Ashworth Hospital on Merseyside is one of only three high-security specialist psychiatric hospitals in England , the others being Rampton and Broadmoor.
As part of the job I used to do, I had occasion to visit ‘patients’ in Ashworth on several occasions. Violent criminals, detained under conditions of maximum security, as their nature made them far too dangerous to be confined in even the most secure prison. Scary people, the most disconcerting being those who appeared entirely ‘normal’ – calm, polite, eager to assist me with my questions – an hour with these people and I could guarantee I’d leave the interview room bathed in perspiration.
A few notes I made at the time, intending to use them for a novel that never got off the ground.
I’d experienced the usual convoluted system of repeatedly proving my identity and my reasons for attendance. Even for a repeat attendance, it takes an hour. Minimum. The endless corridors, locked doors, cameras. Lots of cameras. I’d reached an anteroom where I would be ‘parked’ until the senior manager deigned to allow me to admit his inner sanctum .
In addition to the cameras and the triple strands of razor wire, iron bars covered the windows and thick mesh provided extra protection for the glass itself.
Colditz came to mind. All that was missing was a moat and drawbridge. The defensive screens reinforced my initial conclusions. This is an awful place.
All this security has its place. The intention is not to deter intruders. The whole point of the CCTV systems and barred windows is to prevent anyone from leaving. It seems more oppressive somehow this way round.
Scudding clouds careened across the sky, driven by the wind whose ubiquitous presence had dominated the past two days, but the view from the small windows would be gloomy whatever the weather.
Cracked vinyl ties covered the floor and paint had blistered and peeled from the harsh sterile walls. This was a functional room without a hint of compromise. It fulfilled a specific purpose and there were no concessions to artistic expression. A hard, brutal room designed expressly with hard brutal individuals in mind. There were other areas within the same complex where soft pastel shades and comfortable furniture helped to sooth a tormented nature, but this room was not intended to assist a process of rehabilitation.
A figure appeared at the door, winked at me and gestured for me to follow. We’d met before, several times. He liked me. I’d been responsible, in part, for some of the inhabitants of this unit being in here in the first place. This earned a wink, if not an offer of coffee and biscuits.
‘He’s on his way,’ my guide said, ‘Go on in, he knows you’re here.’
The top man’s work-zone was genteel enough to have been the office of an architect or advertising executive.
An open-plan office was divided into smaller pods by waist-high partitions. Anyone seated at a workstation would have an impression of privacy, but by standing up would be able to see virtually everyone else in the room.
Brass light-shades over dozens of desks gleamed brightly. A small rectangle of space had been partitioned off from floor to ceiling to form an oasis of privacy and it was to this section that I was directed.
The framed scrolls and certificates behind the desk were certainly impressive. As were the professional standard photographs of a tall distinguished looking man with various celebrities. The person who sat at this desk couldn’t actually see the trophy wall behind him. The certificates and photographs weren’t there for his benefit. They were intended to send a clear message to visitors. ‘Look at me’, the wall screamed. ‘See how important I am’.
I carefully studied each photograph in turn. Taking them all in. Image projection on a grand style. I formed the same opinion as I had on the last occasion I’d sat in this chair.
‘Tosser,’ I thought.
