Hell: A Prison Diary Part 11

The Ess.e.x man (teabags) sitting next to Ali boasts to anyone who cares to listen that he is a professional gangster who specializes in robbing banks. The gang consists of his brother-in-law, a friend and himself. He tells me they make a very profitable living, but expect to spend at least half of their working lives in jail. He and Ali could not be more different.

The prisoner who turns up every fifteen minutes to empty the large bucket at the end of the table doesn't hang around, so I can't discover much about him, other than he's twenty-three, this is his first offence, his case hasn't come before the court yet, and he's hoping to get off. If he doesn't, he tells me, he'll use the time to study for an Open University history degree. I don't think he realizes that he's just admitted that he's guilty.

A hooter blasts to indicate that the one hundred and twenty minutes are finally up, we are all escorted back to our separate spurs, and banged up again until lunch.

12 noon Lunch. What's on offer is so bad that I have to settle for a small tin of Heinz potato salad (61p) and three McVitie's biscuits (17p). As I return from the hotplate I see Andy leaning up against the fence that divides the spur from the canteen area. He pushes a bottle of Highland Spring through a triangle of wire mesh the high point of my day.

2.00 pm The Chaplain, David Powe, makes an unscheduled visit to my cell. He's wearing his dog collar, the same beige coat, the same dark grey trousers, and the same shoes as he has at the previous meetings. I can only conclude that he must be paid even less than the prison officers. He's kept his promise and got hold of some drawing paper for Derek Jones, who can't afford more than one pad a week.

The Chaplain goes on to tell me that he and his family will be off on holiday for the next three weeks, and just in case he doesn't see me again, he would like to wish me luck with my appeal, and hopes I'll be sent in the near future to somewhere a little less foreboding than Belmarsh. Before he leaves, I read to him my description of the service he conducted last week. He chuckles at the Cain and Abel reference a man able to laugh at himself. He leaves me a few moments later to go in search of Derek, and hand over the drawing pads.

It was some hours later that I felt racked with guilt by the thought he must have paid for the paper out of his own pocket.

2.48 pm My door is unlocked by Ms Taylor who enters the cell carrying what looks like a tuning fork. She goes over to my window and taps the four bars one by one.

'Just want to make sure you haven't loosened them, or tried to replace them,' she explains. 'Wouldn't want you to escape, would we?'

I'm puzzled by Ms Taylor's words because it's a sheer drop of some seventy feet from the third floor down to the exercise yard, and then you would still have to climb over a thirty-five-foot wall, topped with razor wire, to escape. Houdini would have been stretched to consider such a feat. I later learn that there's another thirty-five-foot wall beyond that, not to mention a few dozen Alsatians who don't respond to the command, 'Sit, Rover.'

I can only conclude it's in the prison manual under the heading, 'tasks to be carried out, once a day, once a week, once a year, once in a lifetime'. *

4.00 pm I've put my name down for the gym again as I'm now desperate to get some exercise.

When an officer hollers out, 'Gym,' I'm first in the queue that congregates on the middle floor. When the gate is opened, I'm informed by the duty Gym Instructor that only eight prisoners can partic.i.p.ate from any one spur, and my name was the twelfth to be registered The low point of my day.

I return to the ground floor and watch the first half of a Humphrey Bogart black-andwhite movie, where Bogey is a sea dog who plays a major part in winning the war in the North Atlantic. However, we are all sent back to our cells at five, so I never discover if it was the Germans or the Americans who won the last War.

5.20 pm I have an unscheduled visit from two senior officers, Mr Scanell and Mr Green. To be fair, most meetings in prison are unscheduled; after all, no one calls in advance to fix an appointment with your diary secretary. They are concerned that I am no longer going out into the yard during the afternoon to take advantage of forty-five minutes of fresh air and exercise. They've heard a rumour that on my last outing I was threatened by another prisoner, and for that reason I've remained in my cell. They ask me if this is true, and if so, am I able to supply them with any details of those who threatened me. I tell them exactly what took place in the yard, but add that I am unwilling to name or describe the young tearaway involved. They leave twenty minutes later with several pages of their report sheet left blank.

I ask Tony what would have happened if I'd told them the name of the two culprits.

'They would have been transferred to another prison later today,' Tony replied.

'Wouldn't it be easier for them to transfer me?' I suggest.

'Good heavens, no,' said Tony. 'That would demand a degree of lateral thinking, not to mention common sense.'

6.00 pm Supper. Vegetable stew and a lollipop. The lollipop was superb.

6.43 pm Fletch visits my cell and tries to convince me that it's my duty to name the cons who threatened me in the yard, because if I don't, it won't be long before they're doing exactly the same thing to someone less able to take care of themselves. He makes a fair point, but I suggest what the headlines would be the following day if I had given the officers the names: Archer beaten up in yard; Archer demands extra protection; Under-staffed prison service doing overtime to protect Archer, Archer reports prisoner to screw.

No, thank you, I tell Fletch, I'd rather sit in my cell and write. He sighs, and before leaving, hands me his copy of the Daily Telegraph. It's a luxury to have a seventy-twopage paper, even if it is yesterday's. I devour every page.

