Heaven: A Prison Diary Part 4

6.11 am I wake early and think about home. I have a little pottery model of the Old Vicarage on the table in front of me, along with a photograph of Mary and the boys, and another of a view of Parliament from our apartment in London; quite a contrast to the view from my little room on the north block. The sky is grey and threatening rain. That's the one thing I share with you.

8.15 am Breakfast with Malcolm (fraud, chief librarian) and Roger (murder, twelve years so far).

Malcolm is able to tell me more about the young man called Arnold who absconded last week. I recall him from his induction at SMU, a shy and nervous little creature. He was sharing a room with two of the most unpleasant men I've ever come across. One of them has been moved from prison to prison during the past seven months because of the disruption he causes wherever he goes, and the other is a heroin addict serving out the last months of his sentence. I have never given a moment's thought to absconding.

However, if I had to spend a single night with either of those men, I might have to reconsider my position.

8.30 am Today I set myself the task of reorganizing the muddled and misleading notice board in the waiting room. Matthew and I spend the first thirty minutes taking down all thirtyseven notices, before deciding which are out of date, redundant or simply on the wrong notice board. Only sixteen survive. We then pin up five new neatly printed headings drugs, education, leave, tagging and general information, before replacing the sixteen posters neatly in their correct columns. By lunchtime the waiting room is clean, thanks to Mr Clarke, and the notice board easy to understand, thanks to Matthew, although I think I've also earned my 25p an hour.

12 noon I have to repeat that as far as prison food goes, NSC is outstanding. Wendy and Val (her a.s.sistant) set standards that I would not have thought possible in any inst.i.tution that has only 1.27 per prisoner for three meals a day. Today I'm down for the pizza, but Wendy makes me try a spoonful of her lamb stew, because she doesn't approve of my being a VIP (vegetarian in prison). It's excellent, and perhaps next week I'll risk a couple of meat dishes.

2.30 pm The turnover at NSC is continual. Last week fifteen inmates departed, one way or another: end of sentence twelve, moved to another prison two, absconded one. So after only two weeks, 20 per cent of the prison population has changed. Give me another month, and I'll be an old lag.

While I'm washing the teacups, Matthew tells me that his father has taken a turn for the worse, and the governor has pushed his compa.s.sionate leave forward by a day. He'll be off to Canterbury first thing in the morning, so he can be at his father's bedside for the next ten days. He doesn't complain about having to spend the ten nights in Canterbury Prison (B-cat), which can't be pleasant when your father is dying, and you don't have anyone to share your grief with.

4.30 pm Another pile of letters awaits me when I return from work, among them missives from Chris de Burgh, Patrick Moore and Alan Coren. Alan's letter makes me laugh so much, rather than share snippets with you, I've decided to print it in full. (See overleaf.) All my life I have been graced with remarkable friends, who have tolerated my ups and downs, and this latest episode doesn't seem to have deterred them one iota.

5.00 pm Tomorrow I'm going to the gym. I only write this to make sure I do.

6.00 pm Write for two hours.

Alan Coren 26 October 2001 My dear Jeffrey: Lots of forgivenesses to be begged. First off, forgive the typing, but not only is my longhand illegible, I should also be writing for some days, because I haven't picked up a pen for anything but cheques since about 1960.

More important, try to forgive the fact that I haven't written before, but the truth is that I should so much have preferred to chat to you face to face ( albeit chained to a radiator, or whatever the social protocols required ) than to engage in the one-sided conversation of letters, so as you probably knowI kept trying to get a visit, and kept being turned down. Most important of all, forgive me for not trying to spring you: I have spent a small fortune on grapnels, ropes, bolt-cutters, fake numberplates, one-way tickets to Sao Paolo, and drinks for large men from the Mile End Road with busted conks and tattooed knuckles, but whenever I managed to put all these elements together, there was always a clear night and a full moon.

Anyway, I gather from your office that it might now be possible to arrange a visit, once I and they have filled in all sorts of b.u.mf, and you have been given enough notice to stick a jeroboam of Krug on ice and slip into a brocade dressinggown and fez, so I shall set that in train forthwithif, of couurse, you agree. You are, by the way, b.l.o.o.d.y lucky not to be in that office now, these are bad days to be living at the top of a tall building next to MI6 and opposite the H of C and I speak as one who knows, having, as you'll spot from the letterhead, recently moved to a house in Regent's Park; where, from my top-floor study window as I type, I can see the Regent's Park Mosque 500 metres to my right, and the American Amba.s.sador's residence 500 metres to my left. I am ground b.l.o.o.d.y zero right here: every time His Excellency's helicopter trrobs in, we rush down to the cellar. Could by anybody, or anything. Since even I don't know where Freiston is, I rather doubt that Osama bin Laden could find it, and you are further fortunate in the fact that, because every envelope to the clink is doubtless slit open, poked about in and generally vetted to the last square millimetre, if anybody's going to get anthrax, it won't be you.

