stopping occasionally to steal children, and could easily slip away for an hour or so.
Enclosed is £10 for your phone card. Please call!
Take care, Chas,
Krissie
After several weeks of similar letters, I turned to Plan B, which was a devious and cunning plan involving overcoming prison security by infiltrating the agents’ visits area. In other, more prosaic, words, I would tell the prison officers that his social worker was here to see him.
I was sweating like a pig by the time my ID, bag and thumbprint were inspected and I was allowed inside. The guards intimidated me, sure, but not as much as the mutants in the waiting area. It became clear as I glanced around me that Sandhill housed a specific demographic and that the prison was simplyan extension of their patch. They seemed to share expectations. Their sons would inevitably end up here at some point, and the guards would talk to them like pieces of shit. Poor dental hygiene and a unique turn of phrase designed to terrify newcomers were also shared.
Eventually, the locals were ushered into the visits area and I was ushered into agents’.
‘Charles Worthington, Prison No. 15986, B Hall, 3/36.’ I wrote this on my request sheet, having cleverly bypassed prison security and accessed its database (I rang Records and they told me), and then took my place in room seven, a glass box with a table and two chairs.
I waited an eternity underneath the corner cameras in the interview room, worried that they would catch me out. I was not a criminal justice social worker. I was child protection, and I had no place here. I was an intruder and I would surely be caught and hanged in the old hanging cell in D Hall and then buried in an unmarked grave with the others out the back.
Each time a red or green polo-shirted body was uncuffed in the area I wondered if it might be Chas. I hoped to God he didn’t show up with a green polo shirt because I knew these were the shirts worn by the beasts in D Hall.
He wore red, and while he looked skinny and drawn, he still managed to pull off the outfit withsome flair. Larger red polo shirt than the other guys, maybe, that flowed well from his muscular chest then down. And even though his denims were unfashionably even-coloured, they did not appear as tapered as the others. When he saw who it was he tried to turn around and leave, but the uniformed brute at the end of the corridor pushed him back towards me. He reluctantly came over and sat down, his eyes moving downwards and staying there.
I shuffled my papers and began the mock interview.
‘Hello, Chas, my name is Krissie Donald. I’m a criminal justice social worker and I’ve been asked to complete the Home Background Report. The aim of the report is for the Parole Board to get as much information about you before deciding about early release. First things first, let me check I have the right details. You got eight years. If you’ve been a good boy, you’ll be out in four. Your offence is …?’
Chas did not answer.
‘The crime you committed is …?’ I looked up at the cameras and smiled nervously (did they know I was lying yet?).
He said nothing.
‘Okay, now if you do not cooperate with the report you do realise that this will not look good when it comes to a decision …’
No response for several seconds. My heart was beating so fast and my palms were so sweaty I knewit was just a matter of time before they burst in the door and yelled, ‘Right, up against the wall, you and you. Don’t say a fucking word, you gobshite pricks!’
But no-one came in. Instead, Chas leant across the table and said, ‘They can’t hear you, they can only see, and only if they’re looking, which they’re usually not.’
‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?’ I breathed in for the first time in minutes.
We smiled at each other, but then both our smiles melted into something not so smiley.
‘How are you, Chas?’
‘Great.’
A pause.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well,
Enclosed is £10 for your phone card. Please call!
Take care, Chas,
Krissie
After several weeks of similar letters, I turned to Plan B, which was a devious and cunning plan involving overcoming prison security by infiltrating the agents’ visits area. In other, more prosaic, words, I would tell the prison officers that his social worker was here to see him.
I was sweating like a pig by the time my ID, bag and thumbprint were inspected and I was allowed inside. The guards intimidated me, sure, but not as much as the mutants in the waiting area. It became clear as I glanced around me that Sandhill housed a specific demographic and that the prison was simplyan extension of their patch. They seemed to share expectations. Their sons would inevitably end up here at some point, and the guards would talk to them like pieces of shit. Poor dental hygiene and a unique turn of phrase designed to terrify newcomers were also shared.
Eventually, the locals were ushered into the visits area and I was ushered into agents’.
‘Charles Worthington, Prison No. 15986, B Hall, 3/36.’ I wrote this on my request sheet, having cleverly bypassed prison security and accessed its database (I rang Records and they told me), and then took my place in room seven, a glass box with a table and two chairs.
I waited an eternity underneath the corner cameras in the interview room, worried that they would catch me out. I was not a criminal justice social worker. I was child protection, and I had no place here. I was an intruder and I would surely be caught and hanged in the old hanging cell in D Hall and then buried in an unmarked grave with the others out the back.
Each time a red or green polo-shirted body was uncuffed in the area I wondered if it might be Chas. I hoped to God he didn’t show up with a green polo shirt because I knew these were the shirts worn by the beasts in D Hall.
He wore red, and while he looked skinny and drawn, he still managed to pull off the outfit withsome flair. Larger red polo shirt than the other guys, maybe, that flowed well from his muscular chest then down. And even though his denims were unfashionably even-coloured, they did not appear as tapered as the others. When he saw who it was he tried to turn around and leave, but the uniformed brute at the end of the corridor pushed him back towards me. He reluctantly came over and sat down, his eyes moving downwards and staying there.
I shuffled my papers and began the mock interview.
‘Hello, Chas, my name is Krissie Donald. I’m a criminal justice social worker and I’ve been asked to complete the Home Background Report. The aim of the report is for the Parole Board to get as much information about you before deciding about early release. First things first, let me check I have the right details. You got eight years. If you’ve been a good boy, you’ll be out in four. Your offence is …?’
Chas did not answer.
‘The crime you committed is …?’ I looked up at the cameras and smiled nervously (did they know I was lying yet?).
He said nothing.
‘Okay, now if you do not cooperate with the report you do realise that this will not look good when it comes to a decision …’
No response for several seconds. My heart was beating so fast and my palms were so sweaty I knewit was just a matter of time before they burst in the door and yelled, ‘Right, up against the wall, you and you. Don’t say a fucking word, you gobshite pricks!’
But no-one came in. Instead, Chas leant across the table and said, ‘They can’t hear you, they can only see, and only if they’re looking, which they’re usually not.’
‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?’ I breathed in for the first time in minutes.
We smiled at each other, but then both our smiles melted into something not so smiley.
‘How are you, Chas?’
‘Great.’
A pause.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well,
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