Hardened (2 page)

“Come on, we need to move it.” She opens the door and waits for me to pass her.

I deliberately don’t quicken my pace, just offer her a sardonic nod as I leave the room. She stops to lock it behind us as I continue along the austere, windowless corridor. One day, I promise myself, and soon, I’ll be surrounded by light and fresh air. No more windowless anything for me, not once I’m out of here.

The sound of Miss MacBride’s stout leather soles tapping on the floor echoes down the hallway, her footsteps rapid as she hurries to catch up with me. I have to wait at the top of the stairs in any case as she needs to unlock the door to allow me through. Resentful, I glare at her under my eyebrows, not quite ready to forgive her for this injustice, which is really none of her doing.

“I’m sorry, I’d let you stay longer if I could,” she mumbles as she fiddles with her monster bunch of keys.

I’m inclined to believe her, but I’m still too pissed off to say so. We complete the short walk back to my cell in silence.

* * *

I’m late. Again. Andy’s going to kick off. Again.

I close and lock the heavy steel door, fully aware that North is still glowering at me from inside his cell, then I sprint down the wing and through the double set of lockable gates to reach the octagon. That’s what we call the eight-sided central area, the hub if you like from which branch out the spokes of the eight wings that make up this section of the prison. Armley jail is a traditional Victorian building, austere but very functional, I suppose. There are newer sections—for example the education block, the kitchens, and the gymnasium—but the inmates are mainly housed in the old wings. There are communal areas fitted out with snooker tables and a television room, and a chapel of course, but for the most part their time is spent locked up in their cells.

I was surprised to learn this when I joined the prison service eighteen months ago. I had an image of the prison as a place of rehabilitation, where offenders might learn new skills, become ready to re-join society. The truth is we just contain the men for the duration of their sentence, then the system turfs them out and hopes for the best. It rarely works out well; the rate of recidivism is horrendous.

It’s not unusual for the men to spend twenty-three hours a day in their cells, and that can easily stretch to a complete lockdown if circumstances require it. Like now, for instance. We have staffing levels approaching crisis point, and the cutbacks are starting to really impact on the quality of life for the inmates. Education is curtailed, which means the men spend even more time locked up, free association rarely happens, and the gym is used more by off-duty prison staff than it is by the inmates. There is a constant undercurrent of discontent that has become worse recently, fuelled by long-running quarrels and jealousies that always simmer below the surface. It takes very little to ignite the tinderbox and frequent scuffles break out between prisoners, which is why the managers of the prison prefer to keep them locked up and separated. There have been several incidents of officers being threatened. Not me, at least not yet, but we’re all extra vigilant and almost all nonessential contact between prisoners is avoided. The austere regime can’t be helped, but I don’t blame the men for being resentful and sooner or later it’s inevitable that something will erupt.

There are days when I find it hard to remember what I found so attractive about this job, especially when I know that as soon as I get home I’m in for another round of complaining and criticism from Andy. My fiancé loathes my choice of career. He can’t even start to understand what drew me to the prison service and why I stay, and there are times I can see his point. I’m under constant pressure from him to resign, to find something ‘nice’ to do—maybe join him in the finance section of the local council. I could, I suppose, I got an A level in mathematics, but the idea of working in an office leaves me cold.

I hand in my keys and radio and head for the staff cloakroom. I could take a shower—the facilities for officers here are excellent—but I don’t. Andy will be tetchy enough because I’m going to be at least half an hour late and he wanted to go shopping. I knew I’d be pushed to get home in time so I suggested he go alone and I’d meet him in town, then maybe we could get something to eat together. He wouldn’t hear of that and insisted I head home first.

So I do. I nip through the traffic, relieved to have missed the rush hour at least, and dash into the flat we share just forty minutes late.

