Purgatory

DAY 23 – FRIDAY 10 AUGUST 2001

5.49 am

Intermittent, fitful sleep, unaided by a rock-hard pillow, a cellmate who snores and occasionally talks in his sleep; sadly, nothing of literary interest. Rise and write for two hours.

7.33 am

Cell-mate wakes and grunts. I carry on writing. He then jumps off the top bunk and goes to the lavatory in the corner of the cell. He has no inhibitions in front of me, but then he has been in prison for five years. I am determined never to go to the loo in my cell, while I’m still in a one-up, one-down, unless he is out I go on working as if nothing is happening. It’s quite hard to distract me when I’m writing, but when I look up I see Chris standing there in the nude. His chest is almost completely covered with a tattoo of an eagle towering over a snake, which he tells me with pride he did himself with a tattoo gun. On the knuckles of his fingers on both hands are diamonds, hearts, spades and clubs, while on his shoulders he has a massive spider’s web that creeps down his back. There’s not much pink flesh left unmarked. He’s a walking canvas.

8.00 am

The cell doors are unlocked so we can all go and have breakfast; one hour earlier than in Belmarsh. Chris and I walk down to the hotplate. At least the eggs have been boiled quite recently – like today. We’re also given a half carton of semi-skimmed milk, which means that I can drop the long-life version from my weekly shopping list and spend the extra 79p on some other luxury, like marmalade.

9.40 am

Mr Newport pops his head round the cell door to announce that Mr Tinkler, the principal officer, would like a word with me. Even the language at Wayland is more conciliatory. When I leave my cell, he adds, ‘It’s down the corridor, second door on the left’

When I enter Mr Tinkler’s room, he stands up and ushers me into a chair on the other side of his desk as if he were my bank manager. His name is printed in silver letters on a triangular piece of wood, in case anyone should forget. Mr Tinkler resembles an old sea captain rather than a prison officer. He has weathered, lined skin and a neatly cut white beard. He’s been in the service for over twenty years and I learn that he will be retiring next August. He asks me how I’m settling in – the most common question asked by an officer when meeting a prisoner for the first time. I tell him about the state of my room and the proclivities of my cell-mate. He listens attentively and, as there is little difference in our age, I detect some sympathy for my predicament. He tells me that as soon as my induction is over he plans to transfer me to a single cell on C block which houses mainly lifers. Mr Tinkler believes that I’ll find the atmosphere there more settled, as I will be among a group of prisoners closer to my own age. I leave his office feeling considerably better than when I entered it.

10.01 am

I’ve only been back in my cell for a few minutes when Mr Newport pops his head round the door again. ‘We’re moving you to a cell down the corridor. Pack your belongings and follow me.’ I hadn’t really unpacked so this exercise doesn’t take too long. The other cell also turns out to be a double, but once I’m inside Mr Newport whispers, ‘We’re hoping to leave you on your own.’ Mr Tinkler’s sympathy is translated into something far more tangible than mere words.

I slowly unpack my possessions from the regulation prison plastic bag for the seventh time in three weeks.

As I now have two small cupboards, I put all the prison clothes like shirts, socks, pants, gym kit, etc. in one, while I place my personal belongings in the other. I almost enjoy how long it takes to put my new home in order.

11.36 am

Mr Newport is back again. He’s making his rounds, this time to deliver canteen lists to every cell. He has already warned me that if the computer hasn’t transferred my surplus cash from Belmarsh I will be allowed an advance of only PS5 this week. I quickly check the top of the list, to discover I’m in credit for PS20.46. This turns out to be my weekly allowance of PS12.50 plus two payments from the education department at Belmarsh for my lecture on creative writing and two sessions at the workshop. I spend the next thirty minutes planning how to spend this windfall. I allow myself such luxuries as Gillette shaving foam, Robertson’s marmalade and four bottles of Evian water.

12 noon

Lunch. On Fridays at Wayland lunch comes in a plastic bag: a packet of crisps, a bar of chocolate, a bread roll accompanied by a lettuce leaf and a sachet of salad cream. I can only wonder in which prison workshop and how long ago this meal was packed, because there are rarely sell-by dates on prison food. I return to my cell to find the canteen provisions have been deposited on the end of my bed in yet another plastic bag. I celebrate by thumbing my bread roll in half and spreading Robertson’s Golden Shred all over it with the aid of my toothbrush handle. I pour myself a mug of Evian. Already the world is a better place.

12.40 pm

Part of the induction process is a private session with the prison chaplain. Mr John Framlington looks to me as if it’s been some years since he’s administered his own parish. He explains that he’s a ‘fill-in’, as he shares the work with a younger man. I assure him that I will be attending the service on Sunday, but would like to know if it clashes with the RCs. He looks puzzled.

