‘No, no, no,’ he says. ‘Forgery.’ My ears prick up. ‘Paintings?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he replies. ‘Much as I’d like to be a Keating or Elmyr Hory, it’s more mundane than that - John Lewis gift vouchers.’ I laugh. ‘So how were you caught?’
‘I was grassed up by my mate who got nervous and turned Queen’s evidence. He got off while I ended up with thirteen months in prison.’
Thirteen months? That’s a strange sentence.’ ‘I was given twelve months for the forgery and an extra month for not turning up to the first hearing.’
‘How much did you get away with?’ I ask casually. ‘Can’t tell you that,’ he responds. ‘But I admitted to a couple of grand.’
‘And you’ll be out in three weeks, so how long have you served?’
‘Just over four months.’
‘So you haven’t that long to carry out my commission.’ He turns back to his sketch pad and flicks over a few pages. Be reveals half a dozen sketches of five figures in different poses and asks which one I would prefer. ‘Which one do you prefer?’
‘Number three,’ he says, placing his thumb on the sketch. I nod my agreement as Anne reappears by my side.
I see what you mean by lack of talent,’ she says, and bursts out laughing at my feeble effort of a head and shoulders, which makes like a cross between ET and a Botero. Roger (bank robber) and Terry (burglar) come across to find out what’s causing such
‘You should have started with a pot, man,’ says Roger, ‘and not tried to advance so quickly.’ He’s already identified my biggest failing.
Without warning, two officers march in and begin to carry out a search. I assume it must be to check on the number of wooden knives and wire used for slicing the putty. But no, I’m told later it was for drugs. The workshops are evidently a common place for dealers to conduct their business.
On the way back to my cell I get lost again, but Shaun accompanies me to A wing and tells me that he has come up with a concept for the cover of Wayland (see plate section). I had always assumed that a graphic designer would do the cover of the book, but the idea of a fellow prisoner carrying out the commission is very appealing. I also admire Shaun’s enterprise in spotting the opportunity. As we part at the T-junction between our two blocks, we agree to meet up during afternoon exercise to continue the discussion.
12 noon
Lunch. Dale’s mushroom soup plus a vegetable fritter.
2.14 pm
I call my solicitor to try to find out the latest on the Simple Truth investigation. The police have been supplied with all our documents plus a detailed report from the Red Cross. Detective Chief Superintendent Perry, who’s in charge of the case, is sympathetic, but says he must follow up all Baroness Nicholson’s accusations. To DCS Perry a day is nothing; to me it’s another fourteen hours locked in a cell.
5.00 pm
Supper: Chinese stir-fry and vegetables. An original recipe served up in one blob, and certainly not cooked by anyone who originated from the Orient.
6.00 pm
No evening gym because there is a cricket match between A and D blocks (the drug-free wing known as junkies’ paradise). I am going over my script for the day when Jimmy appears outside my cell door.
You’re batting at number five, my lord,’ he says, looking down at his team sheet.
‘What?’ I say. ‘The last game I played was for David Frost’s eleven against the Lords Taverners and on that occasion I was dean bowled first ball.’
‘Who was the bowler?’ he asks.
‘Imran Khan,’ I reply.
The Pakistani fast bowler?’ he asks in disbelief.
‘Yes, but he was bowling slow leg breaks at the time.’
‘You’re still batting number five. Report to the top corridor in five minutes.’
I change into a tracksuit, place a bottle top in the gap in my door and run to the gate to find Darren waiting for me.
‘Like the new Swatch,’ he says. ‘What happened to the Longines?’
I tell him of my illicit transfer of the watch to Will during the last family visit.
The screws will have spotted it,’ Darren assures me, ‘and they would have been only too happy to see that particular watch leave the prison. Think of the trouble it would have caused them if someone had stolen it. Be warned, they don’t miss much.’
‘By the way,’ adds Darren, ‘one of the guys on our wing is being transferred tomorrow, so this may be your chance to get off the induction spur.’
