Abstract
Although imprisonment for debt was abolished in England and Wales more than 50 years ago, a new debtor's prison has emerged. Debt within prison is now a significant problem, re-defining social relationships, and contributing to a rise in disorder, distress, harmful and criminal behaviour. Yet, engagement in the illicit economy, and the problem and consequences of indebtedness, has received relatively little academic attention. Based on ethnographic and qualitative research conducted in 10 prisons, this article seeks to correct this omission and expand the literature on illegal markets, prisoner safety, and prisoner society. It explores the functions and appeal of the illicit economy, the ways in which prisoner become indebted to each, and with what consequences.
Introduction
It was evident from the general tone of the whole party, that they had come to regard insolvency as the normal state of mankind and the payment of debts as a disease that occasionally broke out. (Charles Dickens,
Nearly 200 years after Dickens was writing, a new debtors’ prison has emerged in England and Wales. Although individuals are not imprisoned for debt (cf. experiences abroad, see Hampson, 2016; Myers, 2015; Sobol, 2015), the contemporary English and Welsh prison creates and sustains financial indebtedness, producing harm within and beyond the prison. Like the debtors’ prison of old, debt is woven into the social fabric of the contemporary prison. Although the illicit economy is an enduring feature of prison life (Crewe, 2009; Kalinich, 1980; Penfold et al., 2005; Sparks et al., 1996; Sykes, 1958), the nature and dynamics of indebtedness within prison, and its consequences, have received surprisingly little attention in prison scholarship. Although there are ethnographic and qualitative accounts of the drug economy within prisons in England and Wales (Cope, 2003; Crewe, 2005, 2006; Gooch and Treadwell, 2020; Penfold et al., 2005; Ralphs et al., 2017), credit, debt and its consequences have rarely been the subject of focused attention (note, by way of exception, Crewe, 2009; Kalinich, 1980; Sparks et al., 1996). Moreover, studies of prison violence have often overlooked the role of debt and the illicit economy in causing conflict, violence and homicide. Those that do reference such issues (Copes et al., 2010; Klatt et al., 2016) often misunderstand the relative risks of violence posed to drug dealers, seeing dealers as the likely victims rather than the perpetrators or orchestrators of victimisation they now tend to be. In addition, the available research on self-harm and suicide ideation often fails to explore the relationship between indebtedness and self-harm (see, by way of example, Favril et al., 2020; Hawton et al., 2014; Humber et al., 2011; Slade et al., 2020).
Drawing on qualitative and ethnographic research conducted within England and Wales's male closed prisons and Young Offender Institutions (YOIs) during the period 2014–2024, this article provides a focused examination of the prison debt economy and the way this economy underpins prison social life. First, I argue that the problem of debt in prison is structural. In the context of chronic underinvestment, declining prison conditions, prolonged inactivity and limited opportunities to progress, the prison illicit economy has been brought into sharp relief. Essentially, the state's withdrawal of financial provision for the prison system caused prisoner personal debt to increase, paralleling the increase in personal and household debt in the aftermath of the economic crises of the 21st century (Featherstone, 2021; Gardner, 2020). This increase in personal debt was not solely due to the increased contraband consumption (e.g. drugs), but arose from the need to purchase disproportionately expensive but essential items to mitigate often severe impoverishment (e.g. food, toiletries, clothes, telephone credit). Indebtedness could not, therefore, be ‘explained away in terms of a reckless desire to consume’ (Featherstone, 2021:1); rather it was a common adaptive response to the practical and existential problems of prison life.
Second, I argue that prison debt and the associated enforcement activities by prisoners contributed to the increases in prison violence, cell damage, arson, prisoner protest, incidents at height and the manifestation of prisoner distress in self-isolation, self-harm, self-immolation and suicide ideation. The relative absence of effective and consistent guardianship created a permissive culture regarding enforcement activities, but also left the distressed and vulnerable unprotected, perpetuating further harm. The debt economy was built on ‘negative reciprocity’ (Jacobs, 1998) with repayment far from equivalent (cf. Simmel, 1978) and enforcement often unreasonable but deemed legitimate in a context in which tolerating defaulters jeopardised the business model and constituted a personal failing. In this way, the normative code had evolved ‘to help people co-ordinate social interactions’ (Skarbek, 2014: 7) in response to the growing intensification of material deprivation.
