Purgatory Read online

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’ I ask.

  ‘Because, for some of them, this is the only place that guarantees three meals a day, a bed and someone to talk to. You’ve got a good example on your wing. Out last month, back inside this month. Robbed an old lady of her bag and then immediately handed it back to her. He even hung around until the police arrived to make sure he was arrested.’

  I think I know the prisoner she’s referring to, and make a mental note to have a word with him. Our hour is drawing to a close, so I ask if she will stick with it.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been in the service for ten years and, despite everything, it has its rewards. Mind you, it’s changed a lot during the last decade. When I first joined, the motto emblazoned on our notepaper used to read, Advise, Assist and Befriend. Now it’s Enforcement, Rehabilitation and Public Protection; the result of a massive change in society, its new-found freedom and the citizen’s demands for safety. The public doesn’t begin to understand that at least thirty per cent of people in prison shouldn’t be locked up at all, while seventy per cent, the professional criminals, will be in and out for the rest of their lives.’

  There’s a knock on the door. My hour’s up, and we haven’t even touched on the problem of drugs. Mr Chapman enters carrying two bundles of letters. Lisa looks surprised.

  ‘That’s only the first post’ Mr Chapman tells her.

  ‘I can quite believe it,’ she says. ‘My parents send their best wishes. My father wanted you to sign one of his books, but I told him it would be most unprofessional.’ I rise from my place. ‘Good luck with your appeal,’ she adds, as we shake hands. I thank her and return to my cell.

  12 noon

  Lunch: macaroni cheese and diet lemonade. I hate lemonade, so I spend some considerable time shaking the bottle in an effort to remove the bubbles. I have a considerable amount of time.

  1.45 pm

  Mr Chapman warns me that I will not be able to go to the gym this afternoon as I have to attend a CARAT (Counselling, Assessment, Referral, Advice and Through-care) meeting on drugs. This is another part of my induction. Despite the fact I’ve never touched a drug in my life, I can’t afford to miss it. Otherwise I will never be moved from this filthy, dank, noisy wing. Naturally I comply.

  2.00 pm

  I try to pick up my books and notepads from reception only to be told by Mr Meanwell (a man who regularly reminds me ‘Meanwell is my name, and mean well is my nature’) that I can’t have them because it’s against prison regulations. All notepads and pens have to be purchased from the canteen and all books ordered through the library, who buy them direct from Waterstone’s.

  ‘But in Belmarsh they allowed me to have two notepads, two packets of pens and any number of books I required sent in, and they’re a maximum-security prison.’

  ‘I know,’ says Meanwell with a smile. ‘It’s a damn silly rule, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  I thank him. Many of the senior officers know only too well what’s sensible and what isn’t, but are worried that if I receive what could be construed as special treatment it will be all over the tabloids the following morning. The rule is enforced because books, pads and pens are simply another way to smuggle in drugs. However, if I’m to go on writing, I’ll have to purchase these items from the canteen, which means I’ll need to cut down on Spam and Weetabix.

  2.40 pm

  I’ve been writing for about an hour when I am called to the CARAT meeting. Once again, eleven of us assemble in the room with the comfortable chairs. The CARAT representative is a young lady called Leah, who tells us that if we have any drug-related problems, she is there to advise and help. Leah reminds me of Mr Flintcroft, although she’s pushing an even larger boulder up an even steeper hill.

  I glance around the room at the other prisoners. Their faces are blank and resigned. I’m probably the only person present who has never taken a drug. The one comment Leah makes that catches the prisoners’ attention is that if they were to have a period on D wing, the drug-free wing, it might even help with their parole. But before Leah can finish her sentence a ripple of laughter breaks out, and she admits that it’s possible there are even more drugs on D wing than on A, B or C. Drug-free wings in most prisons have that reputation.

  When Leah comes to the end of her eight-minute discourse and invites questions, she is greeted with silence, the same silence Mr Flintcroft experienced.

  I leave, feeling a little more cynical. Drugs are the biggest problem the Prison Service is currently facing, and not one prisoner has a question for the CARAT representative, let alone attempts to engage her in serious debate. However, I am relieved to observe that two inmates remain behind to have a private conversation with Leah.

  6.00 pm

  Kit change. Once a week you report to the laundry room for a change of sheets, pillowcases, towels and gym kit. I now have six towels and include four of them in my weekly change. They are all replaced, despite each prisoner only being allowed two. However, they won’t replace my second pillowcase because you’re allowed only one. I can’t understand the logic of that.

  You’re meant to wash your own personal belongings, but I have already handed over that responsibility to Darren, who is the enhanced wing’s laundry orderly. He picks up my bag of washing every Thursday, and returns it later that evening. He asks for no recompense. I must confess that the idea of washing my underpants in a sink shared with someone else’s dirty cutlery isn’t appealing.

  6.30 pm

  Supper. Unworthy of mention.

