Hell: A Prison Diary Part 5

I can hear the right-wingers a.s.suring us that it will be character-building and teach the lad a lesson. What stupidity. It's far more likely that he will become antagonistic towards authority and once he's released, turn to a life of crime. This same young man will now be spending at least a fortnight with murderers, rapists, burglars and drug addicts. Are these the best tutors he can learn from?

12 noon I am visited by a charming lady who spotted me sitting in church on Sunday. I end up asking her more questions than she asks me.

It turns out that she visits every prisoner who signs the pledge I fear I didn't and any inmate who attends chapel for the first time. She gives each prisoner a Bible and will sit and listen to their problems for hours.

She kindly answers all my questions. When she leaves, I pick up my plastic tray, plastic bowl, plastic plate, plastic knife, fork and spoon, leave my cell to walk down to the hotplate for lunch.*

One look at what's on offer and once again I return to my cell empty-handed. An old lag on his way back to the top floor tells me that Belmarsh has the worst grub of any jail in Britain. As he's been a resident of seven prisons during the past twenty years, I take his word for it. An officer slams my cell door closed. It will not open again until four o'clock. I've had precisely twelve minutes of freedom during the last twenty-two and a half hours.

4.00 pm After another four hours, I'm let out for a.s.sociation. During this blessed release, I stop to glance at the TV in the centre of the room that's surrounded by a dozen prisoners.

They're watching a cowboy film starring Ray Milland, who plays the sheriff. Normally I would flick to another channel but today it's the selection of the majority so I hang in there for ten minutes before finally giving up and moving on to the dominoes table.

An Irishman joins me and asks if I can spare him a minute. He's about five feet eight, with two scars etched across his face one above his left eyebrow, short, the st.i.tches still showing, and another down his right cheek, long and red. The latter I suspect is the more recent. Despite this disfigurement, he has that soft lilt of his countrymen that I can never resist.

'I'm up in court next week,' he says.

'What for?' I ask.

'You'd rather not know,' he replies, 'but all I want to find out is, once I'm in court, am I allowed to defend myself?'

'Yes,' I tell him.

'But would it be better to give my side of the story to a barrister and then let him brief the jury?'

I consider this for a moment because during my seven-week trial I gained some experience of the legal profession. 'On balance,' I tell him, 'I would take advantage of any legal expertise on offer, rather than rely on your own cunning.' He nods and slips away. I dread meeting up with this sharp, intelligent Irishman at some later date to be told that his barrister was a fool.

I stroll back across the room to see how the film is progressing. Being a western, a gunfight to end all gunfights is just about to take place when the officer on duty shouts, 'Back to your cells.' A groan goes up, but to be fair to the duty officer, he's seated at the far end of the room and has no idea that the film only has another five minutes to run.

'The good guys win, Ray Milland gets the girl, and the baddies are all blown away,' I tell the audience a.s.sembled round the TV.

'You've seen it before?' asks one of the inmates.

'No, you stupid f.u.c.ker,' says another. 'We always lose. Have you ever known it end any other way?'

Once locked back in my cell after the fortyfive-minute break, I pour myself a gla.s.s of Buxton water, eat a packet of Smith's crisps and nibble away at an apple. Having finished my five-minute non-prison meal, I clean my teeth and settle down to another two hours of writing.

I've written about a thousand words when I hear a key turning in the lock, always a welcome distraction because, as I've mentioned before, an open door gives you a feeling of freedom and the possibility that you might even be allowed to escape for a few minutes.

I'm greeted by a lady in civilian clothes who wears the inevitable badge in her case, Librarian. 'Good afternoon,' I say as I rise from my place and smile. She looks surprised.

'If a prisoner asks you to sign a book, could you in future say no,' she says without bothering to introduce herself. I look puzzled; after all, I've been asked to sign books for the past twenty-five years. 'It's just that they are all library books,' she continues, 'and they're being stolen. They've now become like tobacco and phonecards, a trading item for drugs, and are worth double with your signature.'

I a.s.sure her I will not sign another library book. She nods and slams the door closed.

I continue writing, aware that the next opportunity for a break will come when we have the allocated forty-five minutes for afternoon exercise. I'm already becoming used to the routine of the door opening, lining up to be searched, and then being released into the yard. I've written about another two thousand words before the door opens again.

