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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE |
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03-01-04 (p3)
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Clink By Mark Ryder |
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Synopsis Clink is a satirical novel set in Snapethorpe, a vast and ancient prison located in a northern city. The story opens on Friday evening when Foulkes the duty governor takes a call from headquarters. Sheen an ex governor now sidelined in the press office is making enquiries about a dying prisoner, allegedly being kept in handcuffs at the local hospital. Foulkes makes half- hearted enquiries, finds nothing and Sheen lets the matter drop.
Monday morning . The story has turned out to be true and the prisoner is dead. In a panic the area manager asks the publicity hungry inspector of prisons to send someone to investigate. His choice is Swynford. He and Roberts the governor of Snapethorpe have a ‘past’. Swynford then, is expected to show no mercy. People begin to manoeuvre accordingly. Dr Savundra, the suave medical officer, Quigley the deputy governor, who sees an opportunity and the junior staff who may have made key decisions. On the way to the inquest and the publication of Swynford’s report, we meet various characters: Kite the union official at war with a faction on his committee, Hook the gambling addicted cook and various prisoners such as Shinks who helps in a raid on Swynford’s office and De’Ath the Satanist who gets involved in an exhumation for occult purposes. Following the publication of Swynford’s report we see who is left standing.
Chapter One Habeus Corpus Out in the yard the armoured vans were in stacking formation. At intervals the heavy gate leading to Reception would swing open, striking the brickwork with a metallic thud. Inside by the desk an officer was conducting triage. Prisoners returning from court tried to complain on the hoof, were ignored and thrust into a holding tank prior to strip searching. Another officer issued meals, desiccated after hours in an oven. Shell shocked new numbers queued for the nurse who asked about various interesting and contagious diseases. At the desk hardly bothering to let the faces register, two more officers made up new records; histories of a custodial career which might bulge over the years to the point where a canvas strap was required to hold it all together. A solitary nonce was given one of the cells reserved for the mad and the sad. Reception staff hated additional paperwork and if the nonce was to be snotted then it could wait until he reached the reception wing.
Back on the vans impatience began to grow. Some of the passengers had been sitting in the tiny cubicles for hours. The private security company that escorted prisoners to and from court didn’t believe in A to B. Computers designed the most cost effective routes. Good for fuel economy, bad for humans. The occupants of one van began a noisy protest, kicking the walls and demanding to be let out. Attempts by the guards to quiet them led only to an increase in volume. Jailcraft came low on their agenda, though letting a prisoner kill himself was a sackable offence.
Two stories above, a solitary light shone from the row of office windows. The admin staff were long gone but the duty governor remained. George Foulkes was the sole occupant of that floor, whiling away the time until he could go home. As the noise below increased so boredom prodded his curiosity. Easing his body from the chair he rose and crossed to the window.
It was a Friday evening, usually the busiest day of the week for Reception as remands in custody swelled the numbers. Foulkes leant against the windowsill, shifting his large belly into a more comfortable position. Moments later he heard the sound of keys rattling in a lock. Below the gate swung open and a shaft of light reflected off a puddle. Several white shirted figures emerged then headed towards the vans.
The party was led by one of the Rent A Screws. Evidently he’d succeeded in raising reinforcements. He unlocked the side door of a van, standing back to let the prison staff enter. A voice struggling to be heard, bellowed an order. Foulkes made a bet with himself about how long it would be before the officers lost patience. He reached a count of eight, losing by two seconds before the banging ceased and the van began rocking from side to side. Home Office approved screams preceded the reappearance of the officers. Using wristlocks they manoeuvred a prisoner out of the vehicle, his shirt over his head revealing pale white flesh. “One way of beating the queue” murmured Foulkes to himself
He glanced across the yard. Through the chain link fence which separated the vehicle compound from the rest of the prison, he could see the day staff going off duty. Unrecognisable in the gloom, they were funnelling rapidly through the door that led to the pedestrian lock in the gatelodge and so back to The World. The lock could only hold twenty or so bodies, hence the eagerness to enter. Those left behind would have to stand around in the cold wind whilst the door was locked and the officers who’d made it through handed in their keys. Foulkes noticed that no-one looked at the little drama taking place across the yard.
Losing interest he returned to his chair. A mug of coffee stood on the desk. He tested it with his fingertips. Adjudging it still warm enough he took a sip.
