A Fair Cop
A Fair Cop
Michael Bunting
The true story of a young police officer’s imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.It was Michael Bunting's life ambition to follow in his father's footsteps and become a police officer. But six years after his family watch him pass out and begin his life's dream, he is serving a sentence for a crime he didn't commit. This is his story.Beaten almost senseless as he tried to arrest a violent criminal, the 23-year-old PC was left with head injuries and blurred vision that took him months to recover from. Back at work he was astounded to learn that his attacker had filed a complaint against him and that the Police Discipline and Complaints Department were following up the allegation.Two years later he was found guilty of common assault against his assailant and received a prison sentence that left him living his devastated life amongst the criminals he had previously sought to keep off the streets. Hard-hitting and at times heart-breaking the book is a graphic account of life behind bars for a policeman in one of England's hardest prisons.An extract from A Fair Cop:"The prisoner arrived once more with the trolley and placed the plate of food on to my hatch. 'Bunting,' he shouted pleasantly. I wasn't fooled. 'Thanks,' I said, as I walked across the cell to collect it. As I put my hand out to reach for the plate he snatched it away. He held it up to the hatch and peered through at me. 'PC Bunting, isn't it?' he asked, and then took a deep breath to muster as much saliva from the back of his throat as he could. With one swift movement he spat a big glob in to the middle of the food. The white phlegm floated around in brown gravy. 'Hey lads, I'm feeding the pig,' he said. With this, two other prisoners came to my cell hatch. They looked at me, sniggering. They then spat in my food too. The first prisoner put the plate on the hatch and gestured for me to come closer. 'You're in our territory now, you f***ing filth, and we're gonna f***ing carve you up.'
A Fair Cop
Michael Bunting
The Beginning (#ue8c80a5a-9047-5edf-9403-5c3f41e6a40e)
8th September 1999
Within minutes of receiving a four-month prison sentence for common assault, I was given my first taste of being locked in a cell alone and I had already received my first death threat. Prisoners had daubed their names on the walls along with short messages, most of which were obscene. Little had they known that I, a serving policeman, would end up in the same cell as them. I would be transported from Leeds Crown Court to Armley Prison very shortly. I knew the prisoners would make my life hell when they realised I was living amongst them. I sank to the floor, buried my head in my hands and began to shake. My worst nightmare had come true.
I remember one message in particular. It read, The Ointment are back. The Ointment is a gang of hard villains from Yorkshire. I had dealt with one of its members before. He had been owed money from a drug deal and when the deadline for paying the debt had passed, he used a machete to cut off the debtor’s arm at the elbow. He even paraded the injured man up and down the street while he was bleeding profusely, demonstrating what the outcome would be for other would-be defaulters. I was now in the same cell that was once occupied by one of this notorious gang. He had used human faeces to write the message. The stench was nauseating. I was in their world now, and I was petrified. There was a bench bolted down to the concrete floor, which was damp. A metal cage welded to the ceiling protected the light bulb. I took this personally. Did they really think I would damage the light? Society was against me now. At least that was how it felt. I was being treated in the same way as the hundreds of criminals I had arrested over the past six years or so. I would not allow myself to think that I was one of them, though, and I saw my conviction as a miscarriage of justice. I hoped it would be corrected.
There was also a musty odour, a smell I was familiar with, as most police cell areas are like this. I could hear the voices of the court cell staff. They joked about something they had seen on television the night before, and discussed who was to do the sandwich run for lunch. Everything was normal for them. Occasionally, I’d hear an officer’s radio in very close proximity to my cell door. Each time I heard the jangling of keys, my hopes would be raised that I’d be let out. I had only been locked in the cell for about twenty minutes and already felt unbearably oppressed by the size of it. It seemed strange that I was sitting in such surroundings in my best suit. I knew that every stitch of my clothing would be taken from me at HMP Armley, the notorious category B prison in Leeds, home to hardened criminals, rapists and murderers. I would be known to them, as I was a serving Leeds officer and my case was in the media. This increased my fear as I consciously tried to stop the shaking. The consequences of being sent to a category B prison could, realistically, be fatal.
After another ten minutes or so, though it seemed like hours, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock of my cell door. As it opened, an old-looking Group 4 security officer greeted me. He was short and slightly built. His hair was grey and greased back, his fingers were stained yellow, and he smelt of tobacco. His shirt was dirty and displayed the parts of his breakfast he’d failed to get into his mouth. Opening the heavy steel cell door seemed a real effort for him. Despite all of this, he was kind-faced and he spoke with a soft, compassionate voice. ‘Come on, kid. Let’s get ya downstairs.’ He placed his hand on my back, not as a gesture of authority but one of sympathy. I immediately liked him and, in my vulnerable state, I needed him. ‘Bet you didn’t expect this, did you, lad?’
‘I knew,’ I replied. ‘The bloody judge told me five weeks ago he was sending me down. Can I see my brief before I go?’
‘It’s all been sorted. He’s waiting for you down there, kid.’
‘Cheers,’ I said.
As I arrived at the basement level of the court building, I was taken to the booking desk. There was an abundance of Group 4 security staff and a distinct lack of other prisoners. It explained why I had been kept in the holding cell for an unusually long time. This had given the officers the opportunity to get all the other prisoners locked away. They would surely have heard the news of my sentence by now, especially if it had been announced in the news bulletin on the local radio, as all my other court appearances had. Information travels fast amongst inmates and an imprisoned policeman is big news; news that would inevitably unite them so that they could plan exactly what they were going to do about it. All of the officers looked at me with serious expressions, yet I felt they were sympathetic.
I arrived at the desk. The officer there was also quite old. He looked at me and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe they’ve done this to you, lad. What the hell is this country coming to? Are you okay?’
‘It hasn’t sunk in yet, if I’m honest.’
‘The other prisoners know you’re here, so we’ll sort you out with separate transport to the prison. I’m not letting the bastards at you in the sweat box.’ (A sweat box is a large vehicle used to transport people in custody, and on long journeys they get warm, hence the name.)
My safety was being taken seriously, although really it was a case of when, and not if, the prisoners would find a way of getting to me for my introduction to prison life. I’d heard of policemen getting sent down before and they rarely got out in one piece. I knew that a lot of prisoners at Armley had very little to lose, so doing a copper would mean nothing to them. As the officer filled in the paperwork for my records, it seemed highly ironic when he asked me for my occupation. He hesitated, looked deep into my eyes, shook his head again and then proceeded to write the words, police officer.
When he’d finished, one of the younger officers walked me to another cell. I was already feeling institutionalised and so I just followed him, without even knowing why or where I was going. My barrister was sitting at a desk in this cell, seemingly hiding behind his opened briefcase. He held his grey wig in one hand and opened the top button of his shirt with the other.
‘Michael, I’m sorry,’ he said as I walked in. ‘We never stood a chance with that judge. You’re going down because you’re a policeman.’
‘I didn’t bloody well do it. I want to appeal.’
‘We will appeal, Michael, but it will take time. There’s plenty to go at. I can also try to have you released pending appeal, if you want me to.’
In the five weeks from my conviction to the date of my sentence, I had considered very carefully what line to adopt if the worst happened, as it had done. There were two possible options. The first was to appeal immediately against conviction and to request bail pending my appeal, which would have meant I would not have served my sentence at this time. If, however, my appeal was unsuccessful, then I would face doing my time in prison at a later date. The second option was to serve my sentence with the appeal pending, meaning that my sentence would have been over by the outcome of the appeal.
The list at the Court of Appeal was a very lengthy one, so yet more waiting was inevitable. The stress that the two years leading up to my conviction had placed on my family had been unbearable, and my mother hadn’t coped well at times. I don’t think she could have held out for much longer. She had seen the threat of a prison sentence hanging over me for those two years so I didn’t want to prolong it any further. I had already made the decision not to request bail. I looked at Mr Stewart, my barrister, and I felt that this was now a test of nerve. I imagined my reception at HMP Armley, and then stopped myself. I had to condemn myself to four months in prison; it was the right thing to do. Four months may not sound like a long time, but if the first twenty minutes in the holding cell were anything to go by, it would feel like a lifetime. This was without doubt the toughest decision that I have ever had to make in my life, but I remained true to my plan to serve my sentence immediately, for Mum’s sake. I had made the decision in the comfort of my own home, but carrying it out had proved much harder, now that I was actually standing in a cell.
I resigned myself to doing my full stretch in prison. I swallowed. It was painful, as my mouth was dry. I felt like someone who was trapped in a maze and, after hours of searching, seemed to have found a way out, only to realise it was yet another dead end. It was very frightening. I tried to stay focused and in control. I failed. My breathing became laboured and I had to sit down. I buried my face in my hands. ‘They’ll bloody well kill me in there. You can’t send a copper to Armley.’
Mr Stewart closed his briefcase, ready to leave the cell. He told me that he would work hard on my appeal. This was little comfort to me, as it had paled virtually into insignificance. My short-term welfare became the priority. For the first time in my life, I felt completely helpless. I was now in the hands of the prison service and the inmates at Armley. Anything could happen in there.
He slammed the door shut as he left. The lock was bolted into place making a loud metallic clunk which echoed down the cell passage. It was a sound I was to become all too familiar with whilst serving my sentence. Hearing anything similar today is a stark reminder of those very dark times I spent in prison. The silence in the cell was in stark contrast to what I had just heard and, once again, I was left with my own company and my autobiography of Tony Adams, the Arsenal and England footballer. My mum and dad had given this to me the day before as a birthday present. It was the only item I had taken to court with me, in the hope I’d be allowed to take it with me. I loosened my tie and opened the top couple of buttons of my shirt. The optimism which had been my main strength for the past two years had deserted me. I felt physically sick, as I really didn’t know how I would cope in prison. Throughout my whole service, I had been so proud of being a police officer. Now it was the worst thing in the world for me to be, but I was one, and I couldn’t change it. My fear of how the other inmates would treat me intensified. I began to think of my mum and dad. I hadn’t had the opportunity to see them since being given my sentence and I desperately wanted to speak to them, so that I could tell them that I was okay, even though I felt far from being so. I couldn’t begin to imagine Mum’s reaction. I knew that Dad would now be feeling the strain, too. He’s a tough character and had worked his way up the ranks in the police service through hard work. He’s self-educated, with few formal qualifications, which goes some way to show what a remarkable achievement it was for him to get to chief inspector, a rank that nowadays is often held by under-experienced academics with very little practical, hands-on knowledge. Dad was now Mum’s only hope of surviving the forthcoming months. I knew I could rely on him. I’d have to. I exhaled slowly through my lips. The loss of my identity had begun.
‘Boss, can I have a phone call?’ someone shouted from a neighbouring cell. (Criminals call law officials ‘boss’ when they are locked up.) This was the kind of question that I’d been asked whenever I worked in the police cell areas. I knew that, from now on, I would be asking it. I would have to ask for everything for the next four months, even a drink of water. I certainly wasn’t ‘boss’ now.
I tried in desperation to think of something positive. I failed, so I listened intently to what was going on outside my cell. I still hoped someone would open the door and tell me that a huge mistake had been made. Of course, this wasn’t going to happen. All I heard was a relentless jangling of keys and the distant slamming of cell doors. The place seemed very busy, yet in my cell I felt abandoned and alone. It was as though the world had forgotten I existed. My cell walls seemed to close in, and this prompted me to start walking around. In just a few paces, I had walked its length. I desperately searched for something to occupy my mind because I knew that worse was to come. I knew, with dread, that the fight against the boredom was going to be as hard as the fight against the conditions and other inmates. I needed to develop a strategy in order to get through the long days ahead.
