Purgatory Page 12
6. All managers have a duty to ensure that their areas remain free from the display of any potentially offensive material. This applies to all areas, including offices, rest rooms and other ‘staff only’ areas.
After two weeks of walking round the perimeter of Wayland prison, I can now spot evil, fear, helplessness and sadness at thirty paces. But even I am puzzled by a crouching man who always sits alone in the same place every day, huddled up against the fence. He can’t be much more than thirty, perhaps thirty-five, and he rarely moves from his solitary position. I ask Darren about him.
Tragic,’ he says. ‘Alistair is one of your lot - public school, followed by university, where he graduated as a heroin addict. If he doesn’t kick the habit, he’ll be in prison for the rest of his life.’
‘How can that be possible?’ I ask.
‘Simple. He regularly gets caught injecting himself, and always ends up with a few more months being added to his sentence. In fact, even on the day he was sent down, he was found with a needle in his arm. Somehow, and it must have been before the judge passed sentence or soon after he was taken down, he managed to stuff a needle covered in cellophane, a plunger and ten grams of heroin wrapped in a condom up his backside. He then took a laxative so that he could empty his bowels as soon as he arrived at Belmarsh, Once they’d banged him up that evening - and don’t forget there’s a lavatory in every cell - he injected himself with heroin and passed out. At the nine o’clock flap check the night officer found him lying on the floor with a needle stuck in his arm and several grams of heroin sprinkled on the floor beside him. He must be one of the few prisoners who has managed to have time added to his sentence before breakfast the following morning.’
I look at the tragic, hunched-up figure and wonder if prison is the right answer.
6.00 pm
Supper. I can’t remember what I eat, but I do recall finding two extra cartons of milk on my window sill. Sergio is exercising his authority as the new No. 1 on the hotplate.
DAY 38 - SATURDAY 25 AUGUST 2001
‘Bien, gracias,y to?’
‘No, tu, tu, tu.’
‘Tu, tu, tu:
‘Bueno. We must meet later today,’ Sergio adds, ‘for another lesson.’ At least ten prisoners standing in the queue, and three officers behind the hotplate, assume I am simply learning Spanish, as we have no wish for them to find out what we’re really up to. But more of that later.
5.11 am
I wake and think about how I would be spending the August bank holiday weekend if I were not in prison. I also begin to consider whether there are any advantages to being in jail. Certainly, incarceration is something to be added to one’s experiences, particularly as it has come at a period in life when I felt I was marking time. I’ve also had to stretch myself - unfortunate pun. But I’ve already reached a stage where I am gaining little from the experience. As I could be stuck here for a while longer, it might be wise to have an escape plan - escape of the mind.
I’ve already completed Belmarsh: Hell, and have penned 44,000 words of Wayland: Purgatory. I can’t wait to get to heaven, whenever and wherever that might be.
8.15 am
‘Buenos dias,’ I say to Sergio as he passes me a boiled egg and a slice of toast.
‘Buenos dias,’ he repeats. ‘Como estas tu?’
I concentrate.’ Yo estoy bien, gracias.’
‘Bien, gracias, y tu?’
10.00 am
Gym. I complete a full programme for the first time since being convicted. I’ve lost over half a stone and feel a lot fitter.
I’m about to take a shower when Mr King tells me that the governor wants a word. I’ve so far seen three people who claim the title of governor, and none of them has been Ms Cawley, the No. 1 governor. Am I about to meet her? No. On this occasion it’s a Mr Greenacre, whom I’ve also never come across before. He informs me, ‘You will be receiving a visit from a senior officer at Belmarsh’ - surely they can’t be sending me back there, is my first reaction - ‘as they are investigating the theft of a chapter of your book.’ You will recall that Trevor Kavanagh of the Sun, doyen of political editors, returned those stolen seven pages to Mary. He is well aware of the law of copyright.
It is clear that the culprit must have been an officer as no prisoners at Belmarsh have access to a photocopier. No one else could have unlocked my cell door, removed the script, photocopied and returned it and then sent a copy on to the Sun.
Of course, the deputy governor is only going through the motions. They have no way of finding out which officer was hoping to make a quick buck. The problem the Prison Service is facing is that Trevor will never reveal his source.
Back to the visitor from Belmarsh. Mr Greenacre tells me to expect a senior security officer to interview me on Tuesday morning, which means that, with luck, I’ll miss pottery. I’ll brief you fully next Tuesday.
11.00 am
Exercise. My legs are still aching from the gym session, so I find it quite hard to maintain the pace of Jimmy (twenty-nine) and Darren (thirty-five) as they march round the perimeter of the jail, but I’m damned if I’m going to admit it. They are chatting away about an unusual use of mirrors. Every cell has a five-by-five-inch steel mirror screwed to the wall. Jimmy is telling us about two West Indian prisoners who between them raised enough money to purchase a ghetto blaster and a pair of loud speakers. He describes how they went about arranging to listen to the same music in two different cells.
