Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  Governors? Well, to most black and whites, staff in uniform, you never saw them much, and were even less able to contact them as they were always in meetings. Unless, of course, you seriously fucked up.

  At HM Prison Norwich we were given a talk by the Security Principal Officer, and issued with a set of keys, a bloody huge bunch they were as well. Walking round all day with these lumps of metal in your key pocket took some getting used to. It made you walk in a bit lop-sided until you got used to them. Uniform trousers were tailored with the addition of a key pocket and a baton pouch sewn into them. I say tailored in a loose sense; you were very lucky to find a pair that fitted perfectly. Because of my height, the trousers I was given were baggy in the arse and took three steps before they moved. The keys and batons took some getting used to; as the saying went, if you didn’t rattle when you walked, you’d lost something.

  Here’s a big tip for keys, and I say this now, having never, ever admitted it whilst working for the Prison Service, although, I dare say, it happened to others. During a visit to the gent’s toilet, especially, when like any good Prison Officer, or any man for that matter, you read the sport page when on the throne, ensure that your keys are firmly in your key pocket. It pains me to admit that during one such visit, whilst standing up from the throne, pulling my trousers up, the keys “jumped” out of my pocket, they landed with a splash straight into the middle of the bowl before I could flush. It all happens in slow motion, you see the keys heading south, but with both hands pulling up your trousers, there is not a thing you can do about it. You may not know this, but keys, as I found out, make wonderful fishing hooks when dropped down a loo full of shit. Your keys are on a chain, which is connected to your belt, so at least you have a chance to retrieve them without shoving your hand down the toilet. However, when you pull them out, everything you have dropped from your arse comes with them. It took six flushes and a nailbrush from the ladies toilet (sorry girls) to get them clean. Luck would have it that I had the obligatory rubber gloves with me; these are part and parcel of and Officer’s uniform. We carry them in a little pouch on the belt for searching and generally digging around prisoner’s cells. But, believe me; you learn very quickly to take a step away from the bog before pulling up your trousers.

  Thought I might add that little gem in for those of you who are thinking of joining the service.

  The second thing you need to know about keys is that they can get tangled in the chain. In some cases they get so jumbled you would need to be Stephen Hawkins to work out how they got into the jamb and how to untangle them. It’s truly embarrassing when your stood in front of a door or gate, not being able to lock or unlock it. The only redeeming factor is that it happens to everyone.

  I went onto the landing to meet my mentor. There he was in all his glory: seventeen stone of fat, piss and beer at the opposite end of the walkway, reading a paper, cigarette, in the corner of his mouth, mug of tea in his hand. He was blessed with a face like a punch bag, a huge barrel chest, and more hair sticking out of his ears than on his head. His shirt strained to keep his belly bursting out. He was waiting for the shout to “slop out”.

  Slopping out was a term used before in-cell sanitation, where buckets were used in the cells for prisoners to use as toilets. These were used during the lock-up periods, the prisoners would have these buckets in their cells, some of them shared with three others, from eight in the evening till seven in the morning. Not a pleasant thought. You can imagine the smell when the cell doors are first opened. It was seven in the morning and it stank to high heaven in the jail, that’s even before we opened the doors; eau de shit pervading down the landings.

  Officer Foster (Fossie) was his name, been in the service since the dawn of time, looked and smelt like a dinosaur.

  Now then mate, I’m yours to command, I said, standing tall in front of Fossie, puffing my chest out, and trying to look like an Officer who knew what he was doing. After all, my mentor was supposed to report back my progress to the training Officer as part of my induction. Apparently you are my mentor for the next two weeks, I said to him in my most authoritative voice. He wasn’t impressed, didn’t even look up from his morning newspaper.

  Fuck off, you can see I’m busy, the dinosaur grumbled, still not moving his eyes from his newspaper, mug of tea tightly in his hand as though it was his best friend.

  What goes on now then mate? I continued. A deafening silence till the dinosaur replied:

  I can see you’re not gonna give up son, but, listen, don’t go round with all that “what we did in the training school shit”. It don’t work in real life like that, old son.

