Prisoner

by Ross Greenwood

‘It’s pretty similar really. Obviously there are a thousand stinky men over there and they haven’t got any chickens, but apart from that.’

  She giggles, and it sounds out of place in the cell. It’s light-hearted and free.

  ‘You’re a big man, so I reckon you can handle yourself.’

  I’m not sure if she’s pulling my leg or not. She smiles and does the thing where she hooks her loose hair around her ear. I back out of the room and close it behind me.

  The returning workers are collecting at the gate. One of them is the sweet redhead who called me Uncle, who unsurprisingly is nicknamed Red.

  ‘Come on, guv, get a jimmy on. I’m dying for a piss.’

  I walk over and let them stream in. The food trolley arrives at the same time, seemingly being pushed by magic. Then I spot a perfectly made-up Tara Prestwick behind it, shoving it in with a grunt.

  ‘Thanks, Tara,’ I say. ‘Is this what they call child labour?’

  ‘Too right. I’ll sue for millions.’

  I lock the gates with her on the other side, but she doesn’t leave. In the male serveries you need to be present when the prisoners open the food trolley, or the eighty chocolate bars for dessert are liable to go for a walk. Tex says it doesn’t happen over here.

  ‘What did you think, then?’ Tara asks.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What I’m in for?’

  ‘I didn’t look.’

  She has a perplexed expression. ‘Oh, I thought you’d check.’

  ‘Did you now? Maybe you aren’t as smart as you reckon.’ I leave her dangling for a few moments. ‘I was planning to, but I forgot in my haste to get out of this place. I’m betting you’re a jewel thief.’

  ‘Nope, I’m in for prostitution.’

  Now it’s me who’s surprised. ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘No, really. Not what you’d think, but don’t forget my nickname, Ruined. And that’s what ruined people do. Broken said to tell you what she was in for too. She’s in for theft and failing to comply with the terms of her licence after she was recently released.’

  ‘Have any of you thought about not breaking the law?’

  She smiles her big white teeth at me. ‘People like us help ourselves. No one does anything for us. Besides, I’ve got a plan, and I also have a story…’

  The redhead has come to stand next to me.

  ‘Sir, where’s the food list?’

  ‘You okay, Red?’ Tara asks her.

  Red nods respectfully at Tara. ‘Sure, Tara.’

  ‘Cool, let us have a moment and he’ll get it for you.’

  Instead of the attitude I’ve been getting, Red scarpers.

  Tara shakes the bars. ‘See you, Dalton. I’ll tell you about my plan and my past. Perhaps we’ll really open your eyes to our world. Although I reckon you understand more than most.’

  ‘What if I prefer my eyes closed?’

  ‘I think we’re going to be good for each other. We all need friends in here and someone to watch our backs, and that includes you.’

  29

  I cycle home in light rain to find the house empty. The kids will be at school, but Abi has left a note saying she’s gone running. No kisses. Regardless, I smile. I feel at a loose end. Normally, I’d just sit around and watch TV or have a few beers, but I’m not tired and fancy doing something.

  I get the hoover out, which gives off a strong burning smell after a few minutes, so I put it back where I found it. No point in getting the blame for breaking the vacuum cleaner, too. I used to do a series of press-ups, sit-ups and the like when I was younger and it was such a regular routine that I can still remember it now. Half an hour later, I’m aching, but pleased as I stretch my muscles afterwards. Following a long shower, I wander into our bedroom and find some clean clothes.

  There’s an opened letter on the table next to Abi’s side of the bed. I pick it up and see it has a foreign stamp on it, presumably Spanish. It can only be from one place. I only consider my moral compass for a few seconds before I slide the insides out. It’s a greetings card with what looks like a picture of a peaceful Spanish village on it. I sit down on the edge of the bed and open it.