My heart leaps at the news. I try to find out more details as we continue our stroll through a gate and out onto a large open field that is surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire.
Jimmy wins the toss and elects to bat. Now, for those of you who understand the game of cricket, HM prisons keep to a set of laws that even the MCC have no jurisdiction over. They may or may not give you a better insight into prison thinking:
(a) Both sides have ten overs each.
(b) Each over is nine balls and you never change ends.
(c) Each side must play five bowlers who can bowl two overs each, but not consecutively.
(d) There are no boundaries and you have to run every run.
(e) The side with the highest score is the winner.
(f) The umpire’s decision is final.
While the other side takes to the field, Dale and Carl pad up for A block. I look in the equipment trolley, hoping I will find a box and a helmet. At the age of sixty-one I don’t fancy facing a twenty-two-year-old West Indian bowler from Brixton who thinks it would be fun to put me in hospital with no fear of being arrested for it. I can’t believe my eyes: bats, pads, helmets, guards, boxes and gloves that are far superior to anything I’ve ever seen at any club game.
Our openers are both back in the pavilion by the end of the first over with the score at 6 for 2. We may well have first-class equipment, but I quickly discover that it does little for our standard of cricket. Our number four lasts for three balls so in the middle of the third over I find myself walking out to join Jimmy.
D Block boo me all the way to the crease, bringing a new meaning to the word ‘sledging’. However, there is worse to come because the West Indian I referred to earlier is licking his lips in anticipation. Hell, he’s fast, but he’s so determined to kill me that accuracy is sacrificed and his nine-ball over is extended to thirteen, with four wides. After another couple of overs (don’t forget, nine balls each), Jimmy and I advance happily on to 35 for 4. That is when my captain decides to try and launch the ball over the prison fence and ends up having his middle stump removed.
I fear neither Neville Cardus nor E. W. Swanton could have done justice to our progress from 35 for 4 to 39 all out. All you need to know is that the West Indian is back on for his second over, and during the next nine balls he takes five wickets at a cost of four runs. I leave the pitch 11 not out, having not faced a ball since my captain returned to the pavilion (bowlers don’t change ends). But all is not lost because when A block takes to the field - thanks to our demon quickie Vincent (manslaughter) - three of our opponents are back in the pavilion by the end of the first over, for a total of only five runs.
The second bowler is our West Indian. He is robbed with two dropped catches and a plump LBW, or I felt so from cover point. When he comes off, D block have only reached 9 for 2, but then prison rules demand that we render up our third bowler. On his arrival, the game is quickly terminated as the ball is peppered ruthlessly around the pitch. D block reach the required total with no further loss of wickets and five overs to spare.
On the way back to our cells, the D block captain says, ‘Not bad, Jeff, even though you played like a fucking public school cunt.’ In prison you have to prove yourself every day.
Once we’re back inside the block, I tell Jimmy that I may be joining him on the enhanced spur.
‘I don’t think so, Jeff,’ he replies. The man who’s leaving us is our wing cleaner, and I think they’ve offered his cell to David (whisk
y bootlegger), the cleaner on your wing.’ My heart sinks. ‘Your best bet is to move into David’s cell, and stay there until another one comes free.’
8.00 pm
I return to my cell, but unfortunately there’s no time for a shower before we’re all banged up. I’m tired, sweaty, and even aching a little, having used muscles I don’t normally press into action in the gym. I’m also hungry, so I open a tin of Princes ham (49p) and a packet of crisps (27p).
9.00 pm
Jules watches The Bill, while I continue to read Graham Greene’s The Man Within. I fall asleep wondering if this is to be my last night in a double cell.
DAY 35 - WEDNESDAY 22 AUGUST 2001
6.04 am
Wake. Fantasize about the possibility of a single cell. Write for two hours.
8.15 am
Breakfast Cornflakes and one slice of toast. Dale is missing from behind the hotplate.
