‘He was charged with manslaughter, pleaded guilty and was sentenced to three years. He served eighteen months. There was clearly no intent to murder. I know it sounds silly,’ she adds, ‘but until that moment, his record was unblemished.’
‘So your husband is black. That can’t have been easy for you, especially in prison.’
‘No, it hasn’t, but it helps me find a common thread with the dreadlocks.’
‘So what’s it like being a thirty-something blonde probation officer?’ I ask
It’s not always easy,’ she admits. ‘Sixty per cent of the prisoners shout at me and tell me that I’m useless, while the other forty per cent burst into tears.’
‘Burst into tears? That lot?’ I say, thumbing towards the door.
‘Oh, yes. I realize it’s not a problem for you, but most of them spend their lives having to prove how macho they are, so when they come to see me it’s the one chance they have to reveal their true feelings. Once they begin to talk about their families, their partners, children and friends, they often break down, suddenly aware that others might well be going through an even more difficult time outside than they are locked up in here.’
‘And the shouters, what do they imagine they’re achieving?’
‘Getting the rage out of their system. Such a disciplined regime creates pent-up emotions, and I’m often on the receiving end. I’ve experienced everything, including obscene language and explicit descriptions of what they’d like to do to me, while all the time staring at my breasts. One prisoner even unzipped his jeans and started masturbating. All that for twenty-one thousand a year.’
‘So why do you do it?’
‘I have the occasional success, perhaps one in ten, which makes it all seem worthwhile when you go home at night.’
‘What’s the worst part of your job?’
She pauses and thinks for a moment. ‘Having to tell a prisoner that his wife or partner doesn’t want him back just before they’re due to be released.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Many long-term prisoners phone their wives twice a week, and are even visited by them once a fortnight. But it’s only when their sentence is drawing to a close and a probation officer has to visit the matrimonial home that the wife confesses she doesn’t want her husband back. Usually because by then they are living with another man – sometimes their husband’s best friend.’
‘And they expect you to break the news?’
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Because they can’t face doing it themselves, even on the phone.’
‘And is there any particular set of prisoners you don’t like dealing with? The paedophiles, murderers, rapists, drug dealers, for example?’
‘No, I can handle all of them’ she says. ‘But the group I have no time for are the burglars.’
‘Burglars?’
They show neither remorse nor conscience. Even when they’ve stolen personal family heirlooms they tell you it’s all right because the victim can claim it back on insurance.’ She glances at her watch. I’m meant to be asking you some questions,’ she pauses, ‘not that the usual ones apply.’
‘Try me,’ I suggest. Lisa removes a sheet of paper from a file and reads out the listed questions.
‘Are you married?, Are you living with your wife?, Have you any children?, Do you have any other children?, Are any of them in need of assistance or financial help?, Will you be returning to your family when you are released?, When you are released, do you have any income other than the ninety pounds the State provides for you?, Do you have somewhere to sleep on your first night out of prison?, Do you have a job to go to, with a guaranteed source of income?’ She looks up. ‘The purpose of the last question is to find out if you’re likely to commit an offence within hours of leaving prison.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’ I ask.
‘Because, for some of them, this is the only place that guarantees three meals a day, a bed and someone to talk to. You’ve got a good example on your wing. Out last month, back inside this month. Robbed an old lady of her bag and then immediately handed it back to her. He even hung around until the police arrived to make sure he was arrested.’
I think I know the prisoner she’s referring to, and make a mental note to have a word with him. Our hour is drawing to a close, so I ask if she will stick with it.
‘Yes. I’ve been in the service for ten years and, despite everything, it has its rewards. Mind you, it’s changed a lot during the last decade. When I first joined, the motto emblazoned on our notepaper used to read, Advise, Assist and Befriend. Now it’s Enforcement, Rehabilitation and Public Protection; the result of a massive change in society, its new-found freedom and the citizen’s demands for safety. The public doesn’t begin to understand that at least thirty per cent of people in prison shouldn’t be locked up at all, while seventy per cent, the professional criminals, will be in and out for the rest of their lives.’
There’s a knock on the door. My hour’s up, and we haven’t even touched on the problem of drugs. Mr Chapman enters carrying two bundles of letters. Lisa looks surprised.
‘That’s only the first post’ Mr Chapman tells her.
‘I can quite believe it,’ she says. ‘My parents send their best wishes. My father wanted you to sign one of his books, but I told him it would be most unprofessional.’ I rise from my place. ‘Good luck with your appeal,’ she adds, as we shake hands. I thank her and return to my cell.
12 noon
Lunch: macaroni cheese and diet lemonade. I hate lemonade, so I spend some considerable time shaking the bottle in an effort to remove the bubbles. I have a considerable amount of time.
1.45 pm
Mr Chapman warns me that I will not be able to go to the gym this afternoon as I have to attend a CARAT (Counselling, Assessment, Referral, Advice and Through-care) meeting on drugs. This is another part of my induction. Despite the fact I’ve never touched a drug in my life, I can’t afford to miss it. Otherwise I will never be moved from this filthy, dank, noisy wing. Naturally I comply.
2.00 pm
I try to pick up my books and notepads from reception only to be told by Mr Meanwell (a man who regularly reminds me ‘Meanwell is my name, and mean well is my nature’) that I can’t have them because it’s against prison regulations. All notepads and pens have to be purchased from the canteen and all books ordered through the library, who buy them direct from Waterstone’s.
‘But in Belmarsh they allowed me to have two notepads, two packets of pens and any number of books I required sent in, and they’re a maximum-security prison.’
‘I know,’ says Meanwell with a smile. ‘It’s a damn silly rule, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’
I thank him. Many of the senior officers know only too well what’s sensible and what isn’t, but are worried that if I receive what could be construed as special treatment it will be all over the tabloids the following morning. The rule is enforced because books, pads and pens are simply another way to smuggle in drugs. However, if I’m to go on writing, I’ll have to purchase these items from the canteen, which means I’ll need to cut down on Spam and Weetabix.
2.40 pm
I’ve been writing for about an hour when I am called to the CARAT meeting. Once again, eleven of us assemble in the room with the comfortable chairs. The CARAT representative is a young lady called Leah, who tells us that if we have any drug-related problems, she is there to advise and help. Leah reminds me of Mr Flintcroft, although she’s pushing an even larger boulder up an even steeper hill.
I glance around the room at the other prisoners. Their faces are blank and resigned. I’m probably the only person present who has never taken a drug. The one comment Leah makes that catches the prisoners’ attention is that if they were to have a period on D wing, the drug-free wing, it might even help with their parole. But before Leah can finish her sentence a ripple of laughter breaks out, and she admits that it’s possible there are even more drugs on D wing than on A, B or C. Drug-free wings in most prisons have that reputation.
When Leah comes to the end of her eight-minute discourse and invites questions, she is greeted with silence, the same silence Mr Flintcroft experienced.
I leave, feeling a little more cynical. Drugs are the biggest problem the Prison Service is currently facing, and not one prisoner has a question for the CARAT representative, let alone attempts to engage her in serious debate.
