Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  If any of the other prisoners complained against the noise, Chris would see to it they had a visit from him later. He never forgot. Even if prisoners moved around and he met up with them again, he would say to them – remember me? That’s what made him so unpredictable.

  I had the unpleasant experience of being on duty in January 1999 when he took one of the education staff as a hostage for criticising his drawings. Chris was well known for his artwork and defended his drawings vigorously.

  When Paul Davidson, one of the special wing education Officers, was overseeing the work Chris was doing, he made a comment about it that Chris didn’t agree with. Paul, trying to put his professional opinion across, just made matters worse, and Chris got wound up. It didn’t take much to wind him up, although I must say in Chris’s defence, he was always polite when speaking with the civilian staff, and he expected the same in return.

  The education classes within the special unit were on one level alongside the kitchen, laundry and library. It was, in effect, a purpose built construction away from the prisoners cells and could only be accessed through a door at either end. Prison staff remained on the outside of the unit. The management and education department maintained it was for the benefit of the prisoners who could learn without the distraction of staff in uniform. It was also easy for the other inmates within the unit to put up a barrier preventing staff from gaining access.

  Chris ripped up the work he had just finished. He was mad that he had to rip up his work and told Paul that it was his fault that the drawing was torn up. Paul tried to calm the now agitated prisoner down. Chris, being Chris, saw this as an act of disrespect and started throwing his chair around, smashing it in front of Paul on the table.

  Paul sensibly backed off. Chris was now on a roll. He tipped the table upside down and went for the snooker table. It proved too heavy for his to overturn so he headed towards the kitchen. By this time, the alarm was raised and the unit shut down. Officers were detailed to don their Control and Restraint gear. If Chris tooled himself up with chair or table legs, then someone was going to get hurt.

  Chris wasn’t on his own. Soon the other prisoners joined in, and although they kept their distance from him, they didn’t want to be seen aiding the screws, so they piled the furniture against the doors, using it as a barricade. This was not going to end well.

  He was in the laundry, smashing away with a table leg at the washer, trying to break the pipe so that it would flood the unit. It was getting serious and Chris was making growling and grunting noises, making a hell of a racket with the broken furniture. He ripped the door off the washing machine and stood on the landing. Aiming it like a Frisbee, he flung it towards Paul. We were doing our best to get him out of there, but Paul was frozen to the spot with fear.

  Chris was in his own world now, tearing up carpets, fittings and fixtures. They were no match for this powerful and dangerous man. He was shouting at the top of his voice, those around him visually trembling with fear, just as he liked it. Nothing escaped his anger – holes were punched through doors, windows were smashed, library books, magazines and computers were flung across the floor and stamped on. Chris was like a raging bull.

  The phone started ringing. This was the start of the negotiations. Chris picked it up. He didn’t put the receiver to his ear, he just shouted at the handset:

  Do you fucking know what you’ve fucking done? Do you? he yelled. I was too far away to hear any response at the other end of the phone, but I could guess.

  FUCKING CALM DOWN, CALM FUCKING DOWN, IS THAT ALL YOUVE GOT TO SAY? screamed Chris. With that, the phone was swung round his head to Olympic standard; it hit the wall and disintegrated into a hundred pieces.

  To Paul’s regret, he offered: You can’t negotiate or talk to them outside now. The phones broke.

  Chris grabbed the shattered remains of the telephone and shouted at it: SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO NOW? HOW THE FUCKING HELL ARE YOU GONNA SORT THIS OUT WIV NO PHONE? It would have been almost comical if Chris hadn’t have wound the phone lead around Paul’s neck for effect.

  Chris was even madder now. He was looking around the unit for anything he hadn’t destroyed yet. He headed back to the laundry. Wrenching the door of the laundry off its hinges, he grabbed for the washing machine, his huge arms around the washer. He had the washer out of its fixings and attempted to lift it above his head to throw the machine across the room, but he fell over backwards with the machine on top of him. Chris was dazed momentarily, shrugged the machine off, stood up and yelled at Paul, who he blamed for his behaviour, adding that it was Paul’s fault for making him drop the machine on himself.

  He stormed over, grabbed Paul and held him down on the snooker table, threatening to do all sorts to him. He managed to tie him up, wrapping sheets and pillowcases around his arms and legs.

  And there poor Paul stayed; it took over forty hours of negotiation for us to finally get him released. Chris was immediately transferred to my former jail, Whitemoor. Although this all went on inside the prison, because it was in the special secure unit, the effects of the hostage situation did not disturb the normal running of the regimes at Hull. To the outside world, it was business as usual.

  Brown was given another life sentence for his actions; he is still in prison and remains a dangerous and violent man.

  Riot

  After Brown was moved, it was back to normal – whatever that was inside a busy local jail. I was back on B wing and Turkish Dave was back to doing his crosswords.

  We had a brief respite from alarm bells. All the prisoners were excitedly talking about what Chris did or didn’t do. Some of the differing events that played out in their stories were wild and way off the mark, but it was amusing to hear them. Some were writing their versions down to sell to the press on release – yeah, right, knock your socks off mate, get in the queue. I’m sure that the press had enough stories. It was funny to read some of the accounts printed, where they got their material from was anybody’s guess.

