Purgatory Read online

  ‘If he doesn’t manage to find any paintings,’ I add, ‘then the worse case scenario is that Mary will end up with a rather special Christmas present’

  Because James has inherited his mother’s brains and my barrow-boy instincts, there’s no need to repeat anything. We agree to speak again by phone towards the end of the week. I smile across at David and he joins us.

  After a few preliminaries about his wife, Sue, and whether they had a good holiday, I can see he’s nervous, which has always been David’s way of telling me something is worrying him. I try to make it as easy as possible for both of us.

  ‘Are you still thinking of emigrating to Australia?’ I ask.

  ‘No’ he replies, ‘much as I’d like to, it’s near impossible to get on the quota, unless you have a job to go to, or relatives already living there.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have a better chance now I’ve been to prison,’ I suggest, before adding, ‘So what are you planning to do?’

  ‘Sue and I are thinking of settling in Turkey. We’ve spent our last few holidays there, and we like the people, the climate and most of all the cost of living.’

  ‘So when would you want to leave?’

  In a couple of months, if that’s all right with you, boss?’

  I smile and tell him that’s just fine. We shake hands like old friends, because that’s exactly what we are.

  The four of us spend the last thirty minutes together swapping stories as if I wasn’t in jail. I think I’ve made this observation before, but if your friends could be in prison with you, it would be almost bearable.

  I place the pens Will smuggled in into my shirt pocket and just hope. I’m sorry to see the boys leave, and it’s only their absence that reminds me just how much I love them. The officer who carries out the search checks my mouth, under my tongue, makes me take off my shoes, and then finishes with a Heathrow check. I escape - which means for the next week I’ll be able to write with the implement of my choice.

  5.00 pm

  After supper I convene a board meeting in Sergio’s cell. ‘The ball is now in your court,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve selected the emerald, so we’re about to discover if you’re a serious player or a mountebank.’ He has asked me to use one expression and one word every day that he won’t have heard before. He immediately looks up mountebank in his Spanish/English dictionary.

  He then stands and formally shakes my hand. The ball is now in my court,’ he repeats, ‘and you’re about to find out that despite the circumstances in which we’ve met, I am not a mountebank.’ I want to believe him.

  DAY 48 - TUESDAY 4 SEPTEMBER 2001

  6.11 am

  One of the interesting aspects of writing this diary during the day, and correcting the script of volume one in the evening, is being reminded just how horrendous an experience Belmarsh was.

  9.00 am

  Pottery. Paul gives us a lecture with slides on Rothko, Man Ray, Magritte and Andy Warhol. Several of the prisoners voice an opinion often heard about modern artists, only they put it more bluntly.

  That’s fuckin’ crap, why would anyone pay good money for that shit? My seven-year-old daughter could knock you up one of those.’

  Neither of our tutors, Paul nor Anne, comments; both are professional artists and know only too well that if they could ‘knock up one of those’, they wouldn’t be teaching in prison.

  After the lecture Shaun presents me with a pattern for my cell wall - unquestionably influenced by Magritte. It’s fun, but I wonder if Locke is capable of reproducing it. I’ll have to discuss the problem with my chef de chantier, Darren. Will I really be allowed a sun and moon in my room?

  2.00 pm

  Education, Tuesday afternoon is a bit of a farce. I have to attend an education class to make up the statutory number of lessons required by a part-time worker - PS6.50 a week - so end up sitting at the back of the classroom working on this script.

  I’ve asked Wendy Sergeant (Head of the Education Department) if I can teach one lesson a week of creative writing, as I did at Belmarsh. Her latest comment on the subject is that the prisoners don’t want another inmate teaching them. I find this unlikely because at least one inmate a day asks me to read and comment on something they’ve written, so I wonder what the truth really is. I won’t bother Wendy again as it’s obvious that someone else has made the decision, and she is simply carrying out instructions. In future I’ll just sit at the back of the classroom and continue working for myself.

