Juggling chainsaws: A criminological fiction of a supervisory breach

Abstract

Drawing upon my experience as a justice social worker within a Scottish local authority, the following text presents a fictionalised account of a supervisory breach. A routine feature of my job involved administering breaches for those subject to post-release supervision; a process which often saw those I supervised recalled to prison. Yet it is a role which I increasingly came to struggle with. Recognising that recall impresses further disadvantage upon already marginalised populations, my complicity in initiating this process, directed towards persons with whom I had generally established a relational bond, elicited an uncomfortable tension between my social work values and the institutional demands of risk management. Fiction provides an accessible medium whereby the interiorised struggles attendant within penal practice can be duly expressed. In writing this story, I have sought to capture the emotional and ethical complexities breach practice elicits – at least in my experience.

Introduction

During my time as a justice social worker, it was common for those I supervised on licence to be recalled to prison. Sometimes recall was triggered because the individual had reoffended (or had at least been formally charged with a criminal offence), but quite often, a return to custody was prompted by ‘technical’ breaches of licence conditions. This is not particularly surprising; indeed, research has identified practitioners’ increased reliance on breach for non-criminal licence violations as a key driver of the rise in recalls seen in Scotland and elsewhere in recent decades (see Barry, 2021; Padfield and Maruna, 2006).

When people are breached and recalled to prison for licence infractions, it generally rests on the assumption that non-compliant behaviours are reliable indicators of an increased risk of harm. Re-imprisonment is thus rationalised as a necessary measure to protect potential victims by apprehending their would-be perpetrators. This rationale is not without merit; after all, licensees have typically perpetrated some form of harm in the past, so it is not unreasonable to speculate that this behaviour may be repeated. Nonetheless, administering this practice never sat comfortably with me. Over time, I developed a creeping sense that a fundamental injustice lay at its heart: that the tangible harms entailed by re-imprisonment were overshadowed by a prevailing focus on intangible harms yet to be realised. For all the technocratic assurances provided by the justice system's risk management processes, the prediction of serious violence remains an inherently imprecise science (see Fazel et al., 2012). Removing someone's liberty based on speculative projections of what they might do in the future always seemed like quite shaky grounds upon which to mandate imprisonment.

The nature of the licence violations I routinely encountered prompted further doubts. Many of the people I supervised were drawn from society's most marginalised sectors, with histories of child neglect and residential care, school exclusion, long-term unemployment, physical and mental health issues, addiction, and financial and housing insecurity common factors that had shaped their lives long before the justice system intervened. Unsurprisingly, judicial punishment did little to better their situations. Most left prison homeless, their already limited employment prospects further diminished with an unspent conviction now hanging over them, and very often with little to no family or social support. This is a rather disheartening backdrop against which to rebuild a life.

Incidences of supervisory non-compliance typically emerged during periods of struggle, be it a lapse into addiction or a decline in mental health, which often had the knock-on effect of placing licensees in breach. Perhaps these struggles increased the likelihood of further offending, but they also seemed to reflect a capitulation to the pressures generated by the social conditions of release, as well as the pains imposed by the regulatory constraints of community supervision. I questioned whether my role in returning these people to prison rested on an underhanded misrepresentation; divorcing ‘non-compliant’ behaviours from their social origins and reframing them as evidence of criminogenic risk, thereby inflicting further punishment on people driven to apathy and dejection by the lives laid out for them outside the prison gates.

While existing research has – quite rightly – focused on how breach and recall are experienced by licensees (see Digard, 2010), there is limited work examining the perspectives of those who administer these practices. In the following section, I present a fictional account of a ‘technical’ supervisory breach, narrated from the perspective of a justice social worker. Although fiction may seem an unconventional means of exploring penal practice, creative methods offer distinct advantages, particularly when it comes to relaying experience – it is perhaps only through showing, rather than telling, that the complexity of social phenomena can be fully grasped. By leveraging fiction's pedagogic utility (see Frauley, 2010), I aim to provide readers with a nuanced understanding of breach and recall by explicating the grounded processes that propel its administration. Additionally, as a medium uniquely suited to capturing the affective dimensions of practice, presenting my experiences in story form will also seek to offer readers a clearer sense of the emotional and ethical complexities negotiated by those who enforce community supervision's disciplinary processes.

This work is not intended to offer a neutral or representative account of practice. Its raw materials are drawn from the subjectivities of my experience, from which I have sketched a fictional illustration of how breach and recall typically unfolded when I was a practitioner, and what it felt like to play a part in this process. The text is therefore inevitably inscribed with my attendant biases, offering the singular perspective of someone who spent time supervising licensees – nothing more, nothing less. Nonetheless, by illuminating aspects of practice that traditional research methods often fail to capture, it is hoped this innovative approach will resonate with practitioners, as well as offering others a partial glimpse into the hidden practices which have accelerated the growth of our recalled prisoner population. Aligning with a growing body of scholarship utilising creative methods to explore penal practice and experience (see Scott and McNeill, 2021; Vox Liminis, 2024), this modest contribution may also encourage us to critically reflect on contemporary practice, as well the world we have made for those leaving our prisons.

