Hell (2 page)

‘Sorry, it must
be my son’s.’

The officer
pulls open the zip to reveal two shirts, two pairs of pants, a sweater, a pair of
casual shoes and a
washbag
containing everything I
will need. The
washbag
is immediately confiscated
while the rest of the clothes are placed in a line on the counter.

The officer
then hands me a large plastic bag with HMP
Belmarsh
printed in dark blue letters, supported by a crown. Everything has a logo
nowadays. While I transfer the possessions I am allowed to keep into the large
plastic bag, the officer tells me that the yellow backpack will be returned to
my son, at the government’s expense. I thank him. He looks surprised. Another
officer escorts me back to the glass cell, while I cling onto my plastic bag.

This time I sit
next to a different prisoner, who tells me his name is
Ashmil
;
he’s from Kosovo, and still in the middle of his trial.

‘What are you
charged with?’ I enquire.

‘The illegal
importing of immigrants,’ he tells me, and before I can offer any comment he
adds, ‘They’re all political prisoners who would be in jail, or worse, if they
were still in their own country.’ It sounds like a well-rehearsed line. ‘What
are you in for?’ he asks.

‘Archer,’ rings
out the same officious voice, and I leave him to return to the reception area.

‘The doctor
will see you now,’ the desk officer says, pointing to a green door behind him.

I don’t know
why I’m surprised to encounter a fresh-faced young GP, who rises from behind
his desk the moment I walk in.

‘David
Haskins,’ he announces, and adds, ‘I’m sorry we have to meet in these
circumstances.’ I take a seat on the other side of the desk while he opens a
drawer and produces yet another form.

‘Do you smoke?’

‘No.’

‘Drink?’

‘No, unless you count the occasional glass of red wine at dinner.’

‘Take any
drugs?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have
any history of mental illness?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever
tried to abuse yourself?’

‘No.’

He continues
through a series of questions as if he were doing no more than filling in
details for an insurance policy, to which I continue to reply, no, no, no, no
and no. He ticks every box.

‘Although I
don’t think it’s necessary,’ he said looking down at the form, ‘I’m going to
put you in the medical wing overnight before the Governor decides which block
to put you on.’

I smile, as the
medical wing sounds to me like a more pleasant option. He doesn’t return the
smile. We shake hands, and I go back to the glass cell. I only have to wait for
a few more moments before a young lady in prison uniform asks me to accompany
her to the medical wing. I grab my plastic bag and follow her.

We climb three
floors of green iron steps before we reach our destination. As I walk down the
long corridor my heart sinks. Every person I come across seems to be in an
advanced state of depression or suffering from some sort of mental illness.

‘Why have they
put me in here?’ I demand, but she doesn’t reply. I later learn that most first-time
offenders spend their first night in the medical
centre
because it is during your first twenty-four hours in prison that you are
most
likely to try and commit suicide.*

I’m not, as I
thought I might be, placed in a hospital ward but in another cell. When the
door slams behind me I begin to understand why one might contemplate suicide.
The cell measures five paces by three, and this time the brick walls are
painted a depressing mauve. In one corner is a single bed with a rock-hard
mattress that could well be an army reject. Against the side wall, opposite the
bed, is a small square steel table and a steel chair. On the far wall next to
the
inchthick
iron door is a steel washbasin and an
open lavatory that has no lid and no flush. I am determined not to use it.
*
On the wall behind the bed is a window encased with four thick iron bars,
painted black, and caked in dirt. No curtains, no curtain rail. Stark, cold and
unwelcoming would be a generous description of my temporary residence on the
medical wing.
No wonder the doctor didn’t return my smile.
I am left alone in this bleak abode for over an hour, by which time I’m
beginning to experience a profound depression.

A key finally
turns in the lock to allow another young woman to enter. She is
darkhaired
, short and slim, dressed in a smart striped
suit. She shakes me warmly by the hand, sits on the end of the bed, and
introduces herself as
Ms
Roberts, the Deputy
Governor. She can’t be a day over twenty-six.

‘What am I
doing here?’ I ask. ‘I’m not a mass murderer.’

‘Most prisoners
spend their first night on the medical wing,’ she explains, ‘and we can’t make
any exceptions, I’m afraid, and especially not for you.’ I don’t say anything –
what is there to say? ‘One more form to complete,’ she tells me, ‘that’s if you
still want to attend your mother’s funeral on Saturday.’
†
I can sense
that
Ms
Roberts is trying hard to be understanding
and considerate, but I fear I am quite unable to hide my distress.

‘You will be
moved onto an induction block tomorrow,’ she assures me, ‘and just as soon as
you’ve been categorized A, B, C, or D, we’ll transfer you to another prison. I
have no doubt you’ll be Category D – no previous convictions, and no history of
violence.’ She rises from the end of the bed. Every officer carries a large
bunch of keys that jingle whenever they move. ‘I’ll see you again in the
morning. Have you been able to make a phone call?’ she asks as she bangs on the
heavy door with the palm of her hand.

‘No,’ I reply
as the cell door is opened by a large West Indian with an even larger smile.

‘Then I’ll see
what I can do,’ she promises before stepping out into the corridor and slamming
the door closed behind her.

I sit on the
end of the bed and rummage through my plastic bag to discover that my elder
son, William, has included amongst my permitted items a copy of David
Niven’s
The Moon’s a
Balloon
. I flick open the cover to find a message:

Hope you never have to read this, Dad, but
if you do, chin up
,
we love you and
your appeal is on its way
,
William xx
James xx
Thank God for a family I adore, and who still seem to care about
me. I’m not sure how I would have got through the last few weeks without them.
They made so many sacrifices to be with me for every day of the
sevenweek
trial.

There is a rap
on the cell door, and a steel grille that resembles a large letter box is
pulled up to reveal the grinning
West
Indian.

‘I’m Lester,’
he declares as he pushes through a pillow – rock hard; one pillow case – mauve;
followed by one sheet – green; and one blanket – brown. I thank Lester and then
take some considerable time making the bed. After all, there’s nothing else to
do.

When I’ve
completed the task, I sit on the bed and start trying to read
The Moon’s a Balloon
, but my mind
continually wanders. I manage about fifty pages, often stopping to consider the
jury’s verdict, and although I feel tired, even exhausted, I can’t begin to
think about sleep. The promised phone call has not materialized, so I finally
turn off the fluorescent light that shines above the bed, place my head on the
rock-hard pillow and despite the agonizing cries of the patients from the cells
on either side of me, I eventually fall asleep. An hour later I’m woken again
when the fluorescent light is switched back on, the letter box reopens and two
different eyes peer in at me – a procedure that is repeated every hour, on the
hour – to make sure I haven’t tried to take my own life.

The suicide watch.

I eventually
fall asleep again, and when I wake just after 4 am, I lie on my back in a
straight line, because both my ears are aching after hours on the rock-hard
pillow. I think about the verdict, and the fact that it had never crossed my
mind even for a moment that the jury could find Francis innocent and me guilty
of the same charge. How could we have conspired if one of us didn’t realize a
conspiracy was taking place? They also appeared to accept the word of my former
secretary, Angie
Peppiatt
, a woman who stole
thousands of pounds from me, while deceiving me and my family for years.

Eventually I
turn my mind to the future.

Determined not
to waste an hour, I decide to write a daily diary of everything I experience
while incarcerated.

At 6 am, I rise
from my mean bed and rummage around in my plastic bag. Yes, what I need is
there, and this time the authorities have not determined that it should be
returned to sender. Thank God for a son who had the foresight to include,
amongst other necessities, an A4 pad and six felt-tip
pens.

Two hours later
I have completed the first draft of everything that has happened to me since I
was sent to jail.

I am woken
officially – my little trapdoor is opened and I am greeted by the same warm
West Indian grin, which turns to a look of surprise when he sees me sitting at
the table writing. I’ve already been at work for nearly two hours.

‘You’ll be able
to have a shower in a few minutes,’ he announces. I’ve already worked out that
in prison a few minutes can be anything up to an hour, so I go on writing.

‘Anything you
need?’ he asks politely.

‘Would it be
possible to have some more writing paper?’

‘Not something
I’m often asked for,’ he admits, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’

Lester returns
half an hour later and this time the grin has turned into a shy smile. He slips
an A4 pad, not unlike the type I always use, through the little steel trap. In
return he asks me for six autographs, only one to be personalized – for his
daughter Michelle.

Lester doesn’t
offer any explanation for why he needs the other five, all to be penned on
separate sheets of paper. As no money can change hands in jail, we return to
thirteenthcentury
England and rely on bartering.

I can’t imagine
what five Jeffrey Archer signatures are worth: a packet of cigarettes, perhaps?
But I am grateful for this trade, because I have a feeling that being allowed
to write in this hellhole may turn out to be the one salvation that will keep
me sane.

While I wait
for Lester to return and escort me from my cell to a shower – even a walk down
a long, drab corridor is something I am looking forward to – I continue
writing. At last I hear a key turning and look up to see the heavy door swing
open, which brings its own small sense of freedom Lester hands me a thin green
towel, a prison toothbrush and a tube of prison toothpaste before locking me back
in. I clean my teeth, and my gums bleed for the first time in years. It must be
some physical reaction to what I’ve been put through during the past
twenty-four hours. I worry a little, because during my interrupted night I’d
promised myself that I must remain physically and mentally fit. This, according
to the prison handbook left in every cell, is nothing less than the management
requires.
*

After a night
on the medical wing, one of my first impressions is how many of the staff, dressed
in their smart, clean black uniforms, seem able to keep a smile on their face.
I’m sitting on my bed wondering what to expect next, when my thoughts are
interrupted by someone shouting from the other side of the block.

‘
Mornin
’, Jeff, bet you didn’t expect to find yourself in
‘ere.’

I look through
my tiny window and across the yard to see a face staring at me from behind
his own
bars.
Another grin.
‘I’m
Gordon,’ he shouts. ‘See you in the exercise yard in about an hour.’

I’m let out of
the cell and walk slowly down the corridor, to enjoy my new-found freedom, as
Lester escorts me to the shower room. I feel I should let you know that in my
apartment on the Albert
Embankment,
perhaps the
facility of which I am most proud is the shower room. When I step out of it
each morning, I feel a new man, ready to face the world.
Belmarsh
doesn’t offer quite the same facilities or leave you with the same warm
feeling. The large stone-floored room has three small press-button showers that
issue a trickle of water which is at best lukewarm.

The pressure
lasts for about thirty seconds before you have to push the button again.

This means a
shower takes twice as long as usual but, as I am becoming aware, in prison time
is the one commodity that is in abundance. Lester escorts me back to my cell,
while I cling on to my small soaking towel. He tells me not to lose sight of
it, because a towel has to last for seven days.

He slams the
door closed.

I lie on my
bed, staring up at the white ceiling, until my thoughts are once again
interrupted by a key turning in the lock. I have no idea who it will be this
time. It turns out to be a plump lady dressed in a prison uniform who has
something in common with the West Indian barterer – a warm smile. She sits down
on the end of my bed and hands me a form for the prison canteen. She explains
that, if I can afford it, I am allowed to spend twelve pounds fifty pence a
week. I must fill in the little boxes showing what I would like, and then she
will see that the order is left in my cell sometime later today. I don’t bother
to enquire what ‘sometime later’ means. When she leaves, I study the canteen
list meticulously, trying to identify what might be described as necessities.