“YOU KNOW why I’ve called you here, Sir Michael,” said the junior minister to the silver-haired man sitting opposite him. “Reconviction rates are a major electoral issue. DB needs us to be proactive on this one.”
Sir Michael focused his attention slightly above the junior minister’s head. He bounced his foot impassively.
“Forgive me, minister, but aren’t we being a little rash? We are the Government, we can’t interfere in the public services at will. We must think of the intellectual and spiritual growth of the prisoners, of social justice.”
The junior minister wilted back into his chair and dropped his head into his hands. “Spiritual growth? I don’t think DB is going to like this. Isn’t there anything we can do?” “Well, minister, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing some of the participants of the scheme at Her Majesty’s Prison Bermonhead with me. May I?” “Please.”
“Come in, gentlemen,” called Sir Michael. “Minister, meet Jones and Clegg, from HMP Bermonhead.”
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The convicts stood before the junior minister with appropriate solemnity. Clegg’s collar bit into his neck and his left eye twitched violently.
“Now, Jones has been taking the courses. Haven’t you, Jones?” said Sir Michael. “And what would happen, Jones, if we stopped them?” “There’d be anarchy, guv, wouldn’t there? The fellas wouldn’t like it at all. Not at all. Look at Clegg. He’s only halfway through his social skills course. If you cancel it now, he’ll feel cheated.
He’ll be liable to explode.”
Clegg remained still. The junior minister began to massage his temples.Beads of sweat formed on the smooth surface of his cheek.
“But, Sir Michael,” he said. “Please understand. New Labour means delivery. New Labour means efficiency. Among the more dangerous criminals, reconviction rates were actually higher for those who took the courses than for those who didn’t. Higher.”
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“Well, yeah,” said Jones. “I didn’t say the courses were good. It would’ve been better if I’d never done ‘em, yeah.”
“See!” The junior minister was all animation again. “Carry on, Jones.”
“Well, it places a certain responsibility on my shoulders, don’t it? I feel the weight of my learning, like. A man can crack under that kind of pressure. I reckon that’s what’s leading a lot of the fellas who take the course to end up back inside, like.”
“So we should stop them?” “No, like I said: there’ll be a riot on your hands if you do that, mate. Riot.”
“And I hardly need tell you how the headlines would read, minister . . . ” intoned Sir Michael. “ ‘Government denies least privileged access to education’ and all that.”
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The junior minister threw his head back and covered his eyes. He whimpered loudly: “Then what can we do? Please, tell me. If we keep the courses, reconviction rates stay high and we look terrible. If we scrap them, the prisoners riot and we look terrible.”
“If the courses aren’t working, like,” offered Jones, “and you can’t scrap ‘em, your best bet is to encourage people not to do ‘em. Like, make it worth their while.”
The junior minister looked at Jones through his fingers. Sir Michael said: “Exactly, minister: the politic solution. The courses stay, but we simply guide inmates away from them. Offer extra leisure time for not taking Advanced Thinking. More tuck money if they refuse to do Social Skills, that sort of thing. The prisoners don’t feel ill-used, the press can’t criticise and, best of all, with fewer inmates doing our courses, reconviction rates will fall.”
The junior minister slowly removed his hands from his face. He looked at Jones. He looked at Sir Michael. A smile slowly insinuated itself across his face.
DB would be pleased that he’d come through. But delivering meaningful change in the context of a modern, forward-looking Britain was starting to look more difficult than he’d thought.