by Ray Deveroux
Not a job I had to do, thankfully.
So the prisoners were only too pleased to be at Highdown. Their behavior, with threats of return to their old jails, was excellent; they would do absolutely anything, and thanked us every day for giving them a chance to serve their sentence in a decent environment. We carried on like this till all the cells were complete and we were ready for the main intake of prisoners.
Just like Whitemoor, it was a golden opportunity for all the local jails to offload their best prisoners, so we were inundated with the most violent, vulnerable, undisciplined and downright shittiest prisoners from the whole of London and the South East. Sal and me were used to it, we’d seen it all before. For the new guys, their world as they knew it was about to come crashing down with a big bang.
I wasn’t on a sentence-planning unit in Highdown. With my experience, I was put on one of the house blocks. They had split up Sal and I to even the units out, so there weren’t too many new Officers in one place. A lesson learnt from H.M.P Whitemoor? This was the first time I had actually been detailed a permanent place of work. No more running around supporting other wings or making the numbers up in the segregation unit, I actually had a shift pattern and regular Officers to work with as a team.
Our Principal Officer was a skinny Geordie who was a great bloke to work for. He had worked in jails up and down the country and knew every trick in the book. My Senior Reporting Officer was a happy Welsh man who, for obvious reasons, was called Tubby Taffy; a man who, for some untold reason, laughed at everything.
Then we had big Taff, an ex-guardsman with the biggest feet I’ve ever seen, size 15 boots, who spoke with such a strong Welsh accent that no one could understand him. Except of course Tubby Taffy. Jay Valentino – Tino – was a smallish Italian looking fellow with wicked sense of humour. Although he was in his early thirties, he only looked about twelve years old. There was a little Asian fellow, Sanjit Patel, who was very religious and was always popping off the house block to pray. We didn’t mind, at least he pulled his weight when he was on the unit. He wouldn’t dream of anyone else having to do his work for him and we respected him for that. Grace was a young woman, quite posh; she was only there to learn the ropes. Grace was destined for greater things; she was one of the new breed of Governors coming up through the ranks and did everything “by the book” which, as we know, isn’t always the right way. But she learned in the end – the hard way. She was twenty-nine and a half, or so she told us, had a face like she was sucking a lemon all the time and a uniform that, unlike ours, was tailored to fit her petite figure.
Grace was working on the R45 wing. We told her not to enter any of the cells without a male Officer. These were, after all, sex offenders. Some were hardcore and very nasty. She, as usual, knew better and wouldn’t listen.
We heard a scream. We knew it was her – it was a posh sort of scream
Oh fucking hell, what’s she up to now? I said. Luckily, I was on the unit, the next landing up. Taff and I came running down the stairs just as she was coming out of a cell. This was a cell that housed a man who had been convicted many times for indecent assaults on women. Of course Grace had been briefed about him. She always insisted on wearing the tailored prison issue skirt instead of trousers, which made things worse.
He groped me, the bastard, she squealed, it was useless trying to tell her “we told you so”
Out came the offender, big grin on his face:
Didn’t you tell her not to come into my peter? (“peter” is a name prisoners give to their cells)
Fuck off you fucking nonce said Taff, moving threateningly towards him. Here, try shoving your hand down my strides you wanker, he growled, see what you get!
The prisoner looked at me. Can you translate guv? He started to laugh. Taff, when angry, was even harder to understand. But when you see a six-foot odd, ex-guardsman with size fifteen feet coming towards you with one giant fist raised, the best you can do is back off. Which the nonce did – he turned around and slammed his cell door before Taff could get him. You could see all the other prisoners looking on. They wanted to see the nonce get twisted up, or, if Taff got to him in time, mangled up. The prisoner was not a very nice man. He didn’t care who he groped, man women or child.
There were always strange goings on with the prisoners. We knew that some long-term prisoners secretly had male partners. They kept it to themselves, in private out of sight. You could generally tell the ones who were paired up; they would be all hard as nails, putting on the big “I am a tough prisoner” when on the landings, but they would ask if they could double up, (move into a double cell) together as they had been “friends on the out” and trusted one another, or they were “almost family”. Oh, I’m sure this was true in a minority of cases, but as obvious as the nose on your face, they were banging each other.
Some sex offenders were different – they were having sex with each other in plain sight. Not when an Officer was around, but in front of their peers. They got a kick out of it, a sort of “dogging in jail” approach. Others were prostituting themselves, standing by their cell doors with “make-up” on. Make-up in jail consisted of blue pool chalk around the eyes and Vaseline around their lips, as well other places, no doubt.
These sorts of prisoners took delight in exhibiting themselves, especially to the female staff. This normally happened at roll check, when we went round opening the observation panels to count the bodies. The nonces, looking out for the female staff to count, would start tossing themselves off as soon as the observation panel was opened. They got away with it once or twice, but you soon got to know the offenders. We used to regularly swap round so that one of the male Officers would take over from the female Officer to count the cells of these perverts. You should see the look on their faces when a male Officer opens the observation flap while they are busily wanking away.
They soon got the message, and apart from the one or two die-hards, the perverts stopped their vigorous actions, disappointed that they couldn’t get a female member of staff to watch them playing with themselves.
