The alarm rang like a drill through my ears while Jane continued to scream. The noise was unbearable.
‘Get her out of here!’ I ordered. Carrie stared daggers at me with those dark piercing eyes of hers. She was a big woman, thickset, and she looked mean – you know the way some people can? There was no expression in her eyes, they were cold and penetrating.
She wriggled and raged as they carted her off to the segregation unit for solitary confinement punishment, furious at me for cutting her vigilantism short. Meanwhile, Jane was sobbing her eyes out as she was taken off by the nurses to get stitched up, leaving a trail of blood in her wake.
I feel my stomach make an unpleasant somersault as I remember the gruesome sight. The smell. Everything about that horrific memory hitting me hard. I’m a nightmare around blood; just the smallest drop makes me feel queasy. I put down my spoon and grip the edge of the counter, taking a deep breath in and a long exhale out, blowing away the past.
Most days it feels like a lifetime ago. But sometimes, often in the most innocuous of moments, my past creeps up on me. Dragging me back behind those twelve-foot-high walls. It’s inevitable really, considering I spent twenty-seven years in the prison service. Most of the time I’m Vanessa, but occasionally I’m Frake again. Or Frakey, or simply gov.
Today, I bake cakes and pastries to rival Mary Berry’s, if I do say so myself. I say that with a twinkle in my eye of course. Back in the day, I was Governor of Security and Operations for HMP Wormwood Scrubs. Ahead of you lies the story of my journey from A to B. If you’re easily shocked or offended, you best look away now.
Chapter 1
HMP Wormwood Scrubs: March 2002
I guess it would be fair to say I started my first day at one of Britain’s most notorious men’s prisons feeling bitter.
There was a staff shortage, so me and another female senior officer had been transferred. That’s the way things went in the prison service and there was nothing I could do about it. We’d had just the weekend to prepare after someone from HMP Holloway turned up on my doorstep with a letter. A bit like what you see in the movies, when someone gets ‘served’ with their court papers.
The woman thrust the envelope at me with an outstretched hand and I just glared at her, knowing full well it was bad news. I have a sixth sense for knowing what’s coming. You’ll get to know that about me the more you hear of my story.
‘Just tell me what it says,’ I said, not wanting to bother with the ceremony of opening it.
‘You’re moving to Wormwood Scrubs.’
My stomach clenched. ‘Alright. Fine.’ I drew on all my strength to hide my emotions. ‘When?’
‘Monday.’
Monday?! You’re having a giraffe!
‘Great, thanks,’ I replied, tight-lipped. I closed the door, my heart sinking, my resolve melting to form pure undiluted anger.
I never did open the letter. I binned it. Like I say, bitter. I’d given that women’s prison sixteen years of my life and, just like that, they wrenched me from everything I’d known and shoved me into a world I’d deliberately avoided. A men’s prison.
I barely said a word to Sarah as she drove us through London rush-hour traffic to our new life. My thoughts were churning, mainly with dread.
HMP Wormwood Scrubs’ reputation preceded it. Built in the Victoria era it was one of the oldest prisons in the UK. Dirty, rat-infested, rundown, with a serious drug problem. You get to hear all the stories working in the industry. ‘A prison that continues to fall short of expected standards,’ if you prefer the more diplomatic description used by the chief inspector of prisons. On the tier system, it was ranked three, teetering on two. Four being the best. One being the worst. You get the idea.
Aside from being grubby, it was also one of the largest prisons in the UK, locking up 1,237 prisoners compared to the 400 to 500 we had at Holloway. ‘The Scrubs’, as it was better known, was just as famous for its list of well-known convicts. From Moors murderer Ian Brady to the Yorkshire Ripper Peter Sutcliffe; Leslie Grantham, better known as Dirty Den off EastEnders, Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards, ‘Britain’s most violent prisoner’ Charles Bronson; George Blake, the British spy who betrayed M16 agents to the KGB. They’d all done time there. Rather fittingly, Wormwood Scrubs meant ‘snake-infested woodland’ in Old English.
Being in central London, right next to Wormwood Scrubs Common in Shepherd’s Bush, it was situated in spitting distance of the city’s magistrates and crown courts, which is why it was mainly used as a remand prison. In fact, as many as 80 per cent of the prisoners in the Scrubs were awaiting sentencing. Remand prisoners bring a whole set of problems on their own compared to convicted criminals, but more of that later.
In a nutshell, I’d been sent to an absolute hole full of lairy men who’d been accused of everything from murder to rape to plotting to blow up our country. It was a category B prison, so some of the most serious of crimes.
What they’d done didn’t bother me though – I’d met all sorts working at Holloway, from serial killers to child murderers to IRA members. I’d had the Angel of Death, Beverley Allitt, on my wing. She’d murdered four babies and attempted to kill nine more through insulin or potassium overdoses while working as a hospital nurse in Lincolnshire. Doesn’t get more grim that that. So no, I wasn’t intimidated by their crimes. It was more about what they were – men.
Even though I was what you might call a sturdy woman at five foot nine inches tall, I wouldn’t stand a bleedin’ chance against some six-foot-six bloke built like a brick shithouse, who had the added strength of ten men thanks to a drugs rush he’d just got from contraband smuggled into the prison. What if things kicked off, which they inevitably would being a prison, and I got attacked? Would I be able to put them in their place? No doubt I was going to be in a minority among the staff. Would I enjoy working alongside male colleagues? Would they respect me? I was stepping into a man’s world and I was panicking whether I had the balls to handle it.
Giving up wasn’t an option, though. This was my career, I’d chosen to do it, and I wasn’t quitting for anyone.
I wound down the window so I could have another fag. That made four already. I’d been puffing away like a trooper, and on an empty stomach. My insides were digesting themselves.
Sarah slammed on the brakes as yet another plonker stepped out in front of us. It had been stop-start the whole way so far. That was something I’d also have to get used to – the commute. I’d been lucky enough to avoid London traffic up until now thanks to my flat being a five-minute walk from Holloway. The two-bed had been given to me as part of my training scheme when I joined the prison service. I wasn’t giving that up, why should I? Anger, that’s what I was feeling now as I inhaled deeply on my cigarette. I was angry and bitter.
We were on the final stretch. Du Cane Road, Hammersmith Hospital on our right. Less than a hundred yards more and there it was – the gatehouse. The main entrance to the Scrubs. I don’t think there is anyone in the country who wouldn’t recognise those iconic towers. Formidable. Steeped in history. Used in countless films and TV shows. The gateway to our future. I felt queasy.
We pulled up in the staff car park and made our way along the gravelly track. Still barely saying a word to each other. The crunch of the stones underneath our black shoes filled the silence.
I