As we are all escorted back to A block by Mr Lewis, the senior gym officer, we pass E Wing (paedophiles) and not one of the inmates even looks in the direction of the staring faces. Why? Because we are accompanied by an officer. Prisoners are warned that any abuse (shouting, foul language) will be treated as a disciplinary matter, with the loss of daily gym rights as punishment. When you’re locked up for twenty-two hours a day, that’s incentive enough to remain silent, whatever your thoughts.
5.00 pm
The cell door is unlocked, and my new pad-mate enters carrying the inevitable plastic bag. Jason is replaced by Phil, an amiable, good-looking – despite the scar on his face – twenty-eight-year-old.
He has been put in my cell because he doesn’t smoke, which is very rare in jail. Phil talks a great deal, and tells me that he wants to return to work in the kitchen. He certainly seems to know his way round the prison, which turns out to be because he’s paid several visits to Lincoln during the past ten years.
He is only too happy to tell me the finer details of his record. Twenty-eight other offences were taken into consideration before the judge passed sentence on Phil this morning.
Phil tells me, ‘Never again.’ He now has a happy family life-I don’t ask how he explains his latest conviction – and a good job to go back to. He can earn £500 a week laying concrete and doesn’t need another spell in jail. Phil admits that his problem is a short fuse.
‘Strike a match and I explode,’ he adds, laughing.
5.40 pm
Mr Brighten unlocks the cell door to inform me that I start work in the kitchen tomorrow at eight o’clock. He slams the door closed before I can comment.
6.00 pm
My cell door is unlocked again and Phil and I, along with three others, are escorted to the hospital. I’m told that I have to take a drugs test before I’m allowed to work in the kitchen. Despite the fact that I don’t want to work in the kitchen, Phil tells me that five prisoners apply every day because the work is so popular. Phil and I pass the urine test to show we are drug free, and the duty officer tells us to report to the kitchen by eight. The other three fail.
6.40 pm
During association I phone my agent, Jonathan Lloyd. He goes over the details of tomorrow’s announcement of the publication of volume one of these diaries. I congratulate him on how well the secret has been kept. Not one newspaper has picked up that A Prison Diary by FF8282 will be published tomorrow. This is quite an achievement remembering that at least twenty people must have known at Macmillan and ten or more at the Daily Mail.
DAY 444
SATURDAY 5 OCTOBER 2002
5.52 am
This is my tenth day of incarceration at Lincoln.
6.01 am
The publication of A Prison Diary Volume One – Belmarsh: Hell, is the lead item on the news. The facts are fairly reported. No one seems to think that the Home Office will try to prevent the publication. However, the director-general is checking to see if I have broken any prison rules. Mr Narey is particularly exercised by the mention of other prisoners’ names. I have only referred to prisoners’ surnames when they are major characters in the diary, and only then when their permission has been granted.43
A representative of the Prison Officers’ Association said on the Today programme that as I hid in my room all day, I wouldn’t have anything worthwhile to say about prisons. Perhaps it might have been wiser for him to open his mouth after he’s read the book, when he would have discovered how well his colleagues come out of my experience.
7.32 am
My cell door is unlocked so I can be transferred from A to J wing. This is considered a privilege for that select group who work in the kitchen. The cells are a lot cleaner, and also have televisions. My new companion is a grown-up non-smoker called Stephen (age thirty-nine), who is number one in the kitchen.
Stephen is serving a seven-year sentence for smuggling one and a half tons of cannabis into Britain. He is an intelligent man, who runs both the wing and the kitchen with a combination of charm and example.
8.00 am
A group of fourteen prisoners is escorted to the kitchens. Only two of the five who reported for drugs testing yesterday evening are still in the group.
I am put to work in the vegetable room to assist a young twenty-three-year-old called Lee, who is so good at his job – chopping potatoes, slicing onions, grating cheese and mashing swedes – that I become his incompetent assistant. My lack of expertise doesn’t seem to worry him.
The officer in charge of the kitchen, Mr Tasker, turns out to be one of the most decent and professional men I have dealt with since being incarcerated. His kitchen is like Singapore airport: you could eat off the floor. He goes to great pains to point out to me that he only has £1.27 per prisoner to deliver three meals a day. In the circumstances, what he and his staff manage to achieve is nothing less than a miracle.
DAY 445
SUNDAY 6 OCTOBER 2002
11.14 am
On this, my eleventh day, I have a second visit from Mr Spurr and his colleague Ms Stamp.
They say they wish to tidy up a few minor points. I’m impressed by Mr Spurr’s grasp of what’s going on at North Sea Camp, and once again he gives the impression of being concerned.
He leaves promising that he will be able to tell me the outcome of his enquiry on Friday.
DAY 450
FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 2002
7.30 am
A particularly officious, ill-mannered officer unlocks my cell door and thrusts some papers at me. He tells me with considerable pleasure that I will be on a charge at 4 o’clock this afternoon.
