I’m sitting at a window in the administration block of a category B prison in west London. I’m waiting for the week’s discharges to start filing out, heading towards freedom, having paid their debt to society.
I’m there to meet one of them. His name is Frank* and I’ve been seeing him for the past four months as part of a “through the gates” mentoring initiative. Inside Out, the charity behind the scheme, has been matching volunteer mentors from the community with prisoners awaiting release. We volunteers have provided both emotional and practical support to try to minimise the risks of reoffending.
A vital part of this has involved meeting our mentees at the gate, on their day of release, and shepherding them through a myriad of appointments and layers of bureaucracy to try to give them some semblance of permanence at what is a time of enormous change and anxiety.
When I meet Frank outside, he smiles. But it’s short-lived as he seems determined to get on with things. He knows the score. It’s not the first time he’s done this.
We immediately head to the nearest convenience store down the road from the prison. Frank has a list of names and prison numbers and doesn’t hesitate to spend most of his release money (a paltry sum of approximately £30 which every prisoner is given on release), on newspapers and magazines to be delivered to his friends on the inside. They’d do the same for him, he assures me.
With that done, we begin the real work of the day, starting with a meeting at the local probation office, scheduled weeks in advance. Yet Frank’s probation officer isn’t working that day, we discover, so we swiftly carry on to the Jobcentre Plus office. They aren’t expecting him either and the staff instruct him to complete an online application for jobseeker’s allowance.
We sit at a computer and Frank looks lost, his index fingers hovering above the keyboard, occasionally pecking at the keys which seem unfamiliar to him. I offer to take over and together we eventually fill in the form. Frank thanks me, saying he wouldn’t have had the patience on his own.
Afterwards we head to the civic centre where Frank has an appointment to arrange his housing benefit, again arranged well in advance. We arrive early and sign in, then sit in the waiting area and wait our turn. One hour becomes two hours and two become three. We drain multiple cups of coffee. More than once, Frank gets up, clearly irate, and starts to walk out. I have to run after him to convince him he’s throwing away more than he thinks. Eventually we are seen and Frank is granted access to a temporary hostel until his benefits come through.
We walk to the hostel and up to his room. Frank looks visibly relieved to drop his bags. It’s not much, but for the next few weeks it’s his: somewhere he can call home and where he – not a prison officer – can lock and unlock the door as he pleases.
It’s only then, when the security of his lodgings is assured, that Frank starts to think about food. I ask what he’d like for his first meal on the outside. He insists on a Big Mac.
By this time it’s heading into evening and our day together is drawing to a close. We swap phone numbers and agree to keep in touch. Frank gives me a hug, a surprising show of warmth. Before we part, he tells me he couldn’t think of anyone else who would stick by him for a whole day, going through what we have been through. Frank tells me I’ve done more for him than any probation officer or key worker has ever done. He turns and heads off towards, I hope, a brighter future.
* Frank is a pseudonym.
Aris Tsontzos is a trustee of Inside Out. The charity is closing later this month owing to financial problems. Responsibility for mentoring has been passed to the chaplaincy of the prison described.
The day I made a difference is the Guardian Voluntary Sector Network’s series that showcases the work of people involved with charities. If you have a story you want to share email voluntarysectornetwork@theguardian.com with a short summary of your experience.
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