Juggling chainsaws

Hamster wheel

‘Can they not just torch the place and start again?’

An ambitious proposal given the Council's renowned Dickensian thrift when it came to coughing up scraps from its (ever-so-tightly-held) purse strings, and one that would no doubt raise a few eyebrows with Health and Safety. Nonetheless, you register Megan's bold vision for infrastructure development with a collegial smile – perhaps one for the Team Meeting? The ripple effect from the email was still washing over the office, injecting a brief bit of buzz into the Wednesday grey. Nothing quite like the camaraderie brought about by collective outrage. You scan the text again.

Dear colleagues,

As many of you will be aware, the leaks caused by the heavy rain we have witnessed over the past few weeks has resulted in a build-up of damp on the ground floor – this is what is causing the smell. I have contacted Repairs and have been assured that works will be underway to have this addressed as a matter of urgency. I will update you when I hear more.

Regards,

Stacey

Senior Administration Officer

Criminal Justice Services

“As a matter of urgency’ – we’ll see about that’.

‘The smell hits you as soon as you’re in the door – clients keep asking me about it’.

‘They won't spend a ha’penny to get it sorted – the lease for the building is up next year. They’ll plaster over the cracks and cross their fingers the place is still standing by the time we’re out. The place’ll be held together wae spit and glue until then’.

Spit and glue. The lifeblood of most social work departments you imagine – and Criminal Justice is no exception. An office just like any other; desks, phones, the hard glare of laptops and desktop computer screens, recycled air, the constant whirring of printers pumping out warm pages of rather serious looking reports, meeting minutes, and the occasional vaguely threatening reminder that staff (very kindly) refrain from leaving their cups in the drying rack of the communal kitchen area. Punctuating this bland exterior, however, are the flushed cheeks and knitted brows of the highly caffeinated and generally sleep-deprived souls who navigate this space; those who, once upon a time, imagined themselves suited to the work of advising, assisting and befriending our worn and weary, and, mistakenly or not, saw some kind of common good and career fulfilment in pursuing this endeavour; those who now find themselves caught up in that relentless hamster's wheel forever spinning at the sharp end of public service; another case added to a caseload ready to burst; another report allocated which you have no time to write; another risk assessment tool to get to grips with; to better manage the risks you have no time to assess and inform the reports you have no time to write; every scratch-of-your-arse recorded in case notes, case notes, case notes – which, of course, you have no time to record. Forever chasing your tail, forever on the cusp of a pulmonary aneurism, round and round you go.

‘Do Homeless still have that can of air freshener?’

Forever pressing on, anchored under the weight of deadlines, the concerned stare from your spouse as you pull out the work laptop after dinner, of that sheepish, apologetic look your line manager throws whenever they call you over to discuss a new allocation, but most all, under that sick-to-your-stomach dread of one day not getting it right; that ice cold prickle creeping up your neck just as you’re about to doze off on Sunday night, and that tightly wound, clenched intake of breath as you open your emails on Monday morning; forever teetering on the edge of a panic, a crisis, an unmitigated disaster that should have been mitigated, that you never saw coming, but should have, and, fair or not, that which will nail you to the cross for the unforgivable sin of having been blindsided. Blessed art those not at the wheel when the iceberg reveals itself.

‘Any word on where we’re going when the lease is up?’

Sensing the brief sputter of excitement beginning to limply drift into the rehashing of well-worn gripes, you respectfully withdraw from the scene, swivelling your chair back round to the desk. 10:50am – getting this report in for 12pm was going to be tight.

Do you remember anything about that night?

Told yi mate, cannae mind fuck all. Last hing ah mind wiz being in the pub, next hing ahm in the cells.

So you don't remember assaulting the police officers?

Cannae mind fuck all. Ah mean, am obviously sorry like.

Check your notes – ‘fuck all’ scribbled down. You type: Mr Hetherston informed during interview that he was unable to recollect the specific circumstances pertaining to the index offences, owed to his intoxicated state at the time they were committed. He does, however, express his sincere remorse to the officers who attended the scene, and for the public disruption and harm his actions caused.

Phone goes.

‘Someone Campbell is down at reception for you – never caught his first name?’

‘No worries, I’ll be two secs’.

Adam Campbell. Assault to Severe Injury and Permanent Disfigurement. Released today on extended sentence. Two years supervision. No fixed abode. You make your way down the hall, the sour damp slowly fading into that heady twang of tea leaf skunk and raw alcohol which tended to perfume the interview rooms.

‘David, the Court have been on the phone looking for John Hetherston's report?’