  It wasn’t long before we had another alarm bell on Beirut; C wing was calling, again.

  Your turn, I said to Dave.

  Shit, shit, shit, was his reply. He was halfway through his crossword and hated leaving it; other Officers had the habit of finishing it for him if he left his paper lying around. We didn’t always put the correct answers in. It was the one thing that Dave was particular about – no one was allowed to touch his crossword. Anyway, off he went. As soon as he was out the door, we all grabbed his paper and filled in the gaps of his crossword, in true prison Officer style. We didn’t want to disappoint did we?

  Andy, our Senior Officer, came out of his office, which was rare for him. We thought he was shitting glue and was stuck to his chair. He wanted the whole wing locked down, everyone locked in their cells, including the cleaners who normally had the run of the wing. When all the prisoners were away, he called us to the office, via the P.A. system of course – he’d been out of his chair once today, he obviously thought that removing his arse a second time would lead to shock.

  He told us that C wing had kicked off and was heading for a full-scale riot. Me, Mick, Swifty and Bob were detailed to suit up – in other words, get our Control and Restraint gear on. We were told to report to the incident commander to collect our protective shields and receive orders.

  The gear we wore for Control and Restraint consisted of a boiler suit, rather like a pair of overalls, only about four times thicker. It was like wearing a horse blanket, much like the kit you see the police wearing these days on television when they are shown at riots, only theirs is the more modern lightweight version. It was tear proof and fire proof. In fact it was so thick and heavy, Shackleton and his team could have crossed Antarctica and back again, no problem. It was also very hot. I wouldn’t advise swimming the channel in it. The helmet was either too loose – it wobbled on your head, especially when you got bashed on it, the helmet reverberated and made your teeth chatter – or is was so tight it folded your ears over, so when
you took it off you looked like Spock from Star Trek. The gloves were thick and hard to bend at the joints. Definitely no good for scratching your nuts if you had an itch. Added to that were kneepads, shin pads and elbow pads. With your boots on, it was rather like a big blue divers suit, only not as flexible. But it was the safest place to be when pieces of burning furniture and flying debris were around. I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

  It was hot dressed in Control and Restraint gear, doubly hot on a residential unit housing some 180 prisoners. Not all of them were out; there were about sixty of them on two landings. Fires were raging, bits of furniture were flying around, the steel safety nets that hung in between the landings to prevent prisoners jumping over the sides were full of acrid smouldering mattresses. It was dim – the rioting prisoners had put out the lights – and it was noisy. Really noisy.

  In our team of four, with four back up’s behind us, it was our task to move along the landing, shield in front, and separate the rioters one by one, while the team on the other side of the wing doing the same thing. It was a pincer movement to cut off their escape and give us the upper hand by reducing their movement – a typical Control and Restraint manoeuvre. Officers above us were doing the same, debris and burning objects raining down from the upper landing.

  C wing was undergoing a much needed maintenance programme. The ground floor landing was being split in two; a wall had been put up to house the new segregation unit, so there were only ten cells down there, which were kept for the cleaners. Landings two and three held mainstream prisoners, both remand and convicted. The top floor – or the fours – landing had the rule 45’s sex offenders.

  The riot was caused by the constant noise of banging and drilling from the builders. The prisoners were unhappy that they couldn’t get their heads down for a kip during the day because of the racket. In jail, there’s not much to do but eat, sleep and, if you were lucky enough to get a job, go to work.

  There we were on the two’s landing, shuffling slowly along, pushing the rioters back, when one came forward; we grabbed him, disarmed him in one swift movement and passed him on to the team behind us. There was nowhere else for the prisoners to go, all the cells were out of action, the only way was backwards or towards us. Some gave in while others fought on. We were sweating buckets. It was slow going. We had been at it for two hours and had moved only twenty-five feet, about a quarter of the way down our landing. We pushed on harder, muscles aching, the smell of burning filling our nostrils.

  We battled on, inch by painful inch, not ever going backwards. The prisoners used everything they could lay their hands on to stop us, but we were well trained and well kitted out. We could not and did not give any quarter.

  One of the rioters was planning to dive on to us. We could see what he was up to. The team behind us, noticing that he was preparing to jump, moved up behind in close formation. The prisoner had got a couple of other rioters to kneel down so that he could clamber on their backs, he wanted higher ground from which to jump us. We had seen this method before and as soon as he leaped, we crouched down with the shield above our heads. Shields, although fairly light and made of plastic, were also very strong and, after carrying for a while, were bloody heavy.

  He bounced off the top of us straight into the team’s shield behind us. He was catapulted straight into the railings head first, his chin hitting the guardrail, the momentum ripping off his lower jaw, blood, teeth and bone flying everywhere. He was out for the count. We didn’t pay too much attention to him. Rather than shocking the mob into giving up, the incident made them worse. We were being accused of smashing a prisoners face off. There were shouts of “Fucking bullying bastards!” and the like coming from the baying rioters.

