24
I walk through the prison wards, past cell after cell on the top floor of the prison. Some inmates hurl dog’s abuse at me. Some lie back on the beds. A few of ‘em read. And a few more stare at me like they want to stab me, shoot me or worse.
I scratch my chin where my beard itches. It took me a couple of weeks to grow. But that gave the leg a chance to heal. And the limp to fall away from my stride.
I’m wearing the full screw uniform of white shirt, black trousers and matching knit-jumper with the 'Her Majesty’s Prisons' logo on it.
I shake my head at the sight of it. Like it’s some kind of regal honour to patrol a s**t-hole full of arseholes. Blokes who’d stab your eyes out and steal your fillings given half the chance.
What a royal load of bollocks.
I carry a baton on my right h