  5.00 pm

  Board meeting. Sergio reports that he’s spoken to his brother again, and all the arrangements are in place. But he has an anxious look on his face.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m worried about my brother,’ he explains. ‘He’s a civil servant, an academic, not used to the way business is carried out in Colombia. It must have taken a great deal of courage for him to travel to the mountain where no one would give a second thought to killing you for a thousand dollars. Now we want him to hand over ten thousand in cash and then transport the emerald to the airport without any protection.’ Sergio pauses. ‘I fear for his life.’

  My first thought is that Sergio is trying to get off the hook now that he’s leaving these shores in a few weeks’ time.

  What are you suggesting?’ I venture.

  ‘Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until I return to Bogota, then I can handle the problem personally. I fear for my brother’s life,’ he repeats.

  Once Sergio is back in Bogota I will have lost all contact with him, not to mention my PS200. He has claimed many times during the past three weeks that several prisoners have offered to transfer money to his account in Bogota in exchange for a regular supply of drugs, but he has always turned them down. Has he in fact accepted every payment? Is that account now in surplus thus guaranteeing him an easy life once he’s back in Colombia? However, I feel I am left with no choice but to take the high road.

  ‘If you’re in any doubt about your brother’s safety,’ I tell him, let’s postpone the sending of the emerald until you return to Bogota.’

  Sergio looks relieved. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow,’ he says, ‘and then I’ll let you know our decision.’

  I close the board meeting because, given the circumstances, there’s not a lot more to discuss.

  6.00 pm

  Exercise. Shaun has finished his preliminary sketch of Darren, and is now making a further attempt at Dale.

  As Jimmy and I proceed on our usual circuit (there isn’t a lot of choice) we pass a group of three officers who are posted to keep an eye on us. One of them is a young, not unattractive, woman. Jimmy tells me that she has a ‘bit of a thing’ about Malcolm (ABH, punched a publican) who she will miss when he’s transferred to his D-cat prison on Monday.

  ‘The stories I could tell you about Malcolm’ says Jimmy.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I say, my ears pricking up.

  ‘No, no,’ says Jimmy. ‘I’m not saying a word about that man until I’m sure he’s safely ensconced at Latchmere House. He flattened that publican with one punch.’ He pauses. ‘But ask me again next week.’

  DAY 49 - WEDNESDAY 5 SEPTEMBER 2001

  9.00 pm

  I watch Ian Richardson on BBC 1 playing Dr Bell in a Conan Doyle drama described in The Times as the forerunner to Sherlock Holmes. I will never forget his portrayal of the chief whip in Michael Dobbs’ excellent House of Cards. I’ve known seven chief whips in my time - Willie Whitelaw, Francis Pym, Humphrey Atkins, John Wakeham, Tim Renton, Peter Brooke, and Richard Ryder - but even their combined talents lacked the Machiavellian skills of Francis Urquhart, under whose gaze I certainly wouldn’t have dared to miss a vote.

  11.00 pm

  I lie awake thinking about Sergio. Is he a liar, just another two-bit con man, or is he genuinely anxious about his brother’s safety? Only time will tell.

  5.51 am

  Locke has finished painting my cell, but is nervous about attempting the Magritte pattern Shaun has designed f
or the wall. Darren, as works manager, agrees that it’s far too elaborate, and should be cut down to about half the original, and even then he’s not sure I’ll get away with it. But as Darren points out, the worst they can do is make us return the paintwork to its original colour - cost, PS1. So it’s agreed that while I’m away at pottery, the redecorating will begin, and then we’ll have to wait and see how the spur officer reacts.

  9.00 am

  Pottery. Today the class settles down to do a still-life drawing. Anne, our tutor, and former Slade graduate, has taken a lot of trouble in gathering together objects of interest to make the drawing more of a challenge. She has set up in the centre of the room a small card table, and placed over it a cloth with a red and white diamond pattern. On the table she’s placed an empty wine bottle, a green vase and a fruit bowl. In the bowl she’s carefully arranged a bunch of grapes, a pineapple, three oranges, two apples and a peach. Paul, one of our other tutors, has supplied a cheese board and a lump of Cheddar.

