A Prison Diary Purgatory (2003) Page 2

  ‘No, we both use the same chapel. Father Christopher has so many parishes outside the prison to cover each Sunday he holds his service on a Saturday morning at ten thirty.’ Mr Framlington is interested to discover why I wish to attend both services. I tell him about my daily diary, and my failure to hear Father Kevin’s sermon while at Belmarsh. He sighs.

  ‘You’ll quickly find out that Father Christopher preaches a far better sermon than I do.’

  2.40 pm

  The first setback of the day. Mr Newport returns, the bearer of bad news. Six new prisoners have arrived this afternoon, and once again I will have to share. I learn later that there are indeed six new inductees but as the prison still has several empty beds there is no real need for me to share. However, there are several reporters hanging around outside the prison gates, so the authorities don’t want to leave the press with the impression I might be receiving preferential treatment. Mr Newport claims he has selected a more suitable person to share with me. Perhaps this time it won’t be a Stanley-knife stabber, just a machete murderer.

  I transfer all my personal possessions out of one of the cupboards and stuff them into the other, along with the prison kit.

  3.18 pm

  My new room-mate appears carrying his plastic bag. He introduces himself as Jules (see plate section). He’s thirty-five and has a five-year sentence for drug dealing. He’s already been told that I don’t smoke.

  I watch him carefully as he starts to unpack, and I begin to relax. He has an unusual number of books, as well as an electric chessboard. I feel confident the evening viewing will not be a rerun of Top of the Pops and motorbike scrambling. At five to four I leave him to continue his unpacking while I make my way to the gym for another induction session.

  3.55 pm

  Twenty new inmates are escorted to the gym. There are no doors to be unlocked on our unimpeded journey to the other side of the building. I also notice that on the way we pass a library. I never even found the library at Belmarsh.

  The gym is an even bigger shock. It’s quite magnificent. Wayland has a full-size basketball court, which is fully equipped for badminton and tennis. The gym instructor asks us to take a seat on a bench where we’re handed forms to fill in, giving such details as age, weight, height and sports we are interested in.

  ‘My name is John Maiden,’ he tells us, ‘and I’m happy to be called John.’ I never learnt the first name of any officer at Belmarsh. He tells us the different activities available: cricket, basketball, badminton, football, rugby and, inevitably, weight training. He then takes us into the next room, an area overcrowded with bars, dumb-bells and weights. Once again I’m disappointed to discover that there is only one treadmill, three rowing machines and no step machine. However, there are some very strange-looking bikes, the likes of which I’ve never seen before.

  A gym orderly (a prisoner who has obviously been trained by Mr Maiden) takes us round the room and describes how to use each piece of equipment. He carries out the task most professionally, and should have no trouble finding a job once he leaves prison. I’m listening intently about bench pressing when I find Mr Maiden standing by my side.

  ‘Are you still refereeing rugby?’ he asks.

  ‘No. I gave up about ten years ago,’ I tell him. ‘Once the laws started to change every season I just couldn’t keep up. In any case I found that even if I only refereed veteran teams I couldn’t keep up, quite literally.’

  ‘Don’t let knowledge of the laws worry you,’ said Mr Maiden, ‘we’ll still be able to use you.’

  The session ends with a look at the changing room, the shower facilities and, more importantly, clean lavatories. I’m issued with a plastic gym card and look forward to returning to my old training regime.

  5.00 pm

  Back in the cell, I find Jules sitting on the top bunk reading. I settle down to another session of writing before we’re called for supper.

  6.00 pm

  I select the vegetarian pie and chips and am handed the obligatory yellow lollipop, which is identical to those we were given at Belmarsh. If it’s the same company who makes and supplies them to every one of Her Majesty’s prisons, that must be a contract worth having. Although it’s only my third meal since I arrived, I think I’ve already spotted the power behind the hotplate. He’s a man of about thirty-five, six foot three and must weigh around twenty-seven stone. As I pass him I ask if we could meet later. He nods in the manner of a man who knows that in the kingdom of the blind… I can only hope that I’ve located Wayland’s ‘Del Boy’.