Third, this article argues that collective solidarity was rarely seen as an effective solution to economic precarity and material impoverishment (cf. Sykes, 1958). Exploitative practices were tolerated, even justified. Conversely, debtors who did not manage themselves, their addictions or their finances were stigmatised and punished. Rarely did prisoners or prison officers ‘point to the wider social problem[s]’ (Rock, 1973) as an explanation for defaulting on loans. Rather, and like the Victorian debtors of the Marshalsea prison, prison debtors were seen as a moral and ‘social failure’ (Showalter, 1979: 23), even when the debt was unilaterally imposed, innocently incurred or the product of predatory exploitation.
The prison illicit and debt economy
Prisons are inherently depriving institutions (Sykes, 1958). The belief that prisoners are undeserving and that any apparent comforts would have a deleterious effect on their punishment, and/or weaken public confidence in the criminal justice system, is stubbornly persistent. Sykes (1958: 68) concluded that prisoners experience ‘material impoverishment as a painful loss.’ In making his case, Sykes not only emphasised the importance of a prisoner's perception of their standard of living (rather than the objective reality of that deprivation), but also the symbolic meanings attached to goods and services. A prisoner may, for example, have sufficient calories but find the supplied food lacks variety, taste or nutritional value. It was both the ‘necessities’ and the ‘amenities’ that Sykes deemed important. Even if a prisoner was not ‘hungry, cold or wet’, the standard of living was still deemed ‘hopelessly inadequate … because it bores [the prisoner] to death or fails to provide those subtle symbolic overtones which we invest in the world of possessions’ (Sykes, 1958: 68). Impoverishment was therefore experienced as a ‘bitter attack on the individual's self-image’ (1958: 70), threatening attempts to present themselves as capable men and producing humiliation and shame.
Today, it can no longer be assumed – as Sykes did (1958: 68) – that prisoners’ basic needs are met in England and Wales. Material deprivation has become more acute as prisons have become more dilapidated, conditions deteriorated, and supplies of sufficient food, clothing, bedding and toiletries become less reliable (Gooch, 2022; Her Majesty's Inspectorate of Prisons, 2017; His Majesty's Inspectorate of Prisons, 2023). At the same time, the reproduction of consumer culture within and beyond the prison has accentuated the symbolism and value attached to the ‘conspicuous consumption’ of consumer ‘artefacts’ (e.g. trainers and designer clothes) (Bourgois, 2003; Hall et al., 2013; Hayward, 2004). Financial precarity has strengthened, rather than dulled, the appeal of consumer goods and the importance attached to the ‘individual quest for distinction’ (Hall et al., 2013: 166) within prison. Prisoners evaluate each other based on their ability to possess and consume goods (Sykes, 1958). Indeed, to ‘have and to hold’ despite structural disadvantage is regarded as an important signifier of ‘masculine credentials’ (Jewkes, 2005: 57), constitutes the ‘primary marker of status’ (Crewe, 2005; Gooch, 2025), and is deemed illustrative of an ability to resist the degrading effects of imprisonment.
Although Sykes considered inmate solidarity and reciprocity (including the sharing of gifts and favours) the most effective solution, he acknowledged that some prisoners may ‘monopolise the scarce goods’ and/or steal, extort and rob others (1958: 91, 107). There has always been a highly functional prison
Although the presence of an illicit prison economy is well-documented, far less research has focused on credit, debt and financial arrangements within prison. In their analysis of prison order in two category A prisons (high or maximum security prisons) in England, Sparks et al. noted that debt was ‘most often cited as a source of trouble’ but added that ‘the true extent of the debt, and its consequences, are difficult to ascertain’ (1996: 185). In the 1980s, ‘getting over your head’ equated to sums of £20–£30 (although on occasion could amount to hundreds of pounds) – an amount that appeared more sizeable considering the prisoner's ability to repay. Notably, they add: ‘a cash economy is inherently likely to expand, both because there is no theoretical limit to how much one might want or accumulate and because the amounts circulating can be increased by money flowing (illicitly) in from the outside’ (Sparks et al., 1996: 186). Later analyses of prison drug markets and dealing in England and Wales also noted the problem of prisoner debt (Crewe, 2006, 2009; Edgar et al., 2003; Penfold et al., 2005). However, in the 1990s and 2000s, the illicit economy (and associated debts) was not of the same scale and was not generating major problems in prison social order. In the 2010s, however, the prison economy flourished and, with it, indebtedness has emerged as a serious and common problem – one that is causing considerable harm, crisis and distress.
