Bang Up: Prison walls don't just keep criminals in, the keep the outside world at bay

by Karen Woods

  The white Group Four van had eight doors inside it and behind each door was a small window. This vehicle was used to transfer prisoners to jails all around the country. Some of the most notorious criminals in the United Kingdom had sat in these vans; murderers, rapists, kiddy fiddlers. Mikey had been inside one of these before and he knew the crack. As he stepped inside he shouted out in a loud voice. “Brendan, are you on the bus mate?”

  Mikey smiled as he heard a reply. “Yeah, I’m going to the farms, where you going?”

  “I’m going there too, see you when we land. Don’t worry about fuck all I’ll look after you. It’s going to be a doddle.”

  Before he could finish his sentence he was pushed inside a door. Turning his head quickly he met the eyes of another officer who thought he was top dog. “Enjoy the trip mate.” Mikey just sat down on the seat and rammed two fingers into the air over at him. “Don’t you worry about me you faggot, just you worry about who’s stuck up your wife while you’re out working.” It was game set and match - Mikey had won the argument. The security guard was trying to come back with something but Mikey started to sing and ignored him. The door slammed shut and Mikey was alone with his thoughts.

  Mikey imagined some of the landmarks around Manchester disappearing one by one through the small window. It was going to be a long time before he ever set foot on those streets again. Dropping his head into his hands the reality of his life for the next few years kicked in. He was sobbing, tears rolling down his cheeks. No one must hear him though, nobody could see he was weak. Mikey rested his head on the wall to the left of him. The rain hammered against the van and he sat listening to it as if it was calming him down. He loved listening to the rain. Ever since being a small child he remembered how peaceful it made him feel. He loved being tucked up in his warm bed at night watching each droplet of rain run down his window pane.

  Most nights he would lie there never knowing if his mother was going to return home. He didn’t know if she was safe or if she’d been beaten within an inch of her life again. Rachel had received some bad beatings over the years. She’d been admitted into hospital several times and had stitches, concussion and broken bones. Trouble just followed her. Mikey spent most of his youth being shipped about to different relatives and anyone who would give him a bed for the night. He never really had a place to call home and from an early age he had to fend for himself. His father Dennis had only been in his life until he was five years old. He was a criminal too and he was forever in and out of jail. God only knows what for but Rachel had always said he was a bad penny and deserved to be locked up for good. Mikey would never have a bad word said against his father though. He loved him no matter what and on the night he left after yet another heated argument with his mother, he’d come into his son’s bedroom and lay stroking his head with a flat palm. “Son, I can’t do it anymore. She’s driving me insane. I’ll end up killing her if I stay. She’s saying bad things about me that aren’t true, honest, don’t listen to her. Don’t end up like me son. I’m fucked in the head. You’re so bright and have a great future in front of you. Make me proud son, just do something with your life and don’t end up a washed up worthless fucker like me.” Mikey would remember those words for the rest of his life, they were all he had left to remind him of his old man. He’d not seen the guy for years and didn’t have a clue where he was living. Word was that he was doing another stretch in jail but he didn’t know if that was true or just gossip.

  Deep down he knew he’d let his dad down, he’d never once made him proud. All of his life so far had been nothing but trouble. He’d been expelled from school when he was thirteen and left school barely able to read or write. It never bothered him, he thought he knew it all. Common sense was all he needed to get by in life, or so he thought. He was a know-it-all, nobody could ever make him see sense when he had a bee in his bonnet. He had a lot to learn and it looked like he was going to learn it the hard way. Somebody needed to give him a shake, a slap around the head, something to make him see that crime didn’t pay.

