The Prison Doctor

by Dr Amanda Brown

  Sylvie popped her nose around the door. ‘Doc?’

  I drew a long breath.

  ‘Yes, sorry, just needed to clean myself up a bit. Ready to go now!’

  Sylvie said that everyone involved in the suicide attempt had to head over to the governor’s office for a debrief. ‘It’s standard procedure after a major incident,’ she explained.

  I was yet to properly meet the Number One Governor. The prison was so large it had a lot of governors, and they could be spotted easily amongst all the officers in uniform because they wore civvies.

  I took one last look in the mirror, ran my hands through my cropped hair, took another deep breath and said, ‘Yes, let’s go!’

  We walked across to the Admin block and a large meeting room where the governer was waiting. Soon we were all assembled, seated around the large conference table.

  The governer thanked everyone for the part they had played in the incident, and asked if anyone had any concerns or comments about how things had been handled. He then said that if anyone felt traumatised by what they had seen they could go home early.

  Nobody took him up on the offer. The day our response to seeing trauma was to walk away, well . . . that would be the last day we had in that place.

  I normally would have listened to the radio on the drive home, but I didn’t want any noise cluttering my thoughts. Instead I let my body melt into the car seat, relaxing my limbs into the padded leather. All I could think about was getting back, slinging my clothes into the washing machine and jumping in the shower.

  The sky turned grey and a little drizzle started to splash against my windscreen.

  I wondered if the young man would survive. The last update I had heard from the nurses was that he had been taken to St Mary’s Hospital in London, and was in a stable but critical condition. It was a miracle he was still alive.

  I couldn’t help thinking about Jonathan. How all those years ago I’d talked him out of slitting his throat. I’d been so shaken up at the horror of how I would have coped, if he had gone through with it. Now, so many years later, someone had actually done it and I had been there to help.

  I had a terrible feeling it might not be the last time. I had chosen to step into an underworld where brutality was a way of life.

  Maybe the young man hadn’t meant to try to kill himself. Perhaps he just felt so desperate and overwhelmed with being in prison that he didn’t know what else to do. I hoped and prayed that we had all saved him from making an irreversible, fatal decision.

  Chapter Eight

  I’d done it again. I’d woken up seconds before my 4.30 a.m. alarm started bleeping. But not soon enough to switch it off.

  David groaned at the noise and rolled over.

  I slipped from the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. The birds outside were already awake, chirping, looking forward to the summer sunrise in an hour or so. I found it hard to be that enthusiastic so early in the morning. I needed a refreshing shower to jolt me into the day ahead.

  I’d been getting up at the crack of dawn so I could miss the rush-hour traffic into London. I pulled into the Scrubs car park at 6.45 a.m. at about the same time that the officers and the nurses from the night shift were finishing. I was starting to recognise the same exhausted faces as they trudged towards their cars while I passed them on the way in.

  There is probably no prison entrance in the UK more recognisable than Wormwood Scrubs, with its iconic brick and white stone towers and the huge wooden door.

  It was built by convicts between 1874 and 1891, next to the 165-acre open space in Shepherds Bush, West London, known as Wormwood Scrubs. Back then, it was seen as massively progressive for its time. It was the first prison to use a ‘telegraph pole’ layout, whereby the wings were positioned in parallel blocks, arranged north to south so that every cell received sunlight, and designed to allow maximum circulation of fresh air, thereby minimising the spread of infection. The ‘telegraph pole’ plan provided a model for subsequent English prisons, such as Bristol and Norwich, and was closely copied by the second largest prison in France, Fresnes, and prisons across the USA. During the Second World War the jail was evacuated, and cells were used as secure government offices, including for MI5.

  Today, the Scrubs is a Category B prison, housing 1,279 male prisoners over the age of 18 across its five wings. Occasionally the status is raised to Cat A, if an extremely dangerous prisoner is in residence while awaiting onward transfer. There are four categories of prison, ranging from Cat A, the highest security, to Cat D, or open prison, where the inmates can go out on day-release work, and sometimes have weekends at home.