The lead story is a poll conducted for the Telegraph by youGov.com showing that, although Iain Duncan Smith is running 4060 behind Ken Clarke in the national polls, he is comfortably ahead with the Party members.h.i.+p. It seems to be a no-win situation for the Conservatives. The only person who must be laughing all the way to the voting booth is Tony Blair.

7.08 pm.

I have a visit from Paul, a tea-boy which is why he's allowed to roam around while the rest of us are banged up. He says he has something to tell me, so I pick up my pad, sit on the end of the bed and listen.

Paul is about six foot one, a couple of hundred pounds and looks as if he could take care of himself in a sc.r.a.p. He begins by telling me that he's just been released from a drug-rehabilitation course at the Princess Diana centre in Norfolk. It's taken them eight months to wean him off his heroin addiction.

I immediately enquire if he now considers himself cured. Paul just sits there in silence and avoids answering my question. It's obviously not what he came to talk to me about.

He then explains that during his rehab, he was made to write a long self-a.s.sessment piece and asks if I will read it, but he insists that no one else on the spur must find out its contents.

'I wouldn't bother you with it,' he adds, 'if it were not for the fact that several prisoners on this spur have had similar experiences, and they're not necessarily the ones you might expect.' He leaves without another word.

If you were to come across Paul at your local, you would a.s.sume he was a middlecla.s.s successful businessman (he's in jail for credit-card fraud). He's intelligent, articulate and charming. In fact he doesn't look any different to the rest of us, but then why should he? He just doesn't want anyone to know about his past, and I'm not talking about his 'criminal past'.

As soon as my cell door is closed, I begin to read the self-a.s.sessment piece that is written in his own hand. He had a happy upbringing until the age of six when his parents divorced. Two years later his mother remarried. After that, he and his brothers were regularly thrashed by their stepfather. The only person he put any trust in was an uncle who befriended him and turned out to be a paedophile. His next revelation I would not consider for a plot in a novel, because it turns out that his uncle is now locked up on House Block Two, convicted of indecent a.s.sault on an underaged youth. The two men can see each other through the wire mesh across the yard during the afternoon exercise period.

Paul doesn't know what he would do if he were ever to come face to face with his uncle.

At no time in his exposition does he offer this as an excuse for his crime, but he points out that child abuse is a common symptom among those serving long-term sentences. I find this quite difficult to come to terms with, having had such a relaxed and carefree upbringing myself. But I decide to ask Fletch if Paul is a) telling the truth, b) correct in his overall a.s.sessment.

When I did eventually ask Fletch, I was shocked by his reply.*

10.00 pm.

After I've read through Paul's piece a second time, I turn to the latest bunch of letters just over a hundred which keep my spirits up, until I switch on the nine o'clock news on Radio 4, to discover that there are still no plans to move me from this h.e.l.lhole.

11.00 pm.

I start to read John Grisham's The Partner, and manage seven chapters before turning the light off just after midnight. I can't believe it, no rap music.

Day 13 - Tuesday 31 July 2001.

5.55 am.

Woke up before the Alsatians this morning.

I've finally worked out why they make so much noise. It's because they are being fed on the same food as the prisoners. Write for two hours.

8.00 am.

I finish the box of cornflakes and the last drop of UHT milk, hopeful that my canteen order will materialize at some time later today. I get dressed. I can move another notch up on my belt I must have lost several pounds, but have no other way of confirming this.

9.00 am.

When my cell door is opened, I don't join the other prisoners to go to the workshop as I have an appointment with the Education a.s.sessor, Judy Fitt, known amongst the prisoners as 'Misfit' a joke she must be heartily sick of.

When Ms Fitt arrives, the officer on the front desk calls for me, or to be more accurate, bellows out my name, as I'm on the top landing, and they never move from the ground floor unless they have to. I go down to meet her. Judy is a short could lose a few pounds blonde, of about forty with a happy, optimistic smile. I pick up two chairs from the pile by the TV and place them under the window at the end of the room. I think she's surprised that I insist on carrying her chair. Once seated, she takes me through all the education curriculum has to offer, from teaching reading and writing skills, through to taking a degree. Her enthusiasm leaves me in no doubt that Judy is another public servant dedicated to her job. She also suggests that in my case I could learn to cook, draw, or even, after all these years of avoiding it, discover how to use a computer.

That would impress Mary.

I remind Judy that I'm only expecting to be at Belmarsh for a few more days, and would like to use my time to teach other prisoners to read and write. Judy considers this suggestion, but would prefer I gave a creative-writing course, as there are several inmates working on books, poems and essays who will have dozens of unanswered questions. I agree to her request and, aware of my escape plan, Judy suggests I ought to give my first lesson tomorrow morning. She pauses, looking a little embarra.s.sed. 'But first I have to enrol you in the education department.'

She pa.s.ses me over yet more forms. 'Can you complete these tests and let me have them back later today so that I can process them in a matter of hours?'

