What the f**k does that mean?

At the time, I was working as a field probation officer in London. I was on office duty when Carter (not his real name) reported having moved into a hostel from another probation area. His probation order for drug-related offending was close to its conclusion.

As it was an unusually busy office duty I had only cursorily viewed faxed-through case notes on Carter’s response to supervision. He explained that he was pleased that he had been accommodated in a central London hostel for what remained of his order and appeared to have made solid progress in his endeavours to address his drug dependency.

Just as I was about to offer him his next appointment , he became very animated and asked if he could look at the paperwork I had in my possession. Somewhat flustered by this request, I offered to read a supervisory summary from his probation officer.

“I want to know what that word means”, directing my attention at a word in the statement that I had clearly overlooked. I was completely thrown to read that in prominent text the word “Fantasist” appeared.

“What the f**k does that mean?”, Carter indignantly shouted. Without any opportunity to discus the context in which it was used, he stormed out of the office.

Feeling a little deflated by the suddenness of Carter response, and looking hurriedly at the case notes before the next office duty client appeared, I could sense that the negative stereotyping might be viewed in another light: suggesting someone whose dreamy aspirations did not always match the reality of their situation.

Keen to rectify the misunderstanding – though I sensed Carter considered this a unforgivable slur on his character – I awaited our next appointment with some measure of trepidation. Having chided myself for my poor preparation, I was keen not to be wrong footed again.

I had by then been formally allocated the balance of his supervision. It was pitched at monthly reporting and I felt duly assured that the support available at the hostel, including having a key worker, would bolster supervisory input. I had in fact arranged a separate three-way meeting at the hostel with another client, so thought that meeting Carter and his key worker if available might be opportune.

On the day, although the three-way went ahead, I was notified that Carter had booked into see his drug worker based elsewhere. But as effective engagement within the community appeared to be working and the fall out from the earlier contretemps seemed to have past, I contented myself with recording that he was responding positively to the support and assistance aimed at reducing his drug use and ensuring that employment options could be considered.

I arranged a further appointment at the probation office and spoke to Carter’s key worker, who opined that he had some misgivings about Carter’s parlous health after years of substance misuse, which meant that he was unlikely to find employment without additional support.

On the day in question, a message was left at reception stating that Carter was unavailable and would therefore not be attending his arranged appointment. I looked again at his case notes and began to pick up a pattern of missed appointments towards the end of earlier periods of supervision. But I also noted an unremitting intensity in his reasons for missing appointments.

He was “fed up” and “p*****d off” with being under “endless” probation supervision and forever having to share his story with the next probation officer who entered his life. Surely, I reflected, having to retell personal narratives to different professionals can inflict its own trauma.

After missing his final appointment, I contacted Carter’s key worker to ascertain how he was responding to the interventions on offer at the hostel, as any putative breach action I deemed unnecessary in light of his time at the hostel, living offence-free and with some positive indications of change of outlook and movement towards independent living.

There was a worrying silence on the line. “Mike, I am sorry to have to tell you that Carter was found dead in his room earlier in the week”.

Feeling stunned and unable to fully comprehend what I was hearing, the key worker told me that Carter had apparently died in his sleep. An open verdict was later recorded at the inquest.

From my first encounter with Carter, which caused him evident upset, to the notification of his untimely death, I had felt an uncomfortable tension between ensuring that his order offered some measure of empathic accountability, but also gave expression to a felt conviction that his primary identity was not that of a “fantasist” but someone struggling to cope with the incessant demands of different agencies, and whose lapses into drug use masked some past trauma.

Or maybe Carter was making a deeper point about his troubled background when he angrily uttered those words at the probation office, “What the f**k does that mean!”