I am first at the gate, because I’ll have to be in and out of the shower fairly quickly if I’m to get to the library before the doors are locked.
10.21 am
Jog to my cell, strip, shower, change, jog to the library. Still sweating, but nothing I can do about it. Steve (conspiracy to murder) is on duty behind the desk in his position as chief librarian. Because Steve’s the senior Listener, he’s allowed to wear his own clothes and is often mistaken for a member of staff. I return Famous Trials and take out Twenty-one Short Stories by Graham Greene.
10.50 am
Once I’ve left the library I walk straight across the corridor to the chapel and discover there are thirty worshippers in the congregation this week. From their dress, the majority must come from the local village. The black man sitting next to me, who was among the seven prisoners who attended last week, tells me it’s the biggest turnout he’s ever seen. This week a Methodist minister called Mary conducts the service, accompanied by an Anglican vicar called Val. Mary’s sermon is topical.
She talks about the World Athletics Championships and her feelings for those competitors who did not achieve what they had set out to do, but for many of them there will be another chance. I have now attended four consecutive church services, and the minister always pitches the message at what he or she imagines will be of interest to the inmates. Each time they have failed to treat us as if we might just be normal human beings.
People who have not been to prison tend to fall into two categories. The majority who treat you as if you’re a ‘convict on the run’ while the minority treat you as if you are in their front room.
After the blessing, we gather in an ante-room for coffee and biscuits with the locals. No need to describe them as they don’t differ greatly from the kind of parishioners who attend church services up and down the country every Sunday morning. Average age double that of the prisoners. At twelve we are sent back to our cells. No search. Unaccompanied.
12 noon
Lunch. I haven’t had a chance to speak to Dale or Sergio yet, so I fix appointments with Dale at 2 pm and Sergio at 3 pm. I leave the hotplate with a portion of macaroni liberally covered in cheese.
While we are waiting in the long queue, Darren tells me when it used to be almost all macaroni with little sign of any cheese. Nobody thought to comment about this, until it became clear that the allocation of cheese was becoming smaller and smaller as each week passed. Still no one did anything about it, until one week, when there was virtually no cheese, the officer on duty at last began to show some interest. The first thing he discovered was that the same cook had been on for the previous four Saturdays and Sundays, so the following weekend he kept an eye on that particular inmate. He quickly discovered that on Saturday night the prisoner in question was returning to his cell with a lump of cheese the size of a pillow (5kg). It was when three loaves of bread also went missing the same evening that the officer decided to report the incident to the governor. The following Saturday night a team of officers raided the prisoner’s cell hoping to find out what he was up to. They discovered that he was running a very successful business producing Welsh rarebit, which, when toasted, was passed from cell to cell through the bars of his little window.
‘And damn good they were,’ adds Jimmy, licking his lips.
‘How did he manage to toast them?’ I demanded.
‘On every wing there is a communal iron, which always ended up in Mario’s cell on a Saturday evening,’ explained Darren.
‘How much did the chef charge?’
Tor two nights’ supply, a two-pound phonecard.’
‘And how did they punish him?’
The iron was confiscated, and Mario demoted to washer-up, with twenty-one days added to his sentence. But they had to reinstate him after a couple of months because so many inmates complained about the standard of cooking dropping during the weekends. So he was brought back, and after another six months they also forgot about the twenty-one-day added sentence.
‘And what is Mario in for?’ I ask.
Tax evasion - three years - and the fraud squad needed to be just as sharp to discover what he was up to then,’ says Darren as we leave the hotplate. I make a mental note to make sure I meet him.
2.00 pm
Dale wants to talk to me about my canteen list for next week and has set an upper limit of PS20. ‘Otherwise the screws will become suspicious,’ he explains. PS20 will be quite enough as I’m still credited each week with PS12.50 from my own account.
Dale’s also solved my writing pad problem, because he’s somehow got his hands on three A4 pads, for which he charges me PS4 I would happily pay PS10 as I’m down to twenty pages of my last pad, but this new supply should last me a month.
5.00 pm
I call Mary at Grantchester, but there is no reply. I try London but only get Alison’s voice on the answer machine. I forgot she’s away on holiday. In any case, it’s Sunday.
5.45 pm
Supper. The ham looks good, but I’m down for the vegetarian dish and you can’t change your mind once you’ve signed the weekly menu sheet Dale thinks about giving me a slice, but as my bete noire is on duty behind the hotplate, he doesn’t risk it. Every Sunday you are given a meal sheet which rotates on a four-week cycle (see opposite); you fill in your selection from a list posted outside the main office, giving the kitchen advance notice of how much they will have to order of each item. Can’t complain about that.
6.00 pm
Banged up for the next fourteen hours. I begin The Basement Room by Graham Greene. His description of minor characters is breathtaking in its simplicity and the story, although complex, still demands that you turn the page. I consider it a reflection on the Nobel Committee, not Mr Greene, that he has never won the prize for literature.