The first prisoner levered his thin steel mirror off the wall and inserted a coil of wire through one of the tiny holes in a corner. Every evening, after the nine o’clock flap check, he would slip the mirror under his door, then in one movement, slide it across the corridor until it reached the door opposite. After a few days, he could perform this skill as proficiently as any basketball player dunking a ball through a hoop.
The second prisoner then took the wire and attached it to his speaker so that both men could listen to the same music emanating from one source. Ingenious but - I’m told by anyone who lived within a mile of the jail - unnecessary, because on a still evening you could have danced to the music in Freiston town hall.
12 noon
Lunch. England are 200 for 3 and putting up a spirited fight. During the lunch interval I visit Sergio in his cell. He wastes no words, immediately informing me that he has spoken to his brother in Bogota. He always sounds like a man who has only ten units left on his phonecard. Of course, he may turn out to be a con man who has no intention of trying to find a Botero.
In any case nothing can be done until Sergio has completed his sentence. He is due to be deported on 27 September, a month from today, by which time we expect to have worked out a plan to purchase a Botero. Win or lose, I’ll keep you briefed.
3.00 pm
I have my hair cut by Matt (arson for insurance, failed to convince Cornhill or the jury, and was sentenced to three years). Matt has the reputation of being the best barber in the prison. In fact several prison officers also have their hair cut by him. In his last prison, while serving time for a previous offence, Matt enrolled on a hair-styling course, so now he’s a semi-professional. He has all the proper equipment, and within moments of sitting on a chair in the corridor outside his cell, I’m in no doubt about his skill. I need to look neat and tidy for Friday, when Mary and William hope to visit me again. I haven’t forgotten that Mary commented on the length of my hair when she last came to Wayland.
When Matt’s finished the job he even produces a second mirror so I can see the back of my head. He’s not Daniel Hersheson, but for ten units of a phonecard he’s a pretty good imitation.
6.00 pm
At close of play England are 314 for 8 after a gritty 124 not out by Ramprakash assisted by Gough, who was clinging in there helping to avoid another follow on. The two of them enter the pavilion needing another 31 runs to make Australia bat again.
A couple of years ago Darren Gough asked me to conduct the auction at his London testimonial di
nner at the Dorchester. As a huge fan of Darren’s, I happily agreed. When the event finally materialized it fell in the middle of my trial. Mr Justice Potts made it clear to my silk that I should not honour the agreement, even though my name was already printed in the programme. After all, it might influence the jury into believing that I am a charitable man, and I suspect that was the last thing Mr Justice Potts would have wanted.
I’m feeling pretty low, so decide to use the other ten units left on my card to phone Mary. There’s no response. I can’t get in touch with William or James as they are both abroad. I sit on the end of my bed and recall the words of La Rochefoucauld: Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fire.
DAY 39 - SUNDAY 26 AUGUST 2001
6.16 am
Sunday is always the longest day in prison. Wayland is short-staffed and there is nothing for inmates to do other than watch wall-to-wall television. In Belmarsh, chapel was a respite as it got you out of your cell, but in Wayland you’re out of your cell without anything to keep you occupied. Mind you, I’d much rather be in Wayland than locked up in Belmarsh for twenty-two hours a day. I write for a couple of hours.
8.20 am
Breakfast. While I’m waiting in the queue for the hotplate, I get talking to a West Indian who is on my landing. He asks if he can have my Times and Sunday Times when I’ve finished with them. I agree to his request if, in return, he will show me how to clean my cell floor. I only mention this because the West Indians keep the cleanest cells. They are not satisfied with sweeping out the dust and dirt, but spend hours buffing up the linoleum floor until you can see your face in it. Although I shower, shave and put on fresh clothes every day, as well as make my bed and have everything in place before the cell door is opened at 8 am, I never look as smart or have as clean a cell as any of the West Indians on my spur.
9.30 am
On my way to the library I slip in behind a man who frightens me. He has an evil face and is one of those prisoners who is proud to describe himself as a career criminal. He is a burglar by profession, and I’m somewhat surprised to see him heading off towards the library with a pile of glossy, coffee-table books under his arm. I try to make out the titles on the spines while we’re on the move: The Encyclopaedia of Antiques, Know Your Antiques and Antiques in a Modem Market.
‘Are you interested in antiques?’ I ask innocently.
‘Yeah, I’m making a careful study of them.’
‘Are you hoping to work in the antiques trade when you’ve completed your sentence?’
‘I suppose you could say that,’ he replies. ‘I’m sick of nicking ‘em only to find out they’re fuckin’ worthless. From now on I’ll know what to fuckin’ look for, won’t I?’
You would think that after five weeks of mixing with criminals, night and day, I couldn’t still be taken by surprise. It serves to remind me again of Lisa Dada’s words about despising burglars, not to mention my own naivety.
10.00 am
In the library I get talking to an older prisoner called Ron (ABH). Most inmates tell me they never want to return to prison, especially the older ones who have served long sentences. But, time and again, they’ll add the rider, ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t, Jeff. Getting a job when you have a criminal record is virtually impossible, so you stay on the dole, until you slip back into a life of crime.’