  Ha, I thought, just what they warned us about at the school; the tutors specifically told us that we would come across old style “screws” that were commonly known as “dinosaurs”. I would have to use all the training techniques taught at the school to show him how it’s done properly. He was right of course, to my ultimate embarrassment. The school teaches you nothing about working life in a real jail, as I found out quickly enough.

  In the end, Fossie was a likeable old sod, knew his jail craft well and was a font of all knowledge. Jail craft is the term we use for Officers that have seen it all and done it all. They have a sixth sense of what is going on around them, they can tell what the prisoners are up to and nip any problems in the bud before they happen. Prison Officers also have an acute nose for bullshit; they can tell it a mile off. This type of Officer is now a dying breed; we now have a culture of tick boxes and targets to meet. There are very few Officers who possess jail craft.

  In the early nineties, there were four Officers to a landing, mostly comprising of about 100 prisoners, some double, even trebled up in cells with no sanitation. Fossie’s partner on the landing was Officer Simpson, or Simmo. You soon got to know that every Officer was called by their nickname, but woe betide any prisoner using it. Simmo was completely different to Fossie, he was like a walking skeleton with greased back hair, constantly coughing, fingers and teeth stained black with tobacco smoke, uniform hanging off him like a well-used clothes horse. But what a laugh! He could tell stories that would make a comedian blush.

  When the unlock bells started ringing, Fossie and Simmo in unison stuffed their newspapers in their baton pockets and placed their tea stained mugs in the fire hose cabinet. A notice on the cabinets stated, “Not to be used for any other purpose than to store fire equipment”. Both then sprung into action. I use the word sprung in the loosest possible terms. Fossie shouted over his shoulder, follow me son, don’t touch anything and keep out of the way, as he plodded like an injured rhino down the landing. Simmo was on the opposite side, unlocking the doors for slopping out. He moved with surprising speed like a frightened gazelle, unlocking the doors, and abusing the occupants within. Unlocking thirty odd doors in a couple of minutes is an art. At the school it took us a couple of minutes to open a cell door, but there you go; what’s taught at the school etc.

  When all the doors were unlocked, prisoners started filing down the landings with their buckets of overflowing shit and piss. Fossie and Simmo were waiting at the other end of the walkway casting a beady eye, sparking up another smoke. You could understand why they smoked; it was to try and disguise the smell as the prisoners filed past with their buckets

  So, says Fossie, what do we call you then? In the earlier silence and abuse, I forgot to introduce myself, knowing how my name confuses some, especially the spelling. I thought it was best to clarify it now, rather than to confuse what I thought were two men who were unable to string a sentence along, let alone attempt to pronounce or spell my name.

  Officer Ray Deveroux, I said, spelt D.E.U.V … I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence before Simmo shouted, Officer fucking what? Officer fucking what? He yelled louder, finishing his sentence with a snort. Officer fucking death-row, fucking great name there son! Simmo was nearly pissing himself laughing, the nearby prisoners joining in: Oi, we got a death -fuckin-row Officer on the landings lads! One shouted
, Curl up your toes and line up for the noose, he laughed. The noise levels and bucket banging sounded more like the home team scoring in a football match, it was deafening in the confined space. All the prisoners decide to join in on the death row chant, and to my obvious embarrassment, they knew a NEPO when they saw one and played it for all it was worth. My face took to a nice shade of pink, while my shirt took the full force of Fossie’s breakfast, him coughing and spluttering with laughter. I thought he was going to have a bloody heart attack, there and then.

  There was a fracas on the landing then; one of the prisoners, laughing at my misfortune, spilt some slop from his bucket on another prisoners leg. Shouting, swearing and threats at each other soon turned the attention away from me. Fingers were jabbing at chests and fists were being swung like hammers.

  Hello, says Fossie the troops are revolting, starting Simmo off again, pissing himself laughing, me, trying to stay calm and composed. It didn’t work; anyone who says they aren’t frightened in the first live incident is lying. The first time you witness a fight in a prison, in those confined conditions, is terrifying. Shit, piss, fists and metal buckets were flying everywhere.