I sat on the bench and tried to think as I flicked through my book. Even Tony looked frightened on the front cover. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood up again and put my face right up to the closed hatch in my cell door in the hope I’d be able to see out. I couldn’t; it was too dirty. Then suddenly, the hatch fell open with a loud bang. Two eyes appeared at the slot. ‘Stand away from the door,’ came the forceful command. I complied and stood at the opposite side of my cell. My experience as a police officer had taught me just how daunting entering a cell is when it’s occupied by an unknown quantity, which is how I would be being viewed by the officers. As the door opened, an overweight individual confronted me. His uniform clung tightly to his bulging belly, but he had a pleasant demeanour. He had an air of superiority over me because he could go home and I couldn’t. He took me out of my cell to a door which led to the outside world. Two other Group 4 security officers waited for me. One of them was spinning a pair of handcuffs around his index finger, joking with his colleague about something. This made me very uneasy. I was relieved when his expression became more serious as he saw me walking towards him. I knew that he had probably been laughing at something entirely unrelated.
He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, mate, we’re gonna have to put these on,’ he said as he held out the handcuffs. The reality of the situation hit me again and I really did not want to be restrained. I had no intention of trying to escape and to think that I was a risk to the safety of the officers was ludicrous.
The officer handcuffed me with my hands to the front and a second pair of handcuffs was used to handcuff me to the second officer. I felt like a gangster. I looked at the officer. ‘I’m not gonna kick off, mate,’ I assured him.
‘I know, but we have to do this,’ he said.
‘I know you do, but I’m here for a common assault that I didn’t even do. I’m a bloody copper, for God’s sake.’
‘I’ve got to, mate. Sorry.’
I wasn’t annoyed with them; they were just doing their job. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m just pissed off about all this now. It’s been going on for two years and they’ve fucking stitched me up because I’m a bloody policeman.’ I realised that I was beginning to get a little too vocal. ‘Sorry,’ I said again, ‘it’s not your problem.’
With this, there was a buzzing sound and a green light lit up on the door handle, indicating that the officers could open it. One of them put his thumb up to a camera over the door. I assumed that he was thanking a colleague who had remotely unlocked the door for him. ‘Come on then,’ he said.
As the door opened, I saw a Group 4 car waiting. Large metal shutters surrounded the yard. Another officer sat in the driver’s seat and the engine was running. The two officers led me to the car. We all got in, with me in the middle. It was very cramped and finding a comfortable position with my hands chained together was impossible. The driver switched on the radio. It was as though I was being given my last taste of civilisation, freedom and the outside world. The song, How Do I Live Without You?, by Leanne Rhymes, was playing. I find the irony of the song title quite amusing now, given the position I was in between the two guards. If I ever hear it, though, I feel physically sick, too. Every so often, the officer I was handcuffed to would glance at me. ‘If it’s any consolation to you, we’re all on your side,’ he said. ‘You should have a medal for what you did; you shouldn’t be getting this. It fucking stinks.’ I didn’t tell him, but it was a consolation, a big one.
The drive to Armley Prison took about ten minutes and I cherished every second. I wasn’t a free man, but this was the nearest I’d get to freedom for a while. People driving their cars had no idea how lucky they were to be free. It seemed that way, anyway.
Then, the sight I’d been dreading was in front of me. Armley Prison is an old stone building, blackened with pollution, and it looks similar to an ageing castle. It’s massive; it has to be, as it holds over a thousand inmates, some of the nastiest criminals in the UK. It stands as a visual representation of institutionalisation and is an enormous warning to anyone contemplating a crime. The walls are high and topped with about three feet of closely coiled barbed wire. There is no way out of this place. Stunned, I shook my head in despondency. The driver pulled up in front of two large doors. They were about ten feet tall and looked Victorian. We waited. I saw scores of prison officers coming and going, as there had obviously just been a shift changeover. They all seemed so intent on what they were doing, clutching their empty lunch boxes and pacing to their cars to go home and get on with their lives. Again, I felt abandoned. No one seemed bothered about me. Why should they be? When the doors eventually opened, I was horrified by what I saw. There were about fifteen prison officers standing around. Some stood with their hands in their pockets whilst others casually smoked cigarettes. Several others swung large bunches of keys on long chains around their fingers, just as the Group 4 officer had done with the handcuffs.
‘They always fucking keep us waiting here,’ said the driver, indicating his distaste for the prison officers. There had always been an antagonistic relationship between the Group 4 officers and the staff at Armley Prison. I didn’t know why.
One of the officers approached the driver’s window. ‘Who’ve we got here then?’ he asked.
‘Ummm what’s his name, lads?’ asked the driver to the officers sitting either side of me.
‘Bunting,’ came the reply.
‘Bunting,’ said the driver to the prison officer.
‘Okay. You’ll be in, in a minute,’ said the prison officer. He seemed to enjoy his power of being able to keep the Group 4 men waiting, but sure enough, after a couple of minutes the shutter finally began to open slowly. We entered the prisoner reception yard, which was about the size of a football pitch and surrounded by high walls, which led to the main building where all the wings were. There was a door in the far corner.
The driver took us towards it and parked. He turned off the engine. ‘Bloody useless. Where are they now?’ he shouted. With this, the officer who I was handcuffed to began to escort me out of the car.
‘Get him back in,’ came a bellowing voice from inside the building. ‘Bloody well get him back in. He’s a fucking v.o.’ (A v.o. is a violent offender.) At this moment, a prison officer charged out of the building with a German Shepherd dog on a lead. He approached the car. ‘For God’s sake,’ said the driver, ‘I think they’re expecting bother from you, kid.’
The dog jumped up at the side of the car and left damp patches on the window where it had pressed its nose against the glass. It opened its mouth and displayed a jaw full of lethal looking teeth. I cowered away like a child, pulling the officer with me, until we were allowed out.
As I alighted, the prison officer gave the lead more slack and so the dog was able to come right up to me. It frantically sniffed my leg. I was scared and knew that if I made a sudden movement, the innocent sniffing would turn into something a lot more sinister. I felt resentment towards this officer; I was to have similar feelings again.
He marched me to the prisoner reception door and unlocked the handcuffs. Both of the Group 4 officers shook my hand and wished me well. It was brief, but emotional. I found it emotional, anyway. I suspected that the prison officers weren’t going to be quite so understanding. I was placed into yet another holding cell, as there were about six or seven other prisoners waiting to be booked in. This cell shocked me just like the Crown Court cell had, except this one made the one at court seem like a room at the Hilton. There were puddles of urine all over the floor and I had to pull my jacket over my face in order to breathe without wanting to vomit, due to the stench. The familiar writing on the walls was also present in abundance. The prisoners outside my cell sounded rowdy and aggressive. My being placed into the holding cell so quickly must have been unusual, as I heard two or three asking whether or not I was a beast (a prison term for paedophile or rapist). Beasts are very vulnerable when inside, as other prisoners see it as their duty to give out their own form of punishment, usually in the form of violence. I would rather the prisoners knew I was a policeman than for them to think I was a beast. Neither option was ideal, but in prisoners’ eyes, there is nothing worse than a beast.
Fortunately, the questions soon passed and the other prisoners’ initial interest in me subsided, as a prison officer tried to combat the rowdy behaviour by threatening the prisoners with a ‘nicking’ or a reduction to basic status. This was followed with a chorus of ‘Sorry, boss,’ from the prisoners. Losing standard status in prison to basic status is a massive punishment to any person in custody.
There are four different statuses in prison: basic, standard, enhanced and super-enhanced. The privileges a person receives whilst they are serving their sentence are related to their status. For example, someone with super-enhanced status may get a paying job in prison and therefore will spend much of the day outside their cell. They have more money to spend on food, cigarettes, and phone cards. Super-enhanced prisoners can even get a television in their cell. Basic prisoners, on the other hand, get nothing other than the statutory one-hour exercise period each day and the bare minimum to spend on luxuries. Basic status is avoided at all costs and therefore encourages good behaviour in prison. Every prisoner enters with standard status and, following a minimum of four months good behaviour, he can then be offered enhanced status and eventually super-enhanced.
I continued to look around the cell. It was lit only by a small amount of light which penetrated the filthy window at the top of the far wall. These walls had never been decorated. They were bare brick and appeared damp. The light on the ceiling had been ripped off, despite a once-present protective metal cage. The bench was completely covered with cigarette burns, so I didn’t sit down. Saliva dripped down the walls. I was now living with the animals I had dealt with in the years I had been a policeman.
I was hit by nausea and I felt involuntary contractions of my stomach begin to take hold. This time I was going to vomit. I banged on the cell door with the side of a clenched fist in the hope that I would attract the attention of a prison officer. I wouldn’t have made the cell any dirtier if I had vomited on the floor, but I didn’t wish to add to its sordid state.
A prison officer opened the door. ‘What?’ he shouted.
I must have looked as ill as I felt, because he immediately pointed down the corridor to the nearest toilet. I managed to get there just in time. I was violently sick for several minutes. I looked round for something to wipe my mouth on, but there was nothing, not even any toilet roll, so I used the sleeve of my suit. My legs felt shaky as I walked towards the desk where the prisoners were being booked in. I was told to wait, as it was my turn next.
The last remaining prisoner looked hard-featured. He was stocky and had a mass of tattoos all over him, including a picture of a dagger stabbing into his neck with blood dripping from the blade. He intimidated me just by his appearance. I dared not think of why he was in prison. I was trembling uncontrollably. It was cold and I already felt weak and I added to the stench of the place with the remnants of vomit on my jacket. The man stared at me, ignoring questions from the prison officer at the desk. He looked disgusted by my presence.
He took a pace towards me, meaning we were about an arm’s length apart. His eyes were piercing. He breathed rapidly through his mouth, making a panting noise as he did so. He smelt of alcohol. He screwed his face up in another look of disgust and edged even closer. He began making noises with his mouth as if he was accumulating saliva. Before I had chance to retreat, he spat in my face, and phlegm landed right on my cheek. I immediately began to wipe it off with the vomit-ridden sleeve. The officers made no reaction; in fact, they stopped asking him questions as if they were happy to let him do as he pleased. I looked towards the one behind the desk and, using facial gestures, expressed my bewilderment at the situation. The officer looked wary. I was completely baffled by what was happening, as it seemed like the man had taken control of the area he was occupying. Just as I finished wiping my face, he spat again, this time towards my feet. He opened his mouth and, with a flick of his tongue, removed his top set of teeth. I stepped back. As I did this, he raised his arm and with a swift movement punched me in the face, causing an immediate popping sensation in my nose. He laughed in my face. I felt a salty taste in the back of my throat and blood started to pour from my nostrils. I stumbled back, too scared to react other than to put my hands in a defensive position over my face. The man laughed again and said something under his breath, I don’t know what, then he turned away and walked off. With no fuss, a prison officer quietly led him away.
I bent over at the waist to prevent the blood getting onto my shirt. It dripped onto the floor and splattered onto my shoes. One of the officers approached me and unceremoniously gave me some toilet roll. My nose was riddled with pain and tears streamed down my face. I daren’t even complain to the prison officers. I hadn’t worked the place out and I didn’t want to make more enemies than I already had in there. There was seemingly little concern, though, and no repercussions for the man who had assaulted me. I saw the custody sheet on the desk. He was in for manslaughter. I wiped my nose and looked for a reaction from the staff. There wasn’t one. The next four months were going to be hell.
