As staffing dropped, violence soared, along with riots, self-harm, suicides and murders. Budget cuts and an early retirement scheme drained the prison of crucial resources and even more crucially, the experience of long-term staff. Particularly when I transferred to a rat-infested inner London jail, where the prisoners stuffed Brillo pads into the jagged holes in cell windows in a desperate attempt to keep the rain out. I saw the ugliness of prison in sharp clarity. In this most secretive of worlds, I learned more about society than anything in my life up to that point had taught me. The problems that mirrored life on our streets. The problems they solved before they had a chance to explode. And in those moments, I saw the speed with which they acted.
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The officers I worked with taught me about emotional intelligence, when to speak and when to listen, how to read a room and recognise subtle shifts in atmosphere that signalled a problem. Being fully present in a place that demanded nothing less. The power of proper unfiltered conversation, of awkward silences, of laughter and sadness and everything in between. But these were men in for the long haul, serving sentences often exceeding 30 years, and they had plenty of time to chat.
We debated, agreed, and of course, argued. I talked with the prisoners about justice, education, loyalty. Not for staff, and certainly not for prisoners. Mobile phones aren’t permitted in prison. In a society in which everyone is fixated on their screens, I saw the value of an environment where that isn’t possible. I found everything I was looking for in my role.
In among the inevitable challenges of prison work, there was hope, camaraderie and humour. That may sound idealistic, or even foolish, but incredible work goes on in our prisons every day and I was soon struck by the courage and optimism of the people I worked alongside.
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