Prison research during crisis, COVID and change
This article draws on qualitative and ethnographic research conducted between the period 2014–2024 in England and Wales. This research includes: a YOI, two category C and YOI prisons, three category C prisons (one of which accommodated only men sentenced for sexual offences), three category B local prisons and a category A prison. The study therefore includes high (or maximum) security category A prisons and medium security category B and C prisons. Each study was led by the author, ably supported by a co-investigator (in one prison) and six research assistants (across the remaining sites). Taken together, this article draws on 525 interviews with male prisoners. In all but two of the prisons, the purpose of the research was to understand prison safety, but in two of the category C prisons, the focus was more generally on prisoner society and everyday prison life as part of a wider study on rehabilitative prisons. Questions about debt, the illicit economy, criminal enterprise and prison safety (including violence, victimisation, self-harm and suicide) formed part of the interview schedule in all prisons, as did questions about the normative code, prisoner hierarchy and the quality of prison life. Throughout, the debt economy was a central feature of contemporary prison life.
An ethnographic approach was adopted in each site, with the period of immersive research varying from 6 months to – in the case of one category C prison – 3 years, and involving 2–4 days fieldwork each week. The aim was to better understand the culture, rhythms, norms, patterns of social interaction and dynamics of power. Fieldnotes documented the ethnographic observations of daily life throughout various parts of the prison, including the wings, reception, the gym, healthcare, classrooms, workshops, and visits. The nature of that participation varied from conversing with prisoners and prison staff, standing or sitting amidst the activity (but without being a hindrance), walking with prisoners and prison staff around the prison, making hot drinks and sharing meals. In addition, prison adjudications, staff briefings, segregation reviews, and key security and safety meetings were observed.
All the interview transcripts were transcribed verbatim and coded using NVivo, in a hybrid deductive–inductive way. To enhance intercoder reliability, the research team remained in regular dialogue regarding interviewee responses, interpretation of the data, and any themes, nuances, questions or contradictions. Clear guidance was given about how coding should be done, and the resulting reports were quality checked by the author as principal investigator. The coded NVivo reports were not, however, treated in isolation. Data analysis involved moving between the coded reports and the interview transcripts and then triangulating with the ethnographic data, the security reports and statistical data provided by the prisons. This iterative process helped establish the veracity and nuances of key themes across the data set as well as contextualise key themes (and coded reports) within the contours of prison daily life and within an individual's narratives and experiences.
Long-term immersive research proved critical in establishing trust and rapport. Prisoners’ familiarity with us opened and eased conversations about sensitive topics and illicit behaviour. Our continued presence in the prisons meant that we were familiar with or witnessed events, and/or knew those involved, which increased confidence in discussing disputes, deals and incidents. Prisoners also referred other prisoners for us to interview. There was, however, an inherent ethical complexity to such research, namely that we observed and were privy to conversations about the ingress of contraband, drug dealing and use, and the associated harms. In accordance with conditions imposed by the National Research Committee of HM Prison and Probation Service, we were expected to report any past or current conduct that infringed prison rules or the criminal law. We were open with prisoners about this requirement, which may have influenced their willingness to reveal illicit behaviour.
There were instances when a prisoner's criminal collaborations or involvement in harmful activity was already known to the prison, obviating the need for reporting. Some prisoners would reveal aspects of their conduct or how the illicit economy functioned but without the necessary specificity (e.g. dates, names) to report. Reports were necessary in a very small number of cases and related to overt prison officer corruption, threats to imminently assault others, and very recent or imminent self-harm. In these cases, the initial disclosures were made by prisoners precisely with the hope that the researcher would report their concerns and protect them from committing or experiencing harm. Crucially, though, our questions about criminal collaborations, the illicit economy and debt were answered with seriousness by all, rather than avoided or glossed over. Prisoners lamented the deterioration in the quality and legitimacy of their treatment, and it was through this lens that they understood the highly ‘competitive individualism’ (Hall et al., 2013) and often brutal sub-culture.