  Over the years it’s held serial killers and celebrities behind its high brick walls. Some of the famous roll call includes Britain’s most violent prisoner, Charles Bronson, who was moved to another jail after strangling the governor of the Scrubs. Moors murderer, Ian Brady, worked as a barber, cutting hair for inmates and staff in the 1970s. Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards was briefly locked up on drug charges. EastEnders star Leslie Grantham, better known as Dirty Den, served time in the Scrubs for killing a taxi driver in Germany in 1966. And just before I arrived, Babyshambles singer Pete Doherty had been at the Scrubs for fourteen weeks for breaching his probation.

  I realised that during my time in the Scrubs I might meet a high-profile prisoner, but I didn’t really think that I would find them any more or less interesting than the fascinating people I was already dealing with on a daily basis.

  The history of the place oozed out of the walls. I could almost imagine the ghosts of prisoners past floating along the long corridors and up the dilapidated stairs, or lurking around the church outside B Wing.

  I was past the gatehouse and inside the prison walls. The walk to B Wing looked like a rubbish tip – the pathway strewn with food, clothes, shoes, anything the prisoners could chuck through the small openings in their cell windows. I presumed they did it to make a nuisance of themselves, anything to annoy the prison officers, even though it was actually their fellow prisoners who had to clean up their mess. Red bands, they were called – the prisoners who were seen as more trusted and given enhanced status. They were awarded duties and access to areas other prisoners couldn’t go, such as the expanse of open land between the wings and the prison gates.

  I stepped over some foul-looking food, only to disturb a rat foraging on a stale baguette. He scuttled off half a metre and then started chomping on something else, his nose twitching with delight. He wasn’t the least bit perturbed by my presence, just another annoying human getting in the way of his important rat business.

  It wasn’t a secret that the Scrubs was infested with rats and cockroaches, but it came as a bit of a shock when I first saw it for myself. An old building with ancient pipes and sewers, and rubbish strewn everywhere, it was hardly surprising it was a playground for vermin. I wondered how the prisoners felt, lying there at night with all that movement in the dark . . .

  It was early but the temperature was already rising. The smell inside didn’t bear thinking about – all that sweat and overcooked food.

  But first, sleep. I had established a nice little routine whereby I was through security by 7 a.m., which left me time for a nap before I started work at nine. Essential, as I usually didn’t finish until 10 p.m. I’d found the perfect spot for a snooze in one of the small rooms in the Seacole Centre, an area between the doctors’ office and A Wing focused on mental health. It was completely deserted in there until the sessions started at about 9.30 a.m.

  I reached up and pulled down my big black holdall, which I stored on top of one of the cupboards. It contained everything I needed for the perfect nap: a sleeping bag, and my neck rest, which I used for long-haul flights. I pushed three of the chairs together to form a make-shift bed. It was better not to look too closely at the blue-cushioned seat and back, and just roll my sleeping bag out before I could see the grimy stains. I was inside my cosy cocoon and asleep within minutes.

  My alarm blared
for the second time that morning. I wriggled myself out of my sleeping bag, yawned, stretched and slipped my feet back into my shoes, ready for the long day ahead.

  The boy’s prison felt like a holiday camp compared with the Scrubs. As duty doctor, my new role meant I could be called out to anywhere in the prison, at any time, for any medical crisis. It was fast-paced and varied.

  At Huntercombe I’d never visited the cells, or the wings, as I just saw patients in the consulting room in the Healthcare department. At the Scrubs, I was going everywhere. It was much more challenging, far more exhausting, but very exhilarating.

  Working in the Scrubs was a case of sink or swim. After a month in the job, my little naps were helping me swim, as were the lovely staff who had welcomed me into the prison. I was getting to know Sylvie a little more, as she was still escorting me around the prison while I waited for my key training from Security.

  While grabbing a tea in the tiny communal kitchen, Sylvie shared some of the gossip.

