A Prison Diary Read online

  During the trial, he told the jury that he’d killed her to prove how much he loved her. He was sentenced to life with no prospect of parole.

  ‘Just remember to avoid him at any cost,’ says Vincent. ‘He’d slit your throat for a half-ounce of tobacco, and as he’s going to spend the rest of his life in here, nothing can be added to his sentence whatever he gets up to.’

  I feel sure he’s just the sort of fellow Mr Justice Potts was hoping I’d bump into.

  The hooter blasts out, the unsubtle indication that our forty-five minutes is up. We are called in, block by block, so that we can return to our individual cells in smaller groups. As I’m on Block Three, I have to hang around and wait to be called. When they call Two, I notice that the double murderer is striding purposefully towards me. I bow my head hoping he won’t notice, but when I look up again, I see he’s staring directly at me and still heading in my direction. I look towards the four officers standing by the gate who stiffen, while the group of black men up against the fence stare impassively on. The double murderer comes to a halt a few paces in front of me.

  ‘Can I speak to you?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply, trying to sound as if we were casual acquaintances at a garden party.

  ‘It’s just that I would like to say how much I enjoy your books, particularly The Prodigal Daughter. I’ve been in here for eleven years and I’ve read everything you’ve written. I just wanted to let you know.’ I’m speechless. ‘And by the way,’ he adds, ‘if you want that bitch of a secretary bumped off, I’ll be happy to arrange it for you.’

  I really thought I was going to be sick as I watched him disappear through the gate. Thank God, into another block.

  5.00 pm

  I’m only locked up for a couple of hours before the bell goes for supper. I pick up my tray and grab a tin of fruit that was donated by James – my first Listener – the night before he was transferred to Whitemoor. When I join the hotplate queue, I ask Vincent if he has a tin opener. He points to an opener attached to the wall on the far side of the room, ‘But you’re not allowed to open anything before you’ve collected your grub.’ I notice that he’s holding a tin of Shipham’s Spam.

  ‘I’ll swap you half my tin of fruit for half your Spam.’

  ‘Agreed,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring it up to your cell as soon as I’ve collected my meal.’

  Once again I can’t find anything at the hotplate that looks even vaguely edible, and settle for a couple of potatoes.

  ‘You ought to go for the vegetarian option,’ says a voice.

  I look round to see Pat. ‘Mary won’t be pleased when she finds out you’re not eating, and let’s face it, the vegetarian option is one of the few things they can’t make a complete mess of.’ I take Pat’s advice and select a vegetable fritter. As we pass the end of the counter, another plastic bag containing tomorrow’s breakfast is handed to me. ‘By the way,’ says Pat pointing to the man who has just served me, ‘that’s Peter the press, he’ll wash and iron that shirt for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Pat,’ I say, and turning back to Peter add, ‘My children are coming to visit tomorrow and I want to look my best for them.’

  ‘I’ll make you look as if you’ve just stepped out of Savile Row,’ Peter says. ‘I’ll stop by your cell and pick up the shirt once I’ve finished serving breakfast.’

  I move on and collect a Thermos flask of hot water from another prisoner, half for a Cup a Soup, half for shaving. As I climb the yellow iron steps back to Cell 29 on the second floor, I overhear Mark, the Arsenal supporter, having a word with Mr Tuck, the officer on duty. He’s pointing out, very courteously, that there are no ethnic representatives among those selected to be Listeners, tea-boys or servers behind the hotplate, despite the fact that they make up over 50 per cent of the prison population. Mr Tuck, who strikes me as a fair man, nods his agreement, and says he’ll have a word with the Governor. Whether he did or not, I have no way of knowing.*

  When I arrive back on the second floor Vincent is already waiting for me. I pour half my fruit into his bowl, while he cuts his Spam into two, forking over the larger portion, which I place on the plate next to my vegetable fritter and two potatoes. He also gives me a white T-shirt, which I’m wearing as I write these words.

  The cell doors are left open for about ten minutes during which time Peter the press arrives and takes away my dirty white shirt, a pair of pants and socks. ‘I’ll have them back to you first thing tomorrow, squire,’ he promises, and is gone before I can thank him and ask what he would like in return.

