t say Clyde twatted the Frenchman: I tried to be diplomatic for a change – ‘overly aggressive’ is what I put, and it went to an investigation.

  I don’t know for sure who began calling me a grass, but I’ve a pretty good idea. It swept through that prison quickly. Bear in mind that it’s a macho culture and accusations of snitching are hard to shift. As prison officers you are all in it together, which is exactly why I brought it up in the way I did, to avoid that outcome. I just wanted it quietly sorting, in-house.

  For six months, I got the cold shoulder treatment, even worse than I’d had at Forest Bank. On one wing, when I was doing an overtime shift, a senior officer said to my face that it would be a good idea if I didn’t get involved in any restraints as his staff wouldn’t be backing me up. Wherever I went, people turned their back, and all the while the investigation was ongoing. My own union representative was aggressive with me at the hearing, implying that the SO’s sacking would be my fault.

  ‘We’ve never had an officer grass another at Manchester before,’ he said. ‘All the governors are talking about it.’

  I asked what he’d have done; just reckon not to notice?

  ‘Well, you know . . .’

  In the end they didn’t ask me the questions they should have and I didn’t have to lie. Would I have? We’ll never know, will we? Clyde ended up getting a warning and moved off the wing, away from Bonnie. However, I still had a problem because Strangeways as a whole was shunning me. Nobby Nobbler and a mate of his set off on a quest, going around the jail putting people right.

  If you’re a prison officer, you can be lazy, rubbish, court trouble all your career, but unless you do something really, really stupid like offend a few people on social media, you ain’t leaving – it’s a job for life. Boy Racer was another officer who didn’t have what it takes. He’d not been at Strangeways long when he was spotted in Preston, impressing the ladies by wearing his uniform, epaulettes and key chain – in a boozer! Not only that, he’d been demonstrating C&R techniques with them on the pub floor. He was always either in trouble or on the verge of it.

  In August 2007, HMP Manchester joined in a national day of action over pay and management changes. I wasn’t there, I was on a day off, but when I put the news on that morning there were my mates. Tractor Helen and others had spoken to the troops and they’d agreed en masse to join their mates protesting around the country. A lot of civilian staff and some officers not in the POA union stayed put. As people came in on late shifts they would see their colleagues. As a union member, if I’d been working I’d have been outside with them. From what I’ve been told there was friendly banter, nothing too nasty.

  Boy Racer was in the POA, I think, but went in anyway. One officer later got touted as the Devil for asking him why. His reply was to the effect of, ‘I’m not losing money out here with you muppets.’

  Next day I was on shift and so was he – an outcast.

  ‘All right, lad?’ I said.

  Nothing. Blanked me. Did that with a few others too. A couple of days later, the governor began calling us in. Staff had been abusive: the Boy Racer had written a list.

  My turn came. ‘Mr Samworth, we meet again.’ Wry smile. ‘What did you shout at Boy Racer in the picket l
ine?’

  ‘You tell me,’ I said, one step ahead for a change.

  ‘He says you called him . . . let’s see . . . a “fucking scab”.’

  ‘Did I? How many times?’ Cat and mouse, like.

  ‘Right, stop fucking about now, what are you smiling at?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m smiling at, guv. I was at home. I didn’t even know they were out until I saw it on the news. I was on a day off.’

  Those were my first dealings with the Boy Racer. Then I was made his mentor!

  First shift, off he went at eight o’clock, call of nature, he said. Nine o’clock – not back.

  ‘Where is he?’ Nobody knew.

  Ten o’clock, I got people out for exercise, locked the rest up, still on my lonesome. Eleven came and went, half eleven we were feeding, serving meals, usual carry on. Finally, he strolled up.

  ‘Where have you been, you prick?’

  First line out of his mouth, ‘I’m not having you talk to me like that.’

  So I threatened to drag him outside. He buggered off home, and you know what’s coming next, don’t you? Perhaps not. This time I got in first, explaining how he’d gone for a four-hour shite.

  ‘We checked the whole wing to make sure he wasn’t held hostage,’ I said, which we had.

  Enquiries were made. It turned out he’d spent a pleasant morning with friends on G Wing, as I recall, and was moved off K Wing pretty quickly after that. A fair bit later he was in strife again for a rant on social media after some global terrorist atrocity. I’m sure you can imagine the subject matter. He took it down but it was too late; it went to the number-one governor, did that.

  The Boy Racer liked his cars – he was the sort to drive into a wet prison car park in his BMW, put his foot down, spin three times and roar off through red lights, as he did one busy teatime while I was there. Nearly hit three motors. One night he came out and was filmed speeding down the A580, the East Lancs Road as it’s known locally. He claimed he’d thought someone was on his tail and going to shoot him. They looked at all the CCTV – cities are manned-up now – and tracked him for around twenty miles with nobody threatening him at all.