Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  There was the obligatory hard man who was always in the gym that no one took any notice of. Although he thought he was the dog’s bollocks, the rest of the staff though he was a load of bollocks, so I stayed away from him. I did notice that he was great pals with the Senior Officer, Andy, so I was warned by the rest to watch what I said in front of him; it inevitably went back to Andy.

  So, in my new post I was away with it, happy as a pig in shit and getting on well with my new colleagues. The Governor was happy. He had found in me someone to take up the new suicide awareness flag and spread the word to his staff. ACCT training sessions were put on and I was in my element.

  My first training session started well. I had a dozen staff all turn up and sit in the classroom, all looking at me expectantly. I had done this before in Highdown so it wasn’t a problem for me; I could handle this group … or so I thought.

  This particular group were a bunch of fat, grey, uninterested Officers who had no intention of listening or joining in. It took me twenty minutes before I could get in a word edgeways; they had settled down to chew the fat amongst themselves and weren’t going to let this young whippersnapper interrupt them.

  I eventually got them to sit down in a sort of semi-circle and pick up the new document, which was to be known as the A.C.C.T (Assessment, Care in Custody and Teamwork)

  What, you actually want us to give a shit about these arseholes, came the reply from my class. I felt like I was pissing against the wind and was grateful for the lunch break so I could gather my thoughts and try a different line of attack.

  It never happened. No one turned up after lunch. They had all gone to the pub and were staying there for the afternoon.

  Bollocks. My first session didn’t go too well. In fact it was a disaster. I didn’t tell the Governor the whole truth. I didn’t want to look a prat. He guessed what had happened though and announced that he would attend the next training session. It was unheard of for a number one Governor to attend local training.

  The notice was put up for the next session and everyone attended, in their seats, facing forward in silence, hanging on my every word. I felt like a bit of a fake. It was only because of the Governor’s presence that the group was so attentive, but I did the full session, even the bits where the class was split into groups and had to produce work of their own.

  It was a successful session, partly because of the Governor’s presence, but I liked to think that my skills had some part to play in it. As it happens, I had good feedback and all my other classes were more or less just as good. I went on to organise a Samaritan’s Listener Group, like I had in Highdown. It was so successful that I was awarded a Butler Trust Award for my efforts.

  Hull, like most jails I’ve worked at, had a central detail office, where you were given your job for the day. As a local prison, these were many and varied. I wasn’t bothered where I worked; the pay was the same wherever you were detailed. Some Officers, however, especially the old dinosaurs, seemed to get the same job day in day out, and hated it if they were moved onto another one.

  External escorts being a case in point. It was a chance to get out of the jail and, in some cases, have a trip around the countryside. It meant a good day out, especially an escort to one of the jails outside the area.

  I was detailed to an outside escort, much to the disgust of one of the usual members of staff, who tried his best to get me moved, but failed. After the normal round of insults, he was nearly begging me to swap places. We were detailed to drop off the prisoner at Durham jail, where, allegedly, he had old pals who he wanted to see. I was warned by Swifty that he would try to swing it to get on the escort. I found out later he had made a bet with this Officer that I wouldn’t swap my detail.

  Crafty sod!

  The prisoner we were transferring to Durham was made up that he was returning to his home area. I was slightly apprehensive after the last time I was in a prison van, but I tried to put it behind me. After all, he wasn’t Mr Big.

  Durham was about a three-hour drive from Hull in a slow prison van. An hour’s break at the other end and a leisurely drive back meant a nice day trip out for us. I was with one of the reception staff that knew the route and had been on an escort to Durham only a week ago. Jim had been in the service twenty years and had spent all of it at Hull. He wanted to know what it was like in the London jails. He had heard stories and wanted the details. So, to pass the time, I started describing what it was like. I was chatting away, giving it loads, some of the fights we had, as you do when you are in the chair, when we stopped an hour into the journey.

  What’s up Trev, I asked our driver, an ancient old man who wore thick glasses.

