by Ray Deveroux
John was the oldest, and by far the laziest. He would get the new Officers to do his jobs for him. John was happiest sitting in the office telling stories. Some were like fishermen’s tales and those who had been in service for a while took his tales with a pinch of salt. The new Officers would sit and listen to his tales with eagerness, and he loved the audience.
Rob was about five years into his service and took no notice of anyone. He did his own thing. He infuriated me sometimes with his inability to follow simple orders and took his sweet time in accomplishing any tasks. He would go off sick at the drop of a hat, but his main focus was bodybuilding. He was proud of his highly toned muscles. Sadly, the muscle in his head didn’t function very well. He was off most of the time doing his Mr. Universe bit. When he was at work he would be eating constantly, a high protein diet that made him fart a lot.
And, finally there was Jane. She had been in service many years and was like old mother hen, constantly making cups of tea, and tut-tutting at anyone who made a mess of the staff room. She was liked by everyone, including me, and was a fount of all knowledge. She never went off sick, was always on time and knew how to handle prisoners, who in turn were respectful to her, never swearing in front of her, and admonishing anyone who did. Jane had no time for the likes of Rob or Ruth, but got on well with the rest of the staff, especially old John, who I’m sure she had a soft spot for. His cup was never empty and she would listen, as she had done many times, to the stories he would tell.
So that was my team of Officers. Obviously I wasn’t the only Senior Officer; there were twenty-four Officers covered by four Senior Officers. My opposite number was a huge mountain of a man, who went by the name of Sumo, so called because he was six foot six and about twenty-five stone. He had a bald head and whiskers that would make his head look twice as big, but what a lovely man he was. Sumo took me under his wing and showed me the ropes. He could deal with any situation just by talking. However, if you needed rescuing from under a pile of bodies, he was your man. He would fling bodies off right, left and centre, then pick you up like a rag doll, brush you down with his huge hands and say you all right kiddo?
Sumo wasn’t impressed with Graham’s guns, or Rob’s physique; he could beat them both hands down. Although he was approaching sixty, he had legs like tree trunks, a barrel of a chest and arms like telegraph poles. His wrists were bigger than both their guns and he would roar with laughter when they squealed after he wrapped his huge hands around their biceps and squeezed:
Fucking muppets! Couldn’t open a can of worms between ya!
Sumo was also a keen fisherman. His sense of humour was wicked; he had an answer to everything. Once, a prisoner shouted out of the window: Oi, you fat fucker, you been eating all the pies? followed by laughter from the other prisoners hanging out of the windows. But their laughter soon turned back on the cocky prisoner when Sumo replied: I’m only this fat because your lass gives me a biscuit every time I shag her, and there’s a lot of biscuits in here kiddo.
He made me laugh and still does. We keep in touch regularly, even though we have both retired.
After the initial opening, it was business as usual; new staff to keep an eye on, old staff to keep tabs on to make sure they were doing their jobs. The new wing was an induction unit, where we took in prisoners from local jails (like Hull) to serve their sentences. Each had to have an initial interview and all had to be risk assessed for cell sharing. This was done by the induction staff nurses and usually the Reception Senior Officer or Principal Officer. High risks had to be countersigned by the Duty Governor. The risk assessments were taken very seriously in the wake of the Mubarak report, which concerned a young Asian lad who had been murdered by his cellmate in March 2000. The prison authorities did not want a repeat of the incident, and rightly so. Some of the prisoners that come through the doors of establishments were highly volatile and needed to be assessed before we could locate them.
Some prisoners would make out they needed a single cell because of one reason or another and would try to pull the wool over the Officer’s eyes to get one, especially the new staff. Single cells were highly prized. The induction unit, like the rest of the jail, had only a handful and these were needed for prisoners who were deemed as high risk.
Eventually, prisoners would accept a shared cell and put their names down for a single cell when one came along. Others would need a little persuasion. If Sumo was around, he would just march them to their doors. Now and again we would have one that refused to locate in their shared cell, citing one of the many reasons we had all heard before. Most of the time, the staff on the wing could handle it and the incident would end there. Other times, the prisoner got violent and needed to be located before the next wave of new prisoners arrived.
