Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  Grace was back with us. She had got a few more months under her belt and got a bit more prison savvy after the incident where the nonce put his hand up her skirt … or so she thought.

  On the sex offenders wing there were many characters. One in particular was the wing rent boy. Simon was no trouble at all, he was polite and well behaved and quite artistic. He would make roses out of bread. I have to say, they were very impressive. He would usually save these for “special people” so when Grace came in the office with one of his blood red roses made out of bread, of course we all admired it. She was kissing it and generally stroking it against her face, telling everyone how beautifully made it was.

  Sanjit was sitting at the desk; he was nodding all the way through Grace’s little speech about how some prisoners are kind and thoughtful. When she had finished he said, Do you know how he makes them?

  No, she said, shaking her head.

  Well, I’ll tell you, Sanjit replied in his most authoritative voice. He was standing with his hands on his lapels, like a councilor

  He started describing how Simon, being the wing rent boy, sometimes suffered from bleeding from his arse after he had performed his duties and how, because there were no condoms or lubrication, Simon had to suffer “dry bumming”. Grace was losing the smile on her face, her hand with the rose in it now by her side.

  Sanjit went on: When he gets back to his cell, so he doesn’t stain his clothes or the bedding, he puts bread down the back of his pants to soak up the blood and love juice.

  Grace’s face was starting to go white.

  When the bread is soaked through with blood and cum, Sanjit continued, he then shapes it into petals with his fingers.

  Grace was starting to heave. Her hand shot up to her mouth in an effort to stop her being sick on the floor. Dropping the rose and stamping on it, she rushed out of the room to the ladies toilet, coughing and heaving as she went.

  The door closed. We all looked at Sanjit who was sitting, arms out in surrender.

  Fuck-in-hell, Vanessa said, how the fuck did you know that Sanjit”?

  I didn’t, he said, with a big grin on his face. I just made it up.

  We laughed till we were nearly sick ourselves. The story spread round the jail like wildfire. Ironically, although not from his arse, Simon did colour the petals with his own blood.

  The next day, Grace was fuming. She didn’t grasp that it was a joke and, very unlike her, started to swear. She was really going at it: Fucking queer bastards, fucking rent boys, on and on she went.

  We all laughed again. Sally, who had come back on the wing, and Tino went out the door. We thought that they were trying to stifle their own laughter. How wrong we were.

  I stuck my head out of the office door. You all right you two?

  Yeah said Tino. Sal was urging Tino back to the office.

  I have an announcement, said Tino, a little too loudly. This got our attention. We were all there after unlock, waiting for the roll to come in. Big Taff, Vanessa, Sal, Grace, Sanjit, and me.

  I’m getting married, he blurted out.

  Congratulations, everyone sang out. Vanessa pushed things further: We getting an invite then Tino?

  Yes, everyone is invited.

  By this time the tension had gone and we were all slapping him on the back. Big Taff slapped a shovel-like hand across Tinos small shoulders. Taff was standing like a giant over Tino, rubbing his head with his giant knuckle. It was bloody annoying at times, not least painful. Tino was doing his best to duck out of the way of this ape.

  Who’s the lucky girl then Tino, big Taff shouted?

  His name is Brian, Tino said, his face reddening. He works at the court as a clerk.

  You could have heard a pin drop. Grace’s face went bright red. Sorry, sorry, sorry, she blurted out.

  Don’t be, said Tino. I’ll be glad to see you all at my wedding.

  With that, the call came out that the prison roll was correct and we all rushed to the door, Graces apologies forgotten.

  Everyone, without fail, attended the ceremony. In those days, gay people were not allowed to be married, so it was a civil occasion, but to all present, they were married and it was a fantastic wonderful day. Tino and Brian were very happy and so were we.

  The Tattoo Man

  After a long weekend off, I came back to work refreshed and ready to take up the challenges of working in a jail. We had been briefed by our Senior Officer, Glynn, that the segregation unit had dumped a prisoner on us. He had come from Wandsworth prison segregation, and was here for a fresh start. Prisoners are often moved from jail to jail, not only to give them a fresh start, but also to give the Officers and other prisoners a rest from them.

