Jimmy tells me that they’re plotting to have me moved down to the enhanced wing as soon as I’ve completed my induction. This is the best news I’ve had since arriving at Wayland. The cell door swings open, and Mr Thompson looks round.
‘Ah’ he says, when he spots me. The governor wants a word.’t
I accompany Mr Thompson to Mr Carlton-Boyce’s office.
He’s a man of about forty, perhaps forty-five. He welcomes me with a warm smile, and introduces me to the senior officer from C wing, which, he tells me, is where they plan to transfer me. I ask if they would consider me for the enhancement spur, but am told the decision has already been made. I’ve come to realize that once the machine has decided on something, it would be easier to turn the QEII around than try to get them to change their collective minds.
Mr Carlton-Boyce explains that he would quite happily move me to C wing today, but with so many press sniffing around outside, it mustn’t look as if I am being given special treatment, so I have to be the last of my intake to be moved. No need to explain to him the problem of rap music and young prisoners hollering from window to window all night, but, he repeats, the press interest is tying his hands.
4.00 pm
I return to my cell and continue writing. I’ve only managed a few pages when I’m interrupted by a knock on the cell door. It’s a young man from across the corridor who looks to be in his early twenties.
‘Can you write a letter for me?’ he asks. No one ever introduces themselves or bothers with pleasantries.
‘Yes, of course. Who is it to, and what do you want me to say?’ I reply, turning to a blank page on my pad.
‘I want to be moved to another prison,’ he tells me.
‘Don’t we all?’
‘What?’
‘No, nothing, but why should they consider moving you?’
‘I want to be nearer my mother, who’s suffering from depression.’ I nod. He tells me his name is Naz, and then gives me the name of the officer to whom he wishes to address the letter. He asks me to include the reason his request should be taken seriously. I pen the letter, reading each sentence out as I complete it. He signs along the bottom with a flourish. I can’t read his signature, so I ask him to spell his name so I can print it in capitals underneath - then the officer in question will know who it’s come from, I explain. I place the missive in an envelope, address it, and he seals it. Naz picks up the envelope, smiles and says, ‘Thank you. If you want anything, just let me know.’ I tell him I need a pair of flip-flops for the shower because I’m worried about catching verrucas. He looks anxiously at me.
‘I was only joking,’ I say, and wish him luck.
5.00 pm
Supper. I settle for a lump of cabbage and half a portion of chips, which is a normal portion in your world. The cabbage is floating around in water and reminds me of school meals, and why I never liked the vegetable in the first place. While I’m waiting in line, Jimmy tells me that he didn’t enjoy his spell of serving behind the hotplate.
‘Why not?’ I ask.
The inmates never stop complaining,’ he adds.
‘About the quality of the food?’
‘No, about not giving them large enough portions, especially when it comes to chips.’
When I return to the cell, I find over a hundred letters stacked on the end of my bunk. Jules reminds me that at weekends we’re banged up at around five thirty and will remain locked in our cells until eight fifteen the following morning. So I’ll certainly have enough time to read every one of them. Fourteen hours of incarceration, once again blamed on staff shortages. Unpleasant, but still a great improvement on Belmarsh. I say unpleasant only because when you’ve finished your meal, you’re left with dirty, smelly plastic plates littering your tiny cell all night. It might be more sensible to leave the cell doors open for another twenty minutes so that prisoners can scrape the remains of their food into the dustbins at the end of each corridor and then wash their utensils in the sink. And don’t forget that in many prisons there are three inmates to a cell with one lavatory.
I compromise, scrape my food into a plastic bag and then tie it up before dropping it in the waste-paper bin next to the lavatory. When I look out of my cell window I notice several prisoners are throwing the remains of their meal through the bars and out onto the grass.
Jules tells me that he’s working on a letter to the principal officer (Mr Tinkler) about having his status changed from C-cat to D-cat. He asks if I will go through it with him. I don’t tell him that I’m facing the same problem.
Jules is a model prisoner and deserves his enhanced status. He gained this while he was at Bedford where he became a listener. He’s also quiet and considerate about my writing regime. He so obviously regrets his involvement with drugs, and is one of the few prisoners I’ve come across who I am convinced will never see the inside of a jail again. I do a small editorial job on his letter and suggest that we should go over the final draft tomorrow. I then spend the next couple of hours reading through today’s mail, which is just as supportive as the letters I received in Belmarsh. There is, however, one missive of a different nature that I feel I ought to share with you.
University College Hospital London
1/8/01 4.30 pm
My dear Lord Archer
Many poets and writers have written much of their best work in prison, OWfor one. However, I cannot conceive of you having to spend four miserable years in a maximum security prison. I spent 60 days in such a facility in Canada on a trumped-up charge of disturbing the peace. I escaped by a most devious means.
I can arrange for your immediate release from bondage, however, only if you are willing to donate PS15m to my charity foundation.
I can be contacted anytime at 020 7— If you would like some company, choose three non-criminal or white-collar offenders to join with you,foran appropriate amount.
