Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  The two brothers were charged with taking a hostage and were given a five-year sentence.

  Understandably, Ruth was off sick for a very long time. We organised a get together in support of Ruth in her local pub with her family and friends. The Governor paid for a buffet and all the staff on the wing turned up to give their regards. But Ruth was never the same again. She gave up riding and sunk into a deep depression. Many months later she resigned, even though she was supported throughout her time off sick.

  People I knew kept in touch with her. She had a further setback when her husband left her, so she decided to move away, nearer her home area, which, ironically, was in the North East.

  After the incident, I met up with one of the chief negotiators, an Officer from training school. I was interested to know how he got into the job as a negotiator. It seemed to be an interesting role and one that, at that time, I thought was a good career move. However, what he told me afterwards gave me food for thought; so much so, that I decided it wasn’t the job for me.

  He had entered into the role after he himself became a hostage in a high security jail. He told me that two lifers had forcibly dragged him into a cell. They wanted revenge because one of them had been refused parole. They blamed him because he was their Personal Officer and he had a hand in writing the reports that they believed had stopped them being released early. He described how they barricaded the cell and stripped him naked, then took his keys and radio and started to broadcast on the open radio net what they were going to do to him.

  The whole incident was over in just under two hours. However, in that time he had been forced to suck one of the prisoners penises while the other one brutally raped and buggered him from behind. They had held a shank, a makeshift knife, to his throat throughout. The ordeal only ended when Officers broke down the door.

  He was cut and bruised where they had whipped him with his own key chain. He had been punched in the face until his lips burst open. His cheek had ten stitches in it where his mouth had been forcibly opened to perform the oral sex act upon the prisoner. He described the pain of being penetrated, first by a hard object into his anus, a piece of wood broken off one of the chairs, then buggered by the other prisoner who laughed at his cries of pain.

  He endured eighteen weeks of psychological torture to find out if they had infected him with the H.I.V virus, which both prisoners were carriers of. Both the offenders received two and a half years added to their life sentences, which in terms of time served, meant nothing.

  Still, he was not a bitter man. He decided that, had the staff been trained properly, had procedures been put in place and everyone knew what they were doing and what roles they had to perform, his ordeal, maybe, just maybe, could have been avoided. He did not want any other person to suffer how he had and he ensured that by his dedication and hard work, as far as possible, it wouldn’t happen again.

  When I said it must have taken him years to get over it, he replied that he never would; it would always be in the back of his mind. He told me that he was only off sick for eighteen weeks, enough time for the hospital to confirm that he did not have the H.I.V. virus.

  There are dedicated men and women in the Prison Service, people who deserve recognition, deserve medals. Medals that somehow seem to go mainly to famous or political faces. I look at my British Empire Medal and think that there are more worthy people in the service that deserve a medal. However, I firmly believe that for my services, it was well earned.

  Foreign Nationals

  Foreign national prisoners, mostly, are a pain in the arse. As a Senior Officer, work gets piled up on you, some of it good, some bad. But taking the lead role in coordinating the foreign nationals at HMP Everthorpe was not my idea of fun.

  Once you have been identified as the coordinator your life becomes a pot of shit. Every time a foreign national sees you, he’s on you. Very soon you end up with a crowd of them around you, all speaking their own version of broken English, all trying to make themselves heard over the next, shouting louder and louder. If you have ever visited a foreign country, you are acutely aware that they don’t do things as we do here. Concepts like queuing, stopping at zebra crossings, and personal space is completely alien to them, and so it is with these foreign nationals.

  It was like mob rule. It took some time, but I was able, with a struggle, to sort them out into some sort of group, who, at weekly meetings, would actually listen to what I was saying without interrupting or shouting. Well, mostly anyway.

  A young Sudanese man wanted my attention constantly. He asked the same questions over and over, again. He was one of our prisoners waiting for deportation. However, he kept claiming asylum, and this was getting refused. He thought I had a personal line to the Prime Minister to help him stay in the country. When told that he could not be helped any further, he changed his story to one he had heard from a successful claimant and stuck with that. He was an arsehole. He was obnoxious, rude, demanding, and, like Swampy, had no concept of personal hygiene.

  He would threaten to cut himself, burn the wing down, assault me, and would spit on the floor near my feet when he did not get the answers he wanted to hear. It was no good charging him with any prison offences, he would claim that he could not speak or understand English. He did this when it suited him, so going through the adjudication process with a solicitor and an interpreter was too costly considering the amount of times he broke prison rules. We mostly kept him in his filthy cell, but under the prison rules, which we had to stick to. He was allowed out for showers, which he never took, to use the phone, library, and the Muslim service. The service was held every Friday and he insisted on going even though, as the Imam, told us, he disrupted the service every single week. He also claimed to the Imam that I was racist because I wouldn’t help him with his many asylum claims.

  The Imam knew me very well. He had even commented to the Governor how much the foreign nationals were being helped now that Mr. Deveroux was in charge of them. He took no notice of the Sudanese lad. Instead speaking in his language, he gave him a few home truths. That didn’t stop our man – he complained to me that the Imam was racist!

