I grew up next to a children's prison
I grew up next to a children's prison. The Mirror dubbed it "Britain's toughest jail for young offenders". The prison was behind the houses across the street from my house. It was right there, in view from the street: a children's prison.
Some of the country's worst young criminals were in that prison: murderers, rapists, and arsonists.
One day, a prisoner made an escape attempt. He climbed up the wall surrounding the prison. His only problem? He couldn't get down the other side. The wall was too high. Thinking wasn't his strong point, which is probably what got him into prison in the first place.
My family and some neighbours came out onto the street to watch this real-life drama unfolding.
The prisoner was just a scared teenage boy. He was standing on top of a precarious tall wall.
This is all true, by the way. You can ask my dad. He was there.
I remember my dad, the sensible and responsible one, shouting: "JUMP!" He then followed this with, "GO ON THEN, JUMP!"
You can ask my brother too; he was there as well. He was just six years old. Now, a normal six-year-old would’ve been scared by the idea of an escaped convict getting loose, but not Adam. My brother disappeared into the house and returned moments later wearing a plastic police badge and clutching a toy gun.
He pointed his toy gun at the prisoner standing on the wall. "Stop right there or I'll shoot ya!" he said. "I said stop! BANG BANG!"
Then he unhooked a little plastic radio from his trousers and started barking orders into it as if it were a real working police radio. "I need backup! Bad guy has escape from prison! Send me the army and SEND ME THE FIGHTER JETS!"
I don't know what the escaped convict thought when he saw my six-year-old brother making "pew pew" noises with his toy gun and demanding military support over his plastic radio. Perhaps he thought my brother was a real policeman from a special dwarf unit. Or perhaps he thought, "Shit, that kid's got a gun! I'm going back to my cell where it's safe."
After a lot of cajoling from the prison staff, the prisoner reluctantly climbed back down the wall and returned to his cell, presumably with a heavy heart and even heavier chains. And a lengthened prison sentence.
But my dad was the most disappointed of all. He couldn't hide his disgust at the anticlimactic ending. He had wanted to see the prisoner break his arms and legs. He went back inside to watch Coronation Street.
But my brother continued to patrol the street, a fearless guardian watching over our neighbourhood. And every night my brother waved his toy pistol out the window at the prison, to remind the prisoners what happens when you fuck with a six-year-old boy with a toy gun and a plastic police badge.
The prison closed in 2002 because of the danger to the community. It's now a psychiatric hospital instead.
Leave a comment