Heaven: A Prison Diary (39 page)

‘Loss of all privileges for fourteen days, and of canteen during
the same period,’ the governor pauses, ‘to be suspended for six months.’

I rise, thank
him and leave. I have a feeling he’ll be only too happy to see the back of me.

But more
important, the decision has been made not to remove my D-cat status, thus
proving that they had no reason to send me here in the first place.

It was to be
another six days before my transfer to Hollesley Bay in Suffolk, and even that
simple exercise they managed to botch.

I rise and pack
my belongings into an HMP plastic bag as I prepare for my next move, not unlike
one does when leaving a no-star motel at the end of a rainy holiday. While I’m
gathering my possessions together, I chat to my pad-mate, Stephen (marijuana,
seven years), who tells me that he’s been granted his D-cat status, and hopes
it will not be long before they transfer him to North Sea Camp.

The cell doors
on our wing are unlocked to allow Stephen and his crew to be escorted to the
kitchens and begin the day’s work. I try inadequately to thank him for his
kindness and help during the past ten days, while wishing him luck for a speedy
transfer.

The cell door
is thrown open for the last time, to reveal a young officer standing in the
doorway. Without a word, he escorts me to reception. It’s a protracted journey,
as I have to drag along two large, heavy plastic bags, and however many times I
stop, the officer makes no attempt to help me.

When we finally
reach reception, I’m placed in the inevitable waiting room. From time to time,
I’m called to the counter by Mr Fuller so that I can sign forms and check
through the contents of another six plastic bags that have been kept under lock
and key.

These are
filled with gifts – mainly books – sent in by the public during the past three
weeks. I sort out those that can be donated to the library (including nine
Bibles) and still end up with four full bags, which will have to travel with me
to Suffolk.

It’s another
thirty minutes before the final form is completed and I am cleared to depart
for my next destination.
Meanwhile, back to the waiting room.

Two young
officers from Group 4 appear in the corridor. They are to accompany me and two
other inmates from this hell-hole – not that the devils’ keepers have been
unkind. In fact, with one loutish exception, they have been supportive and
friendly.

The Group 4
officers help me with my endless plastic bags, before I am locked into a tiny
cubicle in another sweat box. I sit cramped up in silence awaiting a ‘movement
order’.

The electric
gates swing slowly open, and the van eases out onto the main road. I stare from
my darkened window to see several photographers snapping away. All they’ll get
is a blacked-out window.

I remain
hunched up in my little box, despite the fact that as a D-cat prisoner I am
entitled to have my wife drive me to Hollesley Bay in the family car. But once
again, the Home Office has put a stop to that.

For the next
five hours, I am cooped up with two stale sandwiches and a bottle of water as
we trundle through four counties on the endless journey to somewhere on the
Suffolk coast.

The van finally
arrives at Hollesley Bay, and comes to a halt outside a squat brick building.
The three of us step outside, to be escorted into reception. More form filling
and more bag checking – decisions to be made about what we can and cannot
possess.

While my
plastic bags are being checked, the duty officer inadvertently gives it all
away with an innocent remark. ‘It’s the first time I’ve checked anyone in from
Lincoln.’

And worse, the
other two prisoners who came with me have only two weeks and three weeks
respectively to serve before they complete their sentences; this despite the
fact that their homes are in north Yorkshire.

They have been
uprooted because the Home Office is prepared to mess around with their lives
just to make sure I couldn’t travel by car.

When all the
red tape is completed, I am accompanied to the north block by another officer,
who dumps me in a single room.

Once again I
begin to unpack. Once again, I will have to find my feet. Once again, I will be
put through induction. Once again, I will have to suffer the endless jibes and
sullen stares, never lowering my guard. Once again, I will have to find a job.

Once again …

EPILOGUE

For the past
fourteen months, I have been writing two thousand words a day, nearly a million
in all, which has resulted in three published diaries.

Although
Hollesley Bay turned out to be quite different from North Sea Camp, it was not
dissimilar enough to warrant a fourth diary. However, there is one significant
difference worthy of mention. Hollesley Bay is an open prison, not a
resettlement establishment. It was clearly selected to ensure that I couldn’t
work outside. After I had completed my induction, the director of Genesis, a
Mencap project in Ipswich, offered me a job.

His request was
rejected by Mr Jones, the prison governor, despite there being three other
inmates working at Genesis at that time. I appealed to the Prison Ombudsman
about this blatant discrimination, but he said he didn’t have the authority to
reverse the governor’s decision.

I reluctantly
settled for the position of library orderly, with a remit from Mr Jones to ‘get
more prisoners reading’. Thirty-two books were taken out in my first week as
library orderly, one hundred and ninety one in my last,
eight
months later.

However, as the
library was only open to prisoners between 12.30 and 1.30, and 6 and 7 pm, I
was left with countless hours to occupy myself. It doesn’t take that long to
replace on the shelves the twenty or thirty books returned each day. I could
have occupied those lifeless hours writing a fourth diary, but as I have
explained, I felt it would have achieved little.

During those
first few months of incarceration at Hollesley Bay, I edited
A Prison Diary Volume Two – Wayland:
Purgatory,
and had it smuggled out on a weekly basis by a prisoner who was
working in Ipswich. But even that demanding exercise did not fully occupy my
time.

