A Prison Diary Part 4

8.15 am

Breakfast: when I go down to the hotplate to collect my meal, Dale gives me a nod to indicate that the money has arrived.

830 am Phone Mary to be told that she's doing the Today programme with John Humphrys tomorrow morning and will be visiting me on Friday with Will. As James is on holiday, she suggests that the third place is taken by Jonathan Lloyd. He wants to discuss my new novel, Sons of Fortune, and the progress of the diary. As I am allowed only one visit a fortnight, this seems a sensible combination of business and pleasure,although I will miss not seeing James.

Phone Alison, who says she'll have finished typing Volume One - Belmarsh: h.e.l.lby Wednesday (70,000 words) and will post it to me immediately. She reminds me that from Monday she will be on holiday for two weeks. I need reminding. In prison you forget that normal people go on holiday.

When I return to my cell, I find David (whisky bootlegger) sweeping the corridor. I tell him about my water shortage. He offers me a large bottle of diet lemonade and a diet Robinsons blackcurrant juice in exchange for a 2 phonecard, which will give him a 43p profit. I accept, and we go off to his cell to complete the transaction. There is only one problem: you are not allowed to use phonecards for trading, because it might be thought you are a drug dealer. Each card has the prisoner's signature on the back of it, not unlike a credit card (see plate section).

"No problem,' says David (he never swears). 'I can remove your name with Fairy Liquid and then replace it with mine.'

"How will you get hold of a bottle of Fairy Liquid?'

'I'm the wing cleaner.'

Silly question.

10.00 am My pad-mate Jules has begun his education course today (life and social skills) so I have the cell to myself. I've been writing for only about thirty minutes when my door is unlocked and I'm told the prison probation officer wants to see me. I recall Tony's (absconding from Ford Open Prison) words when I was at Bel-marsh: Don't act smart and find yourself on the wrong side of your probation officer, because they have considerable sway when it comes to deciding your parole date.'

I'm escorted to a private room, just a couple of doors away from Mr Tinkler's office on the first-floor landing. I shake hands with a young lady who introduces herself as Lisa Dada. She is a blonde of about thirty and wearing a V-neck sweater that reveals she has just returned from holiday or spent a long weekend sitting in the sun. Like everyone else, she asks me how I am settling in. I tell her that I have no complaints other than the state of my cell, my rude introduction to rap music and window warriors.

lisa begins by explaining that she has to see every prisoner, but there isn't much point in my case because her role doesn't kick in until six months before my parole. 'Andas I'm moving to Surrey in about two months' time,' she continues, 'to be nearer my husband who is a prison officer, you may well have moved to another establishment long before then, so I can't do much more than answer any questions you might have.'

'How did you meet your husband?' I ask.

That's not the sort of question I meant,' she replies with a grin.

'He must be Nigerian.'

"What makes you think that?'

'Dada. It's an Igbo tribe name, the tribe of the leaders and warriors.'

She nods, and says, We met in prison in circ.u.mstances that sound as if they might have come from the pages of one of your novels.' I don't interrupt. 'I had a prisoner who was due to be released in the morning. The evening before, he was phoning his wife to arrange what time she should pick him up, but couldn't hear what she was saying because of the noise coming from a TV in a nearby cell. He popped his head round the door and asked if the inmate could turn the volume down, and was told to "f.u.c.k off". In a moment of anger he dropped the phone, walked into the cell and took a swing at the man. The inmate fell backwards onto the stone floor, cracked open his head and was dead before they could get him to a hospital.

The first prison officer on the scene called for the a.s.sailant's probation officer, who happened to be me. We were married a year later.'

"What happened to the prisoner?' I ask.

"He was charged with manslaughter, pleaded guilty and was sentenced to three years. He served eighteen months. There was clearly no intent to murder. I know it sounds silly,' she adds, "but until that moment, his record was unblemished.'

'So your husband is black. That can't have been easy for you, especially in prison.'