  My final visitor for the day is Kevin, my Listener, who tells me there’s a rumour that I’m going to be moved to Block One tomorrow, where the regime is a little bit more relaxed and not quite as noisy. I’m sorry to learn this as I’m beginning to make a few friends – Kevin, James, Pat, Vincent, Peter and Mark – and am starting to get the hang of how Block Three works. Kevin sits on the end of the bed and chats as James had warned me he would; but I welcome the company, not to mention the fact that while a Listener is in the room, the door has to be left open.

  Kevin had a visit this afternoon from his wife and children. He tells me his fourteen-year-old is now taller than he is, and his nine-year-old can’t understand why he doesn’t come home at night.

  Mr Gilford, the duty officer, hovers at my cell door, a hint that even though Kevin is a Listener, it’s perhaps time for him to move on. I ask Mr Gilford if I can empty the remains of my meal in the dustbin at the end of the landing – only one bite taken from the fritter. He nods. The moment I return, the cell door is slammed shut.

  I sit on the end of the bed and begin to go through my letters. Just over a hundred in the first post, and not one of them condemning me. Amazing how the British people do not reflect the views of the press – I’ve kept every letter just in case my lawyers want to inspect them: three Members of Parliament, David Faber, John Gummer and Peter Lilley, and two members of the Lords, Bertie Denham and Robin Ferrers, are among those early writers. One former minister not only says how sorry he is to learn that I’m in jail, but adds that Mr Justice Potts’s summing-up was a travesty of justice, and the sentence inexplicable.

  I begin to make a mental list of my real friends.

  Day 6

  Tuesday 24 July 2001

  5.44 am

  I seem to have settled back into my usual sleep pattern. I wake around 5.30 am, rise at six, and begin my first two-hour writing session just as I would if I were in the tranquillity of my own home. I continue to write uninterrupted until eight.

  I make extensive notes on what has taken place during the day, and then the following morning I pen the full script, which usually comes to about three thousand words. I also scribble a note whenever I overhear a casual remark, or a piece of information that might be forgotten only moments later.

  I am just about to shave – a process I now take some considerable time over, not just because I have time, but also because I don’t want to be cut to ribbons by my prison razor – when there is a bang on the cell door. My tiny window is flicked open and Ms Newsome shouts, ‘Archer, you’re being moved to House Block One, get your things ready.’

  I should have realized by now that such a warning would be followed by at least a two-hour wait, but inexperience causes me to abandon any attempt to shave and quickly gather together my belongings. My only concern is that my children may be visiting me this afternoon and I wouldn’t want them to see me unshaven.

  I gather everything together and, as if I were returning home at the end of a holiday, I find I have far more possessions than I started out with. By the time I have stuffed everything into my large HM Prisons plastic bag, I begin to feel apprehensive about moving off Beirut to the lifers’ wing.

  10.07 am

  My cell door is thrown open again, and I join a dozen or so prisoners who are also being transferred to Block One. I recognize one or two of them from the exercise yard. They can’t resist a chorus of ‘Good morning, Jef
f’, ‘How was your breakfast, my Lord?’, and ‘We must be off to the posh block if you’re coming with us.’

  Kevin slips into the back of the line to tell me that my white shirt has been washed and pressed by Peter, and he’ll have it sent over to Block One this afternoon, but I’ll have to make out a new provisions list, as each house block has its own canteen.

  The walk across to my new cell via several long corridors is accompanied by the usual opening and closing ceremony of double-barred gates every few yards, and when we finally arrive, we are herded into the inevitable waiting room. I’ve never been much good at waiting. We’ve only been standing around for a few minutes when a young officer, Mr Aveling, opens the door and says, ‘Archer, Mr Loughnane wants to see you about reallocation.’ I’ve only just arrived.

  ‘They’re letting you out,’ shouts one of the prisoners.

  ‘Ask if I can share a cell with you, darling,’ shouts another.

  ‘Don’t pay more than the going rate,’ offers a third. Prison humour.