  Glynn told us that this lad had a bit of a reputation for winding up staff and bullying other prisoners. He had a nicking list as long as your arm: assaults on staff, fighting, bullying, attacking other prisoners … the list went on. A nasty piece of work; he looked it too, and he was covered in what appeared to be homemade tattoos.

  He was on my wing and, on that day, on my landing.

  I unlocked all the prisoners as usual, to allow them to get hot water and ready themselves for work. Generally speaking, it’s up to the landing Officer to check all the cells. After unlocking all the doors, I would backtrack and check they were all up and ready for work. It was an ideal time to check whether they wanted any applications – apps for short. Prisoners ask for different apps depending on their requests – visits apps, gym apps, special letter apps. There are loads of them, and it’s the Officer’s job to make sure the request that’s made goes on the right application. Anyway, most of the prisoners on my landing knew me and I knew them; the ones that knew me bid me good morning, and I reciprocated with the same.

  I got to the tattoo man’s door – Thompson. He was still in bed. I gave him a shout:

  Come on fella, time to get up, everyone else is up and ready for work, why aren’t you?

  Fuck off screw bastard, came the reply.

  Not fucking off old son, I replied, you need to get out of your pit. I will be back in five minutes, make sure you’re up.

  I left him and carried on with my rounds of the rest of the landing. I had to get all the apps in before they went to work, so I wasn’t hanging around Thompson’s door waiting for him to get up.

  As I went round, gathering up the apps, I saw him come out of his cell. He was standing on the landing outside his cell, leaning on the landing bar, in his boxer shorts, smoking a roll up. This, as you can imagine, is not on in a jail; there has to be discipline on the wing and prisoners need to be fully dressed when leaving their cells.

  I walked towards him. He spat on the floor as I approached.

  What? he shouted.

  I tried to be as civil as possible, and in a calm and polite voice said, Now then Thompson, we don’t allow prisoners out on the landings in just their shreddies, Why’s that, he sneered, is some queer bastard going to give me one up the arse?

  It looked as though tact and diplomacy wasn’t going to work with this lad. Taff had done his landing and had come down to back me up, seeing that this was turning into a battle of attrition.

  Thompson, seeing Taff, said, Got reinforcements have you, tossers?

  With that, he turned round and went back to his cell. He was one of those prisoners who would push you to the line, but didn’t step over it so he could blame someone else for his actions and not himself. He was a thoroughly nasty piece of work. He did not like authority, and anything in uniform was game to him.

  He had a habit of spitting everywhere, mostly outside his cell. He was doubled up in a two man cell with another prisoner who stayed away from him during unlock hours, but had no choice when locked up. It was unfortunate that we did not have any single cells at the time, otherwise, we would have placed him in one, so the poor lad that was in with him didn’t have to suffer. But we kept an eye out for him, to be on the safe side.

  On one occasion, when I was walking down the stai
rs with him above me I heard the familiar spitting sound. The globule of spit landed just in front of me on the stairs. I again went to him and challenged him about his habit and asked that he cleaned up his mess. Yeah right, weren’t me, he would say, but then bully someone else to do it.

  One Saturday before the end of the morning association session, I was just making my way up the stairs to lock up for lunch, when I heard and felt a splatter of spit land on my head. I knew it was Thompson. I ran up the stairs and faced him:

  What do you think you are up to? I said.

  Weren’t me, can’t prove it was, he said.

  It fucking well was, you bastard, you spat on my head, I said.

  Fucking prove it screw. No one’s going to grass me up, my word against yours. Now fuck off, spit head, he said, laughing and returning to his cell.

  No good losing your rag, even though it’s tempting. I went on locking up the other prisoners. After all, if I did hit him, I would be in the wrong and I could be done for assault. He knew that.

