by Ray Deveroux
There was a good mixture of prisoners from the surrounding community, most coming from the deprived estates dotted around the area. Some were from the local gypsy camp that had moved into the area some years ago. One such lad was a huge Irish traveller. He was only seventeen, but was as big as me and was the bully on the wing.
Tommy Smith was awaiting trial for various illegal matters. Although he was a bully on the wing, he was always polite and respectful to staff. During my career I always found the travelling community to be polite and respectful to staff, although they hated the “filth” – the police.
Travellers kept to their own, almost all of them had a cousin or brother somewhere, and were never without a crowd around them. Tommy was no different; he had his little crew who did his bidding for him – collecting debts, tobacco, and taxing, protection rackets and so forth. Tommy was never seen to get his hands dirty. Although never seen to bully, we knew he was the head of his little gang.
But that was Tommy’s way.
As Tommy was a remand prisoner, he was allowed visits every day. This caused problems for the jail, not least because of the gangs of youths that used to turn up and see him. Each remand prisoner was allowed up to six visitors at a time. These lads had no respect for other prisoner visitors; this caused problems both inside and outside the jail.
One such occasion, when his visitors turned up, there was a ruckus in the car park. His visitors had blocked in a number of cars, parking illegally. They didn’t care. Fuck ‘em! the leader was shouting. Obviously, our Tommy was screaming through the bars of his window at the top of his voice egging them on. He was loving it.
It all turned nasty when his gang of visitors got out their iron bars, tyre wrenches, and baseball bats and started smashing up visitor’s cars. The police were called. Tommy was still screaming out of the window. Every time we went to Tommy’s cell, he was laid on his bed with that “who me?” look on his face. The prison communication system, his gang, were sounding on the bars, warning him that we were coming to his cell.
His visitors were rounded up and carted away. We also had intelligence that one of the prisoners on the adult wing had his visitor’s car smashed up, a notorious prisoner. He put a price on Tommy’s head, not that it bothered him in the slightest. “Bring it on,” he would say. Stupid boy; he thought he was untouchable.
With his visitors banned, it quieted down. Tommy still had his little gang running around after him, doing his bidding. He acted like he was king of the castle. No one, but no one, he thought, could stop him.
Tommy went too far one day. A young lad, barely sixteen and frightened out of his wits, came onto the wing. He’d never been in jail before and was soon a target for the gangs in the jail. It wasn’t long before the young lad was sucked into Tommy’s little gang. You could see he was a gullible lad. Although ‘Sally and I tried to warn him off, just like all the others, he fell under Tommy’s spell.
We found the poor lad, on the floor, sobbing his heart out. It wasn’t unusual for YP’s to cry, you heard it all the time when the doors were shut and they were alone in their cells.
He was a baby faced youth, blond hair and blue eyes. He had no business being in prison. Why oh why didn’t the judge give him probation? Now he was scarred for life.
Tommy had him brought to his cell where he was held down by his gang and viciously raped. Rape, unfortunately, happened in jail, especially amongst the young. The lad was a wreck; no way was he going to tell anyone what happened or who did it. Tommy and his gang knew this as well.
The poor lad hanged himself that night. He was only serving a week in jail for contempt of court. The judge thought it wise to teach him a lesson.
There was no evidence. DNA testing was still in the early stages. It was unheard of for the police to do more than a brief investigation; after all, prisoners were getting raped all the time, weren’t they? No witnesses, no one to come forward to bring Tommy to justice. The boy’s family was distraught. How could this happen to their son? Where were the authorities when it happened? Sal and I were livid that this bastard could get away with this.
So we hatched a plan.
A couple of Officers that worked solely in segregation unit, mainly because of their size and ability to intimidate the most violent of prisoners, had heard what Tommy had done. Word had also got round to the older dinosaurs, who didn’t like the traveller mob and particularly, didn’t like young men getting raped and topping themselves. One of the older gate Officers, who got his car smashed up by the gang of youths connected with Tommy was in on our little plan. He dearly wanted to get back at them and was very willing to join in. We needed all the help we could get. We all knew Tommy was illiterate, so it fitted in with our little scheme.
Winchester was blessed with an Officers mess, not yards from the front gate. It was open every morning for a full English for a quid, and, boy, did you get your money worth. It was staffed by two old lags and a female prison auxiliary. She was the wife of the gate Officer, and she was also pissed off about their car getting smashed up. A huge woman, she had a big smiling face and a heart of gold. Her husband the gate Officer was just as large.
Myself, Sal, two of the segregation lads and the gatekeeper, old George, went into the prison at 6.30 in the morning. It was not unusual for George to relieve the night gate Officer so early. No suspicions were aroused. We waited until the night Officer had gone and George let us in. Since the jail was on patrol state, all prisoners locked up and accounted for, we had no need to draw keys; all the connecting doors were unlocked to allow free access to the night staff, who didn’t carry keys.
George came with us to the YP wing. He knew his way around the jail in the dark; he had been there since he was a lad. He knew every twist and turn of that old Victorian prison, and would often stop and point out points of interest; this is where so and so had killed himself, that’s where the gallows used to be, and so on. We were eager to get on with it, rather than following this dewy eyed old fellow, with his history lesson on the go.
