know how to control their anger. When cell blocks explode into anarchy and violence, nine times out of ten, it’s the short-term men who are behind it.
So Strangeways has got a gym, satellite TV and a variety of other distractions. It’s the kind of regime that has the rabid right-wingers foaming at the mouth about holiday camps for villains. Me, I’ve never been on a holiday where they lock you in your room at night, don’t let you see your friends and family whenever you want to and never let you go shopping. Whatever else Strangeways is, a holiday camp it ain’t. Most of the loudmouths who complain would be screaming for their mothers within twenty-four hours of being banged up in there. Just visiting is more than enough for me, even though one of the benefits of the rebuilding programme is the Visitors’ Centre. In the bad old days, visitors were treated so atrociously they felt like they were criminals too. It’s no wonder that a lot of men told their wives not to bring the kids to visit. It was easier to deal with the pain of missing them than to put them through the experience.
Now, they actually treat visitors like members of the human race. Debbie and I arrived with ten minutes to spare, and there wasn’t even a queue to check in. We found a couple of seats among the other visitors, mostly women and children. These days, a Visiting Order covers up to three adults, and small children don’t count. With every prisoner entitled to a weekly visit, it doesn’t take long for a crowd to build up. Nevertheless, we didn’t have to hang around for long. Five minutes before our visit time, we were escorted into the prison proper, our bags were searched by a strapping blonde woman prison officer who looked like a Valkyrie on her day off from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Then we were led through anonymous corridors and upstairs to the Visitors’ Hall, a large, clean room with views across the city from its long windows. With its off-white walls, vending machines, no-smoking rule, tables laid out across the room and tense atmosphere, it was like a church hall ready for a whist tournament.
We found Dennis sitting back in his chair, legs stretched in front of him. As we sat down, he smiled. ‘Great to see you both,’ he said. ‘Business must be slack for you to take the afternoon off, Kate.’
‘Christie’s got a cross-country trial,’ Debbie said. ‘Kate didn’t want me coming in here on my own.’ There was less bitterness in her voice than there would have been in mine in the same circumstances.
‘I’m sorry, doll,’ Dennis said, shifting in his seat and leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on Debbie with all the appeal of a puppy dog. But Debbie knew only too well what that cute pup had grown into, and she wasn’t melting.
‘Sorry doesn’t make it to parents’ night, does it?’ Debbie said.
Dennis looked away. ‘No. But you’re better off than most of this lot,’ he added, gesturing round the room with his thumb. ‘Look at them. Scruffy kids, market-stall wardrobes, you know they’re living in shitholes. Half of them are on the game or on drugs. At least I leave you with money in the bank.’
Debbie shook her head, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Haven’t you got it through your thick head yet that me and the kids wouldn’t mind going without as long as we’d got you in the house?’
Time for me not to be here. I stood up and took the orders for the vending machines. There were enough kids milling around for it to take me a good ten minutes to collect coffees and chocolate bars, more than long enough for Dennis and Debbie to rehash their grievances and move on. By the time I got back, they were discussing what A levels Christie was planning on taking. ‘She should be sticking with her sciences,’ Dennis insisted forcefully. ‘She wants to get herself qualified as a doctor or a vet or a dentist. People and animals are always going to get sick, that’s the only thing that’s
So Strangeways has got a gym, satellite TV and a variety of other distractions. It’s the kind of regime that has the rabid right-wingers foaming at the mouth about holiday camps for villains. Me, I’ve never been on a holiday where they lock you in your room at night, don’t let you see your friends and family whenever you want to and never let you go shopping. Whatever else Strangeways is, a holiday camp it ain’t. Most of the loudmouths who complain would be screaming for their mothers within twenty-four hours of being banged up in there. Just visiting is more than enough for me, even though one of the benefits of the rebuilding programme is the Visitors’ Centre. In the bad old days, visitors were treated so atrociously they felt like they were criminals too. It’s no wonder that a lot of men told their wives not to bring the kids to visit. It was easier to deal with the pain of missing them than to put them through the experience.
Now, they actually treat visitors like members of the human race. Debbie and I arrived with ten minutes to spare, and there wasn’t even a queue to check in. We found a couple of seats among the other visitors, mostly women and children. These days, a Visiting Order covers up to three adults, and small children don’t count. With every prisoner entitled to a weekly visit, it doesn’t take long for a crowd to build up. Nevertheless, we didn’t have to hang around for long. Five minutes before our visit time, we were escorted into the prison proper, our bags were searched by a strapping blonde woman prison officer who looked like a Valkyrie on her day off from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Then we were led through anonymous corridors and upstairs to the Visitors’ Hall, a large, clean room with views across the city from its long windows. With its off-white walls, vending machines, no-smoking rule, tables laid out across the room and tense atmosphere, it was like a church hall ready for a whist tournament.
We found Dennis sitting back in his chair, legs stretched in front of him. As we sat down, he smiled. ‘Great to see you both,’ he said. ‘Business must be slack for you to take the afternoon off, Kate.’
‘Christie’s got a cross-country trial,’ Debbie said. ‘Kate didn’t want me coming in here on my own.’ There was less bitterness in her voice than there would have been in mine in the same circumstances.
‘I’m sorry, doll,’ Dennis said, shifting in his seat and leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on Debbie with all the appeal of a puppy dog. But Debbie knew only too well what that cute pup had grown into, and she wasn’t melting.
‘Sorry doesn’t make it to parents’ night, does it?’ Debbie said.
Dennis looked away. ‘No. But you’re better off than most of this lot,’ he added, gesturing round the room with his thumb. ‘Look at them. Scruffy kids, market-stall wardrobes, you know they’re living in shitholes. Half of them are on the game or on drugs. At least I leave you with money in the bank.’
Debbie shook her head, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Haven’t you got it through your thick head yet that me and the kids wouldn’t mind going without as long as we’d got you in the house?’
Time for me not to be here. I stood up and took the orders for the vending machines. There were enough kids milling around for it to take me a good ten minutes to collect coffees and chocolate bars, more than long enough for Dennis and Debbie to rehash their grievances and move on. By the time I got back, they were discussing what A levels Christie was planning on taking. ‘She should be sticking with her sciences,’ Dennis insisted forcefully. ‘She wants to get herself qualified as a doctor or a vet or a dentist. People and animals are always going to get sick, that’s the only thing that’s
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