Heaven

DAY 115 SATURDAY 10 NOVEMBER 2001

6.38 am

There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t wish I wasn’t here. I miss my freedom, I miss my friends and above all I miss Mary and the boys.

There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t curse Mr Justice Potts for what everyone saw as his prejudicial summing up to the jury, and his apparent delight at handing out such a draconian sentence.

There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t wonder why the police haven’t arrested Angie Peppiatt for embezzlement.

There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t question how I can be guilty of perverting the course of justice while Ted Francis is not; either we are both guilty or both innocent.

I have been in jail for 115 days, and my anger and despair finally surface after a visit by a young man called Derek.

Derek knocks quietly on my door, and I take a break from writing to deal with his simple request for an autograph on the back of a picture of the girlfriend who has stood by him. I ask him about his sentence (most prisoners go into great detail, even though they know I’m writing a diary). Derek is spending three months in jail for stealing from his employers after issuing a personal cheque he knew he hadn’t the funds to cover. He spent a month in Lincoln Prison, which the old lags tell me is even worse than Belmarsh. He adds that the magistrate’s ‘short, sharp shock’ has enabled him to witness a violent beating in the shower, the injecting of heroin and language that he had no idea any human being resorted to.

‘But,’ he adds before leaving, ‘you’ve been an example to me. Your good manners, your cheeriness and willingness to listen to anyone else’s problems, have surprised everyone here.’

I can’t tell him that I have no choice. It’s all an act. I am hopelessly unhappy, dejected and broken. I smile when I am at my lowest, I laugh when I see no humour, I help others when I need help myself. I am alone. If I were to show any sign, even for a moment, of what I’m going through, I would have to read the details in some tabloid the following day. Everything I do is only a phone call away from a friendly journalist with an open cheque book. I don’t know where I have found the strength to maintain this facade and never break down in anyone’s presence.

I will manage it, even if it’s only to defeat my enemies who would love to see me crumble. I am helped by the hundreds of letters that pour in every week from ordinary, decent members of the public; I am helped by my friends who remain loyal; I am helped by the love and support of Mary, Will and James.

I have no thoughts of revenge, or even any hope of justice, but God knows I will not give in.