Hell (12 page)

Mr
Weedon
comes to my cell to let
me know that I have a personal visit at three o’clock.

‘Who?’
I enquire.

He checks his
list.
‘William and James Archer.’

I am about to
suggest it might have been more considerate of someone to warn me yesterday
rather than tell me a few minutes before my sons are due to arrive. However, as
Mr
Highland has already threatened to place me on
report for such insolence, I decide to keep my counsel.

Over eighty
prisoners from all four blocks are streaming towards the visitors’ area. On the
long walk to the other side of the building, I come across some inmates from my
short stay on House Block Three. It’s rather like meeting up with old school
chums. ‘How are you?’ ‘What have you been up to?’ ‘Have you met up with…?’ When
we arrive in the waiting area, the search is far more rigorous than usual. Del
Boy had already warned me that this is the one time the staff are nervous about
the transfer of money, drugs, blades, knives, even guns, and anything else that
might be passed from a relation or family friend on to a prisoner. I am pleased
to discover that my own search is fairly cursory.

After the
search, I am asked to place a yellow sash over my shoulder so I look like a
child about to go on a bike ride. This is to indicate that I’m a prisoner, so
that I can’t stroll out with my sons once the visit is over. I’m bound to say
that I find this tiny act humiliating.

I’m then
ushered into a room about the size of a large gymnasium. Chairs are set out in
five long rows marked A to E. I report to a desk that is raised three or four
feet above the
ground,
and another officer checks his
list and then tells me to go to C11. All the prisoners sit on the right-hand
side, opposite their visitors who sit on the left. There is a small, low table
in between us which is screwed to the floor, and is meant to keep you apart.
There is also a balcony above us that overlooks the whole room, with even more
officers staring down on the proceedings to see if they can spot anything being
passed across the tables below them. They are assisted by several CCTV cameras.
A notice on the walls states that the tapes can be used as evidence for a
further
prosecution,
and in capitals adds: THIS
APPLIES TO

BOTH PRISONERS AND THEIR VISITORS.

I walk down
three rows to find William sitting on his own. He jumps up and gives me a big
hug, and I’m reminded just how much I’ve missed him. James, he tells me, is at
the canteen purchasing my
favourite
beverage.

He appears a
few minutes later, carrying a tray of Diet Cokes and several
KitKats
. The boys laugh when I pull all three Cokes towards
my side of the table, and make no attempt to offer them even a stick of the
KitKat
.

Will begins by
telling me about Mary’s visit to
Strathclyde
University, where she made a short statement to the press before delivering her
lecture. She began by remarking that it was the largest turnout she had ever
managed for a lecture on quantum solar-energy conversion.

Will is not
surprised to learn that I have received over a thousand letters and cards in
the first few days at
Belmarsh
, and he tells me there
are almost three times that number back at the flat. Support is coming in from
every quarter, James
adds
, including thoughtful
statements from John Major and George Carey.

‘Alison has had
a list typed up,’ my younger son continues, ‘but they wouldn’t allow me to
bring anything into the visits room,
so
I’ll have it
posted on to you tomorrow.’

This news gives
me such a lift, and makes me feel guilty that I had ever doubted my friends
would stand by me.

I alert the two
boys to the fact that I am writing a day-to-day diary, and will need to see my
agent, Jonathan Lloyd, my publisher, Victoria
Barnsley
,
and my editor, Robert Lacey, fairly soon, but, as I am only allowed one
personal visit every two weeks, I don’t want to see anyone other than the
family until I’ve been moved to an open prison.

Will tells me
that he’s already booked himself in for two weeks’ time, but hopes I will have
been transferred to somewhere like Ford long before then. Because I’ve not been
reading any newspapers or listening to the news, as I’m heartily sick of
inaccurate stories about myself and what I’m up to at
Belmarsh
,
Jamie brings me up to date on the battle for the Tory Party leadership. He
reports that the polls clearly indicate that the people who deserted the
Conservatives at the last election want Ken Clarke, while the party membership
favours
Iain Duncan Smith. I like and admire both men,
though neither
is
a close friend. However, it doesn’t
take a massive intellect to work out that if we hope to win the next election,
or at least make a large enough dent in the government’s majority to ensure
that opinion – formers believe we can win the following election, it might be
wise to take some notice of the electorate’s views as to who should be our
leader.

I consider
dropping Ken a note, but realize it may not help his cause.

Will
goes
on to tell me that Michael
Beloff
QC, Gilbert Gray QC and Johnnie Nutting QC are in regular touch with my legal
team.

Gilly
wondered if Potts’s animosity had been aimed at Nick
Purnell
, as it’s the talk of the Bar that he lost his
temper with Nick on several occasions during the pre-trial and trial itself,
but never once in front of the jury.

‘No,’ I tell
them, ‘it was nothing to do with Nick. It was entirely personal.’

I’m momentarily
distracted by an attractive young woman sitting directly in front of me in row
B. A prisoner with his back to me is leaning across the table and kissing her.
I remember being told by Kevin that this was the most common way of passing
drugs. I watch more carefully and decide this is about sex, pure animal sex,
and has nothing to do with drugs.

James tells me
about the film he and Nod (
Nadhim
Zahawi
,
a Kurdish friend) enjoyed on Sunday evening,
Rush Hour 2
, which in normal circumstances I would have seen with
them.

‘Don’t worry,’
he adds. ‘We’re keeping a list of all the films you would have enjoyed, so that
you can eventually see them on video.’ I don’t like the sound of the word
‘eventually’.

I talk to Will
about when he expects to return to America and continue with his work as a
documentary cameraman. He tells me that he will remain in England while his
mother is so unsettled and feels in such need of him. How lucky I am to be
blessed with such a family.

