‘He’s as good as gold,’ says Linda. ‘A gipsy, who, once convicted, never puts a foot wrong; he’s always released as a model prisoner after serving half his sentence. But once he’s left us, he’s usually back within a year,’ she adds.
10.30 pm
Television news footage reveals Kabul as it had been under the rule of the Taliban. Amongst the buildings filmed is Kabul jail, which makes NSC look like the Ritz; twenty men would have occupied my room with only three urine-stained, ragged mattresses between them.
I sleep soundly.
DAY 122
SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER 2001
Anyone who’s incarcerated wants their sentence to pass as quickly as possible. If you’re fortunate enough to have an interesting job, as I have at SMU, that certainly helps kill Monday to Friday. That just leaves the other problem — the weekend. Once you’ve reached your FLED and can work outside the prison, have a town visit every week and a week out every month, I’m told the months fly by, but should I fail to win my appeal against length of sentence, none of this will kick in until July next year – another eight months. So boredom will become my greatest challenge.
I can write, but not for every hour of every day. With luck there’s a rugby match to watch on Saturday afternoon, and a visitor to look forward to seeing on Sunday. So, for the record:
Saturday
6.00 am Write this diary for two hours.
8.15 am Breakfast.
9.00 am Read The Times, or any other paper available.
10.00 am Work on the sixth rewrite of Sons of Fortune.
12 noon Lunch.
2.00pm Watch New Zealand beat Ireland 40-29 on BBC1.
4.00pm Watch Wales beat Tonga 51-7 on BBC2. *
4.40 pm Watch the highlights of England’s record-breaking win of 134-0 against Romania on ITV.
6.00 pm Continue to work on Sons of Fortune and run out of paper. My fault.
8.15 pm Sign in for roll-call to prove I haven’t absconded, or died of boredom.
8.30 pm Join Doug in the hospital and watch a Danny de Vito/Bette Midler film, followed by the news.
10.30 pm Return to my room, go to bed and, despite the noise of Match of the Day coming from the TV room next door, fall asleep.
DAY 123
SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER 2001
6.11 am
After five weeks at NSC, you must be as familiar with my daily routine as I am so, as from today, I will refer only to highlights or unusual incidents that I think might interest you.
2.00 pm
You will recall that I’m allowed one visit a week, and my visitors today are Alan and Della Pascoe. I first met Alan when he was an England schoolboy, and even the casual observer realized that he was destined to be a star. He had a decade at the highest level, and if that time hadn’t clashed with Al Moses – the greatest 400m hurdler in history – Alan would have undoubtedly won two Olympic gold medals, rather than two silvers. We only ran against each other once in our careers; he was seventeen and I was twenty-six. I prefer not to dwell on the result.
Although I had the privilege of watching Della run for her country (Commonwealth gold medalist and world record holder), we didn’t meet until she married Alan, and our families have been close ever since. They remain the sort of friends who don’t run round the track in the opposite direction when you’ve been disqualified.
DAY 124
MONDAY 19 NOVEMBER 2001
5.30 am
The noise of three heavy tractors harvesting acres and acres of Brussels sprouts wakes me. If I’m up every day by five-thirty, what time must the farm labourers rise to be on their tractor seats even before I stir?
8.15 am
Matthew, as you will remember, was released last Friday, and has been replaced in the SMU by Carl.
Carl is softly spoken and well mannered. He’s the lead singer in the prison’s rock band, and has the striking good looks required for someone who aspires to that calling: around five foot eleven, slim, with wavy fair hair. He tells me that he has a fifteen-year-old daughter born when he was twenty (he’s not married), so he must be in his mid-thirties.
Carl arrives at eight-twenty, which is a good start, and as I run through our daily duties, he makes notes. Monday is usually quiet: no inductions or labour board, so I’m able to brief him fully on all personnel resident in the building and their responsibilities. He is a quick study, and also has all the women in the building coming into the kitchen on the flimsiest of excuses. In a week he’ll have everything mastered and I’ll be redundant.
Now of course you will want to know why this cross between Robbie Williams and Richard Branson is in prison. Simple answer, fraud. Carl took advances on property that he didn’t own, or even properly represent. A more interesting aspect of Carl’s case is that his co-defendant pleaded not guilty, while, on the advice of his barrister, Carl pleaded guilty. But there’s still another twist to come. Because Carl had to wait for the outcome of his co-defendant’s trial before he could be sentenced, he was released on bail for nine months, and during that time ‘did a runner’. He disappeared off to Barcelona, found himself a job and tried to settle down. However, after only a few weeks, he decided he had to come back to England and, in his words, face the music.
Carl was a little surprised not to be arrested when he landed at Heathrow. He spent the weekend with a friend in Nottingham, and then handed himself in to the nearest police station. The policeman at the desk was so astonished that he didn’t quite know what to do with him. Carl was charged later that day, and after spending a night in custody, was sentenced the following morning to three years. His co-defendant also received three years. His barrister says he would only have got two years if he hadn’t broken bail and disappeared off to Barcelona. Carl is a model prisoner, so he will only serve sixteen months, half his sentence minus two months with a tag.
