The Prison Doctor

by Dr Amanda Brown

  I looked bashfully at the prisoner sitting in the chair next to me. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘What have you got to be sorry for?’ he said. He was a homeless man who only had a few front teeth left. ‘What do I care if you swear?’

  I had met him now on quite a few occasions, and always found him to be a quiet, gentle man. We had almost become friends. However, I was taken aback when he said, ‘It’s good to see you again, Doctor Brown. It’s like meeting an angel in a shit-hole.’

  I couldn’t help giggling and he smiled back. I think it was one of the nicest compliments anyone had ever paid me!

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said.

  I still had a smile on my face when the next prisoner walked into my room. But that was quickly wiped off when I saw who I was about to deal with.

  The man stared at me stonily. His hands were deep in his jean pockets, his features screwed up into a sneer.

  I shuddered. After Kai I was a bit more on edge about prisoners who looked threatening or intimidating.

  I smiled to try to defuse the tension.

  ‘Would you like to take a seat?’ I pointed to the chair next to me.

  He had a skinhead, and tattoos creeping up his neck. He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing a multitude more tattoos. He was probably in his early thirties. White. Average height and build.

  I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable but tried to appear relaxed.

  He slumped into the chair. Crossing his arms, he glared at me, a look on his face that was almost loathing.

  From the nurses’ notes I could see that his name was Ian, and the only medication he needed prescribing were inhalers for his asthma.

  I started typing, sorting out his inhalers and going through the other routine questions. I’d come to learn that a lot of the prisoners who present with anger are often masking hurt. As always, I resolved to try to understand rather than to simply fear, to try to offer more support than a simple prescription.

  I asked Ian about his support network. Did he have anyone on the outside who cared about him?

  ‘I got a girlfriend. A kid,’ he said, his voice flat.

  ‘How old is your child?’

  ‘Mia, she’s three.’

  He started relaxing a little, the scowl lifting from his brow.

  ‘You must miss them?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s hard on all of us when I’m inside.’

  ‘Will they come and visit you? How long are you here for?’

  ‘Five months.’ He then cracked a hint of a smile at the thought of his partner and Mia. ‘I hope, so, they promised they would.’

  I was relieved that he was gently relaxing and opening up to me.

  I glanced at my notes. ‘Have you always lived in Acton?’

  ‘Nah, I grew up in Sunderland. In a care home.’

  ‘That’s sad. Did you ever know your parents?’

  Ian uncrossed his arms and rubbed his eyes, forcefully.

  ‘My real mum, she got in touch recently. For the first time.’

  I felt a surge of happiness for a man who was a virtual stranger.

  ‘So you’ll see her?’

  He kicked the leg of my desk with his trainer.

  ‘Nah, I’m not interested. I’ve got no intention of meeting her.’

  He shifted in his chair. Ian was clearly feeling increasingly uncomfortable, and I was feeling increasingly sorry for him.

  ‘That’s such a shame, why do you feel that way?’

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. He stared at the ground, chewing on his thoughts. Finally, he lifted his gaze to me, his eyes heavy with sorrow.

  ‘Because I’m afraid of being rejected again.’

  It was late at night and I was exhausted. Ian’s story touched me. Suddenly the feelings of loss, sadness and helplessness overwhelmed me and I could feel myself welling up. I couldn’t help but think how horrific it would be if I never saw my boys again. My heart went out to Ian’s mother. God knows what might have led her to give up her child all those years ago. I somehow wanted to help her as much as I wanted to help Ian.

  I thought about Jared at Huntercombe Prison. How he too had grown up in a care home, and would have longed to hear from his mum.

  It was such a wonderful opportunity for Ian to heal some of the scars from the past. I wasn’t naïve enough to think everything would be rosy if Ian did meet his mum; she might have a lot of problems herself. But I could see how much he was hurting, and yearning for answers to questions which may have been plaguing him for years.

