Purgatory Read online

  I have never seen a more frightened man in my life. What he didn’t know was that I was even more terrified than he was. I couldn’t forget the punishment meted out in Belmarsh for being a grass - hot water mixed with sugar thrown in your face - or the man with the four razor-blade scars administered in the shower. I quickly leave the exercise yard and go back to my cell, pull the door closed, and sit on the end of the bed, shaking.

  4.00 pm

  When Jules returns, I’m still shaking. I go off in search of Dale.

  ‘I know that bastard’ says Dale. ‘Just leave him to me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I ask

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘I have to. I’m trying not to cause any trouble.’

  ‘He won’t trouble you again, that I guarantee.’ He then raises his twenty-seven-stone frame from the end of the bed and departs.

  4.30 pm

  Association: I emerge from the enhanced wing with two Mars bars, having played a couple of games of backgammon with Darren. I become aware of the most incredible uproar emanating from the games room. Am I about to experience my first riot? I glance anxiously round the door to see a group of West Indians playing dominoes. Every time they place a domino on the table, it’s slammed down as if a judge were trying to bring a rowdy courtroom to order. This is followed by screaming delight more normally associated with Lara scoring a century at Sabina Park. The officer on duty, Mr Nutbourne, and the other inmates playing snooker, pool and table tennis don’t seem at all disturbed by this. I stroll across to join the dozen or so West Indians and decide to watch a couple of games. One of them looks up from the table, and shouts, ‘You wanna try your luck, man?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply, and take a seat vacated by one of the players.

  A West Indian with greying hair divides the dominoes between the four of us and we each end up with seven pieces. The player on my right is able to begin the game as he has a double six. He places his prize with a thump in the middle of the table, which is followed by shouts and screams from the assembled gathering. The game progresses for four rounds without any player failing to place a domino on the end of the line. During the next round the player on my left doesn’t have a three or six, so passes and, as I have a six, I place my domino quietly on the table. I notice the brothers are becoming a little less noisy. By this time a large crowd has gathered round until only two of us are left with one domino; I have a five and a four, but it is my opponent’s turn. If he’s going to win, he has to hit, and hit now. The brothers fall almost silent. Can the player on my left thwart me and win the game? I pray for the second time that day. He has neither a four nor a one, and passes without a murmur. I try desperately to keep a poker face, while holding my last domino in the palm of my hand. A forest of black eyes are staring at me. I quietly place my four next to the four on the right-hand end and so much bedlam breaks out that even Mr Nutbourne decides to find out what’s going on. I rise to leave.

  ‘Another game, man? Another game?’ they demand.

  ‘How kind of you’ I say, ‘but I must get back to my writing. It’s been a pleasure to play you.’ This is followed by much slapping of hands. I depart quickly, aware that if I were to play a second round, the myth would be shattered. Frankly I know nothing of the subtleties of the game, having just brought a new meaning to the phrase ‘beginner’s luck.

  5.45 pm

  Supper. When I reach the hotplate, Dale takes my plastic bowl and, just as Tony always did at Belmarsh, decides what I shall be allowed to eat. He selects a vegetarian quiche, a few lettuce leaves carefully extracted from a large bowl and a tomato. I will no longer have to think about what to eat as long as Dale’s on duty.

  6.00 pm

  Jules and I are banged up again until eight tomorrow morning. Fourteen hours in a cell seven paces by three, just in case you’ve forgotten. As it’s Sunday, there are no letters awaiting me, so I just go over my script before returning to Hermann Hesse.

  9.00 pm

  Jules and I watch Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline in French Kiss, which has us both laughing, but then we are a captive audience.

  10.54 pm

  I settle my head on my new soft pillow. It isn’t goose down, or even duck feather - just foam rubber - but I know luxury when I feel it.