  Rachel was the one who’d got him grafting in the first place. It was shocking really, she had no shame. It was her need to score, her greed for the drugs that controlled her body that made her the way she was. Rachel started using heroin when she was first in jail. At the start it was just a few toots to calm her down, to get her through the hard times. She never thought that it would become her master and take over her life like it had. Those were dark days. Well, that’s what she called them now whenever she spoke about them. Those were the times when she’d sold her body to feed her habit, times when she’d sucked dirty old men off to stop her rattling for drugs. Rachel had been clean for over three years. She was on a methadone script and her need to go out to commit crime had reduced dramatically. She’d never be fully clean from the drug though, it had a grip on her and wasn’t for letting go. Even to this day she still had the occasional urge to feel the buzz from the drug that ruined her inside and out. That feeling would never truly disappear.

  Mikey looked after Rachel as soon as he was old enough. He’d seen her on her hands and knees crying for drugs, begging him to help her. This was something no child should ever see. He had to look after her, she had nobody else. All her family had deserted her years earlier. Could you blame them? She’d robbed them and shamed them, what did she expect? There was only so much they could take. Mikey started out in his criminal career just doing a few easy grafts to earn some money, stuff his mother had put him on to. Cars with SAT navigators inside them, vans with boxes and valuables left on the seats. Yes, Rachel was eager for her son to learn the tricks of the trade from an early age. She showed him how to survive. If nothing else, his mother gave him the ways and means to make money and put food on the table any way he could.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mark Fulton was at the dining table flicking through the newspaper. He was studying the horses and he was thinking of having a flutter. The names of the horses he fancied were circled in black biro. Tips of the day he liked to tell people, it was a load of shit really, none of them ever won a race, donkeys they were. The radio was on quietly in the background and he was only half-listening to the local news. It was the same old shit, just a different day. The crime rate in the area was soaring and he shook his head slightly as he listened to the news about a vicious attack on a local shopkeeper. Two thirteen year-old kids had kicked the fuck out of a sixty-two year-old man and left him half dead. They took one hundred pounds out of his till and snatched a few packets of cigarettes. Apparently, the youths were high on drugs and could only apologise for their behaviour. They wanted a good kicking, someone should have smacked their arse until it bled. A bit of old-fashioned parenting was what was missing here; a few clouts around their ear hole every now and then to keep them in line was what was missing. Kids were too cheeky these days and they had no respect for anybody, not even their parents. Mark hated crime and detested how the youth of today thought they knew it all. He flicked the pages over and sipped at his coffee.

  His wife Tracey came into the front room, stressing. She was a right moaning cow and it always seemed to be somebody else’s fault that she was in a mood each morning; a right hormonal bitch she was. His wife tapped him on the shoulder as she rushed past him. “Mark, have you seen my bleeding car keys. I’m going to be late. I put them on the table last night. Have you shifted them again? You know what you’re like for moving things about?” Wow, this woman was a right nagging bitch, nag nag nag, non-stop. This guy was henpecked.

  Mark and Tracey had been married for three years and the honeymoon period had ended years ago. Sex was crap and he had to make a date with his missus for a leg-over weeks in advance. He was lucky if he got her to spread her legs once a month, an ice maiden she was. Mark was living like a monk, tiptoeing around her, doing anything to stop her yapping at him all the time. Tracey had been gorgeous in her day and all the men queued up to take her out, she had been a prize catch. But once Mark put a ring on her finger she
stopped looking after herself and had let herself go. Her once slimline figure had gone from a comfortable size ten to at least two sizes bigger. She was a cake addict and never stopped eating. Mark had only mentioned that she should curb the bread in future and that had caused World War Three. He would never be straight with her again. He left her to her own devices and just sat back watching her get bigger by the day. He was actually starting to hate his life with her, she was a misery and every day she had some drama going on in her life. There was never enough money coming into the house, everything was such a big effort with her. “Make sure you put the money in the bank Mark, the mortgage is due at the end of the month. Don’t forget, we don’t want to be charged for a late payment again do we?” She stressed her words and made sure he got the message.