  They came at us with renewed force. The visor on my helmet had steamed up with the sweat and exertion. I needed a breather, so I lifted it an inch or so. Big mistake; half a chair came over the top, straight into my face. I was cut just above the eyebrows and blood was seeping down my face. I quickly shut my visor; I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  It was now nearly four hours into the incident. We were knackered, but spurred on by the fact that the team on the other side had reached the other end of the landing and were turning the corner towards us, cutting off any backward movement by the rioters on our side. More rioters were giving up. There were a few more hard-core prisoners who just wanted to keep going, but they were now the minority. The teams had started to gain control. The smashing of homemade weapons on our shields was becoming weaker.

  We were getting tired as well. All through the riot we swapped round; the man at the front who had the shield would pass to his left, and so on until we went full circle. It made sense to change places every now and again; holding the shield in front of you whilst taking a hammering is extremely stressful and wears you down.

  Swifty, on a change round, got tripped up and fell face first towards the baying prisoners. I guess they calculated that it was their best chance of getting us, when we were changing round. One of the prisoners stamped on Swifty’s back as he was lying face down, then brought back his boot for a well-aimed kick at his head, but I got in first with the shield. He ended up kicking the shield with his shinbone. He screamed and went down holding his bleeding leg. An arm came over from behind and dragged the screaming prisoner through the middle of us and out to the waiting team behind. It was Turkish Dave who had now kitted up and took over from Swifty, who was badly winded. The stamping of boots on his back had broken a few ribs.

  Two prisoners were left. They stood back-to-back, swinging table legs, trying to smash their way out. We let them get on with it; they weren’t hurting us, the table legs bouncing off the shields harmlessly. One of them knocked himself out when the table leg bounced off the shield and struck him on the top of his head. We dragged him away just as the second team jumped the last man, who, by this time, was totally knackered, as we were.

  It took six hours of brute force to quell the riot. Everyone was exhausted.

  When we got off the wing, other teams took over. Outside, it was a sea of blue flashing lights, something we hadn’t noticed when we were on the wing. There were police, fire and rescue and ambulances everywhere.

  At the Control and Restraint store we all, very gratefully and slowly, took off out riot gear. We were all soaked to the skin with sweat. Some like me, had cuts on their faces. Though I hadn’t noticed at the time, I had a nasty gash above my eyebrow that needed stitching. It took a lot of effort to peel the gear off. In the end, we all crumpled to a heap on the floor. Leave me to die in peace, I said. I wasn’t the only one with that sentiment.

  Not a chance, said the residential Governor as he walked in the door.

  You’ll excuse us if we don’t stand for a moment, I said.

  Get your arses down to the medical team downstairs you bunch of wasters, you all need to be checked over before the debrief, he shouted. Oh, and by the way, good job in there lads, good job, he said as he disappeared out of the door. High praise indeed, we all thought.

  There was a queue at the medical centre. Some of the paramedics were checking the prison staff over. I sat down wearily in front of one of them.

  You all right? he asked.

  No, I’m fucking bollocks, I said, rather unhelpfully. I wasn’t in the best of mood. I was gagging for a cup of tea, but we were told that none of the staff should eat or drink anything in case we needed surgery. Bollocks, I wanted a brew.

  Now then me old fruit, no need to be like that, he said.

  Yeah, OK, sorry mate, I replied, it was hard in there, shouldn’t take it out on you, I know.

  He got down to business:

  Any pain?

  Yes.

  Where does it hurt?

  Every-fucking-where, I almost cried out. By now he was used to me and ignored my negative answers. He was probably used to this treatment from the general public, I soon lightened up, seeing the look of exasperation on his face, and got on with answering his que
stions. After all, it was me he was trying to help.

  I had a badly bruised swollen toe, two cracked ribs and needed two stitches in my face. Apart from being black and blue, I felt that I had got off pretty lightly. Some Officers were being taken to hospital. Turkish Dave was blue lighted in an ambulance after a suspected heart attack. We found out later it was an anxiety attack and we never let him live it down after that. He still wanted to know who did his crossword though.

  When I got home, stripping of for a well-earned shower, I noticed black marks down my chest and legs. I thought it might have been the dye from the Control and Restraint gear, but it wasn’t, it was the bruising I’d received during the riot. God, how I ached. I didn’t need rocking to sleep that night. My missus said in the morning the house could have fallen down and I wouldn’t have woken up. I went back to work the following day, but the paramedic had told the jail that I should rest after my injuries, so they sent me home for the rest of the week.

  C wing was shut down for months after the riot, the prison management taking the opportunity to refurbish the whole wing. Not, that they had much option; it was a mess. Work on the new segregation unit went on as planned without any further interruptions. New building work was also being done; residential units were being built on an area behind the jail on the old works site. There was to be four new wings – G, H, I, and J. The first two were earmarked for young offenders and I & J wings were purpose built for the rule 45’s. They were modular, and the most modern cells at the time. Each one had internal sanitation. To the staff who had worked at Hull prison for years it was like Butlins holiday camp, but to me, who had already witnessed this type of cell at Whitemoor and Highdown, it was the norm. Although it was relative luxury for the prisoners, it was better for the staff working there – clean, well organised and, most importantly, it didn’t smell of shit.