‘Right, Bunting. Clothes off !’ came the order from the officer at the desk. His attitude took me aback. I began to get undressed, but I found it rather embarrassing as there was no screen, and I was in full view of all of the officers in the area. There were also two cleaning ladies present, but they didn’t seem to take any notice. I guess they had seen it all before. I carefully placed each item of clothing onto the desk: my tie, my dirty jacket, my shirt, my trousers, my socks and my blooded shoes. In contrast to the care I had taken with my clothes, a prison officer then crammed them into a small box, wearing medical gloves. I wanted to ask him to be more careful with my property, but that might well have been counter-productive. This was prison, and I was an inmate.
‘I thought I said take your fucking clothes off,’ he said again.
‘Sorry?’ I asked. He pointed to my underpants, which I had left on. Surely they would allow me to remove these in private?
‘Off,’ he said. I couldn’t believe it. Another prison officer approached him and whispered something. I don’t know exactly what he said, but it instantly transformed his attitude towards me. ‘Oh, you’ll find a robe in that box,’ he said quietly. His behaviour generated a large amount of sympathy in me towards other prisoners, something which I never thought I would feel.
I placed my underpants into the box with my other clothes. The prison officer gave me a name board with my details and prison number on it: Michael E. Bunting. d.o.b. 7/9/73. DK8639. That number would become my identity for the whole of my sentence. I held the board up to my chest and, with a blinding flash of light, an officer took my photograph. Following this, I had my fingerprints taken. It was a terse task and the officer didn’t speak to me as he grabbed each finger and rolled it into the ink and then onto the paper. When he’d finished with me, I was covered in ink up to my wrists. I felt like a piece of meat. He told me to wash my hands, and I was sent to the supply room where I was given my prison clothing. The boxer shorts I was given were bloodstained. I cringed as I put them on. The T-shirt was so tight it seemed to almost squeeze the air from my lungs, and the jeans were so loose I had to hold them up to prevent them falling to my ankles. I remember there was a large drawing of a penis on the front of the left leg, drawn in ink by a previous inmate. The jumper had HMP ARMLEY written across the front of it. I wasn’t exactly likely to forget where I was, but this served as a constant reminder. One of the inmates working in the storeroom then gave me my bed pack, which comprised two blankets and a pillowcase. I clutched them under one arm, as I held my jeans up with the other. It was hard to accept that just minutes earlier I had been wearing my smart suit. Now I was wearing a degrading prison uniform, which already had splashes of blood on it from my injured nose.
A prison officer then took hold of my shoulder and led me away. He was younger than the others and seemed far less robotic. He spoke to me as we walked through the door to the main prison, telling me I would be placed in a cell in the hospital wing, the wing where inmates with severe health problems were detained. I was being sent here because I was a policeman and therefore posed a security risk to the prison due to inmates’ reaction to me. I wasn’t sure whether this was being done as a result of what had just happened.
Armley Prison is huge and our journey to my cell was a long one. Every corridor was secured with a locked door and the officer would keep reaching for the keys on a chain around his belt to unlock and then re-lock each one. Prisoners stared at me as I walked through each wing. They were all going about their normal business of cleaning out their cells or reading newspapers, nothing much more. I had already been warned by the officer not to look back at them. That, in his words, would result in my first ‘kick in’. I corrected him and said it would be my second. I tried to keep my head down, but this wasn’t easy, as I thought that at any moment someone else would realise who I was and try to hurt me. I got the impression that if that happened, the officer wouldn’t intervene, as this would result in him being attacked, too. I was relying purely on the fact that word had not yet got around that I was a policeman. I didn’t know either way. I was petrified of an immediate attack, but tried to blend in as if I was a normal inmate. I felt my heart thumping in my chest, and I felt breathless.
Several corridors and many hard stares later, we arrived at the hospital wing. I was placed in my cell. It was tiny and mundane. There was a small desk and chair, a bin, a metal sink and, of course, the bed, which was more like a thin mattress on legs. My hopes of a lively ward of caring people faded fast. This cell was as bad as the other two I had been in. The moment I stepped into it, the door slammed shut behind me. ‘You’d better settle down for a bit, mate,’ said the officer, as he peered through my cell hatch. I was still clutching onto my book. I sat on the bed and gazed straight ahead. I knew that once word got around that there was a policeman in the cells, my safety was in jeopardy but I lay back and tried to calm myself down, as the thudding in my chest increased. I had officially started my prison sentence; the next four months were going to be a game of survival for me. I didn’t know what was going to happen. One thing I did know, though, was that it was not a case of if I got my next beating, but a case of when.
I looked up to the ceiling and began my first ever plea to God.
Mum and Dad—You went through hell, and words can never describe my eternal gratitude.
Helen and Stuart, Adam and Oliver, and Nan.
And my girl, Rach—When no one else would listen, you were always there, night and day—I love you, babe x.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u4937f9b6-3542-5c84-93bf-9dc48458defb)
Title Page (#u9f65ddc8-d62a-5518-8540-58d37db60610)
The Beginning (#ua2b06c9f-69c1-507f-a26b-39d9e6523436)
Epigraph (#u61dc5a00-daf5-5dcd-a82c-0abe97b51674)
Part I (#u302c79c9-c041-5321-b346-3e2aaf61b9ee)
Chapter 1 Early Days (#u34c04d8f-4e79-5c3e-81c4-6a890e7317ea)
Chapter 2 Rich Man Hanging (#u6d6d0b85-01e5-58d7-b2eb-dbec17043b16)
Chapter 3 Summer Madness (#u6498615e-1a55-5545-805e-2d3f365285b0)
Chapter 4 The Monkey Man (#ua19bbcd9-9d7e-58a3-b517-2e6afed407d2)
Chapter 5 Football Crazy (#ucd6d9276-d6cf-54ff-a837-26b2ed5111c9)
Chapter 6 Carried by Six or Tried by Twelve? (#u97c0b6ac-5189-51d5-8264-5b90c91306c6)
Chapter 7 ‘Not Guilty’ (#u209a9efa-fa73-5a21-8fd4-8a357d3d07d5)
Chapter 8 Trial and Sentence (#u85998233-78cf-5a89-91c6-332dca94b2d6)
Part II (#ubb032fd3-d494-57e1-b934-b5c3fadcee3d)
Chapter 9 My Mate Tony (#u6575e854-24d1-55cb-a989-02a503657c44)
Chapter 10 Silver Service (#u79f7706c-25bf-558b-afab-777139c400ae)
Chapter 11 I Need the Doctor (#u3adb38d0-7c9c-5414-9555-0a0f9269b0b7)
Chapter 12 A Pig in the Zoo (#u65bf741d-9d36-5c82-ae40-8f90a63b57cb)
Chapter 13 Big Boys Don’t Cry (#u862ed395-50f5-5e23-9131-9c99d7b6b7ef)
Chapter 14 Game On (#u102b6ac0-2a96-5a82-8fa1-a6b71a5837cc)
Chapter 15 On the Bins (#u5a3f808c-9636-5bba-bdc4-dbf652b438c0)
Chapter 16 Anyone for Cards? (#u9667cc03-a258-5b49-9e6c-05f341b5c6f9)
Chapter 17 Watching the Clock (#u023d1f3c-1f51-5bcb-91d6-8a47575f3396)
Part III (#u5d48480a-8eb9-5fc1-b824-2d3a63413413)
Chapter 18 Life on the Out (#uc6da88fa-0414-5bad-8d07-b91be0cfdf7d)
Acknowledgements (#ua6e12c76-2ac4-5ba9-bd87-18f3fd8cd3ef)
Copyright (#u8bac8bad-8f55-54a5-b057-eb95c50da320)
About the Publisher (#uabaad57d-bd25-5328-bea6-35141cab8c63)
Part I (#ulink_2697dc49-dafa-553f-924d-3a83b9474b03)
Chapter 1 Early Days (#ulink_fa6cab1e-be6b-51bf-b697-512b0a840bf6)
29th March 1993 (six years earlier)
’Take that smile off your face, Bunting!’
It was, I have to say, not as I had expected. I had waited all my life for this moment and I was finally here, standing motionless in my brand new uniform on a freezing cold and wet drill square with ten other recruits. I certainly wasn’t smiling. My first day at West Yorkshire Police training school had started.
He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his smart appearance was dominating. The crease in his trousers appeared to be razor sharp and his boots shone like glass. His flat cap was placed so far down his forehead that you couldn’t see his eyes. Every step he took echoed around the square. I knew that I would have to look like this one day, and soon. I still dared not move. I was intimidated by his presence, but this feeling temporarily subsided to relief, as occasionally Sergeant Wright would allow his emotionless face to show a smile. He walked behind the line in which I was standing and as he went out of sight, I closed my eyes tight. I felt his pace stick thud down onto the top of my helmet. The noise was deafening. ‘Stop smiling!’ he bellowed as he came nose to nose with me. I couldn’t understand this; I wasn’t smiling. I tried not to move, but I felt my helmet falling from my head and so I instinctively tried to catch it. ‘Bunting, stand still!’ His voice was penetrating and I immediately rose to attention as my helmet bounced off into a puddle. I had only had it about an hour and already it was filthy. It would be spotless again by the following day; it would have to be.
The initial training period was to be residential. One bed, one wardrobe, one sink and one metal bin were all that filled my tiny, lifeless room. I noticed a Bible purposefully placed on the pillow. I sat on the bed. My suitcase filled the only remaining floor space. I stood up and I saw myself in the full-length mirror. I could hardly believe what I saw. I was only nineteen years old and the uniform seemed to highlight my tender years.
One of the other recruits walked into my room. Richard was older than me but we’d queued for our uniform together and we were already relying on each other for support. ‘Do we go to lunch in full uniform?’
‘I think we’d better,’ I replied cautiously. I had one final look at myself and then looked down to each button on my tunic. I had to make sure that the Queen’s crown was perfectly upright on them all. It was the very first thing that Sergeant Wright had told us and I wasn’t going to forget.
Richard approached me and pinched my back. ‘Hair,’ he muttered, as he held his index finger and thumb up to the window for a closer inspection of a stray hair.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I replied, knowing that he had just saved me from another reprimand from Sergeant Wright.
We all congregated in the television lounge on the landing. There was an uncomfortable silence, but that was only to be expected. We didn’t know each other and we had all just spent four hours on a cold and wet drill square. This had come as a shock. After all, we had been on ‘civvy street’ at breakfast time. I had felt the effects of this massive change the moment I put on the uniform. I can’t describe the feeling; it was just surreal.
The silence continued as we walked across the yard to the canteen. I thought we all looked immaculate. Before today, I had only seen groups of police officers like this on the television; now I was part of one. I smiled. My dream was coming true. This was all I’d ever wanted since seeing my dad in his uniform for the first time when I was about four. I remember he’d come home for a few minutes on Christmas Day to see my sister and I open our presents. Letting the neighbours see that you were a police officer wasn’t as much of a problem in the seventies.
As we walked into the canteen, I immediately noticed the noise of the clanging cutlery. I joined the back of the long queue. No one else was wearing a tunic or a helmet. I noticed several groups of officers looking over and laughing. I realised that tunics and hats were not required in the canteen, yet I dared not remove mine. I looked into the eating area. It was full. I noticed a raised platform with tables on it. There were neatly arranged flowers, jugs of fresh orange and baskets of bread on these tables. A dominant picture of the force crest hung precariously on the wall. I figured that this was the area for senior officers, as the other tables simply had a jug of water on them. With extraordinary curiosity, my eyes wandered around the room. I saw a large portrait of the Queen. This was strikingly significant. She seemed to be staring at me even when I moved. It was as if the picture had been put there deliberately to make me realise where I was. I was now a servant of Her Majesty. A large gap had developed in the queue as the person in front of me strode on. I had to make a conscious effort to close my mouth. I was in awe of everything. I was living my dream, and it was impossible to hide the fact that this was my very first day as a policeman.