‘OK, I’m just finishing it off, I’ll send it along shortly’.

‘Thanks. Also, Stewart phoned earlier too. He said he's breached his tag because his partner's kicked him out again and he wants to speak with you’.

‘Right, if he phones again can you just tell him to contact his solicitor? I’ll phone him later’.

Breathe. Collect your thoughts. Door opens.

‘Hello, Adam?’

Beginnings

Ah never meant tae hurt him

‘So you made it down OK then?’ closing the door behind you. The room is cramped and dark. Two rectangular tables pushed together and four chairs squeezed in. A thin glimmer of daylight struggles to pierce through the horizontal strip of window lining the rim where the wall and ceiling meet – not the most welcoming arrival point after 4 years inside. You switch on the light, getting a proper look at Adam for the first time without his back to you. Stockily built, auburn hair shaved down close to the scalp, and a milk white, freckled complexion. He stands uneasily, holding onto his clear bag full of clothes, pairs of shoes and pieces of paper.

‘Eh aye, it wiz fine’.

‘Want to take a seat?’ He plants himself directly across from you, avoiding eye contact, nestling his SPS custom-made bag closely by his legs. ‘So, it's a big day then, and loads to get through. How are you feeling?’

‘OK ah think aye, feels a bit strange like, at the train station seein loadsay people cuttin aboot. Just glad tae be out. Dae ye know where ahm stayin yet – mind at the ICM ye said it wid just depend on whit wiz available?’

‘Yeah I had a chat with Homeless earlier – it's in Moss View’.

‘The high flats?’

‘Have you stayed there before?’

‘Aye’.

‘It's only temporary mind. After a wee while you should get moved on to somewhere permanent. In fact, we’re lucky it's a temp flat, otherwise we would have been looking at a hostel’.

‘Right’.

You bring out the licence and go through the usual spiel – ‘Did you sign this before leaving prison? …Yes? Good…So my maths isn't very good, how old does that make you?… Thirty-five, OK…Did the prison set up an appointment with DWP? …Good…Remember if you breach any of these conditions, I need to inform the Parole Board, which could mean you get recalled back to prison… I don't have any choice…The main focus over the next week while will be to get you back on your feet… An appointment has been set up for you to attend addictions…Any thoughts on what you would like to do now you’re out?’

‘Eh, well ah wid like to find a job. Soas ah cin provide fir ma daughter, ye know?’

You glance the tattoo on his right arm – ‘Mary’ scrawled in swirly writing encased within a faded, pink love heart.

‘Is that her?’

‘Aye’ touching his arm self-consciously. ‘Her mum didnae like it very much’.

‘How old is she again?’

‘Seven’.

‘So I spoke with Children and Families and a worker is open to Mary right now. If you were looking to re-establish contact, then they would need to do a parenting assessment first’.

‘So ah cannae see her?’

‘Not right away’.

A pause.

‘But ah’ve never, ah mean, ah wid never do anyhin tae hurt her like. Ah hivnae seen her in years’.

‘They really just want to have a chat and see that you’re stable. I suppose, from their point of view, looking at your offence, that's maybe not unreasonable? And it will give you time to get back on your feet?

‘Right’.

A knock at the door. ‘Sorry David, Stewart's in reception looking to speak with you, he's getting a bit frustrated’.

‘Ok, I’ll be two minutes’. The door closes again. ‘Well, I think that's us just about done anyway. I’ll see you next week, and remember, if you need anything in the meantime you have my number. If you wait in reception, Sarah will come down to get you signed up for your accommodation and your Community Care Grant. We’ve checked the system and the victim isn't living in that area, so you shouldn't need to worry about running into him, but remember, you need to let me know if you do, OK?’

‘Aye’.

The chair scrapes as you stand, picking up your notepad, pen, and the copy of the licence, which, while destined for the shredder, certainly isn't going anywhere; it will remain perfectly intact over the next 24 months, an indestructible force backed by the full weight of the judiciary, hovering constantly over Adam. And you.

‘Ah never meant tae hurt him, ye know’.

‘Who's that?’

‘That boy. Like ah wisnae in a good place an’ aw that, but that shouldnae ah happened. He didnae do anything tae me. Just so ye know like’.

‘Right’.

A savage thug

You pull up the Trial Judge Report.

HMA V ADAM CAMPBELL

Adam Campbell, at the preliminary hearing you pled guilty to Assault to Severe Injury and Permanent Disfigurement against a 43-year-old man who was unknown to you at the time. You also pled guilty to a charge of Robbery.

