I met Daniel in a high-security prison, where I worked as a prison officer. He was just 21. We’d talked about him a lot before he arrived on the wing – we passed the security briefing on him back and forth, scrutinising his vacant mug shot and the endless red bullet points beneath it:

Climber wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem, but in prison it is. Daniel had scaled fences, walls and roofs in previous prisons. He’d staged one-man demonstrations in the scalding sun, shouting abuse to the news crews that congregated outside the jail, his pale white skin reddening as the hours wore on. And now he was here. His initial offence didn’t warrant placement in a high-security prison, but his behaviour inside did.

He was fine for a while. He did as he was asked, followed the rules, didn’t fight. But he couldn’t control his temper. The tiniest thing set him off. Soon I was no longer watching him on the wing, but escorting him to the Segregation Unit for a meeting with the prison Governor. It was a bitterly cold day in January 2013. The corridors shone with moisture from the cold. There were signs taped to the bricks telling officers to be careful when running, the floor is wet.

I’d read........

© The Spectator