Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (16 page)

Sunday is always the longest day in prison. Wayland is
short-staffed and there is nothing for inmates to do other than watch
wall-to-wall television. In Belmarsh, chapel was a respite as it got you out of
your cell, but in Wayland you’re out of your cell without anything to keep you
occupied. Mind you, I’d much rather be in Wayland than locked up in Belmarsh
for twenty-two hours a day. I write for a couple of hours.

Breakfast.
While I’m waiting in the
queue for the hotplate, I get talking to a West Indian who is on my landing. He
asks if he can have my Times and Sunday Times when I’ve finished with them. I
agree to his request if, in return, he will show me how to clean my cell floor.
I only mention this because the West Indians keep the cleanest cells. They are
not satisfied with sweeping out the dust and dirt, but spend hours buffing up
the linoleum floor until you can see your face in it. Although I shower, shave
and put on fresh clothes every day, as well as make my bed and have everything
in place before the cell door is opened at 8 am, I never look as smart or have
as clean a cell as any of the West Indians on my spur.

On my way to the library I slip in behind a man who
frightens me. He has an evil face and is one of those prisoners who
is
proud to describe himself as a career criminal. He is a
burglar by profession, and I’m somewhat surprised to see him heading off
towards the library with a pile of glossy, coffee-table books under his arm. I
try to make out the titles on the spines while we’re on the move: The Encyclopaedia
of Antiques, Know Your Antiques and Antiques in a Modem Market.

‘Are you interested in antiques?’ I ask innocently.

‘Yeah, I’m making a careful study of them.’

‘Are you hoping to work in the antiques trade when you’ve
completed your sentence?’

‘I suppose you could say that,’ he replies. ‘I’m sick of
nicking ‘em only to find out they’re fuckin’ worthless. From now on I’ll know
what to fuckin’ look for, won’t I?’

You would think that after five weeks of mixing with
criminals, night and day, I couldn’t still be taken by surprise. It serves to
remind me again of Lisa Dada’s words about despising burglars, not to mention
my own naivety.

In the library I get talking to an older prisoner called Ron
(ABH). Most inmates tell me they never want to return to prison, especially the
older ones who have served long sentences. But, time and again, they’ll add the
rider, ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t, Jeff. Getting a job when you have a criminal
record is virtually impossible, so you stay on the dole, until you slip back
into a life of crime.’

It’s a vicious circle for those who leave prison with their
statutory £90, NFA (no fixed abode) and little prospect of work. I don’t know
the answer, although I accept there
is
little you can
do for people who are genuinely evil, and not much for those who are
congenitally stupid. But the first-offence prisoners who want a second chance
often leave prison only to find that for the rest of their lives the work door
is slammed in their face.

I accept that perhaps only around 20 per cent of prisoners
would be worth special treatment, but I would like to see someone come up with
a solution for this particular group, especially the first-time offenders. And
how many of you reading this diary can honestly say you’ve never committed a
crime? For example:

(a) Smoked cannabis (5 million), crack cocaine (300,000),
heroin (250,000)

(b) Stolen something – anything

(c) Fiddled your expenses

(d) Taken a bus or train and not paid for the ticket

(e) Not declared your full income to the taxman

(f) Been over the alcohol limit when driving

(g) Driven a vehicle without tax or insurance

(h) Brought in something from abroad and not paid import tax

I have recently discovered that those very people who commit
such crimes often turn out to be the most sanctimonious hypocrites, including
one leading newspaper editor. It’s the truly honest people who go on treating
one decently, as I’ve found from the thousands of letters I’ve received from
the general public over the past few weeks.

Chapel.
We’re back to a
congregation of eleven. The service is Holy Communion, and I’m not sure I care
for the modern version. I must be getting old, or at least old-fashioned.