  ‘One of the nurses has just come back from a few months’ compassionate leave,’ she said, looking left to right to check that no one was overhearing us. ‘She was taken hostage by one of the prisoners.’

  I was lost for words. Where? When? How?

  ‘I don’t know all the details,’ Sylvie continued. ‘Only that he kept her hostage for a long time in one of the clinical rooms.

  ‘Did he hurt her?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, luckily.’ Sylvie blew on her tea to cool it down. ‘Well, not physically anyway, you can imagine how she took it mentally.’

  ‘No wonder she had time off work,’ I said. ‘I’m surprised she came back!’

  ‘That’s the thing with this place, Doc,’ said Sylvie with a sigh. ‘It gets into your bones. It becomes just as much a home to the staff as it does the prisoners.’

  I’d never felt that way about HMP Huntercombe, but in the short time I’d been working at the Scrubs, I was beginning to understand. The intensity of the work brought people together like a family.

  ‘So what happened to the guy who took her hostage?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not sure, probably spent a fair bit of time in the Seg, and more than likely would have had time added to his sentence.’

  The segregation unit, or Seg as it was better known, was where the prisoners were locked up for twenty-three hours a day. They were detained there for various reasons, sometimes for their own protection, but usually as a punishment.

  ‘So you didn’t fancy working at a women’s prison, then?’ asked Sylvie, changing the subject. ‘Holloway didn’t appeal?’

  ‘It’s horrible I have to think like this . . .’ I paused, embarrassed.

  ‘You thought a man would be less likely to beat you up than a woman?’ Sylvie asked. I nodded, feeling somewhat ashamed.

  ‘It’s a fair point,’ Sylvie said. ‘Don’t feel bad about it. We have to watch out for ourselves, don’t we? If you want to know what Holloway used to be like, Governor Frake can tell you all about it.’

  ‘Governor Frake?’

  ‘She’s head of Security, spent sixteen years at Holloway, when Myra Hindley was there, and Rosemary West. She’s got a few stories to tell.’

  *

  My first job of the day was to do the Seg rounds. I would then go to the First Night Centre to see any prisoners who had arrived the night before, and who had not yet seen a doctor. One of the main purposes of the clinic was to prescribe any medication that they may have been taking prior to custody. Some of the prisoners were inclined at times to exaggerate their symptoms in order to get certain medication, and it was my job to assess them without prejudice.

  After finishing the clinic on the FNC I was asked to go and see someone on C Wing.

  Sylvie was busy helping another doctor with his surgery, so one of the prison officers offered to chaperone me through the corridors and landings.

  Terry had been working in the Scrubs for ten years. He seemed a gentle soul. His previous job couldn’t have been more different: he used to develop photographs. A lot of the staff had lived very different past lives. One of the governors used to work for a big supermarket chain. Another had been a double-glazing salesman.

  Terry had two children, both in primary school, and he could never wait to tell me about them. He was stocky, balding, with a goofy grin and shrewd blue eyes.

  He unlocked the double gates into C Wing. ‘After you, madam,’ he said with a smile, locking the gates behind us.

  The acrid smell of sweat was stronger than ever. It was Tuesday, laundry day. Piles of grubby socks, tracksuits and boxer shorts were piled high on the floor. I carefully stepped over them as I followed Terry.

  There was a buzz of excitement in the air. The prisoners, milling around on their association hour, seemed a lot noisier than usual. The explosive sound of snooker balls smacking against each other echoed through the wing. I peered over the edge of the landing at the small group of guys who had gathered around the snooker table. They were egging each other on with heated expressions, and the air was filled with expletives.

  Terry kicked a pile of clothes from his path with his big black boot.

  ‘Everyone’s a bit overexcited. It’s Canteen Day.’

  Canteen Day was a good day for the prisoners, as every week the food, drink and cigarettes they had ordered would be delivered by the canteen staff. All the orders were transported in large blue trollies, and the sight and sound of them rumbling along the landings soon became very familiar to me.

