‘And some of them even manage to make more money inside prison than they did outside’ adds Jason.
The call for tea is bellowed down the corridor by an officer. I close my notepad, thank Jason for the slippers and wash bag, not to mention the tutorial, and return to my cell.
5.00 pm
Supper: vegetarian pie and two potatoes. If I become enhanced, I will be allowed to have my own plate plus a mug or cup sent in, not to mention curtains.
6.00 pm
Write for just over an hour.
7.15 pm
Watch Sue Barker and Roger Black sum up the World Athletics Championship, which has been a disaster for Britain. One gold for Jonathan Edwards in the triple jump and a bronze for Dean Macey in the decathlon. The worst result for Britain since the games began in 1983, and that was following such a successful Olympics in Sydney. I’m almost able to convince myself that I’m glad I was prevented from attending.
8.00 pm
Read through my letters. Just over a hundred today.
9.00 pm
Jules and I watch a modern version of Great Expectations with Robert De Niro and Gwyneth Paltrow. If I hadn’t been in prison, I would have walked out after fifteen minutes.
I begin to read Famous Trials selected by John Mortimer. I start with Rattenbury and Stones, the problem of a younger man falling in love with an older woman. Now that’s something I haven’t experienced. I fall asleep around eleven.
DAY 27 - TUESDAY 14 AUGUST 2001
6.18 am
Overslept. After a night’s rain, the sun is peeping through my four-bar window. I write for a couple of hours.
8.20 am
Breakfast: two Weetabix, one hard-boiled egg and a piece of toast.
10.56 am
I’ve been writing for about an hour when the cell door is opened; Mr Clarke tells me that as part of my induction I must attend a meeting with a representative from the BoV (Board of Visitors). Everything has an acronym nowadays.
Nine prisoners assemble in a waiting room opposite Mr Newport’s office. There are eleven comfortable chairs set in a semicircle, and a low table in the middle of the room. If there had been a few out-of-date magazines scattered on the table, it could have passed for a GP’s waiting room. We have to hang around for a few minutes before being joined by a man in his late fifties, who looks like a retired solicitor or bank manager. He’s about five foot nine with greying hair and a warm smile. He wears an open-neck shirt and a pair of grey flannels. I suspect that the only other time he’s this casually dressed is on a Sunday afternoon.
He introduces himself as Keith Flintcroft, and goes on to explain that the Board is made up of sixteen local people appointed by the Home Office. They are not paid, which gives them their independence.
‘We can see the governor or any officer on request, and although we have no power, we do have considerable influence. Our main purpose,’ he continues, ‘is to deal with prisoners’ complaints. However, our authority ends when it comes to an order of the governor. For example, we cannot stop a prisoner being placed in segregation, but we can make sure that we are supplied with details of the offence within a period of seventy-two hours. We can also read any written material on a prisoner with the exception of their legal papers or medical records.’
Mr Flintcroft comes over as a thoroughly decent bloke, a man who obviously believes in giving service to the local community. Just like so many thousands of citizens up and down the country he expects little reward other than the satisfaction of doing a worthwhile job. I believe that if he felt a prisoner was getting a rough deal, he would, within the limits of his power, try to do something about it.
He ends his ten-minute chat by saying, ‘You’ll find that we spend a lot of our time roaming around the prison. You can’t miss us because we wear these distinctive buff-coloured name badges. So feel free to come and talk to us whenever you want to - in complete confidence. Now, are there any questions?’
To my surprise, there are none. Why doesn’t anyone mention the state of the cells on the induction wing compared with the rest of the prison? Why, when there is a painter on each wing, who I observe working every day, isn’t there one to spruce up the induction wing? Do they leave the wing in a filthy condition so that when inmates are moved to another part of the prison they’ll feel it’s an improvement, or is it that they just can’t cope with the turnover of prisoners? Either way, I would like to tell Governor Kate Cawley (I’ve discovered the governor’s name on a notice board, but haven’t yet come across her) that it’s degrading, and a blip in an otherwise well-run prison. Why are the induction prisoners locked up for such long hours while the rest of the inmates are given far more freedom? And why… And then it hits me. I am the only person in that room who hasn’t been through this process before, and the others either simply don’t give a damn or can’t see the point of it. They are mostly hardened criminals who just want to complete their sentence and have as easy a time as possible before returning to a life of crime. They believe that the likes of Mr Flintcroft will make absolutely no difference to their lives. I suspect that the likes of Mr Flintcroft have, over the years, made a great deal of difference to their lives, without their ever realizing or appreciating it.
Once Mr Flintcroft accepts that there are going to be no questions, we all file out and return to our cells. I stop and thank him for carrying out his thankless task.
12 noon
Mr Chapman tells me I have a large parcel in reception, which I can pick up after dinner (lunch).
12.15 pm
Lunch: spam fritters, two potatoes and a glass of Evian. HELP! I’m running out of Evian.