  7.00 pm

  Exercise. I walk round the perimeter of the yard with Darren and another inmate called Steve. Steve was convicted of conspiracy to murder. He is an accountant by profession, well spoken, intelligent and interesting company. His story turns out to be a fascinating one. He was a senior partner in a small successful firm of accountants. He fell in love with one of the other partners, who was already married to a colleague. One night, on his way home from work, Steve stopped at a pub he regularly frequented. He knew the barman well and told him that given half a chance he’d kill the bastard (meaning his girlfriend’s husband). Steve thought nothing more of it until he received a phone call from the barman saying that for the right price it could be arranged. The phone call was being taped by the police, as were several others that followed. It was later revealed in court that the barman was already in trouble with the police and reported Steve in the hope that it would help have the charges against him dropped. It seems the key sentence that mattered was, ‘Are you certain you want to go ahead with it?’ which was repeated by the barman several times. ‘Yes,’ Steve always replied.

  Steve and his girlfriend were arrested, pleaded guilty and were sentenced to seven years. She currently resides at High-point, while he has gone from A- to B- to C-cat status in a couple of years (record time), and is now living on the enhanced wing at Wayland with D-cat status. He doesn’t want to move to an open prison because Wayland is near his home. He is also the prison’s chief librarian. I have a feeling that you’ll be hearing more about Steve in the future.

  On the circuit round the perimeter we are joined by the prisoner I shared a cell with on my first night, Chris (stabbing with a Stanley knife). He tells me that the News of the World have been in touch with his mother and will be printing a story on Sunday. He tries to assure me that he has had no contact with them and his mother has said nothing.

  ‘Then it will only be three pages,’ I tell him.

  When I return to my cell, Jules is looking worried. He’s also heard that Chris will be featured in the News of ike World this Sunday. Chris told him that a lot of his friends and associates don’t even know he’s in jail, and he doesn’t want them to find out. He attends education classes twice a day and wants the chance to start a new life once he’s been released. I just don’t have the heart to tell him that the News of the World have absolutely no interest in his future.

  10.00 pm

  We watch the news. Still more August st
orms. At 10.30 Jules switches channels to Ally McBeal while I try unsuccessfully to sleep. I’m not sure which is more distracting, the TV in our cell, or the rap music emanating from the other side of the block.

  DAY 29 - THURSDAY 16 AUGUST 2001

  5.50 am

  I wake from a dream in which I had been using the most foul language when talking to Mary. I can’t explain it. I write for a couple of hours.

  8.00 am

  I plug in Jules’s radio so that I can hear Mary’s interview with John Humphrys. I shave while the news is on, and become more and more nervous. It’s always the same. I am very anxious when William screens one of the documentaries he’s been working on, or James is running the 800 metres, and especially whenever Mary has to give a talk that lay people might expect to understand. She’s first on after the news and handles all of John Humphrys’ questions in that quiet academic way that could only impress an intelligent listener. But I can tell, even after her first reply, just how nervous she is. Once Mary has dealt with the Kurds and Baroness Nicholson, Humphrys moves on to the subject of how I’m getting on in jail. That was when Mary should have said, ‘My agreement with you, Mr Humphrys, was to discuss only matters arising from the Kurds.’ Once Mary failed to point this out, he moved on to the trial, the appeal and the sentence. I had warned her that he would. He has no interest in keeping to any agreement made between her and the producer. And that’s why he is such a sharp interviewer, as I know from past experience.

  9.30 am

  I call Mary, who feels she was dreadful and complains that John Humphrys broke the BBC’s agreement and once the piece was over she told him so. What does he care? She then tells me that the CEO of the Red Cross, Sir Nicholas Young, was interviewed later, and was uncompromising when it came to any suggestion that one penny raised for the Kurds in the UK had not been accounted for. He went on to point out that I had nothing to do with either the collecting or distribution of any monies. I suggest to Mary that perhaps the time has come to sue Baroness Nicholson. Mary tells me that the lawyer’s first priority is to have my D-cat reinstated so I can be moved to an open prison before we issue the writ. Good thinking.

  ‘Don’t waste any more of your units’ she says. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  9.50 am

  Disaster. Darren reappears with my washing. All fresh and clean, but the dryer has broken down for the first time in living memory. I take the wet clothes back to my cell and hang the T-shirts on the end of the bed, my underwear from an open cupboard door and my socks over the single chair. The sun is shining, but not many of its rays are reaching through the bars and into my cell.

  10.00 am

  Today is the first day of the fourth test match against Australia, and Hussain is back as captain. He said that although we’ve lost the Ashes (3-0), English pride is now at stake. I write for an hour and then turn on the television at eleven to see who won the toss. It’s been raining all morning. Of course it has; the match is at Headingley (Leeds). I switch off the television and return to my script.

  11.40 am

  I’ve been writing for over an hour when the cell door is unlocked. The governor would like a word. I go to the interview room and find Mr Cariton-Boyce and Mr Tinkler waiting for me.

  Mr Cariton-Boyce looks embarrassed when he tries to explain why I can’t have any writing pads and pens or Alan Clark’s Diaries. I make a small protest but only so it’s on the record. He then goes on to tell me that I will not be moving to C block after all. They’ve had a re-think, and I’ll be joining the adults on the enhanced spur, but - and there is always a but in prison - as no one is being released until 29 August, I’ll have to stay put until then.