Yours as an artist,
I am quite unable to read the signature. In the second post there is another letter in the same bold red hand:
1/8/01 5.05 pm
Dear Geofrey [sic]
After having sealed my letter to you I realized that I wrote PS15m instead of PS1.5m So just to reassure you, I’m not an idiot, I repeat my offer to spring you and a few other trustworthy buddies!
Yours in every greater art,
Again, I cannot read the signature.
DAY 25 - SUNDAY 12 AUGUST 2001
5.56 am
Woken by voices in the corridor, two officers, one of them on a walkie-talkie. They open a cell door and take a prisoner away. I will find out the details when my door is unlocked in a couple of hours’ time.
6.05 am
Write for two hours.
8.15 am
Breakfast. Sugar Puffs (prison issue), long-life milk (mine, because it’s Sunday). Beans on burnt toast (prison’s).
10.00 am
I go to the library for the first time and sign up. You are allowed to take out two books, a third if your official work is education. The library is about the same size as the weight-lifting room and, to be fair, just as well stocked. They have everything from Graham Greene to Stephen King, I, Claudius to Harry Potter.
However, although Forsyth, Grisham, Follett and Jilly Cooper are much in evidence, I can find none of my books on the shelves. I hope that’s because they are all out on loan. Lifers often tell me they’ve read them all - slowly - and in some cases several times.
I take out a copy of The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse, which I haven’t read in years, and Famous Trials selected by John Mortimer. Naturally I have to fill in another form, and then my choices are stamped by the library orderly - a prisoner - to be returned by 26 August. I’m rather hoping to have moved on by then.
Kevin, the prisoner who stamps my library card, tells me that all my books were removed from the shelves the day they found out I was being transferred to Wayland.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Direct order from the number one governor.
It seems that Belmarsh informed her that the prisoners were stealing your books, and if they could then get you to Sign them, the black-market price is a thousand pounds.’
I believe everything except the thousand pounds, which sounds like a tabloid figure.
10.30 am
I check my watch, leave the library and quickly make my way across to the chapel on the other side of the corridor. There is no officer standing by the entrance. It suddenly hits me that I haven’t been searched since the day I arrived. I’m a couple of minutes late, and wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place, as there are only three other prisoners sitting in the pews, along with the chaplain. John Framlington is dressed in a long, black gown and black cape with crimson piping, and welcomes me with literally open arms.
The chapel is very impressive, with its wood-panelled walls and small oils depicting the life of Christ. The simple altar is covered in a cloth displaying a white cross with splashes of gold. There is also a large wooden cross hanging from the wall behind the altar. The seating consists of six rows of twenty wooden chairs set in a semicircle reminiscent of a small amphitheatre. I take a seat in the third row as a group of men and women all dressed in red T-shirts enters by the backdoor. They assemble their music on stands while a couple strap on guitars and a flautist practises a few notes. She’s very pretty. I wonder if it’s because it’s my twenty-fifth day in prison. But that would be an ungallant thought. She is pretty.
By ten forty-five the congregation has swelled to seven, but we are still outnumbered by the nine-strong choir. The prisoners are all seated to the right of the altar while the choir is standing on the left. A man, who appears to be the group’s leader, suggests we move across and join him on their side of the chapel. All seven of us dutifully obey. I’ve just worked out why the congregation at Belmarsh was over two hundred, week in and week out, while at Wayland it’s down to seven. Here you are allowed to stroll around the buildings for long periods of time, so if you wish to make contact with someone from another wing, it’s not all that difficult. In Belmarsh, chapel was a rare opportunity to catch up with a friend from another block, relay messages, pass on drugs and occasionally even pray.
The chaplain then walks up to the front, turns and welcomes us all. He begins by introducing Shine who, he tells us, are a local group that perform for several churches in the diocese.
We all join in the first hymn, ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, and Shine turn out to be rather good. Despite our depleted numbers, the service still swings along. Once the chaplain has delivered the opening prayer, he comes and sits amongst the congregation. He doesn’t conduct any other part of the service, as that has been left in the capable hands of the leader of Shine. Next we sing ‘Amazing Grace’, which is followed by a lesson from Luke, read by another member of the group. Following another hymn we are addressed by the leader of Shine. He takes his text from the first reading of the Good Samaritan. He talks about people who walk by on the other side when you are in any trouble. This time I do thank God for my family and friends, because so few of them have walked by on the other side.
The service ends with a blessing from the chaplain, who then thanks the group for giving up their time. I return to my cell and write notes on everything I have just experienced.
12.09 pm
I call Mary in Grantchester. How I miss my weekends with her, strolling around the garden at the Old Vicarage: the smell of the flowers and the grass, feeding the fish and watching students idly punting on the Cam. Mary briefs me on what line she intends to take on the Today programme, now that the Foreign Office and the KDP (Kurdish Democratic Party) have confirmed how the money for the Kurds was raised and distributed. I try to think how Ms Nicholson will spin herself out of this one.
