In a special NewsFlex report we are here at the Agrarian Compound. This is an extraordinary place where offenders live a life of work and rehabilitation in the Essex countryside, paying off their debt to society and at the same time learning to be healthier, more moral citizens.
After six decades of plastic production, the factory that stood here, NuPoly Plastics, was demolished nine years ago by the Ministry of Reclamation. The Department of Justice fenced off the surrounding land and employed Janus Justice to build the very first Tier Two compound outside of the United States.
Here with me today is Shuggie, originally from Glasgow and one of the first inmates when the compound opened.
Dan: Shuggie, I believe the first residents here actually built the compound. What were conditions like when you first arrived?
Shuggie: Well, we only had tents and buckets initially, but that was okay as many of us here are ex-service men and women, and so it was like being back in Africa but without all the fighting. We were given plenty of materials, such as second-purpose timber and some electricity generators, and told to get on with it. We cleared rubble and dug foundations and built ourselves somewhere to live.
Dan: It’s been described as a self-sustaining eco-barracks. Are you proud of what you’ve built?
Shuggie: It was mainly soldiers that built it, so I suppose we stuck to what we knew and so, yeah, it ended up like barracks. In fact, the whole compound has the look of a military base. It was more a case of accident than design.
Dan: And how do the soldiers feel about being here?
Shuggie: The Cobalt Conflict messed some of us up a bit, and we got into trouble with the police when we came back, drinking and fighting and stuff, so we had to do time somewhere. I’ve learned since that PTSD can lead to overdoing it on the drink and drugs, you know what I mean, and it was hard for some of us to leave the violence behind. The Agrarian was the perfect place for us to recuperate, both physically and psychologically. We have regular meetings with the psychologists here, and group therapy. And it’s nice being out in the country.
Dan: Are there non-military here too?
Shuggie: Oh yeah. The compound is divided into small districts: families, addicts, people with, you know, different psychological problems.
Dan: Do you think that the vast majority of society seems satisfied that offenders are working for their living, not living on taxpayers’ money?
Shuggie: I know some people think this is a holiday camp and we lounge around all day, but we do work hard and we work long hours in the cotton fields and mills, sheep-farming, spinning, weaving, and doing land and canal maintenance. All the work we do raises money to sustain the compound and we’re nurturing the land and trying to turn our lives around. So yeah, I think people are satisfied.
Thanks, Shuggie. This is Dan Gunnarsson reporting for NewsFlex.
Twice a week Grace made the trip out of London, through the Essex cotton farms, past the wind turbines and solar panels that were dotted around the fields like a spreading techno-forest, to the Agrarian Compound.
Usually the guards transported offenders, but Nikki Paton had got under Grace’s skin. She wasn’t an escape risk, not with the two sleeping infants in the back of the car. Grace had borrowed the child seats from a colleague, and it had been awkward and time-consuming fitting them.
Nikki had sat silently in the passenger seat most of the way, and to fill the time Grace chatted and pointed out various landmarks. She found herself wittering on about the history of the Tier System, while Nikki stared out of the window wide-eyed or turned back to check on her children.
‘We’re coming up to the compound now, Nikki, your new home for the next six months or so.’ Grace tried to sound as cheerful as possible as she slowed the car and pulled up at the security gate. She turned towards the facial recognition scanner. There was a heavy clunk as the gate began to open slowly.
It was understandable that Nikki would be anxious, but Grace knew she wouldn’t recognise herself after a few months out here. Her little family would have safe shelter, hot food, education and fresh air. Nikki would have to work hard, contribute and learn new skills, but how else could they get her back on her feet?
‘You okay, Nikki?’ Grace asked.
Nikki looked at her, blinked slowly, and then looked back out of the car window, watching the men and women working in the fields in the warm sunshine.
Grace knew the routine and discipline provided many of the soldiers who lived there with the comfort of familiarity. They built campfires at night and took turns to keep watch, but from what threat she couldn’t tell. They also policed themselves, so when one of the lads kicked off, they would hold him in loving, disciplined brotherhood until he came back to himself. Shannon’s husband had been a soldier, but he hadn’t made it back from Africa and she was left to raise their four children alone, another army widow. Grace could sense her affinity with these men and women and she could tell they loved Shannon.
Dan had often reported on the Agrarian. Occasionally, she felt irritated by his privileged attitude. She worried that a return to traditional working skills might also mean a return to traditional class values. Wasn’t it always those who were financially worse off who ended up in places like this around the country? Dan’s article a few months ago about people offending so that they deliberately got sent to the compound had caused a massive row at home.