  After supper we are allowed to be out of our cells for a couple of hours (Association) until we’re banged up at eight.

  What a contrast to Belmarsh. I use the time to roam around the corridors and familiarize myself with the layout. The main office is on the first landing and is the hub of the whole wing. From there everything is an offshoot. I also check where all the phones are situated, and when a prisoner comes off one he warns me, ‘Never use the phone on the induction landing, Jeff, because the conversations are taped. Use this one. It’s a screw-free line.’

  I thank him and call Mary in Cambridge. She’s relieved that I’ve rung as she has no way of contacting me, and can’t come to see me until she’s been sent a visiting order. I promise to put one in tomorrow’s post, and then she may even be able to drive across next Tuesday or Wednesday. I remind her to bring some form of identification and that she mustn’t try to pass anything over to me, not even a letter.

  Mary then tells me that she’s accepted an invitation to go on the Today programme with John Humphrys. She intends to ask Baroness Nicholson to withdraw her accusation that I stole money from the Kurds, so that I can be reinstated as a D-cat prisoner and quickly transferred to an open prison. I tell Mary that I consider this an unlikely scenario.

  ‘She’s not decent enough to consider such a Christian act,’ I warn my wife.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Mary replies, ‘but I will be able to refer to Lynda Chafer’s parliamentary reply on the subject and ask why Ms Nicholson wasn’t in the House that day if she cares so much about the Kurds, or why had she not at least read the report in Hansard the following morning.’ Mary adds that the BBC have told her that they accept I have no case to answer.

  ‘When are you going on?’

  ‘Next Wednesday or Thursday, so it’s important I see you before then.’

  I quickly agree as my units are running out. I then ask Mary to warn James that I’ll phone him at the office at eleven tomorrow morning, and will call her again on Sunday evening. My units are now down to ten so I say a quick goodbye.

  I continue my exploration of the wing and discover that the main Association room and the servery/hotplate double up. The room is about thirty paces by twenty and has a full-size snooker table which is so popular that you have to book a week in advance. There is also a pool table and a table-tennis table, but no TV, as it would be redundant when there’s one in every cell.

  I’m walking back upstairs when I bump into the hotplate man. He introduces himself as Dale, and invites me to join him in his cell, telling me on the way that he’s serving eight years for wounding with intent to endanger life. He leads me down a flight of stone steps onto the lower-ground floor. This is an area I would never have come across, as it’s reserved for enhanced prisoners only - the chosen few who have proper jobs and are considered by the officers to be trustworthy. As you can’t be granted enhanced status for at least three months, I will never enjoy such luxury, as I am hoping to be moved to a D-cat fairly quickly.

  Although Dale’s cell is exactly the same size as mine, there the similarity ends. His brick walls are in two tones of blue, and he has nine five-by-five-inch steel mirrors over his wash-basin shaped in a large triangle. In our cell, Jules and I have one mirror between us. Dale also has two pillows, both soft, and an extra blanket. On the wall are photos of his twin sons, but no sign of a wife - just the centrefold of a couple of Chinese girls, Blu-tacked above his bed.
He pours me a Coca-Cola, my first since William and James visited me in Belmarsh, and asks if he can help in any way.

  In every way, I suspect. ‘I would like a soft pillow, a fresh towel every day and my washing taken care of.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says, like a banker who can make an electronic transfer of a million dollars to New York by simply pressing a button - as long as you have a million dollars.

  ‘Anything else? Phonecards, food, drink?’

  ‘I could do with some more phonecards and several items from the canteen.’

  ‘I can also solve that problem,’ Dale says. ‘Just write out a list of what you want and I’ll have everything delivered to your cell.’

  ‘But how do I pay you?’

  That’s the easy part. Send in a postal order and ask for the money to be placed against my account. Just make sure the name Archer isn’t involved, otherwise there’s bound to be an investigation. I won’t charge you double-bubble, just bubble and a half.’