10.00 am
I spot Dale in the corridor. He tells me he’s resigned from his job at the hotplate. He’s sick of getting up thirty minutes before the rest of us just to be abused by inmates who never feel their serve of chips is large enough.
I see my name is chalked up on the blackboard outside the office to report to the SO, Mr Meanwell. I go straight to the e. He has a registered letter for me, and slits it open. He a two-sided typed missive which he hands over, but ; no interest in reading. While he checks inside the envel-I for drugs, money, even stamps, I begin to read the letter, and after only a paragraph, pass it back to Mr Meanwell. When he peruses it, a look of disbelief comes over his face. The writer wants to borrow PS10,000 to invest in ‘an impossible to lose deal’ and he’s willing to split the profits fifty-fifty.
‘How often do you get one of these?’ he asks.
Two or three times a week,’ I confess, ‘asking for sums for as little as fifty pounds right up to a million for yet another ‘impossible to lose deal’.’
‘By the way,’ he says as he hands me the empty envelope, ‘you may be moving today.’ By the way, by the way, by the way - so casual for him, so important to me. ‘One of the chaps on the enhanced spur is being transferred to a prison nearer his home and we’re allocating his cell to an inmate who will take over his responsibilities as cleaner. Once that’s been sorted out, - Mr Meanwell is old enough still to include the word ‘out’ - ‘we’ll move you into his cell. I did think of sending you straight to the enhanced spur,’ he admits, ‘but there were two reasons not to. First, the spur needs a cleaner and you wouldn’t be my first choice for that particular job, and second, I want you on the quieter side where it’s not possible for other prisoners to peer through your window during exercise.’
Once I leave Mr Meanwell, I go in search of David (whisky bootlegger and spur cleaner). I find him attached to the industrial cleaner whirring around the floor of the induction corridor. He invites me along to his present cell on the first floor which, compared to my one up, one down on the induction wing, is the difference between Fawlty Towers and the Ritz.
11.00 am
Exercise. During the first circuit I’m asked by Chris (burglary) if I’ll sponsor him for a half marathon in aid of the NSPCC. I agree to PS1 a mile, as long as it comes out of my private finances and not my canteen account. Otherwise I’ll be without food and bottled water for several weeks. He assures me that the authorities will allow that, so I sign up. He sticks with us for half a circuit, by which time I’ve learnt that he’s the type of burglar our probation officer, Lisa Dada, so despises. He’s twenty-seven years old and has spent eight of the last ten years in jail. He simply considers burglary a way of life. In fact, his parting words are, ‘I’m out in six weeks’ time, Jeff, but don’t worry, your house is safe.’ I realize those of you who have never been to jail may find this strange, but I now feel more sympathy for some of the murderers in Belmarsh than I do for professional burglars.
It was sometime later that I began to ponder on how he could run thirteen miles without occupying half the local constabulary to make sure he didn’t escape. I’ll ask him tomorrow.
Jason (conspiracy to blackmail) joins us on the second circuit and congratulates me on being moved to a single cell.
‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ I remind him.
‘No, but it will this afternoon.’
Prison has many similarities to the outside world. One is that you quickly discover who actually knows what’s going on and who only picks up fag ends. Jason knows exactly what’s happening.
‘Of course, if you want to,’ Jason adds, ‘you can always get yourself transferred to another prison.’
‘And how would I manage that?’
‘Write yourself a note and drop it in the complaints box. You don’t even have to sign it. It’s known as ‘the grass box’.’
‘And what would I have to suggest?’
‘Archer is offering me drugs and I can’t resist much longer, or Archer is bullying me and I’m near breaking point. If they believe it, you’d be transferred the same day. In fact your feet wouldn’t even touch the ground.’
12 noon
Lunch. The hotplate seems empty without the massive frame of Dale dominating proceedings. It looks as if Sergio has been promoted to No. 1 in his place, because he now stands next to the duty officer and hands out the dishes according to whether you’re one, two, three (vegetarian) or four.
Three,’ Sergio says, without even glancing at the list, and then carefully selects my dish. The transfer of power has in no way affected me.
