Purgatory

DAY 25 – SUNDAY 12 AUGUST 2001

5.56 am

Woken by voices in the corridor, two officers, one of them on a walkie-talkie. They open a cell door and take a prisoner away. I will find out the details when my door is unlocked in a couple of hours’ time.

6.05 am

Write for two hours.

8.15 am

Breakfast. Sugar Puffs (prison issue), long-life milk (mine, because it’s Sunday). Beans on burnt toast (prison’s).

10.00 am

I go to the library for the first time and sign up. You are allowed to take out two books, a third if your official work is education. The library is about the same size as the weight-lifting room and, to be fair, just as well stocked. They have everything from Graham Greene to Stephen King, I, Claudius to Harry Potter.

However, although Forsyth, Grisham, Follett and Jilly Cooper are much in evidence, I can find none of my books on the shelves. I hope that’s because they are all out on loan. Lifers often tell me they’ve read them all – slowly – and in some cases several times.

I take out a copy of The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse, which I haven’t read in years, and Famous Trials selected by John Mortimer. Naturally I have to fill in another form, and then my choices are stamped by the library orderly – a prisoner – to be returned by 26 August. I’m rather hoping to have moved on by then.

Kevin, the prisoner who stamps my library card, tells me that all my books were removed from the shelves the day they found out I was being transferred to Wayland.

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Direct order from the number one governor. It seems that Belmarsh informed her that the prisoners were stealing your books, and if they could then get you to Sign them, the black-market price is a thousand pounds.’

I believe everything except the thousand pounds, which sounds like a tabloid figure.

10.30 am

I check my watch, leave the library and quickly make my way across to the chapel on the other side of the corridor. There is no officer standing by the entrance. It suddenly hits me that I haven’t been searched since the day I arrived. I’m a couple of minutes late, and wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place, as there are only three other prisoners sitting in the pews, along with the chaplain. John Framlington is dressed in a long, black gown and black cape with crimson piping, and welcomes me with literally open arms.

The chapel is very impressive, with its wood-panelled walls and small oils depicting the life of Christ. The simple altar is covered in a cloth displaying a white cross with splashes of gold. There is also a large wooden cross hanging from the wall behind the altar. The seating consists of six rows of twenty wooden chairs set in a semicircle reminiscent of a small amphitheatre. I take a seat in the third row as a group of men and women all dressed in red T-shirts enters by the backdoor. They assemble their music on stands while a couple strap on guitars and a flautist practises a few notes. She’s very pretty. I wonder if it’s because it’s my twenty-fifth day in prison. But that would be an ungallant thought. She is pretty.

By ten forty-five the congregation has swelled to seven, but we are still outnumbered by the nine-strong choir. The prisoners are all seated to the right of the altar while the choir is standing on the left. A man, who appears to be the group’s leader, suggests we move across and join him on their side of the chapel. All seven of us dutifully obey. I’ve just worked out why the congregation at Belmarsh was over two hundred, week in and week out, while at Wayland it’s down to seven. Here you are allowed to stroll around the buildings for long periods of time, so if you wish to make contact with someone from another wing, it’s not all that difficult. In Belmarsh, chapel was a rare opportunity to catch up with a friend from another block, relay messages, pass on drugs and occasionally even pray.

The chaplain then walks up to the front, turns and welcomes us all. He begins by introducing Shine who, he tells us, are a local group that perform for several churches in the diocese.

We all join in the first hymn, ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, and Shine turn out to be rather good. Despite our depleted numbers, the service still swings along. Once the chaplain has delivered the opening prayer, he comes and sits amongst the congregation. He doesn’t conduct any other part of the service, as that has been left in the capable hands of the leader of Shine. Next we sing ‘Amazing Grace’, which is followed by a lesson from Luke, read by another member of the group. Following another hymn we are addressed by the leader of Shine. He takes his text from the first reading of the Good Samaritan. He talks about people who walk by on the other side when you are in any trouble. This time I do thank God for my family and friends, because so few of them have walked by on the other side.

The service ends with a blessing from the chaplain, who then thanks the group for giving up their time. I return to my cell and write notes on everything I have just experienced.

12.09 pm

I call Mary in Grantchester. How I miss my weekends with her, strolling around the garden at the Old Vicarage: the smell of the flowers and the grass, feeding the fish and watching students idly punting on the Cam. Mary briefs me on what line she intends to take on the Today programme, now that the Foreign Office and the KDP (Kurdish Democratic Party) have confirmed how the money for the Kurds was raised and distributed. I try to think how Ms Nicholson will spin herself out of this one.

