Hell: A Prison Diary Part 4

The cell is unlocked again, this time for a.s.sociation, and the duty officer asks me if I want to attend a church service. Not being utterly convinced there is a G.o.d I rarely go to church in Grantchester, despite the fact that my wife was for many years the choir-mistress. However, on this occasion it will mean a long walk and forty-five minutes in a far larger room than my cell, so without hesitation I thank G.o.d and say yes.

'RC or Church of England?' the officer enquires.

'C of E,' I reply.

'Then you'll be on the second shift. I'll call you around 10.30 straight after a.s.sociation.'

10.00 am During a.s.sociation, prison officers watch to see if you become part of a clique or gang, and how you behave while in a group, or if you're simply a loner. I'm about to leave my cell, only to find a queue of prisoners waiting at my door. Most of them want autographs so they can prove to their partners or girlfriends that they were on the same block as the notorious Jeffrey Archer.

When I've finished what can only be described as a signing session not unlike the ones I usually carry out at Hatchard's, I'm joined by my new Listener, Kevin. He confirms that James was shipped out to Whitemoor early this morning.

'So what do you need, Jeffrey? Can I call you Jeffrey?'

'Of course. What do I need?' I repeat. 'How about a bowl of cornflakes with some real milk, two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, mushrooms and a cup of hot chocolate.'

Kevin laughs. 'I can sort out some Weetabix, skimmed milk, fresh bread.

Anything else?'

'A decent razor, some shampoo, a bar of soap and a change of towels?'

'That may take a little longer,' he admits.

As everyone knows what I'm in for, I ask the inevitable question.

'I was part of the Dome jewellery raid, wasn't I,' he says as if everybody was.

What a sentence to deliver to an author.

'How did you become involved?' I asked.

'Debt,' he explains, 'and a measure of bad luck.'

Nick Purnell's words rang in my ears.

Don't believe anything you're told in prison, and never reveal to your fellow inmates any details of your own case. 'Debt?' I repeat.

'Yeah, I owed a man thirteen hundred pounds, and although I hadn't spoken to him for over a year, he suddenly calls up out of the blue and demands to see me.' I don't interrupt the flow. 'We met up at a pub in Brighton where he told me he needed a speedboat and driver for a couple of hours and if I was willing to do it, I could forget the debt.'

'When did he expect you to carry out the job?' I ask.

'The next morning,' Kevin replied. 'I told him I couldn't consider it because I'd already got another job lined up.'

'What job?' I asked.

'Well, my dad and I've got a couple of boats that we fish off the coast, and they were both booked for the rest of the week.

"Then I want my money," the man demanded, so I wasn't left with a lot of choice. You see, I was skint at the time, and anyway, he had a reputation as a bit of a hard man, and all he wanted me to do was transport four men from one side of the river to the other.

The whole exercise wouldn't take more than ten minutes.'

'One thousand three hundred pounds for ten minutes' work? You must have realized that there was a catch?'

'I was suspicious, but had no idea what they were really up to.'

'So what happened next?'

'I took the boat as instructed up to Bow Creek, moored it near the jetty a few hundred yards from the Dome and waited. Suddenly all h.e.l.l broke loose. Three police boats converged on me, and within minutes I was surrounded by a dozen armed officers shouting at me to lie down on the deck with my hands above my head. One of them said, "Blimey it's not him," and I later discovered that I'd been brought in at the last minute to replace someone who had let the gang down.'

'But by then you must have known what they were up to?'

'Nope,' he replied, 'I'm thirty-five years old, and this is my first offence. I'm not a criminal, and after what my family and I have been put through, I can tell you I won't be coming back to prison again.'

I can't explain why I wanted to believe him. It might have been his courteous manner, or the way he talked about his wife and fourteen-year-old son. And he was certainly going to pay dearly for a foolish mistake; one that he would regret for the rest of his life. *

'Archer, Collins, Davies, Edwards,' booms the voice of Mr King, an officer not given to subtlety as he continues to bellow out names until he comes to Watts, before adding, 'C of E, now.'

'I think we'll have to continue this conversation at some other time,' I suggest. 'Our Lord calls and if he doesn't, Mr King certainly does.' I then join the other prisoners who are waiting on the middle landing to be escorted to the morning service.

11.00 am A crocodile of prisoners proceeds slowly along the polished linoleum floor until we're stopped for another body search before entering the chapel. Why would they search us before going into a place of worship? We file into a large hall where each worshipper is handed a Bible. I take my place in the second row next to a young black man who has his head bowed. I glance around at what appears to be a full house.

The Chaplain, David (his name is written in bold letters on a label attached to his wellworn jacket), takes his place at the front of the chapel and calls for silence. He is a man of about forty-five, stockily built, with a p.r.o.nounced limp and a stern smile. He stares down at his congregation of murderers, rapists, burglars and wife-beaters. Not surprisingly, it takes him a couple of minutes to bring such a flock to order.