The prison economy: Structural, social and financial incentives
Prison life was expensive, and prisoners thought ‘it was easy to get into debt’ (Luke). This ease, and the expansion of the debt economy, was caused by three structural factors, all of which caused prisoners to call into question the legitimacy of their treatment by the state. First, prison wages were woefully insufficient, rarely seen as fair compensation, and described by prisoners as ‘slave wages’ (Connor). Weekly pay for full-time work varied up to a maximum of £25.00 to as little as £3.25. The prisons rarely had enough full-time work or educational opportunities, with the available work often demeaning and unattractive (e.g., ripping T-shirts, destroying CDs). Staff shortages and restrictive regimes had greatly reduced employment opportunities (His Majesty's Inspectorate of Prisons, 2023), further limiting possible income. Allowances for those who are sick, retired or unemployed were as little as £2.50 to £3.25 per week (HM Prison Service, 2020). Thus, very few prisoners could rely on prison wages to cover the costs of essentials; for example, canteen (e.g. food, toiletries, vapes), clothing and telephone credit.
Second, the costs of these items were disproportionately high and had increased over time without similar adjustments to prisoner pay. Prison wages were quickly exhausted and – without additional income – most faced unenviable choices when prioritising scant resources (e.g. whether to buy deodorant, save for much needed clothes, purchase vapes or call family members). Consequently, prisoners were heavily reliant on family and friends for financial assistance, placing considerable burdens on loved ones. However, prisoners were largely focused on their own financial and physical survival and did not always regulate those requests for fear that they were too demanding. External financial provision was not, however, available to all, particularly prisoners who had been in local authority care, those estranged from their family or those whose demands had exceeded the patience or the means of loved ones (also see Gooch, 2025). There were, therefore, some groups of prisoners who were more vulnerable to indebtedness or felt that they were left with few good choices, stating that ‘you’re really between a rock and a hard place’ (Amir) and that they either had to beg, steal or borrow. Thus, the reliance on prisoners’ personal income (or that of their families) to fund the necessities and amenities of prison life created sharp inequalities. Although many prisoners had shared experiences of local authority care and/or economic marginalisation, little empathy was extended to those who could not draw on external income because of these adverse circumstances. Their continued economic hardship was deemed symptomatic of personal incompetence.
Third, prisoners serving indeterminate or life sentences were painfully aware that they needed to complete certain programmes or engage in ‘risk reduction’ work to be recommended for parole or transferred to less secure conditions. However, they often felt bereft of opportunity and frustrated that ‘the system’ was effectively stalling their release: It's easier to buy an iPhone and buy a load of drugs than it is to get on a course, hands down. It would take me 6 months to get on a TSP course, it would take me 6 hours to get an iPhone. (Jamie, category C prison 1) When I was on spice, I was doing cash deals, I was getting myself in debt, I had £4,000 in the bank. I was getting myself in stupid amounts of debt and knowing I could pay it and then it got to the point where I ran out of money. (Dan, category C prison 2)
‘It's an everlasting debt’: Trapped in indebtedness
One of the simplest and most widely accepted rules governing the illicit economy was: ‘you borrow something, you pay double back’ (Cory). ‘Double bubble’ (also see Crewe, 2009; De Viggiani, 2012; Edgar et al., 2003) quickly led to debts ‘spiralling out of control’ because the amount demanded continued to double for each week the debt remained unpaid, or became ‘triple, triple or quadruple, quadruple’ (Liam). For the debtors, indebtedness was crippling. Debt – as Dean put it – ‘grabs people by the balls’. The more problematic debts were largely caused by gambling debts, vapes, tobacco, prescription medication, alcohol, drugs, mobile phones and USB sticks. However, pathways to indebtedness varied, as did the relative consequences. Debtors were either convenience debtors, habitual drug debtors, desperate debtors, naive debtors or coerced debtors.