DAY 33 - MONDAY 20 AUGUST 2001
5.54 am
Wake and wonder how long it will take the police to close their file on the Kurds and allow me to be transferred to an open prison. I heard a story yesterday about a prisoner who wanted to do it the other way round. He put in an application to be transferred from a D-cat open prison to a C-cat - a more secure environment with a tougher regime. His reasons seem strange but, I’m told, are not uncommon.
He was serving a twenty-two-year sentence for murder. After five years, they moved him from an A-cat to a B-cat, which is a little more relaxed. After a further twelve years they transferred him to Wayland. At Wayland he became an enhanced prisoner with all the privileges that affords. He was also chief gardener, which allowed him to be out of his cell for most of the day and gave him an income of more than PS30 a week. In his own world he wanted for nothing, and the governor considered him to be a model prisoner.
After twenty years he was granted D-cat status as part of his preparation for returning to the outside world. He was transferred to Ford Open Prison in Sussex to begin his rehabilitation.
He lasted at Ford for less than a month. One Saturday afternoon he absconded and turned himself in at the local police station a few hours later. He was arrested, charged with attempting to abscond and sent back to Wayland, where he remained until he had completed his sentence.
The governor at the time couldn’t resist asking him why he’d absconded. He replied that he couldn’t handle the responsibility of making his own decisions. He also missed not having a proper job and the ordered discipline of the Wayland regime. But most of all he missed the high walls that surrounded the prison because they made him feel safe from all those people on the outside.
With less than six months to go before the end of his sentence, he was found in his cell with a piece of silver paper from a KitKat wrapper, a few grams of heroin and a lighted match. He had even pressed the emergency button inside his cell to make certain that he was caught. The governor wasn’t sure what to do, because he knew only too well that the prisoner had never taken heroin in twenty years. Only six weeks were added to his sentence and he was released a few months later. Within a month of
leaving prison, he committed suicide.
8.15 am
Breakfast. I have a Shredded Wheat and think of Ian Botham. This is doubly appropriate because it’s twenty years ago this week that he scored 149 at Headingley and, with the assistance of Willis and Dilly, defeated Australia, despite England having to follow on. In today’s match, Australia lead by 314, and I assume Adam Gilchrist will soon declare, as they’ve already won the series and England have only scored more than 300 in a final innings against Australia once in the last hundred years.
9.11 am
One of the prison chaplains visits me. She bears a message from Michael Adie, who until recently was the Bishop of Guildford. Michael and I first met in 1969 when he was Vicar of Louth and I was the Member of Parliament for that beautiful constituency. He was a more natural friend for Mary, having gained a first-class honours degree in mathematics at Cambridge. Michael wants to visit me and has discovered that a bishop can see a prisoner without it affecting his quota of fortnightly visits.
I suggest to Margaret, the prison chaplain, that for Michael to make the long journey to Norfolk is typical of his generous spirit, but it might be wiser to wait and find out which D-cat prison they are going to transfer me to. I feel sure it will be nearer London and he could then visit me there. She kindly agrees to relay that message back to him.
12 noon
Lunch. When I reach the hotplate, Dale looks anxious and whispers that he has to see me urgently.
I return to my cell, flick on the television to find that England are 12 for 2 and an Australian victory now looks certain. All we can hope for now is a draw. The untutored Jules thinks England can still win. Bless him. After all, he has only taken to watching cricket because he’s stuck in the same cell as me.
2.00 pm
Gym. I complete my usual programme and feel I’m just about back to the level of fitness I was before being sentenced. I leave the exercise room to check up on what’s happening in the main hall, where I find a volleyball match in progress. So many prisoners want to join in that they are playing one team on and one team off. By the end of the game, I accept the fart that I can no longer hope to play at this level, and appoint myself referee. Within a minute, I’ve given a penalty point because a prisoner swears following one of my decisions. A near riot breaks out and it’s several minutes before I can get the game started again. What then follows is a close, well-fought match without another swear word uttered. When I blow the final whistle, the players on both sides all turn to face me, and swear as one.
3.20 pm
After a shower, I sit in my tiny cell and watch England fight their way back to 107 for 2. Jules is still convinced England can win. Dale visits me in my cell soon after Jules has disappeared off to education. Dale warns me that he’s been interviewed by a security officer. Although they have no proof, they are fairly sure that the five PS20 postal orders he received last week came from me, and they’ve warned him that if any further monies materialize that cannot be accounted for, they’ll set up a full enquiry. We both agree that payments will have to cease, and with it my weekly supplies. Help!
3.50 pm
The same officer interviews me thirty minutes later, saying he has reason to believe I have been sending money in to another prisoner. The officer could not have been more reasonable, and adds that if it occurs again, it could greatly harm my chances of regaining D-cat status. It is then that he asks me if I am being bullied and paying someone to protect me. I burst out laughing. The officer obviously feels that Dale, at six foot three and twenty-seven stone, is my paid minder.