  It soon escalated into a major battle, bodies entangled and human excrement flying. NEPO head on and remembering my training, I approached the two fighting prisoners and shouted in my most authoritative voice, stop fighting!

  In training when prisoners were fighting, we shouted stop fighting! Of course when we were practicing this on each other, in the school, the fighting stopped; that’s if the red mist hadn’t come down already, and you were both going at it hammer and tongs. Red mist is a term we used for when the adrenalin kicked in and your brain was in animal mode, like your life depended on it. Great for ex-squaddies, but truly frightening to civvies, or for those who hadn’t experienced a red mist moment. Both were supposed to stop, and raise their hands in surrender. Nope, not in the real world, as Fossie put it.

  The prisoners banging away at each other with half full buckets of human waste, yelled at me, fuck off screw! At this stage they were both covered with piss and shit. Both looked like swamp rats and stunk like them too. The crowd around the fighting prisoners gave a wide berth in case they were splashed with the brown goo. The noise from the others was egging them on getting louder and louder, shouting encouragement to their chosen combatant. Surprise, surprise, they didn’t stop fighting. OK, I racked my brain, trying to think of what came next – not easy when the prisoners are shouting and screaming at each other and shit is flying around, and you are literally shitting yourself. Again, thinking of my training, the technique was to put up a physical barrier between yourself and the two fighters. I fought my way through the crowd of prisoners, still shouting stop fighting at the top of my voice. The prisoners started to mimic me, shouting Sir says stop fighting. Fuck this wasn’t going to plan. It’s not at all what its like in training, I thought, struggling to get to the two prisoners who were by now completely covered from head to foot in shit. The smell was gut wrenching; it took all my will power not to puke up there and then. I was very nearly there, hands and arms in the defensive position, just like they taught us at the school, when a big hand appeared on my shoulder.

  Fossie was behind me shaking his head, Simmo, standing next to him, laughing in his loud cackling voice like an old witch, cigarette bobbing up and down between his nicotine stained teeth. Grateful for the intervention, I retreated – yes, retreated. In this situation, as a NEPO, you have to give way to experience. In this job, it’s the rule of survival.

  Fossie let them get on with it for a while. It allows them to let off steam, he laughed. When he’d had enough and got a splash on his boots, he shouted at the top of his voice, baton out: FUCKIN BREAK IT UP BEFORE SOMEONE GETS ME STICK UP THEIR FUCKIN ARSE!

  Slowly but surely, the men broke up, grateful that they didn’t need to wallow in shit anymore and with a chance to have a shower without losing face, but not before Simmo and Fossie were in their faces ordering them to clean up their shit. And there was a lot of it.

  My heart was going ten to the dozen. Both Fossie and Simmo were both straining to put their batons back in their pockets, the space for the batons was nearly full up with rolled up newspapers. They were obviously amused at my first attempt at dealing with an incident; neither could string a sentence together without laughing. I was standing there like a right plonker, splashes of shit on my once highly polished boots, thinking I’d got away lightly, face still burning with embarrassment.

  Fossie and Simmo, were talking amongst themselves, bursting into sporadic laughter, probably at my failed attempt to deal with an incident. Oi, Jethro, shouted Fossie, making up a nickname for me: Deveroux, Death-Row, Jethro, got it. Having a nickname in the Prison Service is almost like an acceptance card; those who weren’t given a nickname were generally ostracized, or were just plain boring. I soon found out that nearly everyone was called by a nickname, whether they liked it or not. It’s not a name that travels outside the prison walls; no, these nicknames are strictly for Officers on the landings.

  Well, it stuck like the shit on my boots. Fossie was shouting, Ya nearly got covered in shit there Jethro, old son! Told you, don’t try the crap they told you in training, didn’t I?

  Day one, lesson learnt. I came home smelling of shit. The kids hated me; the dog wouldn’t stay away from me, tailored trousers and shirt in wash, boots outside the back door. This can’t go on, the missus said, got enough washing with shitty nappies, never mind you coming home covered in it.