  The list of choices included crisps, soft drinks, biscuits, chocolates, pot noodles and cigarettes. The canteen was a small independent business within the prison, and deliveries happened in the evening when all the prisoners were locked behind their doors.

  ‘I’ve seen fights break out over a chocolate bar!’ Terry laughed.

  I could imagine they did. A piece of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk must seem like the most precious thing in the world, when you have to wait a week to have it.

  That and their phone calls to friends and family.

  Prisoners were queuing up along the landing to use the communal phone, tensions rising as some feared that association hour would end before they’d taken their turn.

  I could feel their angry eyes watching me as we squeezed past.

  Terry looked over his shoulder. ‘Can I give you a piece of advice, Doc?’ he asked. I had a feeling he was going to tell me anyway.

  ‘You’ve got to walk with confidence in here.’

  I straightened my back.

  ‘Some of them will want to take advantage of you,’ Terry continued. ‘So you’ve got to show them who’s in charge.’

  I pulled my shoulders back.

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ I said. It was horrible to think I was being watched so closely. That people were looking for chinks in my armour.

  We were suddenly brought to a standstill by an almighty cheer, followed by whistling and clapping and shouting.

  One of the prisoners had thrown himself onto the netting strung between the landings. It was there to stop people jumping to their death, but this chap was bouncing around, up and down, as if he was on a trampoline, waving his arms in the air, soaking up the applause.

  ‘Danny, Danny, Da-nny!’

  The whole wing rushed to hang over the railings, chanting and cheering.

  Danny was having a great time doing a bouncing lap of victory. It felt like we were at a football match, until a booming voice cut across the din. ‘Get off, you idiot! Now!’

  Standing on the opposite landing, with her hands on her hips, was a woman with cropped brown hair, wearing what looked like a men’s black suit.

  ‘That’s Governor Frake,’ said Terry. Head of Security for the prison, I remembered Sylvie telling me.

  The chanting and clapping continued. But the governor had a surprisingly calm look on her face, as if she wasn’t the least bit perturbed by the uprising and was very much in control of the situation.

  ‘How to make yourself unpopula
r!’ said Terry, nodding towards Danny.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just watch.’ Terry smirked, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, as if he was waiting for the real show to begin.

  My ears nearly exploded with the sound of the alarm, and so did the prisoners’ tempers.

  ‘Oh fuck off!’

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’ came the cries of the inmates.

  One of the guys queuing for the phone punched his fist against the wall.

  Terry sprang into action.

  ‘Back to your cells, lads, c’mon move it.’

  The other prison officers manning the wing did the same, ushering the disgruntled inmates back to cramped cells.

  ‘This plonker’s just robbed them of their association time. If I were him I’d get off there, sharpish, or he’s in for a beating tomorrow.’

  But Danny hadn’t seemed to realise the consequences of his actions quite yet. He carried on dancing long after the music had stopped, much to the amusement of Governor Frake.

  ‘I’ve got all day, mate,’ she hollered. Her hand hovering over the alarm bell, waiting for him to give up.

  ‘When you’re ready.’

  The mood in C Wing had now shifted from jovial to hateful as the incessant screeching of the alarm drove the freshly locked-up prisoners towards the edge. They started thumping their cell doors in protest. Swearing and screaming at Danny to get off the net.

  The smile soon left his face as he realised his supporters had swapped teams. He began to crawl back. Terry was ready, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and pulling him back over the railings.

  Danny was looking sheepish and slightly fearful as he waited for Governor Frake to make her way over.

  ‘What do you want doing with him, Gov?’ Terry asked his boss. ‘Shall I take him to the Seg?’

  She slowly walked up to him. Her hands in both trouser pockets. The fabric on her oversized jacket bunched up at her elbows.

  She stood centimetres from his face and looked him dead in the eye.

  His gaze dropped to the floor, nervously, as he waited for her verdict.