It was a sorry sight, watching the new prisoners arrive at the Scrubs, dragging their large see-through plastic bags filled with all their possessions.
Sitting in the doctor’s room in Reception, I could hear the bags sweeping along the corridor outside. They shuffled into the large holding cell opposite, the heavy sound of the door locking behind them. There, they’d wait to be screened by the nurses. The diversity of people coming from the Crown and magistrates’ courts into prison varied enormously. It was like the A&E department of a hospital. I didn’t know who was coming through those doors, nor what state they would be arriving in. I had to brace myself for everything. It could be rude, aggressive men, who were withdrawing from drugs and alcohol, many of whom were frequent attenders, or people who had never been in prison before, who could be nervous and shell-shocked. People from all ethnicities and walks of life, from wealthy, high-profile people to the homeless. Many of them shared the same shock and horror of being in prison – apart from some of the homeless men, who were happy to be in prison, just so that they would have food and shelter. The majority however, were very anxious. Occasionally some of them broke down and cried when they sat with me, knowing they were out of sight of the other men.
The new arrivals were screened by the nurses first, and there were usually two, sometimes three working the evening shift.
At 8 p.m. everyone had to move from Reception on the ground floor, to the First Night Centre on the fourth floor, to continue screening the new arrivals. So, along with everyone else that evening, I went up to the FNC until my shift finished at 10 p.m.
As usual, I had no idea what crimes the prisoners had committed, though the nurses would let me know, should the prisoner be accused of something particularly savage: murder, or a crime of extreme violence, as these prisoners would also need referring for a mental-health assessment.
I was warned about Azar by my dear friend Haj – one of the nurses – not because of the nature of his crime but because he was clearly in shock at being in custody.
I was reading through the Dubai man’s notes when he was shown in.
I was a little taken aback by his presence. Despite being very unsure of his surroundings, the young man still carried himself with grace and elegance. He was tall, slim, with striking looks. I could immediately tell he came from money by the quality of his clothes. He was wearing a cashmere jumper and perfectly pressed chinos. His shoes looked of the finest quality leather.
His voice was soft and educated. ‘Shall I sit here?’ He pointed to the plastic chair adjacent to my desk.
His big brown eyes were wide, like a rabbit caught in headlights.
I smiled. ‘Yes, come and sit down.’
I’d been warned that I should always leave my door open, and be the one sitting closest to it. That way I could escape quickly if I ever needed to. On the wall to my left was a big red alarm button in case of an emergency.
The room was small but clean. The thick, cloying smell of detergent hung in the air, a precursor to the cells the prisoners would be moved to next.
Azar looked around, nervously.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he said trembling.
‘Are you okay?’
He started shaking his head in disbelief.
‘What am I doing here? I shouldn’t be here!’
At that moment there was an almighty crash outside my room, followed by shouting and an ear-piercing scream.
‘Get off me, get the fuck off me!’
Azar froze as he watched a man being dragged along the corridor by three burly officers, his legs kicking in all directions, his T-shirt yanked up around his neck, exposing his pale hairy body.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Azar whispered.
I wished I could close my door to drown out the drama, to keep him calm, but I knew that wouldn’t have been a good idea.
Instead, I offered him the only thing I had to hand – my reassurance.
‘You’ll be okay, try not to panic,’ I said.
Prisoners who were withdrawing from drugs, or who were on long-term medication for something like HIV, hypertension, or mental-health problems, would be given priority, as they would need to be seen before the end of the shift, so that their essential medication could be written up. I had the challenge of filling in the gaps until the prisoners’ medical records were faxed through to the Scrubs, which usually took around twenty-four hours. That is, if they were registered with a surgery. Many of the homeless men were not.
From the notes that Haj had quickly made, I knew Azar was a diabetic on insulin. I didn’t have much time, and I needed to get his medication sorted before he was shown to his cell.
