Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (9 page)

I kick him gently up the backside as an officer is passing
in the opposite direction.

‘Did you see that, Mr Chapman? Archer is bullying me.’ ‘I’ll
put him on report, and he’ll be back in Belmarsh by the end of the week,’ Mr
Chapman promises.

We laugh as we continue on the perimeter circuit. However, I
point out how easy it is to make an accusation, and how long it takes to refute
it. It’s been a month since Emma Nicholson appeared on Newsnight insinuating
that I had stolen money intended for the Kurds, and it will probably be another
month before the police confirm there is no case to answer.

‘But just think about that for a minute, Jeffrey. If it
hadn’t been for that bitch Nicholson, you would never have met Jimmy and me,
who have not only added greatly to your knowledge of prison life, but enabled a
further volume to be written.’

One of the officers says there’s a package for me in the
office. I’m puzzled as I’ve already had my mail for today, and registered
letters are always opened in front of two officers, around eleven each morning.
When I walk in, he makes a point of closing the office door before he hands
over a copy of Alan Clark’s Diaries, a pad and a book of stamps.
Someone else who considers the regulations damned stupid.

He goes on to say that my wife will be searched when she
visits the prison tomorrow. We’re all embarrassed about it,’ he adds, ‘but it
will be no worse than at an airport. But perhaps it might be wise to let her
know. By the way, the
press are
still hanging about
hoping to catch her when she arrives.’ I thank him and leave.

I read a few pages of the Clark Diaries, which I enjoy every
bit as much a second time. I also enjoyed Alan’s company, and will never forget
a dinner party he gave at Saltwood just before the general election in 1997.
Alan posed the question to his guests, ‘What do you think the majority will be
at the next election?’ Most of the assembled gathering thought Labour would win
by over a hundred. The only dissenter was Michael Howard, who was Home
Secretary at the time. He put up a bold defence of John Major’s administration,
and told his fellow guests that he felt it was still possible for the
Conservatives to win the next election. Alan told him that if he really
believed that, he was living in cloud cuckoo land. I don’t know to this day if
Michael was simply being loyal to the prime minister. Although I can tell you that,
like John Major, he is one of those people who
doesn’t
cross over to the other side of the road when you’re in trouble.

Suddenly feel very hungry – eat a bowl of cornflakes and a
Mars bar. Check my clothes – still not dry. I don’t bother with another of John
Mortimer’s great trials. Feel I have enough murderers surrounding me without
having to read about them.

The first thing I notice when I wake is that my Mach3 razor
has disappeared. The wash basin is next to the door. In future, after I’ve
shaved, I’ll have to hide it in my cupboard. It would have to be stolen on the
day Mary is visiting me; I want to be clean shaven but I don’t want to cut
myself to ribbons with a prison razor. It also reminds me that, because I
hadn’t expected to be convicted, I’ve been wearing my Longines watch for the
past month, and I must hand it over to my son during the visit this afternoon.

Breakfast.
Before I go down to the
hotplate, I extract a letter from yesterday’s mail that is in Spanish. Dale has
told me that one of the servers on the hotplate hails from Colombia, so he
should be able to translate it for me. His name is Sergio, and he usually
stands quietly on the end of the line, handing out the fruit. I pass the missive
across to him, and ask if we could meet later. He nods, and hands me a banana
in return.

Today’s induction is education, once again held in the room
with the comfy chairs. For the first time the other prisoners show some
interest. Why? Because this is how they’ll earn their weekly wage. The head of
education introduces herself as Wendy. She must be in her fifties, has curly
grey hair,
wears
a flowery blouse, white skirt and
sensible shoes. She has the air of a headmistress. Wendy wheels a little
projector up to the front, and begins a slide show. Using the white brick wall
as a backdrop, she shows us what her department has to offer. The first slide
reveals five options:

Basic skills

English as an additional language

Social and life skills

Business skills

Art, craft and design

‘Education,’ Wendy points out, ‘is part-time (one session a
day), so you can only earn seven pounds thirty-five per week.’ The other
prisoners don’t take a great deal of interest in this slide, but immediately
perk up when the second chart flashes on to the wall. VT and CIT training
courses:

Bricklaying

Plumbing

Electrical installation

Painting and decorating

Welding

Motor mechanics

Light vehicle body repair

Industrial cleaning

Computer application

The weekly pay for any one of these courses is also £7.35,
but does give you a basic training for when you return to the outside world.

