Heaven: A Prison Diary (12 page)

It’s Matthew’s
last day at NSC and he’s on the paper chase. He takes a double-sided printed
form from department to department, the hospital, gym, canteen, stores and
reception, to gather signatures authorizing his release tomorrow. He starts
with Mr Simpson, the probation officer at SMU, and will end with the principal
officer Mr New.

He will then
have to hand in this sheet of paper at reception tomorrow morning before he can
finally be released. It’s not unknown for a prisoner’s release paper to
disappear overnight, which can hold up an inmate’s departure for several hours.

I’ll miss
Matthew, who, at the age of twenty-four, will be returning to university to
complete his PhD. He’s taught me a great deal during the past five weeks. I’ve
met over a thousand prisoners since I’ve been in jail, and he is one of a
handful who I believe should never have been sent to prison. I wish him luck in
the future; he’s a fine young man.

I drop into the
hospital to see if sister needs me.

‘Not at the
moment,’ says Linda, ‘but as we’re expecting seventeen new arrivals this
afternoon, please come back around four, or when you see the sweat box driving
through the front gate.’

‘How’s Bill?’ I
enquire.

‘He lasted about
forty minutes,’ she replies dryly, ‘but sadly failed to produce a specimen. I
sent him back to the farm, but of course told him to return immediately should
the problem arise again.’

On returning to
SMU I find a prisoner sitting in the waiting room, visibly shaking. His name is
Moore. He tells me that he’s been called off work for a meeting with two police
officers who are travelling down from Derbyshire to interview him. He’s
completed seventeen months of a five-year sentence, and is anxious to know why
they want to see him.

The police
haven’t turned up. I go to check on Moore – to find he’s a gibbering wreck.

The two
Derbyshire police officers arrive.

They greet me
with a smile and don’t look at all ferocious. I take them up to an interview
room on the first floor and offer them a cup of tea, using the opportunity to
tell them that Moore is in a bit of a state. They assure me that it’s only a
routine enquiry, and he has nothing to be anxious about. I return downstairs
and pass on this message; the shaking stops.

Moore departs
with a smile and a wave; I’ve never seen a more relieved man.

The seventeen
new prisoners arrive in a sweat box via Birmingham and Nottingham.

I report to the
hospital to check their blood pressure and note their weight and height.

It’s not easy
to carry out my new responsibilities while all seventeen of them talk at once.

What jobs are
there? How much are you paid? Can I go to the canteen tonight? What time are
roll-calls? Which is the best block?

Can I make a
phone call?

Doug returns
from his day on the fork-lift trucks. He’s pleased to be doing the course
because if he hopes to retain his HGV licence, he would still have to take it
in a year’s time. The course is costing him £340 but he’d be willing to pay
that just to be allowed out for three days; ‘In fact, I’d pay a lot more,’ he
says.

After roll-call
I take a bath before going over to the south block to say goodbye to Matthew.
By the time I check in at the hospital at 7.30 am tomorrow morning he will be a
free man. I do not envy him, because he should never have been sent to prison
in the first place.

All seventeen
new inmates are waiting in the conservatory for their introductory talk before
they sign the pledge (on drugs). They’re all chatting away, with one exception;
he’s sitting in the corner, head bowed, foot tapping, looking anxious. This
could be for any number of reasons, but even though the officers keep a suicide
watch during the first forty-eight hours of a prisoner’s arrival, I still
report my anxieties to Mr New. He tells me to bring the prisoner into his
office but make it look routine.

When the man
emerges forty minutes later, he is smiling. It turns out that X is a schedule
A
conviction, which usually means a sexual offence against a
minor. However, X was sentenced to six months for lashing out at his son. He’ll
only serve twelve weeks, and the fact that he’s in a D-cat prison shows there
is no previous history of violence.

However, if
word got out that he’s schedule A, other inmates would assume he’s a
paedophile. Mr New has advised the prisoner to say, if asked what he’s in for,
that he took a swipe at a guy who tried to jump a taxi queue. As he’s only
serving twelve weeks, it’s just believable.