Andy is seething, as I knew he would be. He grabs his car keys and stalks out without so much as a word of ‘hello,’ ‘how was your day,’ or anything. I follow, wishing I had time at least to change my clothes. All the way into the town centre Andy refuses to so much as speak to me and I wonder, not for the first time, what he would have done if I hadn’t followed him out to the car. Would he have gone alone as I suggested to him? Or would he have stormed back in, demanding to know what I think I’m playing at?

One day, maybe, I’ll find out.

I take advantage of the frosty silence to think back over my day.

Four officers phoned in sick, which meant we were spread even more thinly than usual. That, combined with the scuffles down on H wing meant that most of the inmates spent the day locked up while those of us who did show up for duty patrolled the parts of the prison where trouble seemed ready to kick off. The governor ordered that prisoners could only leave their cells for essential purposes—medical appointments, court appearances, some visits. Education was cancelled, as well as all association and recreation. That strategy might be enough to keep the lid on for now but makes for a bored, discontented wing, and prisoners with a grievance are a volatile bunch. In the long term the policy causes more trouble than it solves.

Still, I got my fix of Jared North today, though I had to bend the rules and piss off Andy to do it. North was down to miss his gym session, but I offered to escort him and not put in for overtime. The wing supervisor was happy enough to let me do it, so I got to ogle him on the bench press for half an hour.

It was not especially professional of me, I know that, but I couldn’t help it. There’s something about that man, something I can’t quite pin down but that makes my stomach clench and causes me to dampen my underwear. He’s off limits, obviously, and I would never dream of making so much as a flirty remark to him, but I can look. And I can imagine.

My good sense screams at me to stay well away from G wing. Jared North, Prisoner Number KG8329 is an armed robber, for Christ’s sake, doing five years. According to his prison record he’s not been any real bother for the last year or so now and might have a shot at parole before much longer, but he’s most definitely bad news, a man to be avoided.

So why, when I could have just clocked off on time and headed home, did I volunteer for unpaid overtime just to escort him to the gym? And having done that, why do I now feel so bloody guilty for having dragged him out of there early? He was lucky to get any time at all.

Tomorrow, if I get a chance, I’ll drop by his cell and try to explain.

Any excuse…

* * *

I’m on the late shift today, two in the afternoon until ten at night. Andy always hates this, complains that I’m never at home and when I do get there I’m too tired to be decent company. I suppose he has a point, but mine isn’t a nice nine-to-five job and he knew that when we started seeing each other. He’s still sulking from yesterday and I was secretly quite glad to see the back of him this morning as he left for work. I had a few hours to myself so I got on with cleaning our flat and put something in the slow cooker for later. I was at the outer gate by quarter to two as it takes a while to get through security and onto the wing.

When I eventually get inside it’s to learn that two of yesterday’s absentees are still off sick and we have reliable intelligence to suggest there’s contraband on the wing. Usually that means someone managed to smuggle drugs in, but this time apparently it’s a mobile phone. The governor has ordered a cell search.

I’m paired with another officer and we’re assigned to search the even numbered cells. My colleague, Jim, is an experienced old hand close to retirement. I like him well enough, but I know he’s just working out his final months until he can draw his pension and he’s looking for a quiet life. He’ll be well and truly pissed off if we do find anything because the aftermath of that entails hours of reports and form-filling, and Jim just wants to clock off and go home to his Doris who’s making a shepherd’s pie this evening, I gather.

I find I have little interest in clocking off myself as it’s only Andy waiting for me, with his sour face and unending complaints. I’ll do any paperwork that might arise.

“Okay, everyone outside. Stand in the corridor.” Jim unlocks cell number two and the occupants file out past us to lounge against the emulsioned brick wall opposite. Their expressions are sullen but resigned; this is a common enough occurrence.

Jim and I step into the narrow cell and start the search. We strip the beds, lift mattresses, drag the bedframes away from the walls, then do the same with the small items of other furniture. We open drawers, cupboards, even lift the lid on the cistern. All personal property is examined, then one by one Jim does a pat-down of each of the men themselves. As a female officer I’m not permitted to do that so I finish off the cell search by shaking out the laundry. I try not to make too much mess, but this is never a tidy business and the men are expected to clear up after we’ve finished.

