Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (27 page)

The final session spent with all three of them is great fun,
not least because Will brings me another cheese and tomato sandwich. I didn’t
have lunch, and now I needn’t bother with supper. Godfrey tells me that he
believes IDS can win the next election. Chris pours scorn on the idea, and is
happy to stake a Mars bar on Blair, who he believes has hardly put a foot wrong
since September 11th.

‘Let’s see what he looks like in a year’s time,’ counters
Godfrey.

I can only wonder where I’ll be in a year’s time…

The call for visitors to leave comes all too soon, and I am
painfully reminded how much I enjoy the company of old friends.

When I leave to return to my cell, I am stopped and made to
suffer the humiliation of
a strip-search
. Two junior
officers obviously think it will be fun to tell their friends at the pub
tonight that they made Lord Archer take all his clothes off. Good heavens, they
discover I have a penis just like other inmates. It spoils what had been a
better day. However, their pettiness is not typical of the majority of officers
at Wayland.

Jimmy is back from four days of home leave – this is allowed
for non-parole prisoners who have served a third of their sentence. Jimmy’s
sentence was three and a half years, mine four. Mr Justice Potts understood the
difference only too well. Jimmy says he can’t wait to get a good night’s sleep.
He’s had sex with two women in the past forty-eight hours; one stupid but sexy,
the other an undergraduate who likes telling her friends she’s sleeping with a
convict. He can’t decide which of them to commit to when he’s released in three
weeks’ time. Darren offers him sage advice: If you can’t choose between them,
neither can be right.’

For the first time since September 11th the lead story on
the Ten O’Clock News does not come from the other side of the Atlantic. It
still involves terrorists, but this time the report comes from Northern
Ireland. I wonder how long the problems of Osama bin Laden will remain
paramount, as one can’t help remembering that Saddam Hussein is still on the
loose…

I switch off the news, and continue my Shakespearean
marathon by turning to Richard II.

Jimmy now wants to escape. He’s due to be released in three
weeks’ time, but those four days on the outside have given him a taste for
freedom. He has no intention of returning to jail. It was Jimmy’s first
offence, and he swears it will be his last. I have come to admire the way the
Prison Service, the probation officers and the parole
board
are
able to assess which prisoners are likely to reoffend and which are
not. They probably make mistakes, which will guarantee them unflattering
headlines wishing they had chosen an easier profession. But let’s at least be
thankful someone’s willing to do the job.

During exercise Darren tells me about a prisoner who’s been
shipped out this morning at short notice. It seems that he was fast becoming
the No. 1 drug dealer for the prison, and was happy to exchange his wares –
cannabis, cocaine and heroin – for phonecards or tobacco. However, a problem
arose because the drug baron on C block was only willing to supply his stock
for cash, paid into a private bank account on the outside. Let me remind you
how this works. Prisoners will instruct a friend or relative during visits
(they consider the phone or letters too risky) to place money into an account
of an associate of the prison drug dealer, who then supplies the gear.

When the drug baron on C block found his customers were
moving their business to the new boy on B block because he didn’t require cash,
something drastic needed to be done. Yesterday, while his rival was in the gym,
he paid two other inmates (cleaners) on B block to torch his cell. Result, the
prisoner whose cell was torched was immediately transferred to another gaol.
This means that the drug baron on C block is able to continue his evil trade
and will be released in a few weeks’ time supported by a healthy bank balance.

There is rarely anything worth watching on TV on a Saturday
night, so I finish off Richard II – or to be more accurate, an assassin
finishes off the poor fellow. I last saw the play performed at the Barbican
with Sam West in the title role. I had been looking forward to his Hamlet at
Stratford, but it was not to be.

I call Mary to be told that the police are dropping their
enquiry having not even bothered to interview me. Mary is thinking of writing
to Baroness Nicholson and demanding an apology. I tell her it’s a waste of time
as Nicholson has neither the grace nor the decency to admit she made a false
accusation. Ms Nicholson is a wealthy woman. It would be
a
noble gesture on her part were
she to cover KPMG’s costs, rather than
leave the Red Cross to foot the bill.

Mary goes on to discuss a conversation she’s had with
Godfrey. He assured her that he is aware of the importance of any affidavit he
might sign, and the effect it would have on my appeal. She also confirms that
she is flying to Washington on Thursday, and hopes that by the time she returns
the following Tuesday, I will have been moved to an open prison.

Chapel.
The prison has appointed a
new chaplain. His name is Nick Tivey and, from his accent, I can only assume he
hails from somewhere in the north of these islands. He looks around thirty, and
tells me that he’s served in two parishes as a priest, before becoming a prison
chaplain.

His sermon, or chat, to the inmates is very
informal,
and more effective for that. His theme is how
Jesus despised the Pharaohs (bigwigs) and much preferred to mix with the
sinners (us). Applause breaks out among his congregation of seventeen (nine
black, eight white), which has doubled since I last attended chapel. He must be
doing something right if it’s only his second week.

I begin to read The Tempest and am reminded of John Wood’s
consummate performance as Prospero at Stratford.

We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep

But not tonight, because Shane (GBH, gym
orderly) has his TV full on while he watches the Sunday-night boxing.
He
likes to join in by offering his opinion on each bout, sometimes each punch, at
the top of his voice. ‘Prick’ and ‘wanker’ are his more repeatable expletives.
The boxing ends at 12.35 am, so I must have fallen asleep sometime after that.

I mention to Shane that he must have kept most of the spur
awake until after one o’clock, to which he replies, ‘Let’s face it, Jeff, I’m a
fuckin’ yob, and you’ll just have to fuckin’ well learn to live with it.’