When I sat down to eat, I noticed that even the serviettes proudly displayed the force crest. I opened mine out and stared fixedly at it. I noticed that one or two others in my group were doing exactly the same. I began to eat and contemplated the forthcoming afternoon. We were due in the classroom at 1.30 p.m., but I didn’t know what to expect. It was only twelve o’clock so I wanted to take advantage of the bit of free time. I needed to unpack my suitcase, the one my mum had packed. Mum seemed miles away now. I was on my own, about to enter the real world.
Despite these intentions, I didn’t manage to do my unpacking. The free time was consumed by my stupefaction at my surroundings. I also knew that I needed to ‘bull’ my boots and press to perfection my trousers and tunic sleeves. I had already realised that impressing Sergeant Wright wasn’t going to be easy, especially at seven o’clock in the morning, which was when we were next due on the square.
I sat in my room and carefully took off my uniform. The aloof authority around the place made me feel wary of creasing it, even when I was on my own with no one looking. I opened my boot polish and put some water into the lid. I took my cloth, wrapped it around my finger, dipped it into the water and the polish so I could shine my boots. As I did so, I listened intently to every noise. I could hear distant laughter from other rooms and, at this moment, hearing it was very daunting to me. How could anyone dare laugh here?
Richard knocked at my door and came in. ‘We’re all in the telly room, Mick. Doing our boots together, mate.’ I picked up my boots and polish and walked the short distance down the corridor to join them. I was a shy nineteen-year-old and had been out of school for less than a year. The others were older than me, and just joining in with their conversation was unnerving. I would have preferred to stay in my room but that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. I had to make the effort; I wanted to fit in. I sat down. Everybody was doing exactly the same thing. Each had a cloth covering the index finger in one hand, working in a circular motion on the toecap of the boot held in the other. Occasionally, someone would raise the boot to their face, then open their mouth and breathe heavily onto it. It felt like the army to me.
‘It’s gonna take bloody hours, is this.’ Diane was a slender young lady who was clearly frustrated as her boots were still dull. She kept going. I sighed. My boots were dull, too, despite almost an hour of continual ‘bulling’.
We all began to talk, and spent the next couple of hours getting acquainted. This was interrupted only by the occasional gripe about the task in hand. I soon felt more comfortable as I learned that I was in the company of a wide range of people, from a former professional footballer to a check-out operative at a supermarket. One of the guys had been an undertaker before he joined the police and his stories about the situations he’d found himself in helped to pass the time. He’d been involved with the Valley Parade Football Ground disaster in Bradford in 1985, which I found disturbing, as some of my friends had been killed in the fire.
By about 9 p.m. there were ten pairs of pristine boots on the floor. My finger was stained black, and it appeared pruned from the damp cloth. Everybody looked tired but the atmosphere was more relaxed and the talking continued. The boots remained untouched for the next few hours. We had been driven only by the fear and anticipation of Sergeant Wright. Who would bear the brunt of his annoyance tomorrow? Not me again, I hoped.
The next few days consisted of much of the same. I soon realised that none of us would ever satisfy Sergeant Wright. One of the recruits had been told off for tying his laces using the wrong type of knot. It was his job to find fault, but I was determined to make his job as hard as possible. He was going to get the best from me. We all had to look flawless by Thursday. This would be the swearing-in ceremony to be held in front of our families and friends. Perfect appearance would be essential.
It was an early finish on Thursday and so there was no excuse not to get it right. I returned to my room at about 4 p.m. I had got used to its size and its inanimate aura. There was just three hours to go. I tried to visualise Mum and Dad watching me being formally accepted into the police service. My stomach knotted with nerves. I laid on my bed, put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably, and I felt cold. I could smell the dirty burning odour: the same smell I had noticed every evening as the heating system started. I could hear some men playing a game of football outside. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world, not like me. Somehow, I dozed off.
The distant sound of a radio and the sound of hurried footsteps on the corridor were audible as I began to wake up. My mouth was dry and my eyes felt heavy. I was irked that I’d fallen asleep. I reached onto the floor for my watch. It was ten past six. I’d been asleep for two hours! Panic-stricken, I leaped from my bed and opened the door. I looked down the corridor and saw my colleagues nervously pacing up and down in full uniform as if they were rehearsing for later. I slammed the door. ‘Shit.’ I must have said this quite loudly as I heard a few chuckles from the others. The sound of the footsteps got louder.
‘Get a move on, Mick, we’re going in twenty minutes,’ someone said.
‘No probs, I’ll be right along.’ I tried to sound convincing, but as I said this I was hopping around the room, hurriedly taking off my trousers. Loud bangs rained onto my door. The others seemed to be enjoying my predicament. I ran out completely naked, clutching only a small towel and a bar of soap. The laughter was inevitable, as were the mocking wolf whistles. Fortunately, there was no time to think of the embarrassment. I didn’t have long but I would make it. I had no choice, and by 6.30 p.m. I was standing in front of my mirror again. The work was already done on my uniform and it hung exquisitely. My boots gleamed. I placed my helmet on my head slowly and precisely. I looked at myself for one last time, took a long, deep breath and walked out onto the corridor. I felt contented but still very nervous.
The television lounge swarmed with anxious-looking new police officers. Everyone was on his or her feet and moving around, seemingly without purpose. Periodically, someone would pat themselves down with their hand bound with inverted sticky tape, in a frenzied attempt to remove the last remaining bits of fluff from their tunics. Richard looked at me and shook his head. He didn’t need to say anything. I knew how he was feeling. These silent exchanges continued for a few minutes. The awkward silences were interrupted only by the reverberation of an object being repeatedly blown by the wind onto the metal flagpole just outside.
Phil, the ex-footballer, pushed the button for the lift. Being recruits, we were on the top floor and descending by the stairs would have been both time-consuming and tiring. The bell rang and the lift doors parted. One by one, we squeezed into the tiny space. I entered last. The doors closed and everyone looked downward. It was a game of skill not to stand on anyone’s perfectly polished boots. The silence remained unbroken. I desperately wanted to speak. I didn’t know what I wanted to say but I felt oppressed by the silence. I glanced across at Phil. He was a tall, solid figure of a man and was known for his sharp wit as the class joker. He spoke with a gentle Irish accent and could have the class in hysterics with just a couple of carefully chosen words. He had done this all week. Phil’s humour was certainly needed now and he responded to my glance.
‘Tommy, what the hell is that?’ Phil thrust his finger into Tommy’s hairy nostril and pointed to something quite horrible. Everybody laughed. Tommy produced a handkerchief in an instant and wiped away the source of our amusement. This jovial moment had temporarily diverted my mind from the forthcoming reality. The bell rang and the doors opened.
The lecture theatre, which was being used for the ceremony, was a short walk away. We had to go outside. There was driving rain and a howling gale, conditions which threatened the appearance of our uniforms. I pushed against the door. It was, for a time at least, a test of strength: me versus the wind. Eventually, I won the battle. I buried my head into my tunic, closed my eyes as much as possible and began the journey. I was now faced with a dilemma: did I walk and risk a complete soaking, or did I run and risk splashing the back of my trousers? The scene to any onlooker must have been amusing as we all waddled like ducks in a vain attempt to prevent the splashing. Nevertheless, we all arrived at the lecture theatre seemingly none the worse for our ordeal.
Once there, I was bewildered by the sight that greeted us. The theatre was a phenomenal size, yet every detail was intricate and minute. Each seat exhibited an elegant nametag in enduring expectancy of each guest. Ten written declarations of the oath were on the front row. I figured that we would be sitting there. Flamboyant silk curtains decoratively circled the entire room, leading to the focus, a large white screen at the front. Alluring velvet strips draped yet another portrait of the Queen. She was looking to the side this time, but her presence was compelling. I thought she could sense my nerves.
‘This is bloody posh, innit?’ said Tommy. No one replied. I saw Richard read a copy of the declaration. I did the same. This wasn’t a time for mistakes or tripped words. Several others quickly joined us. Two colleagues felt the need to read mine over my shoulder, yet their own copies were only inches away from them. The nerves had removed all rational thinking. A number of voices speedily whispered the words on the card.
‘Does anyone know what we have to do?’ someone asked. Again, there was no reply.
Then the inevitable came. I heard voices coming from outside, and the sound of high heels on the floor confirmed that the first guests were arriving. Whose family would it be? Tommy grimaced. There was a knock at the door. Whoever it was felt subordinate enough to seek permission to enter and this instantly gave me a feeling of confidence and control. Didn’t they know it was only us in the room? They didn’t need to knock. I realised again that I was a policeman and this was my first encounter with the public as such. I hadn’t changed, but people’s reaction to me had.
By the time the theatre had filled with our loved ones, we had all taken our seats. My hands were sticky and from time to time I would frantically rub my palms together in order to rid them of the sweat. I puffed out my cheeks and released a long breath through barely parted lips. The others remained still. The magistrates and college commander would arrive any minute. Sure enough, they did: with a ceremonious entry, a mass of grand-looking senior officers and court officials entered the room. The formal opening began.
I knew this was going to take a while, which exacerbated my nerves. I placed my hands on my lap and tried to listen. I continued to look around the room, but did so with the minimum of movement because each move that I made was the focus of everybody’s attention, or at least that’s how it felt. I began to think of my friends from school. I couldn’t believe where I was. I wondered what they were doing at this very moment. They would never believe this if I told them—Michael Bunting, a police officer? Then my turn to be sworn in arrived.
‘PC Bunting, please,’ came a voice, out of the blue. I looked at the front and the officiating magistrate nodded his head and smiled at me. It was as if he sensed my anguish. I stood up and tentatively approached him. I looked over to my mum and dad before taking the oath. My formal acceptance to the service was complete. I had even been given my dad’s old West Riding Constabulary collar number, 451. As a chief inspector of the same force, he looked on with the pride I had expected. I’d done it.
I spent the next fifteen weeks at the Police Training School in Warrington. On the final day, after having studied law in the classroom, done riot training on the drill square and performed role play scenarios in mock streets, I completed the passing-out parade with hundreds of other recruits from five different police forces. Once again, Mum and Dad came along with my grandma and grandad (Dad’s parents) to join the crowds of proud onlookers as these new police careers began.
My life’s ambition to become a police officer was complete. I wondered what the next thirty years had in store for me.
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Michael Bunting
The true story of a young police officer’s imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.It was Michael Bunting's life ambition to follow in his father's footsteps and become a police officer. But six years after his family watch him pass out and begin his life's dream, he is serving a sentence for a crime he didn't commit. This is his story.Beaten almost senseless as he tried to arrest a violent criminal, the 23-year-old PC was left with head injuries and blurred vision that took him months to recover from. Back at work he was astounded to learn that his attacker had filed a complaint against him and that the Police Discipline and Complaints Department were following up the allegation.Two years later he was found guilty of common assault against his assailant and received a prison sentence that left him living his devastated life amongst the criminals he had previously sought to keep off the streets. Hard-hitting and at times heart-breaking the book is a graphic account of life behind bars for a policeman in one of England's hardest prisons.An extract from A Fair Cop:"The prisoner arrived once more with the trolley and placed the plate of food on to my hatch. 'Bunting,' he shouted pleasantly. I wasn't fooled. 'Thanks,' I said, as I walked across the cell to collect it. As I put my hand out to reach for the plate he snatched it away. He held it up to the hatch and peered through at me. 'PC Bunting, isn't it?' he asked, and then took a deep breath to muster as much saliva from the back of his throat as he could. With one swift movement he spat a big glob in to the middle of the food. The white phlegm floated around in brown gravy. 'Hey lads, I'm feeding the pig,' he said. With this, two other prisoners came to my cell hatch. They looked at me, sniggering. They then spat in my food too. The first prisoner put the plate on the hatch and gestured for me to come closer. 'You're in our territory now, you f***ing filth, and we're gonna f***ing carve you up.'
