First Day Inside - Tales of the Territory Series
“The wheels of my car rolled down the driveway, over a speed hump and under a boom gate which, for me, confirmed there was no return as it lowered behind me.”
Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel in a pattern of impatience, I waited at the traffic lights. Just one more turn off the highway, and I'd be on the road leading to my first day at work. Daunting for most—but I felt calm. Experience does that. I’d had many “first days” before.
As the distance to the driveway shrank to single digits, that calm began to wash away. A new awareness took its place, sharp and all-consuming. It was the feeling of walking through a pitch-black hallway after waking from a nightmare. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Colours became sharper. My emotions—raw.
The wheels rolled down the driveway, over a speed hump, and under a boom gate. As it lowered behind me, a quiet finality settled in. No turning back now.
Razor wire glimmered in the early morning sun, dew casting reflections over a perfectly manicured lawn. Nice, I thought, forcing a sense of normalcy. But then reality hit me. This wasn’t just any workplace. I was about to start a job in one of Australia’s most infamous gaols.
The thought of caring for prisoners—people who, in one way or another, had stripped others of their basic human rights—made my stomach churn. How do I feel about this? I asked myself.
Wait—why was I even asking now? The boom gate had already locked me in.
Concrete and wire blurred past as I pulled into the nearest vacant space. Five minutes later, the car was still running. My seatbelt was still latched. I was still taking it all in. But I had time. Fifteen minutes early—like I said, I was a professional at this “first day” business.
Without effort, I found myself people-watching. It was something my mother and I used to do at the shopping centre, sitting on a park bench, making up stories about strangers' lives. We’d critique fashion choices too—especially those who dared to wear Crocs and tights in public.
This morning’s subjects were the prison officers. Their starched green uniforms were pressed so perfectly, not a wrinkle dared to show. Men and women alike looked equally imposing as they laughed and joked on their way to the entrance. Each carried a clear plastic, prison-issued work bag over their shoulder—a transparent peek into their lunch choices and what magazine they’d be flipping through on break.
I’d already been given the “what for” about contraband. No mobile phones. No iPads. No USBs. No cigarettes. Nothing that could be smoked, snorted, injected, or used to escape Darwin Prison.
Pulling myself together, I made my way to the Visitors Building. A safe choice, I figured—it started with Visitors, after all.
The tinted glass door reflected my image, but offered no glimpse of what lay behind it. I reached for the handle, pushed—
—and promptly smacked the side of my face into the glass.
The door was locked.
If someone was watching from the other side, I’d just made their morning. I tried again, rattling the handle. Nothing. Stepping back, I caught my full-length reflection in the glass. Smirking, I thought, Well, at least they’d know I found it entertaining too.
An actress doesn’t need a curtain call. The performance begins the moment she steps onto the stage. This was my strategy—taking things as they came. It starts now.
A sign caught my eye. Opening Hours: 9 AM.
Great. The door wouldn’t be unlocked for another two hours.
On the bright side, the chances of someone laughing behind the glass had just dropped significantly. A small win for 7 AM.
Just then, a brisk-moving figure appeared—Jonathon, my Team Leader. His stride was so urgent that it seemed like he was either desperate for a toilet break or training for an Olympic power-walking event. His jeans barely had time to resettle between each step, creating an unfortunate case of denim chafe at the height of his crotch.
My Academy Award-winning performance kicked in. Strong handshake. Jovial, nonchalant manner.
Only after a third-person reminder to stop staring at the denim chafe.
Jonathon launched into a rapid-fire rundown of my day’s schedule. Important points were occasionally punctuated by stray flecks of spit. Great, I thought. My cheek already needs decontaminating. What’s a little extra?
Just as he motioned to escort me through the massive iron door into the prison, an ear-splitting siren blared overhead.
I instinctively looked up, searching for the source of the noise. Mounted speakers lined the roof, flanked by layers of razor wire.
A booming voice echoed from the megaphones:
“Attention, attention. It’s 7 o’clock. It’s 7 o’clock. Get up. Make your bed. Hygiene inspection in 30 minutes. Attention. It’s 7 o’clock. Get up.”
I raised an eyebrow at Jonathon. He simply gestured toward the iron door.
The same one the starched uniforms had just disappeared behind.
Part 2 - Coming Soon