Mary reminds me that she can’t come to see me until she receives a VO. I confirm I sent her one yesterday. She goes on to tell me that her own book, Photoconversion Volume One: Clean Electricity from Photovoltaics (advance sales 1,229, price PS110), has been well received by the academic world.

We finish by discussing family matters. Although I’ve come to the end of my twenty units, I don’t tell her that I am in possession of another two phonecards as that might cause trouble for Dale, especially if the conversation is being taped. I promise to call her again on Tuesday, and we agree a time. Just in case you’ve forgotten, the calls are always one way: OUT.

My next call is to James, who is giving a lunch party for ten friends at our apartment in London. I do miss his cooking. He tells me who’s sitting round my table and what they are eating: Roquefort, fig and walnut salad, spaghetti, and ice cream, followed by Brie, Stilton or Cheddar. This will be accompanied by an Australian red and a Californian white. I begin to salivate.

‘Dinner’ yells an officer, and I quickly return to the real world.

12.20 pm

Lunch: Chinese stir-fried vegetables (they may have been stirred, but they are still glued together), an apple, supplemented by a Mars bar (30p), and a glass of Evian. Guests: pre-selected.

1.00 pm

I join Dale on the enhanced wing. I grab Darren’s Sunday Times, and read very slowly while Dale and Jimmy play backgammon. The lead story is the alleged rape of a girl in Essex by Neil and Christine Hamilton. This is more graphically described in Dale’s News of the World, and the implausible story is memorable for Christine Hamilton’s observation, ‘If I wanted to do that sort of thing, it would be in Kensington or Chelsea, not Essex.’

We play several games of backgammon, during which time the assembled gathering questions me about the contest for the Tory party leadership. Darren (marijuana only) is a fan of Michael Portillo, and asks how I feel. I tell him that I think it might have been wise of the 1922 Committee to let all three candidates who reached the second round – Clarke 59, Duncan Smith 54 and Portillo 53 – be presented to the party membership. Leaving Michael out is bound to create some bad feeling and may even cause trouble in the future. It’s quite possible that the membership would have rejected Portillo in any case, but I feel that they should have been allowed the opportunity to do so.

Dale (wounding with intent) is a huge fan of Margaret Thatcher, while Jimmy (Ecstasy courier) voted for John Major. ‘A decent bloke’ he says. It’s sometimes hard to remember that I may be sitting in a room with an armed robber, a drug dealer, a million-pound fraudster, and heaven only knows who else. It’s also worth mentioning that when it comes to their ‘other world’, they never discuss anything in front of me.

3.00 pm

Exercise: I take the long walk around the perimeter of the prison – about half a mile – and several inmates greet me in a more friendly fashion than they did on my first outing last Thursday. The first person to join me is a man who is obviously on drugs. Unlike William Keane – do you remember him from Belmarsh? – I can’t tell which drug he’s on just by looking at his skin. His name is Darrell, and he tells me that his original sentence was for ten years. His crime: cutting someone up in a pub with a broken bottle. He was nineteen at the time. I take a second look. He looks about forty.

Then why are you still here?’ I ask, assuming he will explain that he’s serving a second or third sentence for another offence. ‘Once I ended up in prison, I got hooked on drugs, didn’t I?’ ‘Did you?’

‘Yeah, and I’d never taken a drug before I came in. But when you’re given a ten-year sentence and then banged up for twenty-two hours a day with prisoners who are already on skag, you sort of fall in with it, don’t you? First I was caught smoking cannabis so the governor added twenty-eight days to my sentence.’

Twenty-eight days for smoking cannabis? But…’

‘I then tried cocaine and finally moved on to heroin. Every time I got caught, my sentence was lengthened. Mind you, I’ve been clean for over a year now, Jeff. I’ve had to be, otherwise I’m never going to get out of this fuckin’ shithole, am I?’

‘How long has it been?’

Twenty-one years. I’m forty-one, and over half my sentence has been added because of being caught taking drugs while inside.’

I’m trying to take this in when we’re joined by a burly older man of around my height, who looks Middle Eastern. Darrell slips quietly away, which I fear means trouble. The new man doesn’t bother with any small talk.

‘How would you like to make fifty grand a week while you’re still in prison?’

‘What do you have in mind?’ I ask innocently, because he doesn’t look like a publisher.

