Others in this series can be found in the ‘My Prison Journey‘ link, under the categories menu on the right of this screen.
“First Night in a British Prison.”
Everybody is afraid. Some just show it more or less than others. Parts of the experience are still a bit of a blur to me – I guess it’s down to shock. Being processed as I entered a British Victorian prison induced an effect on me similar to animals in an abattoir – I was resigned to my fate.
My first stop was a ‘Local’ prison, a B-Category – high security establishment. These are the all-purpose, high turnover prisons and are usually located in urban areas. Examples include Wandsworth, Bristol, Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool. If you are remanded you will generally remain in B-Cat until you are either convicted & sentenced or are released.
I remember moving from one holding cell to another, each one a different size and with varying numbers of men. Some men kept to themselves, eyes down on the floor. These were generally new arrivals to the prison. Others paced and prowled, demanding to be taken to the main prison. These were generally people who had been produced (brought to court that morning) and were merely returning to the prison.
The worst part was the last holding cell move. From the penultimate room I was ushered into a clear glass cubicle where I was interviewed by a prison officer. After a series of yes or no questions I was brought through to a large room with floor to ceiling tiles.
In one corner there were open fronted cubicles, like those you would see in swimming pools. I was steered over and ordered to strip. I began to undress under the bored gaze of two prison officers. The whole process was made more intimidating by two other prisoners who were working as cleaners in that area. When I was naked I was told to squat to ensure that I hadn’t any contraband pinched between my butt cheeks (cheeked).
My clothes were placed in a plastic box and run through an airport style scanner while I was given a towel to cover myself and brought to the ‘BOSS’ chair to be scanned for mobile Wallet’ (rectum). For those concealing contraband, items are either ‘cheeked’, ‘plugged’ or ‘swallowed’.
After the scan I was given a bar of soap and a sachet of shampoo before being pointed to the showers. I was assured that the shower was optional, but after three days in a Police Station I felt it was essential. I juggled holding and using the cosmetics with pressing the button for water every 15 seconds (don’t drop the soap!) before finally getting dried off and dressed again – unfortunately in the same clothes that I had been in for the previous three days.
I was then issued with a bed roll and a basic cosmetics pack that comprised of more soap, a toothbrush & toothpaste and a roll-on deodorant. After another spell in the final holding room I was final lead into the prison itself (check out ‘Leaves on the Line’ Story).
As we left the reception area and entered the prison proper it was a little like the opening scene from the Shawshank Redemption meets Porridge. There were five landings worth of metal walkways around the perimeter of the wing. The wing itself was about 120’ long and about 40’ from wall to wall. The landings were lined with lads, some of them were scoping out the new arrival but most were completely disinterested.
As I followed the officer I saw some of the cell doors were open and it was remarkable how one cell differed from the next. Some looked clean, bright and plush while others looked like some third world hell. We didn’t stop on the first wing, instead we passed on through a series of chunky iron gates and solid steel doors, all with big meaty locks. The second wing we passed through was even longer than the first, the third was longer again – but other than a different shade of paint on the walls and doors the cells and landings were pretty much the same.
Finally I was lead onto a more modern section of the prison. It was single story and a lot brighter. It reminded me of a hospital or GP surgery. No wonder really – it was the medical wing. Little did I know that there had been some risk assessing carried out on me behind the scenes. There were key factors including first time offender, being charged with murder and my age that ticked enough boxes to cause concern. I was flagged as being at risk (of self-harm) and it was decided I should spend my first night under constant observations (basically on suicide watch).
My first night was spent in a Spartan cell. The door was a heavy sheet of clear but scratched Perspex fixed to inch thick metal bars. There were two CCTV cameras set high in the room’s corners. There was a plinth with a plastic covered wipeable mattress, a toilet and a sink. There was a scratched window looking out onto a 6’ wide walkway that ended at the prison’s mammoth wall.
I made up my bed from the pack I had been given and found a ‘brew-pack’ within. There were four tea-bags, four sugar sachets and 4 sachets of ‘whiteners’. Unfortunately I had neither a cup nor any means to boil water so I brushed my teeth with the wispy bristled toothbrush and the chalky bland toothpaste before getting under my blanket. That night gave me a sense of the torment that insomnia must bring to so many people – being bone weary and unable to rest. My lasting memory (and great deterrent to ever coming back) will always be those fucking blankets. They are still used today. They are bright orange and look like a loose crocheted affair, you can easily snag a toe in them. But above all else they are itchy. I am sure that they are the blankets you would be issued in Hell, manufactured from asbestos, powdered glass and fire-ant venom.
There is an edge to one’s first night in an English Jail. An unfamiliarity that keeps you unsettled, it just won’t let you switch off. There are so many noises you hear during the night that set the imagination whirring into overdrive. The rhythmic snorings are punctuated by random sounds like a toilet flush or a random cough.
Perhaps the most disconcerting sound was of footsteps. Every other step that staff took on the landings produced a jangle of their keys. Like a car driving past a bedroom window on a rainy night, the noise would start far off and faint before gradually increasing in volume as they approached my cell. I would feel the nervous anticipation as I wondered if they would stop at my cell and the relief if they carried on past and faded into the distance.
The other sounds were the far off clanging of metal gates and the turning of keys in wet, meaty locks. These sounds ricocheted along landings in the night’s stillness. It seemed like every time I was about to drift off I would register some new horror announcing itself.
As I was on constant observations I also had to contend with the “New Mum” syndrome of the prison officers. They would check on me at thirty minute intervals. It basically involved using gentle tactics like shining a torch in my face to ensure that I hadn’t killed myself.
My first 48 hours were spent in this Goldfish bowl existence until I had a case review with a psychologist. When I was asked if I had any suicidal thoughts I answered earnestly, “No, I don’t have any suicidal thoughts now – but if you put me back in that cell I think it might actually make me suicidal.”
The Psychologist was sympathetic but warned me that I might find the main prison a bit overwhelming. Would I not prefer to get acclimatised to life on here first? I considered for a moment before I answered,
“It seems like I am just delaying the inevitable. I don’t see the point in getting acclimatised to this place when it will be temporary. I’ll have to face the prison sooner or later and I’d rather just get it over with. I am going to be spending a long number of years in prison – I’m guilty of my crime, so the sooner I come to terms with being in prison, the better.”
Thankfully I was moved out of the goldfish bowl into a standard medical cell that night. On my fourth day in prison I moved into what the Yanks would call General Population. It was grim, but despite the noise, squalor and Victorian dilapidation of a 150 year old English Prison at least I could smoke. I started to get my head out of my arse.
