Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  Residential Units

  I got moved onto Bravo wing. It was a much smaller unit, with around eighty prisoners instead of the one hundred and ten new receptions I had been used to. I still kept the Foreign National work, which by now I had shaped into something resembling a group. During this period outside agencies had got involved, and Immigration Services were regular visitors to the group. Clive, the Officer that had come from Hull Prison with me, had been on Bravo wing since we had arrived and had got himself a nice cushy little office job, driving a desk. The wing was in the main block; A, B, C and D wings were identical, all had a settled population, all had differing roles to meet.

  My new wing held the industrial cleaners. This is where prisoners attended a class to gain qualifications in cleaning and hygiene, and they also put this into practice by cleaning and maintaining areas around the prison.

  Bravo wing was sometimes hectic, but nowhere near as busy as the reception wing. I soon got bored, although I did take more of a leading role in self-harm and suicide, holding classes for Officers and staff in the procedures of the A.C.C.T. document.

  When the job came up to take over the role of manager of Safer Custody, whose main role was self-harm and suicide, I jumped at the chance. So after less than six months on Bravo wing, I had got myself my own little office job, driving a desk.

  I had my own administration clerk and an Officer to assist me. Life was looking up. I travelled round the country, attending meetings, teaching and holding seminars for the local services such as hospitals, police and probation service. I was barely in uniform and rarely in the jail.

  This was the life! I had been stuck in a jail at the sharp end for the best part of twenty years. The change was doing me good and I was loving it.

  For a few months anyway. The Governor had decided to downsize the role from Senior Officer to Officer, so my Officer stayed in the role and I was moved, once again, to a new wing.

  This time, the Governor decided that my talents lay in managing larger units, so he put me on Echo wing, the largest unit in the jail with a hundred and twenty prisoners.

  Thanks!

  Echo wing also held the RAPT unit – the Rehabilitation for Addicted Prisoners Trust. Yes, you’ve got it – I was in charge of one hundred and twenty drug addicts in different stages of their rehabilitation. Joy of joys. Out of the frying pan into the fire, as the saying goes.

  To say it was challenging would be an understatement. It was hard work, busy all the time and, just like the reception wing, had its fair share of volatile prisoners.

  A fight broke out nearly every day. We had a mixture of different prisoners who had come from all over the country to complete the course as part of their sentence plan. They came, generally in groups; some from London, some from the Manchester area, Liverpool, Newcastle – you name an area, we had them. It was a constant battle between rival groups. Day after day we would be breaking up fights, getting battered and bruised along the way. Some prisoners were abstaining from drugs, while others were carrying on. The whole seething pot was a mess.

  I attended meeting after meeting, requesting more staff, more support, but we were going through a change in the Prison Service. Less staff, not more, doing the jobs. Budgets were getting tighter, and big changes were afoot under the new Conservative government. We were now competing directly against the private sector, and had to give the public value for money. Value for money my arse – we were getting snowed under. Something had to be done before the whole wing went up.

  In true tradition, the Senior Management teams were dragging their heels over what to do about the issues on Echo wing; they were like a bunch of ostriches, heads buried in the sand. The issues on the wing were passed over time and time again on each meeting I attended, because … Mr. Deveroux has so far kept the lid on things … it will eventually work itself out. A pat on the back for me – more like a stab in the back. I was basically told to get on with it.

  Echo wing was at the end of the main building, it sat at the bottom of a long slope. The wing had been an addition to the main jail in the late nineties to cope with the huge increase in numbers being sent to jail. It was also the end of the line for all the wastewater and sewage from the main part of the prison. It led to the sewage mains, just beyond the perimeter wall. Years of prisoners flushing all sorts of crap down the toilet (not to mention the tree roots that had punctured the main sewage line) caused a major blockage in the system. It was backing up to Echo wing.

  The wing was already a powder keg waiting to explode. Shit overflowing into the cells via the in cell sanitation, showers and sluice rooms was all it needed to tip it over the edge.