The service is conducted by John Framlington, resplendent in
a long white robe to go with his white beard and head of white hair. He must be
well into his seventies and he looks like a prophet. A local Salvation Army
officer preaches the sermon, with the theme that we all make mistakes, but that
does not mean that we cannot be saved. Once he has delivered his message, he
joins John to dispense the bread and wine to his little flock. During the
singing of the last hymn, John walks off down the aisle and disappears. We are
all left literally standing, not quite sure what to do next. A female face peeps
out from behind the organ, and decides to continue playing. This brave little
gesture is rewarded by everyone repeating the last verse.
When
we’ve delivered the final line of ‘O Blessed Jesu, Save Us’ John comes running
back down the aisle.
He turns to face his congregation, apologizes,
blesses us and then disappears for a second time. He’s a good man, and it’s
generous of him still to be giving his time every Sunday for such a motley crew
as us.

When I return to my spur after chapel, I find that it has
been locked off and we are unable to get into our cells. A small crowd is
gathering at the entrance of the spur, and I am informed by Darren that our
cells are being searched for phonecards. It seems that one of the prisoners has
shaved off the silver lining on the top of his card as this allows him to have
a longer period for each unit. Not a great crime you might consider,
remembering that we’re in a den of thieves. But what you won’t realize is that
the next person who makes a phone call will find that BT automatically
retrieves those stolen units. Result: the next prisoner will be robbed blind.

The next inmate on the phone that morning turned out to be a
voluble West Indian called Carl (GBH) who, when his last ten units were gobbled
up in seconds, never stopped effing and blinding all the way to the PO’s
office. The spur was closed down in seconds, and Carl had unwittingly given the
‘prison search team’ an excuse to go through everyone’s personal belongings.

When the gate to the cells is eventually unlocked, a team of
three officers comes out carrying a sackful of swag. My bet is that the
offending phonecard is not among their trophies, but several other illicit
goods are. I return to my cell to find that nothing of mine has been touched.
Even my script lies in exactly the same place as I left it. I take this as a
compliment.

Lunch.
England
have
progressed to 40 for 1, but the ominously dark clouds that appear over Wayland are
also, it seems, unpaid visitors at the Oval. I turn my attention to the Sunday
papers. The Sunday Mirror, that bastion of accuracy, tells its readers that I
defended myself from another inmate with a cricket bat. I gave you a full
ball-by-ball summary of that match, and the only thing I tried to threaten –
and not very successfully – was the ball. The article then goes on to say that
I am paying protection money to a prisoner called Matthew McMahon. There is no
inmate at Wayland called Matthew McMahon. They add that payment is made with £5
phonecards. There are no £5 phone-cards. The funny thing is that some inmates
are shocked by this: they had assumed the papers reported accurately, and it
wasn’t until I took up residence that they realized how inaccurate the press
can be.

Exercise.
We are allowed out for an
hour, rather than forty-five minutes, which is a welcome bonus. As we walk
round, I get teased by a lot of prisoners who say they are willing to protect
me if I’ll give them a £5 phonecard. Some ask how come you have a £5 phonecard
when the rest of us only have £2 phone-cards. Others add that I can hit them
with my cricket bat whenever I want to. I confess that this wouldn’t be so
amusing if Jimmy and Darren were not accompanying me. Certainly, being the butt
of everyone’s humour inside, as well as outside, begins to tell on one. Jimmy
has also read the story in the Sunday Mirror and what worries him is who to
believe in the latest row between Ken Clarke and Iain Duncan Smith concerning
immigration. I tell Jimmy that only one thing is certain: although the result
of the leadership election will not be announced for another two weeks (12
September), 70 per cent of the 318,000 electorate have cast their votes, and I
assure him that IDS is already the next leader of the Tory party.

‘Can I risk a bet on that?’ asks Darren.

‘Yes, if you can find anyone stupid enough to take your
wager.’

The spur bookie is offering 1-3 on Duncan Smith.’

Those are still good odds, because you can’t lose unless he
drops down dead.’

The bookie or Iain Duncan Smith?’ asks Jimmy. ‘Either’ I
reply.

‘Good,’ says Darren. Then I’ll put three Mars bars on Duncan
Smith as soon as we get back to the spur.’

I visit Sergio in his cell to be given a lesson on emeralds.
I’ll let you know why later. Sergio takes his time telling me that emeralds are
to Colombia what diamonds are to South Africa. When he’s finished his tutorial,
I ask him if it would be possible for his brother to find an emerald of the
highest quality. He looks puzzled.

‘What sort of price do you have in mind?’ he asks.

