Hell

Day 7 Wednesday 25 July 2001

5.17 am

‘Fuck off,’ cries a voice so loud it wakes me.

It’s a few moments before I realize that it’s Terry shouting in his sleep. He mumbles something else which I can’t quite decipher, before he wakes with a start. He climbs out of bed, almost as if he’s unaware there’s someone in the bunk below him. I don’t stir, but open my eyes and watch carefully. I’m not frightened; although Terry has a past record of violence, I’ve never seen any sign of it. In fact, despite the use of bad language in his novel, he never swears in front of me – at least not when he’s awake.

Terry walks slowly over to the wall and places his head in the corner like a cat who thinks he’s about to die. He doesn’t move for some time, then turns, picks up a towel by the basin, sits down on the plastic chair and buries his head in the towel. Desperate and depressed. I try to imagine what must be going through his tortured mind. He slowly raises his head and stares at me, as if suddenly remembering that he’s not alone.

‘Sorry, Mr Archer,’ he says. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘It’s not important,’ I reply. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘It’s a recurring nightmare,’ he says, ‘but for some unexplainable reason it’s been worse for the past couple of weeks. When I was a kid,’ he pauses, no doubt considering whether to confide in me, ‘my stepfather used to beat me and my mum with a leather strap, and I’ve suddenly started having nightmares about it all these years later.’

‘How old were you at the time?’ I ask.

‘About six, but it carried on until I was sixteen, when my mum died.’

‘How did your mother die?’ I ask. ‘After all, she can’t have been that old?’

‘It’s all a bit of a mystery,’ Terry says quietly. ‘All I know for certain is that they found her body in the front room by the grate, and then my stepfather buggered off to Brighton with my stepsister.’ I have a feeling that Terry knows only too well what and who caused his mother’s death, but he isn’t yet willing to impart that information. After all, he’s well aware I’m writing a daily diary.

‘So what happened to you when he disappeared off to Brighton?’

‘I was taken into care, followed by Borstal, remand home and finally jail – a different sort of education to yours.’ How can those of us who have had a comparatively normal upbringing begin to understand what this young man has been through – is going through?

‘Sorry,’ he repeats, and then climbs back onto the top bunk, and is asleep again within minutes.

I climb out of bed, clean my teeth, rub a cold flannel over my face and then settle down to write for the first session of the day. At this early hour, all the other prisoners are asleep, or at least I assume they are, because not a sound is coming from the surrounding cells. Even the early-morning patrol of barking Alsatians doesn’t distract me any longer.

In London I live near a railway track that winds its way into Waterloo, but I am never woken by the late-night or early-morning trains. In prison, it’s rap music, inmates hollering at each other, and Alsatians that don’t disturb a lifer’s dreams. Once I’ve completed my two-hour session, I begin the lengthy process of shaving.

Although my life is beginning to fall into a senseless routine, I hope to at least break it up today by going to the gym. I’ve put my name down for the 10 am to 11 am session this morning, as I’m already missing my daily exercise.

9.06 am

Just after nine, the cell door is opened and my weekly twelve pounds fifty pence worth of canteen provisions are passed over to me by a lady in a white coat. I thank her, but she doesn’t respond. I sit on the end of my bed, unpack each item one by one. I settle down to enjoy a bowl of cornflakes swimming in fresh milk. This is the meal I would normally have in my kitchen at home, an hour before going to the gym. I’m used to a disciplined, well-ordered life, but it’s no longer self-discipline because someone else is giving the orders.

10.00 am

I’m pacing up and down the cell waiting for the gym call when a voice bellows out from below, ‘Gym is cancelled.’ My heart sinks and I stare out of the barred window, wondering why. When the door is eventually opened for Association, Derek, known as Del Boy, who runs the hotplate and seems to have a free rein of the block, appears outside my door.

‘Why was gym cancelled?’ I ask.

‘A con has got out onto the roof via a skylight in the gym,’ he explains. Result – gym closed until further notice and will not open again until security has double-checked every possible exit and the authorities consider it a safe area again. He grins, enjoying his role as the prison oracle.

