Life in a young offenders' institution

Since the August riots, we have been locking up more children, but what are we trying to achieve? To find out, our reporter was allowed to spend three days in Ashfield young offenders' institution.

A police van drives into Ashfield juvenile prison just outside Bristol just before 8pm and lets out the skinny, hunched figure of Ryan Lewis, who has just turned 16 and is stepping inside prison for the first time. His initiation begins in a windowless reception room, with harsh strip lighting, decorated with a small fish tank, a gloomy pot plant and posters warning new prisoners that if they bite the staff they can expect to get an extra 28 days added to their sentence.

Amanda Hitchens, security manager, in charge of reception for the night shift, asks him to give his name and date of birth, which he does with mumbled words. He looks around the room as the entry paperwork is completed, taking in the surroundings. A report from the courts says Ryan may have mental health problems and is a possible suicide risk. The form also states that he has spent much of his life in care. He is in prison for assaulting his mother.

A prison officer takes him to a side room where he removes his purple jumper for a search of his upper body, then his black jeans for a lower body search. He is asked to sit on a big grey plastic chair to do a body scan for hidden metal objects. Nothing is found, so he is given a green tracksuit and offered a hot drink from the machine, while his old clothes are packed away into a black plastic storage box, labelled with a sticker showing a photograph of his face and his prison number.

The driver of the prison van comments on how quiet Ryan was during the 104-mile journey from the court in Southhampton. Usually juveniles are a nuisance to drive because they are so rowdy, shouting to each other and banging on the windows at girls, he says. Adults tend to be better behaved. There are no seat pads because they always get torn off, the driver says, and no seat belts in case prisoners try to hang themselves.

Ryan is led to a cell on the second floor; he follows, a short, hunched figure, holding a prison towel and new prison-issue underwear in a transparent plastic bag, snatching glances with frightened eyes at the crowds of noisy prisoners who are out of their cells for social time. Everyone is in a green uniform, but prisoners are allowed to wear their own trainers; only inmates from the most deprived backgrounds, or who have yet to receive their shoes from home, wear the white sneakers given to them by reception. Prisoners usually wear their tracksuit bottoms low, and are allowed a range of hairstyles, plaits and braids.

Two tiny bars of soap have been laid out on the desk of his cell, there's a television, a white plastic comb, two packets of Colgate and a pink toothbrush. In the future he will have to buy his own toothpaste and shampoo, but this is the welcome pack everyone receives. On the bed there is also a pile of sweets – a pack of Polos, fun gums, Refreshers, a Fudge bar – and some orange squash. Despite the sweets, the cell is profoundly depressing. It is narrow and confined, the pillows and duvet on the unmade bed are yellowing and stained, and there is no seat on the toilet.