‘Around ten thousand dollars,’ I tell him.

He nods. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He looks at his watch and
adds, ‘I’ll speak to my brother immediately.’

Sunday supper is always a bag of crisps and a lemon mousse.
However, this evening we are offered two lemon mousses because, I note, the
sell-by date on the lid is 25 August.

At last there’s something worth watching on television.
Victoria and Albert with a cast to kill for.
Nigel Hawthorne, Diana Rigg, Peter Ustinov, Jonathan Pryce, David
Suchet, John Wood and Richard Briers.

It only serves to remind me how much I miss live theatre,
though at times I feel I’m getting enough drama at the Theatre Royal, Wayland.

Forty days and forty nights, and, like Our Lord, I feel it’s
time to come out of the wilderness and get on with some work, despite the fact
it’s a bank holiday. I write for two hours.

Breakfast.
Corn Pops (for a
change), UHT milk, a slice of bread and marmalade. I stare at the golly on the
jar. I read yesterday in one of the papers that he’s no longer politically
correct and will be replaced by a character created by Roald Dahl and
illustrated by Quentin Blake. I like golly, he’s been a friend for years. As a
man without an ounce of prejudice in him, I am bound to say I think the world
has gone mad.

I call Mary, who is furious with the Home Office. Winston
Churchill has written to the Home Secretary, David Blunkett, asking why I’m
still in a Category C jail, and Winston has received a reply from Stephen
Harrison, David Blunkett’s private secretary, suggesting that Lady Archer ‘is
satisfied that this is the best that can be hoped for’. Home Office officials
obviously don’t listen to the Today programme, or read any newspapers. It
doesn’t augur well for justice being done to those prisoners who do not have a
supportive family. Mary will write to Martin Narey today and put the record
straight. My solicitor has not yet received a reply from DCS Perry. Perhaps
he’s still on holiday. She’s also written to the governor of Wayland – also no
reply. Thank God I’m not locked up in Russia.

Now I’m no longer on the induction spur, I’m allowed to have
my own plate, bowl and mug. Mary promises to dispatch all three today. I can’t
wait to be rid of the grey plastic set, even if they won’t allow me to replace
the plastic knife, fork and spoon. Mary tells me that the letters of support
are still pouring in, and says she’ll send a selection for me to read, plus a
list of friends who want to visit me in prison. She confirms that she and
William are hoping to visit me on Friday.

A block are playing C block at football, and Jimmy (captain of
everything) asks if I’d like to be linesman, knowing it will get me out of my
cell for at least an hour. How considerate, I tell him, but I don’t know the
rules, and I feel sure that there’s more to it than just putting your flag in
the air when the ball goes out. Fortunately, one of our reserves is fully
proficient in the laws of the game, and runs up and down the line behind me,
making me look quite competent.

The first player I have to adjudicate offside is Jimmy, who
makes no protest and immediately raises his arm. The true character of a person
cannot be hidden on a playing field.

By half-time we are two down. However, in the second half,
we pull one back and just before the final whistle, Carl (GBH, phonecard
problem) thumps in a blinder from twenty yards to level the score. As he is in
the next cell to me, I can expect several graphic replays in the corridor, with
the yardage becoming longer by the day.

Lunch: Toad-in-the-hole (vegetarian sausage) and peas.

Exercise.
We’ve managed about two
circuits when Darren, Jimmy and I are joined by what can only be described as a
gang of yobs, whose leader is a stockily built youth of about five foot six,
with two rings in his nose and one in each ear. From what I can see of his
neck, arms and chest, it doesn’t look as if there’s anywhere left on his body
to needle another tattoo. As soon as he opens his mouth every other word is
fucking-this and fuck-ing-that. I’m no longer shocked by this, but I am
surprised by the smell of alcohol on his breath. My usual approach when faced
with this situation is to answer any question quietly and courteously. I’ve
heard enough stories about prisoners being knifed in the yard over the
slightest provocation to do otherwise. But as there are no questions, just abuse
hurled at me and my wife, there’s not much I can say in reply. Jimmy and Darren
close in, not a good sign, but after another circuit, the young thug and his
gang of four back off and go and sit against the fence and glare at us.