It’s a vicious circle for those who leave prison with their statutory PS90, NFA (no fixed abode) and little prospect of work. I don’t know the answer, although I accept there is little you can do for people who are genuinely evil, and not much for those who are congenitally stupid. But the first-offence prisoners who want a second chance often leave prison only to find that for the rest of their lives the work door is slammed in their face.
I accept that perhaps only around 20 per cent of prisoners would be worth special treatment, but I would like to see someone come up with a solution for this particular group, especially the first-time offenders. And how many of you reading this diary can honestly say you’ve never committed a crime? For example:
(a) Smoked cannabis (5 million), crack cocaine (300,000), heroin (250,000)
(b) Stolen something - anything
(c) Fiddled your expenses
(d) Taken a bus or train and not paid for the ticket
(e) Not declared your full income to the taxman
(f) Been over the alcohol limit when driving
(g) Driven a vehicle without tax or insurance
(h) Brought in something from abroad and not paid import tax
I have recently discovered that those very people who commit such crimes often turn out to be the most sanctimonious hypocrites, including one leading newspaper editor. It’s the truly honest people who go on treating one decently, as I’ve found from the thousands of letters I’ve received from the general public over the past few weeks.
10.45 am
Chapel. We’re back to a congregation of eleven. The service is Holy Communion, and I’m not sure I care for the modern version. I must be getting old, or at least old-fashioned.
The service is conducted by John Framlington, resplendent in a long white robe to go with his white beard and head of white hair. He must be well into his seventies and he looks like a prophet. A local Salvation Army officer preaches the sermon, with the theme that we all make mistakes, but that does not mean that we cannot be saved. Once he has delivered his message, he joins John to dispense the bread and wine to his little flock. During the singing of the last hymn, John walks off down the aisle and disappears. We are all left literally standing, not quite sure what to do next. A female face peeps out from behind the organ, and decides to continue playing. This brave little gesture is rewarded by everyone repeating the last verse. When we’ve delivered the final line of ‘O Blessed Jesu, Save Us’ John comes running back down the aisle. He turns to face his congregation, apologizes, blesses us and then disappears for a second time. He’s a good man, and it’s generous of him still to be giving his time every Sunday for such a motley crew as us.
11.45 am
When I return to my spur after chapel, I find that it has been locked off and we are unable to get into our cells. A small crowd is gathering at the entrance of the spur, and I am informed by Darren that our cells are being searched for phonecards. It seems that one of the prisoners has shaved off the silver lining on the top of his card as this allows him to have a longer period for each unit. Not a great crime you might consider, remembering that we’re in a den of thieves. But what you won’t realize is that the next person who makes a phone call will find that BT automatically retrieves those stolen units. Result: the next prisoner will be robbed blind.
The next inmate on the phone that morning turned out to be a voluble West Indian called Carl (GBH) who, when his last ten units were gobbled up in seconds, never stopped effing and blinding all the way to the PO’s office. The spur was closed down in seconds, and Carl had unwittingly given the ‘prison search team’ an excuse to go through everyone’s personal belongings.
When the gate to the cells is eventually unlocked, a team of three officers comes out carrying a sackful of swag. My bet is that the offending phonecard is not among their trophies, but several other illicit goods are. I return to my cell to find that nothing of mine has been touched. Even my script lies in exactly the same place as I left it. I take this as a compliment.
12 noon
Lunch. England have progressed to 40 for 1, but the ominously dark clouds that appear over Wayland are also, it seems, unpaid visitors at the Oval. I turn my attention to the Sunday papers. The Sunday Mirror, that bastion of accuracy, tells its readers that I defended myself from another inmate with a cricket bat. I gave you a full ball-by-ball summary of that match, and the only thing I tried to threaten - and not very successfully - was the ball. The article then goes on to say that I am paying protection money to a prisoner called Matthew McMahon. There is no inmate at Wayland called Matthew McMahon.
They add that payment is made with PS5 phonecards. There are no PS5 phone-cards. The funny thing is that some inmates are shocked by this: they had assumed the papers reported accurately, and it wasn’t until I took up residence that they realized how inaccurate the press can be.
2.00 pm
Exercise. We are allowed out for an hour, rather than forty-five minutes, which is a welcome bonus. As we walk round, I get teased by a lot of prisoners who say they are willing to protect me if I’ll give them a PS5 phonecard. Some ask how come you have a PS5 phonecard when the rest of us only have PS2 phone-cards. Others add that I can hit them with my cricket bat whenever I want to. I confess that this wouldn’t be so amusing if Jimmy and Darren were not accompanying me. Certainly, being the butt of everyone’s humour inside, as well as outside, begins to tell on one. Jimmy has also read the story in the Sunday Mirror and what worries him is who to believe in the latest row between Ken Clarke and Iain Duncan Smith concerning immigration. I tell Jimmy that only one thing is certain: although the result of the leadership election will not be announced for another two weeks (12 September), 70 per cent of the 318,000 electorate have cast their votes, and I assure him that IDS is already the next leader of the Tory party.
‘Can I risk a bet on that?’ asks Darren.