  Mr Aveling escorts me across the corridor to a large, more comfortable room by the standards I’ve become used to during the past few days, and introduces me to Mr Loughnane and Mr Gates. I take a seat opposite them on the other side of the desk.

  ‘More form-filling, I’m afraid,’ says Mr Loughnane almost apologetically. ‘How are you settling in?’ he asks. I now accept this as the standard opening to any conversation with an officer I haven’t met before.

  ‘I’m fine, except for having to be locked up in such a confined space for so many hours.’

  ‘Were you at public school?’ Mr Gates asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, wondering why he asked this non sequitur.

  ‘It’s just that we find public school boys settle in far more quickly than your average prisoner.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘To be honest,’ he continues, ‘I’ve already filled in most of the boxes about whether you can read or write, if you’re on any drugs and how often you’ve been to jail. I can also confirm that you have been allocated Category D status, and will therefore be moved to an open prison in the near future.’ Like ‘immediately’, ‘near future’ has a different meaning in prison. Mr Loughnane explains that first they have to locate a prison that has a vacancy, and once that has been confirmed, there will be the added problem of transport. I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘That’s always one of our biggest headaches,’ Mr Loughnane explains. ‘Group 4 organize all the transport between prisons, and we have to fit in with their timetable.’ He then asks, ‘Do you know any Category D prisons you would like to be considered for?’

  ‘The only open prison I’ve ever heard of is Ford,’ I tell him, ‘and the one piece of information I’ve picked up from a former prisoner is that they have a good library.’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ confirms Mr Gates checking the prisons handbook on the table in front of him, as if it were a Relais Chateaux guide. ‘We’ll give them a call later this morning and check if they have any spaces available.’

  I thank them both before being escorted back to the waiting room.

  ‘Have they fixed you up with the riverside suite?’ asks one prisoner.

  ‘No,’ I reply, ‘but they did promise I wouldn’t have to share a cell with you.’

  This feeble effort is greeted by clapping and cheers, which I later learn was because I’d stood up to a man who had blown his brother’s head off. I’m glad I was told this later because, let me assure you, if I’d known at the time I would have kept my mouth shut.

  The door is opened again, and this time Mr Aveling tells me that the senior officer on the block wants to see me. This is greeted by more jeers and applause. ‘Be careful, Jeff, he thinks you’re after his job.’

  I’m led to an even more comfortable room, with chairs, a desk and even pictures on the walls, to be greeted by four officers, three men and one woman. Mr Marsland, the most senior officer present, two pips on his epaulettes,* confirms the rumour that as I won’t be staying long he has put me on the lifers’ spur. I was obviously unable to mask my horror at the very idea, because he quickly reassures me.

  ‘You’ll find it’s the most settled wing in the prison, as most of the inmates have sentences ranging between twelve and twenty-five years, and all they want is an easy life. Otherwise they’ll never be considered for transfer to a B- or C-cat, let alone parole.’ Yet again, exactly the opposite of what one might imagine. ‘And we also have a request,’ says Mr Marsland looking down at a sheet of paper. ‘Mrs Williamson is running a creative-writing course, and wonders if you would be willing to address her class?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I said. ‘How many normally attend?’

  ‘Because it’s you, we think they’ll be record numbers,’ says Mrs Williamson, ‘so it could be as many as twelve.’ I haven’t addressed an audience of twelve since I was the GLC candidate for Romford thirty years ago.

  ‘One problem has arisen,’ continues Mr Marsland, ‘I’m afraid there are no single cells available on the lifers’ spur at the moment, so you’ll have to share.’ My heart sinks. Will I end up with a murderer, a rapist or a drug addict, or a combination of all three? ‘But we’ll try to find you a sensible cell-mate,’ he concludes before standing to signal that the interview is over.

  I return to the waiting room and only have to hang around for a few more minutes before we are taken off to our new cells. Once again I’ve been put on the top floor – I think this must be for security reasons. Cell 40 is a little larger than Cell 29, where I last resided, but far from double the size, remembering that it has to accommodate two prisoners. It measures seven paces by four, rather than five by three, and up against the far wall, directly in front of the lavatory, is a small bunk bed, which one would more normally associate with a nursery.