The convenience debtors were those who deferred payment for goods, services (e.g. pay for a haircut), contributions to communal cooking or purchases from prisoner ‘shops’ (set up informally and illicitly by prisoners but often tolerated by prison officers), but were confident in their ability to repay and trusted to do so. These arrangements embodied a ‘live now–pay later’ mentality (Hall et al., 2013: 8), but they were also a solution to the restricted number of canteen deliveries. The individual was technically in debt for the period that the sum remained outstanding, but it was not regarded as a shameful or ‘stupid debt’ or viewed as problematic: I’m caught in debt at the minute but obviously when my canteen comes this week, I’ll be able to sort it out. A month in debt. I bought a tracksuit and I had to pay someone else for that first, but that person got paid. (Paul, category C and YOI prison 2)
Prisoners who were habitual drug users in the community were relatively desensitised to the problem of debt and frequently experienced difficulties with repayment. As is noted by Marsh (2020), habitual drug users were often focused on acquiring the next ‘fix’ rather than the practicalities of repayment: People who like smoke the spice and that sort of stuff, they’ll buy it off somebody even if they can’t afford it at the time, which then puts them in debt. Or they don’t get that much money on their canteen sheet so they can’t pay it all off in one go. And then eventually they’ll want to keep on smoking it and smoking it and it just, the debt just builds and builds. (Patrick, category C and YOI prison 2)
The desperate debtors were those who felt compelled to borrow more than they could afford to resolve the immediacy of their distress, frustration and boredom. Their borrowing was not guided by their ability to repay, but by the prompt relief of their needs: It's hard though, especially when you haven’t got a job, you’ve got no vape. When you haven’t got a vape and you can’t smoke, you stress and you’re overthinking. Then you think fuck it. And that's when debts come. I’ve got no money coming in but I’m still going to take [a vape] because I need to a smoke. (Jimmy, category C prison 1)
Indebtedness was not always a deliberate choice by individuals. In some cases, the debt was coerced and imposed without any initial borrowing. Some prisoners inherited the debts of a ‘pad’ (cell) mate or close associate (e.g. a cousin) if their kin were released or transferred to another prison still owing others. For example: Like I say if me and you are padded up together and then you get shipped off, that's not your fault or my fault, but I would still have to pay your debt because it stays on with your pad mate. (Joshua, YOI)
More experienced prisoners sometimes took advantage of the naivety of newcomers, or those perceived to be too compliant or too willing to please. Knowing that some newcomers were unfamiliar with prison culture and norms, friendly offers of goods were made without advertising the expectation of repayment with interest. Quickly, these gestures turned into threats, demands and assaults. For the unsuspecting naive debtors, the demands for repayment could not only come as a shock but severed social support. On occasion, prisoners deliberately laced some vapes with PS, either out of contempt for the victim, to expand a customer base by giving them a taste of the drug, and/or to exploit the unsuspecting victim who then owed a larger debt for the PS than the requested vape. The demands for payment were often unmanageable. Thus, it was not only the case that dealers could be ‘very predatory’ in their use of violence (Marsh 2020: 129), but also in their lending practices.
Irrespective of how the debt was generated, ‘pay your debts’ had become a key moral and social imperative. Prisoners who repaid their debts attracted no stigma or shame. It was those who could not manage their financial resources that suffered disgrace and were dismissed as the ‘debt heads’. For example, John explained that ‘once you become known as “John the debt head”, people look at you differently’. Prisoners were relatively unsympathetic to the plight of the debtor and typically viewed insolvency as a personal failing: They’re like their own worst enemies because, they’ve got no self-discipline or no self-control. It's like bottom line is you owe X amount of caps out so order it on your canteen, pay them back and just don’t smoke for a month. But they won’t do it. (Carl, category B local prison 2)
‘Black eye Friday’: Enforcement, punishment and victimisation
Prison enterprise was a precise business. By engaging in the illicit economy, prisoners were seen to have agreed to a ‘social contract’ (Shortland, 2019): as Damien put it, ‘they know how the game works, I know how the game works’. Creditors ruthlessly demanded payment even if losses had occurred for reasons outside a prisoner's control, such as security seizures, prisoner transfers or problems with canteen supplies (Decker and Townsend Chapman, 2008). Business would soon ‘falter’ if prisoners did not chase debts (Marsh, 2020: 63), partly because dealers relied on the interest to build their financial capital and partly because tolerance would lead others to conclude that they could forego repayment without consequence. Non-repayment was ‘experienced not just as a business dispute, but also as a personal one’ (Taylor, 2010: 115). Prisoners interpreted such actions as ‘taking the piss’ and treating someone as a ‘mug’ or ‘pussy’. Thus, reneging on agreed deals was not just disrespectful but also a direct challenge. This personal affront was highly visible to other prisoners on the wing. Tolerating non-repayment would reveal ‘limits on [the creditor's] capacities’ (Marsh, 2020: 123), diminishing their social standing and ‘carceral capital’ (Gooch 2025; Gooch and Treadwell, 2023).