It would appear that you had consumed a substantial amount of alcohol and drugs in the hours leading up to this attack, as well as the days previous. Having found yourself in a situation with no recourse to funds to obtain more alcohol and drugs, as was your wish, you turned to theft. Having witnessed the victim entering into a local underpass which connects the train station to a main road, you have aggressively intercepted him, demanding that he hand over his wallet otherwise you would stab him, unbeknownst to him that you did not have a knife on your person at the time. When the victim has refused to comply, an altercation has ensued, which has resulted in you inflicting several repeated hard blows to his head while he was on the ground. The victim lost consciousness during this time, at which point you have seized his pockets, removing his wallet and phone, the latter of which you later pawned. As a result of these injuries, the victim sustained bruises, lacerations and swelling to his face and head area, as well as a fractured orbital bone. He was required to undergo eye surgery following your attack and, whilst he is thankfully recovering well, it is understood that he continues to suffer regular headaches and the vision in his right eye may never return to normal.

I have taken into consideration the representations made by your counsel, as well as the contents of the Criminal Justice Social Work report, which highlights a number of childhood traumas, as well as enduring mental health and addiction issues. These, however, in no way excuse or justify the savage and brutal attack you inflicted…

You scroll further down.

Your record of offending is atrocious, beginning at 15 and continuing into your adulthood, with the only identifiable gaps being when you have served custodial sentences. The social worker assesses that you pose a very high risk of further reoffending, so in order to protect the public from serious harm from you on your release, I have decided to impose on charge 1 an extended sentence. The custodial part will be 4 years. This would have been 6 years if it were not for your early guilty plea. The extension part will be 2 years, whereby you will be subject to a licence and supervised by a social worker in the community. If you breach any of your licence conditions, you are liable to be recalled to custody to serve the remainder of your sentence.

A quick Google search: ‘Adam Campbell Assault’. A few links – BBC News and STV, as well as some other local outlets. You click on the BBC link.

‘Savage’ Thug Seriously Assaults Father of Two

A picture of Adam emblazoned at the top of the article, the majority of which rehashes the sentencing remarks of the judge. He looks much younger in this photo. Burberry cap perched, fag in his mouth, Buckfast bottle in one hand and making a V sign to the camera with the other – a real poster boy for early noughties delinquency. Scrolling down there is another photo, showing Adam being led away from the High Court in cuffs by police officers escorting him into a van. He's more recognisable here, but looks thinner, his jawline angular and jutting out. He looks to the ground, avoiding everyone's gaze.

You switch to the database, quickly finding him and clicking ‘Show All Records’. It takes a while to load up – ‘1 to 10 of 564 recordings’. The usual horror story no doubt. The most recent recordings relate to Adam failing to comply with court orders: Mr Campbell FTA for scheduled appointment. To be issued with Final Formal Warning…Mr Campbell telephoned office to advise that he had lost his travel warrant so is unable to attend his unpaid work placement…Breach Report to be submitted to court… Clicking back a few years, Child Protection Concerns from 2016: Officers attended the address on 16/09/2016 at 9:16pm, following reports of loud arguing within the residence. Evelyn Summers (DOB:12/02/1991) and her boyfriend Adam Campbell (DOB: 05/01/1989) present, as was their young daughter, Mary Summers (DOB: 16/03/2016). Both parents intoxicated, with officers noting several empty bottles of wine and spirits on the living room table. Young child could be heard crying in her room. Parents have become abusive towards officers, which resulted in Mr Campbell being arrested and removed from the locus. Maternal grandmother contacted, who agreed to collect Mary and take her into her care. Grandmother deemed sober and fit upon arrival. Family currently opens to addiction services and Children and Families social work… Going back further, all the way back to the first entries. Child Protection Concerns dated 1989: Unannounced home visit completed with colleague. Mrs Campbell answered door – her presentation wasn't great, eyes looked pinned and her speech was slightly slurred. House appeared in disarray; dishes loaded up in sink, children running around in unwashed clothes, little food in fridge, etc. Youngest child (Adam) could be seen walking around in full, dirty nappy. Mrs Campbell became emotional during visit, advising that she is struggling to manage the house/children while her husband is in custody, blaming social work for not helping her. Spoke of our ongoing concerns and of Mrs Campbell's repeated failure to comply with the action points agreed at the last core group conference. Report to be submitted to SCRA to consider foster placements for children…

Phone goes. ‘Hi David, the court phoned again looking for John Hetherston's report’

‘OK, I’ll send it in five’.

The fallen man of the Clyde

Never a great idea to visit Moss View after 5pm, so you generally opt for morning to early afternoon home visits; the times when its most chaotic residents are hopefully either sleeping off the previous evening's blow-out or being handed a cup of tea by the officers in the cells to help them sober up for the judge. You take off your lanyard, placing your badge in your pocket. Don't want anyone to think you’re a social worker after all – although the brown brogues and chinos probably don't suggest you’re here to sell TalkTalk door to door? Past the abandoned shopping trolleys and soiled mattress greeting the outer entrance, which have always seemingly been there, through the front door (no need to buzz as the lock doesn't work) and into the ground floor hall, the iron smell of piss hitting the back of your throat. You press number 15 on the right-hand elevator and wait.