  My room-mate turns out to be Terry. Terry the writer. He is the one who approached me in the yard and asked if I would read his manuscript. He’s been selected to join me because he doesn’t smoke, a rarity amongst inmates, and it’s a prison regulation that if you don’t smoke, they can’t make you share a cell with someone who does. The authorities assumed I would be aware of this rule. I wasn’t.

  Terry, as I have already mentioned, is halfway through writing a novel and seems pleased to discover who his cell-mate will be. I find out later why, and it’s not because he wants me to help him with his syntax.

  Terry is outwardly courteous and friendly, and despite my continually asking him to call me Jeffrey, he goes on addressing me as Mr Archer. We agree that he will have the top bunk and I the bottom, on account of my advanced years. I quickly discover that he’s very tidy, happy to make both beds, sweep the floor and regularly empty our little plastic bucket.

  I begin to unpack my cellophane bag and store my possessions in the tiny cupboard above my bed. Once we’ve both finished unpacking, I explain to Terry that I write for six hours a day, and hope he will understand if I don’t speak to him during those set two-hour periods. He seems delighted with this arrangement, explaining that he wants to get on with his own novel. I’m about to ask how it’s progressing, when the door is opened and we’re joined by a prison officer who has intercepted my freshly ironed white shirt. The officer begins by apologizing, before explaining that he will have to confiscate my white shirt, because if I were to wear it, I might be mistaken for a member of the prison staff. This is the white shirt that I’d had washed and ironed by Peter the press so that I could look smart for Will and James’s visit. I’m now down to one blue shirt, and one T-shirt (borrowed). He places my white shirt in yet another plastic bag for which I have to sign yet another form. He assures me that it will be returned as soon as I have completed my sentence.

  12 noon

  After a second session of writing, the cell door is opened and we are let out for Association. I join the lifers on the ground floor, which has an identical layout to House Block Three. The lifers (23 murderers plus a handful of ABH and GBH* to make up the numbers) range in age from ninet
een to fifty, and view me with considerable suspicion. Not only because I’m a Conservative millionaire, but far worse, I will only be with them for a few days before I’m dispatched to an open prison. Something they won’t experience for at least another ten years. It will take a far greater effort to break down the barriers with this particular group than the young fledgeling criminals of House Block Three.

  As I stroll around, I stop to glance at the TV. A man of about my age is watching Errol Flynn and David Niven in the black-and-white version of The Charge of the Light Brigade. I take a seat next to him.

  ‘I’m David,’ he says. ‘You haven’t shaved today.’

  I confess my sin, and explain that I was in the process of doing so when an officer told me I would be moving.

  ‘Understood,’ said David. ‘But I have to tell you, Jeffrey, you’re too old for designer stubble. All the lifers shave,’ he tells me. ‘You’ve got to cling on to whatever dignity you can in a hellhole like this,’ he adds, ‘and a warm shower and a good shave are probably the best way to start the day.’ David goes on chatting during the film as if it was nothing more than background muzak. He apologizes for not having read any of my novels, assuring me that his wife has enjoyed all of them, but he only finds time to read whenever he’s in jail. I resist asking the obvious question.

  ‘What are you reading at the moment?’ I enquire.

  ‘Ackroyd’s Life of Dickens,’ he replies. And, as if he senses my incredulity, adds, ‘Mr Micawber, what a character, bit like my father to be honest, always in debt. Now remind me, what was his Christian name?’

  ‘Wilkins,’ I reply.

  ‘Just testing, Jeffrey, just testing. Actually I tried to get one of your books out of the library the other day, but they’ve removed them all from the shelves. A diabolical liberty, that’s what I’d call it. I told them I wanted to read it, not steal the bloody thing.’ I begin to notice how few prisoners use bad language in front of me. One of the other inmates, who has been watching the TV, leans across and asks me if the story’s true. I can just about recall Tennyson’s poem of the gallant six hundred, and I’m fairly certain Errol Flynn didn’t ride through the enemy lines, and thrust a sword into the heart of their leader.