  We all sit round the table in a circle and attempt to draw what we see in front of us. Keith (kidnapper), who is sitting next to me, will present the piece as part of his A-level submission. He understands both perspective and shading. I, on the other hand, do not. Anne helpfully points out - to everyone else’s amusement - that my peach is bigger than my pineapple.

  After an hour, we’re given a ten-minute break, when most of the prisoners go off for a quick drag. Shaun and I disappear with Anne into her office to discuss some ideas for a prison landscape which I hope to include in this book. I take up as much of her time as possible, because I can’t face another hour of still-life drawing. However, she seems keen to get back and see how the others are progressing.

  Anne is a very easy-going person and I can’t imagine her losing her temper. But when she walks back into the main room and sees the still-life table, she goes berserk. All that remains of the original offering is two apple cores, the top of a pineapple, three orange skins, a peach stone, a grape stalk with one grape attached and a cheese board with just a few morsels left on it. To be fair, what is left has been artistically arranged, and her pupils are studiously drawing the new composition.

  I burst out laughing, and it is only moments before Anne joins in. I am happy to report that Keith’s final effort was entered as part of his A level submission, and gained high marks for originality.

  2.00 pm

  Rugby. Over fifty prisoners turn out for the first training session of the season, which takes place on the main field adjacent to the football pitch. For an hour our coach, Andy Harley, puts us through passing and handling skills, and it soon becomes clear that several prisoners have never played the game before. For the last thirty minutes, the coach selects two sides for a game of touch rugby, which he asks me to referee. He tells me that I had refereed him some years before when a Newmarket XV visited Cambridge.

  Because several of the prisoners didn’t know the laws of the game, I had to be fairly liberal if I wasn’t going to have to blow the whistle every few seconds for some minor infringement. However, I was left with little choice when a large black man threw the ball twenty yards forward, as if he were playing American football. I blew the whistle and awarded the blue side a penalty. He immediately bore down on me, shouting expletives, while the others stood around and watched. I paced ten yards towards his goal line, explaining that in rugby you can’t swear at the referee. His language became riper, so I advanced another ten yards, by which time he had been joined by three of his mates who weren’t much smaller. Two of the coaches ran quickly onto the field, and Mr Harley explained, Jeffrey is right If you argue with the referee in rugby, it’s automatically a penalty, and you’d better get used to it, because when we have our first match next week, a neutral ref will be even stricter.’ Many of the prisoners looking on remained silent, as no one was sure what would happen next.

  ‘Sorry, Jeff,’ said the big black man, and added, ‘it’s just that we never played it like that in Brixton.’ He then rejoined his team.

  When I returned to the block, I went straight to the shower room, and a few minutes later was joined by Jimmy.

  ‘I scored two goals,’ he informs me, before adding, ‘I’ve just heard about you and Big Nes.’

  ‘Big Nes?’

  ‘Yeah, Big Nes from Block C. I’ve managed to go a whole year without speaking to him.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘He was Brixton heavyweight champion, and I once saw him knock a prisoner out with a single blow, and no one was sure what the poor bastard had done to annoy him.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ I said, shaking under the shower, ‘I’ll never be able to go into the exercise yard again.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Jimmy, ‘Big Nes is telling everyone you’re his new friend.’

  DAY 50 - THURSDAY 6 SEPTEMBER 2001

  5.00 pm

  I collect my supper from the hotplate, but Sergio avoids any eye contact.

  As it’s Wednesday, you have to change your sheets, blankets and towels after supper, so I was too preoccupied to go in search of him. Darren popped in while I was making up my bed to attach nine small mirrors to the wall using prison toothpaste as an adhesive. Regulations allow you only one five-by-five-inch mirror, so heaven knows how Darren got his hands on the other eight.

  6.00 pm

  I go in search of Sergio, and spot him on the phone. I return to my cell thinking he’ll probably visit me once he’s finished his call… he doesn’t.

