by Ray Deveroux
He dropped his trousers to reveal more blood-soaked blades around his thighs and ankles. This was what his mother meant when she said, Be careful, he can be dangerous.
He grinned at me. There was blood coming from his mouth. Another blade had been secreted behind his bottom lip and gum and he was rubbing his tongue along it.
I was feeling sick. The segregation staff moved towards him at speed, because there had been a weapon involved. They were wearing control and restraint kit – thick protective gloves, arm and shin pads. They took seconds to react and were all over him. He was dropped to the floor in seconds. The nurse who was present gave him a shot and he went out like a light. Prison nurses don’t normally inject prisoners with drugs to knock them out; however, they had read his record that stated that under these circumstances, because of the danger to staff, they were permitted to do so. So much for patient confidentiality when your life is on the line.
I hadn’t noticed that I’d stopped breathing; Geordie was behind me, slapping me on the back.
Come on breathe sunshine, it’s over, Geordie said, his face as white as mine.
Fuck me that was scary.
Thankfully, I never saw Sam/Daniel again. He was deemed mentally unstable and transferred to a secure mental hospital.
Sadly, you come across prisoners that should be in secure mental hospitals all too often. But there is little room to be had, and instead it’s down to the Officer on the landing to deal with incidents such as this.
I still had Sam’s mother’s phone number in my pocket and decided to ring her and explain what had happened. She obviously knew that her son had been up to no good, so it was only courteous and professional to tell her what had gone on. After I had relayed the full story, the phone went quiet; I hung on to the receiver, pressing it close to my ear to see if there was any reaction. She was sobbing, and through the sobs, I could hear her say sorry over and over again. It was heartbreaking to hear a woman in so much emotional pain; a pain that I knew only too well myself after dealing with her son.
I cried too. I couldn’t help myself, the tears just rolled down my cheeks. I don’t know if I was crying because of this poor woman, or if it was a release of stress after the incident. Prison Officers maybe sometimes be cruel and give off a hard exterior, but we are, after all, only human.
I walked back to the house block with Geordie. He was telling me about a new document that dealt with vulnerable and suicidal prisoners. It was plain that I had been chosen to represent our unit; he wanted me to go and have a word with Senior Officer Lander, who was heading up the new initiative.
As we got to his office, I saw, still on the low blue chair, the blade that had been used to threaten me only a half hour ago. I shuddered inwardly, Geordie noticed this, put his hand across my shoulder and held two cups up. I think Geordie was as shocked as me, witnessing Sam covered in razor blades.
Yes please Geordie, I replied.
Well, you know where the kettle is, fuck off and leave me to the paperwork you have caused me, he laughed as he handed me the cups.
At least you knew where you stood with him, and I was grateful for it.
When I got to the door, Geordie picked up the weapon and placed it in an evidence bag.
Ray, you did well there laddie, he said. Real good.
That meant more to me than the second commendation that I received from the Governor a week later. The commendation came in handy; nicely framed, it was just the right size to put the tea, coffee and sugar jar on in the staff rest room. I don’t know of many Officers who actually display them or take them home. My first one was probably still perched on the four-draw cabinet in the SPUD unit in Whitemoor.
The only time I’ve seen one displayed was in Golden Boy’s office in Winchester. Apparently someone had altered it using official paper and fine handwriting in the style of calligraphy, to read more like the wanker he was. He never noticed the changes for weeks. I’d already left for Highdown when he went on the warpath, demanding to know who it was. He never did find out.
I went to see Senior Officer Gerald Lander. Call me Gerry were his first words. He wanted to put me at ease. Lull me into a false sense of security for what was coming next.
Ray, he said, I want you to come and work with me in the lifer unit on the new F2052SH document. This was the title of the new document that covered prisoners who were in distress.
You must be fucking joking, I said, I’ve had my fill of lifer units at Whitemoor thank you very much.
I’ve seen the Governor and he agrees that you would be the ideal Officer to get this off the ground. Gerry continued, not taking a blind bit of notice of my comments.
I’ll think about it Gerry, I said, backing out of the door. No way did I want to get involved in distressed prisoners. I’d had enough of them already with Sam.
I went back to my house block, calling into my Senior Officer’s office on the way.
Glynn, did you know about this distressed sodding prisoner business?
He was laughing his head off. Well boyo, you started it, he said. We should have muftied him, not fucking mothered him, he said, referring to Sam. “Muftied” is an old term for Control and Restraint.
Bollocks to you an all, I said, if we’d have jumped him, we would have all got cut up!
I know, I know, now piss off, he said, in his thick Welsh accent.
And that, for the time being, was that.
I had had a shit start to the day; got up to go to work, as usual. It was dark and raining outside and I a headache. My fault, I shouldn’t have gone out on “school nights”, a term we used for shift day drinking.
I got to the car as normal but the car didn’t look normal. The side window was broken. On looking inside, someone had smashed the window to get at the stereo. Bastards. There was wire hanging everywhere, the seats were wet and it looked a mess.
Luckily I got it going. I taped a plastic bag over the broken window, which lasted about ten seconds, and set off to the jail. I got there, my arse and one side of my body wet through. I wasn’t in a happy mood.
