Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (3 page)

Although Dale’s cell is exactly the same size as mine, there
the similarity ends. His brick walls are in two tones of blue, and he has nine
five-by-five-inch steel mirrors over his wash-basin shaped in a large triangle.
In our cell, Jules and I have one mirror between us. Dale also has two pillows,
both soft, and an extra blanket. On the wall are photos of his twin sons, but
no sign of a wife – just the centrefold of a couple of Chinese girls,
Blu-tacked above his bed. He pours me a Coca-Cola, my first since William and
James visited me in Belmarsh, and asks if he can help in any way.

In every way, I suspect. ‘I would like a soft pillow, a
fresh towel every day and my washing taken care of.’

‘No problem,’ he says, like a banker who can make an
electronic transfer of a million dollars to New York by simply pressing a
button – as long as you have a million dollars.

‘Anything else?
Phonecards, food,
drink?’

‘I could do with some more phonecards and several items from
the canteen.’

‘I can also solve that problem,’ Dale says. ‘Just write out
a list of what you want and I’ll have everything delivered to your cell.’

‘But how do I pay you?’

That’s the easy part. Send in a postal order and ask for the
money to be placed against my account. Just make sure the name Archer isn’t
involved, otherwise there’s bound to be an investigation. I won’t charge you
double-bubble, just bubble and a half.’

Three or four other prisoners stroll into Dale’s cell, so he
immediately changes the subject. Within minutes the atmosphere feels more like
a club than a prison, as they all seem so relaxed in each other’s company.
Jimmy, who’s serving a three-and-a-half year sentence for being an Ecstasy
courier (carrying packages from one club to another), wants to know if I play
cricket

The occasional charity match, about twice a year I admit.

‘Good, then you’ll be batting number three next week,
against D wing.’

‘But I usually go in at number eleven’ I protest, ‘and have
been known to bat as high as number ten.’

Then you’ll be first wicket down at Wayland,’ says Jimmy.
‘By the way, we haven’t won a match this year. Our two best batsmen got their
D-cats at the beginning of the season and were transferred to Latchmere House
in Richmond.’

After about an hour of their company, I become aware of the
other big difference on the enhanced wing – the noise, or rather the lack of
noise. You just don’t hear the incessant stereos attempting to out-blare each
other.

At five to eight I make my way back to my cell and am met on
the stairs by an officer who tells me that I cannot visit the enhanced area
again as it’s off limits. ‘And if you do, Archer’ he adds, I’ll put you on
report, which could mean a fortnight being added to your sentence.’

There’s always someone who feels he has to prove how
powerful he is, especially if he can show off in front of other prisoners – ‘I
put Archer in his place, didn’t I?’ In Belmarsh it was the young officer with
his record bookings. I have a feeling I’ve just met Wayland’s.

Back in my cell, I find Jules is playing chess against a
phantom opponent on his electronic board. I settle down to write an account of
the day. There are no letters to read as no one has yet discovered I’m in
Wayland.

Dale arrives with a soft pillow and an extra blanket. He’s
disappeared before I can thank him.

I’ve managed to sleep for six hours, thanks to Jules hanging
a blanket from the top bunk, so that it keeps out the fluorescent arc lights
that glare through the bars all night. At 5.40 I place my feet on the linoleum
floor and wait. Jules doesn’t stir.
So far no snoring or
talking in his sleep.
Last night Jules made an interesting observation
about sleep: if s the only time when you’re not in
jail,
and it cuts your sentence by a third. Is this the reason why so many prisoners
spend so much time in bed? Dale adds that some of them are ‘gouching out’ after
chasing the dragon. This can cause them to sleep for twelve to fourteen hours,
and helps kill the weekend, as well as themselves.

The cell door is unlocked just as I’m coming to the end of
my first writing session. During that time I’ve managed a little over two
thousand words.

I go downstairs to the hotplate hoping to pick up a carton
of milk, only to be told by Dale that it’s not available at the weekend.

I’m first in the queue at the office, to pick up a VO for
Mary. In a C-cat you’re allowed one visit every two weeks. A prisoner can invite
up to three adults and two children under the age of sixteen. The majority of
prisoners are between the ages of nineteen and thirty, so a wife or partner
plus a couple of young children would be the norm. As my children are
twenty-nine and twenty-seven, it will be only Mary and the boys who I’ll be
seeing regularly.

