Staying Alive Read online

  ‘Anyone else want’a fuckin’ mouth off?’

  Nobody said a word.

  This was total immersion training. We were going to know exactly what the worst situation we may face would be like. But there was a real fear; what controls were on these people role-playing? A baton in the mouth is not what I would have expected on a training course, any training course, and I had done the tough tactics course run by the SAS in the army. Yes, it was tough. Yes, it was rough. But it didn’t have the direct, physically damaging violence that we had just witnessed. Jake, handle it, I told myself. I watched out of the window as the guy was manhandled across to the buildings. He was clearly in pain and he staggered, as he was harried along. I didn’t think we’d see him again and we didn’t. I must admit that I thought the consent form I’d signed had been a bit extreme; now I knew why. I’d signed away all my legal rights of redress against anything and I’d done it knowingly. The guy who gave us the forms was introduced as a lawyer and he emphasised the rights we would sign away. He told us he would be the attorney we would face if we were to bring any action against the company. Two people, both Americans, refused to sign and left the room. So seven of us stayed and signed. It was only now that the uncertainty crept in.

  The six remaining trainee prisoners, including me, were stock-still and totally silent. All I could hear was my breathing and the creaks from the bus as our guards moved. This was the Milgram experiment writ large. We were role-playing prisoners and they were role-playing the guards. The only difference from the Milgram experiment was that we knew we were in a simulation. We would have to learn and learn fast to be prisoners and then we could do our jobs. It was at times like this that I got concerned about men in white coats – They’re coming to take me away, ha ha!

  ‘What the fuck-yer smiling at?’ The guard was pointing his stick at me. The end was 6 inches from my mouth.

  ‘Just my total confusion, sir.’

  ‘Well just keep your fuckin’ confusion to yourself and if I see you grinning again I’ll wipe it off your face – right?’ He twirled the baton as he spoke. Clearly he’d practised this and it was too much for me; I wanted to laugh so I lowered my head as if I was a supplicant.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I heard him clump to the front of the bus.

  ‘Okay, all you piss artists! Off!’ This man had a nice line in phraseology but it was, perhaps, a little over the top.

  We rose and stared to collect our bags.

  ‘No. You bunch of fuckin’ arse bandits. Off the fuckin’ bus… Now!’ This was different; he meant it. I could hear the frustration in his voice.

  I pushed my bag back into the overhead rack and progressed through the bus until I was outside. We were then propelled to the nearest building by less than gentle pushes and prods with the batons. There we stripped, our clothes were taken away, and then we were sprayed down with what smelt like Lysol disinfectant spray and pushed into a shower. A female guard gave us each a rough towel to dry ourselves. No genteel privacy here then. We were then taken before a doctor or someone who said he was a doctor who peered up my bum, told me to roll back my foreskin and all he said then was, ‘This would be much easier if you were a fuckin’ Jew.’ This confirmed to me that he was unlikely to be a doctor. Perhaps he was and role-playing a crude version of himself. I said nothing. He lifted my penis with a pencil and peered at it. The female guard watched with faint interest and absent-mindedly cleaned under her fingernails with a nail file. He listened to my chest with a stethoscope while I breathed deeply. He held my testicles while I coughed with my head to the left, checked my reflexes with a rubber hammer on my knees and elbows, took my pulse, declared me fit and healthy and sent me to pee in a tube that had my name on it. I could be deaf or blind, or have a whole range of other maladies, but that was clearly not a consideration.

  We were marched to the next building wearing only the rough, now-damp towel. The gritty dust and small stones hurt our feet and where we’d been reasonably clean we were now dirtier than when we’d started this humiliating process. We went into a wooden shack. The planks on the floor were rough and splintered so we trod gently. This was a store and we were issued with a prison suit in bright orange, baggy underpants in a delicate shade of grey, thick grey woollen socks and a pair of heavy black boots one size larger than the size we asked for. We were also given a rolled blanket that, I realised, contained toilet gear and other necessities of minimal existence. Later, I was to find out the most valuable commodity here was a toilet roll.