Having gone through the ritual, I stroll around the large square accompanied by Vincent (burglary) and another man called Mark (driving offence), who supports a.r.s.enal. One circuit, and I discover that the only way to stop Mark boring me to death about his favourite football team is to agree with him that a.r.s.enal, despite Manchester United's recent record, is the best team in England.

Desperate for a change of subject, I point to a sad figure walking in front of us, the only prisoner in the yard who looks older than me.

'Poor old thing,' says Vincent. 'He shouldn't be here, but he's what's known as a bag man nowhere to go, so he ends up in prison.'

'But what was his crime?' I ask.

'Nothing, if the truth be known. Every few weeks he throws a brick through a shop window and then hangs around until the police turn up to arrest him.'

'Why would he do that?' I ask.

'Because he's got nowhere to go and at least while he's inside the poor old sod is guaranteed a bed and three meals a day.'

'But surely the police have worked that out by now?' I suggest.

'Yes, of course they have, so they advise the magistrate to bind him over. But he's even found a way round that, because the moment the magistrate fails to sentence him, he shouts out at the top of his voice, "You're a stupid old f.u.c.ker, and I'm going to throw a brick through your window tonight, so see you again tomorrow." That a.s.sures him at least another six weeks inside, which is exactly what he was hoping for in the first place. He's been sentenced seventy-three times in the past thirty years, but never for more than three months. The problem is that the system doesn't know what to do with him.'

A young black man runs past me, to the jeers of those lolling up against the perimeter fence. He is not put off, and if anything runs a little faster. He's lean and fit, and looks like a quartermiler. I watch him, only to be reminded that my planned summer holiday at the World Athletics Championships in Edmonton with Michael Beloff has been exchanged for three weeks in Belmarsh.

'Let's get moving,' whispers Vincent. 'We want to avoid that one at any cost,' he adds, pointing to a lone prisoner walking a few paces ahead of us. Vincent doesn't speak again until we've overtaken him, and are out of earshot. He then answers my unasked question. 'He's a double murderer his wife and her boyfriend.' Vincent goes on to describe how he killed them both. I found the details so horrific that I must confess I didn't feel able to include Vincent's words in this diary until six months after I'd left Belmarsh.

If you're at all squeamish, avoid reading the next three paragraphs.

This is Vincent's verbatim description.

That b.a.s.t.a.r.d returned home unexpectedly in the middle of the day, to find his wife making love to another man. The man tried to escape out of the bedroom window, but was knocked out with one punch. He then tied the two of them next to each other on the bed, before going down to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later holding a serrated carving knife with a seven-inch blade.

During the next hour, he stabbed the lover eleven times making sure he was still alive before finally cutting off his b.a.l.l.s.

Once the man had died, he climbed on the bed and raped his wife, who was still tied up next to her dead lover. At the last moment he came all over the dead man's face. He then climbed off the bed, and stared at his hysterical wife. He waited for some time before inserting the carving knife deep into her v.a.g.i.n.a. He then pulled the blade slowly up through her body.

During the trial, he told the jury that he'd killed her to prove how much he loved her. He was sentenced to life with no prospect of parole.

'Just remember to avoid him at any cost,' says Vincent. 'He'd slit your throat for a halfounce of tobacco, and as he's going to spend the rest of his life in here, nothing can be added to his sentence whatever he gets up to.'

I feel sure he's just the sort of fellow Mr Justice Potts was hoping I'd b.u.mp into.

The hooter blasts out, the unsubtle indication that our forty-five minutes is up. We are called in, block by block, so that we can return to our individual cells in smaller groups.

As I'm on Block Three, I have to hang around and wait to be called. When they call Two, I notice that the double murderer is striding purposefully towards me. I bow my head hoping he won't notice, but when I look up again, I see he's staring directly at me and still heading in my direction. I look towards the four officers standing by the gate who stiffen, while the group of black men up against the fence stare impa.s.sively on. The double murderer comes to a halt a few paces in front of me.

'Can I speak to you?' he asks.

'Yes, of course,' I reply, trying to sound as if we were casual acquaintances at a garden party.

