Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (13 page)

‘Like the new Swatch,’ he says. ‘What happened to the
Longines?’

I tell him of my illicit transfer of the watch to Will
during the last family visit.

The screws will have spotted it,’ Darren assures me, ‘and
they would have been only too happy to see that particular watch leave the prison.
Think of the trouble it would have caused them if someone had stolen it. Be
warned, they don’t miss much.’

‘By the way,’ adds Darren, ‘one of the guys on our wing is
being transferred tomorrow, so this may be your chance to get off the induction
spur.’

My heart leaps at the news. I try to find out more details
as we continue our stroll through a gate and out onto a large open field that
is surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire.

Jimmy wins the toss and elects to bat. Now, for those of you
who understand the game of cricket, HM prisons keep to a set of laws that even
the MCC have no jurisdiction over. They may or may not give you a better
insight into prison thinking:

(a) Both sides have ten overs each.

(b) Each over is nine balls and you never change ends.

(c) Each side must play five bowlers who can bowl two overs
each, but not consecutively.

(d) There are no boundaries and you have to run every run.

(e) The side with the highest score is the winner.

(f) The umpire’s decision is final.

While the other side takes to the field, Dale and Carl pad
up for
A
block. I look in the equipment trolley,
hoping I will find a box and a helmet. At the age of sixty-one I don’t fancy
facing a twenty-two-year-old West Indian bowler from Brixton who thinks it
would be fun to put me in hospital with no fear of being arrested for it. I
can’t believe my eyes: bats, pads, helmets, guards, boxes and gloves that are
far superior to anything I’ve ever seen at any club game.

Our openers are both back in the pavilion by the end of the
first over with the score at 6 for 2. We may well have first-class equipment,
but I quickly discover that it does little for our standard of cricket. Our
number four lasts for three balls so in the middle of the third over I find
myself walking out to join Jimmy.

D Block
boo
me all the way to the
crease, bringing a new meaning to the word ‘sledging’. However, there is worse
to come because the West Indian I referred to earlier is licking his lips in
anticipation. Hell, he’s fast, but he’s so determined to kill me that accuracy
is sacrificed and his nine-ball over is extended to thirteen, with four wides.
After another couple of overs (don’t forget, nine balls each), Jimmy and I
advance happily on to 35 for 4. That is when my captain decides to try and
launch the ball over the prison fence and ends up having his middle stump
removed.

I fear neither Neville Cardus nor E. W. Swanton could have
done justice to our progress from 35 for 4 to 39 all out. All you need to know
is that the West Indian is back on for his second over, and during the next
nine balls he takes five wickets at a cost of four runs. I leave the pitch 11
not out, having not faced a ball since my captain returned to the pavilion
(bowlers don’t change ends). But all is not lost because when
A
block takes to the field – thanks to our demon quickie
Vincent (manslaughter) – three of our opponents are back in the pavilion by the
end of the first over, for a total of only five runs.

The second bowler is our West Indian. He is robbed with two
dropped catches and a plump LBW, or I felt so from cover point. When he comes
off, D block have only reached 9 for 2, but then prison rules demand that we
render up our third bowler. On his arrival, the game is quickly terminated as
the ball is peppered ruthlessly around the pitch. D block reach the required
total with no further loss of wickets and five overs to spare.

On the way back to our cells, the D block captain says, ‘Not
bad, Jeff, even though you played
like
a fucking
public school cunt.’ In prison you have to prove yourself every day.

Once we’re back inside the block, I tell Jimmy that I may be
joining him on the enhanced spur.

‘I don’t think so, Jeff,’ he replies. The man who’s leaving
us is our wing cleaner, and I think they’ve offered his cell to David (whisky
bootlegger), the cleaner on your wing.’ My heart sinks. ‘Your best bet is to
move into David’s cell, and stay there until another one comes free.’

I return to my cell, but unfortunately there’s no time for a
shower before we’re all banged up. I’m tired, sweaty, and even aching a little,
having used muscles I don’t normally press into action in the gym. I’m also
hungry, so I open a tin of Princes ham (49p) and a packet of crisps (27p).

