Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (15 page)

What I hadn’t appreciated was that the forged John Lewis
gift vouchers were not used simply to purchase articles from the store. Oh, no,
Shaun is far brighter than that. He discovered that if you buy an item and
present your gift voucher, the assistant will hand back the change in cash.
Shaun also found out that if you purchase something for £1,000 (and he saw
Chris Eubank buying a television with genuine vouchers) and return the item an
hour later, they don’t reimburse you with vouchers. Once again, they hand over
cash.

Armed with this information, Shaun acquired a map of England
(kindly supplied by a helpful assistant) showing every John Lewis outlet in the
country. He then began to travel the land, cashing vouchers in each town he
passed through. He was finally caught when his co-conspirator panicked, went to
the police and grassed on him (Shaun’s words).

I wonder what Shaun will turn his mind to once he’s
released. I only mention this because when the conversation changed to the
clash between Ken Clarke and Iain Duncan Smith, Shaun added a piece of
knowledge to the euro debate which neither of the candidates seems to have
grasped.

‘Have you ever seen a euro note?’ Shaun asked.

‘No, I haven’t,’ I admitted.

It’s Monopoly money and will be quite easy to reproduce.
From 1 January it will be legal tender in seventeen countries across Europe,
and I’ll bet most of the shops don’t have any way of identifying a fake.
Someone’s going to make a fortune.’

I recall that Shaun has only three more weeks of his
sentence to serve.

I return to my cell and find I have a beige door, a neat
blue square around my basin and cream skirting. I go in search of Stan, and
present him with a phonecard – value: £2; worth: inestimable.

I call Paula (Alison is on holiday) and discover to my great
relief that the last ten days’ text of this script have arrived. It doesn’t
bear thinking about having to rewrite those 30,000 words. You may well ask why
I didn’t make a copy.
Because there isn’t a copier available.
Then why don’t I hand the papers over to my wife after a visit?
Because it’s against the regulations.
My only chance is to
rely on the Post Office, and it hasn’t let me down yet.

Lunch.
I mournfully watch the test
match while eating my vegetable soup. Australia
are
piling on the runs at a rate of four an over.

Exercise.
Jimmy is chatting about
his girlfriends, and don’t forget this is a man who had three women come to see
him at his last visit. At some time, he tells me, he’s slept with all three of
them – not at the same time, he’s not kinky, just healthy – and what’s more
they didn’t leave scratching each other’s eyes out. Nevertheless, this brings
me on to a taboo subject I haven’t yet mentioned: sex or the lack of it –
unless you are a homosexual. Darren reminds us that in Sweden and Holland they
allow conjugal visits, which I can’t see happening in this country for many
years. The current solution is to put a notice on the message board (see
opposite) and hope the problem will go away. It will be interesting to see
which comes first: the legalization of cannabis or conjugal visits.

OFFENSIVE AND OBSCENE MATERIAL STATEMENT OF POLICY

1. At HMP Wayland we feel that it is important that we
provide an environment within which visitors, staff and prisoners are able to
work and visit without being caused offence by the display of any
material.

2. Our aim is to ensure that the dignity of all staff,
visitors and prisoners is respected. It is the duty of all staff to help to
ensure that our environment remains free from the display of potentially
offensive material.

3. Therefore the public display of any material that is
potentially offensive will not be permitted in any part of the Prison.

TYPES OF MATERIAL THAT WILL BE RESTRICTED:

4. Any sexually explicit material, eg magazines of a
pornographic nature which are available from newsagents, will be allowed in
possession but must not be on display.

5. ‘Page 3’ type pictures can be placed on prisoners’
noticeboards, but pictures showing full nudity cannot. Photographs, artwork and
other material may be displayed on noticeboards providing it conforms to the
criteria outlined above.

6. All managers have a duty to ensure that their areas
remain free from the display of any potentially offensive material. This
applies to all areas, including offices, rest rooms and other ‘staff only’
areas.

After two weeks of walking round the perimeter of Wayland
prison, I can now spot evil, fear, helplessness and sadness at thirty paces.
But even I am puzzled by a crouching man who always sits alone in the same
place every day, huddled up against the fence. He can’t be much more than
thirty, perhaps thirty-five, and he rarely moves from his solitary position. I
ask Darren about him.

Tragic,’ he says. ‘Alistair is one of your
lot
– public school, followed by university, where he
graduated as a heroin addict. If he doesn’t kick the habit, he’ll be in prison
for the rest of his life.’

‘How can that be possible?’ I ask.

‘Simple. He regularly gets caught injecting himself, and
always ends up with a few more months being added to his sentence. In fact,
even on the day he was sent down, he was found with a needle in his arm.
Somehow, and it must have been before the judge passed sentence or soon after
he was taken down, he managed to stuff a needle covered in cellophane, a
plunger and ten grams of heroin wrapped in a condom up his backside. He then
took a laxative so that he could empty his bowels as soon as he arrived at Belmarsh,
Once they’d banged him up that evening – and don’t forget there’s a lavatory in
every cell – he injected himself with heroin and passed out. At the nine
o’clock flap check the night officer found him lying on the floor with a needle
stuck in his arm and several grams of heroin sprinkled on the floor beside him.
He must be one of the few prisoners who
has
managed to
have time added to his sentence before breakfast the following morning.’

I look at the tragic, hunched-up figure and wonder if prison
is the right answer.

Supper.
I can’t remember what I
eat, but I do recall finding two extra cartons of milk on my window sill.
Sergio is exercising his authority as the new No. 1 on the hotplate.

‘Bien, gracias
,y
to?’

‘No, tu,
tu, tu.’

‘Tu, tu, tu:

‘Bueno.
We must meet later today,’
Sergio adds, ‘for another lesson.’ At least ten prisoners standing in the
queue, and three officers behind the hotplate, assume I am simply learning
Spanish, as we have no wish for them to find out what we’re really up to.
But more of that later.

