The Curse of an Extraordinary Gentleman

HOWARD Hughes was obsessed with peas. The world’s richest man would line up his favourite green veg in order of size before he ate them. Ten cookies at a time, medium sized chocolate chips, not too near the edge. It took fifteen pieces of tissue paper for him to touch a doorknob and fifteen painful minutes to wash his hands after it.

Howard’s dead body was identified by his fingerprints because years in recluse made him unrecognisable, his death a result of the obsession that made him so successful in life.

This is a story of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), except this ain’t Hollywood and I’m no Katharine Hepburn. I’m in north Wales to meet a man who, like his American counterpart, is harming his livelihood with a bad habit.

Ben Williams is a comic book artist with an urge to wash his hands. Like the superheroes he sketches, he has an extraordinary ability, taught by a Nickelodeon master, which has earned him an apprenticeship with Disney. But just like a superhero, Ben has a crippling weakness that may ultimately be his downfall.

This is a tale of irony, a battle of good versus evil. Meet Comic Book Ben and the Curse of Carex.

“I bought comics in my teens that were collector’s items,” he says as I pull out a seat at his kitchen table. “You know, the ones you seal in a plastic bag and keep? They were so precious to me. It was a special mission to get them home in one piece.

“I must have looked a right dick on the bus. I’d pick a seat on my own and lay the comic flat on my knee so I didn’t bend it. If a page got ripped, I’d think about it all day. Or if it rained and got wet I’d go and buy another copy. I’d wash my hands before I read the comic because I hated it when I got greasy hand prints on them. I guess that’s how it all started.”

The 24-year-old is eager to talk about his OCD but a little less keen to make eye contact. In his trademark jeans and checked shirt with sleeves rolled up, he leans back in his chair and tells me about his daily hand washing routine.

“I go for a pee then open the bathroom door. Just a little bit. I run the water ‘til it’s scalding hot. Then it’s one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” With a frown that creases his forehead, he touches every digit on his hands as he relays this.

“After that, I use Carex soap. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. I say the numbers out loud and if I miss one or stutter, I have to start again.” He sounds frustrated just telling me. “Then I rinse them and dry them with a clean towel. I don’t have to touch the bathroom door ‘cause it’s already open.

“If I don’t wash them in my special way, I think something bad will happen.” He says this so convincingly that my eyes widen and I nod my head in fearful agreement.

“I was washing my hands once and I kept fucking up on the numbers. My mum came in and screamed, ‘Ben, you’ve been washing your hands for 45 minutes!’ She dragged me out of the bathroom but all’s I kept thinking was wait ‘til she’s gone to work and you can go back and finish it.

“I’m just a joke to my friends. It’s like, ‘Where’s Ben?’ ‘Oh he’s washing his hands’ and they all fall about laughing. Or if my dad’s been digging in the garden, he’ll chase me around the house waving his hands in my face.”

It’s not just cleanliness that Ben struggles with.

“I turn off every plug socket in the house before I go to bed. This fire killed a guy’s wife and kids on ‘999’ once, and it was caused by a plug socket that wasn’t even turned on. I turn them all off then check again. And when mad cow disease was about and the beef was contaminated, I wouldn’t touch any meat of any kind just in case.

“The worst thing about it is that I know it’s wrong,” he says. “It’s an absolute pain in the arse. But I’m just compelled to do it, like I’m on some mission to save the world.” Cue further superhero resemblance.

Ben puts his obsessive behaviour down to being artistic.

“I think it’s an artistic tendency to be wired differently. All of my heroes have the same thing. Their hands are fucked up. It’s the perfectionist in me. Everything has to be precise. You have to push yourself just that little bit further.”

When does the strive for perfection become a life of obsession? I ask to see his hands. The first thing I notice is that they’re clean (obviously). The second thing I notice is that they are red-raw.

“I worry about it because I’m hurting my livelihood,” he says. “My hands are my thing. I can’t let it take over.”