My next venture
was to write nine short stories based on tales that I had picked up from all
four prisons. This collection will be published in 2005 under the title
Cat of Nine Tales.
Unfortunately, even
this endeavour, with its several rewrites, only occupied me through to
Christmas, leaving me another six months to kill before I was due to be
released.

It was the
death of an old friend that spurred me into action, and once again gave my life
some purpose …

A few months
before my trial
began,
I had lunch at Mosimann’s with
Chris Brasher and a mutual friend, John Bryant. The purpose of the lunch, and
Chris always had a purpose, was first to persuade me that I should run in the
London marathon and attempt to break the world record for the amount raised for
charity by an individual in this event (£1,166,212) and second, that I should write
my first screenplay.

While the
marathon was postponed by events, I suddenly found myself with time on my hands
to write a screenplay. Chris Brasher also knew the subject he wanted me to
tackle, and proceeded to tell me the story of George Mallory, an Englishman who
in 1924, climbed to within 800 feet of the summit of Everest, dressed in a
three-piece tweed suit, with a coiled rope over one shoulder, a fiftyfive-pound
pack on his back, and carrying an ice axe in one hand and a rolled umbrella in
the other.

At 12.50 pm on
17 July 1924 (Ascension Day), he and his young companion Sandy Irvine were
enveloped in clouds and never seen again.

Was Mallory the
first man to conquer Everest?

It was the
untimely death of Chris Brasher that bought the memory of that lunch flooding
back.

I resolved to
put into action his second suggestion.

By the same author
NOVELS

Not a Penny
More, Not a Penny Less Shall We Tell the President?

Kane and Abel
The Prodigal Daughter First Among Equals A Matter of Honour As the Crow Flies Honour
Among Thieves The Fourth Estate The Eleventh Commandment Sons of Fortune SHORT
STORIES

A Quiver Full
of Arrows
A
Twist in the Tale Twelve Red Herrings The
Collected Short Stories To Cut a Long Story Short PLAYS

Beyond
Reasonable Doubt Exclusive
The
Accused PRISON DIARIES

Volume One –
Belmarsh: Hell Volume Two – Wayland: Purgatory
DAY 725

MONDAY 21 JULY 2003

I had a good
night’s sleep and rose early to take a shower. I pack my bags, so that no time
will be wasted once the tannoy calls me across to reception.

I am touched by
how many prisoners come to my room this morning, to shake me by the hand and
wish me luck. However, it is not true, as one tabloid
suggested,
that I was given a guard of honour as I left the prison.

My last prison breakfast – cornflakes and milk.
I can’t help
looking at my watch every few minutes.

I am called to
reception where – no surprise – there is a new bundle of forms to be signed
before I can be released.

At last, my
release papers are completed by Mr Swivenbank, and he doesn’t try to hide a
grin as he hands over my regulation £40. I place the notes in the charity box
on the counter, shake hands with both officers and depart, with the seventh
draft of a screenplay, tucked under my arm, and in my pocket a CD of a song
that was performed by The Seven Deadly Sins at my farewell party last night.
(See overleaf.)

Will is sitting
in my car parked outside the back door, waiting for me. He drives us slowly
through the phalanx of journalists who litter both sides of the road. Just as
we accelerate away and I think we’ve escaped them, we spot a Sky TV news
helicopter hovering above us, as well as three motorbikes with cameramen glued
to the back seats, and another five cars behind them, in close pursuit. Will
never once exceeded the speed limit on the journey home to Cambridge.

On arrival back
at the Old Vicarage, Mary dashes out to greet me, and I make a short press
statement:

Press Release: Embargoed until midnight,
Sunday 20 July 2003

Statement by Jeffrey Archer
I want to
thank my wife Mary and my sons, William and James, for their unwavering and
unstinting support during this unhappy period in my life.

I should also
like to thank the many friends who took the trouble to visit me in prison, as
well as countless members of the public who sent letters, cards and gifts.

I shall not be
giving any interviews for the foreseeable future. However, I have accepted an
invitation to address the Howard League for Penal Reform’s conference at New
College Oxford in September, and several requests to do charity auctions in the
run up to Christmas.

JEFFREY

(
to
the tune of
‘Daniel’ by Elton John)

Jeffrey is
leaving today down the lane I can see the paparazzi, flashing away in vain;
Oh
, and I can see Jeffrey waving goodbye; God, it looks like
Jeffrey might have a teardrop in his eye.

Oh, ooh,
Jeffrey our
brother,
bet you’re glad to be free; Now
you can tell the world what you think of Narey.

You did time
well, it’s now your time to tell; Jeffrey, you’re a star, go on, son, give ‘em
hell.

I have not
given an interview to the press, or appeared on radio or television, since.

During the last
year, I have addressed a dozen or so organizations since speaking to the Howard
League, including the Disraelian Society, Trinity College Oxford, the Thirty
Club, the Hawks club and the Criminal Law Solicitors’ Association.

I have also
conducted twenty charity auctions, raising just over a million pounds, and run
the Flora London marathon (5 hrs 26 mins) where I was overtaken by a camel, a
phone box, a cake and a girl walking.

Most of my
spare time has been taken up with carrying out research for my next novel – and
continuing to work on the screenplay of
Mallory:
Walking
Off
the Map
.

 
1

NSC has two blocks, north and
south, with about 110 prisoners resident in each.

2

While tagged, you must remain at
home between 7 pm and 7 am.