Purgatory

DAY 29 – THURSDAY 16 AUGUST 2001

5.50 am

I wake from a dream in which I had been using the most foul language when talking to Mary. I can’t explain it. I write for a couple of hours.

8.00 am

I plug in Jules’s radio so that I can hear Mary’s interview with John Humphrys. I shave while the news is on, and become more and more nervous. It’s always the same. I am very anxious when William screens one of the documentaries he’s been working on, or James is running the 800 metres, and especially whenever Mary has to give a talk that lay people might expect to understand. She’s first on after the news and handles all of John Humphrys’ questions in that quiet academic way that could only impress an intelligent listener. But I can tell, even after her first reply, just how nervous she is. Once Mary has dealt with the Kurds and Baroness Nicholson, Humphrys moves on to the subject of how I’m getting on in jail. That was when Mary should have said, ‘My agreement with you, Mr Humphrys, was to discuss only matters arising from the Kurds.’ Once Mary failed to point this out, he moved on to the trial, the appeal and the sentence. I had warned her that he would. He has no interest in keeping to any agreement made between her and the producer. And that’s why he is such a sharp interviewer, as I know from past experience.

9.30 am

I call Mary, who feels she was dreadful and complains that John Humphrys broke the BBC’s agreement and once the piece was over she told him so. What does he care? She then tells me that the CEO of the Red Cross, Sir Nicholas Young, was interviewed later, and was uncompromising when it came to any suggestion that one penny raised for the Kurds in the UK had not been accounted for. He went on to point out that I had nothing to do with either the collecting or distribution of any monies. I suggest to Mary that perhaps the time has come to sue Baroness Nicholson. Mary tells me that the lawyer’s first priority is to have my D-cat reinstated so I can be moved to an open prison before we issue the writ. Good thinking.

‘Don’t waste any more of your units’ she says. ‘See you tomorrow.’

9.50 am

Disaster. Darren reappears with my washing. All fresh and clean, but the dryer has broken down for the first time in living memory. I take the wet clothes back to my cell and hang the T-shirts on the end of the bed, my underwear from an open cupboard door and my socks over the single chair. The sun is shining, but not many of its rays are reaching through the bars and into my cell.

10.00 am

Today is the first day of the fourth test match against Australia, and Hussain is back as captain. He said that although we’ve lost the Ashes (3-0), English pride is now at stake. I write for an hour and then turn on the television at eleven to see who won the toss. It’s been raining all morning. Of course it has; the match is at Headingley (Leeds). I switch off the television and return to my script.

11.40 am

I’ve been writing for over an hour when the cell door is unlocked. The governor would like a word. I go to the interview room and find Mr Cariton-Boyce and Mr Tinkler waiting for me.

Mr Cariton-Boyce looks embarrassed when he tries to explain why I can’t have any writing pads and pens or Alan Clark’s Diaries. I make a small protest but only so it’s on the record. He then goes on to tell me that I will not be moving to C block after all. They’ve had a re-think, and I’ll be joining the adults on the enhanced spur, but – and there is always a but in prison – as no one is being released until 29 August, I’ll have to stay put until then.

I thank him, and ask if my room-mate Jules can be moved to a single cell, as I fear it can’t be too long before the News of the World will do to him exactly what they’ve done to every other prisoner who has shared a cell with me. This shy, thoughtful man will end up being described as a drug baron, and he doesn’t have any way of fighting back.

Governor CarltonrBoyce nods. Promises are never made in prison, but he does go as far as saying,’ The next thing on my agenda is cell dispersal, because we have eight more prisoners coming in tomorrow.’ I thank him and leave, aware that’s about the biggest hint I’ll get.

12 noon

Lunch. Dale passes me two little sealed boxes, rather than the usual single portion, and winks. I was down on today’s menu for number three – vegetable stew – but when I get back to my cell, I discover the other box contains mushroom soup. So I linger over the soup followed by vegetable stew. It’s not Le Caprice – but it’s not Belmarsh either.

1.15 pm

I’m told that as part of my induction I must report to the education department and take a reading, writing and numeracy test. When I take my seat in the classroom and study the forms, it turns out to be exactly the same test as the one set at Belmarsh. Should I tell them that I took the papers only two weeks ago, or should I just get on with it? I can see the headline in the Mirror: Archer Refuses to Take Writing Test. It would be funny if it wasn’t exactly what the Mirror would do. I get on with it.

3.15 pm

Gym. It’s circuit-training day, and I manage about half of the set programme – known as the dirty dozen. The youngsters are good, but the star turns out to be a forty-five-year-old gypsy, who is covered in tattoos, and serving an eleven-year sentence for drug dealing. He’s called Minnie, and out-runs them, out-jumps them, out-lifts them, out-presses them, and isn’t even breathing heavily at the end. He puts me to shame; I can only hope that the youngsters feel equally humiliated.

4.20 pm

I’m back in time for a shower. David (whisky bootlegger) is standing by my door. He tells me that he’s written the outline for a novel and wants to know how to get in contact with a ghostwriter. This is usually a surrogate for are you available? I tell him exactly what I tell anyone else who writes to me on this subject (three or four letters a week): go to your local library, take out a copy of The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and you’ll find a section listing agents who handle ghostwriters. I assume that will keep him quiet for a few days.

