A Prison Story
Even at night, a prison is never truly silent. As you sit in your cramped little office, counting the ever-expanding hours until morning, you’ll hear the staccato of coughing or a prisoner crying out in his sleep, a sudden alarm announcing an overdose, and the whirr of CCTV. On some nights, you’ll welcome the temporary illusion of quietness as if the prison has merged into a single sleeping giant, and you are only the person awake in the world. But on other nights, without really knowing why, the atmosphere becomes oppressive and foreboding. I met Roy Clarke on one of my first nights on the watch. He was older than the other officers, myself included. Still, he shared the same stocky physique of his colleagues - the widening midriff, a generous beard making up for the lack of hair on his head and a smattering of tattoos inked so long ago they had blurred into nothing. I think he must have noted my horrified expression as I first entered J Wing and thought I needed looking after....