One woman was screaming to the officer: ‘But I don’t wanna share a fucking cell. Last time I was in ’ere I was put in with a right wrong ’un. I ain’t sharing again. I got to ’ave a single cell.’
There were also happy shrieks and joyful whoops as girls were reunited with familiar faces from previous sentences. Also in the mix were a handful of girls who looked withdrawn, scared and bedraggled.
Some women were heading off to have a shower, clutching thin towels and small bottles of shower gel. There are showers within the Reception area along the main corridor, so once the women have checked their belongings in, many choose to have a wash, especially those who are homeless and may not have showered for days. Others were on the two phones, chatting noisily to their families and recounting the events of the day, whilst some girls queued patiently behind them, obviously desperate to speak with their families before they got locked up for the night. Several were walking to the toilets with small plastic pots, to provide urine samples, screening for infection, drugs, and if indicated, pregnancy.
Also milling up and down the corridor were peer support workers in blue T-shirts.
These are longer-term residents who help new arrivals find their feet and answer the many questions they may have about prison life. During their first few days in prison, residents are said to be at their most vulnerable, and are at high risk of self-harm. I smiled at one of the peer support workers, Amber, as I passed her. Petite, with dark features, she was always positive and upbeat. We often worked together in Reception and I loved her bright and warm company. She gave me a cheerful nod back as she guided a new arrival to one of the small interview rooms. Through the cacophony of noise, I could easily hear her talking with reassuring and soothing tones. This peer support can be invaluable in helping the women through the first few hours.
Some women were waiting in small holding areas to see the nurse or to go through paperwork. As I walked along, I could see another woman locked in a holding room, shouting at the top of her voice to be let out, and banging the door with her shoe, her dreadlocked hair sticking out in all directions and her eyes wild.
The noise ricocheted around me as the throbbing life of prison Reception played out its daily drama.
Scrolling down my list, I spotted a familiar name. Shannon was someone I’d grown to know well. Repeat offenders, sometimes called the ‘frequent flyers’ by prison staff, make up by far the majority of the women I meet. So much so that one of the questions on the medical template I go through when I see them is to ask when they were last released from prison. When Shannon came back into custody I was never surprised because she had been homeless for years. I was always glad to see her as I had grown to like and understand her. It was like meeting an old friend again and made my job so much more enjoyable. But every time she was released, I hoped I wouldn’t see her back again.
I looked into the waiting area and saw her sitting down with her head in her hands. Rather than jump up and greet me with her usual toothless grin and a ‘Hello, Doc!’ I could see she was agitated and crying. She was wearing a grubby blue tracksuit. I glimpsed the top of her head; her auburn hair was matted and greasy.
‘Shannon?’
She looked up and slumped back in her chair for a moment, a look of relief on her haggard and pock-marked face.
‘Come on,’ I said as I led her to my little room.
I shut the door and she gave me a hug as the various smells associated with living rough, like body odour, dirty feet, and foul breath, soon filled the air.
‘What’s happened? You’re never normally like this?’ I asked.
‘Doc… it’s good to see you. The judge… he said…’ She started sobbing. Messy and loud, snot-filled sobs. ‘He called me a worthless wretch.’
A worthless wretch, I thought, what an awful thing to say.
I was momentarily stunned by the language the judge had used. Judges can use their summary judgements to say what they like and whilst this is normally a standard administrative process, this judge had obviously made his personal views known. I couldn’t help but think about the vast gulf between the day-to-day lives of Shannon and the judge who had just sentenced her. Society and the judge might see Shannon as a useless criminal, but she didn’t see herself like that, and neither did I, because I understood the dreadful details of her life that inevitably had led Shannon to commit crime.
‘You are not worthless, and you are not a wretch,’ I told her firmly. ‘I really believe you can make something of your life. And I am sure you will, if you can get the help you need.’
I tore off a large piece of paper towel from the roll and passed it to her. She clutched it and wiped her dirty face. Shannon had substance misuse issues and I could already see the signs of withdrawal. Beads of sweat were visible on her forehead and she had goosebumps on her track-marked arms.
We started to go through the routine medical questions, though I knew Shannon’s medical history well. After all, this was the ninth time I had seen her in around two years.
‘Okay, let’s sort out your medication Shannon, so that you can go over to House Block One as soon as possible to get your methadone,’ I said.
Before my time in prison I had worked as a GP for twenty years in the community near where I live in Buckinghamshire, but had very rarely treated patients who had ever been involved with the criminal justice system. Like many others, the mainstream media soundbites meant that before I started to work in prisons, my opinion was condensed down into a narrative of ‘good people’ and ‘bad people’, with a clichéd list of ‘bad’ characters ranging from violent psychopath to petty criminal. The reality is far more complex.
Female offenders are some of the most vulnerable people within our society. Women make up just five per cent of the prison population in England and Wales, and the vast majority are imprisoned for non-violent offences, and are often sentenced for a matter of just weeks at a time. Many of them are caught in a vicious cycle of domestic violence, drug abuse and homelessness. Written off by society, they disappear into a world that most of us are oblivious to, of lost invisible souls who have no voice. I am now all too aware of the awful lives so many of them have to endure, as are many other people and organisations who work tirelessly to try to help in all sorts of different ways.
These are often brave, funny and kind women, who are trapped, and without hope so often of a better life, and they are at risk of being dismissed and vilified by society. They are human like us, and they face the same battles many of us do, yet their lives are just much harder.
There are many, many issues and obstacles in the way of them rehabilitating and breaking free of the way of life they are caught up in. Their lives are often desperate and can spiral into the most savage circumstances. Far too many of them are sleeping on the streets. If they are lucky, they may ‘sofa-surf’ with friends and family, but all too often they inevitably head back to the streets, having outstayed their invitation. The last time I had seen Shannon, she had been sleeping in a stairwell near Victoria station. She’d told me the day before her release that she was planning to return to her old spot and had given me a scrappy piece of paper with biro scrawl, which read ‘Elizabeth Bridge, Victoria.’
‘Come and try and find me, won’t you? When you’re next in London,’ she’d said, like any old friend inviting me round for a coffee. I wanted Shannon to hope for a better life for herself, however impossible it may seem given the shocking life she was living on the streets. In reality, her life was one of despair and hopelessness. Despair was sadly evident in so many of the people I had come to know through the course of my day-to-day work.
By far the majority of the women I see have experienced or continue to experience some kind of trauma. Many have