Glynn was on duty, along with the usual crowd – Big Taff, Sanjit, Jay, and two new Officers, one of whom was a ginger scouser, a cocky lad who had transferred to us from Liverpool. I can’t remember his name. All I can recall is that he knew absolutely everything about everything; he had done it, seen, it and whatever you did, he could do it better. He was barely twenty-one years old and a pain in the arse. So, for the want of a better name, we will call him Ginger.
The other Officer was Vanessa, a tall brunette, with huge tits. Her uniform strained over the parts of her body where it touched and her trousers were so tight it looked as though she had a camel’s toe down the front.
Anyway, that morning I arrived a bit late and worse for wear; not only was I sporting a hangover, but I was wet and cold.
We were all in the office with Glynn, our Senior Officer, briefing us for the morning unlock, when a cell bell went off. A cell bell is a system whereby prisoners in their cells could summon an Officer in an emergency. In most cases this was abused and mostly it was for trivial things.
Go and see what he wants Ray, Glynn said to me.
Why me, I asked. He just laughed as he normally did and replied that it was because I was dripping all over the floor. But it was no good arguing. In those days it was a discipline service and you did as you were told. Not so much now, more’s the pity.
Off I went down the landing. I reached the cell with the bell on.
Whaddya want, I yelled through the flap, not wanting to open any door. After all, I hadn’t finished my cup of tea yet.
A muffled shout came back.
WHAA, I shouted, not understanding what this cretin wanted.
Another muffled shout.
In the end, I had to open the door. There was this little urchin still in bed, covers over him.
Turn me light out guv, I’m trying to get some shut eye, the night staff left it on, the cretin said.
Fu
cking hell, you little twat, turn the fucking light off yourself you lazy little bastard! I wasn’t, as mentioned before, in a good mood and this just topped it.
You’re here now guv, you might as well switch it off, and you’re standing right next to the switch, the cretin screeched.
I lost it. I grabbed him by his feet and hauled him from his pit; bang went his head on the floor.
I pulled him to the door and shouted, You’re nearest now you little twat, and left him still tangled in his bedding on the floor.
I shut the door and let him get on with it.
What was that, says Glynn?
Oh just someone wanting his lights put out, so I obliged.
On our house block was a young artist; not piss artist, for a change, a proper street artist who had drawn caricatures of all the staff on the unit. These were displayed in the office and were quite good; they looked every part the attitude and persona of the Officers. We liked them.
Jacko was well liked on the wing and had a queue of people waiting to have their pictures drawn by him. He was about my age and different to your usual R45 sex offenders. He looked out of place in jail; it was his first time in, serving a short sentence of three and a half months.
I didn’t normally ask what they were in for. If I wanted to know, I could just read his record. We didn’t normally ask or look at records; it could make you change your attitude towards them, and that doesn’t do when you are working as a professional in the Prison Service. But on this one occasion, whilst talking to him, he said, Bet you are wondering why I’m in here aren’t you? I didn’t think I could be read that easy. Apparently, he had been asked so many times, he was waiting for me to ask.
Well, he said, I got sent down for putting my hand up my wife’s skirt and giving her bunny a good fondle.
What? I said, you can’t be put in jail for having a feel of your wife can you?
Apparently, you can when her best friend was wearing the skirt at the time, he replied.
Well, I suppose I did ask for it.
I was on my way to unlock my cleaners; I was cleaning Officer for the day, when Glynn called me back:
What the fuck have to done to the cretin you spoke to this morning? he demanded.
Taff and Sanjit were just on their way out of the office. They ducked back in, not wanting to miss a bollocking, especially when it wasn’t them.
What you on about Glynn? As I said, I assisted him putting his lights out.
Well, says Glynn, he wants to see the Governor, his solicitor, God and the fucking Queen. He reckons you assaulted him.
Bollocks, I shouted back, he was getting out of bed and tripped over his sheets.
Meanwhile, Big Taff was standing behind him, a good head above his, mimicking Glynn and holding the caricatures up. When Glynn spoke Taff held up his picture; when I spoke, he held up mine, all the while mimicking us both. I started to laugh.
What the fuck are you laughing at, this is serious! His voice was getting louder and his Welsh accent getting thicker.
Nothing Glynn, I swear, the cretin looked funny when he fell out of bed.
Fuck off, Glynn said, you don’t get a lump on your head like he has, falling out of bed! The pitch of his voice was going into squeaky mode. He was getting annoyed.
Taff was behind him, waving his arms around like a madman, lifting each picture in turn as we spoke. Glynn turned around quickly, getting the feeling that something was going on behind him. All he saw was Big Taff, standing still with a straight face, pretending to read.
Sanjit, by now had gone red – as red as an Asian can be – trying not to laugh. I had a stupid grin on my face.
Glynn was getting madder. What the fucks going on here? His voice went up another octave, big Taff still behind him, mimicking.
Sanjit lost it. He grabbed the unit diary and wrapped it round his head. He was sobbing with uncontrollable laughter, snot running down his face.