However, Grace had some conflicted feelings herself. Certainly, many of the residents of the Agrarian had much better lives here than they could have had in the city. They had jobs and purpose, but was it really any better than the Victorian workhouses that she’d read about as a child? Although the atmosphere was kept as positive as possible, offenders were reminded that they were being punished when they were told what type of work to do and for how long. They were told when to eat and what to eat. They had to attend treatment. There was fresh air and healthy food, but they weren’t free to leave. Yes, the residents had a sense of purpose, but they also had a sense of shame. Dan would never be able to relate to that. What would he make of her upbringing if he knew the truth?
She shrugged the feeling off as she rolled up to the compound’s office. One of the children had awoken and begun to wail. Nikki, agitated, kept turning back and forth from Grace to the window, to the children, and back again.
Once the car was parked, there was a struggle with seatbelts to get the little ones out and hand them to their mother before a guard led the family into the main office.
‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ Grace shouted after them. She took her bag and phone from the footwell behind her seat and then leaned against the car, gathering herself. The sun shone down on her. The sky stretched blue across fields of white cotton that swayed in the gentle breeze.
Taking a deep breath, she stood and turned to go into the building, but her way was blocked by a group of children – five of them, aged about ten or eleven, arguing over a ball – and her dream from the previous night came back to her.
It hadn’t been what she’d expected – Corrina’s disfigured face or Begbroke’s brutal treatment.
She had dreamt of Remy, a memory of a childhood fight.
What did you say about my mum, you arsehole?’
Remy, scruffy and malnourished, squared up to the biggest boy in the gang who’d followed them down an alley behind the back of the local shops. Grace held back, watching the other two boys behind him, weighing them up. One was about the same size as Remy, although much younger. The other one was chubby, and snarling like an angry Rottweiler. He picked up an empty bottle and fired it over their heads – a warning shot. The bottle broke against a wall behind her. A shard flew up and pierced the skin on her calf. She brushed it out, ignoring the sting and the smudge of blood, and scanned the boys for weapons. It didn’t look like they had any, but you could never really be sure.
Remy had taught her that.
‘I said your mum’s a whore, had most of the fellas in our street.’ The big lad looked back at his mates. They smiled but kept their eyes on Remy. ‘They had her down this alley. The slag. Took your mum up the back alley.’ The three lads laughed, a little too hard.
Grace could always tell when Remy was going to blow. The blood drained from his face and he went very still.
How was he going to manage against three? Remy was usually her protector. What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t let him down. Not now.
She braced herself.
Remy suddenly swung his fist at the big lad. The impact must have been hard because for a moment the big lad just stood there, astonished. He reached up to touch his face as if he could remove the stain of Remy having touched him. Then his eyes narrowed.
With a roar he launched himself towards the much smaller Remy, his arms spinning like the sails of a windmill.
Remy took a defensive stance – Grace recognised it from their training. ‘Hands up, head down.’
He’d also taught her how to kick. ‘Your legs are longer than their arms – don’t let them get too close, Grace.’
She watched for a moment, terrified. The big lad was getting some punches in, but he was clumsy, leaning too far forward, off balance. Remy let him get a few hits and then ducked down and belted him in the stomach.
The big lad groaned and leaned over. Although he was winded, he waved his hand and his pals stepped forward: the chubby one looked reluctant, but the little one was smiling, ready for the scrap. As they jumped in, the big lad seemed to get his fight back and the three of them started getting stuck into Remy.
He couldn’t beat three of them, but he wasn’t looking to her for help. Remy never did. He wanted to protect her.
She took a deep breath and shifted gear. She wasn’t going to let him fight alone – he would never let her fight alone. Taking a running jump, she launched herself at the chubby one, feet first. The impact was sudden and violent, jolting the pair of them apart, and both flew backwards. The boy hit a brick wall behind him and went down. As he lay on the ground, Grace struggled to her feet, ran back towards him and dealt him a swift, hard kick to the ribs.
Then she turned to the little one as Remy wrestled the big one. She put her fists up in front of her – southpaw, as Remy had taught her – and bared her teeth as she had seen Remy doing so many times before. The boy’s face fell and he ran in the opposite direction.