  DAY 26 - MONDAY 13 AUGUST 2001

  6.03 am

  Yesterday’s early morning commotion in the corridor turned out to be a prisoner needing medication and the assistance of a Listener. He had pressed the emergency call button. There’s one in every cell next to the door which, when pressed, illuminates a small red light in the corridor, while another flashes up in the main office. It is known by the inmates as room service, although prison orders state that it must be used only in emergencies, otherwise you will be placed on report. I couldn’t find out why the prisoner needed the help of a Listener, but as it was his first night at Wayland, it could have been for any number of reasons. Remembering my first night, I can only sympathize. I write for two hours.

  8.15 am

  Breakfast. Sugar Puffs (mine), milk (theirs). One egg on a slice of toast (theirs), a second slice of toast (theirs), marmalade (mine).

  10.00 am

  Banged up for two hours, which I plan on using to work on the second draft of this morning’s script. That’s assuming there are no interruptions - there are two.

  10.49 am

  The cell door is unlocked by Mr Newport, who wants to talk to Jules about his application for a change of status from C-cat to D-cat. Jules explains that he has written his reasons in a letter so that they (the authorities) will have all the relevant details on record. Mr Newport glances over the two pages and promises to arrange an interview with Mr Stainthorpe, the classifications officer. The cell door is banged shut.

  11.09 am

  The cell door is opened a second time. On this occasion it’s Mr Nutbourne, who says, ‘Now tell me, Jeffrey’ (the first officer to call me by my Christian name) ‘do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘You decide,’ I suggest.

  ‘You won’t be going to C wing after all, because we’re going to move you down to join your friends on the enhanced corridor.’

  ‘So what’s the bad news?’ I ask.

  Unfortunately, a cell won’t be available until 29 August, when the next prisoner on that corridor will have completed his sentence.’

  ‘But you could still put me in a single cell on another part of the block.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ he says with a grin, before slamming the door closed.

  12 noon

  Lunch: soup (minestrone) and a piece of brown bread (fresh). Couldn’t face the meat pie. Heaven knows what animal’s inside it..

  2.00 pm

  Gym: I’m the first to set foot in the gym, only to find that the running machine has broken down. Damn, damn, damn.

  I warm up and stretch for a few minutes before doing ten minutes on the rower. I manage 1,909 metres, a vast improvement on yesterday. A little light weight training before moving on to a bicycle, the like of which I have never seen before. I can’t get the hang of it until Mr Maiden comes to my rescue and explains that once you’ve set the speed, the peddles just revolve until you stop them. He sets the pace at thirty kilometres per hour, and leaves me to get on with it. I sweat away for ten minutes, and then realize I don’t know how to turn it off. I shout to Everett (GBH) for help - a black man who I sat next to during the dominoes encounter - but he just grins, or simply doesn’t understand my predicament. When my screaming goes up a decibel, Mr Maiden finally comes to my rescue. He can’t stop laughing as he shows me which button I have to press to bring the machine to a halt. It’s marked STOP - in red. I fall off the bike, exhausted, which causes much mirth among the other prisoners, especially the dominoes players. I use the rest of my time lying on a rubber mat recovering.

  As the prisoners begin to make their way back to their cells - no gates, no searches - I’m called to Mr Maiden’s office. Once his door
is closed and no other prisoner can overhear, he asks, Would you like to join the staff on Friday morning to assist with a special needs group from Dereham Adult Training Centre?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ I tell him.

  Jimmy is the only other prisoner who presently helps that group, so perhaps you should have a word with him.’

  I thank Mr Maiden and return to my cell. I don’t immediately take a shower as I am still sweating from the bicycle experience, so I use the time to call my PA, Alison. I tell her I need more A4 pads and pens because I’m currently writing two to three thousand words a day. I also need stamped envelopes addressed to her - large A4 size for the manuscript and slightly smaller ones so I can turn round my daily postbag. Alison tells me that because of the sackfuls of letters I am receiving both in prison and at the office, as well as having to type two scripts at once, she’s putting in even longer hours than when I was a free man.