  Three or four other prisoners stroll into Dale’s cell, so he immediately changes the subject. Within minutes the atmosphere feels more like a club than a prison, as they all seem so relaxed in each other’s company. Jimmy, who’s serving a three-and-a-half year sentence for being an Ecstasy courier (carrying packages from one club to another), wants to know if I play cricket

  The occasional charity match, about twice a year I admit.

  ‘Good, then you’ll be batting number three next week, against D wing.’

  ‘But I usually go in at number eleven’ I protest, ‘and have been known to bat as high as number ten.’

  Then you’ll be first wicket down at Wayland,’ says Jimmy. ‘By the way, we haven’t won a match this year. Our two best batsmen got their D-cats at the beginning of the season and were transferred to Latchmere House in Richmond.’

  After about an hour of their company, I become aware of the other big difference on the enhanced wing - the noise, or rather the lack of noise. You just don’t hear the incessant stereos attempting to out-blare each other.

  At five to eight I make my way back to my cell and am met on the stairs by an officer who tells me that I cannot visit the enhanced area again as it’s off limits. ‘And if you do, Archer’ he adds, I’ll put you on report, which could mean a fortnight being added to your sentence.’

  There’s always someone who feels he has to prove how powerful he is, especially if he can show off in front of other prisoners - ‘I put Archer in his place, didn’t I?’ In Belmarsh it was the young officer with his record bookings. I have a feeling I’ve just met Wayland’s.

  Back in my cell, I find Jules is playing chess against a phantom opponent on his electronic board. I settle down to write an account of the day. There are no letters to read as no one has yet discovered I’m in Wayland.

  8.15 pm

  Dale arrives with a soft pillow and an extra blanket. He’s disappeared before I can thank him.

  DAY 24 - SATURDAY 11 AUGUST 2001

  5.07 am

  I’ve managed to sleep for six hours, thanks to Jules hanging a blanket from the top bunk, so that it keeps out the fluorescent arc lights that glare through the bars all night. At 5.40 I place my feet on the linoleum floor and wait. Jules doesn’t stir. So far no snoring or talking in his sleep. Last night Jules made an interesting observation about sleep: if s the only time when you’re not in jail, and it cuts your sentence by a third. Is this the reason why so many prisoners spend so much time in bed? Dale adds that some of them are ‘gouching out’ after chasing the dragon. This can cause them to sleep for twelve to fourteen hours, and helps kill the weekend, as well as themselves.

  8.15 am

  The cell door is unlocked just as I’m coming to the end of my first writing session. During that time I’ve managed a little over two thousand words.

  I go downstairs to the hotplate hoping to pick up a carton of milk, only to be told by Dale that it’s not available at the weekend.

  9.00 am

  I’m first in the queue at the office, to pick up a VO for Mary. In a C-cat you’re allowed one visit every two weeks. A prisoner can invite up to three adults and two children under the age of sixteen. The majority of prisoners are between the ages of nineteen and thirty, so a wife or partner plus a couple of young children would be the norm. As my children are twenty-nine and twenty-seven, it will be only Mary and the boys who I’ll be seeing regularly.

  10.00 am

  I attend my first gym session. Each wing is allowed to send twenty inmates, so after my inability to get on the list at Belmarsh, I make sure that I’m at the starting gate on time.

  The main gym is taken up with four badminton matches - like snooker it’s a sport that is so popular in prison that you have to book a court a week in advance. The weight-training room next door is packed with heaving and pumping musclemen, and by the time I arrive, someone is already jogging on the one treadmill. I begin my programme with some light stretching before going on the rowing machine. I manage only 1,800 metres in ten minutes, compared with the usual 2,000 I do back in the gym on Albert Embankment. But at least that leaves me something to aim for. I manage a little light weight training before the running machine becomes free. I start at five miles an hour for six minutes to warm up, before moving up to eight miles an hour for another ten minutes. Just to give you an idea how feeble this is, Roger Bannister’s four-minute mile in 1952 was at fifteen miles an hour, and I once saw Seb Coe do twelve miles an hour for ten minutes - hold your breath - at the age of forty.

