Hell

Day 18 Sunday 5 August 2001

6.00 am

Another good night’s sleep.

Yesterday I wrote for six hours, three sessions of two, read for three – including my letters – and slept for eight. Out there where you are, five hours’ sleep was always enough. In truth, the writing is an attempt to fill the day and night with nonstop activity. I feel sorry for the prisoners who have to occupy those same hours and cannot read or write.

8.00 am

Breakfast. Egg and beans on toast, two mornings in a row. I don’t grumble. I’ve always liked egg and beans.

9.30 am

I hear the officer on duty holler up from his desk, ‘RCs.’

I press the buzzer which switches on a red light outside my door – known as room service – to indicate that I wish to attend chapel. No one comes to unlock the door. When they yell a second time, I press the buzzer again, but still no one responds. After they call a third time, I start banging on my door, but to no avail. Although I am not a Roman Catholic, after William Keane’s recommendation I would have liked to hear Father Kevin preach.

10.03 am

Mr Cousins finally appears to explain that as I am not a Roman Catholic, the officer on duty assumed my name had been put on the wrong list, and transferred me back to C of E. I curse under my breath as I don’t want to be put on report. A curse for me is damn or blast.

‘You can always go next week,’ he says. ‘Just be sure you give us enough notice.’

‘I was rather hoping that I won’t be with you next week,’ I tell him.

He smiles. I can see he accepts that his colleague has made a mistake, so I decide this might be a good opportunity to ask about the drug problem as seen from the other side of the iron barrier. To my surprise Mr Cousins is frank – almost enthusiastic – about passing on his views.

Mr Cousins doesn’t try to pretend that there isn’t a drug problem in prisons. Only a fool would. He also admits that because of the casual way officers have to conduct their searches, it’s not that difficult to transfer drugs from spur to spur, block to block and even across a table during family visits.

‘Not many officers,’ he tells me, ‘would relish the idea of having to use rubber gloves to search up prisoners’ backsides three or four times a day. And even if we did go to that extreme, the inmates would simply swallow the drugs, which would only cause even more problems. But,’ he continues, ‘we still do everything in our power to prevent and cure, and we’ve even had a few successes.’ He pauses. ‘But not that many.’

When a prisoner enters Belmarsh he has an MDT. This takes the form of a urine sample which is all very well until it comes to heroin, a substance that can be flushed through the body within twenty-four hours. Most other drugs leave some signs in the blood or urine for at least four weeks. On the day they enter prison, 70 per cent of inmates show positive signs of being on drugs, and even with the twenty-four-hour proviso, 20 per cent indicate of heroin. If Mr Cousins had revealed these figures to me only three weeks ago, he would have left me staggered by the enormity of the problem. Already I have come to accept such revelations as part of everyday prison life.

‘Our biggest success rate,’ continues Mr Cousins, ‘is among those prisoners coming up for parole, because towards the end of their sentence, they have to report regularly to the Voluntary Drug Testing Centre – there’s one in every prison – to prove they are no longer dependent on drugs, which will be entered on their report, and can play a part in shortening their sentence. What we don’t know,’ he adds, ‘is how many of them go straight back on drugs the moment they’re released. But in recent years we’ve taken a more positive step to stamp out the problem.

In 1994 we set up a Dedicated Search Team, known as the ghost-busters, who can move in at any time without warning and search individual cells, even whole spurs or blocks. This team of officers was specifically formed following the IRA escape from Whitemoor Prison in ‘93, but after all the terrorists were sent back to Ulster following the Good Friday Agreement, the unit switched their concentration from terrorism to the misuse of illegal substances. They’ve had remarkable success in uncovering large amounts of drugs and charging offenders. But,’ he reflects, ‘I have to admit the percentage of drug takers still hasn’t fallen, and I speak as someone who was once a member of the DST. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘it’s just possible that standing still is in itself an achievement.’

I hear the first bellow from downstairs for C of E, and thank Mr Cousins for his tutorial and his candour.

10.30 am

I report to the middle floor and join those prisoners who wish to attend the morning service. We line up and are put through the usual search before being escorted to the chapel. Malcolm (Salvation Army officer) is surprised to see me, as I had told him yesterday that I intended to go and hear Father Kevin preach. Before I take my seat in the second row, I give him the precised version of how I ended up back in his flock.