Storr marches
into the building, waving a complaint form. Yesterday, after returning from a
town visit, he failed a breathalyser test; yes, you can be breathalysed in
prison without having driven – in fact walking is quite enough. Storr protested
that he never drinks even ‘on the out’ and the real culprit is a bottle of
mouthwash. Storr is sent back to the north block to retrieve the offending
bottle, which has about an inch of red liquid left in the bottom. The label lists
alcohol as one of several ingredients. After some discussion, Mr New decides
Storr will be retested tomorrow morning. If the test proves negative, his
explanation will be
accepted.9

He will then be
subjected to regular random tests, and should one of them prove positive, he
will be shipped back to his C-cat. Storr accepts this judgment, and leaves
looking pleased with
himself
.

I ask Mr New if
there is any progress on my transfer to Spring Hill. He shakes his head.

I report back
to the hospital and carry out three more urine tests on the inductees we didn’t
get round to yesterday, measure their blood pressure and record their weight.

Among them is a
prisoner called Blossom, who is returning to NSC for the third time in as many
years.

‘He’s as good
as gold,’ says Linda. ‘A gipsy, who, once convicted, never puts a foot wrong;
he’s always released as a model prisoner after serving half his sentence. But
once he’s left us, he’s usually back within a year,’ she adds.

Television news
footage reveals Kabul as it had been under the rule of the Taliban.

Amongst the
buildings filmed is Kabul jail, which makes NSC look like the Ritz; twenty men
would have occupied my room with only three urine-stained, ragged mattresses
between them.

I sleep soundly.

Anyone who’s
incarcerated wants their sentence to pass as quickly as possible. If you’re
fortunate enough to have an interesting job, as I have at SMU, that certainly
helps kill Monday to Friday. That just leaves the other problem – the weekend.
Once you’ve reached your FLED and can work outside the prison, have a town
visit every week and a week out every month, I’m told the months fly by, but
should I fail to win my appeal against length of sentence, none of this will
kick in until July next year – another eight months. So boredom will become my
greatest challenge.

I can write,
but not for every hour of every day. With luck there’s a rugby match to watch
on Saturday afternoon, and a visitor to look forward to seeing on Sunday. So,
for the record:

Saturday 6.00 am
Write this diary for
two hours.

8.15 am
Breakfast.

9.00 am
Read
The Times
,
or any other paper available.

10.00 am
Work on the sixth rewrite of
Sons of
Fortune
.

Lunch.

2.00pm
Watch New Zealand beat Ireland
40-29 on BBC1.

4.00pm
Watch Wales beat Tonga 51-7 on
BBC2. *

4.40 pm
Watch the highlights of
England’s record-breaking win of 134-0 against Romania on ITV.

6.00 pm
Continue to work on
Sons of Fortune
and run out of paper.
My fault.

8.15 pm
Sign in for roll-call to prove I
haven’t absconded, or died of boredom.

8.30 pm
Join Doug in the hospital and
watch a Danny de Vito/Bette Midler film, followed by the news.

10.30 pm
Return to my room, go to bed
and, despite the noise of
Match of the
Day
coming from the TV room next door, fall asleep.

After five
weeks at NSC, you must be as familiar with my daily routine as I am so, as from
today, I will refer only to highlights or unusual incidents that I think might
interest you.

You will recall
that I’m allowed one visit a week, and my visitors today are Alan and Della
Pascoe. I first met Alan when he was an England schoolboy, and even the casual
observer realized that he was destined to be a star. He had a decade at the
highest level, and if that time hadn’t clashed with Al Moses – the greatest
400m hurdler in history –

Alan would have
undoubtedly won two Olympic gold medals, rather than two silvers. We only ran
against each other once in our careers; he was seventeen and I was twenty-six.
I prefer not to dwell on the result.