I wake and think about how I would be spending the August
bank holiday weekend if I were not in prison. I also begin to consider whether
there are any advantages to being in jail. Certainly, incarceration is
something to be added to one’s experiences, particularly as it has come at a
period in life when I felt I was marking time. I’ve also had to stretch myself
– unfortunate pun. But I’ve already reached a stage where I am gaining little from
the experience. As I could be stuck here for a while longer, it might be wise
to have an escape plan – escape of the mind.

I’ve already completed Belmarsh: Hell, and have penned
44,000 words of Wayland: Purgatory. I can’t wait to get to heaven, whenever and
wherever that might be.

‘Buenos dias,’ I say to Sergio as he passes me a boiled egg
and a slice of toast.

‘Buenos
dias,’ he repeats. ‘Como estas tu
?
’

I
concentrate.’ Yo estoy bien, gracias.’

‘Bien,
gracias, y tu
?
’

Gym.
I complete a full programme
for the first time since being convicted. I’ve lost over half a stone and feel
a lot fitter.

I’m about to take a shower when Mr King tells me that the
governor wants a word. I’ve so far seen three people who claim the title of governor,
and none of them has been Ms Cawley, the No. 1 governor. Am I about to meet
her? No. On this occasion it’s a Mr Greenacre, whom I’ve also never come across
before. He informs me, ‘You will be receiving a visit from a senior officer at
Belmarsh’ – surely they can’t be sending me back there, is my first reaction –
‘as they are investigating the theft of a chapter of your book.’ You will
recall that Trevor Kavanagh of the Sun, doyen of political editors, returned
those stolen seven pages to Mary. He is well aware of the law of copyright.

It is clear that the culprit must have been an officer as no
prisoners at Belmarsh have access to a photocopier. No one else could have
unlocked my cell door, removed the script, photocopied and returned it and then
sent a copy on to the Sun.

Of course, the deputy governor is only going through the
motions. They have no way of finding out which officer was hoping to make a
quick buck. The problem the Prison Service is facing is that Trevor will never
reveal his source.

Back to the visitor from Belmarsh.
Mr Greenacre tells me to expect a senior security officer to interview me on
Tuesday morning, which means that, with luck, I’ll miss pottery. I’ll brief you
fully next Tuesday.

Exercise.
My legs are still aching
from the gym session, so I find it quite hard to maintain the pace of Jimmy
(twenty-nine) and Darren (thirty-five) as they march round the perimeter of the
jail, but I’m damned if I’m going to admit it. They are chatting away about an
unusual use of mirrors. Every cell has a five-by-five-inch steel mirror screwed
to the wall. Jimmy is telling us about two West Indian prisoners who between
them raised enough money to purchase a ghetto blaster and a pair of loud
speakers. He describes how they went about arranging to listen to the same
music in two different cells.

The first prisoner levered his thin steel mirror off the
wall and inserted a coil of wire through one of the tiny holes in a corner.
Every evening, after the nine o’clock flap check, he would slip the mirror
under his door, then in one
movement,
slide it across
the corridor until it reached the door opposite. After a few days, he could
perform this skill as proficiently as any basketball player dunking a ball
through a hoop.

The second prisoner then took the wire and attached it to
his speaker so that both men could listen to the same music emanating from one
source. Ingenious but – I’m told by anyone who lived within a mile of the jail
– unnecessary, because on a still evening you could have danced to the music in
Freiston town hall.

Lunch.
England
are
200 for 3 and putting up a spirited fight. During the lunch interval I visit
Sergio in his cell. He wastes no words, immediately informing me that he has
spoken to his brother in Bogota. He always sounds like a man who has only ten
units left on his phonecard. Of course, he may turn out to be a con man
who
has no intention of trying to find a Botero.

In any case nothing can be done until Sergio has completed
his sentence. He is due to be deported on 27 September, a month from today, by
which time we expect to have worked out a plan to purchase a Botero. Win or
lose, I’ll keep you briefed.

I have my hair cut by Matt (arson for insurance, failed to
convince Cornhill or the jury, and was sentenced to three years). Matt has the
reputation of being the best barber in the prison. In fact several prison
officers also have their hair cut by him. In his last prison, while serving
time for a previous offence, Matt enrolled on a hair-styling course, so now
he’s a semi-professional. He has all the proper equipment, and within moments
of sitting on a chair in the corridor outside his cell, I’m in no doubt about
his skill. I need to look neat and tidy for Friday, when Mary and William hope
to visit me again. I haven’t forgotten that Mary commented on the length of my
hair when she last came to Wayland.

When Matt’s finished the job he even produces a second
mirror so I can see the back of my head. He’s not Daniel Hersheson, but for ten
units of a phonecard he’s a pretty good imitation.

At close of play England are 314 for 8 after a gritty 124
not out by Ramprakash assisted by Gough, who was clinging in there helping to
avoid another follow on. The two of them enter the pavilion needing another 31
runs to make Australia bat again.

A couple of years ago Darren Gough asked me to conduct the
auction at his London testimonial dinner at the Dorchester. As a huge fan of
Darren’s, I happily agreed. When the event finally materialized it fell in the
middle of my trial. Mr Justice Potts made it clear to my silk that I should not
honour the agreement, even though my name was already printed in the programme.
After all, it might influence the jury into believing that I am a charitable
man, and I suspect that was the last thing Mr Justice Potts would have wanted.

I’m feeling pretty low, so decide to use the other ten units
left on my card to phone Mary. There’s no response. I can’t get in touch with
William or James as they are both abroad. I sit on the end of my bed and recall
the words of La Rochefoucauld: Absence diminishes mediocre passions and
increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fire.