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is an anxiety-related condition that affects three in 100 people. Sufferers experience repetitive, intrusive and unwelcome thoughts which they find hard to ignore. These thoughts cause the person to perform repetitive compulsions in an attempt to neutralise the fear.

Common obsessions include contamination and germs, violent or sexual thoughts, the ordering or arrangement of objects and hoarding of possessions. The World Health Organisation ranks OCD as the tenth most disabling illness of any kind, in terms of lost earnings and diminished quality of life.

And us mere mortals aren’t alone in our suffering. Cameron Diaz admits to scrubbing her Hollywood home scrupulously every day. David Beckham would rather throw away a can of Coke than have an odd number of cans in the fridge. And Leonardo DiCaprio, who played Howard Hughes in The Aviator, avoids standing on cracks in the pavement at any cost.

Our interview almost over, I ask to see some of Ben’s artwork. He leads me to his bedroom and we pause outside while he opens the door with his elbow. It’s 4.30 in the afternoon and his curtains are drawn. But the double bed is neatly made, the room spotless.

While he shows me images on a computer screen, I nod and hum in appropriate places but scan his room stealthily for a speck of dirt or a stray pair of undies on the floor. A bookcase is crammed with books and DVDs, each placed in a certain way. On top of the bookcase, a perfect stack of comics in immaculate condition.

The walls are adorned with blue-tacked scraps of white paper, complete with pencil scribbles and sketches of outlandish characters. It reminds me of a shrine. Rows of sketchbooks and tins of coloured pencils are tidied away in a cupboard. Above his bed is a single poster of Spiderman. He spots me staring.

“I’ve never been to the doctor’s or anything about it,” Ben says. “Once I move out and get some responsibilities, I don’t think I’ll do it anymore. I’ll have a missus and babies; there’ll be more than just me to think about.”

For now, his baby is Brutal Comics, an online comic book he set up with two university pals. Not forgetting his Disney apprenticeship starting in July. Maybe Comic Book Ben lost the battle with Carex but will win the war on OCD. Maybe good will triumph over evil after all. Not bad for a lad who used to draw caricatures at Alton Towers.

The boy done good.

For more information on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, go to http://www.ocduk.org/

Behind The Wire

STYAL women’s prison in Cheshire is never far from controversies surrounding drugs, suicides and shabby living conditions. But what is the truth? Lois Hough was granted exclusive access into the prison to see what inmates endure

The train was eerily empty for a Wednesday morning rush hour. So deserted in fact that no-one got on or off for my entire journey.

I was Styal bound on the Manchester to Crewe line, to visit a group of women held at Her Majesty’s pleasure. As I chugged through Stockport, a pub was being boarded-up. In West Didsbury, police photographed a burned-out car in a side street. The gardens of Handforth should have been beautiful, but the trampolines were rusty and Barbie dolls were left naked and strewn in the long grass.

I wondered how many of these council houses had lost a mummy to Styal.

From housing estates to land estates, I arrived at Styal and began the walk to the prison through a winding country lane. I passed quaint cottages with thatched roofs and doors cloaked with ivy. Detached houses with double glazing had at least three smart cars on their gravel drives. This cosy village with its golf club and private fishing lake is just like the village of Midsomer, except without the murders, though murderers live here. It is such a serene place to house the most violent women in Britain.

I was early for my meeting with the Gov­ernor so sat on a bus stop bench outside the prison gates.

‘Welcome to HMP Styal and Young Of­fenders Institute,’ an official sign said. ‘We strive for the best.’ If only, I thought.

Prison vans came and went, at least four in fifteen minutes. A car pulled up before me, and a couple in their late fifties helped a little girl from her booster seat. It was visiting hour.

“Time to see mummy,” grandad said. The kids grow so fast.

A minibus arrived and out poured three families to see their loved ones, chatting excitedly, as though this were a trip to the seaside. Ship ‘em in and ship ‘em out.

It was time to meet my Governor who had agreed to let me see the prison but was very suspicious of my cause. I walked to the main entrance and took a peek behind the wire. I thought I was on a film set.