Retaliatory violence for non-repayment of debt was common (Jacques et al., 2014b; Reuter, 1983, 2009), so much so that canteen distribution day (or the day after depending on prison's timetable) was dubbed as ‘Black Eye Friday’: The atmosphere changes from Thursday afternoon and evening to Friday morning. Because people are hunting for their goods that they’re owed, and then other people are trying to hide because they don’t want to pay what they owe. (Michael, category C prison 2)
Although there was a clear ‘visible hand’ of violence (Reuter, 1983), some creditors sought to avoid possible sanctions for violent misconduct or attract law enforcement attention in their business affairs, by relying on enforcers to undertake their dirty work. These enforcers either volunteered or were paid. Alternatively, creditors put debtors into their personal employ as a form of ‘extractive usury’ (Douglas, 2016). For example, some were persuaded to undertake a debt collector role on behalf of a creditor as a way of expunging their own debts. Although this could appear to represent a more peaceful solution (Jacques and Wright, 2008, 2011; Reuter, 2009), the servitude sometimes also involved demeaning acts (e.g. collecting meals, cleaning a cell), overtly harmful behaviour (e.g. non-consensual sexual acts) or acts that mitigated the creditor's risk of sanctions (e.g. holding contraband, adding individuals to their list of visitors to facilitate trafficking, collecting parcels that were thrown over, or collecting drone loads). These obligations sometimes were of more value to the creditor than recuperating any financial losses. Such assistance could be expected indefinitely, leaving debtors at the mercy of their creditors. Unless the debtor was prepared to assault the creditor or was transferred or released, the debtor was tied to the creditor for as long as the creditor deemed necessary.
If the creditor had a grievance against another prisoner or prison officer, debtors were also coerced into assaulting another individual. Such assaults often appeared unprovoked, and this in turn generated the belief that the prison was unpredictable, volatile and functioning like a ‘warzone’. This coerced violence did not necessarily recoup the original loss, but it did ease business affairs, especially if officers were assaulted. Prisoners were aware that assaulting staff created fear and distrust, and prison officers were then more likely to withdraw from the prison landings and think twice about enforcing the rules, ultimately enabling dealers to continue their business affairs with relative impunity. Officers were targeted because of personal grievances and/or because they enforced the rules, challenged poor behaviour and/or used their authority appropriately. Such officers were seen as a threat to smooth business activities and could stand out, especially if other officers tended towards lax or inconsistent supervision. Thus, using power ‘rightly’ (Liebling, 2011) did not always guarantee that prisoners accepted the use of power as legitimate. This was particularly evident in prisons in which too much control had already been acceded to prisoners, and where certain individuals had become accustomed to controlling everyday interactions and routines (also see Crewe and Liebling, 2017; Gooch and Treadwell, 2023, 2025; Skarbek, 2014). The ability to marshal others was not only of practical importance, but also served to restore or strengthen the creditor's standing as a powerful individual worthy of fear and respect.
A debtor may not always be directly assaulted. In some cases, family members were threatened, assaulted or coerced into paying sums of money to people in prison or their acquaintances in the community (also see Penfold et al., 2005). This was often an ‘unemotional strategy to enforce payment’ (Marsh, 2020: 73). For example, Bobby's family were pursued over £300: ‘They rang my mum on Mother's Day. […] They have been ringing my sister to find the money as well, do you know what I mean? It's just, it's getting out of hand.’ In such cases, family members may feel that they have little choice but to comply with the demands and have little recourse to law enforcement support, especially if this may endanger their loved one. Prison victimisation was not, therefore, always contained within the prison walls.
Although there is a social injunction against stealing from prisoner's cells (Edgar et al., 2003, Gooch, 2025), robbery and theft are common practices in prison, especially YOIs. Some creditors would indiscriminately steal from the debtor's cell without suffering a loss in social esteem or either being regarded or regarding themselves in breach of social norms. Instead, the stolen items were seen as collateral; i.e. the justifiable ‘compensation that was owed in the case of non-payment’ (Douglas, 2016: 22), and therefore rightly theirs to retrieve. Such robbery and theft could far exceed the amount owed. Like the taxing of drug dealers in the community, debtors were seen as ‘fair game’ and believed to have brought such theft and robbery upon themselves (Treadwell et al., 2020). The ‘raiding’ (Zane) of another's cell might be done by more than one individual and, in the context of fewer staff, less staff supervision, and reduced staff skill, raiding was both easy to achieve and easy to get away with. The act of raiding someone's cell was communicative as much as it was instrumental. It enforced social norms, righted a wrong, but also ensured that creditors did not lose financial capital and material goods.