  I thank him, and ask if my room-mate Jules can be moved to a single cell, as I fear it can’t be too long before the News of the World will do to him exactly what they’ve done to every other prisoner who has shared a cell with me. This shy, thoughtful man will end up being described as a drug baron, and he doesn’t have any way of fighting back.

  Governor CarltonrBoyce nods. Promises are never made in prison, but he does go as far as saying,’ The next thing on my agenda is cell dispersal, because we have eight more prisoners coming in tomorrow.’ I thank him and leave, aware that’s about the biggest hint I’ll get.

  12 noon

  Lunch. Dale passes me two little sealed boxes, rather than the usual single portion, and winks. I was down on today’s menu for number three - vegetable stew - but when I get back to my cell, I discover the other box contains mushroom soup. So I linger over the soup followed by vegetable stew. It’s not Le Caprice - but it’s not Belmarsh either.

  1.15 pm

  I’m told that as part of my induction I must report to the education department and take a reading, writing and numeracy test. When I take my seat in the classroom and study the forms, it turns out to be exactly the same test as the one set at Belmarsh. Should I tell them that I took the papers only two weeks ago, or should I just get on with it? I can see the headline in the Mirror: Archer Refuses to Take Writing Test. It would be funny if it wasn’t exactly what the Mirror would do. I get on with it.

  3.15 pm

  Gym. It’s circuit-training day, and I manage about half of the set programme - known as the dirty dozen. The youngsters are good, but the star turns out to be a forty-five-year-old gypsy, who is covered in tattoos, and serving an eleven-year sentence for drug dealing. He’s called Minnie, and out-runs them, out-jumps them, out-lifts them, out-presses them, and isn’t even breathing heavily at the end. He puts me to shame; I can only hope that the youngsters feel equally humiliated.

  4.20 pm

  I’m back in time for a shower. David (whisky bootlegger) is standing by my door. He tells me that he’s written the outline for a novel and wants to know how to get in contact with a ghostwriter. This is usually a surrogate for are you available? I tell him exactly what I tell anyone else who writes to me on this subject (three or four letters a week): go to your local library, take out a copy of The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and you’ll find a section listing agents who handle ghostwriters. I assume that will keep him quiet for a few days.

  4.41 pm

  David returns clutching a copy of The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and shows me a page of names. I glance down the list but none is familiar. I have come across only a handful of agents over the years - Debbie Owen, George Greenfield, Deborah Rodgers, Jonathan Lloyd and Ed Victor - but there must be at least another thousand I’ve never heard of. I suggest that as my agent is visiting me tomorrow, if he selects some names, I’ll ask Jonathan if he knows any of them.

  4.56 pm

  David returns with the list of names written out on a single sheet of paper. He hands over a Diet Coke. He’s what Simon Heffer would describe as ‘a proper gent’.

  6.00 pm

  Supper. Vegetable pie, two boiled potatoes and a lump of petits pois, making un seul pois.

  I switch on the TV. Australia are 241 for 3, and Ponting is 144 not out. Together with Waugh, they’ve put on 170.1 switch off. Why did I ever switch on?

  After supper, I go down to the Association room to find Dale (wounding with intent) and Jimmy (transporting Ecstasy tablets) playing snooker for a Mars bar. It’s the first time I’ve seen Jimmy beaten at anything, and what’s more, he’s being thrashed by a far superior player. It’s a subject I know a little about as I was President of the World Snooker Association before I was convicted. Jimmy whispers in my ear, ‘Dale beats everyone, but like any hungry animal, he has to be fed at least twice a day. We take it in turns to hand over a Mars bar. It’s a cheap way of keeping him under control.’ In case you’ve forgotten, Dale is six foot three and weighs twenty-seven stone.

  After the game is over, the three of us join Darren in the exercise yard. Dale manages only one circuit before heading back in, exhausted, while the three of us carry on for the full forty-five minutes. During the second circuit, I tell them about Derek, who did the drawing of my cell (Belmarsh), and ask if they know
of any artists in Wayland. Jimmy tells me that there is a brilliant (his word) artist on C block. I ask if he will introduce me.

  ‘Be warned, he’s weird,’ says Jimmy, ‘and can be very rude if he takes against you.’

  I tell Jimmy that I’ve been dealing with artists for the past thirty-five years and I’ve never met one who could be described as normal. It’s all part of their appeal.

  ‘I feel like a drink,’ says Darren as the evening sun continues to beat down on us. ‘Know anyone who’s got some hooch?’ he asks Jimmy.

  ‘Hooch?’ I say. ‘What’s that?’

  They both laugh, a laugh that suggests I still have much to learn. ‘Every block,’ says Darren, ‘has a hotplate man, a cleaner, a tea-boy and a painter. They’re all appointed by the screws and are paid around twelve pounds a week. Every block also has a drug dealer, a haircutter, a clothes-washer and a brewer. C block has the best brewer - for a two-pound phonecard, you can get half a litre of hooch.’