On one such occasion, soon after we had started taking in new receptions, a prisoner was getting loud. He was shouting at the newer Officers, shaking his fists and bluntly refusing to go anywhere. I went out to see what was going on and got the usual crap from the prisoner.
S.O, the prisoner moaned (Officers were generally referred to by the initials of rank), S.O, sort it out will you? I should be in a single cell; they’re trying to put me in with someone. I can’t go in wiv a stranger, S.O.
I explained, as I’m sure the induction staff had, the risk assessment process.
Yeah, they have given me all that shit about risks and bollocks. I ain’t sharing wiv no one, he replied.
After a couple of minutes of his verbal diarrhea, the likes of which I’d heard many times.
I instructed the staff to put him behind his door, as I was standing there, Ruth was saying, now come on the S.O says to go to your cell, Graham piped in, yea the S.O. said to go to your cell, all the time the prisoner was mimicking them – The S.O. says! Bollocks, I ain’t going nowhere.
The staff repeated the order. The prisoner just laughed at them.
I was getting very pissed off. In order to resolve the situation, I ordered the prisoner to shut up and stay where he was and dragged the staff into the office.
DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW TO PUT HIM BEHIND HIS DOOR I shouted? FUCKING HELL YOU ARE FUCKING TRAINED PRISON OFFICERS STRAIGHT FROM THE SCHOOL! ARE WE NOT IN CHARGE HERE?
Yes sir, they chirped between them.
THEN WHEN I SAY PUT HIM BEHIND HIS DOOR, DO JUST THAT! DRAG THE LITTLE FUCKER BY HIS SHORT AND CURLIES AND PHYSICALLY PUT HIM BEHIND HIS DOOR! AM I CLEAR?
Yes sir, they squeaked between them.
With that, I went outside grabbed the prisoner and dragged him to his door, the new staff in my wake trying to hold onto a piece of him, to say they had had a hand in it.
The next time a prisoner argued about cell sharing, they didn’t hesitate – the prisoner’s feet never touched the floor. My new staff were learning.
From then on, it was a steep learning curve for all the new Officers. We didn’t have time to stop and explain the merits of risk assessments to every prisoner. They did as they were told. By this stage, even the established prisoners on the wing were telling the new receptions not to bother arguing about where they were going to be located.
Swampy
There were, inevitably, a few that came in that I had known from Hull prison. It didn’t take long for my tag to be known at Everthorpe. It seems where ever you go, your name will follow, so Mr. D stuck with me all the way to the end of my service. Even some of my family calls me Mr. D to this day.
On my return from a managers meeting, of which there were many, Shellshock met me halfway to the wing on his way to get the dinner trolley.
Mr. D, he shouted excitedly, Shergar is winding up one of the prisoners, I think he’s gonna slap her.
That was all I needed.
Alright, cheers Shellshock, I’m on my way, I replied, speeding up. I didn’t want an incident on my hands. Even though Shergar was a pain, I didn’t want to see her assaulted.
She was indeed winding up one of the prisoners. However, there was little chance of her getting a slap. She wa
s having a go at Swampy.
Swampy was the name given to one of our regular visitors. He came in during the winter for a warm bed, clothing and hot food. He was somewhere between thirty and fifty and lived on the streets near Hull city centre. He was well known to the police, who, and I say this tongue in cheek, liked him around, especially at Christmas, when he would chuck a brick through a local off-licence window. Swampy would stand in court and admit to breaking into an off-licence and stealing thousands of pounds worth of booze and cigarettes, when, most of the time, he would have merely helped himself to a packet of rolling tobacco and a bottle of whiskey. Where the rest of the stolen goods went was a mystery.
He was happy to get his usual four to six months sentence, dependent on how much he or a third party, got away with. It meant that he could spend the winter months in relative comfort. All the other prisoners that knew him gave him a wide berth and left him alone.