'It's just that I would like to say how much I enjoy your books, particularly The Prodigal Daughter. I've been in here for eleven years and I've read everything you've written. I just wanted to let you know.' I'm speechless. 'And by the way,' he adds, 'if you want that b.i.t.c.h of a secretary b.u.mped off, I'll be happy to arrange it for you.'

I really thought I was going to be sick as I watched him disappear through the gate.

Thank G.o.d, into another block.

5.00 pm I'm only locked up for a couple of hours before the bell goes for supper. I pick up my tray and grab a tin of fruit that was donated by James my first Listener the night before he was transferred to Whitemoor. When I join the hotplate queue, I ask Vincent if he has a tin opener. He points to an opener attached to the wall on the far side of the room, 'But you're not allowed to open anything before you've collected your grub.' I notice that he's holding a tin of Shipham's Spam.

'I'll swap you half my tin of fruit for half your Spam.'

'Agreed,' he says. 'I'll bring it up to your cell as soon as I've collected my meal.'

Once again I can't find anything at the hotplate that looks even vaguely edible, and settle for a couple of potatoes.

'You ought to go for the vegetarian option,' says a voice.

I look round to see Pat. 'Mary won't be pleased when she finds out you're not eating, and let's face it, the vegetarian option is one of the few things they can't make a complete mess of.' I take Pat's advice and select a vegetable fritter. As we pa.s.s the end of the counter, another plastic bag containing tomorrow's breakfast is handed to me. 'By the way,' says Pat pointing to the man who has just served me, 'that's Peter the press, he'll wash and iron that shirt for you.'

'Thank you, Pat,' I say, and turning back to Peter add, 'My children are coming to visit tomorrow and I want to look my best for them.'

'I'll make you look as if you've just stepped out of Savile Row,' Peter says. 'I'll stop by your cell and pick up the shirt once I've finished serving breakfast.'

I move on and collect a Thermos flask of hot water from another prisoner, half for a Cup a Soup, half for shaving. As I climb the yellow iron steps back to Cell 29 on the second floor, I overhear Mark, the a.r.s.enal supporter, having a word with Mr Tuck, the officer on duty. He's pointing out, very courteously, that there are no ethnic representatives among those selected to be Listeners, tea-boys or servers behind the hotplate, despite the fact that they make up over 50 per cent of the prison population. Mr Tuck, who strikes me as a fair man, nods his agreement, and says he'll have a word with the Governor. Whether he did or not, I have no way of knowing.*

When I arrive back on the second floor Vincent is already waiting for me. I pour half my fruit into his bowl, while he cuts his Spam into two, forking over the larger portion, which I place on the plate next to my vegetable fritter and two potatoes. He also gives me a white T-shirt, which I'm wearing as I write these words.

The cell doors are left open for about ten minutes during which time Peter the press arrives and takes away my dirty white shirt, a pair of pants and socks. 'I'll have them back to you first thing tomorrow, squire,' he promises, and is gone before I can thank him and ask what he would like in return.

My final visitor for the day is Kevin, my Listener, who tells me there's a rumour that I'm going to be moved to Block One tomorrow, where the regime is a little bit more relaxed and not quite as noisy. I'm sorry to learn this as I'm beginning to make a few friends Kevin, James, Pat, Vincent, Peter and Mark and am starting to get the hang of how Block Three works. Kevin sits on the end of the bed and chats as James had warned me he would; but I welcome the company, not to mention the fact that while a Listener is in the room, the door has to be left open.

Kevin had a visit this afternoon from his wife and children. He tells me his fourteenyear-old is now taller than he is, and his nine-year-old can't understand why he doesn't come home at night.

Mr Gilford, the duty officer, hovers at my cell door, a hint that even though Kevin is a Listener, it's perhaps time for him to move on. I ask Mr Gilford if I can empty the remains of my meal in the dustbin at the end of the landing only one bite taken from the fritter. He nods. The moment I return, the cell door is slammed shut.

I sit on the end of the bed and begin to go through my letters. Just over a hundred in the first post, and not one of them condemning me. Amazing how the British people do not reflect the views of the press I've kept every letter just in case my lawyers want to inspect them: three Members of Parliament, David Faber, John Gummer and Peter Lilley, and two members of the Lords, Bertie Denham and Robin Ferrers, are among those early writers. One former minister not only says how sorry he is to learn that I'm in jail, but adds that Mr Justice Potts's summing-up was a travesty of justice, and the sentence inexplicable.

