Purgatory

DAY 39 – SUNDAY 26 AUGUST 2001

6.16 am

Sunday is always the longest day in prison. Wayland is short-staffed and there is nothing for inmates to do other than watch wall-to-wall television. In Belmarsh, chapel was a respite as it got you out of your cell, but in Wayland you’re out of your cell without anything to keep you occupied. Mind you, I’d much rather be in Wayland than locked up in Belmarsh for twenty-two hours a day. I write for a couple of hours.

8.20 am

Breakfast. While I’m waiting in the queue for the hotplate, I get talking to a West Indian who is on my landing. He asks if he can have my Times and Sunday Times when I’ve finished with them. I agree to his request if, in return, he will show me how to clean my cell floor. I only mention this because the West Indians keep the cleanest cells. They are not satisfied with sweeping out the dust and dirt, but spend hours buffing up the linoleum floor until you can see your face in it. Although I shower, shave and put on fresh clothes every day, as well as make my bed and have everything in place before the cell door is opened at 8 am, I never look as smart or have as clean a cell as any of the West Indians on my spur.

9.30 am

On my way to the library I slip in behind a man who frightens me. He has an evil face and is one of those prisoners who is proud to describe himself as a career criminal. He is a burglar by profession, and I’m somewhat surprised to see him heading off towards the library with a pile of glossy, coffee-table books under his arm. I try to make out the titles on the spines while we’re on the move: The Encyclopaedia of Antiques, Know Your Antiques and Antiques in a Modem Market.

‘Are you interested in antiques?’ I ask innocently.

‘Yeah, I’m making a careful study of them.’

‘Are you hoping to work in the antiques trade when you’ve completed your sentence?’

‘I suppose you could say that,’ he replies. ‘I’m sick of nicking ‘em only to find out they’re fuckin’ worthless. From now on I’ll know what to fuckin’ look for, won’t I?’

You would think that after five weeks of mixing with criminals, night and day, I couldn’t still be taken by surprise. It serves to remind me again of Lisa Dada’s words about despising burglars, not to mention my own naivety.

10.00 am

In the library I get talking to an older prisoner called Ron (ABH). Most inmates tell me they never want to return to prison, especially the older ones who have served long sentences. But, time and again, they’ll add the rider, ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t, Jeff. Getting a job when you have a criminal record is virtually impossible, so you stay on the dole, until you slip back into a life of crime.’

It’s a vicious circle for those who leave prison with their statutory PS90, NFA (no fixed abode) and little prospect of work. I don’t know the answer, although I accept there is little you can do for people who are genuinely evil, and not much for those who are congenitally stupid. But the first-offence prisoners who want a second chance often leave prison only to find that for the rest of their lives the work door is slammed in their face.

I accept that perhaps only around 20 per cent of prisoners would be worth special treatment, but I would like to see someone come up with a solution for this particular group, especially the first-time offenders. And how many of you reading this diary can honestly say you’ve never committed a crime? For example:

(a) Smoked cannabis (5 million), crack cocaine (300,000), heroin (250,000)

(b) Stolen something – anything

(c) Fiddled your expenses

(d) Taken a bus or train and not paid for the ticket

(e) Not declared your full income to the taxman

(f) Been over the alcohol limit when driving

(g) Driven a vehicle without tax or insurance

(h) Brought in something from abroad and not paid import tax

I have recently discovered that those very people who commit such crimes often turn out to be the most sanctimonious hypocrites, including one leading newspaper editor. It’s the truly honest people who go on treating one decently, as I’ve found from the thousands of letters I’ve received from the general public over the past few weeks.

10.45 am

Chapel. We’re back to a congregation of eleven. The service is Holy Communion, and I’m not sure I care for the modern version. I must be getting old, or at least old-fashioned.

The service is conducted by John Framlington, resplendent in a long white robe to go with his white beard and head of white hair. He must be well into his seventies and he looks like a prophet. A local Salvation Army officer preaches the sermon, with the theme that we all make mistakes, but that does not mean that we cannot be saved. Once he has delivered his message, he joins John to dispense the bread and wine to his little flock. During the singing of the last hymn, John walks off down the aisle and disappears. We are all left literally standing, not quite sure what to do next. A female face peeps out from behind the organ, and decides to continue playing. This brave little gesture is rewarded by everyone repeating the last verse. When we’ve delivered the final line of ‘O Blessed Jesu, Save Us’ John comes running back down the aisle. He turns to face his congregation, apologizes, blesses us and then disappears for a second time. He’s a good man, and it’s generous of him still to be giving his time every Sunday for such a motley crew as us.