Most of the women live in Victorian hous­es. These individual two-storey red-brick houses stand on a tarmac road complete with streetlamps and road markings. Each house is reached by a paved path separated by a tidy lawn, and each has a bronze number on the front door.

There are 16 houses in all that hold up to 20 women each. Every woman has a key to her room, though the front doors of the houses are locked by staff at night. To complete this model village is a chapel – a black and white timber-framed building with a steeple and a weather vane. I bet that cockerel knows a secret or two. A Union Jack is flying at full mast. If it wasn’t for the 20-foot high fencing, barbed wire and CCTV, this would be an ordinary street in an affluent town.

The Governor is approaching me, clip­board in hand and bodyguard in tow.

“You haven’t taken any pictures have you?” was the first thing Governor Denise Greenlees said as we shook hands. I reassured her that I hadn’t.

We make our introductions and she is worried that I have already seen too much. We don’t enter the prison gates. We turn around and walk to an old office building on the outskirts of the site.

“Before we let you in, we want to know a bit more about you and your project,” she says as we sit down in an interview room no bigger than a cell. Suddenly I feel like it’s me under the spotlight.

I tell her that Styal has had a hard time of late in the press.

“Styal has the highest rate of suicide in all women’s prisons in the UK,” I say. My audience wince.

“An inspection last year uncovered a number of faults, including poor facilities and a lack of staff training.

“The purpose of my visit would be to see the improvements you have made. It really is in your best interests,” I lie.

She shuffles some papers and clears her throat. “Sorry, what inspection report was this?”

“It was the Anne Owers inspection report, published in September after her visit to Styal.”

A blank expression. We move on and I am showered with more questions.

What is your fascination with prisons? Do you know any prisoners in Styal? Have any of your relatives been to prison, Styal or otherwise? What exactly do you want to see at Styal? Will you name me in your article? Who will read your article? It won’t be published, will it? What if you show it to an employer and they want to publish it?

I couldn’t help but feel interrogated, and that Styal had something to hide. Dying to know the big secret, I waxed lyrical to be certain they would show me around. But it was in vain.

“I’m sorry but I can’t give you a tour to­day. I’ll talk it over with the Head Governor and I’ll give you a call on Monday. I have your number.”

Denise certainly did have my number. She had two of my numbers because I had called her constantly for a month to arrange this visit.

I didn’t get a phone call on Monday. But I did get an email.

“The Governor has decided that we are unable to facilitate a visit to the establish­ment for you at this time.”

That was it. After all of our communication, I couldn’t help feeling short-changed. We had dis­cussed my project, back and forth for four weeks, and had even arranged dates for a possible tour.

What had I said or done to make them change their once keen minds? Did I know a little too much? Were they scared about what I would see?

The irony to this story is that their reluc­tance to let me in has been more harmful than a visit ever would have been.

What are you hiding, Styal?

Does Jailing Women Really Work?

IN the wake of a critical report on Styal women’s prison, Lois Hough asks whether locking up vulnerable women really works.

The population of women’s prisons is soaring – and with it the number of inmates with mental health problems who may try to commit suicide.

Is prison the right place for the most damaged members of our society? Should women’s prisons be closed down altogether?

Baroness Corston argues that they should in her pioneering report into women and the criminal justice system.

“The nature of women’s custody in many of our prisons needs to be radically rethought,” she said.

“Women have been marginalised within a system largely designed by men for men for far too long and there is a need for a “champion” to ensure that their needs are properly recognised and met.”

The Fawcett Society, who call for equality for women, agrees with Corston.

Spokesperson, Victoria Peck, said: “The system is based on a male model and rarely takes into account the particular vulnerabilities and needs of female offenders.

“The increase in re-offending rates show that prison is not deterring women from crime, the current system is not addressing the criminogenic needs of women.”

The charity Revolving Doors, who support mental health in the criminal justice system, say that staff are simply not trained to deal with the complexity of need.

“Women in prison have extremely complex needs – mental health illnesses, drug and alcohol misuse, abused as children,” said Anna Page for the charity.

“They are not social workers but are expected to work as social workers.”