‘Anything else I can help you with?’ Del Boy enquires.

‘Bottled water and an A4 writing pad,’ I reply.

‘They’ll be with you before the hour has chimed, squire.’

I’ve already learnt not to ask what myriad of deals will have to be carried out to achieve this simple request. James had warned me on my first day about the prison term ‘double-bubble’, meaning certain favours have to be repaid twice over. During Association yesterday evening, I witnessed Derek cut a rolled-up cigarette in half and then pass it over to another prisoner. This was on a Tuesday, and the hapless inmate knew he wouldn’t be able to repay the debt until today, when he would have his next canteen. But his craving was so great that he accepted, knowing that he would have to give Del Boy a whole cigarette in return, or he could never hope to strike up another bargain with him – or anyone else, for that matter.

11.10 am

It must have been a few minutes after eleven when my cell door is yanked open again to reveal Mr Loughnane. Just the sight of him lifts my spirits. He tells me that he has spoken to his opposite number at Ford Open Prison, who will have to refer the matter to the Governor, as he doesn’t have the authority to make the final decision.

‘How long do you expect that will take?’ I ask.

‘Couple of days at the most. He’ll probably come back to me on Friday, and when he does, I’ll be in touch with Group 4.’ This simple transaction would take the average businessman a couple of hours at most. For the first time in years, I’m having to move at someone else’s pace.

1.00 pm

We are all sent off to work. I’m down on the register under ‘workshops’ where I will have to pack breakfast bags that will eventually end up in other prisons. My salary will be 50p an hour. New Labour’s minimum-wage policy hasn’t quite trickled down to convicted felons. The truth is we’re captive labour. I’m about to join the chain gang when another prison officer, Mr Young, asks me to wait behind until the others have left for the work area. He returns a few minutes later, to tell me that I’ve received so much registered mail they have decided to take me to it, rather than bring the stack to me.

Another long walk in a different direction, even more opening and closing of barred gates, by which time I have learnt that Mr Young has been in the prison service for eleven years, his annual basic pay is £24,000, and it’s quite hard, if not impossible, to find somewhere to live in London on that salary.

When we arrive at reception, two other officers are standing behind a counter in front of rows and rows of cluttered wooden shelves. Mr Pearson removes thirty-two registered letters and parcels from a shelf behind him and places them on the counter. He starts to open them one by one in front of me – another prison regulation. The two officers then make a little pile of Bibles and books and another of gifts which they eventually place in a plastic bag, and once I’ve signed the requisite form, hand them all across to me.

‘Peach,’ says Mr Pearson, and another prisoner steps forward to have a parcel opened in front of him. It’s a pair of the latest Nike trainers, which have been sent in by his girlfriend.

Both clutching onto our plastic bags, we accompany Mr Young back to Block One. On the way, I apologize to Peach – I never did find out his first name – for keeping him waiting.

‘No problem,’ he says. ‘You kept me out of my cell for nearly an hour.’

Mr Young continues to tell us about some of the other problems the prison service is facing. We are onto staff benefits and shiftwork when an alarm goes off, and officers appear running towards us from every direction. Mr Young quickly unlocks the nearest waiting room and bundles Peach and myself inside, locking the door firmly behind us. We stare through the windows as officers continue rushing past us, but we have no way of finding out why. A few moments later, a prisoner, held down by three officers and surrounded by others, is dragged off past us in the opposite direction. One of the officers is pushing the prisoner’s head down, while another keeps his legs bent so that when he passes us he leaves an impression of a marionette controlled by invisible strings. Peach tells me that it’s known as being ‘bent up’ or ‘twisted up’, and is part of the process of ‘control and restraint’.

‘Control and restraint?’

‘The prisoner will be dragged into a strip cell and held down while his clothes are cut off with a pair of scissors. He’s then put in wrist locks, before they bend his legs behind his back. Finally they put a belt around his waist that has handcuffs on each side, making it impossible for him to move his arms or legs.’

‘And then what?’