Pottery.
One prisoner knocks the
trunk off another inmate’s elephant and all he’ll breaks loose. A lot of oaths
are uttered as the two of them face up for a fight, while the lifers goad them
on. Anne disappears into the next room, and it’s some time before peace is
restored. I discover later that both inmates involved are due to be released in
a few weeks’ time, and neither would have wanted their sentence extended. The
lifers glower, disappointed by the lack of action.

When the atmosphere returns to near normal, I suggest to the
two lads that perhaps they both owe Anne (our teacher) an apology. Two older
prisoners, both lifers, look on to see how the youngsters will react. They
immediately disappear into the next room and say sorry to Anne. She looks
surprised. The lifers nod in my direction. I make no excuses for these two
louts’ behaviour, but how many of us realize just how lucky we are not to have
been subjected to an upbringing where violence, bad language and crime are the
norm?

Three members of the Board of Visitors come to see me.
They’ve heard I’m leaving in the near future, and I wanted a chance to chat to
them. The BoV are all unpaid volunteers who give service without a great deal
of thanks as both sides of the iron door are sceptical about their usefulness.
Almost all the prisoners describe them as a complete waste of space, with the
usual adjective attached. This isn’t actually fair; because these volunteers
have brought about many improvements to prison life over the years, and only
last year convinced Jack Straw (Home Secretary at the time) to change his mind
on a major decision that affected Wayland.

I suggest to them that perhaps they should appear more often
in the exercise yard. Once prisoners get used to seeing them strolling around,
they may well come up and have a chat, and that might give inmates more
confidence in them. We then discuss several contentious issues, in particular,
the daily gripe about being banged up early on a Saturday, Sunday and Monday,
when we are incarcerated for fourteen hours at a stretch. They point out the
problem of staff shortages. No one likes to admit that there are only four
officers on our wing at weekends. Officers at Wayland are currently owed 4,000
hours of overtime between them, and I doubt if it’s much different in any other
prison.

The new probation officer asks to see me. Once I’ve settled
in his office, he explains that he’s only going through the motions because if
I move to a D-cat in the near future I won’t be seeing him again. When he
learns that I’m appealing against both conviction and sentence, the meeting
comes to an abrupt halt, and I am sent back to my cell.

I phone Alison to discover that Tony Morton-Hooper has faxed
Mr Carlton-Boyce (governor in charge of movement) with my preferences for a
D-cat:

Latchmere House, Richmond

Spring Hill, Buckinghamshire

Ford, Sussex

Stamford Hill, Kent

They all sound like minor public schools.

I know that they are unlikely to allow me to transfer to
Latchmere House as I don’t fulfil their criteria, and Ford has already turned
me down on the grounds that they couldn’t handle the press interest. The
inmates who have been to Stamford Hill tell me it’s full of young crackheads
who will drive me to an early grave. I expect therefore to end up at Spring
Hill, which Mr Meanwell has recommended all along.

The SO (senior officer) on duty calls me in for a private
word. It seems that two prisoners on C block have complained to the governor
that I was seen wearing a tracksuit top during exercise, a privilege enjoyed
only by enhanced prisoners. He will therefore have to search my cell for the
offending article, but he’s rather busy at the moment, so he won’t be able to
do so for another thirty minutes.

The offending article is a cream Adidas top, bequeathed to
me by Sergio on the day he was deported. I return to my cell and hand the top
to Darren. After I’ve told him about the interview, he calls in Jimmy, and
between them they give my cell a thorough going over. They also remove one bedside
lamp, one tin opener and a yellow check blanket, all of which I have acquired
during the past month, and am not entitled to unless enhanced.

The SO arrives thirty minutes later, accompanied by another
officer and together they search my cell. They reappear fifteen minutes later,
declaring my cell to be clean.

I later learn that the two prisoners from C block who made
the complaint are lifers – both in for murder. Envy in prisons is every bit as
prevalent as it is on the outside.

I call Sergio in Bogota and take advantage of the £7 left on
his phonecard. The news is not good. None of my bids for the Boteros has been
accepted. Chris Beetles turned out to be right – knowing the artist’s mother is
of no significance when dealing with a painter of international reputation.
‘Offer $500,000 for The Card Players,’ is my immediate response. There is a
long silence before Sergio admits. It’s already been sold for $900,000.’
Beep… beep
… beep… seconds to go. Tm sorry, Jeffrey, I’ll
keep trying to find you a…’

I’ve never heard from Sergio since.

As we wait to be called for breakfast, the talk among the
prisoners in the corridor is all about Shane (GBH, gym orderly). They’re fed up
(not their actual words) with the incessant noise he makes late at night and
first thing in the morning. I overhear that two or three of them are planning
to beat him up in the shower room after he comes back from the rugby match this
afternoon. I ask Darren if I ought to report this to Mr Tinkler.

‘No,’ he says adamantly. ‘Mind your own fuckin’ business and
leave it to us. But when you next see Tinkler or Meanwell, you could mention
what a fuckin’ nuisance Shane’s become. Most of us would like to see him moved
back upstairs.’ It’s the first time Darren has sworn in front of me.

Pottery.
Cancelled
because I have to attend a meeting with Reg Walton, the sentence management
officer.
He seems a nice chap, if a little overburdened by it all. He
explains that he has to fill in yet another form if I’m to advance to a D-cat.

‘Be reinstated’ I explain firmly, giving him a brief
run-down of how I ended up at Wayland. He nods, and begins to fill in the
little boxes. Here we go again.

Once he’s filled in all the little boxes he stands up, shakes
my hand and wishes me luck.

‘My wife loves your books.’ He pauses.
Though
I confess I’ve never read one.’

I referee a rugby match between Wayland and a local RAF
camp. It’s our first game against a visiting team, and it shows. I play the advantage
law as best I can to assist Wayland, but the RAF still end up winning 39-12.