Glynn turned round just in time to see Big Taff waving the pictures about. Taff was now in uncontrollable fits of laughter. I was bent double, feeling sick. I was laughing so much it hurt; my sides and stomach were aching, my head still throbbing.
Glynn, joined in, the laughter was so infectious, he couldn’t help himself, he forgot what he was bollocking me about.
We created so much noise that the unit Governor walked in. He stood next to the caricature of himself, just at the right height to line up with his face. Well, everyone nearly wet themselves. I was nearly on the floor, Sanjit had wrapped the book all the way around his head and Big Taff was banging his head on the wall.
The Governor was standing there, waiting for an explanation, not knowing what was stuck to the wall next to him. Glynn, doing his best not to laugh – and failing miserably – was walking out of the door, beckoning the Governor to follow.
Our Unit Governor was only a young bloke, but he was alright. He listened to what the staff were telling him and quite often asked their advice on something. Fortunately, he also had a sense of humour.
Two minutes later Glynn bobbed his head back into the office and took down the picture with the Governors face on it and went back outside.
He came back a few minutes later, flushed.
What’s up, we almost said in unison.
The Governor liked the picture so much he asked if he could have it for his office.
Well, we started again. We were still laughing at eight thirty in the evening, going off shift. The cretin was forgotten about.
Well, when I say, forgotten about, we had forgotten about his hissy fits. He was still banging on about solicitors and compensation, as they all do. Most of the time they find something else to moan about.
The cretin was having a go at, Glynn, who was nodding and shaking his head, trying to look interested. The cretin was getting bored with standing there and Glynn was fed up with his moaning. He was complaining about the heating this time. It was, apparently, cold in his cell at night and he wanted the heating on all night. Glynn was doing his best to explain that no one has heating on all night. Cretin shouted a few profanities at Glynn and stamped off. Glynn, like the rest of us, was used to young prisoners stamping their feet when they don’t get their own way.
I went onto the wing, passing by the cretin’s cell. He was crying.
What’s up young fella? I said.
He replied, No one listens to me, it’s cold in here at night and I can’t get any sleep.
I explained that the heating in all jails turn off at night, it cost too much to keep a prison this size to keep the heating on all night. I went on to tell him that I never had the heating on at home past nine o’clock at night. I offered him an extra couple of blankets, which he took; he thanked me for listening to him.
He was at the gate a few minutes later: Can I have a word with the Senior Officer please? I want to apologise to him for losing my temper and swearing at him.
I stuck my head in the office, relaying what the cretin said. Glyn sighed and said, ok bring him in here; let’s see what he has to say for himself.
Unlocking the gate, I presented the young cretin in front of Glynn.
Sorry about what I said earlier guv, he said. He then swung his hand out towards Glynn. Glynn instinctively ducked back; just as well – the cretin had a blade in his hand and caught Glynn under the chin with it. Blood spurted out from just above his collar.
The Governor was in the office at the time and came rushing out, hanky in hand and clamped it over the wound. It took milliseconds for me to react. I dived over to the cretin, knocking the blade from his hand. When he was unarmed, he put his hands up in surrender.
Usually I would have dropped him there and then, but the fact that he had his hands up meant that he had given up the weapon. As prison Officers, you can only use force when necessary and then only use the necessary force required to disable the prisoner. Especially when the Governor’s standing right in front of you.
Big Taff was there like a shot and Tino and Vanessa foll
owed shortly after the alarm had been raised. Thankfully one of the respondents was a nurse, who saw to Glynn. The cut was only superficial, but still needed stitches, so the nurse escorted Glynn to the heath care unit.
The Governor had ordered that we take the cretin to segregation in box formation. This is where we escort prisoners with the prisoner in the middle and an Officer at each corner and walk him to the block. I was at the front, Big Taff to my right with Vanessa and Jay coming up the rear.
We started walking off the wing into the corridor.
Suddenly, the cretin jerked forward and shoved Taff in the back. Taff needed no encouragement – he was in first. We all piled dutifully on top of the arsehole that had slashed our Senior Officer.
Cretin went the rest of the way to the block screaming like a stuck pig. He deserved it.
Its funny, one minute you are comforting a prisoner, offering your sympathies and a few blankets, the next you are fighting with him. But that’s the way it is in the Prison Service.
After dropping him off at the block, we headed back to our wing, paperwork in hand. Every time you use force, you have to fill in the “use of force” paperwork.
I said to Vanessa, It’s strange how he gave himself up and then decided to fight when there was four of us round him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he did; it’s about time the little shit got his come-uppance, especially after what he did to Glynn.
Jay was laughing, so was Vanessa. Come on you two, what’s the crack? said Big Taff in his unmistakable Welsh voice.
Well, said Vanessa in a voice that wouldn’t melt butter, Jay accidentally on purpose kicked his foot so he banged into you.
Jay, said Big Taff, I love you. He blew kisses at him. Big Taff was glad he got an excuse to jump the cretin.
The cretin was never seen again. Glynn was back on the unit. A scratch wasn’t going to keep him away. An oversized plaster around his neck looked more like a dog collar, so we all called him the Right Reverend Glynn. Working in a jail is mostly mundane stuff. Incidents like these don’t happen every day, but we do have a laugh sometimes.