Heaven

DAY 450 FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 2002

7.30 am

A particularly officious, ill-mannered officer unlocks my cell door and thrusts some papers at me. He tells me with considerable pleasure that I will be on a charge at 4 o’clock this afternoon.

I read the papers several times. I don’t have a lot more to do. It seems that by publishing A Prison Diary I have broken prison Rule 51 Para 23, in ‘naming staff such that they could be identified’, contrary to SO 5 Para 34 (9) (d).

8.10 am

On leaving my cell to go to work in the kitchen, I am surprised to find Mr Spurr and Ms Stamp awaiting me. I am escorted into a side room. Mr Spurr tells me that he has completed his enquiry, and I will be transferred to Hollesley Bay (D-cat) some time next week. Do you recall Governor Lewis’s words, ‘Whatever you do, don’t end up in Hollesley Bay…’?

10.30 am

I take a break from peeling the spuds, not that I can pretend to have done that many. I notice that Mr Tasker is sitting in his office reading the Daily Mail. He beckons me in, and tells me to close the door.

‘I’ve just been reading about your time at Belmarsh,’ he says, jabbing a finger at the centre pages, ‘and I see you’re suggesting that seventy per cent of prisoners are on drugs and as many as thirty per cent could be on heroin.’ He looks up, gives me a pained expression and then adds, ‘You’re wrong.’

I don’t comment, expecting him to dismiss my claims, and remind me of the official statistics always parroted by the Home Office whenever the question of drugs is raised.

‘Which would you say is the most popular job in the prison?’ Mr Tasker asks, folding his newspaper.

‘The kitchen, without question,’ I reply, ‘and for all the obvious reasons.’

‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘Every day, at least five inmates apply to work in the kitchen.’ He pauses, sips his coffee and adds, ‘Did you take a drugs test yesterday?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘along with four others.’

‘And how many of you were invited to work in the kitchen?’

‘Just Phil and me,’ I reply.

‘Correct, but what you don’t know is that I’m entitled to have twenty-one prisoners working in the kitchen, but currently employ only seventeen.’ He takes another sip of his coffee. ‘I have never managed to fill all the vacancies during the last ten years, despite the fact that we never have fewer than seven hundred inmates.’ Mr Tasker rises from his seat. ‘Now I’m no mathematician,’ he says, ‘but I think you’ll find that seventeen out of seven hundred does not come to thirty per cent.’

3.00 pm

The same officious, ill-mannered lout who unlocked my cell door this morning returns to pick me up from the kitchen and escort me to segregation. This time I am only left there for about forty minutes before being hauled up in front of Mr Peacock, the governing governor. Mr Peacock sits at the top of the table with the deputy governor on his right and my wing officer on his left. The thug stands behind me in case I might try to escape. The governor reads out the charge and asks if I wish to plead guilty or not guilty.

‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘I’m not clear what offence I’ve committed.’

I am then shown the prison rules in full. I express some surprise, saying that I handed over every page of Belmarsh: Hell to the prison censor, and he kindly posted them on to my secretary, and at no time did he suggest I was committing any offence. The governor looks suitably embarrassed when I ask him to write down every word I have said. He does so.

Mr Peacock points out that every inmate has access to a copy of the prison rules in the library. ‘Yes, but anyone who reads my diary,’ – he has a copy of Belmarsh on the table in front of him – ‘would know that I wasn’t allowed to visit the library, or have access to education while at Belmarsh.’ I direct him to the passage on the relevant page. At least he has the grace to smile, adding that ignorance of the law is no excuse.

Mr Peacock then calls for my wing officer to make his report. ‘Archer FF8282, works in the kitchen and is a polite, well-mannered prisoner, with no history of drugs or violence.’ The governor also writes these words down, before clearing his throat and pronouncing sentence.

‘Loss of all privileges for fourteen days, and of canteen during the same period,’ the governor pauses, ‘to be suspended for six months.’

I rise, thank him and leave. I have a feeling he’ll be only too happy to see the back of me. But more important, the decision has been made not to remove my D-cat status, thus proving that they had no reason to send me here in the first place.

It was to be another six days before my transfer to Hollesley Bay in Suffolk, and even that simple exercise they managed to botch.