‘Hi David, mon in’.

‘Thanks Adam’.

You follow his lead through the hall and into the sparsely furnished living room; a faded black leather sofa, a glass coffee table with an open pack of tobacco, skins and an empty teacup spread across, a second-hand TV recently purchased from Cash Converters sitting opposite, and a grey fabric armchair in the far corner.

‘It's quite cold in here Adam, do you remember how to use the heating?’

‘Ah’ve stopped usin it, that meter's a robbin basturt’.

‘But you can't be sitting up here freezing, especially now we’re getting into the colder months. Remember I can get you fuel vouchers if you’ve no money?’

‘Aye ah know. Ah heard back fae the agency about that job at the warehouse by the way – ah’ve tae start next week, so ahm hopin tae hiv a bit more cash goin forward’.

‘That's great! How are you feeling about it?’ Planting a seat opposite him on the armchair.

‘Good aye. Never hud a proper job like, but ah wiz workin on the pass in prison. Ma granda worked in the shipyards aw eez days’.

‘Ah really, mine was down the pits. Hard life back then’.

‘Be good tae hiv money so ah cin buy Mary sum presents when ahm allowed tae start seein her again, ye know?’

You clock two pictures on the mantlepiece.

‘Is this Mary?’ Getting up to have a closer look, you pick up one of the frames. Aged about three or four in this picture you reckon; blue-grey eyes, red hair put up in a white bow, and showcasing a wide, excited grin, brown stains covering her mouth which you assume to be chocolate.

‘Aye that's her. Shae got her looks fae her mum. Got ma hair though, poor soul’.

The other frame looks like it was taken in the hospital just after Mary was born. Adam, very skinny back then, is holding Mary, who is wrapped up in a white shawl and appears to be sleeping in his arms. Although he is beaming at the camera, you note the heavy dark circles under his eyes. He doesn't look well. But he also looks happy.

‘Ah wiz still a daft wee boy back then. Up tae all sorts’.

Looking back across at Adam on the sofa, you notice a cross nailed up on the wall above him – was that there last time? He spots you looking.

‘Ur ye Catholic?’

‘Are you asking whether I’m Celtic or Rangers?’

‘Naw’ he says laughing. ‘The Chaplain gave it tae me afore ah left, figured ah needed aw the help ah cin git. Found it the other day in ma bag’.

‘I didn't realise you were religious?’

‘Ah widnae go that far! Like ah wiz raised Catholic – that's why ah liked the name Mary, her mum thought it wiz maybe a wee bit auld fashioned, but ah liked it’.

‘Did speaking with the Chaplain help?’

‘A bit aye. Dinnae hink a believed everyhin she wiz sayin like’.

‘No?’

‘Just aboot everyone gettin forgiveness an aw that’.

‘You don't believe that?’

‘Hink am a bit past that point’.

‘Because of the offence?’

A pause. ‘Loads eh hings really’.

Sensing you were maybe beginning to press a bit too hard on something quite delicate, its petals not yet formed, you decide best to change the subject. ‘Do you need another food parcel?’

There's a turn up for the books, you think; Adam Campbell, the Fallen Man of the Clyde.

Case management review

With the tail end of the Autumn months beginning to harden into frost, most of the clients were coming to the office wearing hats, gloves and scarves, which made picking Adam out of the crowded waiting room a bit of a challenge – all hacking away, packed in tight like sardines.

‘Hi David’ you hear, eventually meeting Adam's gaze as he approaches towards you.

In the interview room. ‘So this is my senior, Pamela, and she’ll be joining us today for your three month review’.

‘Hi Adam, nice to meet you’.

‘I’ve been keeping Pamela up to date with how you’ve been getting on the past wee while’.

‘Right’ a little bit apprehensive, you sense.

‘It's nothing to worry about, just a chat as to how things have been going and to make a plan for moving forward’.

After some obligatory pleasantries about the changing of the seasons and of us all predictably forgetting about the clocks moving forward, you crack on. ‘I’ve put together a bit of paperwork’ handing out stapled copies of the Case Management Review to Pamela and Adam, freshly printed on Council paper, with its faint, yellowish tinge.

Risk/Needs Factor: Alcohol/Drugs – For Mr Campbell to engage with addiction services, as instructed. ‘So, you’ve been seeing Jan down at addictions for a wee while now and, to date, you’ve completed (check notes) six drug tests, and they’ve all came back negative. So that's really good. And you’re also going along to Positive Futures once a week for relapse prevention counselling.

‘Aye’

Risk/Needs Factor: Employment – For Mr Campbell to engage with supports to pursue employment/education opportunities. I was telling Pamela that you managed to get yourself a job through the agency last month, which is great’.

Pamela interjecting. ‘Yes, that's a really big achievement’.

