I watched as they disappeared from view and then got back into my car and drove slowly back to work. I had other patients to see.
November 2004
HMP Huntercombe
I remembered those nerve-racking steps towards Jonathan and Jenny’s house, as I walked towards the entrance of HMP Huntercombe. My heart was pounding just as much, my palms moist with anticipation as to what was around the corner.
And then suddenly, just as it had all those years ago, courage kicked in.
I straightened my back and walked on with confidence and purpose.
It was daunting but exciting. I was reinventing myself.
My thoughts were broken by the noise of a large white van rolling up to the prison gates. It had the distinctive tiny blacked-out windows running along the sides, the ones the paparazzi try to reach their cameras up to when high-profile prisoners leave court. I wondered who was inside it.
As the huge metal gates opened, I was able to get a brief glimpse of what lay on the other side. A concrete yard, some more fencing, half a dozen prison officers . . . and then it all vanished from view as the gates slammed shut.
The intimidating façade of the prison wall, with its barbed wire twisting over the top, was a stark reminder of what life held in store for those being dropped off.
I arrived at the gatehouse, where a thick glass screen separated me from the officers who kept a close eye on the monitors to see who was coming and going.
It was like being at passport control at the airport, slowly being given the once-over.
‘What’s your name?’ asked a small stocky man with a thick Essex accent.
‘Doctor Amanda Brown,’ I replied, loudly, just in case he might not hear me through the thick glass screen.
‘Have you got your ID with you?’
I pulled out my passport and driver’s licence from my bag, and passed them through the hatch that he clicked open.
There was a long pause as he checked my ID, and then I heard the rumble of a big heavy metal door sliding open.
I stepped forward, taking another half-step to make sure the monstrous door didn’t clip me as it closed.
I was now on the other side, standing in a narrow corridor. An officer spoke through another glass screen, and told me that someone from Healthcare would come along soon to meet me. I moved along the corridor slightly, to a small room lined from floor to ceiling with lockers. This, presumably, would be where my belongings would be stored, the things I could take inside being limited for safety reasons. Straightaway, a reminder of what I was facing: a job where the contents of my pockets could get someone killed unless I was careful.
The head of Healthcare arrived, greeting me with a friendly smile and a handshake. I hadn’t seen Dawn Kendall since my interview, six months previously – the process of getting security clearance and having contracts drawn up for the job had taken that long.
She had a clipboard in one hand and a large set of keys in the other, which clinked as she rolled them between her fingers. She looked like she meant business, with her black trouser suit and white blouse.
I was given a locker in which to store my phone, bag and coat, then she unlocked another large solid metal door, and I followed her through. That was locked behind us, the sound heavy and horribly final. A large metal gate followed; again keys jangled, locks turned. Then – finally – we were in the prison grounds.
‘Once you have your key training you’ll be able to do this yourself.’
She turned around and grinned at me. ‘But for now, you’re stuck with me escorting you.’
I’d liked Dawn from the moment I met her. She was a large lady with a big personality to match. I got the sense she wanted to mother the boys because, somewhere, deep down, I’m sure she felt sorry for them.
I believed that most of the staff genuinely wanted to make a difference, and I hoped I was also going to be able to.
We walked across the courtyard, then through another metal door and another gate, and finally we were in the Healthcare department of the prison.
The walls were brightly coloured and there were a variety of drawings and paintings stuck on them. ‘All done by the boys,’ Dawn proudly announced.
She walked briskly ahead, filling me in on some facts that belied the innocent-looking appearance of the place.
‘Huntercombe is home to 360 of the country’s most troubled teenagers. Sadly, many of the kids inside here have come from troubled families. Violence is all they’ve known.’
We turned a corner and I skipped to keep up.
‘The UK has the most juveniles locked up behind bars in Europe. This age group, 15–18-year-olds, has the worst reoffending rate of all: 82 percent are likely to commit another crime within two years of being released.
‘You’re not shocked easily are you, Amanda?’ she asked as she unlocked the door to the clinical room.
I shook my head.
‘Good, because these boys can be rude, they can be aggressive, particularly when they don’t get the medication they want.
‘Some of them will have had drug addictions, and will want you to prescribe them strong painkillers and sleeping pills. These need to be avoided at all costs; they’re highly addictive and can sometimes be used as currency, to trade for cigarettes or items of clothing. Some of the boys can also be bullied, attacked for them. Drugs are a commodity here; we need to be careful.’
In the twenty years I’d worked as a GP I’d only looked after one patient who was addicted to any medication. My experience wasn’t going to be much use to me. I had so much to learn.
The Healthcare department was where the prison GPs ran their clinics, alongside other healthcare professionals, including the dentist, psychiatrist, optician and GUM consultant – a doctor specialising in sexual health.
Dawn informed me that there were a lot of self-harmers in Huntercombe, and to prepare myself for seeing some horrific scars and shocking wounds.
She sighed. ‘It’s very sad, but often it’s an outlet for these boys. They are lonely, depressed, some just want to die. They turn to self-harming as a way of offsetting the pain and stress they’re feeling inside their heads.
‘A lot of these lads don’t want anyone to see their wounds, or the scars from cigarette burns, the scalds made with boiling water.’
I felt a huge pang of pity. It was awful to think boys the same age as my sons felt so desperate and helpless that they needed to self-harm in such a way. No one should suffer like that.
Again, I hadn’t seen many patients who self-harmed while I worked at my surgery. More to learn.
I wouldn’t be dealing directly with mental-health issues; they would be handled by the psychiatrist. However, I might have to tend to their wounds, particularly if they had become infected and needed antibiotics. I might also have to represcribe antidepressants if the psychiatrist wasn’t in.
I had been expecting to deal with the common complaints that teenagers usually present with, such as acne, asthma, skin infections and rashes, etc – conditions I’d seen hundreds of times over the years in my old practice. But now the type of patient would be very different.
A couple of nurses were popping in and out of rooms along the corridor, and Dawn called them over to introduce me. I was given a lovely warm welcome by both.