  The flowery joined-up writing takes careful reading, but the message is that they are sorry to learn Abi and the children are struggling, but they are more than welcome to come over at any point. There’s plenty of room for them in the villa. Abi’s dad tells her where the flights are the cheapest from and says to put it on her credit card and he’ll send the money over. As far as I know, we haven’t got a credit card. He’ll obviously pick them up from the airport. My name isn’t mentioned once.

  We were all invited to their villa last summer, but I couldn’t get the time off work, so Abi and the kids went without me and had a great holiday. Abi and Tilly visited the Christmas before Ivan was born, but there’s never any chance of getting a week off in the prison at that time of year. Even though I didn’t go, at least those times I was invited.

  I hear the front door open and close downstairs. Abi must have returned. I slip the card back in its envelope, tiptoe to the steamy bathroom and pick up my toothbrush. Abi runs up the stairs. I turn and smile at her. She has colour in her cheeks, and a spark in her eyes that’s been missing for more time than I can recall. Even though her hair is wet and bedraggled and make-up has run down her face, she looks like the woman I once knew.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I leave you a note to say I’ve gone for a jog. You know I have to pick the kids up at three. So, what do you do? Use all the bloody hot water just before I get home!’

  30

  I slept on the sofa. I wasn’t ordered to, but it seemed appropriate. It was supposed to be my day off today, but I’ve come into work on overtime. It’s an Agony shift, twelve-hours, but I figure if I’m on the female side, it won’t wipe me out. Besides, we need the money.

  Sheraton and I are on shift for the morning. Rose-Marie leaves the wing to go to court just as I arrive. There are about ten prisons for women in the country, compared to a couple of hundred for the men, because the judges sentence so few women to prison. The judiciary are very aware that if they send mum away, they are also sentencing her kids to an unstable, uncertain future with the stigma of a parent in jail. Most of the women already have issues with their mental health. Separating them from their children only makes it worse. It’s a great way of creating the next generation of prisoners, though.

  Sheraton and I get all the work done early, so I sit at the table in the office and finish off Sunday’s paper. Billie knocks on the door. She looks different. Then I realise she has make-up on, and I can smell perfume. It’s an incredible contrast to the normal aroma of a prison.

  ‘I hope that’s not perfume I can smell?’ I ask her.

  ‘No, it’s deodorant. Do you like it?’

  She must think I was born yesterday. It’s way too strong for the alcohol-free perfumes they are allowed. That can be an argument for another day as she seems to be in a pleasant, sensible mood, albeit cautious.

  ‘Lovely. What do you want?’

  ‘I feel cheeky asking, but how do you get to work with the chickens?’

  I glance out of the window behind me. Myerscough is the officer out there. He walked the male landings for years, then worked in the gym. They seem to be easing him out of here gently with ever more cushy roles. He still looks fit, but he’s pushing sixty now. He had a breakdown not long after I started; something to do with his wife. It’s not unusual for prison officers’ marriages to fail. I may be about to have first-hand experience of that.

  I’ve got no idea who they let look after the chickens. Gardening detail is a sought-after number on the male side, requiring a certain level of clearance, but there’s always a screw present, so it’s not like the orange bands who roam the prison without supervision.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’ll find out for you. Are you keen on poultry?’

  ‘I have ple
nty of experience working with animals. I’ve dated enough of them.’

  I laugh, but she doesn’t.

  ‘You could get a suntan out there,’ she says.

  She leans over to read the back of the newspaper that I’ve folded and left at the end of the table. I notice how tight her spotless white jeans are. She has a dancer’s figure, which also seems out of place here.

  ‘Do you have a job interview, Billie?’

  I gesture at her clothes and she blushes.

  ‘It’s for a visit this afternoon.’

  She picks up my newspaper.

  ‘Excuse me. Why are your paws on my paper?’ I ask.

  ‘Can I read it?’

  With time-served male prisoners, it’s well known they often start the grooming of an officer by asking for little bits and bobs, then slowly raise the bar. I’m wise to that, but it’s only a newspaper that I was about to bin. Boredom is every prisoner’s enemy.