We find nothing and move on to repeat it all in the next cell along.

The cell occupied by Jared North is the eighth on our list. He rolls from his bunk and files out with the other two inmates. As I start the bed search I can see him leaning against the doorframe, his back to me. He is chatting to his cellmates, seemingly unconcerned that his belongings are about to be heaped onto the floor for him to sort out later. There are days I hate this job, and today is one of them.

I leave the toilet to Jim and quickly strip the top bunk. I find nothing and move down to drag North’s mattress from the metal frame. I might have missed it, but for the faint clunk as I pull the bed out. There’s something lodged inside the mattress cover. I glance up to see that Jim is still occupied in the toilet cubicle. I open my mouth to call out to him, but I don’t. Instead I run my fingers around the edges of the thin mattress to discover whatever it is that shouldn’t be there.

A hard, flat shape meets my questing fingers. It could be the phone we’re seeking. My heart sinks—North will end up on report for this, and probably find himself back on a basic wing. Bloody idiot, what was he thinking of?

I slip my hand inside the mattress cover to grasp the offending item, and I pull it out.

Not a phone. A camera. I turn it over in my hand. It’s one of those tiny digital things, the sort you just point and press, and quite new I’d say. And definitely contraband. Without thinking through what I’m doing I slip it into the pocket of my uniform trousers and continue with the search.

I refuse to even look at North as Jim concludes our business with the obligatory pat-down, though the prisoner can’t fail to have seen the mess I’ve made of his neat bed. He has to know what I found, but he’s saying nothing. Even more inexplicable, neither am I.

* * *

The following day I clock on, the camera still tucked in my pocket. Needless to say, I checked the memory card at home after my shift. North seems to like to take pictures of prison life, though I’m relieved to see he’s not particularly interested in photographing other prisoners. I would have to take issue with that; even hardened criminals are entitled to their privacy. The pictures on the card are of his cell, the wing, the laundry where he usually works. And there are several of me.

I resolve to ask him about those, though I’m not at all sure I want to know his answer.

I check the work rota, and find that North is in the laundry. I spend a couple of hours on paperwork and do my usual rounds of the cells and communal areas, then make my way along to the utility wing where our industrial-sized washing machines are housed.

North is occupied piling small bags of underwear into the huge dryer. Prisoners like to get the same underwear back from the wash as the alternative is to wear things that hundreds of other men might have worn before and of course no one likes that. Each man has a small cotton bag that they can mark with their name, and into that they place all their small, personal items of laundry. With luck, the bag will be returned to the wing with its contents still inside, but now freshly laundered. The system works, on the whole.

Another prisoner is here too, but I know that Pearson is due a visit later so he’ll need to be making his way to the visitors’ suite before long, for processing.

“Pearson, you’re going to be late.” He has plenty of time, but I want to talk to North alone.

“No, miss. I’m fine for a bit yet.” Pearson seems quite content to continue shoving clothes into the steam press and slamming down the lid. I watch him for a couple of minutes before I try again.

“We’re short-staffed today, everything takes longer. Better get a move on, Pearson.”

“Is someone else coming, then?” Pearson switches off his laundry press and ambles over to where I’m stationed by the door. The regulations require at least two people to be present when the laundry is in use in case of accidents.

“Soon. I’ll let you out then I’ll stay with North until Jackson arrives.”

It’ll be at least half an hour before the next prisoner is detailed to come down and take over from Pearson, which should be ample time to ask Jared North about the camera. I precede the prisoner down to the gates at the end of the utility wing corridor and let him through. From there another officer will let Pearson back onto the wing, and onto the visitors’ suite. I relock the security gate and return to the laundry room.

North is still occupied with his task, though he does glance at me over his shoulder as I re-enter the huge room, then he switches his attention back to his work.