  One week, after a group meeting with the foreign nationals, I felt that I was finally making headway with our Sudanese friend. He was quiet and attentive, happy to join in with discussions without shouting and was respectful of others.

  He sought me out afterwards and said he wanted to apologise, wanted to “get his act together” and asked for “just one chance” to prove himself. I was, understandably, skeptical, but I’m all for giving people chances to prove themselves – especially this lad, who was fast becoming unmanageable.

  OK, I said, just one chance. I will let you out to clean your cell, get a shower and use the phone, as requested. But you have only one hour. Do you understand? One hour. If you can be shown to be trusted, maybe it will be two hours next time and increase week by week as the trust grows. Do you understand?”

  Yes, our lad replies, thank you sir, thank you. He said this in near perfect English.

  And he was off. He first went to the cleaning store where he got a mop and bucket, then returned to his cell. He was making a dent in the state of his cell; just glancing over, you could even see that the flooring was blue and not black as it had been for weeks. All was going well. Had our horrible little lad changed his ways at last?

  Not on your life.

  Within ten minutes he had set fire to the cleaning cupboard and was busy throwing matches onto a pile of clothing in the laundry.

  It went up in flames in seconds.

  He had a broomstick in his hands that he had somehow sharpened and was using like a spear to ward off the Officers who were, by now, chasing him around the landing. It would had been comical had it not put me, the staff and the other prisoners at risk.

  It was no good trying to fight the fire; the flames had engulfed both the laundry and the cleaning cupboard. The fire alarms were screaming out. I made the decision to evacuate the wing immediately
.

  All hell was breaking loose. As soon as we unlocked some of the prisoners to evacuate, they went towards the Sudanese man. They were not happy that they were being evacuated and the wing that the resided on – their home, effectively – was being destroyed by this little bastard. They wanted blood.

  Now we had a mini riot on our hands.

  The general alarm was sounded, along with the fire alarm. It was bedlam as well as deafening. I had to get the wing cleared. The flames had taken hold of the tables outside the laundry room, put there to stack clean laundry, which, in turn, was on fire. The Sudanese man had managed to get back to his cell, where he had barricaded the door shut using the mops, brooms and buckets. He was threatening to set himself alight. He had got hold of some aftershave, which he poured onto himself and was standing on his bed with a lighter in his hand.

  Fucking hell, what a mess. The duty Governor came on and wanted a briefing on what was going on. Bodies were flying everywhere; more staff had turned up and were, literally, chasing prisoners out into the exercise yard, which was the muster point for the fire alarm.

  The fire engine had turned up and an ambulance had been called and was on its way. One of our own trained negotiators was waiting to get to the Sudanese man’s cell to talk him down. I had tried, but it was useless. I had no training in negotiating with mad Sudanese men. Who did? The fire service banned anyone going onto the wing until it was safe. We all had to evacuate and leave the Sudanese man on his own in his cell.

  He was screaming at the top of his voice, incomprehensible words coming out his demented mouth. No one could understand him, let alone help him.

  Some of the prisoners thought it was a good idea to stand outside his cell window and taunt him. They were chanting burn baby burn; he in turn was screaming at them, but this only goaded them further. Some were trying to push lighted matches through the gap in the window. Luckily, I got there just in time to stop one going through.

  The Sudanese man, on spotting me, immediately stopped shouting. His face went a shade whiter. He was petrified.

  What you do out there boss, he shouted through the window, why you stand outside my window?

  I can’t help you any more, I said, the whole wings on fire, the fire brigade won’t let anyone back on the wing.

  With that he screamed again, this time in perfect English, Let me out, let me out, I don’t want to burn in here, please someone save me!

  Oh, now he decides to speak perfect English. The prisoners in the yard were mimicking him, LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT they were chanting. Not helpful at times like these. But he was getting his come-uppance. The little shit was now on the wrong side of the door in a burning building.

  One of the firemen burst in the cell behind him in full gear. He nearly shat himself. He turned his attention to the figure advancing on him.

  Please don’t kill me mister, please, said our man, nearly dropping the lighter, which the idiot still had burning in his hand. The fireman merely put his gloved hand over the burning lighter and wrenched it off him. He was grabbed unceremoniously by the scruff of the neck and bounced out of the door.

  The fireman dragged him kicking and screaming out into the exercise yard where he got a warm welcome from the rest of the prisoners. He was, fortunately for him, bundled straight into a waiting ambulance before the crowd could get hold of him.

  The aftermath of his actions took weeks to sort out. The whole wing was emptied, prisoners were being distributed to other wings or moved to other jails. Some wanted to know where the Sudanese man went so they could tie him to a stake and burn the little fucker. For some reason they were not happy, but shit happens.