2.30 pm
Mr New phones Spring Hill to enquire about my transfer, but as there’s no reply from Karen’s office, he’ll try again tomorrow. If I were back in my office, I’d try again at 3 pm, 4 pm and 5 pm, but not in prison. Tomorrow will be just fine. After all, I’m not going anywhere.
5.00 pm
David (murder) arrives with all my clothes neatly laundered. Lifers have their own washing machine and iron. Jeeves of Pont Street would be proud of him. I hand over three Mars Bars, and my debt is paid.
6.00 pm
I need to buy a plug from the canteen (30p) because I keep leaving mine in the washbasin. I’ve lost four in the last four weeks. When I get to the front of the queue they’re sold out. However, Doug tells me he has a drawer full of plugs – of course he does.
DAY 125
TUESDAY 20 NOVEMBER 2001
Many aspects of prison life are unbearable: boredom, confinement, missing family and friends. All of these might fade in time. But the two things I will never forget after I’m released will be the noise and the bad language.
When I returned to my room at 10 pm last night, the TV room next door was packed with screaming hooligans; the volume, for a the repeat of the world heavyweight title fight between Lennox Lewis and Hasim Rahman, was so high that it reminded me of being back at Belmarsh when reggae music was blaring out from the adjacent cell. I was delighted to learn that Lennox Lewis had retained his title, but didn’t need to hear every word the commentator said, or the accompanying cheers, screams and insults from a highly partisan crowd. In the end I gave up, went next door and asked if the volume could be turned down a little. I was greeted with a universal chorus of ‘Fuck off!’
10.00 am
Sixteen new inductees turn up for labour board, all clutching their red folders. The message has spread: if you don’t return your folders, you don’t get a job, and therefore no wages. Because the prison is so full at the moment, most of the good jobs – hospital, SMU, library, education, stores, officers’ mess – are filled, leaving only kitchen, cleaners and the dreaded farm. Among the new intake is a PhD and an army officer. I fix it s
o that the PhD, who only has another five weeks to serve, will work in the stores, and the army officer will then take over from him. Only one of the new intake hasn’t a clue what he wants to do, so he inevitably ends up on the farm.
11.00 am
I have already described the paper chase to you, so imagine my surprise when among the three prisoners to turn up this morning, clutching his release papers is Potts. Do you remember Potts? Solicitor didn’t turn up, took an overdose? Well, he’s fully recovered and went back to court for his appeal. However, he was half an hour late and the judge refused to hear his case, despite the fact that it was the Prison Service’s fault that he wasn’t on time. Here we are two weeks later and he’s off tomorrow, even though he wasn’t due for release until the middle of next year. As we are unable to have a lengthy conversation at SMU, I agree to visit him tonight and find out what caused this sudden reversal.
3.00 pm
The governor of Spring Hill (Mr Payne) calls to have a private chat with Mr New. He’s concerned about the attendant publicity should he agree to my transfer. Mr New does everything he can to allay Mr Payne’s anxieties, pointing out that once the tabloids had got their photograph, the press haven’t been seen since. But Mr Payne points out that it didn’t stop a series of stories appearing from ‘insiders’ and ‘released prisoners’ which, although pure fantasy doesn’t help. Mr New tells him that I have settled in well, shared a room with another inmate and am a model prisoner. Mr Payne says he’ll make a decision fairly quickly. I am not optimistic.
6.30 pm
I have been invited to attend a meeting of the Samaritans (from Boston) and the Listeners (prisoners). They meet about once a month in the hospital to exchange views and ideas. They only need me to sign some books for their Christmas bazaar. One of the ladies asks me if she can bring in some more books for signing from the Red Cross bookshop.
‘Of course,’ I tell her.
10.30 pm
There’s a cowboy film on TV, so the noise is bearable – that is, until the final shoot-out begins.
DAY 126
WEDNESDAY 21 NOVEMBER 2001
6.18 am
The mystery of Potts’s early release has been solved. A clerical error resulted in the judge thinking the case should be heard at 10 o’clock, while Potts was able to produce a piece of paper that requested his attendance in court at 10.30 am. The judge subsequently agreed to hear the appeal immediately and, having considered the facts, halved Potts’s sentence. The governor called him out of work at the kitchen to pass on the news that he would be released this morning. The first really happy prisoner I’ve seen in months.
8.15 am
Twelve new inductees due today, and as always, if you look carefully through the list you’ll find a story. Today it’s Cormack. He was released just over six weeks ago on a tag (HDC) and is back, but only for eleven days.
Strict rules are applied when you are granted an HDC. You are released two months early with a tag placed around your ankle. You supply an address at which you will reside during those two months. You must have a home phone. You will be confined to that abode during certain hours, usually between seven in the evening and seven the following morning. You also agree in writing not to take drugs or drink.