  And it came, in bucket loads – stinking shit, mouldy food, rats, dead creatures, all invaded the unit. It was dreadful, not only for the prisoners, but for us as well. The jail was already full to the brim with prisoners, there was nowhere left for these one hundred and twenty left to go.

  The Governor, in his wisdom, called me to his office, instead of coming down to lend his support. It seemed that he thought I had something to do with the mess and told me to go away and sort it out.

  Yep, hang on sir, I’ll nip out and get a plunger, bucket and mop, sure. It will soon be under control, no problems sir!

  I truly believed that was what he wanted to hear. Except what came out of my mouth was completely different. I won’t go into what I actually said; suffice to say that the Governor went red and screamed at me to get out of his office.

  The Senior Management Team called an emergency meeting; even the Area Manager was involved. It was now down to me to go back on my wing to sort out the shit in more ways than one.

  We had identified that it was worse on the ground floor cells and just on one side. The smell was awful, it was vomit inducing, but after working through it for a while, one got used to it. It reminded me of Norwich prison and the slopping out.

  We were taking our chances putting a mix of different prisoners from different areas together, but thankfully, they saw the importance of moving cells to avoid the overspill of sewage, and we had little issues.

  It was when the Management Team decided to move prisoners out of the jail to spare accommodation around the prison estate that the troubles started.

  We had tried to sort out the best areas to transfer the prisoners in order of closeness to home for them; however, we couldn’t please everyone and it was this minority that decided to take matters into their own hands. Around twenty prisoners decided that they were not going to be moved. Their cells had not been affected, they were staying put. They barricaded themselves in, some now with their mates in with them. So, not only did we have a steady stream of shit running through the wing, we also had twenty cells barricaded and one prisoner claiming he had been taken hostage by his cellmate.

  It never rains, but it pours as the saying goes.

  Negotiators had arrived to speak to the lads who had barricaded in. They focused on the hostage, but soon determined that they were not serious, and anyway it stunk of shit in there, so they abandoned ship. Both the prisoners in the cell were, as we knew, best of mates.

  By this time, Works Department had finished their tea break and come to see what the fuss was about. The Works Governor also appeared. This was getting interesting. Were they actually going to do something?

  Half an hour later, a big sludge gobbler turned up. Bloody hell, the gaffer was pushing the boat out now! Works Officers, council workers and the local drainage companies were now on the scene. Soon, the wing resembled a building site; manhole covers removed, diggers outside tracing the path of the sewage pipes, men in white coveralls and clip boards, frowns on their faces, striding around, looking important, the Works Governor in tow. It was looking more like a shit bomb had dropped. The prisoners that had barricaded were hanging out of the windows and cheering the workforce on.

  One of the men with a clipboard approached me, a serious look on his face.

  Excuse me, I understand you are the manager of the wing
?

  Yes, I suppose I have that dubious pleasure.

  Obviously, a succession of Governors had sloped shoulders along the line. The buck ended with me.

  Well, he went on, we would have to blast a high-powered jet of water into the system. A pipe has been breached, so most of the debris, (he meant shit), will come out through the pipe. However, there may be a backwash into the internal sanitation.

  Can you put that in English for me please, I replied.

  Well, basically, he went on, it means that some debris might come out of the toilets in the cells that are occupied by the prisoners refusing to move.

  Oh dear, oh dearie me, I thought, what a bastard! The prisoners might get covered in shit if they remained in their cells.

  Well, I suppose I’d better tell them, I said. After all, they are adults, they can make their own minds up if they wish to leave, or stay. So tell me, I asked the man with the clipboard, when will all this happen?

  Just as soon as you give the go ahead, my men will turn on the pumps.

  Give me ten minutes, and turn on the pumps, I replied.

  OK, if you are sure, he said.

  Trust me mate, they’ll move when shit come out, don’t you worry, came my reply.