While he goes about his task, I continue to look around the room. It's square in shape, and I would guess measures about twenty paces by twenty. The outer walls are red brick and the room holds about two hundred plastic chairs, in rows of twenty. On the four walls there are paintings of Christ and his Disciples, Christ being carried to the tomb after being taken down from the Cross, the Virgin Mother with an angel, the Raising of Lazarus, and Christ calming the storm.

Directly behind the Chaplain is a rock band their leader is a pretty, dark-haired girl who has a guitar slung over her shoulder.

She is accompanied by five Gospel singers, all of whom have tiny microphones pinned to their lapels. In front of the group is a man seated with his back to the congregation. He is working a slide projector that flashes up on a white sheet hung in front of him the words of the first hymn.

When the Chaplain finally gains silence achieved only after a threat that anyone caught talking would immediately be escorted back to their cell he begins the service by delivering three prayers, all unsubtly spelling out the simple message of doing good by your neighbour. He then turns to the girl with the guitar and gives her a slight bow. Her gentle voice rings out the melody of the first hymn, more of a Gospel message, which is accompanied heartily by the black prisoners who make up well over half the congregation, while the rest of us are a little more reserved. The group's backing singers are all white, and give as good as they get, even when the clapping begins. After the last verse has rung out, we are all ready for the sermon, and what a sermon it turns out to be.

The Chaplain's chosen theme is murder.

He then invites us to pick up our Bibles which he describes as the biggest bestseller of all time and turn to the book of Genesis.

He glances in my direction and winks.

'And it all began with Cain and Abel,' he tells us, 'because Cain was the first murderer.

Envious of his brother's success, he gained revenge by killing him. But G.o.d saw him do it and punished him for the rest of his life.'

His next chosen example of a murderer was Moses, who, he told us, killed an Egyptian and also thought he'd got away with it, but he hadn't because G.o.d had seen him, so he too was punished for the rest of his life. I don't remember that bit, because I thought Moses died peacefully in his bed aged 130.

'Now I want you to turn to the Second Book of Samuel,' declares the Chaplain. 'Not the first book, the second book, where you'll find a king who was a murderer. King David.

He killed Uriah the Hitt.i.te, because he fancied his wife Bathsheba. He had Uriah placed in the front line of the next battle to make sure he was killed so he could end up marrying Bathsheba. However, G.o.d also saw what he was up to, and punished him accordingly.

Because G.o.d witnesses every murder, and will punish anyone who breaks his commandments.'

'Alleluia,' shout several of the congregation in the front three rows.

I later learnt from the Deputy Governor that at least half the congregation were murderers, so the Chaplain was well aware of the audience he was playing to.

After the sermon is over the Gospel singers sing a quiet reprise while the Chaplain asks if all those who are willing to put their trust in G.o.d might like to come forward and sign the pledge. A queue begins to form in front of David, and he blesses them one by one. Once they are back in their seats, we sing the last hymn before receiving the Chaplain's final blessing. As we file out, I thank the Reverend before being searched but what could possibly change hands during the service, when they've already searched us before we came in? I find out a week later. We are then escorted back to our cells and locked up once again.

12 noon At midday we're let out for Sunday lunch.

There are four different dishes on offer turkey, beef, ham and stew. As I am unable to tell which is which, I settle for some grated cheese and two slices of un-margarined bread, before returning to my cell to sit at my little table and slowly nibble my cheese sandwich.

Once I've finished lunch, which takes all of five minutes, I start writing again. I continue uninterrupted for a couple of hours until Kevin returns clutching a plastic bag of goodies two Weetabix, a carton of milk, two small green apples, a bar of soap and his biggest triumph to date two packets of Cup a Soup, minestrone and mushroom. I don't leave him in any doubt how grateful I am before settling down to a plastic bowl of Weetabix soaked in milk. The same bowl I'd used to shave in earlier this morning.

4.20 pm

It's not until after four has struck that I am allowed to leave the cell again and join the other prisoners for forty-five minutes in the exercise yard. I quickly learn that you take any and every opportunity from religion to work to exercise to make sure you get out of your cell. Once again, we're searched before being allowed to go into the yard.

Most of the inmates don't bother to walk, but simply congregate in groups and sunbathe while lounging up against the fence.

Just a few of us stride purposefully round. I walk briskly because I'm already missing my daily visit to the gym. I notice that several prisoners are wearing the latest Nike or Reebok trainers. It's the one fashion statement they are allowed to make. One of the inmates joins me and shyly offers ten pages of a ma.n.u.script and asks if I would be willing to read them. He tells me that he writes three pages a day and hopes to finish the work by the time he's released in December.