An announcement
is made over the
tannoy
to inform us that all
visitors must now leave.

Have we really
had an hour together? All round the room a great deal of kissing commences
before friends and
family reluctantly depart
. The
prisoners have to remain in their places until the last visitor has been signed
out and left the room. I spend my time glancing up and down the rows. The man
whose kiss had been so overtly sexual now has his head bowed in his hands. I
wonder just how long his sentence is, and what age he and his girlfriend will
be by the time he’s released from prison.

When the last
visitor has left, we all file back out of the room; once again my search is
fairly cursory. I never discover what the other prisoners are put through,
though. Del Boy tells me later that if they’ve picked up anything suspicious on
the video camera, it’s a full strip-search, plus sniffer dogs.

On the way back
to my cell, a Block Three prisoner tells me he will be going home next month,
having completed his sentence. He adds that he had a visit from his wife who is
sticking by him, but if he’s ever sentenced again, she’s made it clear that
she’ll leave him.

I’m only a few
yards from my cell door when
Mr
Weedon
tells me that the education officer wants to see me. I turn round and he
escorts me up to the middle floor.

The education
officer is dressed in a smart brown suit. He stands up when I enter the room
and shakes me by the hand.

‘My name’s
Peter Farrell,’ he says. ‘I see you’ve put yourself down for education.’

‘Yes,’ I
confirm. ‘I was rather hoping it would give me a chance to use the library.’

‘Yes, it will,’
says
Mr
Farrell. ‘But I wonder if I could ask you to
assist us with those prisoners who are learning to read and write, as I’m
rather short-staffed at the moment?’

‘Of course,’ I
reply.

‘You’ll get a
pound an hour,’ he adds with a grin.

We talk for
some time about the fact that there are a number of bright people among the
prisoners, especially the lifers, some of whom would be quite capable of
sitting for an Open University degree. ‘My biggest problem,’ he explains, ‘is
that while the inmates can earn ten to twelve pounds a week in the workshops
dropping teabags, jam and sugar into plastic containers, they only receive six
pounds fifty a week if they sign up for education. So I often lose out on some
potentially able students for the sake of tobacco money.’

My God, there
are going to be some speeches I will have to make should I ever return to the
House of Lords.

There is a
knock on the door, and
Mr
Marsland
,
the senior officer, comes in to warn me that it’s almost time for my talk to
the lifers on creative writing.

The lecture is
set up in one of the waiting rooms and is attended by twelve prisoners serving
life sentences plus two officers to keep an eye on proceedings. There are two
types of life sentence, mandatory and discretionary, but all that matters to a
lifer is the tariff that has been set by the judge at their trial.

I begin my talk
by telling the lifers that I didn’t take up writing until I was thirty-four,
after leaving Parliament and facing bankruptcy; so I try to assure them that
you can begin a new career at any age. Proust, I remind them, said we all end
up doing the thing we’re second best at.

Once I’ve
finished my short talk, the first two questions fired at me are about writing a
novel, but I quickly discover that the other inmates mostly want to know how I
feel about life behind bars and what changes I would make.

‘I’ve only been
inside for eight days,’ I keep reminding them.

I try valiantly
to parry their questions, but
Mr
Marsland
and his deputy soon have to come to my rescue when the subject changes to how
the prison is run, and in particular their complaints about lock-up times,
food, no ice
*
and wages. These all seem to be fair questions, though
nothing to do with writing.

The officers
try to answer their queries without prevarication and both have so obviously
given considerable thought to inmates’ problems. They often sympathize, but
appear to have their hands tied by regulations, bureaucracy and lack of money.

One prisoner
called Tony, who seems not only to be bright but to have a real grasp of
figures, discusses the £27 million budget that
Belmarsh
enjoys, right down to how much it costs to feed a prisoner every day. I will
never forget the answer to that question – £1.27 is allocated for three meals
per prisoner per day.

‘Then the
caterers must be making a pound a day off every one of us,’ Tony retorts.

The meeting
goes on well beyond the scheduled hour, and it’s some time before one of the
prisoners, Billy
Little
who hails from Glasgow,
actually asks another question about writing. Do I use my novels to expound any
particular political prejudice? No, I reply firmly, otherwise I’d have very few
readers. Billy is a left-winger by upbringing and persuasion and argues his
case well. He finds a great deal of pleasure in giving me a hard time and
making me
feel
ill at ease with the other prisoners.
By the end of a heated exchange, he is at least listening to my point of view.

On the way back
to the cells, Billy tells me he’s written a short story and some poetry.

He asks if I
would be willing to read them and offer an opinion; a sentence I usually dread
when I’m on the outside. He nips into his cell on the ground floor, extracts
some sheets of paper from a file and passes them over to me. I leave him to
find Derek ‘Del Boy’ Bicknell waiting for me outside. He warns me that Terry,
my cell-mate, has been talking to the press, and to be wary of saying anything
to him.

‘Talking to the
press?’

‘Yeah, the
screws caught him on the phone to the
Sun
.
I’m told that the going rate for an exclusive with anyone who has shared a cell
with you is five grand.’

I thank Derek
and assure him I haven’t discussed my case or anything of importance with Terry
and never would.

When I return
to my cell, I find Terry looking shamefaced. He confirms that he has spoken to
the
Sun
, and they’re keen to know
when I’m being moved to Ford.

‘You’ll be on
the front page tomorrow,’ I warn him.

‘No, no, I
didn’t tell them anything,’ he insists.

I try not to
laugh as I settle down to read through another three hundred letters that have
been opened by the censor and left on the end of my bed. I can’t believe he’s
had the time to read many, if any, of them.