  One of the funniest incidents I was involved in starred a young man, barely twenty-one and looking like a sixteen year old. He was a gobby little bugger, but then they all were at some stage in their sentence, especially the lads who came straight from a young offender’s institution to a grown up prison. They thought the behavior acceptable at their old jail was OK in an adult prison. They may have been big shots at a Y.O. but in here they were small fry. They just needed to learn that.

  Anyway, having finished my shift and handed the radio onto the Senior Officer taking over from me, I was off to the gate. It was a rare opportunity to get home while the sun was shining. It was my weekend off coming up and we were preparing for a barbeque. I was waiting at the gate for the roll to come in with the rest of the lads, hoping for a flyer – a rare opportunity get off shift early. We were chomping at the bit waiting to chuck our keys down the hatch and get out into the glorious sunshine.

  Five o’clock came and went. What was the hold up? Shouting into the gate office, one of the Officers wanted to know what the holdup was. We had been standing there waiting for a full twenty minutes.

  It’s a prisoner from Mr. D’s wing, kicking off, refusing to bang up, came the reply. Of course, everyone turned round and looked at me as though it was my fault.

  Oh bollocks, I said, open the gate I’ll see what’s going on.

  And off I went, back to my wing. To be fair, the Senior Officer taking over from me was new and didn’t know the prisoners on the wing. However, he should have listened to my Officers, who gave him some advice on how to deal with this certain individual. But there you go, a new Senior Officer, knows it all (just like I did!).

  Back on the wing the gobby young lad was standing near the office door with a jug of water in his hands. The new Senior Officer breathed a sigh of relief when he saw me. He told me he had let the lad out for a jug of hot water. When he filled his jug, he turned round and threatened to throw it at the first Officer who came near him.

  When did you let him out for his water, I asked the new Senior Officer.

  Just after you left for the gate, he replied. It was gone six o’clock now and my flyer had flown. So I took my jacket off and went out onto the landings.

  What the fuck are you playing at, I shouted at him.

  I want off the wing, was his reply.

  Yeah, well, you are going to be moved off, it’s an induction wing. No one stays on here. Everyone apart from the cleaners and red bands move off, I said calmly and in a rather bored voice.

  No, I want off here now, he shouted back. Apparently the silly little sod had gotten into tobacco debt and wanted off the wing before canteen day so he could avoid paying it back.

  I’d had it by then. We had been standing shouting at each other for the past ten minutes. By this point the water in the jug was cold.

  Rob and Graham knew what I was up to and advanced with me towards the lad. Before he could chuck the water at us, I knocked it from his hand. It went all over him. Thinking that he was getting scolded with hot water, he screamed like a baby. The water, at best was tepid, but he didn’t expect me to knock it his way.

  It didn’t take long for us to drop him after that, flat on his face. He started crying. Aw, what a shame. So that we could kill two birds with one stone, we used him like a human mop and dragged him up and down the landing, cleaning up the spilt water on the way.

  We eventually dragged him back to his cell. By this point he was soaked through and sobbing like a child. The whole wing erupted in laughter. It served him right; not only was he holding me up, his actions meant that none of the other prisoners could come out for their evening meal until the incident was over.

  We left him in his cell, wet and dirty and still crying. The regular Officers said that they would take it from there. The new Senior Officer just followed on behind.

  Within a few minutes the prison roll was in and I was off out the gate. When I got back after my long weekend off, the young lad had been moved. His debtors had worked out his scheme and he was in danger of getting beaten up. Although he probably deserved it and it would have taught him a lesson, it was our job to keep them safe, no matter what the circumstance were.

  Nothing was said of the incident and I didn’t see him again. Another one chalked up to experience.

  Apart from a few minor incidents her
e and there, it was fairly quiet for the remainder of the four and a half years I spent as a Senior Officer on the new reception wing. It was time to move on. I’d had my time on one of the busiest wings in the jail. A transfer to another, smaller wing was on the cards.

  I was sorry to leave the wing. It was probably the longest period I had stayed in one place. If it weren’t for Sumo getting himself suspended, I’d have probably hung on a bit longer.

  Sumo, the big soft sod, had gone on leave and had set his emails to out of office, which referred any of his mail onto others to deal with in his absence – mainly me. But in his haste to get out of the jail, he had put the wrong forwarding address on, so the mail he received in his in-box, was forwarded onto someone else – namely, a woman who worked in the administration department, who lacked a sense of humour.

  Sumo regularly sent in adult humour, some of it quite graphic and not complementary to women. To be fair, they were way past the mark. He had intended them for me. However, they went to the woman in the admin department.

  He was promptly reported for his “disgusting and degrading” emails and suspended on his return to the jail after his holidays.

  Of course, when we learned what had happened, we all frantically set about deleting any dodgy emails. When the Governor came round we swore that we never, ever, passed this type of filth around.

  Sumo was past his retirement age. He left the service after many months on suspension. He knew it was coming, but was happy to take full pay for the time it took the Prison Service to get rid of him.

  I still keep in contact with Sumo. Now and then we meet up for a quiz night. He hasn’t changed a bit, still got a wicked sense of humour and still as large as life.