A Prison Diary Purgatory (2003) Read online

  ‘And today?’ I ask.

  ‘Around twenty to thirty per cent are still on cannabis, with approximately the same percentage, if not more, on heroin. And while the present regulations are in place, there’s no hope of dealing with the problem. Only last week, a prisoner out on his first town visit returned with five hundred pounds’ worth of heroin stuffed up his backside, and every addict in the prison knew about his cache within the hour. They were, if they could afford it, smoking and jabbing themselves all night.’

  ‘But surely the prisoner in question, not to mention his customers, will be caught?’

  The drugs unit interviewed him the following morning. They couldn’t prove anything, but it’s the last town visit he’ll make before he’s released - on the grounds of ‘reasonable suspicion’.’

  ‘More fool him,’ says Jimmy, who goes out on a town visit once a month. ‘Some of them will do anything—’ The group of yobs decide to rejoin us, so I have to face another barrage of abuse. I sometimes wish Mr Justice Potts could do just one circuit with me, but it’s too late, my case was his last, and he was clearly determined to go out with a bang. When we’re called back in, I’m not unhappy to return to the peace and safety of my cell.

  4.07 pm

  Sergio turns up to tell me the details of a conversation he’s had with his brother in Bogota.

  Tomorrow my brother will travel to the green mountains and select an emerald’ declares Sergio. He will then have it valued and insured. He will also send one gold necklace (18 carat). They sell at a tenth of the price they charge in England. I assure him that, if I decide to buy it, I will make a payment direct to bis bank the day after he has been deported. This means he has to put a great deal of trust in me, which he seems happy to do. He accepts that the transaction cannot take place while both of us are still in jail. If he’s successful, I’ll have more confidence in his claim that he can produce a Botero at a sensible price.

  10.00 pm

  Darren lends me his copy of The Prisons Handbook - a sort of Relais & Chateaux guide of jails in England and Wales. I accept Mr Meanwell’s opinion that once my D-cat has been reinstated, I should apply for Spring Hill in Buckinghamshire, which is the best-located open prison for both London and Cambridge.

  5.00 pm

  Darren and I play a couple of games of backgammon, and I’m thankful to have found something I can beat him at. He takes revenge by completing The Times crossword before supper.

  6.00 pm

  Supper: beans on toast and an extra lemon mousse stamped with yesterday’s sell-by date.

  7.00 pm

  I watch the concluding episode of Victoria and Albert, every moment of which I thoroughly enjoy.

  DAY 41 - TUESDAY 28 AUGUST 2001

  6.00 am

  I write for two hours.

  8.13 am

  Breakfast. It’s Shredded Wheat again. Eat one, save one.

  9.00 am

  Pottery. I take my new book, Arts and Artists, along to my class to while away the two-hour period. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone that I’m not working on a sculpture as long as I’m studying some medium of art.

  Shaun appears to be depressed, which could be nothing more than the melancholy of an artist lost in his thoughts. After an hour of painting, he opens his sketch book to reveal an excellent drawing of a Wayland landscape (fairly bleak) and another of a prison door. Then he confides why he is so low. Probation have decided not to let him out two months early on a tag because he failed to appear in court. However, this two-month hold-up will pose some problems for both of us. The quality of the paper, pencils, pastels and oils that are available at Wayland are obviously not up to professional standards, so it may become necessary to enlist the help of a member of the art department to purchase the materials he needs. Shaun will have to select someone who believes in his talent, and more importantly, he needs to trust me enough to believe I will pay him back after he’s been released in November. A member of staff tells me later that Shaun is the most talented prisoner they have come across since they started working in prisons. Our conversation is interrupted by a security officer who says I’m wanted in reception.

  10.12 am

  A senior officer from Belmarsh is waiting for me in the room with the comfortable chairs. The governor of Belmarsh has put her in charge of the investigation into the theft of seven pages of my diary. You will recall that Trevor Kavanagh, the Surfs political editor, handed the script over to Mary, who in turn passed the seven handwritten pages on to my lawyer.