No backing group this week, just taped music, which makes Malcolm’s job all the more difficult, especially when it comes to stopping the chattering in the back six rows. My eyes settle on a couple of Lebanese drug dealers sitting in the far corner at the back. They are deep in conversation. I know that they’re from different spurs, so they obviously use this weekly get together to exchange information on their clients. Every time I turn to observe them, their heads are bowed, but not in prayer.

The sermon this week is taken from Luke. It’s the one about the ninety-nine sheep who are safely locked up in the pen while the shepherd goes off in search of the one that’s strayed. Malcolm faces a congregation of over two hundred that have strayed, and most of them have absolutely no intention of returning to the pen.

But he somehow battles on, working assiduously on the first six rows, with whom he is having some success. Towards the end of the service his wife reads a lesson, and after the blessing, Malcolm asks his congregation if they would like to come forward and sign the pledge. At least forty prisoners rise from their places and begin to walk forward. They are individually blessed before signing the register.

They look to me like the same forty who offered themselves up for salvation last week, but I am still in no doubt that Malcolm and his wife are performing a worthwhile mission.

12 noon

Lunch. I settle for more beans on toast, an apple and a mug of water. I suppose I should have stated the obvious at some point, namely that alcohol is forbidden, which is no great loss to me as I rarely drink more than a glass of red wine in the evening.

4.00 pm

Association. I run downstairs, phonecard in hand, thirteen units left for Mary. A long queue has already formed behind the two payphones. One of the disadvantages of living on the top floor.

I turn my attention to the large TV in the middle of the room. Several prisoners are watching the Sunday afternoon film with Tom Hanks and Geena Davis. It’s the story of a women’s baseball team set up in 1942 when, because of the outbreak of the Second World War, the men’s teams had to be disbanded.

I turn my head every few moments but the queue doesn’t seem to diminish, so I go on watching the film. Several prisoners join me during the next half-hour.

Del Boy (murder) to tell me he’s somehow purloined a copy of the weekly menu for my diary.

Fletch (murder) wants to come to my cell at six and read something to me. I ask if he could make it seven, as I’ll still be writing at six. ‘Suits me,’ he says, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Prison humour.

Tony (marijauna only, escaped to Paris) then leans across and asks if the identification of one of his girlfriends could be removed from yesterday’s script. I agree and make a note of her name.

I spot Billy (murder) and recommend the book of short stories by John MacKenna, but he walks on past me without a word. I suppose by now I shouldn’t be surprised by anything.

Dennis (GBH, large bag of toiletries) taps me on the shoulder. He starts to tell me about the visit of his son on his first birthday, and how he can’t wait to get out and be with his wife and children. Join the club.

Miah (murder) who’s the spur hair cutter – known, not surprisingly, as Sweeny Todd – says he can fit me in at seven tomorrow evening. I thank him, explaining that I must have my hair cut before Mary and the boys come to visit me on Thursday. When I glance round, the queue for the phone is down to three. I leave Mr Hanks and Ms Davis and take my place at the back.

Just as I reach the front, another prisoner barges in front of me. As he’s a double murderer and his right hand has HATE tatooed on his four fingers, I decide not to mention that I thought I was next in line. Ten minutes later he slams down the phone and walks away effing and blinding. I slowly dial the Cambridge number to be reminded that I only have thirteen units left on my card. Mary answers. She sounds cheerful and is full of news. The trip to Dresden went well, and while she was abroad she felt her life was getting back to normal. Perhaps because the German tabloids aren’t quite that obsessed with my incarceration. William accompanied her, and was a tower of strength, while James stayed behind to manage the shop.

Ten units left.

Mary tells me that following Emma Nicholson’s letter the police are hinting that they may not even carry out an inquiry. I explain that despite this I’ve been reassigned to C-cat status, and would like my D-cat back as quickly as possible. She assures me that Ramona and James are working on it.

Seven units left.

I tell her how many letters I have been receiving every day, and she counters by saying that she’s getting so many at home and in London that there just aren’t enough hours to answer them all. She’s designed an all-purpose reply so that she can get on with her own work.