"No, it hasn't, but it helps me find a common thread with the dreadlocks.'

'So what's it like being a thirty-something blonde probation officer?' I ask It's not always easy,' she admits. 'Sixty per cent of the prisoners shout at me and tell me that I'm useless, while the other forty per cent burst into tears.'

"Burst into tears? That lot?' I say, thumbing towards the door.'Oh, yes. I realize if s not a problem for you, but most of them spend their lives having to prove how macho they are, so when they come to see me it's the one chance they have to reveal their true feelings. Once they begin to talk about their families, their partners, children and friends, they often break down, suddenly aware that others might well be going through an even more difficult time outside than they are locked up in here.'

'And the shouters, what do they imagine they're achieving?'

'Getting the rage out of their system. Such a disciplined regime creates pent-up emotions, and I'm often on the receiving end. I've experienced everything, including obscene language and explicit descriptions of what they'd like to do to me, while all the time staring at my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. One prisoner even unzipped his jeans and started masturbating. All that for twenty-one thousand a year.'

'So why do you do it?'

'I have the occasional success, perhaps one in ten, which makes it all seem worthwhile when you go home at night.'

"What's the worst part of your job?'

She pauses and thinks for a moment. "Having to tell a prisoner that his wife or partner doesn't want him back just before they're due to be released.'

'I'm not sure I understand.'

'Many long-term prisoners phone their wives twice a week, and are even visited by them once a fortnight. But it's only when their sentence is drawing to a close and a probation officer has to visit the matrimonial home that the wife confesses she doesn't want her husband back. Usually because by then they are living with another man - sometimes their husband's best friend.'

'And they expect you to break the news?'

'Yes,' she replies. 'Because they can't face doing it them--selves, even on the phone.'

'And is there any particular set of prisoners you don't like dealing with? The paedophiles, murderers, rapists, drug dealers, for example?'

'No, I can handle all of them' she says. 'But the group I have no time for are the burglars.'

'Burglars?'

They show neither remorse nor conscience. Even when they've stolen personal family heirlooms they tell you it'sall right because the victim can claim it back on insurance.'

She glances at her watch. I'm meant to be asking you some questions,' she pauses, 'not that the usual ones apply.'

'Try me,' I suggest. Lisa removes a sheet of paper from a file and reads out the listed questions.

'Are you married?, Are you living with your wife?, Have you any children?, Do you have any other children?, Are any of them in need of a.s.sistance or financial help?, Will you be returning to your family when you are released?, When you are released, do you have any income other than the ninety pounds the State provides for you?, Do you have somewhere to sleep on your first night out of prison?, Do you have a job to go to, with a guaranteed source of income?' She looks up. "The purpose of the last question is to find out if you're likely to commit an offence within hours of leaving prison.'

"Why would anyone do that?' I ask.

"Because, for some of them, this is the only place that guarantees three meals a day, a bed and someone to talk to.

You've got a good example on your wing. Out last month, back inside this month. Robbed an old lady of her bag and then immediately handed it back to her. He even hung around until the police arrived to make sure he was arrested.'

I think I know the prisoner she's referring to, and make a mental note to have a word with him. Our hour is drawing to a close, so I ask if she will stick with it.

"Yes. I've been in the service for ten years and, despite everything, it has its rewards. Mind you, it's changed a lot during the last decade. When I first joined, the motto emblazoned on our notepaper used to read, Advise, a.s.sist and Befriend. Now it's Enforcement, Rehabilitation and Public Protection; the result of a ma.s.sive change in society, its new-found freedom and the citizen's demands for safety. The public doesn't begin to understand that at least thirty per cent of people in prison shouldn't be locked up at all, while seventy per cent, the professional criminals, will be in and out for the rest of their lives.'

There's a knock on the door. My hour's up, and we haven't even touched on the problem of drugs. Mr Chapman enters carrying two bundles of letters. Lisa looks surprised.

'That's only the first post' Mr Chapman tells her.