  I saw Glynn and he told me to nick him for using foul and abusive language at me. I knew he would only get a slap on the wrist for it, but at least he would spend a day in the segregation unit.

  I washed the spit off my head, still seething at what that arsehole had done, then returned to my landing to unlock for meals. Prisoners are unlocked a few at a time to collect their meals and return to their cells to eat their food. It’s known as a “controlled unlock”. When they are back in their cells we lock them up and carry on with the next batch. Thompson, as usual, was dragging his feet; nearly everyone else had got their food and was behind their doors.

  Come on Thompson, You’re holding everyone up, I shouted.

  Getting a smoke guv, keep your hair on. Oh, I forgot, it won’t fall off, being stuck down with gob will it, he sniggered.

  He was now the last one to lock up. Big Taff was waiting downstairs. Jay was upstairs leaning over the rails, shaking his head. He could see where this was going.

  I followed Thompson back to his cell. His cellmate was already there, sitting on his bed eating his meal.

  What do you want spit head? Thompson said. Think you can take me, screw bastard? Just you and me now is it? he said, putting his plate of food on the bed. As he stood up, still eating, with his mouth full, he said, Fuck off out of me pad, I’m having my fucking dinner, spraying some of the food over me. It was my intention to give him a bollocking without his audience; sometimes, prisoners change when they are on their own. They lose their bravado when they haven’t got their mates around them.

  I changed my mind, and punched him twice in the mouth. He went down like a sack of shit on top of his food, a look of fear and surprise on his face. I didn’t stay long. I could have continued to punch this horrible little bastard, but instead I turned around and slammed the door.

  As soon as that door slammed shut behind me, I regretted it. This was the first and last time I would ever lose my temper and intentionally assault a prisoner. I left the prison and went to my car for my lunch break. I wanted to be on my own with my own thoughts and get things clear in my mind. I knew that this could lead to my dismissal and possibly a prison sentence. My head was in pieces.

  One of the Officers from another wing knocked on my car window. My immediate thought was that I had been summoned. However, the Officer wanted to know if I had a set of jump leads; his car battery was flat, and could I give him a hand?

  Relieved, I pulled a set of leads from my car boot; as luck would have it, he was parked next to me so the leads could easily reach. We cracked open both bonnets. I connected the leads and he got his car started. When I disconnected, I whacked my already bruised hand on his engine. I pulled my greasy hand away to find that it had suffered a cut on top of the bruise. The other Officer gave me some tissues, thanked me and drove off, apologizing for my injured hand.

  I sat back in my car right until the last minute before dragging myself back into the prison.

  When I got through the gate, Geordie, my Principal Officer, was waiting for me. Not only was he my manager, he was also the P.O.A. Prison Officers Association union representative. Most Officers on joining the service are urged, quite sensibly in my opinion, to join the POA

  Ray, he said, just got back from the Governor’s office, while you were at lunch, Thompson was banging on his cell door. When the Officer went to investigate he found the lad with a bleeding and cut mouth. He claims that you punched him just before going off duty.

  I was about to tell Geordie what happened, but before I could open my mouth, he said, Ray, don’t tell me anything. As your manager and as your POA rep, I must advise you to answer the Governors questions. It’s up to the Governor to find evidence against you, not for you to go diving in and say something you later regret. Do you understand me?

  Yes, I answered nervously.

  As we got nearer the Governor’s office, the lad that shared the cell with Thompson was heading back to the wing after being interviewed by the Governor. As he passed me by, he winked at me. Confused at that stage; I didn’t know what the wink was for.

  Shit, I thought, I’m going to be hung out to dry here. I couldn’t see any way out of it.

  We entered the number ones Governor’s office. Geordie closed the door behind me. Although there were three of us in that office, I felt utterly alone.

  Officer Deveroux, the Governor said, do you know why you’re here?

  All I know sir is what the Principal Officer had told me about an allegation of assault.

  And?

  And what sir? I replied.