  The officer tells me that she has been in the Prison Service for nearly twenty years, and adds that she isn’t on a whitewash expedition. She makes it clear from the outset that the seven pages of script could not have been stolen by a prisoner, as they wouldn’t have had access to a photocopier. She goes even further and admits that they have narrowed the likely culprit down to one of two officers.

  She then hands me a photocopy of my first seven pages, and after reading only a few lines I recall how distraught I was at Belmarsh. I confirm that I had written these pages when I was in the medical centre on my first day, but I have no way of knowing when they were removed or returned, or by whom. I only recall leaving the cell once in the first twenty-four hours, and that was for a forty-five-minute break in the exercise yard. She nods, as if she not only knows when I left my cell, but exactly how many minutes I was out of the room.

  ‘You were then escorted across to B block to begin your induction. Did you have the script with you at the time?’

  Yes, I posted the pages to my PA every three or four days, but not before they were checked by Roy the censor, who I didn’t meet until the third day, so it can’t have been him.’

  ‘No, it certainly wasn’t Roy,’ she replied, ‘because the Sun received the material the following morning. And in any case, Roy’s bright enough to understand the law of copyright. Whoever did this must have been surprised and disappointed that the Sun wouldn’t touch it.’

  She leaves after about an hour, promising to let me know the outcome of her investigation.

  12.15 pm

  Lunch: vegetable soup and a chocolate wafer. Sergio slips me a banana.

  2.00 pm

  In order to make up my five lessons a week, I have to attend an education class on a Tuesday afternoon.

  The Education Department is situated next to the library, and once I’ve signed in, I report to room one as instructed. I enter a classroom containing twenty small desks set out in a U-shape facing a teacher. Her name is Ms Jocelyn Rimmington, and she looks as if she’s been plucked straight out of an Evelyn Waugh novel. Her job is a difficult one, and I watch her carry it out with consummate skill and ingenuity. She has eight charges, including me. The prisoner she’s talking to is learning basic English so he can take a plumbing exam. The inmate on his right is reading Chaucer as part of an A level course, and on his left is an inmate who is learning to read and write. The remaining four prisoners are preparing for GCSE English. Ms Rimmington moves slowly and methodically from desk to desk, answering each and every question thrown at her until she reaches me.

  Wendy tells me that you’re in the middle of writing another book.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I reply.

  ‘And she thinks the best thing would be for you to carry on with it, until we decide what to do with you.’

  I don’t demur; after all, what’s the point of telling this charming lady that I would prefer to do something more productive. It’s obvious that either Wendy Sergeant, who is head of the department, or those above her, lack the imagination of the education department at Belmarsh, who had me conducting a creative writing class before the end of my first week.

  5.00 pm

  Supper. I eat very little because the only gym session I can attend today is at six o’clock.

  6.00 pm

  Gym. Complete a full session, mainly because half the regulars are out playing football. Today is the final trial before they select the team for the first match on Sunday. A
s I cannot be present at Lord’s for the one day final between Somerset and Leicestershire, I’ll have to settle for Wayland versus RAP Methwold.

  7.30 pm

  After a long press, press, press-button shower, 1 return to the cell and dry myself with a mean little rough green towel. Sergio knocks on the door, walks in, plonks himself on the end of the bed and without any preamble, starts to give me another lecture on emeralds.

  ‘Seventy per cent of the world’s emeralds come from Colombia,’ he proclaims. ‘Over twenty thousand stones change hands in Bogota every day. The emerald is second only in popularity and value to the diamond, and its size is measured in the same way (carat). The very finest stones,’ he continues, ‘are known as ‘drops of oil’ because if you stare into the centre of the stone, you can see what appears to be just that. We must make sure that ours is at least four carats, and that the drop of oil is there for all to see.

