‘This is not just a prison. This is Barlinnie’

One hundred and thirty years old this July, Barlinnie has seen generations of offenders – many from the same families – traipsing through its heavy doors. But what does the future hold for this crumbling, overcrowded Victorian prison? And, more importantly, the inmates who consider it a home from home?

BARLINNIE at dawn on a freezing February morning presents to the world a forbidding aspect, the brutal silhouette of its vast Victorian halls suggestive of a factory from the Industrial Revolution, albeit one in which the raw material and finished product are the same: men.

Bad men, some would say, and no doubt there are people in Scotland’s largest prison – the defilers of children, the tracksuited cleavers of flesh – to whom that old-fashioned word ‘wicked’ could be reasonably applied. But there are many other prisoners who, one might argue, are victims themselves – of poverty, of poor parenting, of drug addiction – and who have ended up here, in part, because of the family and area in which they grew up; most of the 10,000 prisoners who pass through the prison each year come from the most impoverished postcodes in Glasgow.

Though it looms large in the legend of the city, the prison remains a mystery to most citizens. Unless you live in the north-east of Glasgow, you might never in your life see even the brooding exterior, except perhaps for the blunt chimneys and barbed wire glimpsed from the motorway and soon forgotten. To walk freely inside its yards, halls and cells is a rare privilege that feels rather like visiting a national monument. As governor Derek McGill puts it, “This is not just a prison. This is Barlinnie.”

McGill is a silver-haired 57-year-old whose navy pinstripes set him apart from his staff of 350 uniformed officers. He has come through the ranks, however, and is far from aloof. For 18 months he has been in charge, and is as proud of his position as the ‘Guvnor’ mug on his desk suggests. He finds Barlinnie endlessly fascinating. “Right,” he says, “are you ready for a wee walk about?”

Most of the prison population is held in five four-storey halls, the thick sandstone walls darkened and pitted with age. At the front of each block is a tall, arched window; above each main entrance is a painted crown. Inside, the brick walls are painted white, and the first impression is one of space and light; long vanishing points and a blue sky visible through the high glass canopy.

The reception area is as hectic and cramped as the halls are airy. There are 74 prisoners leaving the prison for court appearances. Prisoners yet to be processed stare sullenly through the windows of the claustrophobic holding cubicles, known as ‘dog boxes’.

A prisoner walks forward and has a metal-detecting wand swept over his body. Brian – a 37-year-old with pale jail skin, short dark hair and hollow eyes – is a veteran of the search process. He has been in and out for years. This time he has been charged with serious assault. “I’m in for defending my property,” he says with stale defiance. “I was attacked in my house, but because I’ve had three previous convictions, here I am.”

How does Barlinnie now compare with how it used to be? “Too cushy,” he says. “Too easy for the cons. It used to be that you respected the screws.”

Brian is against having television in the cells. Some prison officers consider telly the best thing that ever happened in Barlinnie because it pacifies the prisoners, making them less likely to harm themselves and others. However, TV has also had a huge impact on the literacy of prisoners, which has knock-on effects with regard to rehabilitation and future employment. “I couldn’t read or write when I first came in here,” says Brian. “If I’d had the telly back then, I would never have learned. I’ve managed to get a bit of intelligence about me now; not that you’d think so, with me still coming in and out of here at my age.”