We came to the YP wing all of a sudden. George certainly knew the quickest way. The two segregation screws, Steve and Mel, along with Sally, and myself were outside Tommy Smith’s cell door.
We were as quiet as we could be, not wanting to disturb any of the prisoners sleeping. We needn’t have bothered; most of the YP’s were up half the night, shouting out of the windows at each other. This was normal practice on the YP wing. The locals would complain on a regular basis and the Governor would clamp down on it. However, it soon got back to the lads shouting again from their cell windows.
The night orderly Officer (N.O.O.) an old Senior Officer was drinking tea in the NOO office, and couldn’t care less what was going on. He was looking forward to the end of his shift so he could go home and get his head down.
George unlocked the cell door; Steve and Mel were upon Tommy before he could open his eyes. Both these lads knew what they were doing; years of practice working in the segregation unit has its benefits, and anyway, they were grateful to get their hands on this shit bag. Tommy had given them problems in the past.
Tommy’s eyes shot open. He was about to scream, but Mel was too quick for him, he had his massive paw over his mouth before he could make a sound.
We ripped the bedding off him. He was dressed in a pair of old boxer shorts that had seen better days, and certainly hadn’t been near a washing machine for a good while.
You could see and smell the fear coming from Tommy. Good, I thought.
The cell lights were on by now and Tommy was standing there, propped up by Steve and Mel; both the segregation lads had serious looks on their faces. Sal and myself took their lead and, with solemn faces, produced a big and impressive looking envelope. The day before, Sally and I had raided the Governor’s office while he was out for the official prison writing paper that was headed in bold print. Sal had used red candle wax and the knuckle-duster of a ring to seal the envelope. She claimed was it was jewelry; it didn’t look like
a jewelry item to me, it looked like what it was – an illegal knuckle-duster.
At this point, nothing we were doing was legal. We showed this letter to Tommy, who was, by now shivering. It was a cold November morning and raining outside. None of us showed the slighted bit of interest into his lack of clothing in the cold cell.
Right, Thomas Smith, I said, this is a letter signed by the Queen of England for your execution.
Whaa? was all Tommy could manage.
Look Tommy, it has the Palace seal and everything, it’s genuine, we said in chorus.
What the fuck are you on about, said Tommy, a slight panicky note in his voice. We knew he couldn’t read or write, so we carried on.
Thomas Smith, I said, opening the letter with a flourish. The writing inside was ornate and very convincing. I had practiced calligraphy. It took me ages to write the letter, but it was worth it. Sal had even put the red wax seal at the bottom of the letter, just for good measure.
Thomas Smith, I repeated, you have been found guilty of your crimes by the lord chief justice and have been sentenced to death by firing squad.
Thomas Smith was actually in for mugging old ladies, although he boasted that he was part of a gang that held up a bank at gunpoint. It wouldn’t do for his kudos to admit he robbed old ladies in the street.
Ya can’t do that, Tommy simpered, it’s not allowed, you can’t shoot someone anymore, his voice barely a squeak.
Look, I said, it’s all here, read it for yourself. And it’s got the Queens seal on it.
That’s bollocks, he said, trying to convince himself. Old George was nearly wetting himself; he hadn’t seen the likes of this before.
Now look Tommy, George was saying in his most officious voice, you don’t think these two new Officers came here to make up the numbers do you? They don’t call Mr. Deveroux Mr. Death Row for nothing, you know.
Tommy’s eyes widened. He was panting and sweating now despite the cold.
Yes, said George, in his most fatherly tone, its true Tommy, these two Officers have been trained to carry out the death sentence for Her Majesty the Queen. Their job is to go around the prisons carrying out executions. The Prison Service doesn’t shout about it you know, there’d be uproar, George whispered in his ear.
Tommy was looking petrified by now; I was waving the sheet of paper under his nose.
Right said Steve, let’s get him out on the yard, I’m fucking starving and want me breakfast. He shoved the poor lad out of the cell, towards the back door.
The yard was right next door to Tommy’s cell. We marched him out into the cold early morning air. It had been raining earlier, but had now stopped, leaving big puddles for Tommy to splash through in his bare feet.
Look, said Steve, see them holes there in the wall?
Tommy was nodding blankly at the wall. There were small holes in the wall where the prisoners had been throwing stones at it over the years.
They’re bullet holes.
Tommy was nodding again.
Do you want a blindfold? I asked. Tommy was now crying.
Ya can’t do this, he whimpered, ya can’t shoot people anymore!
Oh yes we can I said, it’s all here in the letter.
I got an old pillowcase, a thick heavy cotton one, and started to pull it over his head. Tommy was still whimpering. We were all nearly wetting ourselves with laughter. George was nearly having a heart attack trying not to laugh.
Right on cue, Sally got the two dustbin lids from where we had hidden them the night before.
Ready … aim … fire! shouted Mel.
Sally let loose with an almighty clang of the dustbin lids.
Tommy’s bladder and bowel let loose at the same time, shit and piss running down his legs. He was starting to fall forward. Mel and Steve, between tears of laughter, only just caught him before he hit the floor.