There were, of course, a few homosexuals who preferred wanking to men, but we would only laugh at them. On one occasion, I got so fed up with this prisoner wanking himself – whoever came to the door – me, Taff and Sanjit, instead of opening his observation flap to count, opened his door and slung in a bucket of dirty water. The bucket had been used by about six prisoners to mop their own cells out. It was minging and very cold. He stopped doing it after that.
Another lad we had on the wing was a self-harmer. He was mid-twenties and had allegedly been abused as a child. Although not a sex offender, he was very vulnerable. A skinny, poorly lad that looked as though a good feed would kill him anyway. He always complaining and was a drain on the staff.
Samuels seemed to have got it into him that I was his best friend. Certainly, I kept him away from the pervs that would have loved to get him in their cells, and had a few words with others who called him “Suicide Sam”. Name calling only made it worse. He was volatile enough without any encouragement from them. He didn’t mind being called Sam and wanted all the other Officers to call him that, he said it made him “feel safe”.
One Saturday morning we unlocked the wing for association. Association time is when prisoners are allowed out of their cells to play games, clean cells, shower, use the phone or just generally stand around and chat. Or, in some of the perv’s cases, shag someone. Sam didn’t come out his cell. I noticed this and drew it to the attention of our Senior Officer, the laughing Welshman, Glynn Jones. (A.K.A. Tubby Taffy) He shouted over to me in his dulcet Welsh tones: Go and see what’s up with him Ray. Thankfully, the name Jethro hadn’t followed me to the new prison. Off I went, trying to be as nonchalant as I could, not drawing attention to Sam’s cell to avoid rubber neckers – a name given to people who strain their necks trying to get a glimpse of any action, especially when it involves blood. In Sam’s case, as a regular cutter, it was likely there was going to be blood around. I
feared the worse, he wasn’t a bad lad, but needed more than a fair share of Officer time to keep him from harming himself.
When I got to his cell he was crying and holding his wrist. What’s up Sam? I asked. Through his tears, he explained that his mum had “washed her hands” of him because he had ended up in prison. Oh god, what have you done, I asked. He showed me the cut on his wrist. It wasn’t a bad one, just enough for a trickle of blood.
Come with me, I said, and took him off the wing to see Glynn, who by now had already got word of what happened and called the duty Principal Officer, who happened to be Geordie.
Take him into my office Ray, we’ll get the medics to see to him there, Geordie yelled over his shoulder to me.
I took him into the office and sat him down on one of the soft low chairs, sitting opposite from him and trying to make conversation to calm his nerves. I was trying to do my best to bring him down from his distraught state.
Sam drew a weapon and pointed it at me. It was a homemade shank; a toothbrush, which had at least three razor blades, melted parallel into it. It was a weapon I had seen before in the black museum. A black museum is a room normally in the prison security department where various homemade weapons are kept, including escape materials, homemade explosive devices and tattoo guns. Not seen by the general public, it houses some really nightmarish stuff.
Although I had seen a shank before, it was never as close to me as the one now pointed at my face.
The blades are fashioned so that a “strike” across the cheek would cut you to ribbons. It would go straight through the flesh, tearing three lines that were impossible to sew, but would leave you scarred for life. Downwards would cut through your eyebrow and into your eye, leaving you blinded. The killer blow would be delivered across the side of the throat, cutting through the big vein that runs up the side of the neck. Within two minutes, you would be dead.
Get my mum to come in here and tell me she doesn’t love me anymore, Sam demanded.
I froze. What are you doing mate I’m trying to help you here, I said, probably a bit too loudly, my voice echoing around the small office.
Sam repeated himself, leaning forward with the shank: I’ll do it, you know that, he shouted, I will cut you and then slash my neck. I’ve got AIDS and I’m dying, so I don’t care what you do to me!
Just then, Geordie, along with a nurse, came to the door. He opened the door, still explaining to the nurse what had happened, not looking into the room.
The nurse shouted NO! WHAT’S GOING ON!
Geordie looked in and took in with one glance what was happening. Sam pushed the blade closer to my neck, almost touching; I raised my hand to signal to Geordie to move back. He saw this and ushered the nurse out of the door.
He stood by the door and quietly whispered, you OK Ray?
Yes, I replied, I know Sam, he’ll be all right, leave it Geordie, I said, not really knowing what my next move was going to be.
Shout, if you need anything Ray, anything at all, all right? Geordie was opening the door and moving slowly out of the office, a concerned look on his face.
Yes, course I will Geordie, I said, trying to turn my head towards him, all the while trying to avoid contact with the shank.
Sam relaxed a bit when the door was shut.
I started talking.
Sam, where’s the letter what did it say?
Sam handed the letter over to me. See he said, it says it there! I read on: Daniel (his first name) you’ve got yourself into more trouble despite me and your father doing everything we can to help you. I looked up at Sam.
Sam, I asked, what has your mum and dad done to help you? Surely they won’t abandon you now?
They went to the police about me. They grassed me up about the criminal damage, he sobbed.
Why do you think they did that? What did you do?