  ‘For one stone, the price can range according to quality’ continues Sergio, ‘from a few hundred dollars to several millions.’ He anticipates the stone his brother selects could be on its way to London as early as next week. Because Sergio went to the same school as the niece of the owner of ‘the mountain’, he hopes his brother will be able to deal direct, cutting out any middlemen. As his brother doesn’t know that Sergio is ensconced in an English jail, I wonder why he isn’t puzzled by the fact that he can’t call back. I don’t ask.

  8.00 pm

  Pottery followed by an interview with the lady from Belmarsh, followed by education, followed by the gym, followed by Sergio and his lecture on emeralds, interspersed with three writing sessions. I’m exhausted.

  I fall asleep fully dressed during the Ten O’Clock News. When I wake, it’s just after eleven. I undress, use the loo, climb into my tiny bed, and fall asleep a second time.

  DAY 42 - WEDNESDAY 29 AUGUST 2001

  5.19 am

  I have now undergone the same three-week induction cycle at HMP Wayland as I did at Belmarsh. My routine, compared with my life outside, is far more regimented, conforming to a daily pattern, and then a weekly one. So I have decided, as from today, to comment only on highlights, rather than simply repeat the numbing routine with which you must now be familiar.

  6.00 am

  I write for two hours and then eat the other Shredded Wheat covered in milk supplied by Sergio.

  9.00 am

  Paul, one of the tutors, brings in a set of slides to the art class, and gives us a lecture on the Impressionists. I am stunned that Shaun, such a talented artist, has never heard of Pissarro or Sisley. He also admits that he has visited a gallery only two or three times in his life. The slide show is so popular with the other prisoners that Paul promises to bring in examples of other artists next week when he will introduce us to Magritte, Rothko and Warhol, amongst others.

  12 noon

  After lunch, I go to the gym. When I’ve finished my programme, I jump on the scales to discover that I’m still losing weight - nearly a stone since I’ve been in prison. Just as I’m leaving, the football coach calls me into his office and asks if I would attend the first fixture of the season on Sunday, and write a match report for the prison magazine. I readily agree, only relieved he didn’t invite me to play.

  4.00 pm

  Sergio joins me in my cell to tell me the latest on the emerald hunt before continuing with his tutorial. The majority of emeralds mined in Colombia come from one mountain that has been owned by the same family for generations. Most of the stones that come out of Colombia are exported to Japan, but Sergio is hoping, when he returns to Bogota, to start diverting some of these gems to Europe. He is becoming more ambitious every day.

  He also informs me that trading in emeralds is every bit as dangerous as dealing in drugs. Every day eight helicopters fly back and forth from the mountain to Bogota airport with four armed guards on each and another twenty private police waiting for them on the runway. On the mountain there are 300 workers and 100 armed guards. A peasant (his description) can earn as much as $50,000 a year if, and he repeats if, he is lucky enough to dig up any high-quality gems.

  ‘But what about theft?’ I ask. How do they deal with that?’ ‘One or two of the workers are stupid enough to consider stealing the odd stone, but they quickly discover that there is no judge or jury on the mountain.’

  ‘So how do they dispense justice?’

  ‘Instantly,’ he replies. ‘One of the guards shoots the culprit in front of the other workers, who then bury him.’

  ‘But you could swallow a stone, and then sell it in Bogota, where you’ve already told me that twenty thousand emeralds change hands in the marketplace every day.’

  ‘True,’ Sergio replies. ‘But you will still be caught, because the family has over a hundred spotters in the market, night and day. If a dealer ever traded with a thief, they would immediately be cut off from their source of supply. And in time the thief will have to return to the mountain if he hopes to go on trading. In any case, the workers know they will have a far higher standard of living than their fellow countrymen as long as they remain employed on the mountain.’