‘Eh aye, ahm enjoyin it like, workin again an no sittin aboot aw day. Tryin tae save a wee bit so ah cin mibbie get Mary a present fir Christmas’.

‘Well, we can ask Children and Families about that’.

Risk/Needs Factor: Criminal Companions – For Mr Campbell not to associate with former pro-criminal associates. ‘You’ve been keeping yourself away from negative influences?’

‘Aye. Ah mean it's no that easy like, cos a lot eh they folk ah used tae cut aboot wi go tae they addiction places too, ye know?’

Pamela again. ‘Yes, we understand that. But you also don't need to be making friends when you’re there. And remember, it's one of your licence conditions not to be associating with people who use drugs’.

‘Aye, ah know. Cin mibbie just feel a wee bit lonely sometimes?’

‘Well hopefully you can meet new people at work?’

‘Dae ye know when am mibbie likely to get moved on? Moss View isnae the easiest place tae be keeping yirsel away fae aw that’.

‘Housing know you’re waiting, but it really just depends on when stock becomes available. Not ideal, I know, but they haven't forgotten about you’.

‘Jist wouldnae want tae take Mary tae they flats’.

‘I get that’.

Wrapping things up, it all gets brought back to the pleasantries again, thanking Adam for coming in and praising the progress he has made so far, showing him out at reception, conscious that your court report appointment is probably waiting.

‘I’ll see you in two weeks Adam. And well done!’

The Fall

A life worth living

‘So ah lost that job’.

You pause, dragging back the chair across from Adam, who has already planted himself down hard with a heavy thud. He seems agitated today. You notice that his usually clean-shaven jawline is now grizzled with ginger stubble and he looks tired, dark circles looping under his blue-grey eyes like half-moons.

‘I’m really sorry to hear that Adam. What happened?’

‘Just said they didnae need mi anymore like, hid too many staff clocking up hours wi no enuf work’.

Can you smell booze? Always hard to tell in these interview rooms, could’ve been the last person? But he doesn't seem himself.

‘Have you re-applied for benefits?’

He pauses. Staring into space, up to the thin strip of window.

‘Ah jist cannae be fucked wi aw this like’.

‘Well listen, it's a wee setback, but hopefully the agency can find you something else soon?’

Still staring up at the window, not meeting your gaze. ‘Wit's the fuckin point in aw this? Ah mean, like, really? Cannae git a job – cept a shite wan that cin chuck mae whenever they feel like, cannae see ma wean, who let's bae honist, is probably better aff withoot her ex-junkie dad kickin aboot hoose never any money, and you lot – appointments, appointments, appointments, go here, go there, go piss in a cup wi the rest ay yir auld junkie mates, who by the way, you cannae even speak tae! Ahm sick ae it’.

Maybe a minute of silence goes by, the cramped room breathing it all in.

Not breaking his upward stare ‘Ah jist hink it's mibbie a bit too late fur me’.

‘Too late for what?’

‘Tae hiv a life’.

‘You have a life?’

‘Ah mean like a proper wan. Wan worth livin’.

Another long silence.

‘When are you next due to see Jan?’

‘The morra’.

Stable ships

Hi David,

Just a quick note to say that Mr Campbell FTA his appointment earlier today, not like him? Tried phoning him a few times but number just ringing out. He's next due in on Monday, sent him a text reminder.

Jan

You try Adam's number a few times – no answer. Pamela looks busy but you head on over; she's on the phone, acknowledging your presence with a polite smile and mouthing ‘two minutes’ under her breath. You wait somewhat awkwardly, hands in pockets.

‘Everything OK?’

‘Erm, I’m not sure. Adam Campbell wasn't great during his appointment yesterday – he lost that job’.

‘Och, that's a shame’.

‘He also didn't show for his addictions appointment today either’.

A brief pause as Pamela processes.

‘Hmm, that's a concern’.

‘Yeah, I know. He's next due to see them on Monday. I mean, it could just be a wee blip. He's been doing well the past while and everything’.

‘He also needs to be stable though, otherwise we can't manage the risk’.

Stability – that key metric, the only God which Criminal Justice prays to these days. No more saving souls or the namby-pamby touchy-feely stuff. We want stable ships, please.

‘Well, I can keep trying him today? And if he doesn't go in on Monday, try a home visit?’

Pamela's phone goes off again, but she doesn't take it.

‘I’m just wondering whether we can leave it over the weekend?’

‘You don't think so?’

‘Not sure’.

‘I mean, even if it's a relapse, if he goes in on Monday we can still hopefully get him back on track. Would be a shame to have to breach at this point…’

Down the hall you notice Stacey from reception signalling to you. Stewart's probably waiting for you, no doubt with another twist in the tale of his constantly changing living arrangements to floor you with.

‘OK, we give him a chance to turn it back round then, given how well he's done so far. But if he doesn't go in on Monday, we may have no choice’.