Life goes on in London as normal: Anne and I have grown used to wearing our gas-masks in bed. though it's still a bit of a b.u.g.g.e.r waking up in the night and unthinkingly reaching for a bedside drink, so there's more nocturnal tumble-drying going on than there used to be. Giles and Victoria wish to be remembered to you, and want you to know that they're fine, and settling down well with their foster parents in Timbuktu, where they tell me they have made lots of new friends among the other evacuees, although HP sauce is proving dificult to find. Your beloved Conservative Party has elected a new leader, who may be seen every day at the doors of the Commons handing out his business cards to MPs and officials who would otherwise think we was someone who had turned up to flog them personal pension schemes.

2.

Are you writing a book about chokey? FF 8282 would make a terrific t.i.tle. and since I am only one of countless hacks who envy you the opportunity to scribble away unenc.u.mbered by all the distractions that stop the rest of us from knocking out Finnegan's Remembrance of War & Punishment, I would, if I were you, seriously consider not going ahead with your appeal: giving up the chance of another couple of years at the typewriter could cost you millions.

All right if we must let's be serious for a moment: do you need anything, is there anything I can do, anyone I can see for you, all that? I know that you have truckloads of closer ... and far more influential friends than I, but because it's always on the cards that there may just be something you need that noone else can come up with, I want you to know that I should do my very best to sort it out.

But if nothing else, do drop me the briefest of notes to let me know whether or not you'd like a visit. If you'd rather be left in peace, I should of course,

understand. But it would be nice to meet for the odd laugh...

as if there could be any other kind of laugh, these days.

8.15pm I sign in for roll-call. From tomorrow, as I will have completed my two weeks' induction, I need only sign in at 11 am, 4 pm and 8.15 pm. Because I'll be at work, in future, 8.15 pm will be the one time I have to appear in person. Doug says I will feel the difference immediately.

DAY 104 - TUESDAY 30 OCTOBER 2001.

6.01 am Write for two hours. I've now completed 250,000 words since being incarcerated.

Perhaps Alan Coren is right.

8.15 am Ten new prisoners arrived yesterday. They will be seeing the doctor straight after breakfast before coming to SMU to be given their induction pack, and then be interviewed by the labour board. One by one they make an appearance. Some are c.o.c.ky, know it all, seen it all, nothing to learn, while others are nervous and anxious, and full of desperate questions.

And then there's Michael Keane (lifer, fourteen years so far, aged thirty-nine).

Those of you who've been paying attention for the past 250,000 words will recall my twenty days at Belmarsh, where I met William Keane on the tea-bag chain gang. His brother Michael has the same Irish charm, wit and love of literature, but never forget that all seven Keane brothers have been in jail at the same time, costing the taxpayer a million pounds a year. Michael pa.s.ses on William's best wishes, and adds that he heard today that his sister has just been released from Holloway after serving nine months for a string of credit-card crimes.

Michael is hoping for parole in March, and if Irish charm were enough, he'd make it, but unfortunately, the decision has to be ratified by the Home Office, who will only read his files, and never see him face to face. His fame among the Keanes is legendary, because when he was at Belmarsh a high-security prison he got as far as the first outer gate while emptying dustbins. The furthest anyone has manage while trying to escape from h.e.l.l.

10.20 am A scruffy, unshaven prisoner called Potts checks into SMU to confirm that he has a meeting with his solicitor this afternoon. I check my day sheet to see that his lawyer is booked in for three o'clock. Potts, who has just come off a three-hour shift in the kitchen, smiles.

'See you at three, Jeff.'

11.40 am All ten inductees have been seen by the labour board, and are fixed up with jobs on the farm, in the kitchen or at the officers' mess.

One, Kevin (six years for avoiding paying VAT), has opted for full-time education as he's in his final year of a law degree.

12 noon Over lunch, Doug asks me if I've put in my takeaway order for the weekend. I realize I'm being set up, but happily play along. He then tells me the story of two previous inmates, Bruce and Roy, who were partners in crime.