  ‘But they could take the gems abroad and make a fortune?’ ‘Most peasants,’ says Sergio, ‘have never travelled further than the next village, and none of them speaks anything but mountain Spanish, which even I can’t understand. Even the owner of the mountain can still only converse in his native tongue and would never consider leaving Colombia. It is only because of my four years in an English jail,’ continues Sergio, ‘that it’s now possible for me to act as a go-between and consider the export business. And you now also have an advantage, Jeffrey, because your rivals cannot easily buy or sell paintings from Colombia.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘I am being deported in four weeks’ time, and can never return to Britain unless I am willing to risk completing the remaining four years of my sentence.’ ‘An enterprising dealer could always fly to Bogota.’ ‘Not wise,’ says Sergio. ‘Fair-haired, blue-eyed people are not welcome in Bogota, and especially not on the mountain.’ He goes on to explain: ‘It would be assumed that you are an American, and your chances of making it back to the airport would be about as good as a peasant caught stealing.’ No wonder it’s a closed market.

  My tutorial comes to an end when an officer bellows, ‘Lock up.’ I run out of Sergio’s cell to return to the real world, because I need the five minutes to join the queue and change my sheets, pillowcase, towels and gym kit. Don’t forget it’s Wednesday, and if you don’t get to the laundry room before they close, you have to wait another week.

  8.00 pm

  When I get back to my cell I find a biography of Oscar Wilde by Sheridan Morley awaiting me on my bed. I had asked Steve (conspiracy to murder, chief librarian) to reserve this book for me. Nothing like a personal delivery service.

  I become so engrossed in Wilde’s life that I miss the Ten O’clock News. I have reached Oscar’s first trial by the time I put the book down. I must save the second trial for tomorrow night.

  Not a bad day, but please don’t think, even for one moment, that it’s therefore been a good one.

  DAY 43 - THURSDAY 30 AUGUST 2001

  8.45 am

  I arrive for my pottery class to find it’s been cancelled because the teacher hasn’t turned up. Shaun tells me this is a regular occurrence, and he seems to be the only person who is disappointed because he was hoping to finish a painting. It gives me another couple of hours to write, while the other prisoners are happy to go off to the gym or their cells while still being paid PS1.40.

  10.45 am

  I hear a cry of ‘library’ bellowed down the corridor and, as I’ve just come to the end of another chapter of Oscar Wilde, decide to take a break and return Arts and Artists. I now know my way around the library and go straight to the art shelves. I select a book entitled Legendary Gemsby Eric Bruton and add a novel by Robert Goddard.

  When I return to my cell I find my laundry is waiting in a neat pile, washed and dried. I look up to see Darren sta
nding on my chair, clipping up a new curtain rail.

  ‘Let me warn you’ he says as he climbs back down off the chair, ‘you can’t hang yourself from a prison curtain rail.’

  ‘I hadn’t given the idea much thought, but why not?’ I ask, opening my notebook.

  ‘Because it just clips on, so if you attached a noose to the rail and then jumped off the chair, you’d land on the floor wrapped up in your curtain.’

  ‘So how can I hang myself?’ I demand.

  ‘You should have done it at your remand prison’ Darren replies.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Most remand prisons are of a Victorian vintage, and have high-level barred windows making the job that much easier.’

  ‘But I was only there for a few days.’

  There are more hangings in the first few days in jail than at any other time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Often the psychological impact of entering prison for the first time causes deep depression, and that’s when a prisoner sees suicide as the only way out.’

  ‘So it’s less common once you’ve been transferred?’

  ‘Yes, but I knew a prisoner who still found an original way to kill himself.’ I continue to scribble away. He was in a cell with a one-up and one-down, and when his room-mate went to work and he was left alone for the rest of the morning he stood the bed up on its end, so that the rail was about seven feet from the ground. He used his belt as a noose, and attached it to the top railing. He then climbed on top, placed his hands in the back of his jeans, rolled off the bed and hanged himself. On the table they found a letter from his girlfriend saying she couldn’t wait for three years. If you want to kill yourself, you can always find a way,’ Darren adds matter of factly. ‘Each year the Prison Service publishes statistics on how many inmates commit suicide. There were ninety-two in 2001’ says Darren, just before he leaves to continue his rounds. ‘However, what they don’t tell you is how many people die, or commit suicide within six months of being released.’ I slowly unpack my washing and stack it on the narrow shelves while I consider what Darren has just told me.