I attend my first gym session. Each wing is allowed to send
twenty inmates, so after my inability to get on the list at Belmarsh, I make
sure that I’m at the starting gate on time.

The main gym is taken up with four badminton matches – like
snooker it’s a sport that is so popular in prison that you have to book a court
a week in advance. The weight-training room next door is packed with heaving
and pumping musclemen, and by the time I arrive, someone is already jogging on
the one treadmill. I begin my programme with some light stretching before going
on the rowing machine. I manage only 1,800 metres in ten minutes, compared with
the usual 2,000 I do back in the gym on Albert Embankment. But at least that
leaves me something to aim for. I manage a little light weight training before
the running machine becomes free. I start at five miles an hour for six minutes
to warm up, before moving up to eight miles an hour for another ten minutes.
Just to give you an idea how feeble this is
,
Roger
Bannister’s four-minute mile in 1952 was at fifteen miles an hour, and I once
saw Seb Coe do twelve miles an hour for ten minutes – hold your breath – at the
age of forty.

And he was only warming up for a judo session. I end with
ten minutes of stretching and a gentle warm down. Most of the prisoners walk
into the gym and go straight on to the heavy weights without bothering to warm
up. Later they wonder why they pull muscles and are then out of action for the
next couple of weeks.

I return to my cell and try out the shower on our wing. The
wash room has four showers which produce twice as many jets of water as those
at Belmarsh. Also, when you press the button the water continues to flow for at
least thirty seconds before you have to press it again. There are two young
black lads already showering who, I notice, keep their boxer shorts on (I later
learn this is because they’re Muslims). However, one problem I still encounter
is that I’m allowed only two small, thin towels (three by one foot) a week. If
I intend to go to the gym five days a week, followed by a shower… I’ll have to
speak to Dale about the problem.

I give James a call at the flat and ask him to send £100 in
postal orders to Dale at Wayland so I can buy a razor, some shampoo, a dozen
phonecards as well as some extra provisions. I also ask him to phone Griston
Post Office and order The Times and Telegraph every day, Sundays included.
James says he’ll ask Alison to call them on Monday morning, because he’s going
on holiday and will be away for a couple of weeks. I’ll miss him, even on the
phone, and it won’t be that long before Will has to return to America.

I skip lunch because I need to start the second draft of
today’s script, and in any case, it looks quite inedible. I open a packet of
crisps and bite into an apple while I continue writing.

When the cell door is unlocked again at two o’clock, Dale is
standing outside and says he’s been given clearance to invite me down to the
enhancement wing. The officer I bumped into yesterday must be off duty.

It’s like entering a different world. We go straight to
Dale’s cell, and the first thing he asks me is if I play backgammon. He
produces a magnificent leather board with large ivory counters. While I’m
considering what to do with a six and a three, never a good opening throw, he
points to a plastic bag under the bed. I look inside: a Gillette Mach3 razor,
two packets of blades, a bar of Cusson’s soap, some shaving foam,
a
bunch of bananas, a packet of cornflakes and five
phonecards. I think it unwise to ask any questions. I thank Dale and hand him
my next shopping list. I assure him funds are on the way. We shake hands on a
bubble and a half. He’ll supply whatever I need from the canteen and charge me
an extra 50 per cent. The alternative is to be starved, unshaven or cut to
ribbons by a prison razor. This service will also include extra towels, my
laundry washed every Thursday, plus a soft pillow, all at an overall expense of
around £30 a week.

We are once again joined by two other inmates, Darren (see
plate section) and Jimmy (transporting Ecstasy). During the afternoon I play
both of them at backgammon, win one and lose one, which seems acceptable to
everyone present. Dale leaves us to check in for work as No. 1 on the hotplate,
so we all move across to Darren’s cell. During a game of backgammon I learn
that Darren was caught selling cannabis, a part-time occupation, supplementing
his regular job as a construction contractor. I ask him what he plans to do
once he leaves prison in a year’s time having completed three years of a
six-year sentence. He admits he’s not sure. I suspect, like so many inmates who
can make fifty to a hundred thousand pounds a year selling drugs, he’ll find it
difficult to settle
for a nine to five job
.