  ‘And to think that you were worried about losing your job if I were to end up in jail,’ I remind her. Just wait until I get my hands back on my novel. You’ll be working weekends as well.’

  Alison confirms that the last five chapters of Belmarsh have arrived safely, thanks to the cooperation of Roy, the censor. No such problem at Wayland, where you just drop your envelope in a postbox and off it goes. I remind her that I need the Belmarsh script back as soon as possible, to go over it once again before I let Jonathan Lloyd (my agent) read it for the first time. My final request is to be put through to Will.

  He’s in Cambridge with Mary.’

  Although I check to see how many units are left on the phonecard, I haven’t needed to worry about the problem lately as Dale seems to be able to arrange an endless supply of them.

  I dial Cambridge and catch Mary, who is just leaving to chair a meeting at Addenbrooke’s Hospital, where she is deputy chairman. After a few words, she passes me over to Will. He is full of news and tells me Mum has been preparing in her usual diligent way for the Today interview. Since he spoke to me last, Andy Bearpark, who covered Kurdish affairs at the Overseas Development Administration during the relevant time, confirms he has been contacted by KPMG regarding the audit. Will feels the police will be left with little choice but to complete their initial report quickly and reinstate my D-cat. I thank him, particularly for the support he’s giving his mother. I then tell him that I’ve finished the Belmarsh section of the diaries and ask if he’s found time to read the odd chapter.

  ‘I just can’t face it, Dad. It’s bad enough that you’re there.’ I tell him that I have already decided that there will be three volumes of the prison diary: Hell, Purgatory and Heaven, with an epilogue called ‘Back to Earth’. This at least makes him laugh. As I’m telling him this, Jimmy passes me in the corridor and I turn to ask if he could spare me a moment. He nods, and waits until I finish my conversation with Will.

  Jimmy has also heard that I may be joining them on the enhanced wing, but wonders if Nutboume’s information came from on high.

  ‘Exactly my thoughts,’ I tell him. I then mention that Mr Maiden has invited me to join them in the gym on Friday morning to assist with the special needs group. I’m surprised by his reaction.

  ‘You jammy bastard,’ says Jimmy. ‘I had to wait a couple of years before I was invited to join that shift, and you get asked after four days.’ Funnily enough I hadn’t thought of it as a perk, but simply as doing something worthwhile.

  Jimmy invites me down to his cell for a drink, my only chance of having a Diet Coke. We’re joined by Jason, who spotted me in the corridor. Jason hands me a pair of slippers and a wash bag, which are normally only issued to enhanced prisoners.

  ‘You jammy bastard,’ repeats Jimmy, before he starts going on about his weight. Jimmy is six foot one, slim and athletic (see plate section). He trains every day in the gym and is known by the inmates as Brad Pitt.

  ‘More like Arm Pitt’ says Jason.

  Jimmy smiles and continues to grumble, ‘I need to put on some weight.’

  ‘I like you as you are, darling,’ Jason replies.

  I decide this is an ideal opportunity to ask them how drugs are smuggled into prison. Both throw out one-liners to my myriad questions, and between them continue my education on the subject.

  Of the six major drugs - cannabis, speed, Ecstasy, cocaine, crack cocaine and heroin - only cannabis and heroin are in daily demand in most prisons. Each wing or block has a dealer, who in turn has runners who handle any new prisoners when they arrive on the induction wing. It’s known as Drug Induction. This is usually carried out in the yard during the long exercise break each morning. The price ranges from double the street value to as much as a tenfold mark-up depending on supply and demand; even in prison free enterprise prevails. Payment can be made in several ways. The most common currency is phonecards or tobacco. You can also send in cash to be credited to the dealer’s account, but most dealers don’t care for that route, as even the dumbest officer can work out what they’re up to. The preferred method is for the recipient of the drugs to arrange for a friend to send cash to the dealer’s contact on the outside, usually his girlfriend, wife or partner. Just as there is a canteen list of prices taped to the wall outside the main office, so there is an accepted but, unprinted list, of available drugs in any prison. For example, the price of five joints of cannabis would work out at around PS10 or five phonecards; a short line of cocaine would cost about PS10, while heroin, a joey or a bag, which is about half a gram, can cost as much as PS20.

