Heaven

DAY 112 WEDNESDAY 7 NOVEMBER 2001

5.58 am

They call him Mick the Key. He arrived yesterday, and if he hadn’t been turned down for a job in the kitchens, I might never have heard his story. Even now I’m not sure how much of it I believe.

Originally sentenced to two years for breaking and entering, Mick is now serving his ninth year. They have only risked moving him to a D-cat for his last twelve weeks. The reason is simple. Mick likes escaping, or assisting others to escape, and he has one particular gift that aids him in this enterprise. He only needs to look at a key once and he can reproduce it. He first commits the shape to memory, then draws the outline on a piece of paper, before transferring that onto a bar of prison soap – the first impression of the key. The next stage is to reproduce the image in plastic, using prison knives or forks. He then covers the newly minted key with thick paint he obtains from the works department. The next day he has a key.

During his years in prison, Mick has been able to open not only his own cell door, but also anyone else’s. In fact, while he was at Whitemoor, they closed the prison for twenty-four hours because they had to change the locks on all 500 cells.

Getting out of prison is only half the enjoyment, this charming Irishman tells me, ‘Getting into kitchens, stores or even the governor’s office adds to the quality of one’s life. In fact,’ he concludes, ‘my greatest challenge was opening the hospital drugs cabinet in under an hour.’ On that occasion, the officers knew who was responsible, but as nothing was missing (Mick says he’s never taken a drug in his life), they could only charge him ‘on suspicion’, and were later unable to make the charge stick.

Some of the prison keys are too large and complicated to reproduce inside, so, undaunted, Mick joined the art class. He drew pictures of the skylines of New York, Dallas and Chicago before sending them home to his brother. It was some weeks before the innocent art teacher caught on. The security staff intercepted a package of keys brought into the prison by his sister. What a useful fellow Mick would have been in Colditz.

Mick tells me that he hopes to get a job in the kitchen, where he intends to be a good boy, as he wants to be released in twelve weeks’ time.

‘In any case,’ he adds, ‘it will do my reputation no good to escape from an open prison.’

The labour board turned down Mick’s application to work in the kitchen; after all, there are several cupboards, cool rooms and fridges, all of which are locked, and for him, that would be too much of a temptation. He leaves SMU with a grin on his face.

‘They’ve put me on the farm,’ he declares. ‘They’re not worried about me breaking into a pigsty. By the way, Jeff, if you ever need to get into the governor’s office and have a look at your files, just let me know.’

10.00 am

An extra bed has appeared in my room, because two of the spurs are temporarily out of service while they’re being fitted for TVs. I found out today that prisoners are charged £1 a week for the hire of their TVs, and NSC will make an annual profit of £10,000 on this enterprise. At Wayland, I’m told it was £30,000. Free enterprise at its best. Still, the point of this entry is to let you know that I will soon be sharing my room with another prisoner.

2.40 pm

At Mr New’s request, I join him in his office. He’s just had a call from his opposite number at Spring Hill, who asked if I was aware that if transferred I would have to share a room.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘And can they confirm that the principal reason for seeking a transfer is the inconvenience to your family of having a 250-mile round trip to visit you?’

‘Yes,’ I reply.

Mr New nods. ‘I anticipated your answers. Although a decision has not yet been made, the first vacancy wouldn’t be until 28 November.’

Suddenly it’s crunch time. Would I rather stay at NSC as the hospital orderly, with my own room, TV, bathroom and fridge? Or move to Spring Hill and be nearer my family and friends? I’ll need to discuss the problem with Mary.

5.00 pm

I return to my room to do a couple of hours writing; so far, no other occupant has appeared to claim the second bed.

6.42 pm

My new room-mate arrives, accompanied by two friends. His name is Eamon, and he seems pleasant enough. I leave him to settle in.

When I stroll into the hospital, Clive has a large grin on his face. He spent eleven months in that room without ever having to share it for one night. I couldn’t even manage eleven days.