  Cautiously, I suggested, ‘As a mother myself, I’d guess she’s probably longing to hear from you. Maybe it’s worth the risk of rejection?’

  Finally, my emotions took over and silent tears pooled in my eyes. Ian must have sensed the power of a mother’s love, and it seemed to flick a switch in him. The young man, who on first impressions had appeared so intimidating and angry, sensed my sadness, and in a total role reversal, he reached out to comfort me.

  He gave me a big, caring hug.

  I dabbed my eyes dry. His face appeared so gentle, and he looked at me with such kindness.

  He didn’t say another word as he turned to leave, but I was sure a lot of conflicting feelings and emotions were churning around in his head.

  ‘Ian.’ I stopped him at the door. ‘Good luck with everything.’

  All signs of aggression had now evaporated. He gave me a beautiful smile.

  *

  When I had finished seeing Ian it was 10 p.m. and time to go home.

  Haj and I walked out together from the FNC, along the fourth floor landing on B Wing, and down the endless metal stairs to the exit gates.

  Sharing the gates was always quicker with two people.

  Haj had to go and get something from his locker, so I continued on my own past the seemingly never-ending rows of small windows of the four floors of B Wing, with the magnificent chapel to my left, towards the gatehouse.

  Sometimes prisoners would shout out, ‘Night, Doc’, or ‘Night, miss’, with an occasional, ‘God bless ya.’

  I never really knew which window the greeting came from, but it always gave me a little glow of happiness and reinforced my feeling of belonging.

  Sadly, there were no such greetings that night. My shoulders were hunched forward with the weight of the day. I pulled my coat tightly round me, as the wind was bitingly cold. As I walked past the last few cells of the Seg, at the far end of B Wing, a deep voiced blasted out ‘Piss off home, you old cunt. I hope you get run over by a bus on the way.’

  I didn’t look up, but kept on walking.

  I was almost too tired to care, and felt drained of all my emotions. The day had been hard and I was longing to get home – but the prisoner’s hurtful words rattled around in my head.

  Soon I would be past the imposing building and at the gatehouse.

  There was always a feeling of relief, to get beyond the prison walls and the endless rows of windows with unknown eyes watching.

  It was not uncommon for things to be thrown at whoever may be walking by. One nurse was hit by an orange; one of the doctors had a curry tipped over him.

  No doubt it was good sport for the prisoners, but there was always the worry of a direct hit by something or other.

  My only near miss had been when I was walking outside with one of the nurses, past C Wing, and water was thrown at us – we hoped it was water and not urine! We walked on quicker, not daring to look up.

  I wasn’t in the mood to play dodge that night.

  The night air was cold and damp. My breath steamed up into the sky as I stared ahead at the forbidding walls. One more gate and I would be in the courtyard leading to the gatehouse.

  I handed my keys in to the officer on duty, clipped my tally on the chain, and wished him a good night.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Doc’, he said, his voice fading as the solid iron door slid shut behind me.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled a big gulp of air. Holding the cold in my lun
gs for a few moments before sighing it out, along with all the crap of the day.

  *

  I wedged the pillows behind my back, picked up my mug of weak tea and drank it, enjoying the wonderful relief of being tucked up in bed. David had drifted off to sleep beside me.

  I opened the book by my bedside, hoping the last few pages of the chapter would be enough to lull me to sleep. It worked, my eyes quickly growing tired. Blindly, I turned off my bedside light and settled down to sleep.

  But my body had tricked me. It was just after 2 a.m. when I woke with a start, and in the quiet of the night my brain just wouldn’t settle.

  I thought of the prisoners in the Seg, staring up at the ceiling. With no end in sight, the days and nights must have felt like an eternity.

  I was desperate for sleep. I was so tired, and had to get up again at 4.30, but I was wide awake. All my problems became magnified as I lay there restlessly under the sheets. I started to question what I was doing with my life. Why was I working so hard, only to be told by someone who I was there to help that they wished me dead? Was I making any difference to any of the prisoners, or was it all just a waste of time? I hated the idea of quitting, but wondered if it was time.

