A Fair Cop. Michael Bunting
seemed so intent on what they were doing, clutching their empty lunch boxes and pacing to their cars to go home and get on with their lives. Again, I felt abandoned. No one seemed bothered about me. Why should they be? When the doors eventually opened, I was horrified by what I saw. There were about fifteen prison officers standing around. Some stood with their hands in their pockets whilst others casually smoked cigarettes. Several others swung large bunches of keys on long chains around their fingers, just as the Group 4 officer had done with the handcuffs.
‘They always fucking keep us waiting here,’ said the driver, indicating his distaste for the prison officers. There had always been an antagonistic relationship between the Group 4 officers and the staff at Armley Prison. I didn’t know why.
One of the officers approached the driver’s window. ‘Who’ve we got here then?’ he asked.
‘Ummm what’s his name, lads?’ asked the driver to the officers sitting either side of me.
‘Bunting,’ came the reply.
‘Bunting,’ said the driver to the prison officer.
‘Okay. You’ll be in, in a minute,’ said the prison officer. He seemed to enjoy his power of being able to keep the Group 4 men waiting, but sure enough, after a couple of minutes the shutter finally began to open slowly. We entered the prisoner reception yard, which was about the size of a football pitch and surrounded by high walls, which led to the main building where all the wings were. There was a door in the far corner.
The driver took us towards it and parked. He turned off the engine. ‘Bloody useless. Where are they now?’ he shouted. With this, the officer who I was handcuffed to began to escort me out of the car.
‘Get him back in,’ came a bellowing voice from inside the building. ‘Bloody well get him back in. He’s a fucking v.o.’ (A v.o. is a violent offender.) At this moment, a prison officer charged out of the building with a German Shepherd dog on a lead. He approached the car. ‘For God’s sake,’ said the driver, ‘I think they’re expecting bother from you, kid.’
The dog jumped up at the side of the car and left damp patches on the window where it had pressed its nose against the glass. It opened its mouth and displayed a jaw full of lethal looking teeth. I cowered away like a child, pulling the officer with me, until we were allowed out.
As I alighted, the prison officer gave the lead more slack and so the dog was able to come right up to me. It frantically sniffed my leg. I was scared and knew that if I made a sudden movement, the innocent sniffing would turn into something a lot more sinister. I felt resentment towards this officer; I was to have similar feelings again.
He marched me to the prisoner reception door and unlocked the handcuffs. Both of the Group 4 officers shook my hand and wished me well. It was brief, but emotional. I found it emotional, anyway. I suspected that the prison officers weren’t going to be quite so understanding. I was placed into yet another holding cell, as there were about six or seven other prisoners waiting to be booked in. This cell shocked me just like the Crown Court cell had, except this one made the one at court seem like a room at the Hilton. There were puddles of urine all over the floor and I had to pull my jacket over my face in order to breathe without wanting to vomit, due to the stench. The familiar writing on the walls was also present in abundance. The prisoners outside my cell sounded rowdy and aggressive. My being placed into the holding cell so quickly must have been unusual, as I heard two or three asking whether or not I was a beast (a prison term for paedophile or rapist). Beasts are very vulnerable when inside, as other prisoners see it as their duty to give out their own form of punishment, usually in the form of violence. I would rather the prisoners knew I was a policeman than for them to think I was a beast. Neither option was ideal, but in prisoners’ eyes, there is nothing worse than a beast.
Fortunately, the questions soon passed and the other prisoners’ initial interest in me subsided, as a prison officer tried to combat the rowdy behaviour by threatening the prisoners with a ‘nicking’ or a reduction to basic status. This was followed with a chorus of ‘Sorry, boss,’ from the prisoners. Losing standard status in prison to basic status is a massive punishment to any person in custody.
There are four different statuses in prison: basic, standard, enhanced and super-enhanced. The privileges a person receives whilst they are serving their sentence are related to their status. For example, someone with super-enhanced status may get a paying job in prison and therefore will spend much of the day outside their cell. They have more money to spend on food, cigarettes, and phone cards. Super-enhanced prisoners can even get a television in their cell. Basic prisoners, on the other hand, get nothing other than the statutory one-hour exercise period each day and the bare minimum to spend on luxuries. Basic status is avoided at all costs and therefore encourages good behaviour in prison. Every prisoner enters with standard status and, following a minimum of four months good behaviour, he can then be offered enhanced status and eventually super-enhanced.
I continued to look around the cell. It was lit only by a small amount of light which penetrated the filthy window at the top of the far wall. These walls had never been decorated. They were bare brick and appeared damp. The light on the ceiling had been ripped off, despite a once-present protective metal cage. The bench was completely covered with cigarette burns, so I didn’t sit down. Saliva dripped down the walls. I was now living with the animals I had dealt with in the years I had been a policeman.
I was hit by nausea and I felt involuntary contractions of my stomach begin to take hold. This time I was going to vomit. I banged on the cell door with the side of a clenched fist in the hope that I would attract the attention of a prison officer. I wouldn’t have made the cell any dirtier if I had vomited on the floor, but I didn’t wish to add to its sordid state.
A prison officer opened the door. ‘What?’ he shouted.
I must have looked as ill as I felt, because he immediately pointed down the corridor to the nearest toilet. I managed to get there just in time. I was violently sick for several minutes. I looked round for something to wipe my mouth on, but there was nothing, not even any toilet roll, so I used the sleeve of my suit. My legs felt shaky as I walked towards the desk where the prisoners were being booked in. I was told to wait, as it was my turn next.
The last remaining prisoner looked hard-featured. He was stocky and had a mass of tattoos all over him, including a picture of a dagger stabbing into his neck with blood dripping from the blade. He intimidated me just by his appearance. I dared not think of why he was in prison. I was trembling uncontrollably. It was cold and I already felt weak and I added to the stench of the place with the remnants of vomit on my jacket. The man stared at me, ignoring questions from the prison officer at the desk. He looked disgusted by my presence.
He took a pace towards me, meaning we were about an arm’s length apart. His eyes were piercing. He breathed rapidly through his mouth, making a panting noise as he did so. He smelt of alcohol. He screwed his face up in another look of disgust and edged even closer. He began making noises with his mouth as if he was accumulating saliva. Before I had chance to retreat, he spat in my face, and phlegm landed right on my cheek. I immediately began to wipe it off with the vomit-ridden sleeve. The officers made no reaction; in fact, they stopped asking him questions as if they were happy to let him do as he pleased. I looked towards the one behind the desk and, using facial gestures, expressed my bewilderment at the situation. The officer looked wary. I was completely baffled by what was happening, as it seemed like the man had taken control of the area he was occupying. Just as I finished wiping my face, he spat again, this time towards my feet. He opened his mouth and, with a flick of his tongue, removed his top set of teeth. I stepped back. As I did this, he raised his arm and with a swift movement punched me in the face, causing an immediate popping sensation in my nose. He laughed in my face. I felt a salty taste in the back of my throat and blood started to pour from my nostrils. I stumbled back, too scared to react other than to put my hands in a defensive position over my face. The man laughed again and said something under his breath, I don’t know what, then he turned away and walked off. With no fuss, a prison officer quietly led him away.
I bent over at the waist to prevent the blood getting onto my shirt. It dripped onto the floor