‘I’ve got a lorry-load of drugs stuck on the Belgian border waiting to come into this country, but I’m a little short of cash at the moment. Put up fifty grand and you’ll have a hundred by this time next week.’ I quicken my pace and try to lose him, but within seconds he’s caught me up. There would be no risk for you,’ he adds, slightly out of breath. ‘We take all the risk. In any case, no one could pin it on you, not while you’re still in jail.’

I stop in my tracks and turn to face him. ‘I hate drugs, and I detest even more those people who peddle them. If you ever try to speak to me again, I will repeat this conversation, first to my solicitor and then to the governor. And don’t imagine you can threaten me, because they would be only too happy to move me out of here, and my bet is your sentence would be doubled. Do I make myself clear?’

I have never seen a more frightened man in my life. What he didn’t know was that I was even more terrified than he was. I couldn’t forget the punishment meted out in Belmarsh for being a grass – hot water mixed with sugar thrown in your face – or the man with the four razor-blade scars administered in the shower. I quickly leave the exercise yard and go back to my cell, pull the door closed, and sit on the end of the bed, shaking.

4.00 pm

When Jules returns, I’m still shaking. I go off in search of Dale.

‘I know that bastard’ says Dale. ‘Just leave him to me.’

‘What does that mean?’ I ask

‘Don’t ask.’

‘I have to. I’m trying not to cause any trouble.’

‘He won’t trouble you again, that I guarantee.’ He then raises his twenty-seven-stone frame from the end of the bed and departs.

4.30 pm

Association: I emerge from the enhanced wing with two Mars bars, having played a couple of games of backgammon with Darren. I become aware of the most incredible uproar emanating from the games room. Am I about to experience my first riot? I glance anxiously round the door to see a group of West Indians playing dominoes. Every time they place a domino on the table, it’s slammed down as if a judge were trying to bring a rowdy courtroom to order. This is followed by screaming delight more normally associated with Lara scoring a century at Sabina Park. The officer on duty, Mr Nutbourne, and the other inmates playing snooker, pool and table tennis don’t seem at all disturbed by this. I stroll across to join the dozen or so West Indians and decide to watch a couple of games. One of them looks up from the table, and shouts, ‘You wanna try your luck, man?’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, and take a seat vacated by one of the players.

A West Indian with greying hair divides the dominoes between the four of us and we each end up with seven pieces. The player on my right is able to begin the game as he has a double six. He places his prize with a thump in the middle of the table, which is followed by shouts and screams from the assembled gathering. The game progresses for four rounds without any player failing to place a domino on the end of the line. During the next round the player on my left doesn’t have a three or six, so passes and, as I have a six, I place my domino quietly on the table. I notice the brothers are becoming a little less noisy. By this time a large crowd has gathered round until only two of us are left with one domino; I have a five and a four, but it is my opponent’s turn. If he’s going to win, he has to hit, and hit now. The brothers fall almost silent. Can the player on my left thwart me and win the game? I pray for the second time that day. He has neither a four nor a one, and passes without a murmur. I try desperately to keep a poker face, while holding my last domino in the palm of my hand. A forest of black eyes are staring at me. I quietly place my four next to the four on the right-hand end and so much bedlam breaks out that even Mr Nutbourne decides to find out what’s going on. I rise to leave.

‘Another game, man? Another game?’ they demand.

‘How kind of you’ I say, ‘but I must get back to my writing. It’s been a pleasure to play you.’ This is followed by much slapping of hands. I depart quickly, aware that if I were to play a second round, the myth would be shattered. Frankly I know nothing of the subtleties of the game, having just brought a new meaning to the phrase ‘beginner’s luck.

5.45 pm

Supper. When I reach the hotplate, Dale takes my plastic bowl and, just as Tony always did at Belmarsh, decides what I shall be allowed to eat. He selects a vegetarian quiche, a few lettuce leaves carefully extracted from a large bowl and a tomato. I will no longer have to think about what to eat as long as Dale’s on duty.

6.00 pm

Jules and I are banged up again until eight tomorrow morning. Fourteen hours in a cell seven paces by three, just in case you’ve forgotten. As it’s Sunday, there are no letters awaiting me, so I just go over my script before returning to Hermann Hesse.

9.00 pm

Jules and I watch Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline in French Kiss, which has us both laughing, but then we are a captive audience.

10.54 pm

I settle my head on my new soft pillow. It isn’t goose down, or even duck feather – just foam rubber – but I know luxury when I feel it.