Five units left.

Mary adds that not only are my friends remaining constant, but she’s had a dozen offers to join them on their yachts or in their holiday homes, and one even on safari. I’ve always known we had foul-weather friends, but both of us have been touched by the public’s overwhelming support.

Three units left.

I let her know that I’ve already written over forty thousand words of the diary, but can’t be sure what my regular readers will make of it. Mary says she’s looking forward to reading an early draft, and will give me a candid view. She is incapable of doing anything else.

One unit left.

We begin our goodbyes, and she reminds me I will be seeing her and the boys on Thursday, something to look forward to.

‘Do you know how much I…’

All units used up. I hear a click, and the phone goes dead.

As I walk away, I hear the words ‘Lock-up’ bellowed out from just behind me. As reliable as Big Ben, if not as melodious. It has to be five o’clock.

5.05 pm

Supper. I go down to the hotplate and have my name ticked off by Paul – prisoners do a seven-day week with no holidays or bank holidays – and pick up a Thermos flask of hot water and a chocolate ice cream. Back in my cell I make a Cup a Soup (mushroom, 22p), eat another Mars Bar (31p), and enjoy a chocolate ice-cream (prison rations).

7.00 pm

I’m washing my plastic plate in the basin when there’s a knock on the door. The cell door is pulled open by an officer to reveal the massive frame of Fletch standing in the doorway. I had quite forgotten he was coming to read something to me.

I smile. ‘Welcome,’ I say, like the spider to the fly. The first thing I notice is that he’s clutching a small green notebook, not unlike the type we used to write our essays in at school. After a brief chat about which prison I’m likely to be sent to, and his opinion of Mr Leader, the Deputy Governor, he turns to the real purpose of his visit.

‘I wonder if I might be allowed to read something to you?’ he asks.

‘Of course,’ I reply, not sure if it’s to be an essay, a poem, or even the first chapter of a novel. I settle on the bed while Fletch sits in the plastic chair (prisoners are only allowed one chair per cell). He places the little lined book on my desk, opens it at the first page, and begins to read.

If I had the descriptive powers of Greene and the narrative drive of Hemingway, I still could not do justice to the emotions I went through during the next twenty minutes; revulsion, anger, sympathy, incredulity, and finally inadequacy. Fletch turns another page, tears welling up in his eyes, as he forces himself to resurrect the demons of his past. By the time he comes to the last page, this giant of a man is a quivering wreck, and of all the emotions I can summon up to express my true feelings, anger prevails. When Fletch closes the little green book, we both remain silent for some time.

Once I’m calm enough to speak, I thank him for the confidence he has shown in allowing me to share such a terrible secret.

‘I’ve never allowed anyone in Belmarsh to read this,’ he says, tapping the little green book. ‘But perhaps now you can appreciate why I won’t be appealing against my sentence. I don’t need the whole world to know what I’ve been through,’ he adds in a whisper, ‘so it will go with me to my grave.’ I nod my understanding and promise to keep his confidence.

10.00 pm

I can’t sleep. What Fletch has read to me could not have been made up. It’s so dreadful that it has to be true. I sleep for a few minutes and then wake again. Fletch has tried to put the past behind him by devoting his time and energy to being a Listener, helping others, by sharing his room with a bullied prisoner, a drug addict, or someone likely to be a victim of sexual abuse.

I fall asleep. I wake again. It’s pitch black outside my little cell window and I begin to feel that Fletch could give an even greater service if his story were more widely known, and the truth exposed. Then people like me who have led such naive and sheltered lives could surely have the blinkers lifted from their eyes.

I decide as soon as they let me out of my cell, that I will tell him that I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to suggest that he could do far more good by revealing what actually happened to him than by remaining silent. In all, I think I’ve woken five or six times during the night, my thoughts always returning to Fletch. But one comment he made above all others burns in my mind, Fifty per cent of prisoners in Belmarsh can tell you variations of the same story. Jeffrey, my case is not unique.

I decide I must use whatever persuasive powers I possess to get him to agree to publish, without reservation, everything in that little green book.