Corston says that short custody sentences for women are unnecessary.

“There are many women in prison, either on remand or serving sentences for minor, non-violent
offences, for whom prison is both disproportionate and inappropriate,” she said.

And Deborah Coles for INQUEST, agrees: “Vital questions need to be asked about what possible justification can there be in sentencing a woman to just 28 days.

“Unless more women are diverted from prison the increase in self inflicted deaths and the associated high levels of self harm, mental distress and family disruption will continue.”

Corston calls the effects of imprisoning women is “nothing short of catastrophic”

Laura Thorne for the Sainsbury Centre for Mental Health (SCMH), says the practical consequences of imprisoning women for short periods are too harsh.

“The cost to society of sentencing women to custody is enormous, not simply the cost of keeping a woman in prison, but the indirect cost of family disruption, damage to children and subsequent mental health problems,” she said.

“A prison sentence, particularly a short one, can and does make matters worse. It can be long enough to disrupt any support which might be in place such as housing, benefits and relationships with services but not long enough to allow for any meaningful intervention or coordination of support inside.”

The Fawcett Society say there is emotional damage too.

“Many women lose their family, friends, jobs and often suffer relationship breakdowns as a result of their imprisonment,” said Victoria.

“This often means that upon release they face further problems and find it harder to settle back into a life without crime.”

Corston says there are many alternatives to prison for women. She suggests that the most dangerous women live in “homely” local custody units and the rest should attend new community centres during the day.

Revolving Doors say the solution is to tackle social exclusion.

“The solution to stop women with mental health illnesses offending in the first place is to tackle social exclusion – the unemployed, those living in poverty, deprived areas,” said Anna Page.

The SCMH say early intervention is the solution.

“Intervening early, both in someone's life and in the system, can make a difference and divert an individual away from a path of career criminality,” said Laura Thorne.

“Making use of existing provision and mechanisms such as Youth Offending Teams, Neighbourhood policing teams and Community Support Officers could provide opportunities for diversion from prison towards better mental health at the earliest stages.

The Fawcett Society have suggested some alternatives to prison.

“We feel there should be more community sentences available for women that mean they are still able to see their families and live in their communities. Both these elements are proven to reduce recidivism and contribute to a positive outcome,” they said.

“They should utilise community penalties as well as introducing small custodial units as an alternative to prisons, they help women keep ties with their families, friends and partners, maintain links to the community and would be able to access programmes with links outside prison.”

But some believe this is not a good enough punishment for women who have offended.

Eddie McGrail, 41, a taxi driver from Sheffield, believes that crime should be punished, no matter what the gender.

“I’ve had many experiences of female crime, ranging from knifepoint robbery to drug related crimes.

“A young woman who hired my taxi once had me drive around several chemists with false prescriptions. I picked another girl up at a hospital who admitted to going through the elderly wards stealing patient’s belongings. All of them were duly arrested and to my great satisfaction were locked up.

“Why someone feels it necessary to vary court punishments according to gender is totally wrong. Women plead for equality in everything else so they should get equality in the justice system too.

“A person should be judged on the crime they commit, and if a court feels it necessary to deprive that person of their liberty then so be it. Surely the aim is to protect society from these individuals. I just don’t get it.”

Prisons Minister, David Hanson, is reluctant to give an opinion about the effectiveness of jailing women but does insist the government are taking action to find out more.

The government have launched an independent review of alternatives to prison for offenders who are mentally ill, or who have learning difficulties or disabilities.

“It will review the way that the courts deal with mentally ill offenders,” said Mr Hanson.

“These women often have a low level of offence, experiences of violence and abuse and multiple health and social needs.”

“Mental health awareness training and specialist skills development continue to be an issue that is key to improving the consistency of services to women, and this is being addressed by the women’s strand of the offender health and social care strategy.”

There is one man who believes the answer is simple.

“They needn’t close down the prisons,” said John Gunn, brother of Lisa Marley who killed herself in Styal last year.

“Prisons should have a proper hospital wing on them where the prisoners with mental illnesses can go,” said Mr Gunn, of Blackpool.