‘Hitting the back fences’: Debt, prisoner distress and crisis
Individuals involved in illicit markets in and outside prison cannot rely on the state to arbitrate disputes, create ‘consumer protections’ or regulate the economy (also see Jacques et al., 2014a; Kalinich, 1980; Reuter, 2009; Skarbek, 2014) with the effect that Jacques (2010) argues that drug markets are ‘virtually Stateless’. Within the prisons, officers had no authority in the illicit economy; they could not intervene, persuade prisoners to forego a debt or negotiate payments if an individual felt grieved by the behaviour of fellow prisoners. Equally, appealing to prison officers for relief inevitably implicated a prisoner in wrongdoing, not only exposing them to additional penalties, but also risking further violent reprisals from fellow prisoners for ‘grassing’ (informing). That said, prisoners who were bereft of other ways to resolve their financial or safety concerns would report their indebtedness to prison officers or ask for a cell move (often without naming specific creditors, enforcers or sellers). The likelihood of relying on the state for protection rested on the perceived trustworthiness, discretion and responsivity of individual officers, partly because no one wanted to confide in a prison officer who might go ‘singing like a canary’ (Ian). There were many occasions when officers did not respond to a prisoner's disclosures, and this had the effect of exacerbating harm as prisoners found ways to either communicate their distress or ‘run for cover’.
Self-imposed solitary confinement was one way that prisoners would manage the risk of serious harm, often remaining in their cell for days, weeks and even months. This ‘sanctuary seeking’ (Toch, 1977) came at great personal cost but was not always noticed by officers straight away. Self-isolation curtailed opportunities to shower, telephone loved ones, access courses or programmes, or exercise in the yards. This inevitably had an impact on physical hygiene, familial and emotional support, personal wellbeing, and opportunities to progress through their sentence. Although cellular confinement might delay physical assault, it did not prevent threats from being shouted out of windows or pushed under cell doors with the effect that some prisoners sought safety in the segregation unit: The first time when I went down the block and I had a lot of debts, I was £1,100 in debt … and it just got totally out of control. Then my sister said, ‘No, I'm not sending you no more money because I know where it's going’. So I had to go down the block and then they brought me back on this wing where I owed all the money [and] I had to carry a knife. (Caleb, category C prison 2)
The sense of desperation, fear and worry was so overwhelming that prisoners self-harmed, set themselves or their cell on fire, or contemplated and/or attempted suicide. For some prisoners, self-harm and suicide attempts were a way of alerting officers to their distress, particularly if earlier efforts by a prisoner to report threats were ignored: I thought fuck this, I set fire to my pad [cell], I went down to seg [the segregation unit]. (Freddie, category C and YOI prison 2) The only way I feel like they listen is if I self-harm. If I self-harm, they have to take me away [to another wing]. … If nothing happens to me in the next day or two, I'm going to have to do that. They need to pull their fingers out. Because I'm going to have a bloodbath in my cell and then cut myself again. I don't want to do that, but if I have to that then I will. … I told my mom on the phone that, ‘If it carries on Mom I will end up doing myself in because I've had an enough. (Bobby, category B local prison 3)
Conclusions
Although the ‘debtors prison’ no longer features in the criminal justice architecture, debt within prison has become a disturbingly common feature of prison daily living. On the one hand, this should come as no surprise because it mirrors the transmission of state debt to private debt within the community (Featherstone, 2021; Gardner, 2020). Austerity measures imposed on the Ministry of Justice had the effect of diffusing state debt (Gray, 2020), but it has also made prisoners responsible for the financial costs of their imprisonment not just their rehabilitation (on the latter point, see Crewe, 2009). Debt has been ‘pushed down’ (Gray, 2020), creating more personal debt among a marginalised, vulnerable and already impoverished prisoner population, and their families. The consumption of vapes, prescription medication and drugs was, for some prisoners, the continuation of habits and addictions developed in the community, but many relied on the illicit economy to provide for their basic needs (clothing, bedding, food, toiletries, communications with loved ones) or because prison conditions (including the inability to progress with their sentence and/or engage in meaningful activity) had greatly exacerbated distress, frustration and the central problem of ‘doing time’. Moreover, the absence of state governance and the availability of new highly marketable goods (e.g. mobile phones and PS) had caused criminal enterprise and exploitative behaviour to flourish. The illicit economy has become a highly functional response to the deprivation of goods, activity, and services, but also the impoverishment of hope, opportunity and progression. With it, the debt economy has greatly expanded and the ‘prison as a