4.41 pm

David returns clutching a copy of The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and shows me a page of names. I glance down the list but none is familiar. I have come across only a handful of agents over the years – Debbie Owen, George Greenfield, Deborah Rodgers, Jonathan Lloyd and Ed Victor – but there must be at least another thousand I’ve never heard of. I suggest that as my agent is visiting me tomorrow, if he selects some names, I’ll ask Jonathan if he knows any of them.

4.56 pm

David returns with the list of names written out on a single sheet of paper. He hands over a Diet Coke. He’s what Simon Heffer would describe as ‘a proper gent’.

6.00 pm

Supper. Vegetable pie, two boiled potatoes and a lump of petits pois, making un seul pois.

I switch on the TV. Australia are 241 for 3, and Ponting is 144 not out. Together with Waugh, they’ve put on 170.1 switch off. Why did I ever switch on?

After supper, I go down to the Association room to find Dale (wounding with intent) and Jimmy (transporting Ecstasy tablets) playing snooker for a Mars bar. It’s the first time I’ve seen Jimmy beaten at anything, and what’s more, he’s being thrashed by a far superior player. It’s a subject I know a little about as I was President of the World Snooker Association before I was convicted. Jimmy whispers in my ear, ‘Dale beats everyone, but like any hungry animal, he has to be fed at least twice a day. We take it in turns to hand over a Mars bar. It’s a cheap way of keeping him under control.’ In case you’ve forgotten, Dale is six foot three and weighs twenty-seven stone.

After the game is over, the three of us join Darren in the exercise yard. Dale manages only one circuit before heading back in, exhausted, while the three of us carry on for the full forty-five minutes. During the second circuit, I tell them about Derek, who did the drawing of my cell (Belmarsh), and ask if they know of any artists in Wayland. Jimmy tells me that there is a brilliant (his word) artist on C block. I ask if he will introduce me.

‘Be warned, he’s weird,’ says Jimmy, ‘and can be very rude if he takes against you.’

I tell Jimmy that I’ve been dealing with artists for the past thirty-five years and I’ve never met one who could be described as normal. It’s all part of their appeal.

‘I feel like a drink,’ says Darren as the evening sun continues to beat down on us. ‘Know anyone who’s got some hooch?’ he asks Jimmy.

‘Hooch?’ I say. ‘What’s that?’

They both laugh, a laugh that suggests I still have much to learn. ‘Every block,’ says Darren, ‘has a hotplate man, a cleaner, a tea-boy and a painter. They’re all appointed by the screws and are paid around twelve pounds a week. Every block also has a drug dealer, a haircutter, a clothes-washer and a brewer. C block has the best brewer – for a two-pound phonecard, you can get half a litre of hooch.’

‘But what’s it made of?’

The ingredients are normally yeast, sugar, water and orange juice. It’s harder to produce during the summer months because you need the hot pipes that run through your cell to be boiling in order to ferment the brew, so it’s almost impossible to get decent hooch in August.’ ‘What’s it taste like?’

‘Awful, but at least it’s guaranteed to get you drunk,’ says Jimmy. ‘Which kills off a few more hours of your sentence, even if you wake up with one hell of a hangover.’

‘If you’re desperate,’ Darren adds, ‘fresh orange juice is still on the canteen list.’

‘How does that help?’

‘Just leave it on your window ledge in the sun for a few days, and you’ll soon find out.’

‘But where can you hide the hooch once you’ve made it?’

‘We used to have the perfect hiding place,’ Darren pauses, ‘but unfortunately they discovered it.’

Jimmy smiles as I wait for an explanation. ‘One Sunday morning,’ Darren continues, ‘the number one brewer on our spur was found roaming around inebriated. When breathalysed, he registered way above the limit. The drug squad were called in, and every cell on the spur was stripped bare, but no alcohol of any kind was discovered. His hiding place would have remained a mystery if a small fire hadn’t broken out in the kitchen. An officer grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and pointed it in the direction of the blaze, only to find that the flames leapt even higher. An immediate halt was called by the chef who fortunately understood the effects of ethanol, otherwise the prison might have been razed to the ground. A full enquiry was held, and three inmates were shipped out to different B-cats the following morning, ‘on suspicion of producing hooch’.’

‘In fact,’ said Darren, ‘It wasn’t hooch they were guilty of brewing. This particular strain of neat alcohol had been made by filtering metal polish through six slices of bread into a plastic mug in the hope of removing any impurities.’

I feel sick, without even having to sample the brew.

Jimmy goes on to point out that not only are some inmates brighter than the officers, but they also have twenty-four hours every day to think up such schemes, while the screws have to get on with their job.

‘But the best hooch I ever tasted,’ said Darren, ‘had a secret ingredient’

‘And what was that, may I ask?’

‘Marmite. But once the screws caught on to how much yeast it contained, they took it off the canteen list’ He pauses. ‘So now we just steal the yeast from the kitchen.’

‘Damn,’ I said. ‘I like Marmite; it was on the Belmarsh canteen list.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good enough reason, my lord, to be transferred back to Belmarsh,’ says Darren. ‘Mind you,’ he adds, ‘perhaps I should have a word with the governor, now it’s known that you are partial to it’

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.’

7.30 pm

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.

8.00 pm

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.

10.00 pm

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.