irony

The old prison was timeworn, grey and brooding. It stood solid and unforgiving in the near middle of town. Inside weeds grew and outside graffiti adorned it. It was an eyesore and an uncomfortable reminder of past days.

The first significant building that you saw, as you came up the re-aligned dual highway into the town proper, was this obsolete testament to law and order. You saw it before you noticed the contemporary, crisp lines of the Civic Hall. You saw it before you could appreciate the noteworthy Art Centre and award winning Botanic Gardens. 

A few years back they built a new prison. They located this one well away from the township, down a road all of its’ own. Bright, if a prison can be, and undoubtedly futuristic. The new prison was out of sight, out of mind, it was a fine achievement.

Of course that left the old prison empty of prisoners and empty of purpose. The land the old prison stood on was valuable, plenty were enthusiastic to undertake the redevelopment and pull the old prison walls down. But there was a problem. 

The prison walls, particularly the one housing the main gate, had to stay. According to those who know these things, the old prison walls and gate were remarkable historic relics. The workmanship that had been used to erect the walls and make the gate were now lost arts. It would be criminal to knock it all down.

The gate was not an amenable entrance and the walls were not particularly enticing to be on the inside of. Who would not feel a clammy, apprehensive guilt come over them on entering within? The architects, one by one, were defeated.

More years went by and the old prison continued to hold the town captive. 

The town had never had much of a crime problem. Their prisons mainly accommodated wrongdoers sent from elsewhere but things were different now. Home grown crime was on the rise.

The police station was weary and woefully inadequate for modern policing. The renovations, to the extent necessary, were not possible at the current address.

The search for a suitable spot for the new police station complex was begun.  

To start with the town looked forward to having this marvel of a new police station built. The new police station design, as dictated by the government, looked like a fortress. A fresh, up to date, built for purpose fortress. Everyone wanted it, begged for it, but not next door to them. Support began to fade.

The town planners feared that the government would give their funding, for the new police station, to another town if this was not soon settled. They called a public meeting. The time for the meeting was set for early evening, a time they hoped would minimise attendance and hence any objections. With some careful management it should not be that difficult to get their preferred site ticked off. 

Word got around quickly about the meeting and on the night not everyone could find a seat. The size of the crowd dismayed the town planners but they went ahead and presented their case in a determined fashion. They used lots of maps and diagrams to explain the technical data, planning laws and costs. They got a fair hearing, much to their surprise. The meeting was then opened up for questions. 

One of the few townspeople who had a seat near the front stood up. She waited silently until everyone’s attention was on her, and then she spoke.

‘We already have one prison in the middle of town, we so need another one’. She then sat down and resolutely stared straight ahead.

Most of those present stood and applauded her. She nodded, but she had no inclination to do anything else other than stay seated. The meetings' facilitator struggled to maintain control from that point on. Defeated, he wound up the proceedings, wished everyone well and left.

Horrified, the town planners recognised the truth of their situation. The town could not tear down an old prison, nor could they build a new police station. 

One of the town planners lingered on after the meeting. The mood of the meeting still hung over him and he wanted to shake it off before heading home. As he stood in the now empty car park, lighting his smoke, he turned his head in the direction of the old prison. He considered, not kindly, the harsh grey walls. He kept looking, and smoking. In the half-light of the street lamps he thought momentarily that the main gate looked near heroic.  

‘We already have one prison in the middle of town …’, he muttered slowly to himself. He looked at his smoke, hearing that line of hers again in his head. He put out his smoke and reached for his phone.

The new police station was almost complete before many in the town even noticed. 

Only one wall of the old prison had to be taken down and the hoary old gate was left standing in its’ original wall. With solicitous care it was restored, the prison name and number were picked out clear and fresh on the wall above it. With its’ authority and respect reinstated the gate dutifully opens up into the new police station security car park.

So, in the end, nothing criminal or underhanded was done. History was preserved and the town was set free. The old grey prison was replaced with a new grey police station and the townspeople enjoy the irony still.