A Fair Cop
Michael Bunting
The Beginning (#ue8c80a5a-9047-5edf-9403-5c3f41e6a40e)
8th September 1999
Within minutes of receiving a four-month prison sentence for common assault, I was given my first taste of being locked in a cell alone and I had already received my first death threat. Prisoners had daubed their names on the walls along with short messages, most of which were obscene. Little had they known that I, a serving policeman, would end up in the same cell as them. I would be transported from Leeds Crown Court to Armley Prison very shortly. I knew the prisoners would make my life hell when they realised I was living amongst them. I sank to the floor, buried my head in my hands and began to shake. My worst nightmare had come true.
I remember one message in particular. It read, The Ointment are back. The Ointment is a gang of hard villains from Yorkshire. I had dealt with one of its members before. He had been owed money from a drug deal and when the deadline for paying the debt had passed, he used a machete to cut off the debtor’s arm at the elbow. He even paraded the injured man up and down the street while he was bleeding profusely, demonstrating what the outcome would be for other would-be defaulters. I was now in the same cell that was once occupied by one of this notorious gang. He had used human faeces to write the message. The stench was nauseating. I was in their world now, and I was petrified. There was a bench bolted down to the concrete floor, which was damp. A metal cage welded to the ceiling protected the light bulb. I took this personally. Did they really think I would damage the light? Society was against me now. At least that was how it felt. I was being treated in the same way as the hundreds of criminals I had arrested over the past six years or so. I would not allow myself to think that I was one of them, though, and I saw my conviction as a miscarriage of justice. I hoped it would be corrected.
There was also a musty odour, a smell I was familiar with, as most police cell areas are like this. I could hear the voices of the court cell staff. They joked about something they had seen on television the night before, and discussed who was to do the sandwich run for lunch. Everything was normal for them. Occasionally, I’d hear an officer’s radio in very close proximity to my cell door. Each time I heard the jangling of keys, my hopes would be raised that I’d be let out. I had only been locked in the cell for about twenty minutes and already felt unbearably oppressed by the size of it. It seemed strange that I was sitting in such surroundings in my best suit. I knew that every stitch of my clothing would be taken from me at HMP Armley, the notorious category B prison in Leeds, home to hardened criminals, rapists and murderers. I would be known to them, as I was a serving Leeds officer and my case was in the media. This increased my fear as I consciously tried to stop the shaking. The consequences of being sent to a category B prison could, realistically, be fatal.
After another ten minutes or so, though it seemed like hours, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock of my cell door. As it opened, an old-looking Group 4 security officer greeted me. He was short and slightly built. His hair was grey and greased back, his fingers were stained yellow, and he smelt of tobacco. His shirt was dirty and displayed the parts of his breakfast he’d failed to get into his mouth. Opening the heavy steel cell door seemed a real effort for him. Despite all of this, he was kind-faced and he spoke with a soft, compassionate voice. ‘Come on, kid. Let’s get ya downstairs.’ He placed his hand on my back, not as a gesture of authority but one of sympathy. I immediately liked him and, in my vulnerable state, I needed him. ‘Bet you didn’t expect this, did you, lad?’
‘I knew,’ I replied. ‘The bloody judge told me five weeks ago he was sending me down. Can I see my brief before I go?’
‘It’s all been sorted. He’s waiting for you down there, kid.’
‘Cheers,’ I said.
As I arrived at the basement level of the court building, I was taken to the booking desk. There was an abundance of Group 4 security staff and a distinct lack of other prisoners. It explained why I had been kept in the holding cell for an unusually long time. This had given the officers the opportunity to get all the other prisoners locked away. They would surely have heard the news of my sentence by now, especially if it had been announced in the news bulletin on the local radio, as all my other court appearances had. Information travels fast amongst inmates and an imprisoned policeman is big news; news that would inevitably unite them so that they could plan exactly what they were going to do about it. All of the officers looked at me with serious expressions, yet I felt they were sympathetic.
I arrived at the desk. The officer there was also quite old. He looked at me and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe they’ve done this to you, lad. What the hell is this country coming to? Are you okay?’
‘It hasn’t sunk in yet, if I’m honest.’
‘The other prisoners know you’re here, so we’ll sort you out with separate transport to the prison. I’m not letting the bastards at you in the sweat box.’ (A sweat box is a large vehicle used to transport people in custody, and on long journeys they get warm, hence the name.)
My safety was being taken seriously, although really it was a case of when, and not if, the prisoners would find a way of getting to me for my introduction to prison life. I’d heard of policemen getting sent down before and they rarely got out in one piece. I knew that a lot of prisoners at Armley had very little to lose, so doing a copper would mean nothing to them. As the officer filled in the paperwork for my records, it seemed highly ironic when he asked me for my occupation. He hesitated, looked deep into my eyes, shook his head again and then proceeded to write the words, police officer.
When he’d finished, one of the younger officers walked me to another cell. I was already feeling institutionalised and so I just followed him, without even knowing why or where I was going. My barrister was sitting at a desk in this cell, seemingly hiding behind his opened briefcase. He held his grey wig in one hand and opened the top button of his shirt with the other.
‘Michael, I’m sorry,’ he said as I walked in. ‘We never stood a chance with that judge. You’re going down because you’re a policeman.’
‘I didn’t bloody well do it. I want to appeal.’
‘We will appeal, Michael, but it will take time. There’s plenty to go at. I can also try to have you released pending appeal, if you want me to.’
In the five weeks from my conviction to the date of my sentence, I had considered very carefully what line to adopt if the worst happened, as it had done. There were two possible options. The first was to appeal immediately against conviction and to request bail pending my appeal, which would have meant I would not have served my sentence at this time. If, however, my appeal was unsuccessful, then I would face doing my time in prison at a later date. The second option was to serve my sentence with the appeal pending, meaning that my sentence would have been over by the outcome of the appeal.
The list at the Court of Appeal was a very lengthy one, so yet more waiting was inevitable. The stress that the two years leading up to my conviction had placed on my family had been unbearable, and my mother hadn’t coped well at times. I don’t think she could have held out for much longer. She had seen the threat of a prison sentence hanging over me for those two years so I didn’t want to prolong it any further. I had already made the decision not to request bail. I looked at Mr Stewart, my barrister, and I felt that this was now a test of nerve. I imagined my reception at HMP Armley, and then stopped myself. I had to condemn myself to four months in prison; it was the right thing to do. Four months may not sound like a long time, but if the first twenty minutes in the holding cell were anything to go by, it would feel like a lifetime. This was without doubt the toughest decision that I have ever had to make in my life, but I remained true to my plan to serve my sentence immediately, for Mum’s sake. I had made the decision in the comfort of my own home, but carrying it out had proved much harder, now that I was actually standing in a cell.
I resigned myself to doing my full stretch in prison. I swallowed. It was painful, as my mouth was dry. I felt like someone who was trapped in a maze and, after hours of searching, seemed to have found a way out, only to realise it was yet another dead end. It was very frightening. I tried to stay focused and in control. I failed. My breathing became laboured and I had to sit down. I buried my face in my hands. ‘They’ll bloody well kill me in there. You can’t send a copper to Armley.’
Mr Stewart closed his briefcase, ready to leave the cell. He told me that he would work hard on my appeal. This was little comfort to me, as it had paled virtually into insignificance. My short-term welfare became the priority. For the first time in my life, I felt completely helpless. I was now in the hands of the prison service and the inmates at Armley. Anything could happen in there.
He slammed the door shut as he left. The lock was bolted into place making a loud metallic clunk which echoed down the cell passage. It was a sound I was to become all too familiar with whilst serving my sentence. Hearing anything similar today is a stark reminder of those very dark times I spent in prison. The silence in the cell was in stark contrast to what I had just heard and, once again, I was left with my own company and my autobiography of Tony Adams, the Arsenal and England footballer. My mum and dad had given this to me the day before as a birthday present. It was the only item I had taken to court with me, in the hope I’d be allowed to take it with me. I loosened my tie and opened the top couple of buttons of my shirt. The optimism which had been my main strength for the past two years had deserted me. I felt physically sick, as I really didn’t know how I would cope in prison. Throughout my whole service, I had been so proud of being a police officer. Now it was the worst thing in the world for me to be, but I was one, and I couldn’t change it. My fear of how the other inmates would treat me intensified. I began to think of my mum and dad. I hadn’t had the opportunity to see them since being given my sentence and I desperately wanted to speak to them, so that I could tell them that I was okay, even though I felt far from being so. I couldn’t begin to imagine Mum’s reaction. I knew that Dad would now be feeling the strain, too. He’s a tough character and had worked his way up the ranks in the police service through hard work. He’s self-educated, with few formal qualifications, which goes some way to show what a remarkable achievement it was for him to get to chief inspector, a rank that nowadays is often held by under-experienced academics with very little practical, hands-on knowledge. Dad was now Mum’s only hope of surviving the forthcoming months. I knew I could rely on him. I’d have to. I exhaled slowly through my lips. The loss of my identity had begun.
‘Boss, can I have a phone call?’ someone shouted from a neighbouring cell. (Criminals call law officials ‘boss’ when they are locked up.) This was the kind of question that I’d been asked whenever I worked in the police cell areas. I knew that, from now on, I would be asking it. I would have to ask for everything for the next four months, even a drink of water. I certainly wasn’t ‘boss’ now.
I tried in desperation to think of something positive. I failed, so I listened intently to what was going on outside my cell. I still hoped someone would open the door and tell me that a huge mistake had been made. Of course, this wasn’t going to happen. All I heard was a relentless jangling of keys and the distant slamming of cell doors. The place seemed very busy, yet in my cell I felt abandoned and alone. It was as though the world had forgotten I existed. My cell walls seemed to close in, and this prompted me to start walking around. In just a few paces, I had walked its length. I desperately searched for something to occupy my mind because I knew that worse was to come. I knew, with dread, that the fight against the boredom was going to be as hard as the fight against the conditions and other inmates. I needed to develop a strategy in order to get through the long days ahead.
I sat on the bench and tried to think as I flicked through my book. Even Tony looked frightened on the front cover. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood up again and put my face right up to the closed hatch in my cell door in the hope I’d be able to see out. I couldn’t; it was too dirty. Then suddenly, the hatch fell open with a loud bang. Two eyes appeared at the slot. ‘Stand away from the door,’ came the forceful command. I complied and stood at the opposite side of my cell. My experience as a police officer had taught me just how daunting entering a cell is when it’s occupied by an unknown quantity, which is how I would be being viewed by the officers. As the door opened, an overweight individual confronted me. His uniform clung tightly to his bulging belly, but he had a pleasant demeanour. He had an air of superiority over me because he could go home and I couldn’t. He took me out of my cell to a door which led to the outside world. Two other Group 4 security officers waited for me. One of them was spinning a pair of handcuffs around his index finger, joking with his colleague about something. This made me very uneasy. I was relieved when his expression became more serious as he saw me walking towards him. I knew that he had probably been laughing at something entirely unrelated.