Jules watches The Bill, while I continue to read Graham
Greene’s The Man Within. I fall asleep wondering if this is to be my last night
in a double cell.

Wake. Fantasize about the possibility of a single cell.
Write for two hours.

Breakfast Cornflakes and one slice of toast. Dale is missing
from behind the hotplate.

I spot Dale in the corridor. He tells me he’s resigned from
his job at the hotplate. He’s sick of getting up thirty minutes before the rest
of us just to be abused by inmates who never feel their serve of chips is large
enough.

I see my name is chalked up on the blackboard outside the
office to report to the SO, Mr Meanwell. I go straight to the e. He has a
registered letter for me, and slits it open. He a two-sided typed missive which
he hands over,
but ;
no interest in reading. While he
checks inside the envel-I for drugs, money, even stamps, I begin to read the
letter, and after only a paragraph, pass it back to Mr Meanwell. When he
peruses it, a look of disbelief comes over his face. The writer wants to borrow
£10,000 to invest in ‘an impossible to lose deal’ and he’s willing to split the
profits fifty-fifty.

‘How often do you get one of these?’ he asks.

Two or three times a week,’ I confess, ‘asking for sums for
as little as fifty pounds right up to a million for yet another ‘impossible to
lose deal’.’

‘By the way,’ he says as he hands me the empty envelope,
‘you may be moving today.’
By the way, by the way, by the way
– so casual for him, so important to me.
‘One of the chaps on the
enhanced spur is being transferred to a prison nearer his home and we’re
allocating his cell to an inmate who will take over his responsibilities as
cleaner.
Once that’s been sorted out, – Mr Meanwell is old
enough still to include the word ‘out’ – ‘we’ll move you into his cell.
I did think of sending you straight to the enhanced spur,’ he admits, ‘but
there were two reasons not to. First, the spur needs a cleaner and you wouldn’t
be my first choice for that particular job, and second, I want you on the
quieter side where it’s not possible for other prisoners to peer through your
window during exercise.’

Once I leave Mr Meanwell, I go in search of David (whisky
bootlegger and spur cleaner). I find him attached to the industrial cleaner
whirring around the floor of the induction corridor. He invites me along to his
present cell on the first floor which, compared to my one up, one down on the
induction wing, is the difference between Fawlty Towers and the Ritz.

Exercise.
During the first circuit
I’m asked by Chris (burglary) if I’ll sponsor him for a half marathon in aid of
the NSPCC. I agree to £1 a mile, as long as it comes out of my private finances
and not my canteen account. Otherwise I’ll be without food and bottled water
for several weeks. He assures me that the authorities will allow that, so I
sign up. He sticks with us for half a circuit, by which time I’ve learnt that
he’s the type of burglar our probation officer, Lisa Dada, so despises. He’s
twenty-seven years old and has spent eight of the last ten years in jail. He
simply considers burglary a way of life. In fact, his parting words are, ‘I’m
out in six weeks’ time, Jeff, but don’t worry, your house is safe.’ I realize
those of you who have never been to jail may find this strange, but I now feel
more sympathy for some of the murderers in Belmarsh than I do for professional
burglars.

It was sometime later that I began to ponder on how he could
run thirteen miles without occupying half the local constabulary to make sure
he didn’t escape. I’ll ask him tomorrow.

Jason (conspiracy to blackmail) joins us on the second
circuit and congratulates me on being moved to a single cell.

‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ I remind him.

‘No, but it will this afternoon.’

Prison has many similarities to the outside world. One is
that you quickly discover who actually knows what’s going on and who only picks
up fag ends. Jason knows exactly what’s happening.

‘Of course, if you want to,’ Jason adds, ‘you can always get
yourself transferred to another prison.’

‘And how would I manage that?’

‘Write yourself a note and drop it in the complaints box.
You don’t even have to sign it. It’s known as ‘the grass box’.’