'I can quite believe it,' she says. 'My parents send their best wishes. My father wanted you to sign one of his books, but I told him it would be most unprofessional.' I rise frommy place. 'Good luck with your appeal,' she adds, as we shake hands. I thank her and return to my cell.

12 noon Lunch: macaroni cheese and diet lemonade. I hate lemonade, so I spend some considerable time shaking the bottle in an effort to remove the bubbles. I have a considerable amount of time.

1.45 pm Mr Chapman warns me that I will not be able to go to the gym this afternoon as I have to attend a CARAT (Counselling, a.s.sessment, Referral, Advice and Through-care) meeting on drugs. This is another part of my induction. Despite the fact I've never touched a drug in my life, I can't afford to miss it. Otherwise I will never be moved from this filthy, dank, noisy wing. Naturally I comply.

2.00 pm I try to pick up my books and notepads from reception only to be told by Mr Meanwell (a man who regularly reminds me 'Meanwell is my name, and mean well is my nature') that I can't have them because it's against prison regulations. All notepads and pens have to be purchased from the canteen and all books ordered through the library, who buy them direct from Waterstone's.

'But in Belmarsh they allowed me to have two notepads, two packets of pens and any number of books I required sent in, and they're a maximum-security prison.'

'I know,' says Meanwell with a smile. 'It's a d.a.m.n silly rule, but there's nothing I can do about it.'

I thank him. Many of the senior officers know only too well what's sensible and what isn't, but are worried that if I receive what could be construed as special treatment it will be all over the tabloids the following morning. The rule is enforced because books, pads and pens are simply another way to smuggle in drugs. However, if I'm to go on writing, I'll have to purchase these items from the canteen, which means I'll need to cut down on Spam and Weetabix.

2.40 pm I've been writing for about an hour when I am called to the CARAT meeting. Once again, eleven of us a.s.semble in the room with the comfortable chairs. The CARAT representative is a young lady called Leah, who tells us that if we have any drug-related problems, she is there to advise and help. Leah reminds me of Mr Flintcroft, although she's pus.h.i.+ng an even larger boulder up an even steeper hill.I glance around the room at the other prisoners. Their faces are blank and resigned. I'm probably the only person present who has never taken a drug. The one comment Leah makes that catches the prisoners' attention is that if they were to have a period on D wing, the drug-free wing, it might even help with their parole. But before Leah can finish her sentence a ripple of laughter breaks out, and she admits that it's possible there are even more drugs on D wing than on A, B or C. Drug-free wings in most prisons have that reputation.

When Leah comes to the end of her eight-minute discourse and invites questions, she is greeted with silence, the same silence Mr Flintcroft experienced.

I leave, feeling a little more cynical. Drugs are the biggest problem the Prison Service is currently facing, and not one prisoner has a question for the CARAT representative, let alone attempts to engage her in serious debate. However, I am relieved to observe that two inmates remain behind to have a private conversation with Leah.

6.00 pm Kit change. Once a week you report to the laundry room for a change of sheets, pillowcases, towels and gym kit. I now have six towels and include four of them in my weekly change.

They are all replaced, despite each prisoner only being allowed two. However, they won't replace my second pillowcase because you're allowed only one. I can't understand the logic of that.

You're meant to wash your own personal belongings, but I have already handed over that responsibility to Darren, who is the enhanced wing's laundry orderly. He picks up my bag of was.h.i.+ng every Thursday, and returns it later that evening. He asks for no recompense. I must confess that the idea of was.h.i.+ng my underpants in a sink shared with someone else's dirty cutlery isn't appealing.

630 pm Supper. Unworthy of mention.

7.00 pm Exercise. I walk round the perimeter of the yard with Darren and another inmate called Steve. Steve was convicted of conspiracy to murder. He is an accountant by profession, well spoken, intelligent and interesting company. His story turns out to be a fascinating one. He was a senior partner in a small successful firm of accountants. He fell in love with one of the other partners, who was already married to acolleague. One night, on his way home from work, Steve stopped at a pub he regularly frequented. He knew the barman well and told him that given half a chance he'd kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d (meaning his girlfriend's husband). Steve thought nothing more of it until he received a phone call from the barman saying that for the right price it could be arranged.