Mary reminds me that she can’t come to see me until she receives a VO. I confirm I sent her one yesterday. She goes on to tell me that her own book, Photoconversion Volume One: Clean Electricity from Photovoltaics (advance sales 1,229, price PS110), has been well received by the academic world.
We finish by discussing family matters. Although I’ve come to the end of my twenty units, I don’t tell her that I am in possession of another two phonecards as that might cause trouble for Dale, especially if the conversation is being taped. I promise to call her again on Tuesday, and we agree a time. Just in case you’ve forgotten, the calls are always one way: OUT.
My next call is to James, who is giving a lunch party for ten friends at our apartment in London. I do miss his cooking. He tells me who’s sitting round my table and what they are eating: Roquefort, fig and walnut salad, spaghetti, and ice cream, followed by Brie, Stilton or Cheddar. This will be accompanied by an Australian red and a Californian white. I begin to salivate.
‘Dinner’ yells an officer, and I quickly return to the real world.
12.20 pm
Lunch: Chinese stir-fried vegetables (they may have been stirred, but they are still glued together), an apple, supplemented by a Mars bar (30p), and a glass of Evian. Guests: pre-selected.
1.00 pm
I join Dale on the enhanced wing. I grab Darren’s Sunday Times, and read very slowly while Dale and Jimmy play backgammon. The lead story is the alleged rape of a girl in Essex by Neil and Christine Hamilton. This is more graphically described in Dale’s News of the World, and the implausible story is memorable for Christine Hamilton’s observation, ‘If I wanted to do that sort of thing, it would be in Kensington or Chelsea, not Essex.’
We play several games of backgammon, during which time the assembled gathering questions me about the contest for the Tory party leadership. Darren (marijuana only) is a fan of Michael Portillo, and asks how I feel. I tell him that I think it might have been wise of the 1922 Committee to let all three candidates who reached the second round - Clarke 59, Duncan Smith 54 and Portillo 53 - be presented to the party membership. Leaving Michael out is bound to create some bad feeling and may even cause trouble in the future. It’s quite possible that the membership would have rejected Portillo in any case, but I feel that they should have been allowed the opportunity to do so.
Dale (wounding with intent) is a huge fan of Margaret Thatcher, while Jimmy (Ecstasy courier) voted for John Major. ‘A decent bloke’ he says. It’s sometimes hard to remember that I may be sitting in a room with an armed robber, a drug dealer, a million-pound fraudster, and heaven only knows who else. It’s also worth mentioning that when it comes to their ‘other world’, they never discuss anything in front of me.
3.00 pm
Exercise: I take the long walk around the perimeter of the prison - about half a mile - and several inmates greet me in a more friendly fashion than they did on my first outing last Thursday. The first person to join me is a man who is obviously on drugs. Unlike William Keane - do you remember him from Belmarsh? - I can’t tell which drug he’s on just by looking at his skin. His name is Darrell, and he tells me that his original sentence was for ten years. His crime: cutting someone up in a pub with a broken bottle. He was nineteen at the time. I take a second look. He looks about forty.
Then why are you still here?’ I ask, assuming he will explain that he’s serving a second or third sentence for another offence. ‘Once I ended up in prison, I got hooked on drugs, didn’t I?’ ‘Did you?’
‘Yeah, and I’d never taken a drug before I came in. But when you’re given a ten-year sentence and then banged up for twenty-two hours a day with prisoners who are already on skag, you sort of fall in with it, don’t you? First I was caught smoking cannabis so the governor added twenty-eight days to my sentence.’
Twenty-eight days for smoking cannabis? But…’
‘I then tried cocaine and finally moved on to heroin. Every time I got caught, my sentence was lengthened. Mind you, I’ve been clean for over a year now, Jeff. I’ve had to be, otherwise I’m never going to get out of this fuckin’ shithole, am I?’
‘How long has it been?’
Twenty-one years. I’m forty-one, and over half my sentence has been added be
cause of being caught taking drugs while inside.’
I’m trying to take this in when we’re joined by a burly older man of around my height, who looks Middle Eastern. Darrell slips quietly away, which I fear means trouble. The new man doesn’t bother with any small talk.
‘How would you like to make fifty grand a week while you’re still in prison?’
‘What do you have in mind?’ I ask innocently, because he doesn’t look like a publisher.
‘I’ve got a lorry-load of drugs stuck on the Belgian border waiting to come into this country, but I’m a little short of cash at the moment. Put up fifty grand and you’ll have a hundred by this time next week.’ I quicken my pace and try to lose him, but within seconds he’s caught me up. There would be no risk for you,’ he adds, slightly out of breath. ‘We take all the risk. In any case, no one could pin it on you, not while you’re still in jail.’
I stop in my tracks and turn to face him. ‘I hate drugs, and I detest even more those people who peddle them. If you ever try to speak to me again, I will repeat this conversation, first to my solicitor and then to the governor. And don’t imagine you can threaten me, because they would be only too happy to move me out of here, and my bet is your sentence would be doubled. Do I make myself clear?’