12.35 pm
I report to reception and collect my parcel, or what’s left of it. It originally consisted of two books: Alan Clark’s Diaries, and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby, which has been sent in by Anton, one of James’s closest friends. They’re accompanied by a long letter about the latest bust-up with his girlfriend (I do love the young - only their problems exist) and, from Alison, a dozen writing pads, two packets of liquid-point pens and six books of first-class stamps. Mr Chapman explains that I can keep the long letter from Anton, but everything else will be placed in my box at reception and returned to me only when I’m transferred or released.
3.15 pm
I have become so accustomed to prison life that I not only remember to take my gym card, but also a towel and a bottle of water to my afternoon gym session. The running machine still isn’t working, so I’m back to ten minutes on the rower (1,837 metres - not very impressive) followed by a light weight-training session and ten minutes on the bike, which I now know how to turn on and, more importantly, turn off.
Everett (GBH) leaves his 240-pound bench press, and asks if he can have a swig of my Evian. I nod, as I don’t think there’s much of an alternative. A moment later his black weight-lifting partner - taller and wider - strolls across and takes a swig without asking. By the time I’ve finished stretching, the bottle is empty.
Once I’m back on my wing I try to take a shower, but the door is locked. I look through the tiny window. It’s all steamed up, and two prisoners are banging on the door trying to get out. I cannot believe that it is prison policy to lock them in and me out. I hang around for about ten minutes with a couple of other prisoners before an officer eventually appears. I tell him I’d like to have a shower.
‘You’ve missed your chance.’
‘I didn’t have a chance,’ I tell him. It’s been locked for the past ten minutes.’
‘I’ve only been away for a minute, maybe two,’ he says.
‘I’ve been standing here for nearly ten minutes,’ I politely point out.
If I say it’s one minute, it’s one minute,’ he says.
I return to my cell. I now feel cold and sweaty. I sit down to write.
6.00 pm
Supper. A bowl of thick, oily soup is all I can face. Back in my cell I pour myself half a mug of blackcurrant ju
ice. The only luxury left. At least I’m still losing weight.
6.30 pm
Exercise: I walk around the perimeter fence with Jimmy and Darren. Just their presence stops most inmates from giving me a hard time.
7.00 pm
I finally manage a shower. I then put on a prison tracksuit, grey and baggy, but comfortable. I decide to call Mary. There is a queue for the phone as this is the most popular time of day. When it’s my turn, I dial the Old Vicarage only to find that the line is engaged.
I spot Dale hanging around in the corridor, obviously wanting to speak to me. He tells me that the money hasn’t arrived. I assure him that if it isn’t in the morning post, I’ll chase it up. I try Mary again - still engaged. I go back to my cell and prepare my desk for an evening session. I check my watch. It’s 7.55 pm. I’ll only have one more chance. Back to the phone. I call Cambridge. Still engaged. I return to my cell to find an officer standing by the door. I’m banged up for another twelve hours.
8.00 pm
I read through today’s script and then prepare outline notes for the first session tomorrow, to the accompaniment of two West Indians hollering at each other from cells on opposite sides of the wing. I remark to Jules that they seem to be shouting even louder than usual. He resignedly replies that there’s not a lot you can do about window warriors. I wonder. Should I push my luck? I go over to the window and suggest in a polite but firm voice that they don’t need to shout at each other. A black face appears at the opposite window. I wait for the usual diatribe.
‘Sorry, Jeff,’ he says, and continues the conversation in a normal voice. Well, you can only ask.
DAY 28 - WEDNESDAY 15 AUGUST 2001
6.04 am
I wake, only to remember where I am.
8.15 am
Breakfast: when I go down to the hotplate to collect my meal, Dale gives me a nod to indicate that the money has arrived.
8.30 am
Phone Mary to be told that she’s doing the Today programme with John Humphrys tomorrow morning and will be visiting me on Friday with Will. As James is on holiday, she suggests that the third place is taken by Jonathan Lloyd. He wants to discuss my new novel, Sons of Fortune, and the progress of the diary. As I am allowed only one visit a fortnight, this seems a sensible combination of business and pleasure, although I will miss not seeing James.
Phone Alison, who says she’ll have finished typing Volume One - Belmarsh: Hellby Wednesday (70,000 words) and will post it to me immediately. She reminds me that from Monday she will be on holiday for two weeks. I need reminding. In prison you forget that normal people go on holiday.
When I return to my cell, I find David (whisky bootlegger) sweeping the corridor. I tell him about my water shortage. He offers me a large bottle of diet lemonade and a diet Robinsons blackcurrant juice in exchange for a PS2 phonecard, which will give him a 43p profit. I accept, and we go off to his cell to complete the transaction. There is only one problem: you are not allowed to use phonecards for trading, because it might be thought you are a drug dealer. Each card has the prisoner’s signature on the back of it, not unlike a credit card (see plate section).
‘No problem,’ says David (he never swears). ‘I can remove your name with Fairy Liquid and then replace it with mine.’
‘How will you get hold of a bottle of Fairy Liquid?’
‘I’m the wing cleaner.’
Silly question.