The phone call was being taped by the police, as were several others that followed. It was later revealed in court that the barman was already in trouble with the police and reported Steve in the hope that it would help have the charges against him dropped. It seems the key sentence that mattered was, 'Are you certain you want to go ahead with it?' which was repeated by the barman several times. 'Yes,' Steve always replied.

Steve and his girlfriend were arrested, pleaded guilty and were sentenced to seven years. She currently resides at High-point, while he has gone from A- to B- to C-cat status in a couple of years (record time), and is now living on the enhanced wing at Wayland with D-cat status. He doesn't want to move to an open prison because Wayland is near his home.

He is also the prison's chief librarian. I have a feeling that you'll be hearing more about Steve in the future.

On the circuit round the perimeter we are joined by the prisoner I shared a cell with on my first night, Chris (stabbing with a Stanley knife). He tells me that the News of the World have been in touch with his mother and will be printing a story on Sunday. He tries to a.s.sure me that he has had no contact with them and his mother has said nothing.

Then it will only be three pages,' I tell him.

When I return to my cell, Jules is looking worried. He's also heard that Chris will be featured in the News of ike World this Sunday. Chris told him that a lot of his friends and a.s.sociates don't even know he's in jail, and he doesn't want them to find out. He attends education cla.s.ses twice a day and wants the chance to start a new life once he's been released. I just don't have the heart to tell him that the News of the World have absolutely no interest in his future.

10.00 pm We watch the news. Still more August storms. At 10.30 Jules switches channels to Ally McBeal while I try unsuccessfully to sleep. I'm not sure which is more distracting, the TV in our cell, or the rap music emanating from the other side of the block.

DAY 29

THURSDAY 16 AUGUST 2001

5.50 am

I wake from a dream in which I had been using the most foul language when talking to Mary. I can't explain it. I write for a couple of hours.

8.00 am I plug in Jules's radio so that I can hear Mary's interview with John Humphrys. I shave while the news is on, and become more and more nervous. It's always the same. I am very anxious when William screens one of the doc.u.mentaries he's been working on, or James is running the 800 metres, and especially whenever Mary has to give a talk that lay people might expect to understand. She's first on after the news and handles all of John Humphrys' questions in that quiet academic way that could only impress an intelligent listener.

But I can tell, even after her first reply, just how nervous she is. Once Mary has dealt with the Kurds and Baroness Nicholson, Humphrys moves on to the subject of how I'm getting on in jail. That was when Mary should have said, 'My agreement with you, Mr Humphrys, was to discuss only matters arising from the Kurds.' Once Mary failed to point this out, he moved on to the trial, the appeal and the sentence. I had warned her that he would. He has no interest in keeping to any agreement made between her and the producer. And that's why he is such a sharp interviewer, as I know from past experience.

9.30 am.

I call Mary, who feels she was dreadful and complains that John Humphrys broke the BBC's agreement and once the piece was over she told him so. What does he care? She then tells me that the CEO of the Red Cross, Sir Nicholas Young, was interviewed later, and was uncompromising when it came to any suggestion that one penny raised for the Kurds in the UK had not been accounted for. He went on to point out that I had nothing to do with either the collecting or distribution of any monies. I suggest to Mary that perhaps the time has come to sue Baroness Nicholson. Mary tells me that the lawyer's first priority is to have my D-cat reinstated so I can be moved to an open prison before we issue the writ. Good thinking.

'Don't waste any more of your units' she says. 'See you tomorrow.'

9.50 amDisaster. Darren reappears with my was.h.i.+ng. All fresh and clean, but the dryer has broken down for the first time in living memory. I take the wet clothes back to my cell and hang the T-s.h.i.+rts on the end of the bed, my underwear from an open cupboard door and my socks over the single chair. The sun is s.h.i.+ning, but not many of its rays are reaching through the bars and into my cell.