  Mark pulled a black jumper over his white shirt. He wanted a peaceful morning but that was never going to happen while she was in the same room. She never let up. Mark kept his calm and snarled over at her. He could have strangled her, ended her life at that second, she made his blood boil. He gasped his breath and raised his eyes. “I’ll do it for fucks sake. I told you last time it was a mistake on their part. It’s not my fault if the bank fuck things up is it? Just go to work anyway. I’ll sort it out, like I always do.”

  Tracey bent over slightly and kissed the side of his cheek. She knew she’d rattled his cage and tried to make amends but he just pushed her away and wiped the cherry coloured lipstick from his cheek. Heading to the door she shouted back at him. “What time are you home tonight, is it a late shift?”

  Mark didn’t even look at her as he carried on reading his newspaper. “Yep, I’m on a double shift so I’ll see you when I see you.”

  Tracey casually slung her handbag over her shoulder. “I wish you would find another job with normal working hours. I hate sleeping on my own at night. You need to switch jobs and work sociable hours like I do.”

  Mark picked his cup of coffee up and sipped the last bit of it. He rammed two fingers in the air behind her and let out a laboured breath. “Don’t come back home then! Suits me fine,” he growled. The front door slammed shut and he threw the newspaper down on the table. He dropped his head into his fanned fingers and sighed. Something was troubling him. Pulling his wallet out from his trouser pocket he opened it and looked at the cash there. Mark spread the notes out on the table and sat staring at them, his finger touching the notes and slowly gliding across them. He was short again, one hundred and fifty pounds short. This was all getting out of control. What a prick he was, would he ever learn? Mark liked to gamble. He loved to chase his money, he was addicted to gambling and had been for a few years now. Scratch cards, roulette, anything that he thought could win him the jackpot. Ragging his hands through his hair he sat looking at the notes on the table again. Something had to give, his luck needed to change somehow, someway. Just a few grand would land him back on his feet and clear the debts he’d accrued.

  Mark quickly checked the time on his wristwatch and sprang to his feet. He couldn’t be late again, he’d already had his collar felt about his time keeping. He just didn’t have the get up and go anymore, he had no motivation whatsoever. Mark worked as a prison officer in a jail not too far from where he lived. The role of a screw had made him see life in a different light. There were some bad people living in this world, dangerous sick bastards who were not right in the head. When he first started working at HMP Lancaster Farms he was a bit wet behind the ears. He knew nothing about prison life and how cunning some people really were. He’d learned the hard way. Nobody could ever be trusted in the big house. He was wise to this now. Every day he worked there he was living on borrowed time. Screws were being stabbed, attacked, fighting for their lives in a hospital bed the moment their backs were turned. The job was hardcore and very stressful. Every night he lay in bed thinking about what had gone down on his latest shift. There were lads stringing themselves up, inmates self-harming, bullying, and then, there was the dark side of the jail: the paedophiles. He’d always struggled on the high-risk wings. He could never look the kiddy-fiddlers in the eye without wanting to punch their lights out. They were dirty bastards, lowlifes. And yes, he’d turned a blind eye on a few occasions to let them take a good beating from the other prisoners in the jail. They deserved it; they were the scum of the earth.

  So, why did he still work there? Why did he put himself through this rigmarole every single day when he could have had a nice office job, a cushy number with no idiots wanting to end his life every minute of every day? Deep down Mark was a control freak, he liked to rule his wing with a firm hand, he liked the power he held over the inmates. His father was the same and he hated that sometimes when he looked at his reflection in the mirror he could see his old man staring right back at him; a fierce, controlling bully who intimidated everyone he saw a weakness in. When Mark first started the job, he had sympathised with the convicts on his wing and thought he would give them a clean break, never judging them. But, after a sneaky attack that led to a large scar on his left cheek, he never trusted any of them again. His head was always in the game now, he never let any of them get close to him. Once bitten, twice shy. The good Mark had gone and all that was left was a moody, grumpy screw with no time for anyone anymore. Every shift he worked he would never let his guard down, never turn a blind eye. He had to be on the ball twenty-four-seven.