In the context of mass incarceration in North America, Skarbek (2014) argues that the utility and effectiveness of the prisoner normative code has weakened. For Skarbek, this explains why prisoners turned to prison gangs for governance. However, in English and Welsh prisons, the normative code still has salience but has evolved to assist prisoners in navigating the deterioration in prison conditions and the growth of criminal enterprise within prison. Prisoners attached importance to the repayment of debt and valued judicious financial management and the visible accumulation of goods. Rather than openly condemning exploitation (cf. Sykes, 1958), the ability to graft was respected, even valorised, with the effect that those responsible for governing the illicit economy and/or punishing indebtedness gained power, status and carceral capital. Social norms – and the personal pride some prisoners attached to being capable wage earners and providers – meant that some would avoid prolonged indebtedness. However, when debts remained unpaid, the normative code legitimised its enforcement, even through brutal and extreme violence. Thus, the growing scale of the illicit and debt economy has generated an evolution of the normative code and created a demand for prisoner ‘extra-legal’ and ‘illegitimate’ governance when social norms failed to constrain behaviour (Gooch and Treadwell, 2023; Skarbek, 2014). Rather than offering a collective solution to the deprivations experienced (Sykes, 1958), the normative code legitimises competitive individual gain.
Although drug markets in the community are ‘generally peaceable’, the prison drug market was an example of a specific market that ‘exhibits[s] high levels of violence’ (Reuter, 2009: 275). Debt has become the primary cause of prison violence. There was little in the way of negotiation, tolerance or acceptance of ‘customers’ recalcitrance’ (Reuter, 1983), partly because non-repayment was far more visible to competitors, customers and peers, and partly because they could sustain custom without the need to cooperate (cf. Laing and Richardson, 2024). The financial and personal costs were, therefore, exaggerated, and provided a rationale for a range of violent, exploitative and controlling behaviours. The intensification of material goods and services not only reduced the quality of prison life, but also exacerbated the deprivation of security. Yet this increased material disadvantage was, arguably, a deliberate economic and policy choice. Although the importation of consumer and criminal culture undoubtedly influenced prisoner adaptations, it was the wider structural, systemic and economic factors that stimulated the shift in prisoner norms and culture. In this respect, this article calls for a re-engagement with, and reappraisal of, Sykes’ (1958) original thesis and the role of deprivation in shaping daily prison life.
This article has concentrated on prisoners’ experiences, but it is undoubtedly the case that prison officers’ experiences of poor pay, the ‘cost of living’ crisis, low morale and safety concerns will – at the very least – form a backdrop against which prisoners needs and concerns are evaluated. It may also be creating a context where low pay and/or personal debt is making prison staff vulnerable to corruption. Thus, further research is needed to understand how the responses of prison officers are shaped by working conditions, renumeration and financial pressures beyond the prison.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
At various stages, this research has been a collaborative effort, benefitting from the involvement of skilled research assistants (David Sheldon, Georgina Barkham, Holly Dempsey, Christina Straub, Josh Coppendale and Keely Horne) and academic colleagues (James Treadwell and Yvonne Jewkes). I am also grateful to Sarah Moore and Jack Spicer for their comments on earlier drafts of this article, and to the reviewers whose suggestions improved the article.
Declaration of conflicting interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This work was funded by the ESRC funding (ES/R010145/2- The Rehabilitative Prison: An Oxymoron or an Opportunity to Reform Imprisonment?), ESRC Impact Acceleration funding provided by the Universities of Birmingham and Bath, and funding provided by the Police and Crime Commissioners of Staffordshire, West Mercia, West Midlands and Warwickshire.
Author biography
Kate Gooch is Senior Lecturer in Criminology at the University of Bath.