Remy had taken a couple of hefty knocks but was managing to get the better of the big one, and saw him off with a vicious kick between the legs. When the big lad finally got up from the ground, he shouted something about coming back for them, but Remy replied defiantly: ‘You know where to find me!’
Puffing and panting, Grace watched the three boys shuffle off.
Remy hands on hips, bent over double.
‘You okay?’ she asked, concerned.
But when he stood up straight again, he was laughing, although it obviously hurt as he winced intermittently.
‘That could have been worse.’ He turned to her and lifted a hand to his face to shield the bright sunlight. ‘You did good. You remembered what I taught you.’
A pride spread in her chest. She hadn’t let him down after all. She didn’t have to be afraid of anything when Remy was with her. And now she’d proved to him that she would always back him up.
Standing by her car in the Essex sunshine, Grace rummaged in her bag, unzipped a hidden pocket and brought out a gaudy plastic keyring photo frame which read ‘Funland’, each letter a different colour, like a rainbow. There was no key on the ring. It held an image of Grace and Remy, about twelve or thirteen years of age, on a rollercoaster ride, caught by the ride’s camera, mid-dip – her cheeks pink with excitement, her blonde hair blown back by the wind, Remy’s dark hair cut very short, grey eyes wide – the pair of them laughing, really laughing.
She was brought back to the present, from the street-fighting girl to the grown-up doctor, by her phone ringing and quickly hid the keyring again.
‘Dan what’s up? Did I forget something?’
She felt strangely guilty that she’d been thinking about Remy.
‘You went to bed early and I was fast asleep when you went this morning. Feel like I haven’t seen much of you. Just wanted to say hi.’
She’d left him warm and naked under the sheets, lying on his chest, his arms tucked under the pillow as always, those irresistible freckles on his shoulders showing above the duvet. She was a lark, always up and out early to work. He was a night owl, often out late, following some lead or other. Sometimes he came back first thing in the morning after having been out all night. It was a good thing she didn’t mind sleeping alone.
The children had obviously solved the issue over the ball and were kicking it away down a nearby field and running after it.
‘You at the Agrarian?’ He yawned.
She waved her phone around to show him. ‘Yep, just pulled up at the office.’
‘I’m going to work myself once this coffee kicks in and I’ve had a shower. I just heard that Mikey Kilgannon’s been sent to Tier Four.’
‘Oh my God, that’s terrible.’ Tier Four was presented to the public as being a ‘safe space’ for those offenders for whom nothing could be done. ‘The Incurables’ she’d heard them referred to at work. Tier Three might be shrouded in mystery, but Tier Four was a closed book.
She imagined a modern-day psychiatric ward, all strong drugs, pastel colours and therapy groups. Details were vague, however, even for her as an employee. But one thing she did know – when offenders went in, they didn’t come back out again.
‘He was a vicious, violent thug, Grace. He didn’t have any sympathy when he killed that old man with a bat.’
Dan had never even met Mikey.
‘Sorry, Dan, I have to go, I’ve got to sign an offender in.’
‘Okay. See you later then. Oh, before you go, can you do something for me?’
She slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way to the office door.
He cleared his throat. ‘Can you get me a copy of the files on Kilgannon’s treatment?’
She stopped in her tracks and turned away from the main building. She’d expected him to ask her to pick something up from the shop. Not spy on Janus.
‘What? Dan, I don’t even work in that department,’ she whispered, although it was impossible for anyone to overhear.
‘Yes, but you treated him at Tier Two. You told me about that, didn’t you?’
‘That’s not the same – I didn’t tell you anything that would bring the company into disrepute.’
‘Come on, surely you can get some info from Tier Three that might, you know, shed some light on why the treatment didn’t work.’
‘You want me to risk my job so you can get a scoop for NewsFlex? Are you bloody serious?’
‘This is a career-making story, Grace!’
‘Apart from being highly unprofessional, it will be so obvious where the information came from. I’d be sacked if I shared that kind of information. In fact, I’d probably be prosecuted. What the hell, Dan?’
‘I’m just doing my job, okay?’
‘Yes, and I’m just doing mine!’
She cut the call and threw her phone into her bag.
How could he ask that of her? Conrad would know exactly who the leak came from and she was already in his bad books because she’d refused his offer yesterday.
Offer or ultimatum? She was pretty sure people didn’t say no to Conrad Becker, CEO of Janus Justice.
Poor Mikey. According to the evidence, he was a killer.
But Tier Four?
It was a life sentence.