  We got dressed in the ill-fitting garb and were marched into a hall with desks and tables. My main concern was that I was thirsty and my request for water was promptly refused.

  On the desks were papers and pens. The papers were personal detail forms that we had to complete. We had two tests, verbal ability and numeracy, and a personality profile: the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.

  The requirements of the ability tests were obvious: could we read and understand English and could we add up and manipulate numbers? Nobody explained why we had to do them, so I did them as if they were important. When we’d completed these, or not completed them as the case may be, we were given a Rorschach inkblot test and I assumed this was the real test and the others just a blind. It was only at that stage that I started to play games with the forms. We had to write below each inkblot what we thought it was, so all mine became depictions of female genitalia complete with lewd London street descriptors and the spelling I used was phonetic. I knew this test has been employed to detect underlying thought disorders, such as serious problems with thinking, feelings and behaviour, especially in cases where psychiatric patients were reluctant to describe their thinking processes openly. Well they, the ubiquitous ‘they’, should have fun with the one I had done. They then photographed us with our names chalked on a board held in front of us. I held mine upside down. No one seemed to notice.

  We received a welcoming speech from the governor. This was the standard speech likely to be heard in any prison and boiled down to ‘you play ball with us or we’ll painfully play with your balls’. The female guard was standing next to him; she was cutting her fingernails with great concentration, using a pair of pointed scissors. I gained the impression that it was she who was going to do the painful bit. I was beginning to hate her. Subliminal messages are very telling. They’ve a strong influence on our behaviour and emotions and these people emitted them perfectly; either we were in a real situation or they were extremely well trained. I could feel the pain of each little snip of her scissors.

  When the speech had finished we were on the go again to a dormitory where we were allocated beds. Food we were told would be in half an hour in the dining hall, but we were given no indication where that was or any other information, and it was clear that it would be futile to ask. Also, as we’d had our watches removed and there were no clocks in the room, time was a bit difficult. Again nobody told us not to ask, but the use of body language and the phrasing in what they did say to us made it clear that this would be pointless. The ‘them’ and ‘us’ was being reinforced. This was clearly an exercise in disorientation and fear. We were so shocked or disorientated that we were silent and just sat on our beds. But I quickly managed to get my head sorted out and after about fifteen minutes, I decided to take the lead. I knew this was dangerous in this situation from all the social psychology stuff that I’d studied, so I used a suggestion format.

  ‘Do you think we should find the dining hall?’

  ‘Where is it?’ somebody responded.

  I stayed quiet, so I stayed safe.

  ‘One of us should go and look,’ said a slim guy.

  ‘Okay, smart arse, you go an’ look,’ said a chunky bald man with a New York accent. I stayed quiet and then posed another question.

  ‘Would someone come with me and we can look together?’

  ‘Okay, Limey, I’m with you.’ The speaker was a young, blond, muscular man and he sounded Australian. We shook hands then l
eft our dormitory and walked into a yard. Between the buildings we could see a group of four people running around what appeared to be an obstacle course with pull-up bars and steps up and steps down and other training apparatus. They looked tired, very tired. In only a few minutes we found a dining room. In the dining room were a group of six women in blue jumpsuits that seemed to fit less well than our orange suits. They appeared to be finishing their lunch and like any group of women, most were talking at the same time. The female guard was sitting on a windowsill with a look of bored disinterest on her face. She coldly watched us come in. We left and collected our fellow inmates. She was gone when we returned.

  The food was served on plastic trays with various-sized indentations. It was surprisingly good. The flat plastic spatula and soft spoon took some mastering, but neither seemed to be much use as weapons or eating implements come to that. I found that I was starving. It must have been all the adrenaline pumping around my system burning off energy. There were large jugs of water and that was my greatest need.