  Mark picked his car keys up from the table and shoved the money back in his wallet. There was just enough time to nip to the bookies before his shift began. He’d had a tip from his pal about a horse that was running and he’d already checked the form on the horse, it was easy money. In fact, it was his last hope of getting the money back he’d already lost.

  *

  Mark pulled up in the car park outside the prison and dropped his head onto the steering wheel, banging it slowly. Small beads of sweat were forming on his brow and he looked like he was going to burst out crying. His luck had run out and he’d lost every penny. The crumpled betting slip on the seat next to him had been spat at and cursed all the way to work. Why did he listen to his mate, the four-legged donkey came last and didn’t even put up a fight for a place! If he’d have had a gun at that moment he would have found the horse and shot the lazy fucker right in the head! He was up shit street now, he had nowhere else to turn. The minute he walked through the door his missus would be on at him and it was only a matter of time before she found out he’d done the mortgage money in again. He was a bad liar and she could always see right through him, his eyes blinked rapidly when he was telling porkies, he fidgeted about and he could never look her in the eye when he was trying to pull a fast one.

  Turning his head slightly, he could see the prison gates facing him. It was a modern jail and not like some of the other joints he’d worked in the past but it was still a jail and behind its walls were the rejects of life. The Artful Dodgers of the world, men nobody would ever trust. Smithy banged his palm onto the window and made Mark jump. “Are you ready for the shift lad, come on, the sooner we get in, the sooner we finish!” he chuckled. Mark grabbed his holdall from the passenger seat and opened the car door. There could be no more tears now, it was work time. He had to be the confident, happy-go-lucky man everybody thought he was.

  Smithy had been his pal for as long as he could remember and they’d both started working in the prison service at about the same time. Smithy loved his job and he always did his best to work alongside the inmates. He’d gained the respect of the offenders on his wing and it was very rare he ever got any trouble from them. B-wing had always been a black spot inside the jail and each screw dodged it like the plague. It was full of youths who didn’t like rules, lads who had chips on their shoulders, cocky fuckers who would bow down to nobody. Men who would stick a blade in you the moment your back was turned. Mark stood back from the path as a white van drove past them both. Smithy smirked over at him and punched him playfully in the arm. “Some new prisoners for the jail, fucking shoot me now! More head the balls to deal
with, more pricks who think the world owes them a favour!”

  Smithy sniggered and zipped his coat up tightly as they continued to walk to their place of work. Mark shot a look over at the sweat box and snarled at it. He knew each inmate inside was another reason why his job was so hard these days. These prisoners were a new breed of criminal; ruthless and not afraid of anything. Most of them were in for violent crimes and they didn’t think twice about taking a man down. Prison didn’t scare them, it just made them stronger. The days had long gone when a young offender came through the prison door who had made one silly mistake. These inmates were full of attitude and had respect for nobody. Yes, there was the odd one who wanted to turn their lives around but they were few and far between. For most of the men behind these walls, this was part of their everyday life.

  The men stood at the entrance to the jail. Smithy punched his digits into the silver key pad. Once they stepped inside, everywhere they went the process was more or less the same. Everything was under lock and key. Mark followed Smithy into the reception area and they went straight to the lockers to put their personal belongings away. Nothing of any value was ever taken into the main prison.

  Jerry, the man in charge, was chewing the end of his blue biro and sat at his desk watching the CCTV with concern. He was around fifty-five years of age and most of his working career had been spent in the jails around the country. Jerry had been in the army before this job and he knew how hard it was to make sure rules were followed. The army had turned him from a boy to a man, he always said, and every chance he got he was telling his co-workers about his days in the forces. They were the best days of his life and he recommended that every man should join the army as soon as they were old enough too. Lifting his head up from the screen, he chuckled as he spoke to Mark and Smithy. “Right lads, I need you both to muck in and help out in reception with these new prisoners. I’ve got two staff who have phoned in sick and we’re short-staffed on that side. We need to pull together and get this lot settled without any hassle.”