Whenever he’s contemplating his next move, I try to take in
the surroundings. You can learn so much about a person from their cell. On the
shelves are copies of the Oxford Shorter Dictionary (two volumes), the Oxford
Book of Quotations (he tells me he tries to learn one a day) and a dozen novels
that are clearly not on loan from the library. As the game progresses, he asks
me if Rupert Brooke owned the Old Vicarage, or just lived there. I tell him
that the
great war
poet only resided there while
working on his fellowship dissertation at King’s College.

Jimmy tells me that they’re plotting to have me moved down
to the enhanced wing as soon as I’ve completed my induction. This is the best
news I’ve had since arriving at Wayland. The cell door swings open, and Mr
Thompson looks round.

‘Ah’ he
says,
when he spots me. The
governor wants a word.’t

I accompany Mr Thompson to Mr Carlton-Boyce’s office.

He’s a man of about forty, perhaps forty-five. He welcomes
me with a warm smile, and introduces me to the senior officer from C wing,
which, he tells me, is where they plan to transfer me. I ask if they would
consider me for the enhancement spur, but am told the decision has already been
made. I’ve come to realize that once the machine has decided on something, it
would be easier to turn the QEII around than try to get them to change their
collective minds.

Mr Carlton-Boyce explains that he would quite happily move
me to C wing today, but with so many
press
sniffing
around outside, it mustn’t look as if I am being given special treatment, so I
have to be the last of my intake to be moved. No need to explain to him the
problem of rap music and young prisoners hollering from window to window all
night, but, he repeats, the press interest is tying his hands.

I return to my cell and continue writing. I’ve only managed
a few pages when I’m interrupted by a knock on the cell door. It’s a young man
from across the corridor
who
looks to be in his early
twenties.

‘Can you write a letter for me?’ he asks. No one ever
introduces themselves or bothers with pleasantries.

‘Yes, of course. Who is it to, and what do you want me to
say?’ I reply, turning to a blank page on my pad.

‘I want to be moved to another prison,’ he tells me.

‘Don’t we all?’

‘What?’

‘No, nothing, but why should they consider moving you?’

‘I want to be nearer my mother, who’s suffering from
depression.’ I nod. He tells me his name is Naz, and then gives me the name of
the officer to whom he wishes to address the letter. He asks me to include the
reason his request should be taken seriously. I pen the letter, reading each
sentence out as I complete it. He signs along the bottom with a flourish. I
can’t read his signature, so I ask him to spell his name so I can print it in
capitals underneath – then the officer in question will know who it’s come
from, I explain. I place the missive in an envelope, address it, and he seals
it. Naz picks up the envelope, smiles and says, ‘Thank you. If you want
anything, just let me know.’ I tell him I need a pair of flip-flops for the
shower because I’m worried about catching verrucas. He looks anxiously at me.

‘I was only joking,’ I say, and wish him luck.

Supper.
I settle for a lump of cabbage
and half a portion of chips, which is a normal portion in your world. The
cabbage is floating around in water and reminds me of school meals, and why I
never liked the vegetable in the first place. While I’m waiting in line, Jimmy
tells me that he didn’t enjoy his spell of serving behind the hotplate.

‘Why not?’
I ask.

The inmates never stop complaining,’ he adds.

‘About the quality of the food?’

‘No, about not giving them large enough
portions, especially when it comes to chips.’

When I return to the cell, I find over a hundred letters
stacked on the end of my bunk. Jules reminds me that at weekends we’re banged
up at around five thirty and will remain locked in our cells until eight
fifteen the following morning. So I’ll certainly have enough time to read every
one of them. Fourteen hours of incarceration, once again blamed on staff
shortages.
Unpleasant, but still a great improvement on
Belmarsh.
I say unpleasant only because when you’ve finished your meal,
you’re left with dirty, smelly plastic plates littering your tiny cell all
night. It might be more sensible to leave the cell doors open for another
twenty minutes so that prisoners can scrape the remains of their food into the
dustbins at the end of each corridor and then wash their utensils in the sink.
And don’t forget that in many prisons there are three inmates to a cell with
one lavatory.