Purgatory

DAY 52 – SATURDAY 8 SEPTEMBER 2001

6.01 am

Since the age of twenty-six, I’ve been lucky enough to organize my own life, so having to follow the same routine day in and day out, weekends included, is enough to make one go stark raving bonkers. If I weren’t writing this diary, and Sergio didn’t exist, they would have had to put me in a straitjacket long before now and cart me off to the nearest asylum.

9.00 am

Gym. I put myself through a tough workout, and what makes it even tougher is that I’m surrounded by prisoners a third of my age. At the end of the session I climb onto the scales, to find I’ve put on a pound in the last week. I’ll have to cut down on my chocolate intake. One of the many disadvantages of being locked up in a cell for hour upon hour is that sometimes you eat simply because there is nothing else to do (this is one of the reasons prisoners experiment with drugs, and addicts need a regular fix). In future I must show more self-control. If I don’t buy it, I can’t eat it.

Between each exercise, ten minutes on the treadmill, the rower and the bicycle, I walk a complete circuit of the gym to get my breath back. By now I know most of the prisoners and the workouts they do, and usually acknowledge or encourage them as I stroll by. As I pass Jimmy he flexes his muscles, and describes himself as a gay icon; I’m seen by the other inmates as the geriatric icon.

Today I spot a six-foot-three West Indian of about twenty stone who’s lifting massive weights on his own, so I stop to watch him.

‘What are you fuckin’ staring at?’ he demands, once he’s put the weights down.

Just watching,’ I reply.

Then fuck off. I know you talk to everyone else, but you don’t fuckin’ talk to me.’ I can’t stop laughing, which doesn’t seem to please him and has the officers on edge. ‘Do you want your fuckin’ head knocked off?’ he asks.

‘I don’t think so, Ellis.’ He looks surprised that I know his name. ‘Not if you’re hoping to be out of here in two weeks’ time.’ He looks even more surprised that I know when he’s due to be released. He grunts, turns his back on me and lifts 210 kilos. In prison, what you know is every bit as important as who you know.

2.00 pm

As I cross the corridor to join Darren in his cell for a game of backgammon, I spot Sergio on the phone. He’s holding a stack of PS2 phonecards in his left hand; by now he must have traded everything he owns. Lately, his cell looks as if the bailiffs have paid a visit.

After three games, I return to my cell in possession of another Mars bar. If I am going to lose weight, I’m going to have to start losing at backgammon. I glance to my left to see Sergio furiously beckoning me.

‘I need another phonecard’ he says desperately. I remove the one I always carry in the back pocket of my jeans and hand it over. He smiles. I return to my cell, sit at my desk and wait, sensing a board meeting is imminent.

2.34 pm

Sergio walks in, pushes the door to (if anyone enters your cell, officer or inmate, it’s against regulations to lock yourself in) and turns on the TV – a sign that means he doesn’t want to be overheard. He takes his usual place on the end of the bed, as befits the managing director. He opens his A4 pad.

‘The stone takes off,’ he checks his watch, ‘in a couple of hours.’ He can’t resist a huge grin as he keeps me waiting. I nod. If I were to speak, it would only hold up the inevitable repetition of the entire conversation he and his brother have just held. And who can blame him? However, I’ll skip the next forty minutes and give you a precis of what has caused such a big grin.

Sergio’s brother has in fact completed all the paperwork and booked the tiny package onto a Lufthansa flight that leaves Bogota for Heathrow via Frankfurt in two hours’ time (10.30 am in Bogota, 4.30 pm at Wayland). He has faxed all the relevant details to my office in London, so they’ll know when and where to pick up the gem. Sergio pauses at this point and waits for some well-earned praise. He goes on to confirm that the emerald has come from the Muzo mining district, famous for the quality of its stones. It’s 3.3 carats, and cost $9,000 (mountain price). Now all we can do is wait until I find out what value is placed on the emerald by my gemmologist. Sergio looks up from his notes, and adds that his brother would like confirmation that the fax has arrived in my office.