  David stirred and rolled over. I felt jealous of how peacefully he slept. If my body hadn’t been so achy, I would have crept downstairs to the study and tipped all of my anger out onto a blank page on the computer – although I’d become slightly wary of doing that when I was emotional; last time it had landed me on the cover of a magazine.

  Instead, I rolled over onto my side and eventually managed to drift off.

  I felt surprisingly robust when I woke an hour or so later.

  I’d gone to bed feeling worthless, but had woken up determined not to be beaten by the day before’s hurtful words.

  I closed the front door quietly behind me, so as not to wake my family, walking briskly to the car in the chilly morning air. I turned on the ignition, the heating, and watched the exhaust billowing into the air in my rear-view mirror. I felt surprisingly calm and positive. With a forty-minute journey into London, I had plenty of time to prepare what I was going to say, and had worked out which cell the abuse was likely to have come from.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I walked confidently up to the door and nodded to Ed to give him the go ahead.

  Bang. Bang. ‘Doc’s here,’ he announced.

  ‘Not interested,’ came the reply.

  No doubt about it, it was definitely him. The harsh tone. The same loud voice, hoarse from cigarettes.

  I had suspected it was him, as the shouting had come from his direction, but his reply had confirmed it.

  The man in question was big, his clothes stretched, his bed creaking under him. He was serving life for murder, and was awaiting transfer to a Cat A prison. They’d put him on the Seg as he was deemed too dangerous to be anywhere else.

  I had seen him on a few occasions, and he had always been relatively polite to me, which was why I felt doubly hurt by his tirade of abuse.

  Ed turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  I glared at the prisoner.

  ‘Why did say you hoped I’d get run over by a bus last night?’ I asked.

  I held his gaze, not looking away, determined not to be intimidated. As it was, he didn’t challenge me, his face immediately dropping to his chest, his words quiet.

  ‘That was you?’ he mumbled. ‘I’m so sorry, Doc, I didn’t know. I just shout out at anyone at night to relieve the boredom.’

  He looked ashamed and a bit sheepish.

  ‘Well, it was really hurtful, but thank you for apologising,’ I said, inwardly feeling a huge sense of achievement for standing up for myself. I remembered the advice I’d received when I’d first started working at the Scrubs: to walk with confidence, to show authority. This was the same thing: not letting a prisoner walk all over me.

  I softened slightly. ‘While I’m here, is there anything you need to see me about?’

  ‘No thanks,’ he said, still looking at the floor, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘Okay then, see you tomorrow.’

  Ed slammed the cell door shut.

  ‘Feel better?’ he asked.

  ‘Much!’ I replied, grinning.

  Five years in the Scrubs may have pushed me to the edge at times, but it had helped me to find my voice. I was beginning to feel more confident and assertive.

  On the other hand, I certainly hadn’t become immune to seeing pain and suffering. I doubted I ever would. However tough I thought I had become, I couldn’t ever quite control my emotions when confronted by it.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt so overwhelmed with pity as I did on one cold winter’s night in Reception.

  I was just wrapping things up, getting ready to go upstairs to the FNC, when Haj popped his head around the door. There was a look on his face, something had clearly disturbed him.

  ‘I’ve got one more for you, Doc.’ He stepped inside my room, closing the door behind him. He lowered his voice.

  ‘Apparently, he sustained serious injuries after jumping out of a window on the third floor of a block of flats. He was trying to escape from the police. He’s in a wheelchair, and has just been discharged from hospital, so it would be easier to see him down here.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, switching my computer back on and entering my password. I was looking at my screen when Haj returned, pushing a man in a wheelchair.

  I turned round and, to my horror, the injuries were far worse than I had anticipated. Both the prisoner’s legs had been amputated, with just two small stumps remaining.