“They can have psychiatrists who can speak to the girls, people who are properly trained to deal with them.”

Sarah Campbell is a case in point. Campbell, aged 18, is the youngest person to die in Styal prison after she took an overdose of anti-depressants in 2003. She was diagnosed with depression at the age of 16 and started taking heroin.

In 2002, she was charged with manslaughter after she and another girl hassled a man for money in the street and he collapsed and died of a heart attack.

Campbell pleaded guilty at her trial and was sentenced to three years in jail. She attempted suicide seven times while awaiting trial, and was acknowledged as being mentally ill.

The judge advised she go to a secure psychiatric unit, but instead she was sent to Styal Prison. Her parting words to her mother were: “Why aren’t they sending me to hospital?” She committed suicide the following day.

"If Sarah had been put into psychiatric care, she’d still be alive,” her mother Pauline told the media.
Pauline took action against the increasing number of deaths of women in custody. Whenever a woman died in prison in England and Wales, she held a demonstration outside the prison gates.

When a van arrived with new inmates, she blocked its entrance and asked the driver to take the women to a place of safety.

In all, Pauline arranged 28 such demonstrations. She was arrested 15 times and charged with public order offences on five occasions, but was never convicted.

Pauline Campbell committed suicide at her daughter’s graveside last year.

Styal, where Sarah died, shows no signs of closing. Last year it was given the green light by Macclesfield borough council to expand the prison, which would make it the largest women's prison in the UK.

The Shortcomings of Styal

A WOMAN urinated in her dustbin because staff were too ‘busy’ to unlock her cell. The most troubled prisoners have telephones with a direct link to the Samaritans, but they don’t work. Few staff know first-aid. The windows are thick with cobwebs and flies. And those who are too rowdy are simply stripped and put in ‘the special cell.’

You’d be forgiven for thinking that this was Guantánamo. In fact, it is Styal women’s prison on the outskirts of Manchester, and the subject of yet another critical investigation.

Eleven women have taken their own lives in Styal since 2000. It is the second largest women’s prison after Holloway in north London but has the highest levels of self-harm and suicide. The prison is not learning its lessons. Just what is it about Styal?

“The level of need and vulnerability of the women at Styal, even by the standards of women’s
prisons, was extremely high,” said Anne Owers, Chief Inspector of Prisons, in her investigation report.

“All women’s prisons hold a disturbed and challenging population, but at Styal the needs of a heavily substance dependent population were extreme, complex and growing.”

On arrival at Styal, a third of women say they are depressed or suicidal, over 40 per cent said they have health problems, over half have drug problems, and nearly 40 per cent alcohol problems.

The most challenging women are managed on the Keller unit where cells are limited to ten. Between January and July last year, there were 1,335 recorded incidents of self-harm, with the Keller unit accounting for 71 percent.

Owers said prison staff lacked the training to deal with the mentally ill women on this unit.

“It aimed to provide a therapeutic environment, but it was staffed by prison officers who lacked the training, support and leadership to deal with this group of women.

“Many senior officers had not completed case manager training and about 50 staff had not been trained in the basic procedures.

“Staff working at night were alert and responsive to risk, but few were first aid trained.”

One man who knows this first-hand is John Gunn, brother of Lisa Marley, who killed herself on Keller unit last year.

“Styal prison is not catering for the girls with mental health problems,” said Mr Gunn, of Blackpool. “They haven’t got a clue.”

“My sister was supposed to be on suicide watch but no-one was watching her when she hung herself from the TV brackets on the wall. Every single one of them guards should be sacked.

“They all cover each other’s backs, and they’re getting away with it. If you had made that many cock-ups in any other job, you’d be sacked. If it was an old people’s home, it would be closed down.”

One charity also has concerns about the safety of Styal’s prisoners.

Deborah Coles for INQUEST said: “Despite high level scrutiny of Styal prison, serious concerns remain about the safety and quality of life for women held there and why lessons from previous deaths appear not to have been learned.”

Prisons Minister, David Hanson, has defended claims that the government is not putting enough money into staff training.