1.45 pm
Gym. The treadmill is working again so I’m almost able to carry out a full programme. With the new medicine ball exercise I’m up to fifteen, with a one-minute break, but after a further nine I’m exhausted and grateful when Mr Maiden blows the five-minute whistle so I can warm down. As we leave, everyone else picks up their assigned gym card before disappearing back to their cells. I no longer have a gym card. It’s been stolen every day since I arrived, and the management have given up bothering to-issue me with a new one.
3.30 pm
I come out of the shower to find Ms Webb waiting for me.
‘When the induction wing is banged up at four o’clock,’ she says, ‘I’ll leave your door open because we’re going to move you across to number two cell on the far spur.’
I think about throwing my arms round Ms Webb, but as I only have a towel covering me, I feel sure she would put me on report, so I simply say, Thank you.’
Once I’m dressed, I place all my belongings into the Belmarsh plastic bag in preparation for the move to the other side of the block. I am packed and ready to leave long before four.
This will be my eighth move in five weeks.
4.06 pm
David (whisky bootlegger) is waiting for me in his old cell. It’s typical of his good manners that he has left the room spotless.
Now that I have an extra cupboard, it takes me nearly an hour to decide where everything should go. Although the cell remains the regulation five paces by three, it suddenly feels much larger when you no longer have to share the cramped space with another prisoner. No more having to keep out of someone else’s way. No more television programmes I don’t want to watch. No more having to check whose slippers you’ve put on, that you’re using your own toothpaste, soap, even lavatory paper. No more
There’s a knock on the cell door and Darren, Jimmy, Sergio and Steve make an entrance.
‘It’s a house-warming party,’ Darren explains, ‘and, like any good party, we come bearing gifts.’
Sergio has three five-by-five-inch steel mirrors, the regulation size. He fixes them on the wall with prison toothpaste. I can now see my head and upper body for the first time in five weeks.
Steve supplies - can you believe it - net curtains to hide my barred window, and at night tone down the glare of the fluorescent lights. Jimmy has brought all the paraphernalia needed - board, Blu-tack, etc. - to attach my family photos to the wall.
Lad Darren demands a roll of drums before h
e will reveal his gift, because he’s come up with every prisoner’s dream: a plug. No longer will I have to shave in my cereal bowl.
‘Anything else you require, my lord?’ Steve enquires.
‘I’m out of Evian.’
For the first time the visiting team admits defeat. A survey has been carried out and it’s been discovered that I am the only prisoner on the block who purchases bottled water from the canteen.
‘So, like the rest of us,’ says Darren, ‘if you want more water, you’ll have to turn on the tap.’
‘However,’ adds Sergio, ‘now that I’m number one on the hotplate,’ he pauses, ‘you will be able to have an extra carton of milk from time to time.’
What more could a man ask for?
7.00 pm
I read over today’s script in my silent cell and when I’ve finished editing I place the six pages in one of my new drawers. Every ten days the sheets are transferred to a large brown envelope (30,000 words) and sent off to Alison to type up.
I settle down on my bed to watch A Touch of Frost. David Jason is as consistent as ever, but the script is too flimsy to sustain itself for two hours, so I switch off the television and, for the first time in ten days, also the light, climb into my single bed and sleep. Goodbye, window warriors, may I never hear from you again.
DAY 36 - THURSDAY 23 AUGUST 2001
5.18 am
I wake, depressed about two matters. When I phoned Mary last night, she told me that the Red Cross have asked KPMG to audit the Simple Truth campaign, because some of their larger donors have been making waves and they want to dose the subject once and for all. Tony Morton-Hooper wrote to the police, pointing out that this internal audit has nothing to do with my involvement with the campaign. Mary and Tony are doing everything they can to get the police to admit that the whole enquiry is a farce and that Ms Nicholson’s accusations were made without a shred of evidence. Despite their efforts I have a feeling the police will not close their enquiry until they’ve considered his report, so it could now be months before my D-cat is reinstated.