I read the papers several times. I don’t have a lot more to do. It seems that by publishing A Prison Diary I have broken prison Rule 51 Para 23, in ‘naming staff such that they could be identified’, contrary to SO 5 Para 34 (9) (d).
8.10 am
On leaving my cell to go to work in the kitchen, I am surprised to find Mr Spurr and Ms Stamp awaiting me. I am escorted into a side room. Mr Spurr tells me that he has completed his enquiry, and I will be transferred to Hollesley Bay (D-cat) some time next week. Do you recall Governor Lewis’s words, ‘Whatever you do, don’t end up in Hollesley Bay …’?
10.30 am
I take a break from peeling the spuds, not that I can pretend to have done that many. I notice that Mr Tasker is sitting in his office reading the Daily Mail. He beckons me in, and tells me to close the door.
‘I’ve just been reading about your time at Belmarsh,’ he says, jabbing a finger at the centre pages, ‘and I see you’re suggesting that seventy per cent of prisoners are on drugs and as many as thirty per cent could be on heroin.’ He looks up, gives me a pained expression and then adds, ‘You’re wrong.’
I don’t comment, expecting him to dismiss my claims, and remind me of the official statistics always parroted by the Home Office whenever the question of drugs is raised.
‘Which would you say is the most popular job in the prison?’ Mr Tasker asks, folding his newspaper.
‘The kitchen, without question,’ I reply, ‘and for all the obvious reasons.’
‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘Every day, at least five inmates apply to work in the kitchen.’ He pauses, sips his coffee and adds, ‘Did you take a drugs test yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘along with four others.’
‘And how many of you were invited to work in the kitchen?’
‘Just Phil and me,’ I reply.
‘Correct, but what you don’t know is that I’m entitled to have twenty-one prisoners working in the kitchen, but currently employ only seventeen.’ He takes another sip of his coffee. ‘I have never managed to fill all the vacancies during the last ten years, despite the fact that we never have fewer than seven hundred inmates.’ Mr Tasker rises from his seat. ‘Now I’m no mathematician,’ he says, ‘but I think you’ll find that seventeen out of seven hundred does not come to thirty per cent.’
3.00 pm
&n
bsp; The same officious, ill-mannered lout who unlocked my cell door this morning returns to pick me up from the kitchen and escort me to segregation. This time I am only left there for about forty minutes before being hauled up in front of Mr Peacock, the governing governor. Mr Peacock sits at the top of the table with the deputy governor on his right and my wing officer on his left. The thug stands behind me in case I might try to escape. The governor reads out the charge and asks if I wish to plead guilty or not guilty.
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘I’m not clear what offence I’ve committed.’
I am then shown the prison rules in full. I express some surprise, saying that I handed over every page of Belmarsh: Hell to the prison censor, and he kindly posted them on to my secretary, and at no time did he suggest I was committing any offence. The governor looks suitably embarrassed when I ask him to write down every word I have said. He does so.
Mr Peacock points out that every inmate has access to a copy of the prison rules in the library. ‘Yes, but anyone who reads my diary,’ – he has a copy of Belmarsh on the table in front of him – ‘would know that I wasn’t allowed to visit the library, or have access to education while at Belmarsh.’ I direct him to the passage on the relevant page. At least he has the grace to smile, adding that ignorance of the law is no excuse.
Mr Peacock then calls for my wing officer to make his report. ‘Archer FF8282, works in the kitchen and is a polite, well-mannered prisoner, with no history of drugs or violence.’ The governor also writes these words down, before clearing his throat and pronouncing sentence.
‘Loss of all privileges for fourteen days, and of canteen during the same period,’ the governor pauses, ‘to be suspended for six months.’
I rise, thank him and leave. I have a feeling he’ll be only too happy to see the back of me. But more important, the decision has been made not to remove my D-cat status, thus proving that they had no reason to send me here in the first place.
It was to be another six days before my transfer to Hollesley Bay in Suffolk, and even that simple exercise they managed to botch.
DAY 457
FRIDAY 18 OCTOBER 2002
6.00 am
I rise and pack my belongings into an HMP plastic bag as I prepare for my next move, not unlike one does when leaving a no-star motel at the end of a rainy holiday. While I’m gathering my possessions together, I chat to my pad-mate, Stephen (marijuana, seven years), who tells me that he’s been granted his D-cat status, and hopes it will not be long before they transfer him to North Sea Camp.
7.00 am
The cell doors on our wing are unlocked to allow Stephen and his crew to be escorted to the kitchens and begin the day’s work. I try inadequately to thank him for his kindness and help during the past ten days, while wishing him luck for a speedy transfer.
8.07 am
The cell door is thrown open for the last time, to reveal a young officer standing in the doorway. Without a word, he escorts me to reception. It’s a protracted journey, as I have to drag along two large, heavy plastic bags, and however many times I stop, the officer makes no attempt to help me.
When we finally reach reception, I’m placed in the inevitable waiting room. From time to time, I’m called to the counter by Mr Fuller so that I can sign forms and check through the contents of another six plastic bags that have been kept under lock and key. These are filled with gifts – mainly books – sent in by the public during the past three weeks. I sort out those that can be donated to the library (including nine Bibles) and still end up with four full bags, which will have to travel with me to Suffolk.