  I was looking forward to day two already.

  As the days progressed, I learnt as I went along. Let me tell you working on landings in a jail is a real eye opener. The general public didn’t have a clue back then, no one but those who worked in prisons knew what really went on behind those big steel gates, and probably didn’t care.

  You soon got used to the smell. Eventually, I was issued with a locker outside the jail where I could change and get a shower before going home. I started to wash and press my uniform, again, harking back to my Army days, when we did our own.

  And you do meet some of the unlikeliest people in there. Expect the unexpected!

  I remember, during a cell search, I came across a cell with some familiar photos on the wall. There, in front of me, were pictures of Cindy, in all her glory. Naked poses the like of which you would normally find in hard core men’s magazines. I’d never seen her like that before! Cindy was the wife of Jeff Sparks, a local man who was in the same darts team as me in a place called Gaywood in Kings Lynn, Norfolk. The pub was a regular for me, and some of the pictures included myself and the rest of the team. Oh fuck, what happens now? I pointed this out to the experienced Officer who was searching with me and asked him what should be done about the photos that the prisoner had, especially the ones that had me in them – although I must add they were not with Cindy, and nor was I in any state of undress. They were photos of the darts team.

  Well, said Officer Brown, or Brownie, as we all called him, while her old man is in here banged up and she’s out there with a body like that, I’d go round and shag the arse off her.

  Not the best advice I’ve ever had, but then this was a jail. Then, right on cue, in walked Jeff Sparks. He recognized me straight way.

  Raymondo, how’s you mate? he shouts, far too loudly for my liking, I didn’t want to draw the attention of all the other prisoners in the area. What you doing in black ’n’ whites? Yet other name prisoners called us. Didn’t have you down for a two be two (screw). The list of names we are called is endless. What can you say to a bloke who you knew as a mate and a fellow drinker, dart player and, I thought, all round good bloke, who’s in prison with pictures of his naked wife? Some of the pictures could have blessed the pages of well know porn magazines. They were plastered all over the cell. He noticed straight away what I was looking at and said, Don’t you go snooping round to our Cindy’s house and giving her one while I’m banged up in here mate. He gave a nervous laugh and added
, She’s always had the hots for you ya know, fancies the arse off of you. Now that you’re in uniform it’ll only make it worse. She’s coming to see me on a visit soon, wait till I tell her; she’ll wet herself laughing and tell all her mates back at the pub what you’re doing, I’m sure the lads in the darts team will give you a warm welcome, he laughed.

  Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, this wasn’t supposed to happen. My face went into overdrive with a bright shade of red, again. You could have set a nuclear reactor off with the heat. God what now?

  Brownie noticed my embarrassment straight away and chirped in: We were just talking about that, she certainly looks like she could do with a good poke, judging by the pictures, she must be gagging for it.

  Brownie, was one of those people that’s best avoided; in fact, he was normally given duties off the wings because of his ability to cause trouble, and this was obviously no exception. He was one of those blokes who thought he was God’s gift to women, spent most of his time in the gym or looking in the mirror. Biceps like rugby balls, ego as big as his head, and that was big. He looked top heavy and had a spray-on tan, which would grace the most avid supermodel. He was also an arsehole who was best avoided.

  Nah, chirps in Sparky, Ray’s missus is bloody gorgeous, he wouldn’t stick his dick in Cindy and jeopardize his marriage, I bloody wouldn’t, he’d need his fucking head testing!

  Thanks Sparky, I was thinking. Sparky was well aware of Brownie’s ability to wind people up. Sparky came to see me later and warned me to steer clear of him. He’s a wrong un, Sparky explained, bad as us, sticking needles in his arms. Where do you think he got those muscles? Not all pumping iron mate, pumping steroids as well, gets that shit off me mate in town.

  He was about to tell me about some gear, steroids and the like, that Brownie was bringing in, but stopped short, a sort of sudden realization on his face that I was a screw now, and he certainly wasn’t a grass (informer).