‘Who’s in charge here?’ I asked – that was all I could think of to say. After a minute or two I thought, I’ve had enough of this, and went back to the van to say, ‘Let’s fuck off.’
Then a lad appeared, aged about sixteen, wiry and thin. He had a robe on too and a prayer cap.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, polite as you like. ‘Can I help you?’
He looked at the van and nodded at the prisoner. ‘I apologize for all this,’ he said. ‘Thank you for bringing him.’
Then he started speaking to everyone around him. By the sound of it he was trying to calm them down. Whatever language it was, it amused me to hear ‘fuck’ translated as ‘fuck’ as he sprinkled that word in here and there. The garden had about fifty men in it – all men, there wasn’t a woman in sight. He invited us into the house. The crowd had spilled out onto the road and was now surrounding the van.
Our hero cleared a passage through – pushing up the path was like running the gauntlet. When we got to the front door, a guy put a hand on my chest, which I didn’t take too kindly to. ‘You need to remove your shoes,’ he said.
‘This is my uniform,’ I said. ‘If you want me to remove my shoes, we are not coming in.’
Again this lad intervened, the voice of common sense, and we went into the front room. The hallway was packed and the lounge was too, standing room only, except for the late father, centre of attention in an open coffin on the table. He’d have probably been buried by now if his son hadn’t been coming as, I now know, Muslims choose to do that quickly. The prisoner was upset, bawling his eyes out.
The voice of reason asked if they were all okay to pray. What am I going to say? It was a culture shock for Tall Lad and me. They got down on their mats and my six-foot-four colleague had no choice but to kneel with them. As our prisoner leaned forward, so did Tall Lad. They all prayed together, so every time they prostrated themselves, he had to too. It had its comical side, did that, but I managed to keep my amusement in check.
Despite his grief the prisoner had been very well behaved. The wiry lad gave him a hug, as did the others, sharing brief conversations. He looked at his dad for the last time and we left before the burial.
As soon as we stepped outside, hostility raged again. The windscreen of the van was dripping in phlegm and the driver didn’t look too bright either. The scene was grim. People had been kicking the vehicle, spitting and hurling abuse, the longest twenty minutes of his life, he said. When the three of us climbed aboard, it was, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines!’ And off we went, Indy 500 style, without delay.
On my second funeral outing we had another youngster on our wing, David Caplan. He was in with a kid called Bobby Templeton, who’d become a young offender at sixteen. In fact they were just two of half a dozen very clever armed robbers, although thinking about it they can’t have been that clever, can they, because they got caught. What they’d been doing was hitting supermarkets in isolated places, where a crook can rob as much money as at a bank with a lot less risk.
Templeton was on his second sentence – he’d started going out armed aged thirteen. When he came to us he was eighteen, so his first sentence hadn’t been very big. Over the eighteen months they were on remand these two kids had a massive influence: lads in for minor offences like fighting or taking cars without consent began to model themselves on this little gang with pictures of the latest expensive trainers and other fashionable clobber on their walls.
Another of the group, Fatso, was twenty stone and looked about thirty, yet was only eighteen and driving a Porsche Carrera 4. They’d wealth, prestige, birds, bikes . . . the lot. The wannabes’ heads were turned. A lot of those juveniles became major criminals. We’d see them in the years ahead as Cat As at Strangeways.
David Caplan’s dad, a well-known gangland figure, had died and the family asked if officers he knew could take him to the burial. His older brother was also going, but he was at HMP Manchester. We picked him up – and another officer, which made four – on the way.
This one was in Salford too. I was cuffed to David, and when we arrived we were surrounded by around forty youths, intimidating once again. One slid the van door open and a few climbed aboard, shaking hands with the brothers – ‘Awright, our kid, how’s it going? Nice one . . .’ – your typical Manc scallies, jibbing about as if we weren’t there. We could do fuck all about it, which was exactly the message they were getting across.