  Broke down lads. Told them this pile of shit needed repairing, he grumbled.

  Oh great. Stuck on the A1, no phone, no means of contact and it’s pissing down with rain. And we have a prisoner in tow.

  I didn’t like this one bit

  Get out and flag down a car, shouted Jim to Trev.

  Fuck off and flag your own car down. I’m responsible for this pile of shit and I aren’t getting out of it, replied Trev.

  Bollocks, Jims shouted. Because he was the most Senior Officer, I was the one handcuffed to the prisoner. We could not release the cuffs, so Jim had to get out, swearing and cursing. He stood by the roadside, wet roll-up between his lips, waving at the traffic like a demented elf.

  It seemed like he was stood there hours, waving his arms, before a local police patrol came to our rescue.

  Told you I’d get help, he said. But we were suspicious that another motorist had seen this demented elf waving his arms about and called the police for us. We felt complete and utter twats to be rescued by the old bill. The prisoner was laughing his head off. There had to be a bit of negotiation by us to get the police to help. As far as they were concerned, they had nothing to do with us. We were trying to persuade them to get them to take the prisoner (who wasn’t happy with the arrangement) and house him at the local police station while we were waiting for the A.A to come and fix us.

  Fortunately, the police, in their wisdom, got an urgent call out to the A.A and they turned up within minutes. They probably didn’t want to take the prisoner off our hands.

  We all breathed a collective sigh of relief when the problem was solved and we were on our way again. Until ten minutes later, when we broke down again.

  The thought in my head was, why oh why did I not swap my detail?

  We were running late. We were supposed to be at Durham prison by midday. It wasn’t going to happen. We sat there, gloomy faced, thinking what the fuck are we going to do now?

  The cavalry arrived. The police had informed Hull prison that we had broken down on the A1. But true to form, they hadn’t called the jail back to say we had been repaired and were on our way. Which was quite fortunate, because the jail had despatched a new van. This time it was Trev’s turn to be miserable; he had to wait for the rescue services, while we were off in the new van to Durham prison.

  We got there two hours late. The reception staff were, of course, very understanding of our plight and laughed their bollocks off in true prison Officer style. As the saying goes, if you want sympathy, it’s between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.

  The next day, back at the jail, I was of course the butt off all the jokes. Swifty not only got his wager, but also had a good laugh for free. After that, whenever an offer was made to swap details when I was put on escorts, I took it up. I was beginning to think that I was jinxed. Swifty started betting that I’d swap. He must have made a mint out of me.

  Sometimes, you get detailed on the Vulnerable Prisoners wing, the R45’s, and end up on a bed watch. It’s not uncommon for vulnerable prisoners to harm themselves. However, most are superficial, and can be dealt with by the nurses on site. This time though, one of our serial cutters had made a mess of his arm and we had to take him to Hull Royal Infirmary.

  He had cut a V shape out his skin from the crook of his arm to his wrist and exposed what
was left of the muscle underneath. He had spent the whole night picking at the muscle, bit by bit and had eaten it; you could plainly see the bones, tendons and main arterial veins when he moved his wrist. It was like a scene from Terminator, where all you could see was the skeleton. Sick.

  He wasn’t in any pain. In fact he thought it was very funny. Just for kicks, he would pull out another piece of flesh and put it in his mouth, making slurping noises as he ate. He even offered some of his bright pink flesh to us. We thanked him, but politely declined. It wasn’t the time to start having a go at him. It would only encourage him to do it more.

  There was no blood, nothing, when we got him to casualty. The triage nurse nearly puked at the sight and ran for the doctor. The doctor took one look at him and sent us on our way to a specialist plastic surgeon, at another hospital. It needed stitching together immediately, not just because of the seriousness of the wound, but to stop him from cannibalising himself.

