Purgatory Read online

  ‘Yes, if you can find anyone stupid enough to take your wager.’

  The spur bookie is offering 1-3 on Duncan Smith.’

  Those are still good odds, because you can’t lose unless he drops down dead.’

  The bookie or Iain Duncan Smith?’ asks Jimmy. ‘Either’ I reply.

  ‘Good,’ says Darren. Then I’ll put three Mars bars on Duncan Smith as soon as we get back to the spur.’

  4.00 pm

  I visit Sergio in his cell to be given a lesson on emeralds. I’ll let you know why later. Sergio takes his time telling me that emeralds are to Colombia what diamonds are to South Africa. When he’s finished his tutorial, I ask him if it would be possible for his brother to find an emerald of the highest quality. He looks puzzled.

  ‘What sort of price do you have in mind?’ he asks.

  ‘Around ten thousand dollars,’ I tell him.

  He nods. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He looks at his watch and adds, ‘I’ll speak to my brother immediately.’

  5.00 pm

  Sunday supper is always a bag of crisps and a lemon mousse. However, this evening we are offered two lemon mousses because, I note, the sell-by date on the lid is 25 August.

  7.00 pm

  At last there’s something worth watching on television. Victoria and Albert with a cast to kill for. Nigel Hawthorne, Diana Rigg, Peter Ustinov, Jonathan Pryce, David Suchet, John Wood and Richard Briers.

  It only serves to remind me how much I miss live theatre, though at times I feel I’m getting enough drama at the Theatre Royal, Wayland.

  DAY 40 - MONDAY 27 AUGUST 2001

  6.08 am

  Forty days and forty nights, and, like Our Lord, I feel it’s time to come out of the wilderness and get on with some work, despite the fact it’s a bank holiday. I write for two hours.

  8.15 am

  Breakfast. Corn Pops (for a change), UHT milk, a slice of bread and marmalade. I stare at the golly on the jar. I read yesterday in one of the papers that he’s no longer politically correct and will be replaced by a character created by Roald Dahl and illustrated by Quentin Blake. I like golly, he’s been a friend for years. As a man without an ounce of prejudice in him, I am bound to say I think the world has gone mad.

  9.00 am

  I call Mary, who is furious with the Home Office. Winston Churchill has written to the Home Secretary, David Blunkett, asking why I’m still in a Category C jail, and Winston has received a reply from Stephen Harrison, David Blunkett’s private secretary, suggesting that Lady Archer ‘is satisfied that this is the best that can be hoped for’. Home Office officials obviously don’t listen to the Today programme, or read any newspapers. It doesn’t augur well for justice being done to those prisoners who do not have a supportive family. Mary will write to Martin Narey today and put the record straight. My solicitor has not yet received a reply from DCS Perry. Perhaps he’s still on holiday. She’s also written to the governor of Wayland - also no reply. Thank God I’m not locked up in Russia.

  Now I’m no longer on the induction spur, I’m allowed to have my own plate, bowl and mug. Mary promises to dispatch all three today. I can’t wait to be rid of the grey plastic set, even if they won’t allow me to replace the plastic knife, fork and spoon. Mary tells me that the letters of support are still pouring in, and says she’ll send a selection for me to read, plus a list of friends who want to visit me in prison. She confirms that she and William are hoping to visit me on Friday.

  9.15 am

  A block are playing C block at football, and Jimmy (captain of everything) asks if I’d like to be linesman, knowing it will get me out of my cell for at least an hour. How considerate, I tell him, but I don’t know the rules, and I feel sure that there’s more to it than just putting your flag in the air when the ball goes out. Fortunately, one of our reserves is fully proficient in the laws of the game, and runs up and down the line behind me, making me look quite competent.

  The first player I have to adjudicate offside is Jimmy, who makes no protest and immediately raises his arm. The true character of a person cannot be hidden on a playing field.

  By half-time we are two down. However, in the second half, we pull one back and just before the final whistle, Carl (GBH, phonecard problem) thumps in a blinder from twenty yards to level the score. As he is in the next cell to me, I can expect several graphic replays in the corridor, with the yardage becoming longer by the day.

  12.15 pm

  Lunch: Toad-in-the-hole (vegetarian sausage) and peas.

  3.00 pm

  Exercise. We’ve managed about two circuits when Darren, Jimmy and I are joined by what can only be described as a gang of yobs, whose leader is a stockily built youth of about five foot six, with two rings in his nose and one in each ear. From what I can see of his neck, arms and chest, it doesn’t look as if there’s anywhere left on his body to needle another tattoo. As soon as he opens his mouth every other word is fucking-this and fuck-ing-that. I’m no longer shocked by this, but I am surprised by the smell of alcohol on his breath. My usual approach when faced with this situation is to answer any question quietly and courteously. I’ve heard enough stories about prisoners being knifed in the yard over the slightest provocation to do otherwise. But as there are no questions, just abuse hurled at me and my wife, there’s not much I can say in reply. Jimmy and Darren close in, not a good sign, but after another circuit, the young thug and his gang of four back off and go and sit against the fence and glare at us.

  The Home Office could do worse than invite Darren to sit on one of their committees and advise them on prison policy. He is, after all, far better informed than Stephen Harrison, and therefore the Home Secretary. After a spell in Borstal, and two terms in prison, Darren would be a considerable asset to the drugs debate. He adds that when he was first sent to jail, some fifteen years ago, about 30 per cent of prisoners smoked canna-bis and only about 10 per cent were on heroin.

  ‘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. As 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 dail
y 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.