Again, I wasn’t having good feelings. We got off the van and a horse-drawn black carriage went past, pulled by two mares with the coffin and flowers inside. Then we met the rest of the family.
His mum and dad were separated I believe, though she was there, sobbing away, as were Caplan’s girlfriend and all the cousins, aunties, uncles and everyone else queuing up to hug our prisoners. When they gave David a squeeze they were in my face – I got the full perfume, aftershave and tears effect. It was uncomfortable. David himself was upset, his brother too. Yes they were criminals, but it still sends a shiver up your spine, does all that open grief.
The service was in a chapel in a graveyard. We sat towards the front, just behind the mother. David’s brother and his officer sat at the side of us. The other officers were at the back – we couldn’t see them. Service over, I thought we were done for the day, but no. The chapel cleared and the SO said we were going to the graveside. Fucking hell, I thought: I did not want to be there. But out of the back entrance we went. There were about 200 people in the entourage, all dressed in black, and we had to walk through a crowd containing some very big guys in Crombies, wrap-around shades, beards, the works. It was as if they were there to see off Tony Soprano. We were not only outnumbered but also surrounded.
The coffin was lowered into the grave, flowers were thrown in and I started looking around me. Your mind plays tricks in scary situations like that, but I was convinced weapons were on display, I’m sure I saw a revolver tucked in trousers. I thought I saw bolt croppers, though could have imagined that too. It felt obvious to me that these two were planning on doing a bunk. There were bodies everywhere; we could no longer see the van. I asked David what was going on. ‘Nothing, S.,’ he assured me. He used to call me S.
The kid kept looking at his brother and so did I. The other lad at least was prepared to leg it; that was clear. The officer cuffed to him, from Strangeways, looked mortified, and I dare say I was white too. I’d never known tension like it. People were waiting for the nod. I do know that for several minutes there was expectation.
David looked at his brother again. The lad was nodding, but David shook his head. It felt like an out-of-body experience. ‘Come on, let’s go, S.,’ he said.
When he hugged his mum, some of the tension evaporated. I glanced at his brother, who looked really disappointed. One wasn’t going to go without the other. We walked back to the van, where the other officers were reading the paper and munching chocolate as if waiting to pick us up from the bingo.
Funeral number three was very sad. I was on healthcare at Strangeways by then, and this time it weren’t the guests who were the problem, it was the officers handling the escort, the main culprit being an obnoxious sod from the OSG ranks on the van.
Nor did our little outing get off to the brightest of starts. ‘Oh, that fucking dick,’ said Mr Empathy, the officer on the wing, when I went on to ask for the prisoner. ‘He’s been banging on his door two days, kicking off and threatening to kill himself.’
When I found the kid he was down in the chapel with Henry, the prison chaplain. Around six foot three, a gentle man with glasses and white hair, Henry looked like Captain Birdseye, only not as weathered. In the nick, as with the IMB, a lot of screws doubt the value of the various religious types who, without exception, don’t think badly of people and just try to do things for them. On K Wing, we saw Henry and the rest of the God squad as interfering, maybe. On healthcare, I came to see him from a different angle. He was fantastic, a genuine resource with a good work ethic, who’d really help
us out. Sister Mary, the nun, did likewise, as did the imams.
Anyway, Henry told me the tale. This lad had been in jail a week and was only due to do one more. It was his first time inside, two-week sentence, obviously not such a bad lad. He’d no money, this kid, nor had he had a first night induction, which was well dodgy, especially if a coroners’ court got involved. Two days earlier, his baby daughter had died, only six months’ old. Why hadn’t they just released him for the funeral – he’d only four days to go?
Henry went to see him when the news came in and told him if he needed to talk again he should just ask the staff. When he did, Mr Empathy told him to fuck off, so he threw a chair, for which he got locked behind his door until the chaplain found out. Now Henry had brought him down to the chapel for a bit of peace.