  It was nearly midnight by the time we got to see the surgeon who had been brought in from yet another hospital to deal with this wound. During the waiting time, my wife had brought me in some spam and tomato chutney sandwiches to eat while we waited. To my colleague’s horror, I sat and munched my way through them while our patient was merrily picking away at his arm. At one point, I asked if he wanted some tomato chutney on it. When he said yes, my colleague was nearly sick. I wasn’t bothered. By now, I was getting hardened to it and ignored him. The prisoner, seeing that we were not reacting any more, stopped picking at his arm. Not that there was much left to go at.

  When the surgeon arrived, all she could do was join the two bits of skin together and wrap his wound up tightly. He would need a skin graft. She told us that an appointment would be made in the near future for us to bring him back. So we were off back to the jail, our prisoner back to his cell, his arm tightly bound and in a sling.

  He was put on a suicide watch (another word for the ACCT Document) overnight, but managed to undo his bandage, bite through one of his veins and suck his blood out, like drinking through a straw. He was dead long before the night orderly Officer could get to him. The prisoner had waited until the night patrol staff had checked on him before biting through his vein. It only took seconds before he went into shock through loss off blood. His bed was soaked with it in minutes.

  So all we could do was cancel his appointment. Never mind, the jail was getting rather full and we needed the space.

  Beirut

  Beirut was the name we gave to Charlie wing, or C wing, at Hull prison. It was one of those places that was always a mess. It was old, needed extensive repairs and it stank, even though it had cell sanitation. It wasn’t the nicest place to serve a sentence, either for the cons or the staff. Obviously, the biggest shit bags were all put on C wing. It was a constant round of battles to keep a lid on this cesspit. Alarm bells were the norm. It was a toxic mix of highly volatile prisoners with R45 on the top landing, a sure source of trouble, and trouble came nearly on a daily basis. Most of it was just scuffling, but some incidents were more serious.

  Saturdays were generally speaking, fairly quiet. The prisoners picked up their canteen, tobacco, writing paper, sweets, etc. on Friday afternoon and were allowed out of their cells to freely associate most of the day. Turkish Dave and me were, as usual, on B wing, chatting with the prisoners on association. Dave was an avid crossword solver and had his nose in his paper. I was talking to a few of the cons, passing the time. Association time, although valued by the prisoners, was a ball ache for prison Officers. Hours of standing around looking at the villains. Quite frankly, on weekends, it was boring.

  An alarm bell was sounded. What a surprise, it was C wing again. Dave put down his paper and groaned, as I did

  C wing, what the fuck is going on now, I said.

  Dave, his paper still firmly in his hand said, must be your turn this time Ray.

  It’s always my bloody turn Dave, I replied.

  Yeah, well, you’re the new kid on the block, you need the experience, Dave said, returning to his crossword.

  Andy, our S.O. shouted, Come on, one of you, Beirut wing awaits!

  I was off on a trot, Dave opening the gate for me and giving me a cheeky wave as I went through

  Mind how you go sprog, he shouted.

  Fuck off, I shouted back, running toward the sounds of a riot going on in the distance.

  As I got to C wing it was the usual pandemonium, bodies everywhere, the wing Principal Officer trying his best to be heard above the noise:

  Lock em all up, the fucking whole lot of em! he was yelling.

  We were on the landings, keys in hand, shoving them as fast as we could behind their doors. Not all of them were complying. One was in my face, spit rolling down his chin, eyes glazed, obviously on something.

  Can you hear me, I shouted at him, behind your door, now!

  He was standing in front of me, prison jeans, a filthy vest and boots on his six-foot frame.

  Fuck off screw bastard, came out of his mouth.

  Well that’s a new one on me, never been called that before, get behind your door, I shouted back. Up came his size ten boot, nearly got me right in the nuts, at the same time his head was coming forward. Not again I thought, just got my face back to normal after the last prisoner head butted me.

  Bang, straight in my mouth. You know when you see in cartoons stars going around the character’s heads? Well, I’m sure that’s what I saw as I fell backwards.