  Next we discuss the bigger problem of how to get the gear into prison. Jason tells me that there are several ways. The most obvious is via visits, but this is not common as the punishment for being caught usually fits the crime, for both the visitor and the prisoner. If you are caught, you automatically lose your visits and the use of phonecards. For most prisoners this is their only lifeline to the outside world. Few, other than desperate heroin addicts, are willing to sacrifice being able to see their family and friends once a fortnight or speak to them regularly on the phone. So most dealers revert to other safer methods because were they to be caught twice, they not only lose the right to a phonecard as well as a visit, but will be charged with the offence and can expect to have time added to their sentence.

  ‘What are the other methods?’ I ask.

  ‘You can arrange to have gear thrown over the wall at a designated time so it can be picked up by a gardener or a litter collector. Helps to supplement their seven pounds a week wages,’ Jason explains. ‘But home leave or town visits are still the most common source of drugs coming in. A clever courier can earn some extra cash prior to being released.’

  ‘Mind you,’ adds Jimmy, ‘if you’re caught bringing gear in, not only do you lose all your privileges, but you can be transferred to an A-cat with time added to your sentence.’

  ‘What about by post?’ I ask.

  ‘Sending in a ballpoint pen is a common method,’ Jason says. ‘You half fill the tube with heroin and leave the bottom half full of ink, so that when the screws remove the little cap on the bottom they can only see the ink. They could break the tube in half, but that might mean having to replace as many as a hundred biros a week. But the most common approach still involves brown envelopes and underneath stamps.’

  ‘Envelopes?’ I ask.

  ‘Down the side of most large brown envelopes is a flap. If you lift it carefully you can place a line of heroin along the inside and carefully seal it back up again. When it comes in the post it looks like junk mail or a circular, but it could be hiding up to a hundred quid’s worth of skag.’

  ‘One prisoner went over the top recently,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’d been enhanced and put on the special wing. One of our privileges is that we can hang curtains in our cell. When his selected curtains arrived, prison staff found the seams were weighed down with heroin. The inmate was immediately locked up in segregation and lost all his privileges.’

  ‘And did he also get time added to his sentence?’

  ‘No,
’ Jason replies. ‘He claimed that the curtains were sent in by his co-defendant from the original trial in an attempt to stitch him up.’ I like the use of the words ‘stitch him up’ in this context. ‘Not only did he get away with it,’ continues Jimmy, ‘but the co-defendant ended up being sentenced to five years. Both men were as guilty as sin, but neither of them ended up in jail for the crime they had committed,’ Jimmy adds. Not the first time I’ve heard that.

  ‘But you can also have your privileges taken away and time added if you’re caught taking drugs,’ Jason reminds me.

  True’ says Jimmy, ‘but there are even ways around that. In 1994 the government brought in mandatory drug testing to catch prisoners who were taking illegal substances. But if you’re on heroin, all you have to do is purchase a tube of smoker’s toothpaste from the canteen and swallow a mouthful soon after you’ve taken the drug.’

  ‘How does that help?’ I ask.

  ‘If they ask for a urine sample’ explains Darren, ‘smoker’s toothpaste will cloud it, and they have to wait another twenty-four hours before testing you again. By the time they conduct a second test, a couple of gallons of water will have cleared any trace of heroin out of your system. You may be up all night peeing, but you don’t lose your privileges or have time added.’

  ‘But that’s not possible with cannabis?’ I ask.

  ‘No, cannabis remains in your bloodstream for at least a month. But it’s still big business whatever the risk, and you can be fairly certain that the dealers never touch any drugs themselves. They all have their mules and their sellers. They end up only taking a small cut, and are rarely caught.’