  ‘Go on, take it.’

  ‘Where’s the magazine?’

  I laugh again. Cheeky mare. ‘That’s the only bit my wife likes.’

  We both turn as the gates rattle. A posh voice reverberates down the wing.

  ‘Cleaning products at the gate.’

  I usher Billie out of the office and lock it behind me. With an accent like that, it can only be Tara. Each week, new mop heads, bleach, detergent and wipes are delivered to the wing for the wing cleaners.

  ‘Come on, Billie, give me a hand putting this stuff away.’

  I open the gates and Tara nudges the boxes through with her foot. She’s also well-dressed with full make-up. She looks at Billie.

  ‘Damage, how’s things?’

  ‘Fine, Ruined. How are you?’

  Tara smiles at her in the manner of an older sister. Billie, like Rose-Marie yesterday, is respectful. So Billie is the other prisoner that calls Tara by her nickname – Ruined. Billie and I pick up the stuff, nod to Tara, and take it up to the storeroom. We get close as we put it away, and I’m very aware of it.

  At lunchtime, I go over to the staff canteen with Sheraton. There’s a big queue because it’s burgers today. I tap the officer in front of me.

  ‘Nice to see you back, Peasbody.’

  ‘Cheers, Dalton. By the way, it’s Peabody, with no S.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Why didn’t you say before?’

  ‘To be honest, I had other things on my mind.’

  He glances around to see if anyone else is listening, but the person in front is moaning to her friend about how slow the queue is.

  ‘Dalton, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you scared when you go on the male wings?’

  Sheraton also looks interested in my response. Normally, I’d just say no, but that’s not going to help these guys. At some point, both of them will be called to work with the men again. Understandably that would make Peabody particularly nervous.

  ‘Sometimes. You need to be wary over there. There are big men who are used to fighting and can break bones very quickly. Meaning there’s always a level of caution. If you’d been over there longer with me, I would have explained how to manage those wings.’

  ‘Can you explain now?’

  The queue’s not moving, so I nod.

  ‘It’s tough for everyone over there for the first six months, however big or hard you might be. There are so many inmates, many of them looking for an edge, and so many rules, that you have no idea what’s going on. When you’re new, the cons understand if they push, you’ll probably weaken and let them out of their cell to make a call, or whatever they’re after, because you don’t know all the rules. But that’s okay, because that’s how you learn. When you arrive, it’s their wing. You’re the newbie. But any prisoners who arrive at the prison when you’re already here will think you’re part of the furniture.’

  Peabody smiles. ‘So, they don’t take the piss.’

  ‘Well, not as much, but most of the people who come to jail are nervous and have no idea how it works. They don’t know anyone either, so you’re potentially the only person that isn’t after something. As time goes by, you’ll learn who the gits are, who’s violent, and who’s decent. The best thing is to find an inmate on your wing who you can have a chat with. If the wing is bubbling, go and stand next to them and start a conversation. The other prisoners will automatically assume you’re okay. That might be enough to stop any bother.’

  Finally, the queue moves. We get to the front and Peabody has the last burger.

  31

  Sheraton left after lunch and Tex arrives for the afternoon shift. There’s not much going on, so we ask the wing workers to clean the stairs. They handle a lot of traffic and get splattered with a variety of substances from food to blood. Billie is one of the wing cleaners, but has spent most of her time talking.

  ‘Come on, Billie, you need to help too,’ I say.

  ‘I’m ill. I was sick this morning and yesterday.’

  ‘A little bit of activity will make you feel better.’

  ‘I can’t stand the smell of the bleach.’

  ‘If you don’t join in, you can go behind your door.’

  ‘But, sir, it’s too hot in there.’

  She flutters her eyelashes at me and pouts. My resolve wavers. I never had this problem with the men. I suspect she’s making it up because she doesn’t want to change out of her nice clothes for her visit later.

  ‘Your choice. In or out.’