  I went up to the cells and stopped at each one of them. The prisoners were told that in ten minutes time, pumps would be activated to blow out the blockage, that there was a fair chance that they and their property would get covered in shit and they could come out now and staff would escort them out of the building with their property.

  At each cell, I got told to fuck off. They weren’t having any of it. Each of them said that I was giving them a load of old bollocks to get them to come out of their cells. They even started chanting:

  WE SHALL NOT, WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED!

  OK, I shouted to the men waiting by the pumps as I got back outside, start up the pumps.

  Big taps were turned. Water started gushing into the main sewage pipes at a hell of a rate. I walked around the outside of the building to the cell windows housing the barricaded prisoners. They all jeered at me. Load of bollocks guv, nothing happening! The pumps were getting louder. The pressure was building up.

  Yeah, we’ll see.

  It took less than five minutes for the results to get to the first toilet. Shit, and half-eaten rats started pouring out of the bogs. I was still standing outside the cell windows when I heard the shouts of the prisoners inside.

  Let us out guv! came the cry from all the cells in unison. Unlock the door, there shit coming out of the bogs! It fucking stinks in here! The prisoners were nearly hanging out of the windows gagging. We couldn’t get into the cell because of the barricades they had erected; they couldn’t get out either until the door was unlocked from the outside.

  That’s a bloody shame innit, I shouted at them. So now you decide I wasn’t telling lies and want out?

  Please guv, hurry up, the shits rising in the cell! It’s covering the whole floor, they wailed. By this time they were standing on the beds, all their property piled up with them.

  Don’t know if my Officers are allowed in now the pumps had started, I lied. Health and safety and all that. You had your chance. You were warned.

  PLEASE, PLEASE LET US OUT GUV!

  You could hear them retching in the cells. I was enjoying this. The bastards had fucked me and my staff around; now they were, literally, in the shit.

  Give me a couple of minutes, I’ll see if they will turn the pumps off and let us in to unlock you. But be warned: it will have to be quick, so you will have to leave your property behind.

  Anything guv, anything, just get us out of here, They were starting to vomit out of the windows. I supposed they’d had enough now. I wandered back around to the front of the building, taking my sweet time. I waited until the men on the pumps stopped talking amongst themselves.

  You nearly done lads? I asked.

  Yeah, the blockage has cleared. Hope the prisoners in the cells didn’t get covered in too much shit, they laughed.

  Nah, just a small spillage, nothing to panic over, I said, laughing along with them.

  That’s alright then, they yelled, over the noise of the pumps. Your Governor told us to turn it off if the bogs were overflowing in the cells.

  No bother, cheers, I yelled back at them, trying to make myself heard. The pumps were turned off. The quietness was sudden and eerie. All you could hear was the faint shouts and sounds of vomiting from the distance. Me and two other Officers went into the wing, heading towards the cells that had barricaded in.

  Right lads, I shouted, I managed to convince them to turn off the pumps long enough to get you out.

  Yeah, the other two Officers shouted, if it wasn’t for Mr. D, you’d be up to your neck in shit by now.

  We unlocked the doors as fast as we could. We didn’t want to hang around either; it stank like a sewer in there.

  Thanks guv, they shouted as they bolted for the door, with chests still heaving from being sick. We owe you one there Mr. D, they said, through vomit-stained teeth.

  All right, all right, get to the yard as quick as possible; Officers will take you to reception ready for transfer. I shouted after them. They thought I was a miracle worker and couldn’t thank me enough.

  If any of them read this – assuming they can read – I suppose they will change their tune.

  Back On Reception Wing

  While repairs were being carried out and Echo wing was being fumigated – or whatever they do to a building when it gets full of shit – I was moved back on the reception wing. One of the Senior Officers had taken a nasty fall in the gym and smashed his knee. He would be off sick for at least six weeks.