When I met this lad, wow: unassuming, polite and respectful. But he was in bits. Then dipstick number two turned up, another officer with an attitude problem. He’d be in charge while I was cuffed to the young lad. We’d got a driver and a third officer too: why the job needed four of us I don’t know. He was hardly the Yorkshire Ripper, was he?
The driver warned us we were going to hit traffic and might be late.
‘Fuck it,’ said our second empathy-bypass. ‘If we’re late, we’re late. It’s not my funeral.’
Why would you say that? The lad was sobbing. Thankfully, we arrived on time and this dick stayed in his seat.
The minister introduced himself and we walked to the grave. There was a girl there, his partner. You could tell they were in love. However, the sadness – fewer than a dozen people, including us. There was a bit of a sermon, and the coffin brought tears to my eyes. So small and fragile, it was a very sad sight. In my right ear, though, I could hear this knobhead in the van, having a fag and laughing as loud as you like. The coffin went in the ground, no embrace between this lad and lass, a very solemn affair. We went back to prison, the silence broken constantly by Mr Gobshite.
It was dinnertime when the SO on reception told me the lad needed to go back to the wing for the roll count. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘he’s just buried his six-month-old daughter. Let’s put him in a holding cell, get him a brew and give him half an hour down here.’ So that’s what we did.
By the time the fourth one came around I was an expert on funeral escorts. The officer in charge was the lad who’d handed Quiggers, the flatliner, over at the hospital and then gone for a full English. A kid on his first escort was on cuffs and behind the wheel was Jerky Bob, the driver. The prisoner was a wiry bastard, someone I’d restrained four times at Forest Bank and Manchester. A repeat offender baghead, he’d thirty sentences under his belt by the time he was fifty, a real problem causer, so Full English wanted my hands free just in case. The prisoner was quiet now mind. The funeral was his dad’s.
There was nothing much said on the way over. He just sat there nervous, grateful, I suppose, that we were taking him. There’d just been a nod of mutual acknowledgement and that was that. No jollity, no chit-chat, no nothing. No one was in the mood.
We drove up a big semicircular drive and parked in between the two chapels. A pleasant scene: a grass bank with roses and trees – but the funeral was to be filmed by plain-clothes coppers: there’d be people there they were after.
If I’d thought the other occasions were hostile, they had nothing on this. As we arrived, it seemed another funeral was about to happen simultaneously, big turnout at both. When we got off the van, these two crowds became one, with us slap bang in the middle.
The prisoner and our funeral virgin sat at the back of the chapel and I stood behind them. With people either side of us, we were crammed in, not enough room to pick your nose. It would kick off, I could tell. The atmosphere was electric.
‘Don’t leave me, Sammy,’ the raw officer said. Terrified.
The service seemed to go on forever, but when it was finally done we started to move and Full English slotted in as we went up the aisle. As did this prisoner’s ma, pointing with her spiny fingers.
‘Let him go, you dirty bastards!’ She wasn’t far off seventy. ‘Arseholes! He’s not going anywhere!’
There was a big gang of youths behind her, teenagers mostly, scallies of a certain nature, bagheads themselves. Game on. Giving it the eyeball, they sprayed as much abuse as the old lass had. Then, to our surprise, the prisoner spoke up.
‘Don’t be calling these lads dirty bastards, Mam,’ he said. ‘They didn’t have to bring me. You’re upset, I’m upset, leave it.’ He nodded towards the van. ‘Come on, Mr Samworth.’
I took that as our cue, the crowd parted and we climbed back aboard. Jerky Bob had been watching in the rear-view mirror, so the engine was running. I half-expected a sucker punch – they were right behind us, less than a metre away – but none came. As soon as that door shut, bang! bang! bang! Kicked at and hammered, the thing was rocking. There was no reversing: the only way out was up and over that grass bank, so that’s the route Jerky Bob took. Rose bushes were flattened, but what can you do? He floored it out of that cemetery.