  As we were finishing, a man in a suit and a smartly dressed woman came into the dining hall and took us into a room next door.

  ‘Gentlemen, my name is Dr Mgdi Yacoub and this is Dr Hayley Hulme. I’m a psychologist and have specialised in the psychology of prison inmates. Hayley is a psychotherapist and will help you cope with anything that stretches you too far.’ So here were the people in the white coats. ‘So what will you go through? We’ll get you physically fit. We’ll get you mentally fit.’ He looked serious and stared at me. ‘Mind you, I’ve some concerns about you, Jake. Your responses to the inkblot test were such as to indicate considerable mental disorder in the psychosexual domain. Because of that you’ll not be allowed to be alone with Dr Hulme.’ Big smiles were now on his and her face. ‘I must admit that we were concerned until we looked at your psychometric results and read the profile sent to us from your employing agency in the UK.’ He looked back at the group. ‘I’m your chief instructor and Hayley will spend time with you in regularly programmed sessions and will be available to you if you find that you’re having psychological problems. Let me not beat about the bush here. There were seven of you and now there are six. You’re here for six weeks. We know we’ll lose at least one of you, probably two and possibly three.’

  My view that this was going to be tough was being confirmed. I registered the ‘will’, ‘probably’ and ‘possibly’ when it came to the failure rates.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know you’ve just been through the toughest session of your time here. We wanted you to get a feel of the shock and disorientation of the induction into a prison. It was more extreme than is usual and that was deliberate because you knew it was a simulation, but nevertheless you now probably have some feel of that transition. Our experience is that it’s at this early stage of entering a prison that you’ll give yourselves away. You have to be able to read situations before they become overt. The person we lost didn’t have that ability, all the cues were overtly displayed and he didn’t observe them, or his self-centeredness did not allow him to conform. The rest of you did and did it naturally.’

  ‘Let me impress something on you now. If any con even thinks you’re an undercover agent you’re dead. There won’t be any questions, you won’t see it coming and you will be killed. I’ll repeat that: you will be killed. You are doing perhaps the most dangerous form of investigation in the world bar none. Learn well or die. If you decide at any stage you don’t think you are going to make the grade tell us and you’re out of here. We won’t try to persuade you to stay. This course is about staying alive in prison.’ He stopped and looked at each of us. ‘I’ll say that again: this course is about staying alive in prison. You may be excellent at what you do but that’ll be of no use to you if you’re dead.’ He’d made his point. ‘I’m going to tell you one other thing. Nobody on the prison staff will know you’re not the genuine article. If any of them find out it may show in their behaviour and if it does you’re dead meat.’ He looked at each of us in turn. ‘Nobody will be tracking you. Nobody will be looking out for you. Nobody will feed you warnings. You are in there on your lonesome.’

  It hadn’t crossed my mind that when I’m inside I would be on my own. I knew Harry would be in there so we would just have to be very careful.

  ‘This evening you’ll have a “getting to know you” session conducted by Hayley so you’ll know each other. Tomorrow we’ll start you on prison culture and language then we’ll move on to fitness and self-defence, etc. This programme is modular so the first modules in each subject area will be relatively simple and as the modules progress they become more difficult, and then the modules will be integrated to introduce the reality of complexity.

  ‘Everything will be as practical as we can make it. By the time the successful trainees leave here they’ll behave and sound like old lags. While here you’ll analyse your own behaviour and actions, get feedback from each other and from your instructors. If you don’t make the grade you’ll be removed from the training. Your life will depend on your behaviour when in a real prison. Your life will depend on you being able to read signs that you’re in danger and being able to take appropriate action. Your life will depend on your ability to physically defend yourself against tough, determined attack with or without weapons such as knives. Any questions?’

  There were a few and we quickly built a picture of the programme and the elements within it.

  ‘You haven’t asked any questions, Jake.’

  ‘Um no.’

  ‘Well, ask one now.’

