Wakefield is old. Victorian. Built in the 1840s. The walls are made of stone, the windows are tiny, and the heating is a joke. In winter, prisoners wear coats inside. In summer, it’s a brick oven.
But it’s safe. For the rest of us. The security is insane: motion sensors, armed response teams, and dogs that can sniff out a single crumb of contraband. No one’s escaping from here.
Worboys probably has a routine: wake up, eat a sad porridge, stare at the wall, maybe write a letter no one answers. It’s not a spa. It’s not even a mediocre hotel. It’s a box, and he’s in it.
The weirdest part? He’s not the only famous face there.
Wakefield has a line-up that would make a true-crime podcast weep with joy. Besides Worboys, you’ve got Wayne Couzens (the cop who murdered Sarah Everard), and Levi Bellfield (the bus stop stalker). They probably avoid each other in the exercise yard.
Imagine the small talk. “Hey, how’s your day going?” “Oh, you know, life. You?” It’s a masterclass in awkward prison politics. But I doubt they play chess together.