I read the ten pages as I walk. He is clearly quite well educated as the sentences are grammatically correct and he has a good command of language. I congratulate him on the piece, wish him well, and even admit that I am carrying out the same exercise myself.

One or two others join me to discuss their legal problems, but as I have little knowledge of the law, I am unable to answer any of their questions. I hear my name called out on the tannoy, and return to the officer at the gate.

'Mr Peel wants to see you,' the officer says without explanation, and this time doesn't bother to search me as I am escorted to a little office in the centre of the spur. Another form needs to be filled in, as James had phoned asking if he can visit me on Friday.

'Do you want to see him?' he asks.

'Of course I do,' I reply.

'They don't all want to,' Mr Peel remarks as he fills out the form. When he has completed the task, he asks how I am settling in.

'Not well,' I admit. 'Being locked up for seventeen hours...but I'm sure you've heard it all before.'

Mr Peel begins to talk about his job and the problems the prison service is going through. He's been a prison officer for ten years, and his basic pay is still only 24,000, which with overtime at 13.20 an hour (maximum allowed, nine hours a week) he can push up to 31,000. I didn't tell him that it's less than I pay my secretary. He then explains that his partner is also a prison officer and she carries out her full overtime stint, which means they end up with 60,000 a year between them, but don't see a lot of each other. After getting his message across, he changes the subject back to Belmarsh.

'This is only a reception prison,' he explains. 'If you're convicted and not on remand, we move you to another prison as quickly as possible. But I'm sorry to say we see the same old faces returning again and again. They aren't all bad, you know, in fact if it wasn't for drugs, particularly heroin, sixty per cent of them wouldn't even be here.'

'Sixty per cent?' I repeat.

'Yes, most of them are in for petty theft to pay for their drug habit or are part of the drug culture.'

'And can they still get hold of drugs in prison?'

'Oh yes, you'll have noticed how rudimentary the searches are. That's because prison regulations don't permit us to do any more.

We know where they're hiding the drugs and every method they use to bring them in, but because of the Human Rights Act we're not always allowed to carry out a thorough enough search. Some of them are even willing to swallow plastic packets full of heroin, they're so desperate.'

'But if the packet were to burst?'

'They'll die within hours,' he says. 'One prisoner died that way last month, but you'd be surprised how many of them are still willing to risk it. Did you hear the fire alarm go off last night?'

'Yes, it woke me,' I told him.

'It was a heroin addict who'd set fire to his cell. By the time I got there he was cutting his wrist with a razor, because he wanted to suffer even more pain to help take his mind off the craving. We whisked him off to the medical wing, but there wasn't much they could do except patch him up. He'll go through exactly the same trauma again tonight, so we'll just have to mount a suicide watch and check his cell every fifteen minutes.'

A horn sounds to announce that the exercise period is over. 'I suppose you'd better get back to your cell,' he says. 'If you weren't writing a book, I can't imagine what the authorities imagine will be gained by sending you here.'

5.00 pm.

I return to my cell and continue writing until supper. When my door is unlocked again I go down to the hotplate on the ground floor. I settle for a Thermos of hot water, an apple and a plastic bag containing tomorrow's breakfast. Back in my cell I munch a packet of crisps and with the aid of half the hot water in the Thermos make a Cup a Soup mushroom. The cell door is slammed shut at five thirty, and will not be opened again until nine thirty tomorrow morning, by which time I will have used the other half of the water from the Thermos to take a shave, in the same bowl as I eat the soup.

I spend the next couple of hours following the Open Golf on Radio 5 Live. David Duval, an American, wins his first Open, to see his name inscribed on the silver claret jug. Colin Montgomery and Ian Woosnam put up a spirited fight, but are not around at the seventy-second hole.

I flick over to Radio 4 to hear Steve Norris (Vice-Chairman of the Conservative Party in charge of women's affairs) telling the world he always knew I was a bad man. In the election among Party members for candidate for Mayor of London, I defeated Mr Norris by 71 per cent to 29 per cent.

I turn the radio off and read a couple of chapters of The Moon's a Balloon, which takes Mr Niven to Sandhurst before being commissioned into the King's Own Highlanders. I rest my head on the rock-hard pillow, and, despite the prisoners shouting from cell to cell and loud rap music coming from every corner of the block, I somehow fall asleep.

Day 5 - Monday 23 July 2001.

5.53 am.

The sun is shining through the bars of my window on what must be a glorious summer day. I've been incarcerated in a cell five paces by three for twelve and a half hours, and will not be let out again until midday; eighteen and a half hours of solitary confinement.

There is a child of seventeen in the cell below me who has been charged with shoplifting his first offence, not even convicted and he is being locked up for eighteen and a half hours, unable to speak to anyone. This is Great Britain in the twenty-first century, not Turkey, not Nigeria, not Kosovo, but Britain.