When the final slide comes up, most of the inmates begin
licking their collective lips, because this offers not only real earning power,
but a position of responsibility plus perks. The extra money guarantees a more
substantial canteen list each week (extra tobacco) and even the opportunity to
save something for when you are released. The slide reveals:

Plastic recycling £10.15 per week

Ration packing £9.35

Gardening (one of the most sought-after jobs, with a long
waiting list) £9.00

General cleaner £6.70

Works £8.50

Kitchen £8.50

Stores (very popular, longer waiting list than the MCC)
£10.00

Chapel £8.00

Drug rehabilitation unit £6.70

Before she can turn back to face her audience, the questions
come thick and fast. Wendy points out that most of these jobs already have
waiting lists, even washing-up, as there are far more prisoners than jobs.
Wendy handles the questions sympathetically, without giving anyone false hopes
of being offered one of these more remunerative positions.

Her final task is to hand round more forms to be filled in.
My fellow inmates grab them, and then take some time considering their options.
I put a cross next to ‘pottery’ in the education box, but add that I would be
happy to do a creative writing course, or teach other prisoners to read and
write. Wendy has already pointed out that the education department is
understaffed. However, she tells me that such an initiative would require the
governor’s approval, and she’ll get back to me. I return to my cell.

I report to the gym to assist with the special needs group.
They are about thirty in number, and I’ve been put in charge of four of them:
Alex, Robbie, Les and Paul. Three head straight for the rowing machines, while
Alex places himself firmly on the treadmill. He sets off at one mile an hour
and, with coaxing and patience (something I don’t have in abundance), he
manages two miles an hour. I have rarely seen such delight on a competitor’s
face. This, for Alex, is his Olympic gold medal. I then suggest he moves on to
the step machine while I try to tempt Paul off the rower and onto the running
machine. I have to give him several demonstrations as to how it works before
he’ll even venture on, and when he finally does, we start him off at half a
mile an hour. By using sign language – hands waving up and down – we increase
his speed to one mile an hour, I next try to show him how to use the plus and
minus buttons. He conquers this new skill by the time he’s walked half a mile.
While I teach him how to operate the machine, he teaches me to be patient. By
the time he’s done a mile, Paul has mastered the technique completely, and
feels like a king. I feel pretty good too.

I look around the room and observe the other prisoners –
murderers, drug barons, armed robbers and burglars, gaining just as much from
the experience as their charges.

Our final session brings
all the
group together in the gym where we play a game that’s a cross between cricket
and football, called catchball. A plastic ball is bowled slowly along the
ground to a child (I must remember that though they think like children, they
are not), who kicks it in the air, and then takes a run. If they are caught,
they’re out, and someone else takes their place. One of the players, Robbie,
catches almost everything, whether it flies above his head, at his feet, or
straight at him. This is always greeted with yelps of delight.

By eleven thirty, we’re all exhausted. The
group are
then ushered out of a especial door at the side of
the gym. The boys shake hands and the girls cuddle their favourite prisoner.
Carl, a handsome West Indian, gets more cuddles than any of us (they see no
colour, only kindness). As they leave to go home, they enquire how long you
will be there, and thus I discover why prisoners with longer sentences are
selected for this particular responsibility. I make a bold attempt to escape
with the group, who all laugh and point at me. When we reach the waiting bus,
Mr Maiden finally calls me back.