Cormack is an unusual case, because he didn’t break any of these rules. But yesterday morning he turned up at the local police station asking to be taken back into custody for the last eleven days because he was no longer welcome at the house he had designated for tagging.
‘Wise man,’ said Mr Simpson, the probation officer who recommended his early release. ‘He kept to the letter of the law, and won’t suffer as a consequence. If he’d attempted to spend the last eleven days somewhere else, he would have been arrested and returned to closed conditions.’ Wise man indeed.
12 noon
Leon the PhD joins me for lunch. He’s the new orderly in stores, which entitles him to eat early. He thanks me for helping him to secure the job. I discover over lunch that his doctorate is in meteorology. He tells me that there are not many job opportunities in his field, so once he’s released he’ll be looking for a teaching position; not easy when you have a prison record. Leon was sentenced to six months for driving without a licence, so will serve only twelve weeks. He tells me that this is not his biggest problem. He’s engaged to a girl who has just left Birmingham University with a first-class honours degree, and like him, wants to be a teacher. So far, so good. But Leon is currently facing racial prejudice in reverse. She is a high-class Brahmin and even before Leon ended up in jail, her parents didn’t consider he was good enough for their daughter. He explains that it is necessary to meet the father on three separate occasions before a daughter’s hand can be granted in wedlock, and following that, you still have to meet the mother. All these ceremonies are conducted formally. Before he was sentenced, Leon had managed only one meeting with the father; now he is being refused a second or third meeting, and the mother is adamant that she will never allow him to enter the family home. Does his fiancée defy her parents and marry the man she loves, or does she obey her father and break off all contact? Seven of the twelve weeks have already passed, but Leon points out that it’s not been easy to stay in touch while you’re only allowed one visit a week, and two phonecards.
3.00 pm
Mr Berlyn (deputy governor) drops into SMU to ask me if I’ve invited any outsiders to come and hear my talk tomorrow night. To be honest, I’d forgotten that I’d agreed to the librarian’s request to give a talk on writing a best-seller. I tell Mr Berlyn that I haven’t invited anyone from inside – or outside – the prison.
He tells me that after reading about the ‘event’ in the local paper, members of the public have been calling in all day asking if they can attend.
Can they? I ask innocently. He doesn’t bother to reply.
DAY 127
THURSDAY 22 NOVEMBER 2001
5.55 am
The problem of whether I should remain at NSC and become hospital orderly, or transfer to Spring Hill, has come to a head. Doug (VAT fraud and current hospital orderly) has been told by Mr Berlyn that if he applies for a job at Exotic Foods in Boston, who currently employ Clive (local council fraud and backgammon tutor), he would be granted the status of outside worker, which would take him out of the prison six days a week, even allowing him to use his own car to go back and forth to work.
If Doug is offered the job, then I will only do one more week as SMU orderly before passing on my responsibilities to Carl. I would then have to spend a week being trained by Doug in the hospital routines, so that I could take over the following Monday.
10.30 am
Eight new inductees today, and all seem relieved to be in an open prison, until it comes to job allocation. Once again, most prisoners end up on the farm, resulting in a lot of glum faces as they leave the building. Few of them want to spend their day with pigs, sheep and Brussels sprouts, remembering the temperature on the fens at this time of year is often below zero. One of the prisoners, a West Indian called Wesley, used to warmer climes, is so angry that he asks to be sent back to Ashwell, his old C-cat prison. He says he’d be a lot happier locked up all day with a wall to protect him from the wind. Mr Berlyn assures him that if he still feels that way in a month’s time, he’ll happily send him back.
5.00 pm
Early supper is, as I have explained, one of the orderlies’ privileges, so I was surprised to see a table occupied by six inmates I’d never seen before.
John (lifer, senior kitchen orderly) tells me that they’re all Muslims, and as Ramadan has just begun, they can only eat between the hours of sunset and sunrise, which means they cannot have breakfast or lunch with the other prisoners. That doesn’t explain why they’re having dinner on their own, because it’s pitch black by five o’clock on a November evening and …
‘Ah,’ says John, ‘good point, but you see the large tray stacked with packets of milk and cornflakes? That’s tomorrow’s breakfast, which the
y’ll take back tonight and have in their rooms around five tomorrow morning. If the other prisoners find out about this, when they still have to come down to the dining room whatever the weather, can you imagine how many complaints there would be?’
‘Or conversions to Allah and the Muslim faith,’ I suggest.
6.00 pm
I give my talk in the chapel on writing a best-seller. The audience of twenty-six is made up of prisoners and staff. There are five ladies in the front row I do not recognize, seventeen prisoners and four members of staff, including Mr Berlyn, Mr Gough and Ms Hampton, the librarian.
I enjoyed delivering a speech for the first time in three months, and although I’ve tackled the subject on numerous occasions in the past, it felt quite fresh after such a long layoff, and the questions were among the most searching I remember.
Two pounds was added to my canteen account.
7.00 pm
I call Mary and foolishly leave my phonecard in the slot. When I return three minutes later, it’s disappeared. Let’s face it, I am in prison.