10.00 am
My pad-mate Jules has begun his education course today (life and social skills) so I have the cell to myself. I’ve been writing for only about thirty minutes when my door is unlocked and I’m told the prison probation officer wants to see me. I recall Tony’s (absconding from Ford Open Prison) words when I was at Belmarsh: Don’t act smart and find yourself on the wrong side of your probation officer, because they have considerable sway when it comes to deciding your parole date.’
I’m escorted to a private room, just a couple of doors away from Mr Tinkler’s office on the first-floor landing. I shake hands with a young lady who introduces herself as Lisa Dada. She is a blonde of about thirty and wearing a V-neck sweater that reveals she has just returned from holiday or spent a long weekend sitting in the sun. Like everyone else, she asks me how I am settling in. I tell her that I have no complaints other than the state of my cell, my rude introduction to rap music and window warriors. Lisa begins by explaining that she has to see every prisoner, but there isn’t much point in my case because her role doesn’t kick in until six months before my parole. ‘And as I’m moving to Surrey in about two months’ time,’ she continues, ‘to be nearer my husband who is a prison officer, you may well have moved to another establishment long before then, so I can’t do much more than answer any questions you might have.’
‘How did you meet your husband?’ I ask.
That’s not the sort of question I meant,’ she replies with a grin.
‘He must be Nigerian.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Dada. It’s an Igbo tribe name, the tribe of the leaders and warriors.’
She nods, and says, We met in prison in circumstances that sound as if they might have come from the pages of one of your novels.’ I don’t interrupt. ‘I had a prisoner who was due to be released in the morning. The evening before, he was phoning his wife to arrange what time she should pick him up, but couldn’t hear what she was saying because of the noise coming from a TV in a nearby cell. He popped his head round the door and asked if the inmate could turn the volume down, and was told to ‘Fuck off’. In a moment of anger he dropped the phone, walked into the cell and took a swing at the man. The inmate fell backwards onto the stone floor, cracked open his head and was dead before they could get him to a hospital. The first prison officer on the scene called for the assailant’s probation officer, who happened to be me. We were married a year later.’
‘What happened to the prisoner?’ I ask.
‘He was charged with manslaughter, pleaded guilty and was sentenced to three years. He served eighteen months. There was clearly no intent to murder. I know it sounds silly,’ she adds, ‘but until that moment, his record was unblemished.’
‘So your husband is black. That can’t have been easy for you, especially in prison.’
‘No, it hasn’t, but it helps me find a common thread with the dreadlocks.’
‘So what’s it like being a thirty-something blonde probation officer?’ I ask
It’s not always easy,’ she admits. ‘Sixty per cent of the prisoners shout at me and tell me that I’m useless, while the other forty per cent burst into tears.’
‘Burst into tears? That lot?’ I say, thumbing towards the door.
‘Oh, yes. I realize it’s not a problem for you, but most of them spend their lives having to prove how macho they are, so when they come to see me it’s the one chance they have to reveal their true feelings. Once they begin to talk about their families, their partners, children and friends, they often break down, suddenly aware that others might well be going through an even more difficult time outside than they are locked up in here.’
‘And the shouters, what do they imagine they’re achieving?’
‘Getting the rage out of their system. Such a disciplined regime creates pent-up emotions, and I’m often on the receiving end. I’ve experienced everything, including obscene language and explicit descriptions of what they’d like to do to me, while all the time staring at my breasts. One prisoner even unzipped his jeans and started masturbating. All that for twenty-one thousand a year.’
‘So why do you do it?’
‘I have the occasional success, perhaps one in ten, which makes it all seem worthwhile when you go home at night.’
‘What’s the worst part of your job?’
She pauses and thinks for a moment. ‘Having to tell a prisoner that his wife or partner doesn’t want him back just before they’re due to be released.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Many l
ong-term prisoners phone their wives twice a week, and are even visited by them once a fortnight. But it’s only when their sentence is drawing to a close and a probation officer has to visit the matrimonial home that the wife confesses she doesn’t want her husband back. Usually because by then they are living with another man - sometimes their husband’s best friend.’
‘And they expect you to break the news?’
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Because they can’t face doing it themselves, even on the phone.’
‘And is there any particular set of prisoners you don’t like dealing with? The paedophiles, murderers, rapists, drug dealers, for example?’
‘No, I can handle all of them’ she says. ‘But the group I have no time for are the burglars.’
‘Burglars?’
They show neither remorse nor conscience. Even when they’ve stolen personal family heirlooms they tell you it’s all right because the victim can claim it back on insurance.’ She glances at her watch. I’m meant to be asking you some questions,’ she pauses, ‘not that the usual ones apply.’
‘Try me,’ I suggest. Lisa removes a sheet of paper from a file and reads out the listed questions.
‘Are you married?, Are you living with your wife?, Have you any children?, Do you have any other children?, Are any of them in need of assistance or financial help?, Will you be returning to your family when you are released?, When you are released, do you have any income other than the ninety pounds the State provides for you?, Do you have somewhere to sleep on your first night out of prison?, Do you have a job to go to, with a guaranteed source of income?’ She looks up. ‘The purpose of the last question is to find out if you’re likely to commit an offence within hours of leaving prison.’