Fireworks

The door is heavily scuffed and barely hanging onto its hinges.

‘It looks like the lock has been kicked in’.

Another policeman's style knock from Pamela, lifting the letterbox, ‘Hello Adam? Can you open the door please?’ her echo bouncing off the walls of the hall landing like fireworks, breaking the eerie still which generally clung to Moss View during the daytime. Considering her short stature and unassuming appearance, Pamela seemed to have no fear when it came to getting stuck into these situations.

‘Doesn't look like he's in’.

‘Either that or he's not letting us in’.

‘Yeah’.

‘When we get back to the office I think we need to have a chat about what we’re doing. I’ll ask Alan if he can join us too’.

Alan Sugar

Feels quite odd just the two of you in the Team Meeting room, with its exaggerated long table stretching all the way down to the room's far end; a bit like we’re waiting in Alan Sugar's boardroom, no doubt about to come in and give us a good bollocking. Wrong Alan though.

‘A bit formal all this no?’ Alan closing the door behind him.

‘It's the only room that wasn't booked cheeky’.

‘We’re not here to have another moan about the room booking system are we?’ Alan dragging a chair back, throwing you a wry smile as he sits next to Pamela. Around mid-fifties, always sharply dressed and tidily groomed, a greying goatee ever-so neatly shaped, his blade-shaved head beaming off the lights above.

Pamela plays the first hand. ‘So I thought it best to call you in to have a quick chat about one of David's clients’.

‘Yes Mr Campbell, I’ve just read your email. What are we thinking then?’

‘Well as things stand, since late last week he's missed two appointments with addictions, one appointment with us, and he isn't answering his phone. We did a home visit earlier on, no answer but it looks like the door was kicked in’.

‘All sounding very chaotic’.

‘He's extended sentence, so one of our high-tariff guys. Index offence was committed when he was under the influence of alcohol and drugs. For me, it looks like he's off the rails, and we need to get a breach in asap. Parole Board will go through us if we’re seen to be twiddling our thumbs with it, just waiting for something to happen’.

‘Seems pretty clear to me. David, what are your thoughts?’

Four eyeballs darting across at you in Lord Sugar's lair.

‘I mean, I agree it's concerning and I get all that. It's just, he’d been doing really well up until recently. He lost his job a few weeks ago and that really set him back’.

Alan stroking his goatee whilst you’re talking and nodding his head; you wonder whether active-listening was really in vogue when he did his social worker training?

‘Yes and it's obviously a shame when these situations occur, but the ultimate question we need to ask is whether the risk can be managed. That's unfortunately the bottom line, and that's what the Parole Board expects of us. We’re juggling chainsaws with these guys. In the email it said his LS/CMI was high, what about the ROSH?’

‘It was medium, but now he's relapsed it will shoot up to high’.

Alan's phone goes – he apologises, answering it briefly, saying he will phone back in 5 minutes and checking the time on his watch.

‘There we go then. How soon can we get the breach in?’

The Midnight Report Writing Club

Back at the Midnight Report Writing Club; a sparse but durable and committed membership nonetheless. The laptop resting on the dinner table, its heavy glare piercing the dimly lit sleepy peace of the open-plan living area, A4 notepad and Adam's old reports spread out, you lightly chew the bottom end of a biro – a filthy habit Charlotte never fails to pick you up on, who's now warmly tucked up in bed. You rattle through the usual palaver:

Mr Campbell's recent disengagement from his risk management plan prompts serious concern…failing to utilise the problem-solving skills and positive self-talk strategies he developed during the offending behaviour programme in custody (ABC model – Attitudes, Behaviour, Choice)…suspected deterioration in the risk/needs area of Alcohol/Drugs…risk cannot be safely managed in the community at the current juncture.

There's an icy still in the air; one of those silent, breathless nights, frost coating the pavement like fuzz from a peach, glistening under the streetlights. You wonder what Adam is doing right now. Sleeping off a heavy cocktail of booze and whatever else he's taken, or reminiscing about old times with those ‘criminal companions’, the only people he perhaps feels have ever really understood him and had his back? Or is he looking out his window, like you, wondering how he ended up here, living this life, doing these things, and how it all came to this?

Trauma aware

‘Still no word?’ Pamela taking the seat next to you as the others pour teas, coffees, rustling open wrappers from the rapidly diminishing plate of shortbread biscuits sat in the centre of the table, the Team Meeting just about to kick off.

‘No, nothing. Been a few days since we heard now’.

The speaker at the front, one of the Trauma Awareness Champions forever doing the rounds these days, appears to be having some trouble setting up her laptop and connecting it to the screen – a few of the more IT savvy members of staff throwing in their two-pennies worth.

‘I think I’ll email Maureen and see if the police can try and speed things up’.