I begin to make a mental list of my real friends.

Day 6 - Tuesday 24 July 2001.

5.44 am.

I seem to have settled back into my usual sleep pattern. I wake around 5.30 am, rise at six, and begin my first two-hour writing session just as I would if I were in the tranquillity of my own home. I continue to write uninterrupted until eight.

I make extensive notes on what has taken place during the day, and then the following morning I pen the full script, which usually comes to about three thousand words. I also scribble a note whenever I overhear a casual remark, or a piece of information that might be forgotten only moments later.

I am just about to shave a process I now take some considerable time over, not just because I have time, but also because I don't want to be cut to ribbons by my prison razor when there is a bang on the cell door. My tiny window is flicked open and Ms Newsome shouts, 'Archer, you're being moved to House Block One, get your things ready.'

I should have realized by now that such a warning would be followed by at least a twohour wait, but inexperience causes me to abandon any attempt to shave and quickly gather together my belongings. My only concern is that my children may be visiting me this afternoon and I wouldn't want them to see me unshaven.

I gather everything together and, as if I were returning home at the end of a holiday, I find I have far more possessions than I started out with. By the time I have stuffed everything into my large HM Prisons plastic bag, I begin to feel apprehensive about moving off Beirut to the lifers' wing.

10.07 am.

My cell door is thrown open again, and I join a dozen or so prisoners who are also being transferred to Block One. I recognize one or two of them from the exercise yard. They can't resist a chorus of 'Good morning, Jeff', 'How was your breakfast, my Lord?', and 'We must be off to the posh block if you're coming with us.'

Kevin slips into the back of the line to tell me that my white shirt has been washed and pressed by Peter, and he'll have it sent over to Block One this afternoon, but I'll have to make out a new provisions list, as each house block has its own canteen.

The walk across to my new cell via several long corridors is accompanied by the usual opening and closing ceremony of doublebarred gates every few yards, and when we finally arrive, we are herded into the inevitable waiting room. I've never been much good at waiting. We've only been standing around for a few minutes when a young officer, Mr Aveling, opens the door and says, 'Archer, Mr Loughnane wants to see you about reallocation.' I've only just arrived.

'They're letting you out,' shouts one of the prisoners.

'Ask if I can share a cell with you, darling,' shouts another.

'Don't pay more than the going rate,' offers a third. Prison humour.

Mr Aveling escorts me across the corridor to a large, more comfortable room by the standards I've become used to during the past few days, and introduces me to Mr Loughnane and Mr Gates. I take a seat opposite them on the other side of the desk.

'More form-filling, I'm afraid,' says Mr Loughnane almost apologetically. 'How are you settling in?' he asks. I now accept this as the standard opening to any conversation with an officer I haven't met before.

'I'm fine, except for having to be locked up in such a confined s.p.a.ce for so many hours.'

'Were you at public school?' Mr Gates asks.

'Yes,' I reply, wondering why he asked this non sequitur.

'It's just that we find public school boys settle in far more quickly than your average prisoner.' I don't know whether to laugh or cry. 'To be honest,' he continues, 'I've already filled in most of the boxes about whether you can read or write, if you're on any drugs and how often you've been to jail. I can also confirm that you have been allocated Category D status, and will therefore be moved to an open prison in the near future.' Like 'immediately', 'near future' has a different meaning in prison. Mr Loughnane explains that first they have to locate a prison that has a vacancy, and once that has been confirmed, there will be the added problem of transport.

I raise an eyebrow.

'That's always one of our biggest headaches,' Mr Loughnane explains. 'Group 4 organize all the transport between prisons, and we have to fit in with their timetable.' He then asks, 'Do you know any Category D prisons you would like to be considered for?'

'The only open prison I've ever heard of is Ford,' I tell him, 'and the one piece of information I've picked up from a former prisoner is that they have a good library.'

'Yes, they do,' confirms Mr Gates checking the prisons handbook on the table in front of him, as if it were a Relais Chateaux guide.

'We'll give them a call later this morning and check if they have any s.p.a.ces available.'

I thank them both before being escorted back to the waiting room.

'Have they fixed you up with the riverside suite?' asks one prisoner.