  The man, who was in his thirties, looked petrified. His eyes were as wide as saucers. His hands were trembling. Sheer panic was etched on his face. All I wanted to do was reach out and comfort him. But he couldn’t understand me as he didn’t speak a word of English.

  I tried anyway, hoping my voice and smile could soothe him.

  ‘Please don’t be frightened,’ I said.

  I looked down at his stumps, which were wrapped in bandages from the recent surgery. His injuries must have been extremely severe for him to have had his legs amputated just below hip level. They must have shattered to pieces in the fall.

  His whole life had been turned upside down. He hadn’t just been stripped of his freedom, he also had to come to terms with the loss of both legs. I couldn’t imagine how terrified he must feel, being locked up in a vast, intimidating prison, unable to understand a word anyone was saying, or to tell anyone if he was in pain. Trying to absorb the reality of his horrific injuries must have been devastating.

  Normally I would have phoned Language Line for an interpreter, but there wasn’t enough time. It was already 8 p.m. and the officers and the rest of the new inmates were being moved up to the FNC.

  The details of the man’s full story would be sorted out the following morning with the help of the interpreting service. For that night, I just needed to make sure that he was safe, not in pain, and that someone would be on hand to help him with his physical needs, such as going to the toilet, and getting in and out of his bed. He would definitely need to be located in a disabled cell, but I was worried that there might not be one free, as there were only a few available. I phoned Healthcare but, unusually, there was no answer.

  I was becoming increasingly concerned as, apart from one officer, Haj and I and the new inmate were the only people left in the dark and dingy Reception. I asked Haj to try to contact the duty governor, and while I waited I prescribed the same strong painkillers that the inmate had been given in hospital. I would not normally prescribe opiate-based analgesia, as they can be highly addictive and used as ‘currency’ within the prison, but this was obviously a special circumstance. The man was likely to be in a lot of pain for some time.

  He sat there quietly, in his wheelchair, staring into space. I wished I could speak to him and break his trance, but I knew it was futile.

  I heard footsteps outside and then a looming figure app
eared in my doorway.

  ‘Doctor Brown.’

  It was Shiny Shoes.

  I stood up. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, there’s something I need to discuss with you.’

  The governor nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘If you don’t mind?’ I indicated I’d rather continue the conversation out of earshot of the prisoner. He may not have been able to understand what we were saying, but a sense of respect, alone, made me uncomfortable discussing his needs in front of him.

  An officer stepped in to man the door, while I walked to the end of the corridor with Shiny Shoes. I was feeling angry and frustrated that the inmate had been discharged from hospital to prison so late in the day, and with no advanced warning so that we could prepare a suitable cell for him.

  His surgery was certainly far too recent for him to have had prosthetic limbs fitted, and he would need assistance with his daily care. I explained to Shiny Shoes that I could not get an answer from Healthcare, and needed his help to make sure that the prisoner would be located in a suitable cell.

  Shiny Shoes rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He’d clearly had as draining a day as I had. He sighed deeply.

  ‘We definitely have to find a disabled cell for him. I’ll sort it out. Somehow.’

  He could see that I was getting increasingly upset.

  ‘Doctor Brown,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t let it get to you.’

  I said the only words that I could find, which to this day I still truly believe.

  ‘The day I lose compassion is the day I will stop working. I’m afraid it will always get to me.’

  He smiled gently, and I knew he understood.

  But of course he had the correct attitude for running a prison. These men were criminals who were being punished for their crimes, and he couldn’t afford to get sentimental. I understood that. But I would never be able to become like that. If I did, I would lose who I was as a person.

  Shiny Shoes contacted Healthcare and managed to organise a suitable cell. Haj and the officer wheeled the inmate away.

  ‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ Shiny Shoes said. He checked his watch and his expression switched. His thoughts were already somewhere else – working on another problem in another part of the prison, no doubt.