Behind locked doors: Goulburn's Supermax prison is where Ivan Milat is housed. Picture: Brad Hunter Source: The Daily Telegraph

Milat and the other 36 inmates of the state's toughest jail, Goulburn's High Risk Management Unit - Supermax - have access to newspapers, radio and television, and soon they will receive the new digital channels.

This week I returned to Supermax, having visited once before. That time Milat threatened to set himself on fire. Later he would sever a finger with a plastic knife.

But for all that, and despite being a handful for senior management, the prison officers at Supermax don't see the serial killer as a serial pest.

Milat is categorised as level 3.3, giving him maximum privileges - a television, radio, jug, sandwich maker and optimum inmate association as well as visitor and telephone rights.

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For "the worst of the worst", breaking out of the nine-year-old Supermax has so far proved impossible. Getting in is hard enough. There are multiple X-ray screenings, of not just the visitors but everything including the fruit and vegetables. A little while back they found a handcuff key and knife hidden in a rice cooker. And, remarkably for a world where drug use is generally rife, no inmate in Supermax has ever tested positive to illegal drugs.

That's not to say there is no drug use. Getting prisoners to take their medication is one of the daily challenges.

On my visit, one prisoner under escort by three officers stumbled past, his movement affected by manacles and methadone.

The image is reflective of the new reality that exists in Australian prisons.

Supermax, with its stainless steel walls and clinical surfaces, looks as much intensive care ward as prison.

Thirteen of the inmates are also patients, having been diagnosed with mental health issues. Milat is not one of them.

Since the social policy shifts of the 1970s and '80s, which saw widespread deinstitutionalisation, a legion of walking wounded mental health patients have stumbled into Australian prisons.

According to a 2010 NSW Bureau of Crime Statistics and Research report: "It is clear that mental health problems, both substance and non-substance related are over-represented amongst offenders in custodial settings."

Vicki Wilcott is one of two counselling support officers at Supermax. A registered psychiatric nurse, she said high levels of anxiety were common among prisoners.

An example is the inmate who won't read because he does not want to wear glasses for fear he will be seen as weak, thereby foregoing a rare advantage of extended incarceration.

Passing a stack of books I see Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Identity, but also Virgil's The Aeneid and a collection of Harry Potter, a favourite with one of the younger lifers.

The former Supermax - Katingal - was closed in 1978, condemned by a royal commission as an "electronic zoo".

THE current facility has 146 cameras and 40 alarms. In 2007, letters smuggled out revealed inmate complaints of cells like Nazi cool rooms, routine mental and physical abuse and air-conditioning "constantly set on cold throughout winter".

When I arrived, a chill Goulburn wind swept the external courtyards, but inside the climate was unremarkable apart from the smell of fresh paint.

Earlier a prisoner had set two fires in his cell, burning a tub of possessions and a mattress. Subdued by CS gas, a cosh made of a sock filled with batteries and soap was removed.

Another inmate is known to regularly "bronze up" as they put it - that is, smear his body with faeces.

According to general manager Michelle Paynter, the atmosphere of determined control is for the sake of community, staff and inmate safety. She has no serious concerns about the facility escalating mental health issues.

There are no cameras in normal cells and day rooms. For better or worse the cells belong to the inmates.

The centre, opened in the same year the World Trade Center was destroyed, is home to 17 Muslim inmates, nine convicted of terrorism offences. The sound of daily prayer now mingles with the clash of bolts and hum of air-conditioning.

According to Corrective Services Commissioner Ron Woodham, these Double A prisoners are easier to manage, having not come through the bruising ranks of hardened criminals.

Mick Reid, the security manager, said their high-risk designation was designed to restrict their spread of influence and ability to coerce others. On the day we visit, so does an imam.

Mr Woodham can see a time when someone will escape: "Over a period of years, they could come down in classification to maximum, medium or even minimum security."

Mandy Keady, a five-year veteran, said she had learned not to be offended by the abuse she endures.

Robert Lang, who has done nine years, said the guards were not there to belittle inmates.

The men in green staring back from the yards, many with large black beards, carry on average a 23.5-year sentence.

They probably wouldn't agree that their treatment is firm but fair. But if you take the long view, the system has come a long way from a time when prisoners were routinely bashed. And, for those inside, there is nothing but the long view.