Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (12 page)

Breakfast.
I have a Shredded Wheat
and think of Ian Botham. This is doubly appropriate because
it’s
twenty years ago this week that he scored 149 at Headingley and, with the
assistance of Willis and Dilly, defeated Australia, despite England having to
follow on. In today’s match, Australia lead by 314, and I assume Adam Gilchrist
will soon declare, as they’ve already won the series and England have only
scored more than 300 in a final innings against Australia once in the last
hundred years.

One of the prison chaplains visits me. She bears a message
from Michael Adie, who until recently was the Bishop of Guildford. Michael and
I first met in 1969 when he was Vicar of Louth and I was the Member of
Parliament for that beautiful constituency. He was a more natural friend for
Mary, having gained a first-class honours degree in mathematics at Cambridge.
Michael wants to visit me and has discovered that a bishop can see a prisoner
without it affecting his quota of fortnightly visits.

I suggest to Margaret, the prison chaplain, that for Michael
to make the long journey to Norfolk is typical of his generous spirit, but it
might be wiser to wait and find out which D-cat prison they are going to
transfer me to. I feel sure it will be nearer London and he could then visit me
there. She kindly agrees to relay that message back to him.

Lunch.
When I reach the hotplate,
Dale looks anxious and whispers that he has to see me urgently.

I return to my cell, flick on the television to find that
England are 12 for 2 and an Australian victory now looks certain. All we can
hope for now is a draw. The untutored Jules thinks England can still win. Bless
him. After all, he has only taken to watching cricket because he’s stuck in the
same cell as me.

Gym.
I complete my usual programme
and feel I’m just about back to the level of fitness I was before being
sentenced. I leave the exercise room to check up on what’s happening in the
main hall, where I find a volleyball match in progress. So many prisoners want
to join in that they are playing one team on and one team off. By the end of the
game, I accept the
fart that I can no longer hope to play at
this level, and appoint myself referee
. Within a minute, I’ve given a
penalty point because a prisoner swears following one of my decisions. A near
riot breaks out and
it’s
several minutes before I can
get the game started again. What then follows is
a close,
well-fought match without another swear
word uttered. When I blow the
final whistle, the players on both sides all turn to face me, and swear as one.

After a shower, I sit in my tiny cell and watch England
fight their way back to 107 for 2. Jules is still convinced England can win.
Dale visits me in my cell soon after Jules has disappeared off to education.
Dale warns me that he’s been interviewed by a security officer. Although they have
no proof, they are fairly sure that the five £20 postal orders he received last
week came from me, and they’ve warned him that if any further monies
materialize that cannot be accounted
for,
they’ll set
up a full enquiry. We both agree that payments will have to cease, and with it
my weekly supplies. Help!

The same officer interviews me thirty minutes later, saying
he has reason to believe I have been sending money in to another prisoner. The officer
could not have been more reasonable, and adds that if it occurs again, it could
greatly harm my chances of regaining D-cat status. It is then that he asks me
if I am being bullied and paying someone to protect me. I burst out laughing.
The officer obviously feels that Dale, at six foot three and twenty-seven
stone, is my paid minder.

I make it clear that no one is bullying me, and I don’t
require any protection, but if I do he will be the first person to hear about
it. The last thing I need is to jeopardize my D-cat, or be beaten up.

I return to my cell to find England
are
207 for 3 at tea and Butcher is playing out of his skin. Even McGrath is being
regularly dispatched to all parts of the ground. Could Jules be right?

Exercise.
I go out into the yard
every day now, not just because I need the exercise but to pick up stories from
the prisoners on different wings. Many of them are professional criminals,
while others are just stupid or lazy. The most dangerous and frightening are a
combination of all three. However,
a minority are
bright; but for the circumstances of their upbringing many of them might well
have held down responsible positions. Darren agrees with me, but pointing to an
inmate a few paces ahead of us, adds, ‘But not in his case.’