‘They’ll take him off to segregation,’ Peach explains. ‘He’ll be put into a single cell that consists of a metal sink, metal table and metal chair all fixed to the wall, so he can’t smash anything up.’

‘How long will they leave him there?’

‘About ten days,’ Peach replies.

‘Have you ever been in segregation?’ I ask.

‘No,’ he says firmly, ‘I want to get out of this place as quickly as possible, and that’s the easiest way to be sure your sentence is lengthened.’

Once the commotion has died down, Mr Young returns to unlock the door and we continue our journey back to the cells as if nothing had happened.

Each block has four spurs, which run off from the centre like a Maltese cross. In the middle of the cross is an octangular glass office, known as the bubble, which is situated on the centre of the three floors. From this vantage point, the staff can control any problems that might arise. As we pass the bubble, I ask the duty officer what happened.

‘One of the prisoners,’ he explains, ‘has used threatening and abusive language when addressing a woman officer.’ He adds no further detail to this meagre piece of information.

Once back in my cell, Terry tells me that the prisoner will be put on report and be up in front of the Governor tomorrow morning. He also confirms that he’ll probably end up with ten days in solitary.

‘Have you ever been in segregation?’ I ask him.

‘Three times,’ he admits. ‘But I was younger then, and can tell you, I don’t recommend it, even as an experience for your diary. By the way,’ he adds, ‘I’ve just phoned my dad. The Daily Express have been onto him offering a grand for a photo of me – the con Jeffrey has to live with – and they’ve offered him another thousand if he’ll give them all the details of my past criminal record. He told them to bugger off, but he says they just won’t go away. They sounded disappointed when he told them I wasn’t a murderer.’

‘You will be by the time the Sunday editions come out,’ I promise him.

2.00 pm

Another officer opens the door to tell us that our afternoon Association will be cut short because the prison staff are holding a meeting. Terry tells the officer who passes on this information that any staff meeting should be held when we are banged up, not during Association. He makes a fair point, but all the officer says is, ‘It’s not my decision,’ and slams the door.

2.02 pm

What is almost impossible to describe in its full horror is the time you spend banged up. So please do not consider this diary to be a running commentary, because I would only ask you to think about the endless hours in between. Heaven knows what that does to lifers who can see no end to their incarceration, and do not have the privilege of being able to occupy their time writing. In my particular case, there is Hope, a word you hear prisoners using all the time. They hope that they’ll win their case, have their sentence cut, be let out on parole, or just be moved to a single cell. For me, as a Category D prisoner, I simply hope to be transferred to Ford Open Prison as soon as possible. But God knows what a lifer hopes for, and I resolve to try and find out during the next few days.

4.30 pm

Association. At last the cell door is opened for an extended period of time – forty-five minutes. When I walk down to join the other inmates on the ground floor, Paul (murder) hands me a book of first-class stamps, and asks for nothing in return. He either has no one to write to, or perhaps can’t write. ‘I hear you’re having a postage problem,’ is all he says, and walks away. I do not explain that my PA is dealing with all my letters, and therefore I have no postage problem, because it would only belittle such a thoughtful gesture.

During Association I notice that the high barred gates at the end of the room lead onto a larger outer area which has its own television, pool table, and more comfortable chairs. But I’m not permitted to enter this hallowed territory as you can only leave the restricted area if you’re an enhanced prisoner.

There are three levels of prisoner: basic, standard and enhanced. Every inmate begins their sentence as standard – in the middle. This leaves you the chance to go up or down, and that decision depends solely on your behaviour. Someone who wishes to take on more responsibility, like being a Listener, a tea-boy or a cleaner, will quickly be promoted to enhanced status and enjoy the privileges that go with it. However, anyone who attacks a prison officer or is caught taking drugs will be downgraded to basic. And these things matter when it comes to your standard of living in prison, and later when the authorities consider your parole, and possible early release.