Foulkes hated evening duties. Officially about two and a half hours remained before he could go home. He hated Snapethorpe prison too. Foulkes had been prised out of a cushy job in training and offered Snapethorpe on a take it or leave it basis. He’d been the victim of a new slash and burn policy called Efficiency Savings. This involved detaching Foulkes from one department’s pay budget, then transferring him at enormous expense to another. The alternative to this northern big city jail headquarters told him, was being dumped in some woolyback location up in Cumbria.
His office lay on the second floor of the administration block, a bizarre piece of Victorian architectural fantasy built to resemble a castle keep. Behind it stood the main prison; six wings, radiating from two central hubs and linked by a corridor. At this time of the day things were quiet. Snapethorpe’s leaden routine had reached one of its lulls. The evening meal had been served and cleared away. Later a favoured few would be allowed out of their cells to watch tv and associate. For the rest delivery of a mug of hot water would be the last time their doors were opened until the following morning.
As the nations’ prisons were ‘taken forward’ to use senior management speak so Snapethorpe remained defiantly unreformed. What the Service loftily described as industrial relations were in a permanent state of conflict. As new initiatives were announced and implemented elsewhere, Snapethorpe’s response was to maintain a coping strategy which at least ensured prisoners were fed and got to court on time. Like other governor grades in the service, Foulkes knew Snapethorpe’s reputation before he went there. Ever the optimist, he reasoned that having the prison on his cv might impress promotion boards. That was three years ago and so far it hadn’t. The minimal enthusiasm he’d brought with him had leached away to be replaced by a sense of resentment and fear that one of his colleagues might secure advancement before him.
Below in Reception the refractory prisoner had been bundled into a holding cell. This was his first time in custody, a fact which would not become apparent until somebody checked his details. The van, with its tiny cubicles had brought on an attack of claustrophobia. Now in the unfurnished cell, he found himself scarcely less confined. Through the spyhole he could see men sitting on benches, finishing the congealed remains of the evening meal which had been brought up from the kitchens an hour earlier. His wrists ached from where the locks had been applied. He wondered if anything was broken.
As duty governor Foulkes might well have telephoned down to find out what happened but some paperwork would probably reach him in due course. A glance at the wall clock revealed that the minute hand had scarcely moved since the last time he’d looked. Being duty governor was potentially hazardous. For twenty four hours all the operational problems were directed to him. He was forced to make decisions, any one of which could rebound or attract critical attention from the governor. There’d been a time when his daily attire had been smart business suits. Now he took every excuse to slob into an ancient sports coat and flannels. The trousers came with a gro-bag waistband. He’d put on twenty pounds since arriving at Snapethorpe.
Two hundred miles to the south lights still burned in the press office at Prison Service headquarters. This was unusual since on Fridays the building emptied rapidly. The sole occupant was a miserable, under employed man called Derek Sheen. Like Foulkes his career was in a state of limbo. The passage of time and the emptying room had failed to register. In any case, he was in no particular hurry to leave. The weekend held no promise for him.
A large rumpled man in his early forties, Sheen was still making the transition from governor of a prison to minor functionary in a field of work about which he knew very little. His dress, a countrified suit of hairy tweed, reflected his difficulty in adjusting.
A few weeks previously Sheen had been in charge of an open prison in the south east. He still lived close by and his journey to work each day took him past the place. A difficult commute followed, increasing his irritation at the injustice which he felt had been done to him. A new governor was in charge there now and Sheen’s bitter predictions about the difficulties he would face had come to nothing. After weeks of wallowing in self-pity he still couldn't quite appreciate what had gone wrong.
Sniffing the wind of prevailing fashion in the Service, Sheen decided that being seen as a liberal governor was essential for career development. He had been promoted up rather quickly and delusions of competence made him wish to maintain the momentum.
Unfortunately he pressed ahead with this idea as the pendulum began to swing back to a hard-line approach. One of the penalties of early and rapid promotion was a failure to appreciate the cyclical nature of things in the Service. Consequently he missed the subtle signals that warned of a sea-change in attitudes. Sheen began to liberalise an already easy going prison, just as the more astute of his colleagues were rapidly reinventing themselves as tough governors. He swept aside anything which hinted at a rigid or militaristic approach. Officers were made to abandon their caps and cut down on their visits to prisoners’ living accommodation, which he saw as ‘intrusive’. He hosted a seminar, raising the idea that staff and prisoners should address each other on a first name basis. He began to see himself as a ‘reforming’ governor and idly wondered if one day admiring colleagues might sponsor an annual memorial lecture in his name... |