  ‘Okay. We’re being put through intensive training to handle prison, but if I were just an ordinary Joe who got sent to prison nobody is going to train me.’

  ‘So, the question is what, Jake?’

  ‘How do ordinary Joes cope and what is different about us?’

  ‘Many ordinary Joes, as you call them, don’t cope. They become subservient to experienced prisoners and their life is hell. Some become aggressive and have their resistance beaten out of them or end up integrated. Some become sex slaves of one or more prisoners and if they don’t cooperate they’re raped. Many do cope and merge into prison life. Many, irrespective of how they integrate or survive, are damaged mentally, though most recover. Now to you, you’ve a dual role: prisoner and undercover agent. That puts an additional load on you so this training will enable integration and enable you to go undetected in your undercover role.’ He stopped and looked at me; my face was blank; I said nothing. ‘Well done, Jake, you’re a fast learner.’ So encouragement to reinforce useful behaviour was built into this programme. ‘Any other questions?’

  ‘How many courses are here at any one time?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, we take a course every two weeks so there are three courses at any one time. Female courses are rare, probably three a year, and there is one ahead of you. The smallest course we start with is four and the largest is eight. Normally our courses consist of only US citizens with the occasional foreign national. In this course there are two foreign nationals: Jake who is English and Sean who is Australian. This is an unusual course as there are no Hispanics and no African-Americans. This is disproportionate as while people of colour make up thirty per cent of the US population, they make up sixty per cent of those imprisoned. The implication of that is not hard to work out.’

  It may not have been difficult for him to work out but I could have gone down all sorts of routes with those statistics, from bias in the justice system to where poverty lies, to the educational divide – the implications seemed to me to be endless.

  9

  The days flew by. My body ached, my head ached and I sometimes felt I was destined to fail, but I bashed on. After a week we were down to five, after four weeks we dropped to four, and we were gaining the picture of a prison as a closed world. The true misery of imprisonment was now very real to me. I recognised how the prison authorities can do anything as they have the power, but below that was the very real, informal power struct
ure, ruled by violence. The staff role-played other prisoners or guards. We were learning that staying safe comes down to some basics: stay alert and learn some manners. Prison is a close environment containing too many people close together, so manners are extremely important. The sheer pressure of overcrowding, that you can’t avoid, generates irritation and violence, particularly as many inmates have low emotional control in the first place. The worst thing for me was that I was missing Sam. I had an ache like a big hole where my solar plexus should be. It had only been a short time and many couples, from long-distance lorry drivers to international businessmen and women, spend more time apart than together. But this was crippling me, although at least I knew when it would end.

  One solution was to be polite to people, treat them with consideration, don’t be nosy or impinge on their limited personal space, never borrow things, don’t boast or bullshit, never grass anyone up, don’t kowtow to those in power, but do show them respect and even more important, avoid drugs and stay away from junkies. Not that we were likely to go native and become junkies, but it was very clear how easy it would be to become one, particularly as up to 80% of prisoners in the USA were drug- or alcohol-dependent, but this was much lower in the UK at about 60%.

  I was amazed at the range and variety of tricks of prison survival and power we learned, from how to conceal things from searches, how to pass things unseen, how to communicate, how to bargain, how to do just about anything that aided survival and personal wellbeing behind bars.

  After five weeks only three of us survived. We were on the home run now and I was totally acclimatised to the prison regime. My learned behaviour was now second nature and, apparently, matched the required norms of prison life. I renewed my fighting skills, which had, again, become second nature, and I learned some new ones. Paramount was the zero-consideration concept. That is, if you get into a physical confrontation you must have no consideration for the other person; they are a dangerous enemy to be destroyed. If they can recover they may become a threat when you’re not looking. I think I was fitter and harder than at any time in my life. Strangely, I felt aware of being both more considerate and more callous of others. They were either a friend or a foe; there was no grey, just black or white.