After a while the chatter dies down and so begins our crash course in developmental neuroscience; lots of pictures of the human brain and red arrows pointing to words like ‘hippocampus’, ‘amygdala’ and ‘pre-frontal cortex’ followed by a quick pop quiz to test our recall, the muted chomping and discreet blowing of hot mugs focusing in.

‘That’ll be what sets a lot of our guys off you know – that hyper-aroused, fight-or-flight state they’re constantly in’.

‘Just too bad that by the time we get them the damage is already done’.

A light knock at the door before Stacey's head pops through. ‘Sorry to interrupt. David, Adam Campbell's down at reception. Says he doesn't have an appointment but is asking if he can see you?’

‘Take a seat Adam’.

His face looks puffy and you can smell stale booze. But you also notice he's shaved.

‘Ehm, ahm sorry ah missed they appointments like. Ah wisnae in a great place’.

‘Right’.

‘Wiz aw gettin on top ay me’.

‘I know’. You feel your pulse begin to quicken. You’re going to have to tell him and have no idea how it's going to land.

‘Adam…’

‘– ah went an seen Jan there. She was talkin aboot mibbie gittin me on a detox…’

‘Adam, we had to breach you. We didn't have any choice’.

The air drains out the interview room. Just a tense, lingering silence creeping up the walls.

‘Right…’ He presses both hands to his face, his fingertips touching the start of his hairline, breathing out a deep sigh that sounds like it comes all the way from his bones. Removing his hands, you notice faint traces of tears beginning to well – the first time you’ve really seen any emotion from him. ‘So, that's that then?’

‘We didn't have any choice’.

‘Dae wae know wits happening yit?’

You clear your throat, which feels dry and tight. ‘The Parole Board have recalled your licence’.

Unable to endure the silence much longer, you add ‘– if you had just kept in touch with us then we cou –’

‘Ye put an ex-addict slap bang in the middle ay junkie central! Wit did yeez aw hink wiz gonnae happen?’

In this moment. You hate yourself.

The chair scrapes as Adam stands, dabbing his eye and reaching for the handle of the door – ‘Ahm sorry David’ – not looking at you, closing it gently behind.

Slinking back into the meeting.

‘Come in, you haven't missed much. We were just brainstorming some ideas as to how we can make the office environment more trauma-informed for clients’.

‘I was thinking we could maybe put some posters up in the waiting room? Or some plants even?’

You sit back down next to Pamela. ‘Plants, yeah’.

Mother and child safe

An email forwarded to you from Pamela.

Hi Pamela,

Please see below recording from attending officers.

Maureen

At approximately 20:00 hours last night, Police Scotland received a call out from Evelyn Summers, reporting that her ex-boyfriend (Adam Campbell) was at the property and under the influence, demanding to see their child (Mary Summers). Mum refusing entry and requesting police assistance. Upon arrival on the scene at 20:24 hours, Adam Campbell could be seen sitting on the stairwell outside the property. He appeared emotional but not aggressive, slurring his speech slightly. Mr Campbell had a shopping bag in his possession which appeared to contain children's toys – told officers these were xmas presents for his daughter. During discussion with officers, Mr Campbell began to display signs of frustration, however Mum came out into the landing and took the bag from him – which seemed to calm the situation. He then came away with officers without resistance. Mother and child safe. Mr Campbell in police custody. Charged with Breach of the Peace (Agg: Domestic).

A few days later, you’re notified that Adam has picked up a misconduct report for fighting with another prisoner at HMP Barlinnie. No release. Mr Campbell to re-engage with offence-focussed work programme and thereafter progress to the Open Estate. Review set for 12 months.

New Beginnings?

18 Months later

‘Remember, if Dianne kicks you out again, you need to let your solicitor know so they can get your address changed for the tag’.

‘Nae chance mate, me an the Mrs ur rock solid this time’, Stewart prising open the door on his way out. A familiar face in reception stops you in your tracks.

‘Hi David. Ah know am no open ti yeez anymore, but cin a speak wi ye?’

Back in the same interview room. The old battleground. Adam looks well, his neck and shoulders slightly thicker than when you last seen him.

‘Ah wis jist wonderin if ye could mibbie dae me wan ay they referrals?’

You chat for a while. He tells you him and Evelyn are speaking again and that he's hoping to get contact with Mary in the next few weeks, if Children and Families give the go ahead. He's back at Moss View, but he's hoping he can take her for a walk round the park to let her play on the swings. It feels good, this, you think. No longer his Supervising Officer hovering the Sword of Damocles over his head, no more Parole Board looking over your shoulder. Just two people, as you are. You thank him for coming in and let him know you’ll do that referral. Watching him through the clear perspex at reception briefly, walking back out into that strange, new world. You hope it goes OK for him, making your way back up the hall, the sour-milk damp wafting up your nostrils. It's hard though, this life – especially when you’re all on your own and with no support. But then again, you think, maybe he's better off this way?