  Tell me what happened, that’s what, the Governor said, nodding towards the cut on my hand.

  Oh, that. I cut it while helping another Officer start his car, I’m sure he will back me up, I answered confidently.

  What else Mr. Deveroux? The Governor was getting impatient.

  Geordie, standing next to me, gave me a slight nudge in the back. Remembering what Geordie had told me, I replied: Nothing to tell sir.

  Very well we shall get to the bottom of this. You can go back to your unit until I decide what to do with you, the Governor said.

  Geordie and I left the office and returned to our wing. I was about to open my mouth to find out what had been said so far about the assault, but Geordie silenced me.

  Keep your mouth shut, laddie. Don’t say anything to anyone. Don’t even confess your sins in front of God till we know more of what the Governor knows, what Thompson alleges and what the young lad, who is his cellmate and the only witness, has to say.

  Yes, I nodded, shaking inside.

  Back on the wing, the nurse had seen Thompson. It wasn’t all that bad; a cut lip and bruised chin was all he was suffering from. He was escorted to the segregation unit awaiting a transfer out while the investigation was ongoing. He wound up back at Wandsworth prison, where the segregation staff gave him a warm welcome. They do that you know, when they find out that horrible little bastards like Thompson make allegations against staff. By the time his solicitor saw him at Wandsworth he had a few more cuts and bruises, and even more allegations were made.

  Caroline, one of the Sentence Planning Officers at Highdown, came to see me. It was on the pretext that she wanted information to put in his plan. As his personal Officer, could I help put some of the pieces together? Unsurprisingly, he was very uncooperative when being interviewed.

  What she really wanted was inside information about the assault. She hated the prisoner; he was a little creep and had made lurid suggestions, putting it lightly, on one of the interviews.

  Can’t say Caroline, I’ve been sworn to secrecy, at pain of death. You know the score, I whispered.

  Yeah, I know, secret squirrels and all that. But he’s a wrong un you know, she whispered back.

  No, I didn’t know. We don’t look at records or talk about offences on landings.

  Well, she started, and she told me all about this nasty little man.

  Thompson was forty-one years old and
had a partner and young child. He and his partner had gone out one night, leaving a young girl of twelve to look after the baby while they went off to get drunk and shove cocaine up their noses.

  On their return, full of drink and drugs, Thompson had started fooling around with the young babysitter. At the time she thought it a huge joke and joined in the fun. At this stage there was only play fighting and tickling; she, in her young tender years, didn’t know any better. Thompson’s partner, also drunk and under the influence of drugs, had joined in. Things started to get serious. The young girl wanted to get off home. She only lived two floors above in the block of flats.

  Thompson was getting frustrated. He started fumbling the young girl’s breasts and she started to cry. Thompson’s partner was at her side, trying to calm her down. He started trying to kiss the young girl and she screamed. His partner put her hand over her mouth to shut her up. Seizing the opportunity, he started to tear at her clothes; filled with drink and drugs, he wanted to rape her. The poor girl never stood a chance. With Thompson’s partner holding her down, he forced himself into her.

  When he had finished, he left her sobbing on the floor and went looking for more drugs. His partner went to the bathroom to throw up. The young girl slipped out of the flat and ran upstairs to her own home, half naked, banging on the door sobbing.

  Her parents quickly found out what had happened, and called the police. Meanwhile, her father went downstairs to speak to the two monsters that had raped his daughter. He was no match for Thompson; the poor man had been head butted by him and was on the floor when the police arrived.

  At the end of a trial, they were both found guilty; Thompson was given nine years and his partner five and a half years for the rape of a minor.

  Thompson had denied he was a pedophile, claiming that the girl had pubic hair, was sixteen and had consented. Pedophiles, in his sick mind were men who get it off with children who don’t have “pubes”. Apparently his partner, who was a serving prisoner at Holloway, was just as bad as him, making false allegations against Officers.

  The investigation dragged on. The police came to see me. With Geordie as my rep by my side, we trotted out the mantra: