Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (10 page)

Steve comes across to clear our table – it’s the first time
Mary has met someone convicted of conspiracy to murder. This tall, elegant man
‘looks more like a company secretary than a would-be murderer’ is her only
comment. ‘You probably pass a murderer on the street once a week,’ I suggest.

‘Time for visitors to leave,’ announces a voice behind me. I
unstrap my Longines watch to exchange it for a twenty-dollar Swatch I purchased
in a rash moment at Washington airport. Will is facing the two officers, who
are seated on a little platform behind me. He nods, and we both put on our new
watches.

‘All visitors must now leave,’ repeats the officer politely
but firmly. We begin our long goodbyes and Mary is among the last to depart.

When I leave the room, the officer asks me to take off my
shoes, which he checks carefully, but doesn’t ask me to remove anything else,
including my socks. He shows no interest in my watch and nods me through.

Back in my cell, I find my canteen order has been left on
the end of the bed. Hip, hip, and my clothes are finally dry, hooray. As I
unpack my wares, Dale arrives with back-up provisions.

Supper.
Beans and chips accompanied
by a large mug of Volvic.

Exercise.
Dale joins Jimmy, Darren
and me as we walk around the yard, and manages all three circuits. On the last
one, he spots the artist he told me about yesterday. He is sitting in the far
corner sketching a prisoner. An inmate is leaning up against the fence in what
he assumes is a model’s pose. We walk across to take a look. The drawing is
excellent, but the artist immediately declares that he’s not happy with the
result. I’ve never known an artist say anything else. As he’s more than fully
occupied, we agree to meet tomorrow evening at the same time.

When I return to the wing, Sergio (hotplate, Colombian) asks
me if I would like to join him in his cell on the enhanced spur. He’s kindly
translated the letter from the Spanish student; it seems that the young man has
just finished a bachelor’s degree and needs a loan if he’s to consider going on
to do a doctorate. I thank Sergio, and pen a note on the bottom of the letter,
so that Alison can reply.

‘Lock up,’ bellows an officer. Just as I’m about to depart,
Sergio asks, ‘Can we talk again sometime, as there’s something else I’d like to
discuss with you?’ I nod, wondering what this quiet Colombian can possibly want
to see me about.

Had a bad night.
There was an
intake of young prisoners yesterday afternoon, and several of them turned out
to be window warriors. They spent most of the night letting everyone know what
they would like to do to Ms Webb, the young woman officer on night duty. Ms
Webb is a charming, university-educated woman who is on the fast-track for
promotion. Darren told me that whenever a new group of prisoners comes in, they
spend the fast twenty-four hours sorting out the ‘pecking order’. At night,
Wayland is just as uncivilized as Belmarsh, and the officers show no interest
in doing anything about it. After all, the governor is sound asleep in her bed.

At Belmarsh I was moved into a single cell after four days.
In Wayland I’ve been left for eleven days among men whose every second word is
‘fuck’, some of whom have been charged with murder, rape, grievous bodily harm
and drug pushing. Let me make it clear: this is not the fault of the prison
officers on the ground, but the senior management. There are prisoners who have
been incarcerated in Wayland for some time and have never once seen the
governor. I do not think that all the officers have met her.
Thaf
s not what I call leadership.

One of yesterday’s new intake thought it would be clever to
slam my door closed just after an officer had unlocked it so that I could go to
breakfast. He then ran up and down the corridor shouting, ‘I locked Jeffrey
Archer in, I locked Jeffrey Archer in.’
Luckily
, only
a few of the prisoners are this moronic, but they still make everyone else’s
life unbearable.

Breakfast.
One look at the lumpy,
powdered scrambled egg and a tomato swimming in water and I’m off. As I leave,
Sergio suggests we meet in his room at 10.30. I nod my agreement.

Saturday is a dreadful day in prison. It’s the weekend and
you think about what you and your family might have been doing together.
However, because we are ‘unlocked’ during the day, but ‘banged up’ in the early
evening, there is always a queue outside my cell door: prisoners wanting
letters written, queries answered, or on
the scrounge
for phonecards and stamps. At least no one bothers to ask me for tobacco. So on
a Saturday, my only chance of a clear two hours to write are between six and
eight in the morning, and six and eight at night.

I call Chris Beetles at his gallery. It’s the opening of his
Cat Show, – these ones are in frames not cages – so I don’t waste a lot of his
time, and promise I’ll call him back on Monday.

On my way back to the cell I pass Darren in the corridor and
stop to ask him about Sergio, whose cell is three doors away from
his.

‘A real gentleman,’ says Darren.
‘Keeps
himself to himself.
In fact I don’t know much more about him now than I
did when he arrived at Wayland a year ago. He’s a Colombian, but he’s one of
the few prisoners who never
touches
drugs. He doesn’t
even smoke. You’ll like him.’

When I arrive at Sergio’s cell he checks his watch as if he
assumed I’d be on time. If the Archer theory is correct – namely that you can
tell everything you need to know about a prisoner from his cell – then Sergio
is a neat and tidy man who likes everything in its place. He offers me his
chair, while he sits on the bed. His English is good, although not fluent, and
it quickly becomes clear that he has no idea who I am, which helps
considerably.

When I tell him I’m a writer, he looks interested. I promise
to have one of my books (Spanish translation) sent in. An hour passes before he
tells me anything about himself. He makes it clear, as if he wants the world to
know, that Colombians fall into two categories: those who are involved in drugs
and those who are not. He and his family come into the latter group, and he
seems genuinely pleased when I tell him that I have an aversion to drugs that
is bordering on the manic.

His family, he tells me, have no idea he’s in jail. In fact
his weekly call to Bogota accounts for almost his entire income. He’s divorced with
no children, so the only people he has to fool are his brother, his sister and
his parents. They believe he has a responsible job with an import/export
company in London. He will return to Bogota in five weeks’ time. There is no
need for him to purchase a plane ticket, as he will be deported. Were he ever
to return to Britain, he would immediately be arrested, put back in jail, and
would remain locked up until he had completed the other half of his eight-year
sentence. He has no plans to come back, he tells me.

The conversation drifts from subject to subject, to see if
we can find anything of mutual interest. He has a great knowledge of emeralds,
coffee and bananas – three subjects of which I know virtually nothing, other
than their colour. It’s then I spot a photograph of him with, he tells me, his
mother and sister. A huge smile comes over my face as he removes the picture
from the shelf to allow me a closer look.

‘Is that a Botero?’ I ask, squinting at the painting behind
his mother. He cannot hide his surprise that I should ever have heard of the
maestro.

‘Yes it is,’ he says. ‘My mother is a friend of Botero.’

I almost leap in the air, as I have long dreamed of adding a
Botero to my art collection in London or my sculpture collection in
Grantchester. In fact Chris Beetles and I travelled to Calabria two years ago
to visit the great man at his foundry. Sergio quickly reveals that he knows a
considerable amount about Latin American art, and names several other artists
including Manzu, Rivera and Betancourt. He has met Botero, and his
family are
friends of Manzu. I tell him I would love to own
one of their works, but both artists are way out of my price range,
particularly Botero, who is considered to be the Picasso of South America. The
French think so highly of him that they once held an exhibition of his
sculptures along the Champs-Elysees; the first time a foreigner has been so
honoured.

‘It’s just possible I could find one of his works at a price
you could afford.’

‘How is that possible?’ I ask.

Sergio then explains to me at great length what he calls the
‘Colombian mentality’.

‘To start with, you have to accept that my countrymen only
want to deal in cash. They do not trust banks, and do not believe in cheques,
which is why they regularly alternate between being rich and penniless. When
they are wealthy, they buy everything in sight – jewellery, yachts, cars,
houses, paintings, women, anything; when they are poor they sell everything,
and the women leave them. But Colombians have no fear of selling,’ he
continues, ‘because they always believe that they will be rich again… tomorrow,
when they will buy back everything, even the women. I know a trader in Bogota,’
he continues, ‘who bought a Botero for a million dollars, and five years later
sold it for two hundred thousand cash. Give me time and I’ll come up with a
Botero at the right price,’ he pauses, ‘but I would expect something in
return.’

Am I about to find out if Sergio is a con artist, or as
Darren suggested, ‘a real gentleman’?

‘I have a problem,’ he adds. ‘I have been in jail for four
years, and when I finish half my sentence I will be deported.’ I’m trying to
write notes as he speaks. ‘I will be put on a plane without any presents for my
three nephews and niece.’ I don’t interrupt. Would it be possible for you to
get me three Manchester United shirts for the nephews – seven, ten and eleven
years old – and a Lion King outfit for my eight-year-old niece?’

‘Anything else?’
I ask.

‘Yes, I need a suitcase, because all I have is a HMP Wayland
plastic bag, and,’ he hesitates, ‘I also need twenty pounds in phonecards so I
can call Bogota and not worry about being cut off’

‘Is that it?’

He hesitates once more. ‘I would like one hundred pounds put
in my prison account so I can pick up one or two things for my family at the
airport. I don’t want them to wonder why I don’t have any presents for them.’

I consider his requests. For risk capital investment of
around £200 I would have an outside chance of owning a Botero I can afford. I
nod to show that I agree to his terms.

‘If you do this for me’ he adds, ‘I will tell you more. In
fact I have already told you more in an hour than I have any other prisoner in
four years.’ He then writes down the name and address of a contact in London
and says, ‘Give her the suitcase, the T-shirts and the one hundred pounds, and
she will send them on to me at Wayland. That way you won’t be involved.’

I phone a friend who used to work in the T-shirt business,
and pass on the order for Manchester United T-shirts and a Lion King outfit. He
sounds intrigued, but doesn’t ask any questions. I then call my driver at home
and explain that the items are to be delivered to a flat in north London, along
with £100 in cash. ‘Consider it done’ he says.

I cross the corridor to Dale’s room and tell him I need
twenty pounds’ worth of phonecards.

‘Just like that, my lord?’

‘Just like that’ I reply. ‘Put it on my account and I’ll
have the money sent through to you.’

He opens a drawer and removes ten £2 cards and passes them
across. ‘You’ve wiped me out’ he says.

‘Then get back to work, because I have a feeling I’m going
to need even more next week.’

‘Why? Are you calling America?’

‘Right idea.
Wrong continent’

I leave Dale and return to Sergio’s room. I hand over the
ten phonecards and tell him that the other items will all have been delivered
by this time tomorrow. He looks astonished.

‘How fortunate that you are sent to this
jail, just as I am leaving.’

I confess that I hadn’t seen it quite that way, and remind
him that we have a deal.

‘One Botero, at a price you can afford, within a year,’ he
confirms. ‘You’ll have it by Christmas.’

When I leave him to return to my cell, I remember just how
much I miss dealing, whether it’s for £200 or £2 million. I once watched Jimmy
Goldsmith bargaining for a backgammon board with a street trader in Mexico. It
took him all of forty minutes, and he must have saved every penny of £10, but
he just couldn’t resist it.

Lunch.
I devour a plate of Princes
ham (49p) surrounded by prison beans while I watch England avoid the follow on.

I head for the library – closed, followed by the gym –
cancelled. So I’ll have to settle for a forty-five-minute walk around the
exercise yard.

The man who was sketching the portrait of another prisoner
yesterday is waiting for me as Darren, Jimmy and I walk out into the yard. He
introduces himself as Shaun, but tells me that most inmates call him Sketch. I
explain that I want a portrait of Dale (wounding with intent), Darren
(marijuana only), Jimmy (Ecstasy courier), Steve (conspiracy to murder) and
Jules (drug dealing) for the diary; a sort of montage. He looks excited by the
commission, but warns me that he’ll have to get on with it as he’s due to be
released in three weeks’ time.

‘Any hope of some colour?’ I ask.