Bruce quickly discovered that it was not only easy to abscond from NSC, but equally straightforward to return un.o.bserved. So one night, he walked the six miles to Boston, purchased some fish and chips, stole a bicycle, rode back, hid the bike on the farm and went to bed. Thus began a thriving enterprise known as 'weekend orders'. His room-mate Roy would spend the week taking orders from the other prisoners for supper on Sat.u.r.day night (the last meal every day is at five o'clock, so you can be a bit peckish by nine). Armed with the orders, Bruce would then cycle into Boston immediately after the eight-fifteen roll-call, visit the local fish and chip shop, McDonalds or KFC not to mention the pub and arrive back within the hour so he could drop off his orders and still be seen roaming round the corridors long before the 10 pm roll-call.

This dot-con service ran successfully for several months, in the best traditions of free enterprise. Unfortunately, there's always some dissatisfied customer who will gra.s.s, and one night two officers caught Bruce about a mile away from the prison, laden with food and drink. He was transferred to a C-cat the following morning. His room-mate Roy, aware it would only be a matter of days before he was implicated, absconded with all the cash and hasn't been seen since.

2.50 pm Potts returns to SMU for the meeting with his solicitor. He has shaved, washed his hair and is wearing a clean, well-ironed shirt, and his shoes are shining. I have the unenviable task of telling him that his solicitor rang a few moments ago to cancel the appointment.

This is a message to all solicitors and barristers who deal with the incarcerated: your visit can be the most important event of the week, if not the month, so don't cancel lightly. Potts walks dejectedly back down the path, head bowed.

4.00 pm Mr Hocking drops into SMU. He tells me that the whole of spur four on the north block (nine rooms) has just been searched, because an officer thought he heard a mobile phone ringing. Possession of a mobile phone is an offence that will ensure you are sent back to a C-cat the same day.

4.30 pm Write for two hours, feel exhausted, but at least I no longer have to report for the 10 pm roll-call..

7.00 pm I join Doug and Clive at the hospital. Clive tells me that the officers found nothing during this morning's search. Often 'hearing a mobile phone' is just an excuse to carry one out when they are actually trying to find something else. Doug chips in, 'Truth is, they were looking for another camera which the press have recently smuggled in. They even know the name of the prisoner involved, and as he's due to be released on Friday, they want to be sure he doesn't leave with a role of photos that would embarra.s.s them.'

11.40 pm Potts is rushed to Boston Hospital, having taken an overdose.

DAY 105 - WEDNESDAY 31 OCTOBER 2001.

6.23 am I wake thinking about Potts. He reminds me how awful being incarcerated is, and why inmates forever live in hope. I later discover that Potts will be moved to Sudbury Prison, so that he can be near his wife and family. I know how he feels. I'm still waiting to hear from Spring Hill.

8.30 am This morning we have a risk-a.s.sessment board. Four prisoners who are applying for early release on tag (HCD) are to appear before the deputy governor, Mr Leighton, and the senior probation officer, Mr Simpson. If a candidate has an unblemished record while in jail never been put on a charge, never been involved with drugs he is in with a chance. But the prime consideration is whether the prisoner is likely to reoffend. So if the inmate is in for burglary or credit-card fraud, his chances aren't that good.

During the next hour I take each of the four prisoners up to face the board. They leave twenty minutes later, two with smiles on their faces who want to shake me by the hand, and two who barge past me, effing and blinding anyone who crosses their path.

11.11 am Mr New has received a fax from Spring Hill, requesting three more doc.u.ments and five more questions answered: a clearance release from the hospital to confirm I'm fit and well and not on any medication; my records from Belmarsh and Wayland to show I have never been put on report; and confirmation from NSC that I have not been put on a charge since I've been here. They also want to know if I intend to appeal against my sentence, and if so, will I be appearing in court.

Mr New looks surprised when I say that I won't. There are two reasons for my decision. I never wish to spend another minute of my life in Belmarsh, which is where they transfer you if you are due to appear at the High Court, and I'm d.a.m.ned if I'll put my wife through the ordeal of facing the press outside the court as she arrives and departs.

11.30 am At the hospital, sister checks over the forms from Spring Hill. Linda ticks all the little boxes and confirms I am remarkably fit for my age, cheeky lady.

12 noon Over lunch, Doug warns me that it still might be a couple of months before Spring Hill have a vacancy because it's the most popular prison in Britain, and in any case, they may not enjoy the attendant publicity that I would attract. Bell (a gym orderly) leans across and informs me, 'It's the best nick I've ever been to. I only moved here to be closer to my wife.'

3.52 pm Mr New reappears clutching my blameless record from Belmarsh and Wayland.