He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, mate, we’re gonna have to put these on,’ he said as he held out the handcuffs. The reality of the situation hit me again and I really did not want to be restrained. I had no intention of trying to escape and to think that I was a risk to the safety of the officers was ludicrous.
The officer handcuffed me with my hands to the front and a second pair of handcuffs was used to handcuff me to the second officer. I felt like a gangster. I looked at the officer. ‘I’m not gonna kick off, mate,’ I assured him.
‘I know, but we have to do this,’ he said.
‘I know you do, but I’m here for a common assault that I didn’t even do. I’m a bloody copper, for God’s sake.’
‘I’ve got to, mate. Sorry.’
I wasn’t annoyed with them; they were just doing their job. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m just pissed off about all this now. It’s been going on for two years and they’ve fucking stitched me up because I’m a bloody policeman.’ I realised that I was beginning to get a little too vocal. ‘Sorry,’ I said again, ‘it’s not your problem.’
With this, there was a buzzing sound and a green light lit up on the door handle, indicating that the officers could open it. One of them put his thumb up to a camera over the door. I assumed that he was thanking a colleague who had remotely unlocked the door for him. ‘Come on then,’ he said.
As the door opened, I saw a Group 4 car waiting. Large metal shutters surrounded the yard. Another officer sat in the driver’s seat and the engine was running. The two officers led me to the car. We all got in, with me in the middle. It was very cramped and finding a comfortable position with my hands chained together was impossible. The driver switched on the radio. It was as though I was being given my last taste of civilisation, freedom and the outside world. The song, How Do I Live Without You?, by Leanne Rhymes, was playing. I find the irony of the song title quite amusing now, given the position I was in between the two guards. If I ever hear it, though, I feel physically sick, too. Every so often, the officer I was handcuffed to would glance at me. ‘If it’s any consolation to you, we’re all on your side,’ he said. ‘You should have a medal for what you did; you shouldn’t be getting this. It fucking stinks.’ I didn’t tell him, but it was a consolation, a big one.
The drive to Armley Prison took about ten minutes and I cherished every second. I wasn’t a free man, but this was the nearest I’d get to freedom for a while. People driving their cars had no idea how lucky they were to be free. It seemed that way, anyway.
Then, the sight I’d been dreading was in front of me. Armley Prison is an old stone building, blackened with pollution, and it looks similar to an ageing castle. It’s massive; it has to be, as it holds over a thousand inmates, some of the nastiest criminals in the UK. It stands as a visual representation of institutionalisation and is an enormous warning to anyone contemplating a crime. The walls are high and topped with about three feet of closely coiled barbed wire. There is no way out of this place. Stunned, I shook my head in despondency. The driver pulled up in front of two large doors. They were about ten feet tall and looked Victorian. We waited. I saw scores of prison officers coming and going, as there had obviously just been a shift changeover. They all seemed so intent on what they were doing, clutching their empty lunch boxes and pacing to their cars to go home and get on with their lives. Again, I felt abandoned. No one seemed bothered about me. Why should they be? When the doors eventually opened, I was horrified by what I saw. There were about fifteen prison officers standing around. Some stood with their hands in their pockets whilst others casually smoked cigarettes. Several others swung large bunches of keys on long chains around their fingers, just as the Group 4 officer had done with the handcuffs.
‘They always fucking keep us waiting here,’ said the driver, indicating his distaste for the prison officers. There had always been an antagonistic relationship between the Group 4 officers and the staff at Armley Prison. I didn’t know why.
One of the officers approached the driver’s window. ‘Who’ve we got here then?’ he asked.
‘Ummm what’s his name, lads?’ asked the driver to the officers sitting either side of me.
‘Bunting,’ came the reply.
‘Bunting,’ said the driver to the prison officer.
‘Okay. You’ll be in, in a minute,’ said the prison officer. He seemed to enjoy his power of being able to keep the Group 4 men waiting, but sure enough, after a couple of minutes the shutter finally began to open slowly. We entered the prisoner reception yard, which was about the size of a football pitch and surrounded by high walls, which led to the main building where all the wings were. There was a door in the far corner.
The driver took us towards it and parked. He turned off the engine. ‘Bloody useless. Where are they now?’ he shouted. With this, the officer who I was handcuffed to began to escort me out of the car.
‘Get him back in,’ came a bellowing voice from inside the building. ‘Bloody well get him back in. He’s a fucking v.o.’ (A v.o. is a violent offender.) At this moment, a prison officer charged out of the building with a German Shepherd dog on a lead. He approached the car. ‘For God’s sake,’ said the driver, ‘I think they’re expecting bother from you, kid.’
The dog jumped up at the side of the car and left damp patches on the window where it had pressed its nose against the glass. It opened its mouth and displayed a jaw full of lethal looking teeth. I cowered away like a child, pulling the officer with me, until we were allowed out.
As I alighted, the prison officer gave the lead more slack and so the dog was able to come right up to me. It frantically sniffed my leg. I was scared and knew that if I made a sudden movement, the innocent sniffing would turn into something a lot more sinister. I felt resentment towards this officer; I was to have similar feelings again.
He marched me to the prisoner reception door and unlocked the handcuffs. Both of the Group 4 officers shook my hand and wished me well. It was brief, but emotional. I found it emotional, anyway. I suspected that the prison officers weren’t going to be quite so understanding. I was placed into yet another holding cell, as there were about six or seven other prisoners waiting to be booked in. This cell shocked me just like the Crown Court cell had, except this one made the one at court seem like a room at the Hilton. There were puddles of urine all over the floor and I had to pull my jacket over my face in order to breathe without wanting to vomit, due to the stench. The familiar writing on the walls was also present in abundance. The prisoners outside my cell sounded rowdy and aggressive. My being placed into the holding cell so quickly must have been unusual, as I heard two or three asking whether or not I was a beast (a prison term for paedophile or rapist). Beasts are very vulnerable when inside, as other prisoners see it as their duty to give out their own form of punishment, usually in the form of violence. I would rather the prisoners knew I was a policeman than for them to think I was a beast. Neither option was ideal, but in prisoners’ eyes, there is nothing worse than a beast.
Fortunately, the questions soon passed and the other prisoners’ initial interest in me subsided, as a prison officer tried to combat the rowdy behaviour by threatening the prisoners with a ‘nicking’ or a reduction to basic status. This was followed with a chorus of ‘Sorry, boss,’ from the prisoners. Losing standard status in prison to basic status is a massive punishment to any person in custody.
There are four different statuses in prison: basic, standard, enhanced and super-enhanced. The privileges a person receives whilst they are serving their sentence are related to their status. For example, someone with super-enhanced status may get a paying job in prison and therefore will spend much of the day outside their cell. They have more money to spend on food, cigarettes, and phone cards. Super-enhanced prisoners can even get a television in their cell. Basic prisoners, on the other hand, get nothing other than the statutory one-hour exercise period each day and the bare minimum to spend on luxuries. Basic status is avoided at all costs and therefore encourages good behaviour in prison. Every prisoner enters with standard status and, following a minimum of four months good behaviour, he can then be offered enhanced status and eventually super-enhanced.
I continued to look around the cell. It was lit only by a small amount of light which penetrated the filthy window at the top of the far wall. These walls had never been decorated. They were bare brick and appeared damp. The light on the ceiling had been ripped off, despite a once-present protective metal cage. The bench was completely covered with cigarette burns, so I didn’t sit down. Saliva dripped down the walls. I was now living with the animals I had dealt with in the years I had been a policeman.
I was hit by nausea and I felt involuntary contractions of my stomach begin to take hold. This time I was going to vomit. I banged on the cell door with the side of a clenched fist in the hope that I would attract the attention of a prison officer. I wouldn’t have made the cell any dirtier if I had vomited on the floor, but I didn’t wish to add to its sordid state.
A prison officer opened the door. ‘What?’ he shouted.
I must have looked as ill as I felt, because he immediately pointed down the corridor to the nearest toilet. I managed to get there just in time. I was violently sick for several minutes. I looked round for something to wipe my mouth on, but there was nothing, not even any toilet roll, so I used the sleeve of my suit. My legs felt shaky as I walked towards the desk where the prisoners were being booked in. I was told to wait, as it was my turn next.
The last remaining prisoner looked hard-featured. He was stocky and had a mass of tattoos all over him, including a picture of a dagger stabbing into his neck with blood dripping from the blade. He intimidated me just by his appearance. I dared not think of why he was in prison. I was trembling uncontrollably. It was cold and I already felt weak and I added to the stench of the place with the remnants of vomit on my jacket. The man stared at me, ignoring questions from the prison officer at the desk. He looked disgusted by my presence.
He took a pace towards me, meaning we were about an arm’s length apart. His eyes were piercing. He breathed rapidly through his mouth, making a panting noise as he did so. He smelt of alcohol. He screwed his face up in another look of disgust and edged even closer. He began making noises with his mouth as if he was accumulating saliva. Before I had chance to retreat, he spat in my face, and phlegm landed right on my cheek. I immediately began to wipe it off with the vomit-ridden sleeve. The officers made no reaction; in fact, they stopped asking him questions as if they were happy to let him do as he pleased. I looked towards the one behind the desk and, using facial gestures, expressed my bewilderment at the situation. The officer looked wary. I was completely baffled by what was happening, as it seemed like the man had taken control of the area he was occupying. Just as I finished wiping my face, he spat again, this time towards my feet. He opened his mouth and, with a flick of his tongue, removed his top set of teeth. I stepped back. As I did this, he raised his arm and with a swift movement punched me in the face, causing an immediate popping sensation in my nose. He laughed in my face. I felt a salty taste in the back of my throat and blood started to pour from my nostrils. I stumbled back, too scared to react other than to put my hands in a defensive position over my face. The man laughed again and said something under his breath, I don’t know what, then he turned away and walked off. With no fuss, a prison officer quietly led him away.
I bent over at the waist to prevent the blood getting onto my shirt. It dripped onto the floor and splattered onto my shoes. One of the officers approached me and unceremoniously gave me some toilet roll. My nose was riddled with pain and tears streamed down my face. I daren’t even complain to the prison officers. I hadn’t worked the place out and I didn’t want to make more enemies than I already had in there. There was seemingly little concern, though, and no repercussions for the man who had assaulted me. I saw the custody sheet on the desk. He was in for manslaughter. I wiped my nose and looked for a reaction from the staff. There wasn’t one. The next four months were going to be hell.
‘Right, Bunting. Clothes off !’ came the order from the officer at the desk. His attitude took me aback. I began to get undressed, but I found it rather embarrassing as there was no screen, and I was in full view of all of the officers in the area. There were also two cleaning ladies present, but they didn’t seem to take any notice. I guess they had seen it all before. I carefully placed each item of clothing onto the desk: my tie, my dirty jacket, my shirt, my trousers, my socks and my blooded shoes. In contrast to the care I had taken with my clothes, a prison officer then crammed them into a small box, wearing medical gloves. I wanted to ask him to be more careful with my property, but that might well have been counter-productive. This was prison, and I was an inmate.
‘I thought I said take your fucking clothes off,’ he said again.
‘Sorry?’ I asked. He pointed to my underpants, which I had left on. Surely they would allow me to remove these in private?