We dragged him back to his cell, semi-conscious, left him on the floor and, at a run, headed for the gate.
The whole episode took less than half an hour. George was back on the gate before anyone had noticed. The NOO wondered what the noise was all about, but he didn’t see us. He assumed that it was the YP’s making a racket. The NOO went back to his tea. Poor George, we went past him at a run to get out of the jail and into the mess before seven. His face was a picture, shaking his head, he wondered what just went on, but he never said anything.
We got to the mess and ordered our breakfast just in time. Our plan was to get into the mess before the chief Officer got in. George’s wife was in on it and had four steaming plates of eggs, bacon, sausages, beans and toast waiting for us. The two segregation lads wasted no time and were soon tucking in. The breakfasts were on me.
The chief walked in and, as usual, glared at everyone there with his beady little eyes. He went straight to his table at the back where he could oversee everyone. He was brought his breakfast, one egg, one sausage and a grilled tomato on toast. He had this every morning and expected it to be ready alongside a steaming mug of tea.
We were half way through our breakfast, mouthing Morning Chief, as he went past, making sure he noticed us. He just nodded at us. His face, as always, looked as though he was sucking a lemon.
Winchester was on “work to rule” at the time, the unions deciding to follow the membership and following the prison rules to the letter. That meant that we were all lined up at the gate at precisely seven thirty in the morning. It wasn’t a helpful move by the unions, the prison having recently suffering a riot, especially with all the modernisation that was going on, but this is what the staff was rebelling against.
We had finished our breakfast and had joined the queue to start our shifts. As usual, the chief went to the front, eyes on his watch to ensure we started to go in the jail at precisely seven thirty. At seven thirty on the dot, he banged his stick on the big wooden door like a ceremonial staff, and with his hobnail boots, entered the jail first.
Sal and I were near the front of the queue. Mel and Steve, as usual, were at the back, even after other Officers joined the queue. The two segregation lads made their way to the back of the queue, until eventually, no one else joined and they were last in. It was a trick they had perfected – first at the gate at the end of a shift, last through the gate at the start.
Sal and I headed straight for the YP wing, where we were working at the time. There seemed to have been a lot of commotion while we were at breakfast.
The NOO had been called to the YP wing by one of the night clockies – the Night Patrol Officers. The clockies had been doing their final rounds, counting the prisoners in order to put the early morning roll in. However, when they got to Tommy’s cell, Tommy was nowhere to be seen. The NOO, the only member of staff to have keys, unlocked the cell to give it a full inspection when he came across our lad under the bed, shivering and covered in his own shit. He was wet through and gibbering like an idiot
The NOO was well pissed off; he had to stay on after his shift, and there was a bucket load of paperwork to do.
About the same time, the orderly Officer of the day turned up, a Principal Officer who had shot up through the ranks with remarkable speed; probably something to do with his father being a Senior Governor at head office. Principal Officer Jeremy Chambers was a tall, smart, and well-spoken young man, late twenties and clueless. He did everything by the book; someone who did not have the ability to think out of the box.
He had been put in charge of the incident and wanted to get to the bottom of the issue with prisoner Smith. The chief demanded results, and fast.
He had got a briefing from the NOO and was “taking it from there”, much to the relief of the NOO, who could now go home and leave the shit with golden boy, a name Jeremy was given to by his peers. Like I said, we all got nicknames, some good, some bad.
Golden Boy was soon to take over from the chief. The chief decided he had had enough and was retiring at Christmas. You couldn’t put an age on the chief, but we reckoned he must have been around seventy years old.
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Having written everything down after interviewing prisoner Smith, although Tommy was still a gibbering wreck when I saw him an hour later, he presented the evidence to the chief. Basically, all he could get from Tommy was it was someone called Death Row that did it and he had a letter with a red splurge on it.
The chief knew my nickname; in fact, there wasn’t a lot he didn’t know. He had a habit, when he was pissed off, of stringing sentences together, just like a sergeant major. He had the gob of one as well.
DE-VE-ROW, sounding like was shouting Death Row, MEADOWCROFT, Sally’s surname, GET-T-FUCK-T-ME-FUCKIN-OFFICE-FUCKIN-NOW! he yelled at the top of his voice.
Sally and I shot down the landing, not wanting to piss the chief off any more than he was. With Golden Boy looking like the cat that got the cream standing next to him, the chief started:
WHAT-THE-FUCK-IS-THIS-ALL-ABOUT? We weren’t deaf, but the chief didn’t possess a volume control. We were standing in front of him in his office, but this small matter didn’t stop the chief, he was in full flow.
Don’t know what you’re on about chief, Sal and me sang out in unison.
Golden Boy went over his evidence: me, Sally, two screws from the segregation unit, and some fat old geezer with a wheezy chest had dragged Tommy out of his cell to shoot him.
When was this? the chief asked incredulously.
About seven this morning chief, Golden Boy replied.
Someone’s got their timing wrong, Mr. Chambers, the chief said to the Principal Officer, Officers Deveroux and Meadowhall were in the mess at oh seven hundred hours eating their breakfasts.
Golden Boy went on: There were two segregation Officers present as well, chief.