At 4.04 he faxes Spring Hill with the eight pages they requested. He receives confirmation that they arrived at 4.09 pm. I'll keep you informed.

4.15 pm The senior Listener, Brian (conspiracy to defraud an ostrich company), turns up at SMU.

He asks if the backs of prisoners' ident.i.ty cards can be redesigned, as they currently advertise the Samaritans and Crimestoppers.

Brian points out that as no prisoner can dial an 0800 number the s.p.a.ce would be better used informing new arrivals about the Listeners' scheme. He has a point.

5.00 pm Write for two hours.

7.00 pm Doug tells me that the governing governor, Mr Lewis, dropped into the hospital today as he'd read in the News of the World that I keep a secret store of chocolate biscuits in the fridge.

'Quite right,' Doug informed him, 'Jeffrey buys them from the canteen every Thursday, and leaves a packet here for both of us which we have with my coffee and his Bovril.'

A week ago I told Linda that you could buy a jar of Marmite from the canteen, but not Bovril, which I much prefer. The following day a jar of Bovril appeared.

Prisoners break rules all the time, often without realizing it. Officers have to turn a blind eye; otherwise everyone would be on a charge every day of the week, and the prison service would grind to a halt. Of course there's a difference between Bovril and beer, between having an extra towel and a mobile phone, or a hardback book and a tea bag full of heroin. Most officers accept this and use their common sense.

8.26 pm Two officers, Mr Spencer and Mr Hayes, join us in the hospital for a coffee break. We learn that eleven new prisoners came in this evening, and only seven will be released tomorrow, so the prison is nearly full. They also add that another prisoner has been placed in the segregation cell overnight and will be up in front of the governor tomorrow. He's likely to be on his way back to Lincoln Prison. It appears that a camera was found in his room, the third one in the past ten days.

They also know which newspaper is involved.

DAY 106 - THURSDAY 1 NOVEMBER 2001.

6.19 am In prison, you don't think about what can be achieved long term; all thoughts are short term. When is the next canteen so I can buy another phonecard? Can I change my job?

Will I be enhanced? Can I move into a single room? At the moment the only thought on my mind is, can I get to Spring Hill? Not when, can. In prison when will only happens after can has been achieved.

8.30 am Fifteen new prisoners in today, among them a Major Willis, who is sixty-four. I look forward to finding out what he's been up to.

Willis, Clarke (the cleaner) and myself do not have to work because we're all over sixty.

But Willis makes it clear he's looking for a job, and the labour board allocate him to works (engineering).

9.30 am Mr Hocking, the security officer, drops in for a cup of tea. He tells me that Braithwaite, who was found to have a camera in his room, is now on his way back to Lincoln. The newspaper involved was the Mail on Sunday. All the relevant papers have been sent to the local police, as an offence of aiding and abetting a prisoner may have been committed.

12.30 pm I call Alison. Mary has been invited to Margaret and Denis Thatcher's golden wedding anniversary on 13 December. James will be making the long journey to visit me on Sat.u.r.day.

7.15 pm Doug tells me that his contact in the administration office at Spring Hill isn't sure if they'll have me. I'll bet that Doug finds out my fate long before any of the officers at NSC.

8.15 pm A fight breaks out on spur six. It involves a tragic young man, who has been a heroin addict since the age of fourteen. He is due to be released tomorrow morning. Leaving ceremonies are common enough in prison, and an inmate's popularity can be gauged by his fellow prisoners' farewells on the night before he departs. This particular prisoner had a bucket of s.h.i.t poured over his head, and his release papers burned in front of him.

There's a lookout posted at the end of the spur, and the nearest officer is in the unit office at the far end of the corridor, reading a paper, so you can be sure the humiliation will continue until he begins his right rounds.

When I return to the hospital, I tell Doug the name of the prisoner involved. He expresses no surprise, and simply adds, 'That boy won't see the other side of forty.'

10.30 pm Returning to my room, I pa.s.s Alan (selling stolen goods) in the corridor. He asks if he can leave a small wooden rocking horse in my room, as his is a little overcrowded with two inmates. He paid 20 for the toy (a postal order sent by someone on the outside to the wife of the prisoner who made it). It's a gift for his fourteen month old grandson.

As I write this diary, in front of me are several cards from well-wishers, a pottery model of the Old Vicarage, a photo of Mary and the boys and now a rocking horse.

Alan is due to be released in two weeks' time, and when he leaves, no excrement will be poured over his head. The prisoners will line up to shake hands with this thoroughly decent man.

DAY 107 - FRIDAY 2 NOVEMBER 2001.