Lunch.
I can’t remember what I’ve
just eaten because I’m glued to the morning papers. Mary is given rave reviews
right across the board – dozens of column inches praising the way she handled
John Humphrys.

Lord Longford’s reported dying words, ‘Free Jeffrey Archer’,
get a mention in almost every column. I didn’t know Frank Longford well, but
enjoyed his wife’s reply to Roy Plomley on Desert Island Discs:

Plomley: ‘Lady Longford, have you ever considered divorce?’

Lady Longford: ‘No, never. Murder several times, but
divorce, never.’

I have a feeling Mary would have given roughly the same
reply.

I am watching the Australians leave the field – they were
all out for 447 – when the cell door is unlocked and I’m told to report to the
visitors’ area. I switch off the TV and head out into the corridor.
How unlike Belmarsh.
I even have to ask the way. ‘Take the
same route as you would for the gym,’ says Mr Chapman, but then
turn
right at the end of the corridor.’

When I arrive, the two duty officers don’t strip search me,
and show no interest in my watch, which is secreted under my shirtsleeve. For
visits, all prisoners have to wear striped blue prison shirts and blue jeans.

The visitors’ room is about the same size as the gym and is
filled with seventy small round tables, each surrounded by four chairs – one
red, three blue. The red chair and the table are bolted together so there is
always a gap between you and your visitor. This is to prevent easy passing of
illicit contraband. The prisoner sits in the red seat, with his back to the
officers. In the middle of each table is a number. I’m fourteen. There is a
tuck shop on the far side of the room where visitors can purchase non-alcoholic
drinks, chocolate and crisps. The one prisoner trusted to handle cash in the
shop is Steve (conspiracy to murder, librarian and accountant) – would-be
murderer he may be, thief he is not. Once every prisoner has been seated, the
visitors are allowed in.

I watch the different prisoners’ wives, partners,
girlfriends and children as they walk through the door and try to guess which
table they’ll go to. Wrong almost every time. Mary’s about fifth through the
gate. She is wearing a long white dress which shows off that glorious mop of
dark hair. Will is only a pace behind, followed by my agent and close friend,
Jonathan Lloyd. He and Will take a seat near the door, so that Mary and I can
have a little time to ourselves.

Mary brings me up to date with what’s happening at the Red
Cross. Their CEO, Sir Nicholas Young, has been most supportive; no fence-sitter
he. Because of his firm statements Mary feels confident that it won’t be long
before I am moved on to an open prison. She also feels that the Prison Service
and the police have been put in an embarrassing position, and will fall back on
claiming that they had no choice but to follow up Nicholson’s accusation. The
Red Cross may even consider taking legal action against her. The lawyers’
advice is, if they do, we should remain on the sidelines. I agree. She beckons
to Will who comes over to join us.

Will
tells
me that he’s been
monitoring everything, and although it’s tough for me, they are both working
daily on my behalf. I confess that there are times in the dead of night when
you wonder if anyone is out there. But I realize when it comes to back-up,
there can’t be a prisoner alive with a more supportive family. When Will’s
completed his report, Jonathan is finally allowed to join us, while Will goes
off to purchase six Diet Cokes and a bottle of Highland Spring. (Three of the
Cokes are for me.)

Jonathan has travelled up to Wayland to discuss my latest
novel. He also wants an update on the diaries. I’m able to tell him that
Belmarsh is completed (70,000 words) although I still need to read it through
once again, but hope to have it on his desk in about two weeks’ time.

We discuss selling the newspaper rights separately, while
allowing my publisher a 10 per cent topping right on the three volumes, as
they’ve been so good to me in the past. But we all agree that nothing should
happen until we know the outcome of my appeal, both for conviction and
sentence.

Once Jonathan feels his business is complete, he retires
once again, so that I can spend the last half hour with Mary and Will. When we’re
alone, we recap on all that needs to be done before we meet again in a
fortnight’s time. At least I now have enough phonecards to keep in regular
touch.