On reception, Swampy was happy to give up his clothes for a new clean set. It was also the only time he took a shower. The clothes and boots he was issued never left his body throughout his whole sentence. He had no concept of personal hygiene. For him, the soap dish made a nice ashtray, toothbrush balanced across it to stop his roll up falling in. His razor blade was used for cutting up dog-ends, discarded cigarettes, to make more roll ups and his toothpaste was used to stick pictures of page three girls on his wall. He never made his bed, just laid on it, fully clothed.
His cell was a mess, and this is what Ruth was having a go at him about.
Swampy just lay on his bed, shouting BAA, BAA, BAA, over and over again at Shergar. All the other prisoners were highly amused. Swampy had no concept of cleanliness, he just laid on his bed for the entire length of his sentence, only coming out of his cell for food, hot water for a brew, and his tobacco on canteen days; although, most of the time, we picked up his canteen for him and chucked it in his cell. Queuing up for tobacco on canteen days was not the best plan in a jail for someone like him.
Shergar was ranting away at him about the mess in his cell. A crowd of prisoners was egging her on. She was in her element, the centre of attention, giving it all the fucks under the sun:
Fucking mess, fucking stinking bastard, fucking scruffy pig.
It went on and on. BAA, BAA, BAA, was the only response she got. Why he was shouting BAA, BAA, like a distressed lamb back at her was a mystery; usually, he never, ever, spoke to anyone. I didn’t even know he could speak. Most of the time, all you got was a nod or shake of the head.
Anyway, when I got there all I did was shut his cell door. You could still hear him shouting BAA, BAA, BAA at the top of his voice. The prisoners that witnessed it were pissing themselves laughing. I must admit, it took all my self-control not to laugh myself.
Old John and Jane took Shergar off my hands. In essence, apart from the swearing, she was right. However, shouting was the wrong way to deal with individuals like Swampy. The two other Officers winked at me as they took the demented Shergar away. They soon calmed her down and explained the merits of jail craft to her. I think they gave her a sugar cube to sweeten her up!
Anyway, Swampy quieted down. Jane went to see him, mop and bucket in hand and he was soon tidied up. Sort of.
Now and again, I spot Swampy in Hull city centre. He doesn’t recognise me. Mind you, I doubt he would recognise himself in a mirror. Mostly, he still wears the prison jeans and boots he was supplied at the point of discharge, the familiar carrier bags at his side.
I suppose one thing that strikes you when looking at him is that he seems to not have a care in the world. I once spotted him sitting on his normal bench in the city centre, the concentration etched onto his face, as he carefully broke open the cigarette ends he had collected outside the pubs into a tin. One thing that has worked in Swampy’s favour – since smoking was banned in pubs, he has a ready supply of cigarette butts.
Hostage
Shergar was one of those annoying people who you were glad was on a rest day or holiday. However, after one of her days off, she stuck her nose in a bit too far.
On a morning briefing I gave to my staff before unlock, I had warned them about two brothers from out of the area who were occupying a double cell. They had come from the North East and wanted to return there, claiming it was too far for families to travel. They were also notorious for taking hostages.
Shergar had got herself taken in by their story, and walked into the cell without springing the bolt to talk to them. It was drummed into you in training: never go into an occupied cell unless you need to, and always, always, spring the bolt so the door cannot be closed on you. Two fundamental mistakes she made, rendering her a hostage, despite my warnings.
We found this out because one of the wing cleaners saw her going into the cell. At first he alerted Rob, but Rob carried on eating. Then he banged on the office window, which brought me out. It was one of my pet hates, prisoners banging on the office window to get attention. Before I could shout at the poor unfortunate soul he told me that the Geordie lads had got Miss in their cell.
We were now in a hostage situation. I got the staff to lock away the remaining prisoners on the wing, helping them put away the last remaining stragglers who were hanging around the brothers’ door, wanting to see what was happening.
Please don’t rape me, I heard Ruth wail.
Rape you? Silly bitch, we wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole, we’re not that fucking desperate, they were saying in their thick Geordie accent. I nearly laughed out loud, but, instead, got on with the recognised procedure for hostage taking.