  And he was only warming up for a judo session. I end with ten minutes of stretching and a gentle warm down. Most of the prisoners walk into the gym and go straight on to the heavy weights without bothering to warm up. Later they wonder why they pull muscles and are then out of action for the next couple of weeks.

  I return to my cell and try out the shower on our wing. The wash room has four showers which produce twice as many jets of water as those at Belmarsh. Also, when you press the button the water continues to flow for at least thirty seconds before you have to press it again. There are two young black lads already showering who, I notice, keep their boxer shorts on (I later learn this is because they’re Muslims). However, one problem I still encounter is that I’m allowed only two small, thin towels (three by one foot) a week. If I intend to go to the gym five days a week, followed by a shower… I’ll have to speak to Dale about the problem.

  I give James a call at the flat and ask him to send PS100 in postal orders to Dale at Wayland so I can buy a razor, some shampoo, a dozen phonecards as well as some extra provisions. I also ask him to phone Griston Post Office and order The Times and Telegraph every day, Sundays included. James says he’ll ask Alison to call them on Monday morning, because he’s going on holiday and will be away for a couple of weeks. I’ll miss him, even on the phone, and it won’t be that long before Will has to return to America.

  12.00 noon

  I skip lunch because I need to start the second draft of today’s script, and in any case, it looks quite inedible. I open a packet of crisps and bite into an apple while I continue writing.

  2.00 pm

  When the cell door is unlocked again at two o’clock, Dale is standing outside and says he’s been given clearance to invite me down to the enhancement wing. The officer I bumped into yesterday must be off duty.

  It’s like entering a different world. We go straight to Dale’s cell, and the first thing he asks me is if I play backgammon. He produces a magnificent leather board with large ivory counters. While I’m considering what to do with a six and a three, never a good opening throw, he points to a plastic bag under the bed. I look inside: a Gillette Mach3 razor, two packets of blades, a bar of Cusson’s soap, some shaving foam, a bunch of bananas, a packet of cornflakes and five phonecards. I think it unwise to ask any questions. I thank Dale and hand him my next shopping list. I assure him funds are on the way. We shake hands on a bubble and a half. He’ll supply whatever I need from the canteen and charge me
an extra 50 per cent. The alternative is to be starved, unshaven or cut to ribbons by a prison razor. This service will also include extra towels, my laundry washed every Thursday, plus a soft pillow, all at an overall expense of around PS30 a week.

  We are once again joined by two other inmates, Darren (see plate section) and Jimmy (transporting Ecstasy). During the afternoon I play both of them at backgammon, win one and lose one, which seems acceptable to everyone present. Dale leaves us to check in for work as No. 1 on the hotplate, so we all move across to Darren’s cell. During a game of backgammon I learn that Darren was caught selling cannabis, a part-time occupation, supplementing his regular job as a construction contractor. I ask him what he plans to do once he leaves prison in a year’s time having completed three years of a six-year sentence. He admits he’s not sure. I suspect, like so many inmates who can make fifty to a hundred thousand pounds a year selling drugs, he’ll find it difficult to settle for a nine to five job.

  Whenever he’s contemplating his next move, I try to take in the surroundings. You can learn so much about a person from their cell. On the shelves are copies of the Oxford Shorter Dictionary (two volumes), the Oxford Book of Quotations (he tells me he tries to learn one a day) and a dozen novels that are clearly not on loan from the library. As the game progresses, he asks me if Rupert Brooke owned the Old Vicarage, or just lived there. I tell him that the great war poet only resided there while working on his fellowship dissertation at King’s College.

  Jimmy tells me that they’re plotting to have me moved down to the enhanced wing as soon as I’ve completed my induction. This is the best news I’ve had since arriving at Wayland. The cell door swings open, and Mr Thompson looks round.