  Since Sumo had left, I paired up with an old Senior Officer who had been in the service since Julius Caesar’s time, or so it seemed. He was a miserable, ignorant old bastard, that wouldn’t lift a finger to help. If you asked him anything, he would say, Find out yourself, I’m not telling you anything. Learn, like I did.

  Old Tim. Or Timbo, as he was known. But would never answer to it; he preferred Mr. French. Or S.O. French. He didn’t go in for nicknames. He was OK if you were talking about motorbikes, or computers, which he would bore us to tears; going on about mega bites or terabytes, and other phrases connected within his computer based world. But ask him something work related and he would reply: not fucking interested.

  We didn’t get on very well, so I just got on with my job, which I could do with my eyes closed. I left him alone, banging away on the computer, cursing the shit computer system he had to work with.

  The reception wing was a new build, three stories high. On the first landing a wire netting is stung across, as a safety feature to stop prisoners chucking themselves off the top floor. This, in itself, is a good idea. However, it doesn’t prevent the jumper from serious injury, especially when he is stark bollock naked.

  It’s a shame that prison Officers have to deal with mental patients. Yes, they get referred to the Mental Health In-Reach Team, but with so many prisoners coming in with some form of mental illness, they cannot possibly see them all in a short time. They are processed through reception and appointments are made. If they are lucky, they might get to see a nurse within a fortnight.

  Officers are good at what they do. They are resilient and resourceful and they deal with all kinds of problems on a day-to-day basis as best they can. But none have mental health training, so they play it by ear.

  On this occasion, one of our prisoners, clearly disturbed, had undressed himself in his cell and was standing facing the cell wall, talking. He seemed to be answering his own questions and nodding to a fictitious person in the cell.

  Shellshock, shouted me up to the cell on the three’s landing.

  Mr. D, this one’s off his nut, he yelled down to me, trying to avoid eye contact with the prisoner in the cell. A new Officer, Daz Hendry, was with him, or Beaver, as we used to call him, and not because of his interest in wildlife. They were like Pinky and bloody Perky
together. Everything was a laugh. They tended to finish off each other’s sentence like Siamese twins.

  He’s stark bollock naked, Beaver joined in.

  Beaver was about the same age as Shellshock. He was bald as a coot. Like Shellshock, he was forever chasing women like rabid dogs, and, like Shellshock, was always boasting about his escapades.

  Go and call the Mental Health In-Reach Team, I shouted up to Beaver, see if she can throw any light on this individual.

  By now our naked man was shouting at the wall. Obviously, his invisible person wasn’t agreeing with him.

  Shellshock and I were standing at the closed door, looking through the observation glass.

  He’s fucking lost it, Shellshock said, the blokes an out and out nutter. Beaver agreed. All the while we were standing there watching this, the nude man was oblivious to us. He came to the door a few times, but looked straight through us as though we weren’t there.

  Where the bloody hell is the mental health nurse? I was saying, partly to myself, but loud enough for our nude man to hear in the hope that he might calm down a bit if he knew help was on its way.

  It had the opposite effect. The nude man started to bang his head against the wall.

  BANG, BANG, BANG!

  It was so loud, and after each impact, blood was spurting from the cut in his head.

  It was beginning to sound like a crunching noise by the time we got in the cell. Beaver, Shellshock and I pounced on him; not nice, trying to restrain a man who was stark naked and clearly had mental health issues.

  He was slippery with sweat. Beaver started to laugh. Wish I had a pair of bollocks like that, he shouted, pointing to the nude man’s genitals.

  This only fired the naked man up more. He was a skinny bloke, but he was hard to hold down.

  As a Senior Officer, I had ratchet cuffs. For the safety of the nude man and us, I decided to get them around his wrists as soon as possible and hold him there until the nurse arrived. We were all sweating by the time we had subdued and cuffed him. He was a strong lad for his size, but when people are fueled by adrenalin, they are harder to handle.