The taking of hostages, any hostage, be they prisoner, Officer or any other member of staff or visitor to the jail, was always taken seriously. It didn’t do to panic, to shout or scream at the hostage takers or try to deal with it by yourself. We needed to get trained negotiators in place, and fast.
It was only a few minutes into the incident, but it seemed like hours had passed. Staff were being deployed in specific areas, negotiators were on site and, as usual, the prisoners on the wing were making a racket, egging on the hostage takers. We went from cell to cell removing the nosiest ones and re-locating them elsewhere. When the others got wind of this, they soon shut up.
It was a tense time. Demands were made. Although I was in charge of the wing, there was a chain of command dealing with the incident. Control and Restraint teams were being summoned in case we needed to get in the cell quickly. Each cell door had a catch that could be removed, so the door could be opened either way. Works Officers were busy and very quietly removing the catches on the hostage takers cell door while the negotiator was talking. A specialist team had arrived from one of the jails loaded with listening devices and miniature cameras.
You could hear poor Ruth weeping from behind the door. The two brothers hadn’t touched her; she was sat on the bed, head in hands crying. It is a terrible thing to be taken hostage; I should know, it nearly happened to a good friend of mine at Highdown Prison. It must be doubly worse for a female. Although they said they had no intention of raping her, she didn’t know that, even though they told her she wouldn’t be touched. When these volatile prisoners get desperate, who knows what they are capable of?
The hours were dragging on. They wanted out of the jail, they wanted a pal of theirs to drive into the jail so they could get in his car and make their escape, they wanted helicopters, McDonald’s, beer, cigars … you name it, they wanted it.
We started moving the other prisoners off the wing. Not only was it taking so long, but also we had to serve the evening meal. It wasn’t a good idea to leave them all, they would just get noisy with their demands for food; this would in turn disrupt the delicate negotiations and possibly make things worse. So we went from cell to cell, one at a time, and marched the prisoners off the wing – all except for Swampy who was snoring his head off. He would be more of a problem to move, so we left him there, oblivious to what was going on. The rest were taken to the adjoining wing where Sumo was keeping a lid on hi
s side. One threat from him was all that was needed to keep them quiet.
After three hours negotiations had stopped. The two brothers, exhausted of demands and getting nothing in return, didn’t want to speak any more. They were, in their words, not being taken seriously. Ruth’s sobbing became louder. They were using her fear to put pressure on the negotiators. One of the brothers had removed his trousers and started massaging his penis through his boxer’s shorts. Ruth was shouting, the negotiators were trying their best to calm her down. She had been their hostage now for close on five hours and she was becoming hysterical. The lad that had removed his trousers put them back on. You could hear them shouting: Away woman, stop your fucking wailing, yis giving me a headache. You’re not worthy of my cock anyway.
This set her off wailing even louder.
The commander had had enough. He took the decision to go in.
Outside, the team with the cameras was waiting for the brothers to sit down. They had been pacing the cell, agitated at the noise from Ruth and the fact that they were getting nowhere. The cameraman was waiting for them to sit away from the door. The soundmen were listening in to gauge their next move.
Everything had gone eerily quiet.
All of a sudden the radio crackled into life. The fully kitted Control and Restraint teams were on the move; the biggest and most capable lads had been chosen.
GO, GO, GO!
All hell broke loose. Doors were kicked open, muffled shouts were heard. Above it all, Ruth was making the most noise.
Two teams had gone into the cramped cell and, between them, two sorry looking prisoners were dragged out. Ruth was in the doorway on her knees, her tights torn, sobbing her heart out. No one could deny the pain she was going through.
It emerged that she had torn the tights herself, scrambling on her hands and knees to get away from the incident. Jane was there in flash, arms around her, ushering her away from the door, making soothing hushing sounds. Jane’s eyes flashed a warning to anyone who dared interfere with her handling of the very delicate situation. She steered Ruth towards a waiting wheelchair, where ambulance crew were on hand to take her to Hull Royal Infirmary. She was in shock and everyone felt for her. Most were crying tears of relief for her and that it had ended.