Again, the lad thanked us for bringing him. I was thinking better of him now, and after that day, his attitude altered too. Our relationship changed. Up to that point all we’d done is battle. Afterwards, we had each other’s corner.
16. Isolation
The beginning of the end for me at Strangeways came in 2011, when I’d been on healthcare three years. I say that in hindsight. It wasn’t until well in the future that I recognized its lasting impact.
It was one of the worst days of my prison career. Not only for the horror of the incident itself, but as usual for how people were treated, how others behaved. But first I need to return to Forest Bank and tell you another story.
It was the last death in custody I was involved with there, and the way it was dealt with by the really good manager who was on shift that day ought to be incorporated into prison protocol, because it was genius.
I was on a wing with a new officer when a prisoner who’d gone for a brew came back to his cell and began shouting for help. We thought at first someone was being assaulted. He’d found his cellmate hanging.
‘Listen, lads,’ I told the other prisoners, ‘we’ve got a serious incident. You are going to have to go behind your doors.’
It’s not always easy at that time in a morning – they all want to be out – but they did as they were told and we pressed the alarm. Tony, the manager, came on the scene, a straight-talking Scouser and big personality.
First, an officer was posted at the end of the wing – there was only one entry and exit. He was told the only people allowed on were those who needed to be: medical staff, Oscar One and that’s all, minimum fuss and interference. They even printed a note out asking prisoners to be patient. The cons weren’t happy, but appreciated knowing what was going on. Somebody made sure the young officer and her car got home. She was given counselling but left soon after, very sad. There is nothing pleasant about a death in custody, but that was how they ought to be handled.
Fast forward to Strangeways healthcare. I was in early, usual handover with the night officer, half six, roll call. It was wintertime, so the light wasn’t great. Y1 held a Polish prisoner, Pawel Nicpon. He didn’t speak very good English and had been with us three months. His original offence, I believe, was carrying a knife, for which you are looking at about three months. But in court, despite having interpreters there, he wouldn’t co-operate with the judge so he was sent back to us, still on remand.
He was horrendously difficult to control. He’d kicked off coming into jail and had been restrained straight away in reception. His behaviour was so odd he was sent to seg’ where he got diarrhoea, or so they thought – shite all over the cell. The nursing staff and doctor came to see him and decided on hospitalization. In hospital, he wanted to fight, wouldn’t lie in bed and refused all food. He was on a six-officer bed watch – that’s a lot of staff. With civilians about, it was a dodgy situation – at one stage he’d been trying to sme
ar crap on staff, as well as himself. The doctors, though, diagnosed no mental health issues: he was physically and psychologically fine, they said. Deemed bad behaviour, he came back into Strangeways.
Another off-putting aspect of this guy that attracted constant complaints whether he was in segregation, hospital or our cells on healthcare was his stench. I’ve never smelt body odour like it. The nearest thing to it is the soluble oil you get in engineering that’s used as a cutting agent. The stuff goes off badly and after a month hums something putrid. That was close to it, but Nicpon’s aroma was worse – it was rancid. You had to sniff it to believe it. We’d have this lad out and showered as best we could, but even in clean clothes after a proper scrub, within half an hour the stink would be back.
For me, he should have gone back to seg’, where they had two dirty protest cells that are easy to clean. He wasn’t put on an ACCT form – no one saw the need.
I looked in that morning and I could see his silhouette by the window: nothing new there – when he wasn’t sat at the end of his bed he’d do that. I wished him good morning, but he didn’t answer. Again, that wasn’t unusual. I finished the count and went to the office.
It got to a quarter past eight and one of the orderlies who took the prisoners’ dinner requests asked if I’d accompany him to Pawel Nicpon’s cell – sometimes Nicpon came out for dinner and other times refused. He might be aggressive with you or stand still like a crash-test dummy: you never knew what to expect.
I dropped his hatch. It still wasn’t properly light, so my eyes took time to adjust. I gawped at his silhouette for a good while.
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