  10.00 pm

  I’m exhausted and fall asleep fully dressed with the TV still on. Only later do I learn that it is an offence to fall asleep fully dressed, for which you can be put on report.

  6.57 am

  The cell is at last finished and no longer smells of paint. Locke has run a day and a half over time, which is no more than one would expect from any self-respecting painter and decorator. Darren comes in to pick up my washing, sighs, and declares the new decor reminds him of a 1970s council house. He leaves with his nose in the air and several bundles of washing over his shoulder.

  9.00 am

  Pottery is cancelled as once a fortnight the prison officers carry out a session of in-house - training, which means we’re banged up for the rest of the morning. I attempt yesterday’s Times crossword, and manage to complete three clues - quid, Turgenev and courtier. I can only improve.

  12 noon

  Lunch. When I go to pick up my meal from the hotplate, Sergio welcomes me with a broad grin, so I assume that after all those phone calls he has some news. However, I won’t have a chance to meet up with him until after I’ve returned from the gym.

  2.00 pm

  Gym. It’s circuit day. I try to keep up with Minnie the traveler, and manage to do ten press-ups to his fifteen, and maintain the same ratio for sit-ups, bench presses, squats, pull ups and back raises, but let’s face it, he’s only forty-five and in the sixth year of an eleven-year sentence. He’s hoping for parole next year At the end of the session, Minnie nods. He’s a man of few words, and a nod is considered a remarkable gesture for someone he’s only known for a month.

  5.00 pm

  Board meeting. Sergio begins by apologizing for not reporting back last night, but he had to call Bogota six times and, in the process, went through nineteen phonecards (PS38). To fund this, he had to sell his radio, a cassette player and an Adidas tracksuit. I hope I looked suitably guilty.

  He tells me that the paperwork for the emerald is now complete (insurance, registration, authentication certificate, export licence and tax) and it’s ready to be shipped. His brother, as you will recall, is a senior civil servant and therefore plays everything by the book. He has already told Sergio that he has no intention of losing his job over one small emerald. I feel even more guilty as I listen to the rest of Sergio’s Colombian report…

  6.00 pm

  Darren rushes into my cell. ‘A problem,’ he announces. Mr Meanwell has just witnessed him opening a registered parcel in reception. It turned out to be a pl
ate and bowl sent in by my son Will. ‘Prisoners are not allowed to send in gifts for other inmates, as it might be construed as a bribe, in exchange for drugs or protection.’ Darren warns me that Mr Meanwell would be calling for me at some point, and perhaps it might be wiser if I were to go and ‘bell the cat’. I shake my head. Meanwell is a wise old bird, and he’ll work out that a plate and bowl doesn’t constitute a bribe, and in any case, everyone is well aware of my views on drugs. He will also realize that I made no attempt to hide the gift. Will’s name was printed all across the box, together with a compliment slip from my PA, which would allow Mr Meanwell to place the offending plate and bowl with the rest of my confiscated kit downstairs if he was at all suspicious. like Nelson, Meanwell knows when to turn a blind eye.

  6.15 pm

  Exercise. It’s the final evening outing. The nights are drawing in and we won’t be allowed out again after six. I perambulate around the yard with Steve (not librarian Steve) who, because he’s a D-cat prisoner, has spent the day out with his family. I ask him if he enjoyed the experience (9 am to 3 pm).

  ‘Very much,’ he replied, ‘but only thanks to some help from the police.’

  The police?’ I repeat.

  He explains. One of the activities Steve most misses while he’s in jail is a regular swim, so whenever he has a day release, he and the family go off to the local swimming pool. On this occasion they left their Ford in the municipal car park, and took the children to the pool. When they returned, his wife couldn’t find her car keys, until one of the children spotted them on the back seat. Steve ran all the way to the nearest police station explaining his dilemma, exacerbated by the fact that if he failed to return to Wayland by three o’clock, he would automatically lose his D-cat status. The police happily broke into his car, and even phoned Wayland to confirm what happened. Steve arrived back at the front gate with ten minutes to spare.