‘No, we both use the same chapel. Father Christopher has so many parishes outside the prison to cover each Sunday he holds his service on a Saturday morning at ten thirty.’ Mr Framlington is interested to discover why I wish to attend both services. I tell him about my daily diary, and my failure to hear Father Kevin’s sermon while at Belmarsh. He sighs.

‘You’ll quickly find out that Father Christopher preaches a far better sermon than I do.’

2.40 pm

The first setback of the day. Mr Newport returns, the bearer of bad news. Six new prisoners have arrived this afternoon, and once again I will have to share. I learn later that there are indeed six new inductees but as the prison still has several empty beds there is no real need for me to share. However, there are several reporters hanging around outside the prison gates, so the authorities don’t want to leave the press with the impression I might be receiving preferential treatment. Mr Newport claims he has selected a more suitable person to share with me. Perhaps this time it won’t be a Stanley-knife stabber, just a machete murderer.

I transfer all my personal possessions out of one of the cupboards and stuff them into the other, along with the prison kit.

3.18 pm

My new room-mate appears carrying his plastic bag. He introduces himself as Jules (see plate section). He’s thirty-five and has a five-year sentence for drug dealing. He’s already been told that I don’t smoke.

I watch him carefully as he starts to unpack, and I begin to relax. He has an unusual number of books, as well as an electric chessboard. I feel confident the evening viewing will not be a rerun of Top of the Pops and motorbike scrambling. At five to four I leave him to continue his unpacking while I make my way to the gym for another induction session.

3.55 pm

Twenty new inmates are escorted to the gym. There are no doors to be unlocked on our unimpeded journey to the other side of the building. I also notice that on the way we pass a library. I never even found the library at Belmarsh.

The gym is an even bigger shock. It’s quite magnificent. Wayland has a full-size basketball court, which is fully equipped for badminton and tennis. The gym instructor asks us to take a seat on a bench where we’re handed forms to fill in, giving such details as age, weight, height and sports we are interested in.

‘My name is John Maiden,’ he tells us, ‘and I’m happy to be called John.’ I never learnt the first name of any officer at Belmarsh. He tells us the different activities available: cricket, basketball, badminton, football, rugby and, inevitably, weight training. He then takes us into the next room, an area overcrowded with bars, dumb-bells and weights. Once again I’m disappointed to discover that there is only one treadmill, three rowing machines and no step machine. However, there are some very strange-looking bikes, the likes of which I’ve never seen before.

A gym orderly (a prisoner who has obviously been trained by Mr Maiden) takes us round the room and describes how to use each piece of equipment. He carries out the task most professionally, and should have no trouble finding a job once he leaves prison. I’m listening intently about bench pressing when I find Mr Maiden standing by my side.

‘Are you still refereeing rugby?’ he asks.

‘No. I gave up about ten years ago,’ I tell him. ‘Once the laws started to change every season I just couldn’t keep up. In any case I found that even if I only refereed veteran teams I couldn’t keep up, quite literally.’

‘Don’t let knowledge of the laws worry you,’ said Mr Maiden, ‘we’ll still be able to use you.’

The session ends with a look at the changing room, the shower facilities and, more importantly, clean lavatories. I’m issued with a plastic gym card and look forward to returning to my old training regime.

5.00 pm

Back in the cell, I find Jules sitting on the top bunk reading. I settle down to another session of writing before we’re called for supper.

6.00 pm

I select the vegetarian pie and chips and am handed the obligatory yellow lollipop, which is identical to those we were given at Belmarsh. If it’s the same company who makes and supplies them to every one of Her Majesty’s prisons, that must be a contract worth having. Although it’s only my third meal since I arrived, I think I’ve already spotted the power behind the hotplate. He’s a man of about thirty-five, six foot three and must weigh around twenty-seven stone. As I pass him I ask if we could meet later. He nods in the manner of a man who knows that in the kingdom of the blind… I can only hope that I’ve located Wayland’s ‘Del Boy’.

After supper we are allowed to be out of our cells for a couple of hours (Association) until we’re banged up at eight.

What a contrast to Belmarsh. I use the time to roam around the corridors and familiarize myself with the layout. The main office is on the first landing and is the hub of the whole wing. From there everything is an offshoot. I also check where all the phones are situated, and when a prisoner comes off one he warns me, ‘Never use the phone on the induction landing, Jeff, because the conversations are taped. Use this one. It’s a screw-free line.’

I thank him and call Mary in Cambridge. She’s relieved that I’ve rung as she has no way of contacting me, and can’t come to see me until she’s been sent a visiting order. I promise to put one in tomorrow’s post, and then she may even be able to drive across next Tuesday or Wednesday. I remind her to bring some form of identification and that she mustn’t try to pass anything over to me, not even a letter.