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Who’s he?’

That’s Dumbo,’ he says, but offers no further explanation
until we have passed him and he is well out of earshot.

‘In December last year,’ Darren continues, ‘Dumbo was
unemployed and facing the prospect of a distinctly un-merry Christmas. His wife
said she’d had enough, and told him to go out and get some money and she didn’t
care how. Dumbo disappeared off to the town’s largest toy store, where he
shoplifted a replica gun. He then walked across the road, held up the local
chemist and departed with fourteen hundred pounds in cash. He returned home,
handed over the money to his wife, confident that she would feel he’d done a
good day’s work. But after counting the notes, she told him that it wasn’t
enough and to go and get some more. Hold your breath,’ said Darren, ‘Dumbo once
again leaves his home, returns to the high street, walks back into the same
chemist shop with the intention of repeating the hold-up, only to find two
police officers interviewing the proprietor. Dumbo was arrested on the spot,
accompanied to the nearest police station, charged and later sentenced to eight
years for robbery while in the possession of a firearm.’

No novelist would dare to consider such a plot.

When I return to my cell, Jules is glued to the television.
Butcher is still at the crease. We both watch as Jules’s prediction comes true
and England sweep to a famous victory – Butcher, having scored the winning run,
is 173 not out. This is an innings he will not be the only person to remember for
the rest of his life.

I feel I should point out that Jules is every bit as excited
as I am.
A convert.
A week ago he couldn’t understand
a draw, let alone what a follow on was, now he can’t wait for next Thursday to
watch the fifth and final test. I do hope he doesn’t expect them all to end
like this.

Supper.
I’m tucking into my beans
and chips when Mr Meanwell unlocks the cell door and asks to have a private
word with me. He doesn’t speak again until we are in his office and the door is
closed.

‘You were lucky to have got away with it this time, but
don’t do it again,’ he warns me. ‘If you do, it could hold up your D-cat for
months. And if you’re thinking of doing anything with Sergio, wait until he’s
completed his sentence.’ I’m impressed by how well-informed Mr Meanwell is.

Slept well, write for two hours.

Breakfast.
It’s Rice Crispies
again. It’s taken me until the middle of the second week to work out that it’s
Shredded Wheat on Monday, Rice Crispies on Tuesday,
cornflakes
on Wednesday. Nothing changes. Everything is by rote.

My induction seems to have run its course. However, I remain
on the induction wing as I wait for a single cell to become vacant I am made
aware of this because the cycle has begun again: a new group of prisoners is
being seen by a member of the Board of Visitors. I peer through the little mesh
window in the door; it’s not Mr Flintcroft this time, but a lookalike.

Education.
I pull on my newly
supplied prison regulation heavy brown boots as I prepare for my first pottery
lesson. Once I’ve left the spur I have to ask several officers and inmates the
way to the Art Centre, which turns out to be on the other side of the prison.

When I finally locate it, the first person I see on entering
the room is Shaun, who sits in the corner of the large square workshop working
on an abstract pastel. He greets me with a smile. The next person I spot is a
lady who I assume must be our tutor. She’s around five foot six, dark-haired
and dark-eyed with a warm smile. She introduces herself as Anne.

The first task Anne sets me is to read a pottery book and
see if I come across any object I’d like to recreate. I try to tell her about
my lack of talent in this area, but she just smiles. I begin to read the book
as she moves on to Roger, a jolly West Indian (bank robber), who is doing a
sculpture of the Virgin Mary. She then goes across to Terry (burglar), who is
moulding his piece of clay into a lion. I am engrossed in my book when Anne returns,
accompanied by a large lump of clay. She also has a thin wooden stick that
looks like a knife without a handle, which is numbered four. She glances down
at the page I’ve reached to see a head and shoulders figure of a man. With the
help of the wooden knife, she carves chunks off the square putty to start
forming the shoulders, and then leaves me to begin my first attempt at
figurative sculpture.