Terry, my cell-mate, hates authority and refuses to go along with the system, so spends his life bobbing up and down between basic and standard. Derek ‘Del Boy’ Bicknell, on the other hand, took advantage of the system and quickly became enhanced. But then he is bright, and well capable of taking on responsibility. He already has the free run of the ground floor and in fact never seems to be in his cell. I hope by now you have a picture in your mind of Del Boy, because he’s a six-foot, twenty-stone West Indian who wears a thin gold chain around his neck, a thicker one around his right wrist, and sports the latest designer watch. He also wears a fashionable tracksuit and Nike shoes. Come to think of it, I’m the only prisoner who still wears a shirt, but if I were to remain here for any length of time, I would also end up wearing a tracksuit.

5.30 pm

Supper, called tea, is being served, so I return to my cell to collect my plastic tray and plate. Tonight it’s egg and bacon and I’m just too hungry to say no. The egg has a solid yolk and the greasy bacon is fatty, curling and inedible. I drink a mug of Highland Spring water (a trade for two autographs on birthday cards) and finish the meal with a bowl of Cup a Soup (minestrone, 24p). At the next election no one will be able to accuse me of not knowing the price of goods in the supermarket, not to mention their true value.

Terry cleans our utensils before we return to Association on the ground floor, where I find Del Boy running a card school at the other end of the room. Why am I not surprised? He beckons me to join them. The game is made up of four lifers who are playing Kaluki. I watch a couple of hands while trying to keep an eye on the phone queue, as I’m hoping to speak to Mary. She should have returned from her day at Strathclyde University and be back in her hotel. By now you will have realized that she can’t call me.

Paul (murder and stamps) announces he needs to phone his girlfriend and suggests I take over his hand while he joins the queue.

‘Jeff’s got to be an improvement on you,’ says Derek as Paul rises to depart.

I lose the first hand badly, survive the second, and win the third. Thankfully, before Del Boy starts dealing the fourth, Paul returns.

‘His Lordship’s not bad,’ says Derek, ‘not bad at all.’ I’m slowly being accepted.

The queue for the two phones doesn’t seem to diminish, so I spend some time talking to a young lifer called Michael (murder). He’s very pale-skinned, extremely thin, and covered in tattoos, with needle tracks up and down his arms. He invites me into his cell, and shows me a picture of his wife and child. By the time Michael is released from prison, his eight-month-old daughter will have left school, probably be married and have children of her own. In fact this twenty-two-year-old boy may well be a grandfather by the time he’s released.

When I leave Michael’s cell to rejoin the others I spot Ms Roberts, the Deputy Governor, who came to visit me when I was on the medical wing. She is surrounded by lifers. Ms Roberts has a real gift for putting these desperate men at ease.

I finally give up and join the phone queue, aware that we are fast approaching lock-up. When at last I make the one spare phone out of two a lifer who is on the other line leans over to warn me that any conversations made on these phones are tape-recorded by the police. I thank him, but can’t imagine what they would find of interest eavesdropping on a chat with my wife. A hotel operator answers the call and puts me through to her room. The phone rings and rings.

7.00 pm

I return to my cell to be faced with another mountain of mail. Terry helps by taking them out of their envelopes before placing them in piles, cards on one side, letters on the other, while I continue to go over the script I’ve written that day. Terry asks if he can keep one or two of the cards as a memento. ‘Only if they hve no address,’ I tell him, ‘as it’s still my intention to reply to every one of them.’

Once I’ve finished correcting my daily script, I turn my attention to the letters. Like my life, they are falling into a pattern of their own, some offering condolences on my mother’s death, others kindness and support. Many continue to comment on Mr Justice Potts’s summing-up, and the harshness of the sentence. I am bound to admit they bring back one’s faith in one’s fellow men…and women.

Alison, my PA, has written to say that I am receiving even more correspondence by every post at home, and she confirms that they are also running at three hundred to one in support. I hand one of the letters up to Terry. It’s from his cousin who’s read in the papers that we’re sharing a cell. Terry tells me that he’s serving a life sentence in Parkhurst for murder. My cellmate adds they haven’t spoken to each other for years. And it was only a couple of hours ago I was feeling low because I haven’t managed to speak to Mary today.