He told Eve: “The government has invested £600,000 over three years on mental health awareness training for prison officers and staff.

“The Women Awareness Staff Programme (WASP) is a two-day course that helps meet the awareness needs of staff,” said Mr Hanson.

“It covers why women come to prison, how staff can support the women, the difference between working with men and women in prison and self-harm.”

The scheme was implemented last year and aims to train over 600 members of staff across prisons in England and Wales each year.

The Owers report also said that too much force was used against inmates.

“Force was used on Keller unit to place women in protective clothing routinely and against their will, which was entirely inappropriate.

“Records indicated that force had been used as a last resort, but some contained little evidence of de-escalation and in some cases it was difficult to see how the use of force could be justified.”

The prison’s handling of drug addiction also came under fire.

Owers said: “Methadone should be issued to women who need it without undue delay. There were some unacceptable delays in issuing the medication, which caused women considerable anxiety.”

A methadone replacement programme to control drug addiction was only introduced in 2005. Methadone is thought to be a less harmful equivalent of heroin. Before this inmates had to go cold turkey.

Anna Baker, aged 29, hung herself in Styal in 2002 while withdrawing from heroin. The methadone replacement programme was not available at the prison, so she was given painkillers instead.

Her inquest concluded that the drug detoxification programme she was placed on was “inappropriate and insufficient to her needs.”
Jan Palmer, a consultant psychiatrist, told the jury that the treatment fell short of what Baker would have received in the community.
Owers also called for “more vigilant supervision” of medicine queues in case prisoners stole from the medicine trolley. This wouldn’t be the first time.

Julie Walsh, aged 39, died in Styal in 2003 after an overdose of drugs stolen from the medicine trolley. Walsh drank 500ml of Dothiepin thinking it would help her sleep through the discomfort of heroin withdrawal.

Four other women who also drank the medication survived. The inquest into her death heard that a nurse left the drugs trolley unattended for several minutes after handing out medicines.

Nina*, aged 19, has been in and out of Styal for two years. She says it is easy to sneak drugs into the prison.

She told Eve: “We sneak them in in our bras and knickers because you never get strip searched anymore.

“It’s easy to take other people’s meds but it depends what nurses are on. Some make you swallow it in front of them but you can keep it under your tongue then give it to someone else if you wanted to.”

The report also blamed the prison for poor facilities. One room in the first-night centre, where women spend their first 48 hours in prison, didn’t even have toilets.

“One woman said she had urinated in her dustbin because staff would not unlock her to use the toilet,” said Owers.

“Staff did not deny that this could happen and explained that the one officer on duty had to call for others on duty at night to unlock a prisoner, which ‘might take some time’ on a busy night.”

Cordless telephones to contact the Samaritans had been recently purchased for Waite wing, which houses the most violent offenders. But these were “out of order for several weeks,” said the report.

Some parts of the prison are untidy and overcrowded, Owers said.

“Although communal areas of the houses were well furnished and decorated, some of the bedrooms were overcrowded and shabby,” she said.

One room in Willow House (for young women) was being shared by six women.

She noted litter left in the showers, and windows “full of flies and cobwebs.” In reception, the walls of one holding room were “crumbling and badly damaged by damp.”

Bullying is also a serious problem in the prison, according to the report. A third of women say they have been victimised by another prisoner but staff monitoring was in vain.

“There were only limited interventions to tackle bullying,” Owers said.

“Ongoing monitoring was ineffective and formal monitoring often stopped simply due to lack of
staff entries in observation booklets.”

A spokesperson for Styal declined to comment about the inspection report.

Despite its flaws, Owers praised some aspects. Relationships between staff and prisoners had improved, and the mother and baby unit “offered the best and most constructive environment we have seen in such a facility,” she said.

Owers questioned whether prison is the right place for female offenders.

“There is the prior question of whether such women should be in prison at all,” she said.

“But while they are, there is the need to provide a much better resourced and professionally led therapeutic environment to support them.”

By Lois Hough
*Names have been changed to protect identity