Although I had
the privilege of watching Della run for her country (Commonwealth gold medalist
and world record holder), we didn’t meet until she married Alan, and our
families have been close ever since. They remain the sort of friends who don’t
run round the track in the opposite direction when you’ve been disqualified.

The noise of three
heavy tractors harvesting acres and acres of Brussels sprouts wakes me. If I’m
up every day by five-thirty, what time must the farm labourers rise to be on
their tractor seats even before I stir?

Matthew, as you
will remember, was released last Friday, and has been replaced in the SMU by
Carl.

Carl is softly
spoken and well mannered.

He’s the lead
singer in the prison’s rock band, and has the striking good looks required for
someone who aspires to that calling: around five foot eleven, slim, with wavy
fair hair. He tells me that he has a fifteenyear-old daughter born when he was
twenty (he’s not married), so he must be in his midthirties.

Carl arrives at
eight-twenty, which is a good start, and as I run through our daily duties, he
makes notes. Monday is usually quiet: no inductions or labour board, so I’m
able to brief him fully on all personnel resident in the building and their
responsibilities.

He is a quick
study, and also has all the women in the building coming into the kitchen on
the flimsiest of excuses. In a week he’ll have everything mastered and I’ll be
redundant.

Now of course
you will want to know why this cross between Robbie Williams and Richard
Branson is in prison.
Simple answer, fraud.
Carl took
advances on property that he didn’t own, or even properly represent. A more
interesting aspect of Carl’s case is that his co-defendant pleaded not guilty,
while, on the advice of his barrister, Carl pleaded guilty. But there’s still
another twist to come.

Because Carl
had to wait for the outcome of his co-defendant’s trial before he could be
sentenced, he was released on bail for nine months, and during that time ‘did a
runner’.

He disappeared
off to Barcelona, found himself a job and tried to settle down. However, after
only a few weeks, he decided he had to come back to England and, in his words,
face the music.

Carl was a
little surprised not to be arrested when he landed at Heathrow. He spent the
weekend with a friend in Nottingham, and then handed himself in to the nearest
police station. The policeman at the desk was so astonished that he didn’t
quite know what to do with him. Carl was charged later that day, and after
spending a night in custody, was sentenced the following morning to three
years. His co-defendant also received three years. His barrister says he would
only have got two years if he hadn’t broken bail and disappeared off to
Barcelona. Carl is a model prisoner, so he will only serve sixteen months, half
his sentence minus two months with a tag.

Mr New phones
Spring Hill to enquire about my transfer, but as there’s no reply from Karen’s
office, he’ll try again tomorrow. If I were back in my office, I’d try again at
3 pm, 4 pm and 5 pm, but not in prison. Tomorrow will be just fine. After all,
I’m not going anywhere.

David (murder)
arrives with all my clothes neatly laundered. Lifers have their own washing
machine and iron. Jeeves of Pont Street would be proud of him. I hand over
three Mars Bars, and my debt is paid.

I need to buy a
plug from the canteen (30p) because I keep leaving mine in the washbasin. I’ve
lost four in the last four weeks. When I get to the front of the queue they’re
sold out. However, Doug tells me he has a drawer full of plugs – of course he
does.

Many aspects of
prison life are unbearable: boredom, confinement, missing family and friends.
All of these might fade in time. But the two things I will never forget after
I’m released will be the noise and the bad language.

When I returned
to my room at 10 pm last night, the TV room next door was packed with screaming
hooligans; the volume, for a the repeat of the world heavyweight title fight
between Lennox Lewis and Hasim Rahman, was so high that it reminded me of being
back at Belmarsh when reggae music was blaring out from the adjacent cell. I
was delighted to learn that Lennox Lewis had retained his title, but didn’t
need to hear every word the commentator
said,
or the
accompanying cheers, screams and insults from a highly partisan crowd. In the
end I gave up, went next door and asked if the volume could be turned down a
little. I was greeted with a universal chorus of ‘Fuck off!’