Written on: Sunday 8th February 2009

It came, as these things always do, out of nowhere. It ended, 13 hours later, in a flurry of shouting and stomping, of broken glass and riot shields, of batons and razor blades. Just another quiet evening in A-Hall.
Sunday February 8th, 15:05. It is rec time in Craiginches, that special time when all 200 inmates are afforded the privilege of recreating with one another. For some, this involves partaking in such wholesome activities as pool and snooker. For most, rec involves recreating the sort of chemical world they have become accustomed to, one in which life’s harsh realities are softened by the consumption of hard drugs. In ones and twos, cons scuttle across the walkways like cockroaches in a kebab house, scouring every available corner for proscribed morsels. Men duck furtively into cells and alcoves and hold whispered conversations in booths and shower areas. ‘Got any hash min?’ ‘Ken anybdae wi ony B’s [smack]?’ ‘Got a bag [smack] fer us? I’ll swap you for ma difs [DFs; prescribed medication].’ Conspiratorial whisperings aside, the hall is a sea of tranquillity. Only the clank of snooker balls and the loudmouthed Yardie patois emanating from the black quarter, where every conversation must be held at 100 decibels, belie the calmness. In a few seconds time however, a dorsal fin will break the surface, causing a wave of excitement that will ripple around the hall. As the narrator of America’s Toughest Jails is prone to warn, rec time, when the prison population are allowed to mingle freely, is the most dangerous time of day. If the shit’s gonna go down, you can bet it’s gonna go down here and with little warning. Without the element of surprise, violence rarely works. ‘Excuse me mate, mind if I stab you for your medication?’ ‘Actually I’m kinda busy just now pal, can you come back in an hour?’ This outbreak is no different.
Out of nowhere, a convict on the second floor grabs his startled cellmate off the landing and drags him into their cell. The door is then kicked shut and an almighty ruckus ensues. (When the incident is eventually dealt with in court, the PF will no doubt refer to it as ‘an altercation.’) The aggressor, an unassuming bespectacled man in his early thirties, is mightily pissed off. The reason for his pissed off-ness, as I understand, is the Prison Service’s decision to transfer him to Perth the following day. If it was me, I’d have been overjoyed; Craiginches is hardly the epitome of good living, even by jail standards. Although he doesn’t look menacing, the con boasts some heavy previous; as well as being on remand for attempted murder, he has formerly dodged a murder rap. What he is about to do, in comparison, is but a fly swot. Before the screws realise what’s happening, the door to the cell is slammed shut and its contents trashed; windows are broken and the TV is hurled to the floor, its cathode ray tube exploding into 1000 pieces. Glass shards litter the floor. Incandescent with rage, the transfer-listed con then produces not one, but two shanks and proceeds to take his cellmate hostage. The first weapon has been constructed out of a razor blade, the second from a tuna can lid. Used rightly in the wrong hands, they are both lethal. The con grabs hold of his cellmate and pushes the blades into his neck. The two men will remain in this awkward embrace for the next eight hours. As the commotion alerts the screws, staff are summoned from all corners of the jail. The rest of the cons are immediately ordered to ‘Check up!’; return to their cells for an early lock up. With a serious incident in progress, the screws don’t have time to police the rest of the prison population, even if they have been recreating peacefully. Rec time is over.
From behind our doors, it is hard to tell what is happening. In jail, rumours spread faster than hepatitis, but beyond the basics, no one is too sure if blood and guts will be making an appearance. We hope so. All we catch are snippets of shouted dialogue, the clatter of footsteps urgently ascending and descending the stairs and the incessant ringing of fones. The screws erect a large plastic canopy around the cell door to shield the proceedings from the prying eyes of the cons, who have been peering out through the cracks in their doors and shouting encouragement. After a while, the hall quietens down again. No one is sure if the incident is still in progress or if a truce has been secured. Eventually, we get bored of listening at our cell doors and return to our TV viewing. Then, at about midnight, we hear raised voices again followed by screaming. It would appear that there is life in this one yet. The level of activity is stepped up again; telefones ring off the hook, radios crackle into life and there is a constant to-ing-and-fro-ing of staff; prison officers, nurses, presiding officers. Then, as I watch through the crack in the door, I hear the entrance to A-Hall clatter open and the ominous sound of marching boots. An army of riot police (or maybe it is riot screws) trudge up the stairs, their protective gear rattling against the railings and echoing round the hall. Their faces are obscured by the protective masks that cover them, their bodies clad in stab-proof clothing. They look like cricketers sent out to the crease, only instead of bats they wield truncheons and shields. One of their number is videoing the show on a digital camera. I’d like to think it’s so he can show the highlights to his family later (‘Look what daddy did at work today – I bashed an idiot’s brains in!’) but the reality is more prosaic; if the hostage-taker later alleges rough treatment, the video should repudiate his claims. It is only once the camera has been turned off that the screws will administer the kicking he so richly deserves. No matter how justifiable their reasons for being here, there is something sinister about watching the full weight of governmental authority prepare to swing into action and crush the rebellion. The black-clad heavies could be straight out of a Robocop film.
The terrified inmate has now been held hostage for eight hours. His neck is marked by the pressure of the blades pushing against his throat. For the next two hours, the riot crew wait on standby as negotiations and ‘dialogue’ takes place. The turtle suits could just charge in and overwhelm the captor, but that would risk harming the ‘innocent’ victim. Eventually however, after much shouting and pleading, the exhausted con stands down his weapons. The riot crew enter and cuff him with zip ties. He is marched off to the digger [solitary confinement] to await his inevitable transfer to Perth. The hostage, remarkably, is also led away in cuffs and placed in one of the bare sui-cells in B-Hall. There are no warm blankets, cups of tea and cigarettes for him. This is not how freed hostages are treated in the movies. His ordeal is far from over; after all, he still has a three-year prison sentence to serve. In due course, he will probably launch a claim for compensation. In due course, his former cellmate will certainly appear in court and be charged for his aggression. He will probably end up serving an extra four years. With the riot crew gone, the rest of the staff gradually trickle out of the hall. Calm returns to the jail once more. I step away from the crack in the door and get into bed. The show is over. Just another quiet evening in A-Hall.