Good in installments

It referred to a former prisoner, whose troubled life pitched her in and out of prison, hostels, living on the streets and confined to mental wards, “as serving a life sentence on the instalment plan”.

Reading this telling image prompted me to recall a memorable supervisory experience with Kyle (not his real name) during my time working as a probation officer in London.

Kyle’s supervision was transferred to me following a colleague’s departure from the office. I recall some measured apprehension when I was notified that he was in the reception area “being loud and vociferous”.

I introduced myself. “F****** waiting in this office is like f****** waiting in the Scrubs”, he curtly opined. I came away from this meeting, more vexed that I could recall and surmised that his demanding and challenging persona was perhaps more surface anxiety than avowed hostility towards his new supervising officer?

Kyle had a particularly unpleasant antecedent offending history, which involved numerous assaults, disorderly behaviour and attempted arson. The pattern of our professional relationship was one of the most volatile I had then experienced. He would explode in rage-full moments, bemoaning his lack of opportunity to live down his past, and then find himself threatened with eviction for being verbally abusive to his neighbours.

Making headway to effect any meaningful change appeared to be just too emotionally exhausting. Sharing with him some of my concerns merely piqued his annoyance at being “told what to f****** do!”. Added to this was Kyle scabrous sense of humour, which included him disclosing some his drug fuelled sexual encounters with a relish that even I found unnerving.

“Would you like to try ********”, he asked on one occasion when I home visited. Trying to avoid the unexpected arrival of several visitors to the address during our meeting proved too much. After I had made some lame reference to his organising a business convention, I was brusquely informed by Kyle “did I not tell you this is a f****** peg house”( male brothel).

It appeared to be very much an integral part of Kyle social life, taking psychoactive drugs to enhance sexual performance, known as Chemsex. But recreational drug use that morphed into illicit substance usage could not be conveniently overlooked.

After one of numerous neighbour disputes had escalated, he found himself homeless and, sensing that his vulnerability to further offending was increasing, I arranged for him to meet with the partnership housing officer based at the probation office.

It was rare to find the seasoned housing officer lose her cool, but she noted that Kyle was one of the most “unreasonably obnoxious” people she had the “displeasure” to interview. Further contact ceased.

Feeling somewhat at a loss to know how best to proceed, I had earlier met with a charity worker who called to the office to pick up potential hostel referrals and broached the prospect of a referral with him. He seemed to warm to the challenge of assisting Kyle, long-accustomed as he was to some of the more intractable homeless clients that gravitated to Central London.

Kyle, perhaps recognising that he had to compromise on his much-vaunted ambition to return to his erstwhile property, was accepted short-term at the hostel. The support on offer seemed to bolster his confidence and bring some semblance of stability. Even he had need of a “cuppa tea an’ a long sit down”.

Before long, the supervisory element of his order was due to expire and I had an uneasy sense that this stability was likely to be tested.

A few short days, before the expiry date, I had a message from one of my court probation colleagues. Kyle was appearing on the overnight list at one of the local magistrates court.

It appeared that he had found himself drifting back into the area from which he had been evicted and had clashed with one of the local residents he “blamed” for his misfortunes. This had gone beyond abusive verbal exchanges, and he “battered” the victim before running off.

He was remanded in custody, as he was contesting the charge, and during the remand period his order had expired. When he eventually appeared for sentence, having been advised to change his plea, he was given a custodial sentence.

But he had shouted out, it was recorded, before being taken to the cells, “Let Mike know where I am, he was a f******* good probation officer!”.

But, as I muse now, maybe I was good in instalments?

Mike Guilfoyle is a retired probation officer.