  She gives me a furious glance and stamps off to her cell. I lock her in.

  We have four ACCT books today for risk of suicide and self-harm. The idea is that, as an officer, you instigate a meaningful conversation with each person at least twice a day and document it. That way you can gauge their state of mind, but also show them they are not alone and someone cares enough to talk to them. People thinking of hurting themselves often distance themselves from human contact. Having a chat can stop that from happening.

  I talk to Red, who is on one observation an hour, in her cell. It’s a dirty room. She shares with a small girl who stares at the floor whenever she leaves her cell. They call her Scouse, but, having never heard her talk, even at the servery, I’m not sure if it’s because she’s from Liverpool or if there’s another reason. Scouse is unkempt and has given up any effort to make herself look normal enough to fit in. She looks a little like a cartoon troll and most likely smells similar.

  Scouse and Red’s cell reminds me of a rubbish tip, which is telling of their mental health. There is not a centimetre of floor that doesn’t have discarded clothes on it. A large droning bluebottle fly bumps lazily against the window. Even it has lost the will to live.

  It turns out Red has tried to kill herself around twenty times. She tells me this in front of her pad mate as though she’s talking about trips to the cinema. She used to work in the library but got sacked for aggressively flirting with the readers. Therefore, she currently spends most of the time banged up. In this weather, their cell is a muggy swamp. It smells as though the previous tenant died in here two weeks ago and they left the body under the bottom bunk.

  Red usually wears a lot of clothing, but the hot afternoon sun is baking their cell so she only has on loose gym shorts and a T-shirt. Her arms, wrist to shoulder, and her thighs, knee to groin, are covered in gruesome self-harm marks. By far the worst I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. There are cuts upon cuts, upon cuts.

  It always surprises me how normal these girls sound. You’d think they would be barking mad to do something like that to themselves, but Red just chats about her home and how she has two cats. She describes them down to their collar colour. It’s too much detail and I suspect she doesn’t have a cat at all. In fact, from what Tex said, she probably doesn’t even have a place to go back to.

  Billie’s cell is next to Red’s. She has her music very loud for someone who’s poorly. I sneak a look through her observation panel. She has her eyes closed and her arms are crossed over her ch
est. She’s swaying and slow dancing to Bryan Ferry’s Slave to Love. Some girls own CD players, but they tend to be the white-collar prisoners. Billie’s music is from the prison radio channel on the TV. She moves well, hips sashaying in a dreamlike state. It doesn’t feel right to interrupt.

  I remember dancing to the same song with Abi, not long after we’d met, at the wedding of one of her friends. It was one of those perfect moments that you have when you first fall in love. Safe in the knowledge that you are with the best girl in the world and your search is over, the beauty of obsession, and the belief that things will never change. But things do change.

  I gently close Billie’s panel and return to the office. On the male side, when prisoners take the piss, which Billie is clearly doing, you need to let them know you know. Even if they get out of going to work, you should make it an uncomfortable, even stressful, experience. One which they won’t be keen to repeat. It’s called control.

  I have a thought and pick up the visits list for the afternoon. There’s only one prisoner with a booked visit – Daisy, a prolific shoplifter from Market Deeping. That’s the sadness of these youngsters. Few have family writing to them, less have people visit. We now have a roll of twenty and some, like Rose-Marie, are only on remand. That means they could book a slot for a visit every day if they wished. I suspect they do wish, but nobody comes.

  There’s also no visit time for Billie. I return to her cell. The song has finished, and she’s turned the radio off, so I knock on the door and open it. She seems miles away still, standing next to the window and staring through the bars. Unguarded, she looks different.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ she says without looking at me.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know your visitor is here.’

  Her face is a picture. Her eyes look around the room as if to find an answer.

  ‘Yeah, who is it?’

  ‘Who were you expecting?’

  I have to give her credit, she recovers fast.

  ‘Okay, I made it up. If I’m honest, I felt embarrassed that I wanted to dress nice for you.’