10.00 am Today is the first day of the fourth test match against Australia, and Hussain is back as captain. He said that although we've lost the Ashes (3-0), English pride is now at stake. I write for an hour and then turn on the television at eleven to see who won the toss. It's been raining all morning. Of course it has; the match is at Headingley (Leeds). I switch off the television and return to my script.

11.40 am I've been writing for over an hour when the cell door is unlocked. The governor would like a word. I go to the interview room and find Mr Cariton-Boyce and Mr Tinkler waiting for me.

Mr Cariton-Boyce looks embarra.s.sed when he tries to explain why I can't have any writing pads and pens or Alan Clark's Diaries. I make a small protest but only so it's on the record. He then goes on to tell me that I will not be moving to C block after all. They've had a re-think, and I'll be joining the adults on the enhanced spur, but - and there is always a but in prison - as no one is being released until 29 August, I'll have to stay put until then.

I thank him, and ask if my room-mate Jules can be moved to a single cell, as I fear it can't be too long before the News of the World will do to him exactly what they've done to every other prisoner who has shared a cell with me. This shy, thoughtful man will end up being described as a drug baron, and he doesn't have any way of fighting back.

Governor CarltonrBoyce nods. Promises are never made in prison, but he does go as far as saying, The next thing on my agenda is cell dispersal, because we have eight more prisoners coming in tomorrow.' I thank him and leave, aware that's about the biggest hint I'll get.

12 noon Lunch. Dale pa.s.ses me two little sealed boxes, rather than the usual single portion, and winks. I was down on today's menu for number three - vegetable stew - but when I get backto my cell, I discover the other box contains mushroom soup.

So I linger over the soup followed by vegetable stew. It's not Le Caprice -but it's not Belmarsh either.

1.15 pm I'm told that as part of my induction I must report to the education department and take a reading, writing and numeracy test. When I take my seat in the cla.s.sroom and study the forms, it turns out to be exactly the same test as the one set at Belmarsh. Should I tell them that I took the papers only two weeks ago, or should I just get on with it? I can see the headline in the Mirror: Archer Refuses to Take Writing Test. It would be funny if it wasn't exactly what the Mirror would do. I get on with it.

3.15 pm Gym. It's circuit-training day, and I manage about half of the set programme - known as the dirty dozen. The youngsters are good, but the star turns out to be a forty-five-year-old gypsy, who is covered in tattoos, and serving an eleven-year sentence for drug dealing. He's called Minnie, and out-runs them, out-jumps them, out-lifts them, out-presses them, and isn't even breathing heavily at the end. He puts me to shame; I can only hope that the youngsters feel equally humiliated.

4.20 pm I'm back in time for a shower. David (whisky bootlegger) is standing by my door. He tells me that he's written the outline for a novel and wants to know how to get in contact with a ghostwriter. This is usually a surrogate for are you available? I tell him exactly what I tell anyone else who writes to me on this subject (three or four letters a week): go to your local library, take out a copy of The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook and you'll find a section listing agents who handle ghostwriters. I a.s.sume that will keep him quiet for a few days.

4.41 pm David returns clutching a copy of The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook and shows me a page of names. I glance down the list but none is familiar. I have come across only a handful of agents over the years - Debbie Owen, George Greenfield, Deborah Rodgers, Jonathan Lloyd and Ed Victor - but there must be at least another thousand I've never heard of. I suggest that as my agent is visiting me tomorrow, if he selects some names, I'll ask Jonathan if he knows any of them.4.56 pm David returns with the list of names written out on a single sheet of paper. He hands over a Diet c.o.ke. He's what Simon Heffer would describe as 'a proper gent'.

6.00 pm Supper. Vegetable pie, two boiled potatoes and a lump of pet.i.ts pois, making un seul pois.