  When I opened my eyes, the dribbling maniac was on top of me, his face inches from mine. I could see a cut just above his eyebrows where his head had connected with my teeth. Feeling round my mouth with my tongue, I could tell my bottom teeth were knocked in and I was bleeding. So was he – straight into my mouth. He was dripping blood from his wound and snarling like a dog.

  Get off me you fucking tosser, I shouted through clenched teeth, not wanting to open my mouth any wider. I didn’t want any more of his blood in my mouth. Thankfully, he was pulled off me; Turkish Dave was standing over me, holding the dribbling maniac by the scruff of his neck.

  Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I, Turkish Dave laughed, why you have to pick on the biggest smack head is beyond me.

  Cheers mate, I tried to say through clenched teeth. By now the maniac was being dragged down the segregation unit by a couple of other lads.

  I sat up, blood still dripping down my shirt.

  Suppose you want the rest of the day off now?” the Principal Officer said, laughing. Get yourself off to the health care department Ray; your mouth needs looking at.

  I just nodded yes. I didn’t want to open my mouth to answer him in case my teeth fell out.

  Turkish Dave went with me down to health care; B wing had been locked down so that all the staff could give a hand on Beirut.

  What happened there mate, Dave was saying somewhere in the distance. I was falling forward and starting to gag on my own vomit.

  I remember waking up next, being jolted around in an ambulance, Dave sitting next to me along with Pete, one of the health care staff.

  Christ you don’t do things by half do you? Dave said. First you run into the biggest smack head you can find, then you head but the wall on your way to the floor. You alright mate?

  Fit as a fucking butcher’s dog, you knob, I hissed through my teeth. Pete was talking to the ambulance man. Well, fuck you an all, Dave said, a fine thank you for dragging a maniac off you and stopping you kissing the floor. Bollocks to you next time. He was grinning at me as though it was a huge joke.

  At least you’re out of the jail for the afternoon, stop bleating, I hissed back through clenched teeth.

  At the hospital, I was given an X-ray. A few of the patients hanging around were obviously ex-patrons of the jail and started jeering at me:

  Got your come-uppance there guv, an’t yer, they were shouting. Thankfully, I was wheeled straight into a side room. The security staff at Hull Royal didn’t want a riot in the hospital.


  The X-ray showed that one of my teeth had detached from my gum. No shit Sherlock, it was in a tissue in my hand. The rest were deemed repairable.

  Pete, the nurse from the jail, was sitting next to me. He was telling me about having a blood test. I couldn’t really understand what he was talking about. I was still a bit dazed.

  Dave, on the other hand, was more direct:

  The fucking maniac that nutted you is H.I.V positive.

  Oh fucking brilliant, this is going to go down a storm at the jail. An Officer with AIDS.

  I got home. The missus was out in her greenhouse, wondering who was coming up the drive.

  What the hell happened to you, she said.

  Got nutted love. Some maniac at the jail didn’t like what I was telling him, so he head butted me.

  Have you been to the hospital? Where’s your car? All the questions came out at once. Dave, who drove me home, filled in the gaps. I didn’t feel like talking, my mouth was still sore.

  I had to, of course, tell my wife all the details. She was sympathetic and would stand by me, there was no question about that – it was just the ten days or so, waiting for the results to come back.

  Relief, no infection.

  But the waiting was the longest ten days in my life. The only bonus was that I had ten days off work. Although I’d sooner had not gone through that psychological pain and been at work.

  Notorious Lifer

  Chris Brown is a notorious prisoner who had been located in the special category wing at Hull. Chris’s exploits are well documented. He was a category “A” prisoner, who demanded respect. He was a three man unlock and he knew it. If we made the mistake of unlocking his door with less than that, he would stand outside his door and count: One, two, and no number three? How disrespectful are you? He would then kick off. It would take at least six of the biggest Officers to get him back to his cell, whereupon he would put his mattress against the cell door and pound away at it with his fists in frustration. He was a fitness fanatic and could go at it for hours.