It’s another thirty minutes before the final form is completed and I am cleared to depart for my next destination. Meanwhile, back to the waiting room.
10.19 am
Two young officers from Group 4 appear in the corridor. They are to accompany me and two other inmates from this hell-hole – not that the devils’ keepers have been unkind. In fact, with one loutish exception, they have been supportive and friendly.
The Group 4 officers help me with my endless plastic bags, before I am locked into a tiny cubicle in another sweat box. I sit cramped up in silence awaiting a ‘movement order’.
11.49 am
The electric gates swing slowly open, and the van eases out onto the main road. I stare from my darkened window to see several photographers snapping away. All they’ll get is a blacked-out window.
I remain hunched up in my little box, despite the fact that as a D-cat prisoner I am entitled to have my wife drive me to Hollesley Bay in the family car. But once again, the Home Office has put a stop to that.
For the next five hours, I am cooped up with two stale sandwiches and a bottle of water as we trundle through four counties on the endless journey to somewhere on the Suffolk coast.
3.19 pm
The van finally arrives at Hollesley Bay, and comes to a halt outside a squat brick building. The three of us step outside, to be escorted into reception. More form filling and more bag checking – decisions to be made about what we can and cannot possess.
While my plastic bags are being checked, the duty officer inadvertently gives it all away with an innocent remark. ‘It’s the first time I’ve checked anyone in from Lincoln.’ And worse, the other two prisoners who came with me have only two weeks and three weeks respectively to serve before they complete their sentences; this despite the fact that their homes are in north Yorkshire. They have been uprooted because the Home Office is prepared to mess around with their lives just to make sure I couldn’t travel by car.
When all the red tape is completed, I am accompanied to the north block by another officer, who dumps me in a single room.
Once again I begin to unpack. Once again, I will have to find my feet. Once again, I will be put through induction. Once again, I will have to suffer the endless jibes and sullen stares, never lowering my guard. Once again, I will have to find a job.
Once again …
EPILOGUE
For the past fourteen months, I have been writing two thousand words a day, nearly a million in all, which has resulted in three published diaries.
Although Hollesley Bay turned out to be quite different from North Sea Camp, it was not dissimilar enough to warrant a fourth diary. However, there is one significant difference worthy of mention. Hollesley Bay is an open prison, not a resettlement establishment. It was clearly selected to ensure that I couldn’t work outside. After I had completed my induction, the director of Genesis, a Mencap project in Ipswich, offered me a job. His request was rejected by Mr Jones, the prison governor, despite there being three other inmates working at Genesis at that time. I appealed to the Prison Ombudsman about this blatant discrimination, but he said he didn’t have the authority to reverse the governor’s decision.
I reluctantly settled for the position of library orderly, with a remit from Mr Jones to ‘get more prisoners reading’. Thirty-two books were taken out in my first week as library orderly, one hundred and ninety one in my last, eight months later.
However, as the library was only open to prisoners between 12.30 and 1.30, and 6 and 7 pm, I was left with countless hours to occupy myself. It doesn’t take that long to replace on the shelves the twenty or thirty books returned each day. I could have occupied those lifeless hours writing a fourth diary, but as I have explained, I felt it would have achieved little.
During those first few months of incarceration at Hollesley Bay, I edited A Prison Diary Volume Two – Wayland: Purgatory, and had it smuggled out on a weekly basis by a prisoner who was working in Ipswich. But even that demanding exercise did not fully occupy my time.
My next venture was to write nine short stories based on tales that I had picked up from all four prisons. This collection will be published in 2005 under the title Cat of Nine Tales. Unfortunately, even this endeavour, with its several rewrites, only occupied me through to Christmas, leaving me another six months to kill before I was due to be released.
It was the death
of an old friend that spurred me into action, and once again gave my life some purpose …
A few months before my trial began, I had lunch at Mosimann’s with Chris Brasher and a mutual friend, John Bryant. The purpose of the lunch, and Chris always had a purpose, was first to persuade me that I should run in the London marathon and attempt to break the world record for the amount raised for charity by an individual in this event (£1,166,212) and second, that I should write my first screenplay.
While the marathon was postponed by events, I suddenly found myself with time on my hands to write a screenplay. Chris Brasher also knew the subject he wanted me to tackle, and proceeded to tell me the story of George Mallory, an Englishman who in 1924, climbed to within 800 feet of the summit of Everest, dressed in a three-piece tweed suit, with a coiled rope over one shoulder, a fifty-five-pound pack on his back, and carrying an ice axe in one hand and a rolled umbrella in the other.
At 12.50 pm on 17 July 1924 (Ascension Day), he and his young companion Sandy Irvine were enveloped in clouds and never seen again.
Was Mallory the first man to conquer Everest?
It was the untimely death of Chris Brasher that bought the memory of that lunch flooding back.