Mary then tells me that she’s accepted an invitation to go on the Today programme with John Humphrys. She intends to ask Baroness Nicholson to withdraw her accusation that I stole money from the Kurds, so that I can be reinstated as a D-cat prisoner and quickly transferred to an open prison. I tell Mary that I consider this an unlikely scenario.

‘She’s not decent enough to consider such a Christian act,’ I warn my wife.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Mary replies, ‘but I will be able to refer to Lynda Chafer’s parliamentary reply on the subject and ask why Ms Nicholson wasn’t in the House that day if she cares so much about the Kurds, or why had she not at least read the report in Hansard the following morning.’ Mary adds that the BBC have told her that they accept I have no case to answer.

‘When are you going on?’

‘Next Wednesday or Thursday, so it’s important I see you before then.’

I quickly agree as my units are running out. I then ask Mary to warn James that I’ll phone him at the office at eleven tomorrow morning, and will call her again on Sunday evening. My units are now down to ten so I say a quick goodbye.

I continue my exploration of the wing and discover that the main Association room and the servery/hotplate double up. The room is about thirty paces by twenty and has a full-size snooker table which is so popular that you have to book a week in advance. There is also a pool table and a table-tennis table, but no TV, as it would be redundant when there’s one in every cell.

I’m walking back upstairs when I bump into the hotplate man. He introduces himself as Dale, and invites me to join him in his cell, telling me on the way that he’s serving eight years for wounding with intent to endanger life. He leads me down a flight of stone steps onto the lower-ground floor. This is an area I would never have come across, as it’s reserved for enhanced prisoners only – the chosen few who have proper jobs and are considered by the officers to be trustworthy. As you can’t be granted enhanced status for at least three months, I will never enjoy such luxury, as I am hoping to be moved to a D-cat fairly quickly.

Although Dale’s cell is exactly the same size as mine, there the similarity ends. His brick walls are in two tones of blue, and he has nine five-by-five-inch steel mirrors over his wash-basin shaped in a large triangle. In our cell, Jules and I have one mirror between us. Dale also has two pillows, both soft, and an extra blanket. On the wall are photos of his twin sons, but no sign of a wife – just the centrefold of a couple of Chinese girls, Blu-tacked above his bed. He pours me a Coca-Cola, my first since William and James visited me in Belmarsh, and asks if he can help in any way.

In every way, I suspect. ‘I would like a soft pillow, a fresh towel every day and my washing taken care of.’

‘No problem,’ he says, like a banker who can make an electronic transfer of a million dollars to New York by simply pressing a button – as long as you have a million dollars.

‘Anything else? Phonecards, food, drink?’

‘I could do with some more phonecards and several items from the canteen.’

‘I can also solve that problem,’ Dale says. ‘Just write out a list of what you want and I’ll have everything delivered to your cell.’

‘But how do I pay you?’

That’s the easy part. Send in a postal order and ask for the money to be placed against my account. Just make sure the name Archer isn’t involved, otherwise there’s bound to be an investigation. I won’t charge you double-bubble, just bubble and a half.’

Three or four other prisoners stroll into Dale’s cell, so he immediately changes the subject. Within minutes the atmosphere feels more like a club than a prison, as they all seem so relaxed in each other’s company. Jimmy, who’s serving a three-and-a-half year sentence for being an Ecstasy courier (carrying packages from one club to another), wants to know if I play cricket

The occasional charity match, about twice a year I admit.

‘Good, then you’ll be batting number three next week, against D wing.’

‘But I usually go in at number eleven’ I protest, ‘and have been known to bat as high as number ten.’

Then you’ll be first wicket down at Wayland,’ says Jimmy. ‘By the way, we haven’t won a match this year. Our two best batsmen got their D-cats at the beginning of the season and were transferred to Latchmere House in Richmond.’

After about an hour of their company, I become aware of the other big difference on the enhanced wing – the noise, or rather the lack of noise. You just don’t hear the incessant stereos attempting to out-blare each other.

At five to eight I make my way back to my cell and am met on the stairs by an officer who tells me that I cannot visit the enhanced area again as it’s off limits. ‘And if you do, Archer’ he adds, I’ll put you on report, which could mean a fortnight being added to your sentence.’

There’s always someone who feels he has to prove how powerful he is, especially if he can show off in front of other prisoners – ‘I put Archer in his place, didn’t I?’ In Belmarsh it was the young officer with his record bookings. I have a feeling I’ve just met Wayland’s.

Back in my cell, I find Jules is playing chess against a phantom opponent on his electronic board. I settle down to write an account of the day. There are no letters to read as no one has yet discovered I’m in Wayland.

8.15 pm

Dale arrives with a soft pillow and an extra blanket. He’s disappeared before I can thank him.