I walked confidently up to the door and nodded to Ed to give him the go ahead.
Bang. Bang. ‘Doc’s here,’ he announced.
‘Not interested,’ came the reply.
No doubt about it, it was definitely him. The harsh tone. The same loud voice, hoarse from cigarettes.
I had suspected it was him, as the shouting had come from his direction, but his reply had confirmed it.
The man in question was big, his clothes stretched, his bed creaking under him. He was serving life for murder, and was awaiting transfer to a Cat A prison. They’d put him on the Seg as he was deemed too dangerous to be anywhere else.
I had seen him on a few occasions, and he had always been relatively polite to me, which was why I felt doubly hurt by his tirade of abuse.
Ed turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
I glared at the prisoner.
‘Why did say you hoped I’d get run over by a bus last night?’ I asked.
I held his gaze, not looking away, determined not to be intimidated. As it was, he didn’t challenge me, his face immediately dropping to his chest, his words quiet.
‘That was you?’ he mumbled. ‘I’m so sorry, Doc, I didn’t know. I just shout out at anyone at night to relieve the boredom.’
He looked ashamed and a bit sheepish.
‘Well, it was really hurtful, but thank you for apologising,’ I said, inwardly feeling a huge sense of achievement for standing up for myself. I remembered the advice I’d received when I’d first started working at the Scrubs: to walk with confidence, to show authority. This was the same thing: not letting a prisoner walk all over me.
I softened slightly. ‘While I’m here, is there anything you need to see me about?’
‘No thanks,’ he said, still looking at the floor, clearly embarrassed.
‘Okay then, see you tomorrow.’
Ed slammed the cell door shut.
‘Feel better?’ he asked.
‘Much!’ I replied, grinning.
Five years in the Scrubs may have pushed me to the edge at times, but it had helped me to find my voice. I was beginning to feel more confident and assertive.
On the other hand, I certainly hadn’t become immune to seeing pain and suffering. I doubted I ever would. However tough I thought I had become, I couldn’t ever quite control my emotions when confronted by it.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so overwhelmed with pity as I did on one cold winter’s night in Reception.
I was just wrapping things up, getting ready to go upstairs to the FNC, when Haj popped his head around the door. There was a look on his face, something had clearly disturbed him.
‘I’ve got one more for you, Doc.’ He stepped inside my room, closing the door behind him. He lowered his voice.
‘Apparently, he sustained serious injuries after jumping out of a window on the third floor of a block of flats. He was trying to escape from the police. He’s in a wheelchair, and has just been discharged from hospital, so it would be easier to see him down here.’
‘OK,’ I said, switching my computer back on and entering my password. I was looking at my screen when Haj returned, pushing a man in a wheelchair.
I turned round and, to my horror, the injuries were far worse than I had anticipated. Both the prisoner’s legs had been amputated, with just two small stumps remaining.
The man, who was in his thirties, looked petrified. His eyes were as wide as saucers. His hands were trembling. Sheer panic was etched on his face. All I wanted to do was reach out and comfort him. But he couldn’t understand me as he didn’t speak a word of English.
I tried anyway, hoping my voice and smile could soothe him.
‘Please don’t be frightened,’ I said.
I looked down at his stumps, which were wrapped in bandages from the recent surgery. His injuries must have been extremely severe for him to have had his legs amputated just below hip level. They must have shattered to pieces in the fall.
His whole life had been turned upside down. He hadn’t just been stripped of his freedom, he also had to come to terms with the loss of both legs. I couldn’t imagine how terrified he must feel, being locked up in a vast, intimidating prison, unable to understand a word anyone was saying, or to tell anyone if he was in pain. Trying to absorb the reality of his horrific injuries must have been devastating.
Normally I would have phoned Language Line for an interpreter, but there wasn’t enough time. It was already 8 p.m. and the officers and the rest of the new inmates were being moved up to the FNC.
The details of the man’s full story would be sorted out the following morning with the help of the interpreting service. For that night, I just needed to make sure that he was safe, not in pain, and that someone would be on hand to help him with his physical needs, such as going to the toilet, and getting in and out of his bed. He would definitely need to be located in a disabled cell, but I was worried that there might not be one free, as there were only a few available. I phoned Healthcare but, unusually, there was no answer.
I was becoming increasingly concerned as, apart from one officer, Haj and I and the new inmate were the only people left in the dark and dingy Reception. I asked Haj to try to contact the duty governor, and while I waited I prescribed the same strong painkillers that the inmate had been given in hospital. I would not normally prescribe opiate-based analgesia, as they can be highly addictive and used as ‘currency’ within the prison, but this was obviously a special circumstance. The man was likely to be in a lot of pain for some time.
He sat there quietly, in his wheelchair, staring into space. I wished I could speak to him and break his trance, but I knew it was futile.
I heard footsteps outside and then a looming figure appeared in my doorway.
‘Doctor Brown.’
It was Shiny Shoes.
I stood up. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, there’s something I need to discuss with you.’
The governor nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘If you don’t mind?’ I indicated I’d rather continue the conversation out of earshot of the prisoner. He may not have been able to understand what we were saying, but a sense of respect, alone, made me uncomfortable discussing his needs in front of him.
An officer stepped in to man the door, while I walked to the end of the corridor with Shiny Shoes. I was feeling angry and frustrated that the inmate had been discharged from hospital to prison so late in the day, and with no advanced warning so that we could prepare a suitable cell for him.
His surgery was certainly far too recent for him to have had prosthetic limbs fitted, and he would need assistance with his daily care. I explained to Shiny Shoes that I could not get an answer from Healthcare, and needed his help to make sure that the prisoner would be located in a suitable cell.
Shiny Shoes rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He’d clearly had as draining a day as I had. He sighed deeply.
‘We definitely have to find a disabled cell for him. I’ll sort it out. Somehow.’
He could see that I was getting increasingly upset.
‘Doctor Brown,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t let it get to you.’
I said the only words that I could find, which to this day I still truly believe.
‘The day I lose compassion is the day I will stop working. I’m afraid it will always get to me.’
He smiled gently, and I knew he understood.
But of course he had the correct attitude for running a prison. These men were criminals who were being punished for their crimes, and he couldn’t afford to get sentimental. I understood that. But I would never be able to become like that. If I did, I would lose who I was as a person.
Shiny Shoes contacted Healthcare and managed to organise a suitable cell. Haj and the officer wheeled the inmate away.
‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ Shiny Shoes said. He checked his watch and his expression switched. His thoughts were already somewhere else – working on another problem in another part of the prison, no doubt.
Finally, I was alone in the dark and gloomy room, except for a little mouse that went scuttling by. I felt exhausted and worn down with sadness, and I sat down, held my head in my hands, and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. For so many people, for so many sadnesses, and tonight especially for the tragedy of that young man.