I make it clear that no one is bullying me, and I don’t require any protection, but if I do he will be the first person to hear about it. The last thing I need is to jeopardize my D-cat, or be beaten up.
I return to my cell to find England are 207 for 3 at tea and Butcher is playing out of his skin. Even McGrath is being regularly dispatched to all parts of the ground. Could Jules be right?
4.30 pm
Exercise. I go out into the yard every day now, not just because I need the exercise but to pick up stories from the prisoners on different wings. Many of them are professional criminals, while others are just stupid or lazy. The most dangerous and frightening are a combination of all three. However, a minority are bright; but for the circumstances of their upbringing many of them might well have held down responsible positions. Darren agrees with me, but pointing to an inmate a few paces ahead of us, adds, ‘But not in his case.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Who’s he?’
That’s Dumbo,’ he says, but offers no further explanation until we have passed him and he is well out of earshot.
‘In December last year,’ Darren continues, ‘Dumbo was unemployed and facing the prospect of a distinctly un-merry Christmas. His wife said she’d had enough, and told him to go out and get some money and she didn’t care how. Dumbo disappeared off to the town’s largest toy store, where he shoplifted a replica gun. He then walked across the road, held up the local chemist and departed with fourteen hundred pounds in cash. He returned home, handed over the money to his wife, confident that she would feel he’d done a good day’s work. But after counting the notes, she told him that it wasn’t enough and to go and get some more. Hold your breath,’ said Darren, ‘Dumbo once again leaves his home, returns to the high street, walks back into the same chemist shop with the intention of repeating the hold-up, only to find two police officers interviewing the proprietor. Dumbo was arrested on the spot, accompanied to the nearest police station, charged and later sentenced to eight years for robbery while in the possession of a firearm.’
No novelist would dare to consider such a plot.
5.15 pm
When I return to my cell, Jules is glued to the television. Butcher is still at the crease. We both watch as Jules’s prediction comes true and England sweep to a famous victory - Butcher, having scored the winning run, is 173 not out. This is an innings he will not be the only person to remember for the rest of his life.
I feel I should point out that Jules is every bit as excited as I am. A convert. A week ago he couldn’t understand a draw, let alone what a follow on was, now he can’t wait for next Thursday to watch the fifth and final test. I do hope he doesn’t expect them all to end like this.
5.45 pm
Supper. I’m tucking into my beans and chips when Mr Meanwell unlocks the cell door and asks to have a private word with me. He doesn’t speak again until we are in his office and the door is closed.
‘You were lucky to have got away with it this time, but don’t do it again,’ he warns me. ‘If you do, it could hold up your D-cat for months. And if you’re thinking of doing anything with Sergio, wait until he’s completed his sentence.’ I’m impressed by how well-informed Mr Meanwell is.
DAY 34 - TUESDAY 21 AUGUST 2001
6.11 am
Slept well, write for two hours.
8.15 am
Breakfast. It’s Rice Crispies again. It’s taken me until the middle of the second week to work out that it’s Shredded Wheat on Monday, Rice Crispies on Tuesday, cornflakes on Wednesday. Nothing changes. Everything is by rote.
10.00 am
My induction seems to have run its course. However, I remain on the induction wing as I wait for a single cell to become vacant I am made aware of this because the cycle has begun again: a new group of prisoners is being seen by a member of the Board of Visitors. I peer through the little mesh window in the door; it’s not Mr Flintcroft this time, but a lookalike.
10.15 am
Education. I pull on my newly supplied prison regulation heavy brown boots as I prepare for my first pottery lesson. Once I’ve left the spur I have to ask several officers and inmates the way to the Art Centre, which turns out to be on the other side of the prison.
When I finally locate it, the first person I see on entering the room is Shaun, who sits in the corner of the large square workshop working on an abstract pastel. He greets me with a smile. The next person I
spot is a lady who I assume must be our tutor. She’s around five foot six, dark-haired and dark-eyed with a warm smile. She introduces herself as Anne.
The first task Anne sets me is to read a pottery book and see if I come across any object I’d like to recreate. I try to tell her about my lack of talent in this area, but she just smiles. I begin to read the book as she moves on to Roger, a jolly West Indian (bank robber), who is doing a sculpture of the Virgin Mary. She then goes across to Terry (burglar), who is moulding his piece of clay into a lion. I am engrossed in my book when Anne returns, accompanied by a large lump of clay. She also has a thin wooden stick that looks like a knife without a handle, which is numbered four. She glances down at the page I’ve reached to see a head and shoulders figure of a man. With the help of the wooden knife, she carves chunks off the square putty to start forming the shoulders, and then leaves me to begin my first attempt at figurative sculpture.
As I turn my attention to the head and neck, I get into conversation with Shaun who is rubbing his fingers into the pastel to try and give his picture a blurred ‘Turneresque’ look. While he chats away about which artists influence him, I subtly try to steer the conversation off art and find out why he is in prison, quite expecting him to claim that he’s another victim of drugs.