One of the prison officers, Ed, needed my help.
He’d phoned the doctor’s office asking me to come to the Seg immediately.
As I arrived, he was pacing around, looking anxious and angry. From the way he was behaving it clearly wasn’t a Code Red or a Code Blue crisis, but nevertheless something serious had happened.
‘Thanks for coming so quick, Doc,’ he said.
I peered up the metal stairwell to the cells above.
‘Where do I need to go?’ I placed my foot on the first step.
Ed stopped me in my tracks.
‘Not up there, Doc, we need you in the obs room.’
The observation room was reserved for prisoners who needed to be watched twenty-four hours a day on CCTV. There was nothing in the room at all.
Ed grimaced. ‘Prepare yourself.’
I followed behind him, dreading what I might be about to see.
The door to the cell was open and I could see the backs of several officers crammed inside.
‘So,’ said Ed. ‘This idiot has gone and stuffed some razor blades up his arse!’
I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. ‘Sorry, what?’
Ed explained that it wasn’t as unusual as I might have thought. The prisoner was using the razors as a last-ditch attempt to prevent being transferred to another prison.
‘By stuffing razors up his arse, he’s effectively concealing a weapon, which he could then attack staff or inmates with. The other prison will refuse to take him if he’s armed.’
I was speechless. The lengths that some of the prisoners went to was incredible. Prisoners might resist a transfer for a variety of reasons, such as not wanting to be moved far from their family, making it more difficult for them to visit. They may have enemies in the other prison, or possibly owe money to people there that they cannot repay. Some, on the other hand, may be dealing drugs and be owed money in the Scrubs.
This case must have been something along those lines, for the prisoner to have taken such extreme measures.
‘Has he wrapped them in anything? Clingfilm?’
I hoped so, otherwise he could be bleeding internally.
‘He won’t say’.
I asked Ed if he had any spare surgical gloves. I’d used my last pair on a prisoner in E Wing, and hadn’t had a chance to grab more. He disappeared inside his office then re-emerged with a large pair of black plastic gloves that looked a bit like gardening gloves. They would have to do. I’d tried to find some in the tiny Seg doctor’s office, but there weren’t any. I did, however, find a roll of disposable white plastic aprons. I pulled one off, tied it around my waist, and put on the gloves Ed had found.
In the observation room, the prisoner was kicking off again. The three officers inside were wearing restraint uniform – which looked like riot gear; thick black overalls and a black helmet with a visor to protect their faces.
A deep voice shouted, ‘I’m staying here! I’m not fucking moving to that hell-hole! Try and make me and I’ll fucking sock you one.’
Ed was having none of it. It was easy to tell why he was in charge of the Seg; no one messed with him.
‘Shut it!’ he shouted.
There was a foul smell in the small room. Their shouts bounced off the walls, becoming deafening.
‘Don’t kick me!’ the prisoner shouted.
Ed sighed. ‘No one’s going to kick you, Clarke. The Doc’s here; she’s come to take the razor blades out of yer arse. Don’t want you bleeding to death, do we?’
The prison officers parted, revealing a scrawny little man, writhing around on the floor like a worm. He was white, around 35 years of age, with tattoo sleeves on both arms.
He glanced up at me, standing in the doorway wearing an apron and two oversized black gloves. He suddenly froze with sheer horror. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘I’ll take them out myself!’
Thank God for that, I thought (not that I’d have been permitted to do a rectal examination without his consent).
I flashed Ed a relieved look as I pulled the gloves off, the latex making a snapping noise as it left my skin.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got somewhere you’d rather be,’ he joked as I headed for the exit.
*
As it was lunch time, I returned to the doctors’ office. Zaid, one of the other locum doctors, was there, looking as stressed as I felt.
‘I need a cigarette!’ he said. ‘Fancy keeping me company?’
‘Definitely!’
We took it in turns to unlock our path to the courtyard outside Reception.
It was wonderful to be greeted by sunshine. I closed my eyes, craned my neck to the sky and bathed in the summer warmth, lapping up the fresh breeze.
‘Not here, AB.’ Zaid interrupted my moment of escapism. His nickname for me was my initials.
He took a left, leading me alongside A Wing. The narrow strip of land between the prison and its formidable walls reminded me of a wasteland in an apocalyptic film. Strewn with rubbish it was hardly a scenic view, but it was the best the Scrubs could offer.
Zaid reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He tugged one out of the box with his mouth, and cupped his hand around the end as he lit it.
We stood there in silence as he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, his face a picture of contentment.
Finally, he spoke. ‘So how bad has your day been so far?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I had to go to the Seg to see someone who had shoved razor blades up his arse.’
Zaid didn’t seem the least surprised. He glanced at me sidewise, blowing a ribbon of smoke into the air.
‘One of those,’ he said, also rolling his eyes.
‘How about you?’ I asked.
‘I had to attend a resuscitation on D Wing,’ Zaid replied. ‘Guy tried to hang himself. Didn’t succeed. And then I had to see someone who self-harmed by swallowing a couple of batteries.’
We were both silent again for a moment.
It was a world away from the lunch-break conversations I’d had back at my old practice. I’d probably have been discussing the latest HRT medication, or new NICE guidelines.
Zaid broke into a smile, showing off his perfectly white teeth. ‘While we’re out here, come and look at this,’ he said, beckoning me further into the wasteland.
‘It’s my favourite pastime,’ he said as we stepped over the piles of rubbish.
There was a huge mound of earth, half a dozen rats whizzing in and out of it. They didn’t even blink at our presence.
‘Wow!’ I said.
Zaid took a drag on his cigarette. We were both mesmerised by the sight of them scuttling to and fro. Most people would go somewhere nice on their lunch break. There we were, staring at vermin.
Zaid threw his stub onto the ground, crushing it out under his shoe.
‘Seen this?’ he said as we made our way back to the entrance gates. He pointed to a sign on the wall which I hadn’t noticed before. In big red letters it said: DON’T APPROACH OR FEED THE FERAL CATS.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They’ve brought in wild cats to try and catch the rats, but they don’t seem to be too good at it!’
When he’d gone I stood for a few more minutes in the sunshine. Then unlocked the gates and went back to work.