‘Off,’ he said. I couldn’t believe it. Another prison officer approached him and whispered something. I don’t know exactly what he said, but it instantly transformed his attitude towards me. ‘Oh, you’ll find a robe in that box,’ he said quietly. His behaviour generated a large amount of sympathy in me towards other prisoners, something which I never thought I would feel.
I placed my underpants into the box with my other clothes. The prison officer gave me a name board with my details and prison number on it: Michael E. Bunting. d.o.b. 7/9/73. DK8639. That number would become my identity for the whole of my sentence. I held the board up to my chest and, with a blinding flash of light, an officer took my photograph. Following this, I had my fingerprints taken. It was a terse task and the officer didn’t speak to me as he grabbed each finger and rolled it into the ink and then onto the paper. When he’d finished with me, I was covered in ink up to my wrists. I felt like a piece of meat. He told me to wash my hands, and I was sent to the supply room where I was given my prison clothing. The boxer shorts I was given were bloodstained. I cringed as I put them on. The T-shirt was so tight it seemed to almost squeeze the air from my lungs, and the jeans were so loose I had to hold them up to prevent them falling to my ankles. I remember there was a large drawing of a penis on the front of the left leg, drawn in ink by a previous inmate. The jumper had HMP ARMLEY written across the front of it. I wasn’t exactly likely to forget where I was, but this served as a constant reminder. One of the inmates working in the storeroom then gave me my bed pack, which comprised two blankets and a pillowcase. I clutched them under one arm, as I held my jeans up with the other. It was hard to accept that just minutes earlier I had been wearing my smart suit. Now I was wearing a degrading prison uniform, which already had splashes of blood on it from my injured nose.
A prison officer then took hold of my shoulder and led me away. He was younger than the others and seemed far less robotic. He spoke to me as we walked through the door to the main prison, telling me I would be placed in a cell in the hospital wing, the wing where inmates with severe health problems were detained. I was being sent here because I was a policeman and therefore posed a security risk to the prison due to inmates’ reaction to me. I wasn’t sure whether this was being done as a result of what had just happened.
Armley Prison is huge and our journey to my cell was a long one. Every corridor was secured with a locked door and the officer would keep reaching for the keys on a chain around his belt to unlock and then re-lock each one. Prisoners stared at me as I walked through each wing. They were all going about their normal business of cleaning out their cells or reading newspapers, nothing much more. I had already been warned by the officer not to look back at them. That, in his words, would result in my first ‘kick in’. I corrected him and said it would be my second. I tried to keep my head down, but this wasn’t easy, as I thought that at any moment someone else would realise who I was and try to hurt me. I got the impression that if that happened, the officer wouldn’t intervene, as this would result in him being attacked, too. I was relying purely on the fact that word had not yet got around that I was a policeman. I didn’t know either way. I was petrified of an immediate attack, but tried to blend in as if I was a normal inmate. I felt my heart thumping in my chest, and I felt breathless.
Several corridors and many hard stares later, we arrived at the hospital wing. I was placed in my cell. It was tiny and mundane. There was a small desk and chair, a bin, a metal sink and, of course, the bed, which was more like a thin mattress on legs. My hopes of a lively ward of caring people faded fast. This cell was as bad as the other two I had been in. The moment I stepped into it, the door slammed shut behind me. ‘You’d better settle down for a bit, mate,’ said the officer, as he peered through my cell hatch. I was still clutching onto my book. I sat on the bed and gazed straight ahead. I knew that once word got around that there was a policeman in the cells, my safety was in jeopardy but I lay back and tried to calm myself down, as the thudding in my chest increased. I had officially started my prison sentence; the next four months were going to be a game of survival for me. I didn’t know what was going to happen. One thing I did know, though, was that it was not a case of if I got my next beating, but a case of when.
I looked up to the ceiling and began my first ever plea to God.
Mum and Dad—You went through hell, and words can never describe my eternal gratitude.
Helen and Stuart, Adam and Oliver, and Nan.
And my girl, Rach—When no one else would listen, you were always there, night and day—I love you, babe x.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u4937f9b6-3542-5c84-93bf-9dc48458defb)
Title Page (#u9f65ddc8-d62a-5518-8540-58d37db60610)
The Beginning (#ua2b06c9f-69c1-507f-a26b-39d9e6523436)
Epigraph (#u61dc5a00-daf5-5dcd-a82c-0abe97b51674)
Part I (#u302c79c9-c041-5321-b346-3e2aaf61b9ee)
Chapter 1 Early Days (#u34c04d8f-4e79-5c3e-81c4-6a890e7317ea)
Chapter 2 Rich Man Hanging (#u6d6d0b85-01e5-58d7-b2eb-dbec17043b16)
Chapter 3 Summer Madness (#u6498615e-1a55-5545-805e-2d3f365285b0)
Chapter 4 The Monkey Man (#ua19bbcd9-9d7e-58a3-b517-2e6afed407d2)
Chapter 5 Football Crazy (#ucd6d9276-d6cf-54ff-a837-26b2ed5111c9)
Chapter 6 Carried by Six or Tried by Twelve? (#u97c0b6ac-5189-51d5-8264-5b90c91306c6)
Chapter 7 ‘Not Guilty’ (#u209a9efa-fa73-5a21-8fd4-8a357d3d07d5)
Chapter 8 Trial and Sentence (#u85998233-78cf-5a89-91c6-332dca94b2d6)
Part II (#ubb032fd3-d494-57e1-b934-b5c3fadcee3d)
Chapter 9 My Mate Tony (#u6575e854-24d1-55cb-a989-02a503657c44)
Chapter 10 Silver Service (#u79f7706c-25bf-558b-afab-777139c400ae)
Chapter 11 I Need the Doctor (#u3adb38d0-7c9c-5414-9555-0a0f9269b0b7)
Chapter 12 A Pig in the Zoo (#u65bf741d-9d36-5c82-ae40-8f90a63b57cb)
Chapter 13 Big Boys Don’t Cry (#u862ed395-50f5-5e23-9131-9c99d7b6b7ef)
Chapter 14 Game On (#u102b6ac0-2a96-5a82-8fa1-a6b71a5837cc)
Chapter 15 On the Bins (#u5a3f808c-9636-5bba-bdc4-dbf652b438c0)
Chapter 16 Anyone for Cards? (#u9667cc03-a258-5b49-9e6c-05f341b5c6f9)
Chapter 17 Watching the Clock (#u023d1f3c-1f51-5bcb-91d6-8a47575f3396)
Part III (#u5d48480a-8eb9-5fc1-b824-2d3a63413413)
Chapter 18 Life on the Out (#uc6da88fa-0414-5bad-8d07-b91be0cfdf7d)
Acknowledgements (#ua6e12c76-2ac4-5ba9-bd87-18f3fd8cd3ef)
Copyright (#u8bac8bad-8f55-54a5-b057-eb95c50da320)
About the Publisher (#uabaad57d-bd25-5328-bea6-35141cab8c63)
Part I (#ulink_2697dc49-dafa-553f-924d-3a83b9474b03)
Chapter 1 Early Days (#ulink_fa6cab1e-be6b-51bf-b697-512b0a840bf6)
29th March 1993 (six years earlier)
’Take that smile off your face, Bunting!’
It was, I have to say, not as I had expected. I had waited all my life for this moment and I was finally here, standing motionless in my brand new uniform on a freezing cold and wet drill square with ten other recruits. I certainly wasn’t smiling. My first day at West Yorkshire Police training school had started.
He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his smart appearance was dominating. The crease in his trousers appeared to be razor sharp and his boots shone like glass. His flat cap was placed so far down his forehead that you couldn’t see his eyes. Every step he took echoed around the square. I knew that I would have to look like this one day, and soon. I still dared not move. I was intimidated by his presence, but this feeling temporarily subsided to relief, as occasionally Sergeant Wright would allow his emotionless face to show a smile. He walked behind the line in which I was standing and as he went out of sight, I closed my eyes tight. I felt his pace stick thud down onto the top of my helmet. The noise was deafening. ‘Stop smiling!’ he bellowed as he came nose to nose with me. I couldn’t understand this; I wasn’t smiling. I tried not to move, but I felt my helmet falling from my head and so I instinctively tried to catch it. ‘Bunting, stand still!’ His voice was penetrating and I immediately rose to attention as my helmet bounced off into a puddle. I had only had it about an hour and already it was filthy. It would be spotless again by the following day; it would have to be.
The initial training period was to be residential. One bed, one wardrobe, one sink and one metal bin were all that filled my tiny, lifeless room. I noticed a Bible purposefully placed on the pillow. I sat on the bed. My suitcase filled the only remaining floor space. I stood up and I saw myself in the full-length mirror. I could hardly believe what I saw. I was only nineteen years old and the uniform seemed to highlight my tender years.
One of the other recruits walked into my room. Richard was older than me but we’d queued for our uniform together and we were already relying on each other for support. ‘Do we go to lunch in full uniform?’
‘I think we’d better,’ I replied cautiously. I had one final look at myself and then looked down to each button on my tunic. I had to make sure that the Queen’s crown was perfectly upright on them all. It was the very first thing that Sergeant Wright had told us and I wasn’t going to forget.
Richard approached me and pinched my back. ‘Hair,’ he muttered, as he held his index finger and thumb up to the window for a closer inspection of a stray hair.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I replied, knowing that he had just saved me from another reprimand from Sergeant Wright.
We all congregated in the television lounge on the landing. There was an uncomfortable silence, but that was only to be expected. We didn’t know each other and we had all just spent four hours on a cold and wet drill square. This had come as a shock. After all, we had been on ‘civvy street’ at breakfast time. I had felt the effects of this massive change the moment I put on the uniform. I can’t describe the feeling; it was just surreal.
The silence continued as we walked across the yard to the canteen. I thought we all looked immaculate. Before today, I had only seen groups of police officers like this on the television; now I was part of one. I smiled. My dream was coming true. This was all I’d ever wanted since seeing my dad in his uniform for the first time when I was about four. I remember he’d come home for a few minutes on Christmas Day to see my sister and I open our presents. Letting the neighbours see that you were a police officer wasn’t as much of a problem in the seventies.
As we walked into the canteen, I immediately noticed the noise of the clanging cutlery. I joined the back of the long queue. No one else was wearing a tunic or a helmet. I noticed several groups of officers looking over and laughing. I realised that tunics and hats were not required in the canteen, yet I dared not remove mine. I looked into the eating area. It was full. I noticed a raised platform with tables on it. There were neatly arranged flowers, jugs of fresh orange and baskets of bread on these tables. A dominant picture of the force crest hung precariously on the wall. I figured that this was the area for senior officers, as the other tables simply had a jug of water on them. With extraordinary curiosity, my eyes wandered around the room. I saw a large portrait of the Queen. This was strikingly significant. She seemed to be staring at me even when I moved. It was as if the picture had been put there deliberately to make me realise where I was. I was now a servant of Her Majesty. A large gap had developed in the queue as the person in front of me strode on. I had to make a conscious effort to close my mouth. I was in awe of everything. I was living my dream, and it was impossible to hide the fact that this was my very first day as a policeman.
When I sat down to eat, I noticed that even the serviettes proudly displayed the force crest. I opened mine out and stared fixedly at it. I noticed that one or two others in my group were doing exactly the same. I began to eat and contemplated the forthcoming afternoon. We were due in the classroom at 1.30 p.m., but I didn’t know what to expect. It was only twelve o’clock so I wanted to take advantage of the bit of free time. I needed to unpack my suitcase, the one my mum had packed. Mum seemed miles away now. I was on my own, about to enter the real world.