‘Right now,’ I ask, ‘or when you’ve completed your report?’ because I can see that he’s only about halfway through the pages that are covered in his neat Spanish hand. He considers this for a moment, and then says, ‘No, I’ll finish first.

The second piece of news,’ continues Sergio, turning another page, unable to suppress an even broader grin, ‘is that Liana’ – his former school friend – ‘has tracked down four Boteros in private hands. In private hands,’ he repeats with considerable emphasis. ‘And they could be for sale. She will send the details to your office some time next week.’ He checks his diary. That will give you twelve days to evaluate them. Evaluate,’ he repeats. Is that the correct word?’ I nod, impressed. ‘By the time you have decided on a realistic price, I will be back in Colombia and can take over negotiations.’ He closes the A4 pad.

‘I’d better call my son,’ I say, aware the ball is back in my court. ‘Any units left on my phonecard?’ I ask, returning to the real world.

3.17 pm

I call James on his mobile and ask where he is.

‘In the car, Dad, but I’ll be back at the flat in about fifteen minutes.’ I put the phone down. Three units gone – mobiles gobble units. I return to my cell to tell Sergio I won’t know if James has received the fax for another fifteen minutes. This gives Sergio enough time to repeat the highlights of his earlier triumph not unlike replays of Owen’s hat-trick against Germany.

3.35 pm

I call Jamie at the flat and ask him if he’s received the fax.

‘Yes’ he replies, ‘it arrived forty minutes ago.’

‘And does it give you all the details you need?’

‘Yes,’ he replies.

I put the phone down. Sergio leaves me as he has to report for his job behind the hotplate. Although he too has to return to the real world, that grin just doesn’t leave his face.

4.30 pm

Exercise. Darren and I are joined by Jason (conspiracy to blackmail) on our afternoon power walk. We pass Shaun who is sketching Jules, with whom I shared a cell for the first two weeks. He’s now finished Darren and Dale and once he’s completed Jules, he’ll only have Jimmy to do, so he should have a full house by the end of the week.

‘Why do I have this feeling,’ asks Darren, ‘that you consider the Prison Service has only one purpose, and that is to cater for your every need?’

‘That’s neither accurate nor fair,’ I protest. ‘I’ve tried to organize my entire life around the schedule the Prison Service demands. It makes it twice as difficult to carry out my usual routines, but it has put another perspective on the unforgiving minute.’

‘I wish I could work the system,’ says Jason. ‘They had me in for an MDT (mandatory drugs test) this afternoon, a la Ann Widdecombe.’

‘Will it prove positive?’ I ask.

‘No chance, I’m in the clear. What a nerve,’ he adds, ‘suggesting that it was ‘on the grounds of reasonable suspicion’.’

‘Knowing your past record,’ says Darren – well aware that Jason occasionally dabbles in heroin – ‘how can you be so confident you’re in the clear?’

‘Simple,’ Jason replies. ‘For the past three days I’ve been drinking more water than Jeffrey, I must have been up peeing at least seven times every night.’

5.40 pm

We’re banged up for fourteen hours. After I’ve checked over the day’s script, I turn to my letters. I am particularly touched by a missive from Gillian Shephard. She describes herself as ‘your temporary MP’. She offers her support and goes on to point out that, ‘No one can suggest I’m after your vote. After all, members of the House of Lords, convicted prisoners and lunatics are not entitled to a vote.’ She concludes, There’s only one category left for you to fulfil, Jeffrey.’

10.00 pm

I climb into bed and start to think about an aeroplane that’s already halfway across the Atlantic on its way to Heathrow. In its massive hold there is a tiny package, no larger than an Oxo cube, and inside a tiny emerald that will either be on its way back to Bogota in a few days’ time, or hanging on my family’s Christmas tree come December.