‘And what would I have to suggest?’

‘Archer is offering me drugs and I can’t resist much longer,
or Archer is bullying me and I’m near breaking point. If they believe it, you’d
be transferred the same day. In fact your feet wouldn’t even touch the ground.’

Lunch.
The hotplate seems empty
without the massive frame of Dale dominating proceedings. It looks as if Sergio
has been promoted to No. 1 in his place, because he now stands next to the duty
officer and hands out the dishes according to whether you’re one, two, three
(vegetarian) or four.

Three,’ Sergio says, without even glancing at the list, and
then carefully selects my dish. The transfer of power has in no way affected
me.

Gym.
The treadmill is working again
so I’m almost able to carry out a full programme. With the new medicine ball
exercise I’m up to fifteen, with a one-minute break, but after a further nine
I’m exhausted and grateful when Mr Maiden blows the five-minute whistle so I
can warm down. As we leave, everyone else picks up their assigned gym card
before disappearing back to their cells. I no longer have a gym card. It’s been
stolen every day since I arrived, and the management
have
given up bothering to-issue me with a new one.

I come out of the shower to find Ms Webb waiting for me.

‘When the induction wing is banged up at four o’clock,’ she
says, ‘I’ll leave your door open because we’re going to move you across to
number two cell on the far spur.’

I think about throwing my arms round Ms Webb, but as I only
have a towel covering me, I feel sure she would put me on report, so I simply
say, Thank you.’

Once I’m dressed, I place all my belongings into the
Belmarsh plastic bag in preparation for the move to the other side of the
block. I am packed and ready to leave long before four.

This will be my eighth move in five weeks.

David (whisky bootlegger) is waiting for me in his old cell.
It’s typical of his good manners that he has left the room spotless.

Now that I have an extra cupboard, it takes me nearly an
hour to decide where everything should go. Although the cell remains the
regulation five paces by three, it suddenly feels much larger when you no
longer have to share the cramped space with another prisoner. No more having to
keep out of someone else’s way. No more television programmes I don’t want to
watch. No more having to check whose slippers you’ve put on, that you’re using
your own toothpaste, soap, even lavatory paper. No more

There’s a knock on the cell door and Darren, Jimmy, Sergio
and Steve make an entrance.

‘It’s a house-warming party,’ Darren explains, ‘and, like
any good party, we come bearing gifts.’

Sergio has three five-by-five-inch steel mirrors, the
regulation size. He fixes them on the wall with prison toothpaste. I can now
see my head and upper body for the first time in five weeks.

Steve supplies – can you believe it – net curtains to hide
my barred window, and at night tone down the glare of the fluorescent lights.
Jimmy has brought all the paraphernalia needed – board, Blu-tack, etc. – to
attach my family photos to the wall.

Lad Darren demands a roll of drums before he will reveal his
gift, because he’s come up with every prisoner’s dream: a plug. No longer will
I have to shave in my cereal bowl.

‘Anything else you require, my lord?’ Steve enquires.

‘I’m out of Evian.’

For the first time the visiting team admits defeat. A survey
has been carried out and it’s been discovered that I am the only prisoner on
the block who purchases bottled water from the canteen.

‘So, like the rest of us,’ says Darren, ‘if you want more
water, you’ll have to turn on the tap.’

‘However,’ adds Sergio, ‘now that I’m number one on the
hotplate,’ he pauses, ‘you will be able to have an extra carton of milk from
time to time.’

What more could a man ask for?

I read over today’s script in my silent cell and when I’ve
finished editing I place the six pages in one of my new drawers. Every ten days
the sheets are transferred to a large brown envelope (30,000 words) and sent
off to Alison to type up.

I settle down on my bed to watch A Touch of Frost. David
Jason is as consistent as ever, but the script is too flimsy to sustain itself
for two hours, so I switch off the television and, for the first time in ten
days, also the light, climb into my single bed and sleep. Goodbye, window
warriors, may I never hear from you again.