Vanessa Frake - The Governor

In a nutshell, I’d been sent to an absolute hole full of lairy men who’d been accused of everything from murder to rape to plotting to blow up our country. It was a category B prison, so some of the most serious of crimes.

What they’d done didn’t bother me though – I’d met all sorts working at Holloway, from serial killers to child murderers to IRA members. I’d had the Angel of Death, Beverley Allitt, on my wing. She’d murdered four babies and attempted to kill nine more through insulin or potassium overdoses while working as a hospital nurse in Lincolnshire. Doesn’t get more grim that that. So no, I wasn’t intimidated by their crimes. It was more about what they were – men.

Even though I was what you might call a sturdy woman at five foot nine inches tall, I wouldn’t stand a bleedin’ chance against some six-foot-six bloke built like a brick shithouse, who had the added strength of ten men thanks to a drugs rush he’d just got from contraband smuggled into the prison. What if things kicked off, which they inevitably would being a prison, and I got attacked? Would I be able to put them in their place? No doubt I was going to be in a minority among the staff. Would I enjoy working alongside male colleagues? Would they respect me? I was stepping into a man’s world and I was panicking whether I had the balls to handle it.

Giving up wasn’t an option, though. This was my career, I’d chosen to do it, and I wasn’t quitting for anyone.

I wound down the window so I could have another fag. That made four already. I’d been puffing away like a trooper, and on an empty stomach. My insides were digesting themselves.

Sarah slammed on the brakes as yet another plonker stepped out in front of us. It had been stop-start the whole way so far. That was something I’d also have to get used to – the commute. I’d been lucky enough to avoid London traffic up until now thanks to my flat being a five-minute walk from Holloway. The two-bed had been given to me as part of my training scheme when I joined the prison service. I wasn’t giving that up, why should I? Anger, that’s what I was feeling now as I inhaled deeply on my cigarette. I was angry and bitter.

We were on the final stretch. Du Cane Road, Hammersmith Hospital on our right. Less than a hundred yards more and there it was – the gatehouse. The main entrance to the Scrubs. I don’t think there is anyone in the country who wouldn’t recognise those iconic towers. Formidable. Steeped in history. Used in countless films and TV shows. The gateway to our future. I felt queasy.

We pulled up in the staff car park and made our way along the gravelly track. Still barely saying a word to each other. The crunch of the stones underneath our black shoes filled the silence.

I was wearing my uniform. Black trousers and a white shirt, but no epaulettes. I’d refused point-blank to put them on that morning. I didn’t want any more association with Holloway; I’d cut all ties the moment that letter arrived.

The staff entrance was a far less glamorous side door. I wasn’t expecting the welcome committee but a bit of acknowledgement would have been nice.

‘It’s senior officer Frake reporting for duty,’ I announced as we rocked up at the gate. I handed them my ID.

The bloke behind the glass checked his paperwork and looked up. ‘We don’t have anything to say you’re coming in.’ Off to a good start then. I looked around me. Less than impressed. Bite your tongue, Vanessa .

‘Wait here a minute.’ He picked up the phone. I was hardly going to go anywhere. My sarcasm was running rife. I slid my gaze across to Sarah who looked equally hacked off. I didn’t believe in omens but was this someone’s way of trying to tell us it was all downhill from here? Seriously, Vanessa, just calm yourself down .

I don’t know how long it took, but eventually the head of HR came down to get us. I’d spent that time chewing the fat, working myself up. Notching up my levels of dread ten rungs higher, if that was even possible. So when the woman from HR greeted us with a huge welcoming smile, I was taken aback.

‘Right, you two,’ she said, pointing. ‘Come up to my office, I’m going to make you a cup of tea.’

That was music to my ears. Tea and fags. My two favourite things.

We were escorted to a 1960s prefab building on the other side of the entrance, so nothing like the historic buildings we were yet to encounter. Sarah and I took a seat opposite the HR lady on the other side of the desk; she chatted away while I nursed my cuppa. The woman was lovely and welcoming but I just wasn’t in the right frame of mind for banter.

‘How do you feel about being here?’ she finally asked.

I shrugged. Speaking for the both of us I replied: ‘How do you think we feel!’

‘This is a fresh start for you here. The Scrubs will be what you make of it.’

I made a small shrug. ‘Okay.’

She smiled kindly.

Draining my mug, I placed it down on the edge of the desk. ‘So where are we going then?’ I said. Despite her hospitality, I really wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I just wanted to get on with my job, do what I’d been paid to do. No more dilly-dallying.

Sarah was sent to work at the security office. I was allocated D wing. That’s where the ‘lifers’ were locked up. Lifers, i.e. criminals who were serving a life sentence because their crime was that heinous. The worst of the worst.

I’d never worked with lifers before. Of course I’d come into contact with them at Holloway, but I’d not been responsible for them on a day-to-day basis. As the senior officer on the wing, I’d be in charge of 244 of them.

‘Someone will take you there,’ the HR woman reassured me.

‘No.’ I shook my head defiantly, or some might say stubbornly. ‘Just point me to where the wing is and I’ll make my own way there.’

She looked at me closely, trying to read my eyes, and then nodded. ‘Okay, as you prefer. We’ll get your keys sorted and let you make your own way there.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied, standing up. Preparing to slip out of the office and to my new posting without any more fuss or bother.

My footsteps echoed as I made my way along the bleak corridors. The brand new Scrubs epaulettes sparkling on my shoulders were going to scream ‘fresh fish’ to the prisoners. Apart from the duty staff walking to and fro, the place was desolate. The only time prisoners walk between wings is on ‘free flow’ when they’re escorted to their jobs or education. Clearly neither was happening right now.

First impressions? It was huge, three times the size of Holloway. Dirty. Rundown. And it stank of men. Of stale BO, musty unwashed clothes and urine, to be specific. It was so pungent it made me want to gag.

But despite the stench there was something unusual about this prison. You could really feel the history as you walked through it. It’s hard to put into words what it felt like; it was a kind of vibration. As if the walls were alive, humming with the ghosts of prisoners past.

I reckon, back in the day before it was torn down and rebuilt in the 1970s, Holloway would have given off the same sort of vibe. But when I worked there it felt more like a hospital with giant communal wings that resembled wards in a mental asylum.

The Scrubs couldn’t have been more different in layout. Five wings, marked A to E, five imposing red-brick buildings, huge long wings with three or four landings, joined together by a canal of corridors. They were all separate entities. I wondered what delightful character traits my wing would have. Miraculously, I’d managed to navigate my way without stopping to ask for directions. I’d been handed my own set of keys and all that now stood in the way of me and those serving life imprisonment were a double set of iron-clad doors.