11.45 am

When I return to my spur after chapel, I find that it has been locked off and we are unable to get into our cells. A small crowd is gathering at the entrance of the spur, and I am informed by Darren that our cells are being searched for phonecards. It seems that one of the prisoners has shaved off the silver lining on the top of his card as this allows him to have a longer period for each unit. Not a great crime you might consider, remembering that we’re in a den of thieves. But what you won’t realize is that the next person who makes a phone call will find that BT automatically retrieves those stolen units. Result: the next prisoner will be robbed blind.

The next inmate on the phone that morning turned out to be a voluble West Indian called Carl (GBH) who, when his last ten units were gobbled up in seconds, never stopped effing and blinding all the way to the PO’s office. The spur was closed down in seconds, and Carl had unwittingly given the ‘prison search team’ an excuse to go through everyone’s personal belongings.

When the gate to the cells is eventually unlocked, a team of three officers comes out carrying a sackful of swag. My bet is that the offending phonecard is not among their trophies, but several other illicit goods are. I return to my cell to find that nothing of mine has been touched. Even my script lies in exactly the same place as I left it. I take this as a compliment.

12 noon

Lunch. England have progressed to 40 for 1, but the ominously dark clouds that appear over Wayland are also, it seems, unpaid visitors at the Oval. I turn my attention to the Sunday papers. The Sunday Mirror, that bastion of accuracy, tells its readers that I defended myself from another inmate with a cricket bat. I gave you a full ball-by-ball summary of that match, and the only thing I tried to threaten – and not very successfully – was the ball. The article then goes on to say that I am paying protection money to a prisoner called Matthew McMahon. There is no inmate at Wayland called Matthew McMahon. They add that payment is made with PS5 phonecards. There are no PS5 phone-cards. The funny thing is that some inmates are shocked by this: they had assumed the papers reported accurately, and it wasn’t until I took up residence that they realized how inaccurate the press can be.

2.00 pm

Exercise. We are allowed out for an hour, rather than forty-five minutes, which is a welcome bonus. As we walk round, I get teased by a lot of prisoners who say they are willing to protect me if I’ll give them a PS5 phonecard. Some ask how come you have a PS5 phonecard when the rest of us only have PS2 phone-cards. Others add that I can hit them with my cricket bat whenever I want to. I confess that this wouldn’t be so amusing if Jimmy and Darren were not accompanying me. Certainly, being the butt of everyone’s humour inside, as well as outside, begins to tell on one. Jimmy has also read the story in the Sunday Mirror and what worries him is who to believe in the latest row between Ken Clarke and Iain Duncan Smith concerning immigration. I tell Jimmy that only one thing is certain: although the result of the leadership election will not be announced for another two weeks (12 September), 70 per cent of the 318,000 electorate have cast their votes, and I assure him that IDS is already the next leader of the Tory party.

‘Can I risk a bet on that?’ asks Darren.

‘Yes, if you can find anyone stupid enough to take your wager.’

The spur bookie is offering 1-3 on Duncan Smith.’

Those are still good odds, because you can’t lose unless he drops down dead.’

The bookie or Iain Duncan Smith?’ asks Jimmy. ‘Either’ I reply.

‘Good,’ says Darren. Then I’ll put three Mars bars on Duncan Smith as soon as we get back to the spur.’

4.00 pm

I visit Sergio in his cell to be given a lesson on emeralds. I’ll let you know why later. Sergio takes his time telling me that emeralds are to Colombia what diamonds are to South Africa. When he’s finished his tutorial, I ask him if it would be possible for his brother to find an emerald of the highest quality. He looks puzzled.

‘What sort of price do you have in mind?’ he asks.

‘Around ten thousand dollars,’ I tell him.

He nods. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He looks at his watch and adds, ‘I’ll speak to my brother immediately.’

5.00 pm

Sunday supper is always a bag of crisps and a lemon mousse. However, this evening we are offered two lemon mousses because, I note, the sell-by date on the lid is 25 August.

7.00 pm

At last there’s something worth watching on television. Victoria and Albert with a cast to kill for. Nigel Hawthorne, Diana Rigg, Peter Ustinov, Jonathan Pryce, David Suchet, John Wood and Richard Briers.

It only serves to remind me how much I miss live theatre, though at times I feel I’m getting enough drama at the Theatre Royal, Wayland.