Despite these intentions, I didn’t manage to do my unpacking. The free time was consumed by my stupefaction at my surroundings. I also knew that I needed to ‘bull’ my boots and press to perfection my trousers and tunic sleeves. I had already realised that impressing Sergeant Wright wasn’t going to be easy, especially at seven o’clock in the morning, which was when we were next due on the square.
I sat in my room and carefully took off my uniform. The aloof authority around the place made me feel wary of creasing it, even when I was on my own with no one looking. I opened my boot polish and put some water into the lid. I took my cloth, wrapped it around my finger, dipped it into the water and the polish so I could shine my boots. As I did so, I listened intently to every noise. I could hear distant laughter from other rooms and, at this moment, hearing it was very daunting to me. How could anyone dare laugh here?
Richard knocked at my door and came in. ‘We’re all in the telly room, Mick. Doing our boots together, mate.’ I picked up my boots and polish and walked the short distance down the corridor to join them. I was a shy nineteen-year-old and had been out of school for less than a year. The others were older than me, and just joining in with their conversation was unnerving. I would have preferred to stay in my room but that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. I had to make the effort; I wanted to fit in. I sat down. Everybody was doing exactly the same thing. Each had a cloth covering the index finger in one hand, working in a circular motion on the toecap of the boot held in the other. Occasionally, someone would raise the boot to their face, then open their mouth and breathe heavily onto it. It felt like the army to me.
‘It’s gonna take bloody hours, is this.’ Diane was a slender young lady who was clearly frustrated as her boots were still dull. She kept going. I sighed. My boots were dull, too, despite almost an hour of continual ‘bulling’.
We all began to talk, and spent the next couple of hours getting acquainted. This was interrupted only by the occasional gripe about the task in hand. I soon felt more comfortable as I learned that I was in the company of a wide range of people, from a former professional footballer to a check-out operative at a supermarket. One of the guys had been an undertaker before he joined the police and his stories about the situations he’d found himself in helped to pass the time. He’d been involved with the Valley Parade Football Ground disaster in Bradford in 1985, which I found disturbing, as some of my friends had been killed in the fire.
By about 9 p.m. there were ten pairs of pristine boots on the floor. My finger was stained black, and it appeared pruned from the damp cloth. Everybody looked tired but the atmosphere was more relaxed and the talking continued. The boots remained untouched for the next few hours. We had been driven only by the fear and anticipation of Sergeant Wright. Who would bear the brunt of his annoyance tomorrow? Not me again, I hoped.
The next few days consisted of much of the same. I soon realised that none of us would ever satisfy Sergeant Wright. One of the recruits had been told off for tying his laces using the wrong type of knot. It was his job to find fault, but I was determined to make his job as hard as possible. He was going to get the best from me. We all had to look flawless by Thursday. This would be the swearing-in ceremony to be held in front of our families and friends. Perfect appearance would be essential.
It was an early finish on Thursday and so there was no excuse not to get it right. I returned to my room at about 4 p.m. I had got used to its size and its inanimate aura. There was just three hours to go. I tried to visualise Mum and Dad watching me being formally accepted into the police service. My stomach knotted with nerves. I laid on my bed, put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably, and I felt cold. I could smell the dirty burning odour: the same smell I had noticed every evening as the heating system started. I could hear some men playing a game of football outside. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world, not like me. Somehow, I dozed off.
The distant sound of a radio and the sound of hurried footsteps on the corridor were audible as I began to wake up. My mouth was dry and my eyes felt heavy. I was irked that I’d fallen asleep. I reached onto the floor for my watch. It was ten past six. I’d been asleep for two hours! Panic-stricken, I leaped from my bed and opened the door. I looked down the corridor and saw my colleagues nervously pacing up and down in full uniform as if they were rehearsing for later. I slammed the door. ‘Shit.’ I must have said this quite loudly as I heard a few chuckles from the others. The sound of the footsteps got louder.
‘Get a move on, Mick, we’re going in twenty minutes,’ someone said.
‘No probs, I’ll be right along.’ I tried to sound convincing, but as I said this I was hopping around the room, hurriedly taking off my trousers. Loud bangs rained onto my door. The others seemed to be enjoying my predicament. I ran out completely naked, clutching only a small towel and a bar of soap. The laughter was inevitable, as were the mocking wolf whistles. Fortunately, there was no time to think of the embarrassment. I didn’t have long but I would make it. I had no choice, and by 6.30 p.m. I was standing in front of my mirror again. The work was already done on my uniform and it hung exquisitely. My boots gleamed. I placed my helmet on my head slowly and precisely. I looked at myself for one last time, took a long, deep breath and walked out onto the corridor. I felt contented but still very nervous.
The television lounge swarmed with anxious-looking new police officers. Everyone was on his or her feet and moving around, seemingly without purpose. Periodically, someone would pat themselves down with their hand bound with inverted sticky tape, in a frenzied attempt to remove the last remaining bits of fluff from their tunics. Richard looked at me and shook his head. He didn’t need to say anything. I knew how he was feeling. These silent exchanges continued for a few minutes. The awkward silences were interrupted only by the reverberation of an object being repeatedly blown by the wind onto the metal flagpole just outside.
Phil, the ex-footballer, pushed the button for the lift. Being recruits, we were on the top floor and descending by the stairs would have been both time-consuming and tiring. The bell rang and the lift doors parted. One by one, we squeezed into the tiny space. I entered last. The doors closed and everyone looked downward. It was a game of skill not to stand on anyone’s perfectly polished boots. The silence remained unbroken. I desperately wanted to speak. I didn’t know what I wanted to say but I felt oppressed by the silence. I glanced across at Phil. He was a tall, solid figure of a man and was known for his sharp wit as the class joker. He spoke with a gentle Irish accent and could have the class in hysterics with just a couple of carefully chosen words. He had done this all week. Phil’s humour was certainly needed now and he responded to my glance.
‘Tommy, what the hell is that?’ Phil thrust his finger into Tommy’s hairy nostril and pointed to something quite horrible. Everybody laughed. Tommy produced a handkerchief in an instant and wiped away the source of our amusement. This jovial moment had temporarily diverted my mind from the forthcoming reality. The bell rang and the doors opened.
The lecture theatre, which was being used for the ceremony, was a short walk away. We had to go outside. There was driving rain and a howling gale, conditions which threatened the appearance of our uniforms. I pushed against the door. It was, for a time at least, a test of strength: me versus the wind. Eventually, I won the battle. I buried my head into my tunic, closed my eyes as much as possible and began the journey. I was now faced with a dilemma: did I walk and risk a complete soaking, or did I run and risk splashing the back of my trousers? The scene to any onlooker must have been amusing as we all waddled like ducks in a vain attempt to prevent the splashing. Nevertheless, we all arrived at the lecture theatre seemingly none the worse for our ordeal.
Once there, I was bewildered by the sight that greeted us. The theatre was a phenomenal size, yet every detail was intricate and minute. Each seat exhibited an elegant nametag in enduring expectancy of each guest. Ten written declarations of the oath were on the front row. I figured that we would be sitting there. Flamboyant silk curtains decoratively circled the entire room, leading to the focus, a large white screen at the front. Alluring velvet strips draped yet another portrait of the Queen. She was looking to the side this time, but her presence was compelling. I thought she could sense my nerves.
‘This is bloody posh, innit?’ said Tommy. No one replied. I saw Richard read a copy of the declaration. I did the same. This wasn’t a time for mistakes or tripped words. Several others quickly joined us. Two colleagues felt the need to read mine over my shoulder, yet their own copies were only inches away from them. The nerves had removed all rational thinking. A number of voices speedily whispered the words on the card.
‘Does anyone know what we have to do?’ someone asked. Again, there was no reply.
Then the inevitable came. I heard voices coming from outside, and the sound of high heels on the floor confirmed that the first guests were arriving. Whose family would it be? Tommy grimaced. There was a knock at the door. Whoever it was felt subordinate enough to seek permission to enter and this instantly gave me a feeling of confidence and control. Didn’t they know it was only us in the room? They didn’t need to knock. I realised again that I was a policeman and this was my first encounter with the public as such. I hadn’t changed, but people’s reaction to me had.
By the time the theatre had filled with our loved ones, we had all taken our seats. My hands were sticky and from time to time I would frantically rub my palms together in order to rid them of the sweat. I puffed out my cheeks and released a long breath through barely parted lips. The others remained still. The magistrates and college commander would arrive any minute. Sure enough, they did: with a ceremonious entry, a mass of grand-looking senior officers and court officials entered the room. The formal opening began.
I knew this was going to take a while, which exacerbated my nerves. I placed my hands on my lap and tried to listen. I continued to look around the room, but did so with the minimum of movement because each move that I made was the focus of everybody’s attention, or at least that’s how it felt. I began to think of my friends from school. I couldn’t believe where I was. I wondered what they were doing at this very moment. They would never believe this if I told them—Michael Bunting, a police officer? Then my turn to be sworn in arrived.
‘PC Bunting, please,’ came a voice, out of the blue. I looked at the front and the officiating magistrate nodded his head and smiled at me. It was as if he sensed my anguish. I stood up and tentatively approached him. I looked over to my mum and dad before taking the oath. My formal acceptance to the service was complete. I had even been given my dad’s old West Riding Constabulary collar number, 451. As a chief inspector of the same force, he looked on with the pride I had expected. I’d done it.
I spent the next fifteen weeks at the Police Training School in Warrington. On the final day, after having studied law in the classroom, done riot training on the drill square and performed role play scenarios in mock streets, I completed the passing-out parade with hundreds of other recruits from five different police forces. Once again, Mum and Dad came along with my grandma and grandad (Dad’s parents) to join the crowds of proud onlookers as these new police careers began.
My life’s ambition to become a police officer was complete. I wondered what the next thirty years had in store for me.
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Michael Bunting
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Исторические детективы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: The true story of a young police officer’s imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.It was Michael Bunting′s life ambition to follow in his father′s footsteps and become a police officer. But six years after his family watch him pass out and begin his life′s dream, he is serving a sentence for a crime he didn′t commit. This is his story.Beaten almost senseless as he tried to arrest a violent criminal, the 23-year-old PC was left with head injuries and blurred vision that took him months to recover from. Back at work he was astounded to learn that his attacker had filed a complaint against him and that the Police Discipline and Complaints Department were following up the allegation.Two years later he was found guilty of common assault against his assailant and received a prison sentence that left him living his devastated life amongst the criminals he had previously sought to keep off the streets. Hard-hitting and at times heart-breaking the book is a graphic account of life behind bars for a policeman in one of England′s hardest prisons.An extract from A Fair Cop:"The prisoner arrived once more with the trolley and placed the plate of food on to my hatch. ′Bunting,′ he shouted pleasantly. I wasn′t fooled. ′Thanks,′ I said, as I walked across the cell to collect it. As I put my hand out to reach for the plate he snatched it away. He held it up to the hatch and peered through at me. ′PC Bunting, isn′t it?′ he asked, and then took a deep breath to muster as much saliva from the back of his throat as he could. With one swift movement he spat a big glob in to the middle of the food. The white phlegm floated around in brown gravy. ′Hey lads, I′m feeding the pig,′ he said. With this, two other prisoners came to my cell hatch. They looked at me, sniggering. They then spat in my food too. The first prisoner put the plate on the hatch and gestured for me to come closer. ′You′re in our territory now, you f***ing filth, and we′re gonna f***ing carve you up.′