WITH THE WORDS “Thank God you’ve come”, the governor of Werrington Young Offenders Institution, a former industrial training school for boys near Stoke-on-Trent, greeted my colleagues when they arrived to carry out an unannounced inspection in early June 1998.
Werrington was able to hold 120 boys but it had been ordered to hold up to 190 with a number of cells designed for one having to house two boys. The reason for the governor’s outburst, for which he was subsequently castigated by his seniors on the grounds of disloyalty, was that more than half of the volatile and vulnerable young people in his charge were unemployed and locked up in their small cells all day. Understandably, the governor believed that this was no way to treat children or to help them towards living useful and law-abiding ways.
It was the same old story: no one in Prison Service headquarters was responsible or accountable for the custody of children, so there was no one to whom he could appeal for help other than his area manager, who had passed on the order that he take the additional numbers. He knew that the Inspectorate would report the facts as they were, without embellishment. This was the governor’s best hope of persuading the Prison Service to take remedial action.
It became clear that many of the staff at Werrington were distressed at the enforced overcrowding and its consequences. They had previously operated an effective “personal officer” scheme in the dormitories in the old building, with each officer responsible for a number of young prisoners. This was difficult, if not impossible, to repeat in the overcrowded conditions of two new wings which had cells only. Dormitory accommodation may not have been ideal, but at least the children were not locked up in cells all day.
Now officers were faced with confined children who burst out of their cells with all the exuberance of puppies being let off a lead whenever they were allowed out.
Mass, impulsive, pent-up, adolescent frustration can be threatening in a confined space, and a number of incidents had persuaded staff that it was neither safe nor sensible to unlock everyone at the same time. So each child was allowed only two periods of evening association a week. Other than when they were taking part in an activity, this was the only time that they saw anyone other than their cellmates. True, they queued up at the servery to collect their meals, but they had to eat in their cells. Effectively, these youthful inmates were denied the contact with others that is so essential a part of growing up.
Limited association time also meant limited access to telephones and showers. They were thus denied essential family contact and their personal hygiene and cleanliness was inhibited. This last was not helped by there being no showers in the gym, to which they went three times a week.
Confinement at Werrington in 1998, whether in single or double cells, was also of the worst order. It was completely without either stimulation or challenge. Only 30 of the 190 young offenders had access to education. Most of these were under school-leaving age and were required by law to have 15 compulsory hours of education a week. A few worked with a small dairy herd on the farm, or in the car mechanics or computer repair workshops. Other than a limited number of courses in drug awareness and misuse, there were no offending behaviour programmes. Aside from occasional visits to the gym there was no opportunity to burn off surplus energy. The cells in which they were forced to eat their meals were also their lavatories. On top of recreating the chaotic and dysfunctional existence from which so many came, the combination of frustration and idleness created by the conditions was fertile ground for bullying, which was rife.
Sixteen per cent of prison suicides take place in young offenders institutions. Yet despite all their hand-wringing and alleged concern about the high incidence of suicide and self-harm, senior management had imposed conditions at Werrington that were bound to lead to distress. We found that 93 children had been formally recognised as being at risk of suicide or self-harm during the year since opening the new accommodation. Many of these were in their first two weeks of imprisonment. This remarkably high figure should surely have rung alarm bells in the heads of anyone with responsibility for the safety and wellbeing of children in prison.
The impact of the arrival and reception process was vividly described to us by a nervous 17-year-old who had arrived — directly from court — shortly after 7pm on the evening of our inspection. He told us that before he was arrested he had been living away from home, but he was on speaking terms with his family, who kept him in touch with his estranged girl friend and his four-year-old son. He claimed that right up to the day of his court appearance he had been led to believe that he would not be given a custodial sentence for his part in the robbery with which he and others had been charged.
He had never been to prison before. Now, because no member of his family or any of his friends had been in court with him, no one knew that he had been sent to prison, let alone where. Because he had arrived so late, no officer on his wing knew anything about him and his name was not on the list of those to go through the induction programme that day. He had not yet been allocated, let alone seen by, a personal officer. No one had approached him to ask if he had any problems: he couldn’t know that the attitude of the wing staff was that if he wanted anything he only had to ask.
Had the boy been sent north from the court where he was sentenced, to Lancaster Farms, instead of south to Werrington, his treatment would have been entirely different. At Lancaster Farms he would have been put into dedicated “first night” accommodation, where staff remain on duty until they see that a new young offender is settled. They would have insisted that he make contact with someone to tell them where he was. They would have explained the establishment routine over a number of days, giving him time to adjust and ensuring that he knew exactly what he was expected to be doing at all times. He would not have been allowed to move into the main part of the establishment until deemed ready to do so. It seemed surprising that the Prison Service had not ensured that the Lancaster Farms procedures were applied in all young offenders institutions. Apart from anything else, they clearly had a potential impact on the high suicide rate that the director-general had announced that he was determined to reduce.
But they had been designed and introduced by an exceptional governor, David Waplington, not by the Prison Service. Also Werrington was in a different geographical area and so under a different area manager, and there was no machinery in operation for spreading good practice across area boundaries.
So concerned were we with what we found at Werrington that I contacted both ministers and the director-general to protest at the disgraceful conditions deliberately imposed by senior management.
Embarrassed senior managers went at once to see for themselves what we had reported. They were suitably shocked, which merely emphasised once again the folly of having no one responsible or accountable for young prisoners, who could have prevented the disaster in the first place. The managers at once promised additional finance and more activity places. More importantly, they reduced the numbers at Werrington to the 120 that the new buildings were designed to hold.
When we returned a year later the place had been transformed. Large folding tables had been bought so that everyone had their meals together away from their cells. Everyone had a daily activity programme and officers felt more confident because they had been trained to look after this age group. Furthermore, parents were involved in their children’s casework at the beginning and end of sentence.
Sadly, however, governors have changed and my successor has had to report that Werrington has gone backwards since then, an avoidable occurrence that reinforces the need for consistent direction.
© David Ramsbotham
Prisongate, by David Ramsbotham, Simon & Schuster, £20, published on October 6. Available from Times Books Direct for £16 plus £1.95 p&p. Call 0870-160 8080