‘I’m going to be seeing a lot of you,’ I smiled. ‘The prison is very strict about not allowing inmates to administer their own injections.’
Azar looked even more horrified and panic-stricken, if that were possible.
‘But don’t worry, you will eventually have an in-possession risk assessment, and you will then be able to self-medicate and keep all your medication in your room. But initially the nurses have to administer it for you.’
I went on to explain that all medication, except creams for any skin condition, and inhalers, had to be given out by the nurses on the wing until it was clear that a prisoner was going to take his medication regularly and reliably, and also that they were not at risk of overdose, nor of using the needles to attack another prisoner.
All colour had now drained from his face.
Azar suddenly stood up, only to wobble and fall back down into his chair.
‘I know this must all seem very frightening, but you will be well looked after, I’ll make sure your diabetes is under control,’ I promised.
It must have been so shocking to be suddenly wrenched from his life of luxury and detained in custody. And then to be told that, on top of that, he no longer had control over his illness and medication. He must have been terrified; his world turned upside down.
I tried to keep him talking, to take his thoughts away from the brutal reality of the situation.
I looked him in the eye. ‘Azar, you will be okay. Are you here on remand?’
He lifted his gaze.
‘Twelve months on remand, but I might be extradited.’ He quickly added, ‘But I didn’t do it.’
‘It’s okay, you don’t need to tell me, I’m here to help you, not judge you. I don’t have access to your prison records, just the medical ones, and that’s the way I like it,’ I explained.
‘But I want you to know, they are accusing me of fraud but I’m innocent.’
That catchphrase ‘everyone is innocent in jail’ was now ringing in my ears.
‘Any history of mental illness?’ I continued.
‘No.’ He shook his head.
I softened my voice. ‘Any history of self-harm? Do you feel like you might want to hurt yourself?’
He shook his head again. His perfectly styled black hair falling back into place each time.
Silence filled the room as I completed my entry on the computer. The medical records had recently been computerised, and I was still feeling my way around the system. Azar’s eyes were transfixed on my hands, tapping away at the keyboard with my embarrassing one-finger-typing skills.
I was coming to the end of my shift, but despite feeling tired I wanted to find out more about Azar. He was clearly struggling so much to come to terms with being in prison.
‘Do you have any family who you can turn to?’ I asked.
He sighed deeply.
‘I have a beautiful girlfriend. I have a loving family. I have a mother . . .’ His voice faltered, trembling. ‘I have a mother who is very disappointed in me. She thinks I’m guilty. She says she can’t understand why I would have committed fraud, when we have so much money already.’
He was on the edge of tears as he looked up at the small barred window, and stared out of it, no doubt imagining the freedom on the other side.
He then turned to me. ‘I’m from a very wealthy family, you see. We have companies and properties all over the world.’
Which was just as I had predicted. I suspected his crime must have been fairly serious, bad enough to warrant being refused bail – he would have had enough money to have paid for it otherwise.
‘Well, hopefully they will come and visit you soon,’ I said.
Azar nodded.
‘I’m not sure if I can face my mother. When she makes up her mind about something, it’s very difficult to persuade her otherwise.’
I nodded.
‘I can’t bear the thought of being without Jazmin.’ His voice cracked again.
‘Your girlfriend?’
‘She’s so beautiful!’ he exclaimed, reaching into his bag for what I assumed was her picture.
Just as he was pulling out a little bundle of photographs, the officer in charge poked his head into my room.
‘We got an emergency, Doc, someone you got to see.’
I looked at Azar apologetically as the officer ordered him out of the seat.
‘Move it!’ he said, gruffly. He was one of the three burly officers who had restrained the noisy guy earlier.
Azar looked panicky.
‘It’s going to be okay. Deep breaths if you feel overwhelmed,’ I said as he was being led away. He looked back at me.
And with that he disappeared. But I knew that, because of his diabetes and the length of time he was on remand, I would most likely be seeing a lot more of him, which pleased me as I’d warmed to him.