Purgatory

DAY 35 – WEDNESDAY 22 AUGUST 2001

6.04 am

Wake. Fantasize about the possibility of a single cell. Write for two hours.

8.15 am

Breakfast Cornflakes and one slice of toast. Dale is missing from behind the hotplate.

10.00 am

I spot Dale in the corridor. He tells me he’s resigned from his job at the hotplate. He’s sick of getting up thirty minutes before the rest of us just to be abused by inmates who never feel their serve of chips is large enough.

I see my name is chalked up on the blackboard outside the office to report to the SO, Mr Meanwell. I go straight to the e. He has a registered letter for me, and slits it open. He a two-sided typed missive which he hands over, but; no interest in reading. While he checks inside the envel-I for drugs, money, even stamps, I begin to read the letter, and after only a paragraph, pass it back to Mr Meanwell. When he peruses it, a look of disbelief comes over his face. The writer wants to borrow PS10,000 to invest in ‘an impossible to lose deal’ and he’s willing to split the profits fifty-fifty.

‘How often do you get one of these?’ he asks.

Two or three times a week,’ I confess, ‘asking for sums for as little as fifty pounds right up to a million for yet another ‘impossible to lose deal’.’

‘By the way,’ he says as he hands me the empty envelope, ‘you may be moving today.’ By the way, by the way, by the way – so casual for him, so important to me. ‘One of the chaps on the enhanced spur is being transferred to a prison nearer his home and we’re allocating his cell to an inmate who will take over his responsibilities as cleaner. Once that’s been sorted out, – Mr Meanwell is old enough still to include the word ‘out’ – ‘we’ll move you into his cell. I did think of sending you straight to the enhanced spur,’ he admits, ‘but there were two reasons not to. First, the spur needs a cleaner and you wouldn’t be my first choice for that particular job, and second, I want you on the quieter side where it’s not possible for other prisoners to peer through your window during exercise.’

Once I leave Mr Meanwell, I go in search of David (whisky bootlegger and spur cleaner). I find him attached to the industrial cleaner whirring around the floor of the induction corridor. He invites me along to his present cell on the first floor which, compared to my one up, one down on the induction wing, is the difference between Fawlty Towers and the Ritz.

11.00 am

Exercise. During the first circuit I’m asked by Chris (burglary) if I’ll sponsor him for a half marathon in aid of the NSPCC. I agree to PS1 a mile, as long as it comes out of my private finances and not my canteen account. Otherwise I’ll be without food and bottled water for several weeks. He assures me that the authorities will allow that, so I sign up. He sticks with us for half a circuit, by which time I’ve learnt that he’s the type of burglar our probation officer, Lisa Dada, so despises. He’s twenty-seven years old and has spent eight of the last ten years in jail. He simply considers burglary a way of life. In fact, his parting words are, ‘I’m out in six weeks’ time, Jeff, but don’t worry, your house is safe.’ I realize those of you who have never been to jail may find this strange, but I now feel more sympathy for some of the murderers in Belmarsh than I do for professional burglars.

It was sometime later that I began to ponder on how he could run thirteen miles without occupying half the local constabulary to make sure he didn’t escape. I’ll ask him tomorrow.

Jason (conspiracy to blackmail) joins us on the second circuit and congratulates me on being moved to a single cell.

‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ I remind him.

‘No, but it will this afternoon.’

Prison has many similarities to the outside world. One is that you quickly discover who actually knows what’s going on and who only picks up fag ends. Jason knows exactly what’s happening.

‘Of course, if you want to,’ Jason adds, ‘you can always get yourself transferred to another prison.’

‘And how would I manage that?’

‘Write yourself a note and drop it in the complaints box. You don’t even have to sign it. It’s known as ‘the grass box’.’

‘And what would I have to suggest?’

‘Archer is offering me drugs and I can’t resist much longer, or Archer is bullying me and I’m near breaking point. If they believe it, you’d be transferred the same day. In fact your feet wouldn’t even touch the ground.’

12 noon

Lunch. The hotplate seems empty without the massive frame of Dale dominating proceedings. It looks as if Sergio has been promoted to No. 1 in his place, because he now stands next to the duty officer and hands out the dishes according to whether you’re one, two, three (vegetarian) or four.

Three,’ Sergio says, without even glancing at the list, and then carefully selects my dish. The transfer of power has in no way affected me.

1.45 pm

Gym. The treadmill is working again so I’m almost able to carry out a full programme. With the new medicine ball exercise I’m up to fifteen, with a one-minute break, but after a further nine I’m exhausted and grateful when Mr Maiden blows the five-minute whistle so I can warm down. As we leave, everyone else picks up their assigned gym card before disappearing back to their cells. I no longer have a gym card. It’s been stolen every day since I arrived, and the management have given up bothering to-issue me with a new one.

3.30 pm

I come out of the shower to find Ms Webb waiting for me.

‘When the induction wing is banged up at four o’clock,’ she says, ‘I’ll leave your door open because we’re going to move you across to number two cell on the far spur.’

I think about throwing my arms round Ms Webb, but as I only have a towel covering me, I feel sure she would put me on report, so I simply say, Thank you.’

Once I’m dressed, I place all my belongings into the Belmarsh plastic bag in preparation for the move to the other side of the block. I am packed and ready to leave long before four.

This will be my eighth move in five weeks.

4.06 pm

David (whisky bootlegger) is waiting for me in his old cell. It’s typical of his good manners that he has left the room spotless.

Now that I have an extra cupboard, it takes me nearly an hour to decide where everything should go. Although the cell remains the regulation five paces by three, it suddenly feels much larger when you no longer have to share the cramped space with another prisoner. No more having to keep out of someone else’s way. No more television programmes I don’t want to watch. No more having to check whose slippers you’ve put on, that you’re using your own toothpaste, soap, even lavatory paper. No more

There’s a knock on the cell door and Darren, Jimmy, Sergio and Steve make an entrance.

‘It’s a house-warming party,’ Darren explains, ‘and, like any good party, we come bearing gifts.’

Sergio has three five-by-five-inch steel mirrors, the regulation size. He fixes them on the wall with prison toothpaste. I can now see my head and upper body for the first time in five weeks.

Steve supplies – can you believe it – net curtains to hide my barred window, and at night tone down the glare of the fluorescent lights. Jimmy has brought all the paraphernalia needed – board, Blu-tack, etc. – to attach my family photos to the wall.

Lad Darren demands a roll of drums before he will reveal his gift, because he’s come up with every prisoner’s dream: a plug. No longer will I have to shave in my cereal bowl.

‘Anything else you require, my lord?’ Steve enquires.

‘I’m out of Evian.’

For the first time the visiting team admits defeat. A survey has been carried out and it’s been discovered that I am the only prisoner on the block who purchases bottled water from the canteen.

‘So, like the rest of us,’ says Darren, ‘if you want more water, you’ll have to turn on the tap.’

‘However,’ adds Sergio, ‘now that I’m number one on the hotplate,’ he pauses, ‘you will be able to have an extra carton of milk from time to time.’

What more could a man ask for?

7.00 pm

I read over today’s script in my silent cell and when I’ve finished editing I place the six pages in one of my new drawers. Every ten days the sheets are transferred to a large brown envelope (30,000 words) and sent off to Alison to type up.

I settle down on my bed to watch A Touch of Frost. David Jason is as consistent as ever, but the script is too flimsy to sustain itself for two hours, so I switch off the television and, for the first time in ten days, also the light, climb into my single bed and sleep. Goodbye, window warriors, may I never hear from you again.