It turned out that Sam had actually lost his rag with his mum and dad, set fire to the house and smashed up the family car. What a mess.
Why you do that Sam? I asked.
They wanted to throw me out. They said I stole from them and I couldn’t be trusted anymore, Sam replied.
And did you steal from them? I asked, trying my best to hold a conversation whilst having a deadly blade at my throat.
Sam got agitated and started accusing me of colluding with them. You’re on their side, you don’t give a fuck about me, just like them, you want me to go back to the loony bin don’t you? They tried to force me to go, I’m not mad you know, he shouted at me.
Not mad he said. He was stark raving bonkers.
Sam, I’m on no one’s side, I’m just trying to help you, I said. Sam crying was getting more and more agitated. Get my mother here then, if you say you want to help.
Not going to happen Sam, I told him. But I’ll tell you what – I will ring her and speak to her for you, I was starting to take control of the situation and wasn’t going to let it go, I went on: Sam give me your mothers number, I will ring her and explain what’s happening.
NOOOOOO! shouted Sam, don’t tell her what’s happening! Just tell her I want to speak to her!
That’s not going to happen either Sam; I will talk to her, not you, I replied. At this stage I was starting to take control of the situation and looked Sam straight in the eye when I spoke to him, showing to him that it was me who was calling the shots, not him.
I grabbed the letter from him, located the number and dialed.
The phone was answered straight away on the first ring; I introduced myself to the softly spoken women at the other end.
Sylvia was worried straight away: What has he done now, she said, has he got my letter?
I confirmed that he had, and asked if she had meant what she said in the letter.
No, she said, he knows we will never abandon him. He’s our only child, we love him.
Sam cut in with a harsh whisper, let me talk to her!
No, I mouthed.
Let me talk to her or I’ll cut my throat and it will be your fault, Sam hissed.
I wasn’t going to be intimidated by his threats; I turned my back to him and continued talking on the phone.
Sylvia was telling me about her son Daniel. He was brought into this world late on in their lives. She and Daniel’s father had tried for years to have a child. They almost gave up. She found herself pregnant at the age of fifty. They desperately wanted the child, so Daniel was born. And now he was a monster.
Don’t ever turn your back on him, she said. He can’t be trusted.
I spun around quickly to find Sam glaring at me.
OK, I said, thanks Sylvia, I will look after him. As a parting shot she said, Be careful, he can be a bit dangerous at times.
No shit, I thought, but that was only the half of it.
I relayed to Sam what his mother had told me, leaving out the bit where she said he couldn’t be trusted. Sam sat there with tears rolling down his face. He was crying because I hadn’t let him speak to his mother; however, you could see they were crocodile tears, put on for show.
Ok, now what Sam? Are we going to sit here all night? Your mother has said she won’t abandon you. She says that she will write and let you know, put things right. I was gaining in confidence now. Sam was moving the blade away from me. He had both his hands on his lap and started to fiddle with the shank. You could see his brain ticking over. He was starting to mellow.
Geordie was just outside the door. I gave a “slight nod” to let him know that the situation was under control.
Sam, I pressed on, are we sorted now?
Yeah, suppose so … it’s the best I’m going to get isn’t it?
Afraid so mate. What about the blade?
Oh you can have it, he said, putting it on the chair next to me.
My heart was racing. Could I get to the blade before him? Should I shout for assistance? Geordie was just outside the door with a few Officers, waiting for the nod.
I decided to keep it calm and honest. You know Sam, we will have to tak
e you down the block for this. You know that just having a homemade weapon is an offence, let alone threatening an Officer with it.
It went quiet; I was half expecting Sam to make a grab for the blade.
But he didn’t. He stood up and said, OK guv, I know you’re right, you’ve got me bang to rights, I should never have lost my head. Sam had that resigned look on his face as though he was beaten, although I had a niggling worry at the back of my mind that what I was witnessing wasn’t the whole story.
I went towards the door. Geordie was behind it ready to pounce.
Geordie, I shouted out through a crack in the door, its OK; Sam is going to walk to the block. Give us some space mate.
He ushered the rest of the staff out of sight. OK mate, you’ve got a clear run, Geordie shouted back, loud enough for Sam to hear. He was making sure that Sam was aware there were Officers there, but had stood back to allow him to walk to the block under his own steam.
I nodded to Sam and opened the door wide. It’s OK Sam; no one’s going to jump you; just me, you, and the Principal Officer walking you to the block. I spread my hands out wide in a gesture of openness.
And it was, just the three of us walking to the block, all the gates and doors opening and closing as we passed through the jail.
At the block the segregation staff took over. They knew what they are doing. I was explaining the procedure as we walked. I didn’t want to panic Sam, he was nervous enough as it was.
The staff in the segregation unit moved him into the strip cell, a cell that is empty save for a concrete stool and wood on the floor for a bed. It has also a drain in the middle for those who are on dirty protest – “shitting up” – to hose it down.
Remove your top first, the Officer commanded. Sam slowly unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop to the floor.
We stood there, not moving for a second, eyes on his body.
He had strapped blades to his arms, chest and shoulders. They were bright with his blood. He knew that if we had used control and restraint on him, those were the areas we would have targeted.