As I turn my attention to the head and neck, I get into
conversation with Shaun who is rubbing his fingers into the pastel to try and
give his picture a blurred ‘Turneresque’ look. While he chats away about which
artists influence him, I subtly try to steer the conversation off art and find
out why he is in prison, quite expecting him to claim that he’s another victim
of drugs.

‘No, no,
no,’ he says.
‘Forgery.’
My ears prick up.
‘Paintings?’
I ask.

‘No,’ he replies. ‘Much as I’d like to be a Keating or Elmyr
Hory, it’s more mundane than that – John Lewis gift vouchers.’ I laugh. ‘So how
were you caught?’

‘I was grassed up by my mate who got nervous and turned
Queen’s evidence. He got off while I ended up with thirteen months in prison.’

Thirteen months? That’s a strange sentence.’ ‘I was given
twelve months for the forgery and an extra month for not turning up to the
first hearing.’

‘How much did you get away with?’ I ask casually. ‘Can’t
tell you that,’ he responds. ‘But I admitted to a couple of grand.’

‘And you’ll be out in three weeks, so how long have you
served?’

‘Just over four months.’

‘So you haven’t that long to carry out my commission.’ He
turns back to his sketch pad and flicks over a few pages. Be reveals half a
dozen sketches of five figures in different poses and asks which one I would
prefer. ‘Which one do you prefer?’

‘Number three,’ he says, placing his thumb on the sketch. I
nod my agreement as Anne reappears by my side.

I see what you mean by lack of talent,’ she says, and bursts
out laughing at my feeble effort of a head and shoulders, which makes like a
cross between ET and a Botero. Roger (bank robber) and Terry (burglar) come
across to find out what’s causing such

‘You should have started with a pot, man,’ says Roger, ‘and
not tried to advance so quickly.’ He’s already identified my biggest failing.

Without warning, two officers march in and begin to carry
out a search. I assume it must be to check on the number of wooden knives and
wire used for slicing the putty. But no, I’m told later it was for drugs. The
workshops are evidently a common place for dealers to conduct their business.

On the way back to my cell I get lost again, but Shaun
accompanies me to A wing and tells me that he has come up with a concept for
the cover of Wayland (see plate section). I had always assumed that a graphic
designer would do the cover of the book, but the idea of a fellow prisoner
carrying out the commission is very appealing. I also admire Shaun’s enterprise
in spotting the opportunity. As we part at the T-junction between our two
blocks, we agree to meet up during afternoon exercise to continue the discussion.

Lunch.
Dale’s
mushroom soup plus a vegetable fritter.

I call my solicitor to try to find out the latest on the
Simple Truth investigation. The police have been supplied with all our
documents plus a detailed report from the Red Cross. Detective Chief
Superintendent Perry, who’s in charge of the case, is sympathetic, but says he
must follow up all Baroness Nicholson’s accusations. To DCS Perry a day is
nothing; to me it’s another fourteen hours locked in a cell.

Supper: Chinese stir-fry and vegetables. An original recipe
served up in one blob, and certainly not cooked by anyone who originated from
the Orient.

No evening gym because there is a cricket match between A
and D blocks (the drug-free wing known as junkies’ paradise). I am going over
my script for the day when Jimmy appears outside my cell door.

You’re batting at number five, my lord,’ he says, looking
down at his team sheet.

‘What?’ I say. ‘The last game I played was for David Frost’s
eleven against the Lords Taverners and on that occasion I was dean bowled first
ball.’

‘Who was the bowler?’ he asks.

‘Imran Khan,’ I reply.

The Pakistani fast bowler?’ he asks in disbelief.

‘Yes, but he was bowling slow leg breaks at the time.’

‘You’re still batting number five.
Report
to the top corridor in five minutes.’

I change into a tracksuit, place a bottle top in the gap in
my door and run to the gate to find Darren waiting for me.