'I'll try to have them completed by the end of the morning.'

She laughs. 'It won't take you that long.'

I return to my cell, and as I have nothing to do for the thirty minutes before lunch, begin to fill in the little boxes headed Education Test. I've selected some random examples: 1) English spell these words correctly: wos, befor, wer, gril, migt, siad, affer.

2) Maths a) 13+34, 125+386? b) how much change do you get from 5 if you spend 1.20?

3) what is 7.15pm on a twenty-four hour clock?

4) how much time is there between 4.30 and 6.15?

5) what is 25% of 300?

6) if 1 biscuit costs 25p, 6 are 1.38, 12 are 2.64, and 24 are 6, which is the better buy?

I complete the six pages of questions and return them to Ms Fitt, via Billy Little (murder), who has an education cla.s.s this afternoon.

12 noon Lunch. Provisions have not yet arrived from the canteen. Half a portion of macaroni cheese and a mug of Highland Spring. Have you noticed I'm beginning to eat prison food?

1.40 pm My cell door is opened, and I'm told Ms Roberts wants to see me. I am accompanied to the Governor's office by Mr Weedon. I don't bother to ask him why, because he won't know, and even if he does, he wouldn't tell me. Only moments later I discover that Ms Roberts has nothing but bad news to impart and none of it caused by the staff at Belmarsh. My Category D status has been raised to C because the police say they have been left with no choice but to follow up Baroness Nicholson's allegations, and open a full inquiry into what happened to the money raised for the Kurds. As if that wasn't enough, the C-cat prison I've been allocated to is on the Isle of Wight. How much further away do they want me to be from my family?

The raising of my status, Ms Roberts explains, is based on the fear that while a further inquiry is going on I might try to escape.

Scotland Yard obviously has a sense of humour. How far do they imagine I could get before someone spotted me?

Ms Roberts informs me that I can appeal against both decisions, and if I do, the authorities have agreed to make an a.s.sessment by Thursday. She points out that the Isle of Wight is a long way from my residence in Cambridge, and it's the responsibility of the Home Office to house a prisoner as close to his home as possible. If that's the case, I'm only surprised they're not sending me to the Shetland Isles. She promises to have a word with my solicitor and explain my rights to them. If it were not for Ms Roberts and Ramona Mehta, I would probably be locked up in perpetual solitary confinement.

I cannot express forcibly enough my anger at Emma Nicholson, especially after my years of work for the Kurds. One call to Sir Nicholas Young at the Red Cross and all her questions as to the role I played in the Simple Truth campaign could have been answered. She preferred to contact the press.

Ms Roberts points out that as my lawyers are due to visit me at two o'clock, perhaps I should be making a move. I thank her.

Baroness Nicholson could learn a great deal from this twenty-six-year-old woman.

2.00 pm I join Alex Cameron and Ramona Mehta in the visitors' area. This time we've been allocated a room not much bigger than my cell.

But there is a difference on three sides it has large windows. When you're behind bars day and night, you notice windows.

Before they go on to my appeal against conviction and sentence, I raise three other subjects on which I require legal advice.

First, whether the Baroness has stepped over the mark. The lawyers fear she may have worded everything so carefully as to guarantee maximum publicity for herself, without actually accusing me of anything in particular. I point out that I am only too happy to cooperate with any police inquiry, and the sooner the better. The Simple Truth campaign was organized by the Red Cross, and the Treasurer at the time will confirm that I had no involvement whatsoever with the collecting or distributing of any monies.

Ramona points out that several Red Cross officials, past and present, have already come out publicly confirming this.

I then tell my lawyers the story of Ali (28,000 stolen and returned, but now doing an eighteen-month sentence for breach of trust). I ask that the police be reminded that Mrs Peppiatt admitted in the witness box to double-billing, stealing a car, taking her children on a free holiday to Corfu, buying presents for mistresses that didn't exist and claiming expenses for meals with phantom individuals. Can I hope that the CPS will treat her to the same rigorous inspection as Ali and I have been put through?

Third, I remind them that Ted Francis, the man who sold his story to the News of the World for fourteen thousand pounds, still owes me twelve thousand. I'd like it back.

The lawyers promise to follow up all these matters. However, they consider the reinstatement of my D-cat and making sure I don't have to go to the Isle of Wight their first priorities.

I ask Ramona to take the next five days of what I've written and hand the script over to Alison for typing up. Ramona leaves our little room to ask the duty officer if he will allow this. He turns down her request. Alex suggests I hold onto the script until I've been transferred to a less security-conscious prison. He also advises me that it would be unwise to think of publis.h.i.+ng anything until after my appeal has been considered. I warn them that if I lose my appeal and continue to keep up my present output for the entire sentence, I'll end up writing a million words.

On the hour, an officer appears to warn us that our time is up. Ramona leaves, promising to deal with the problems of my D-cat and the Isle of Wight immediately.

While I'm waiting to be escorted back to Block One, I get into conversation with a Greek Cypriot called Nazraf who is on remand awaiting trial. He's been charged with 'detaining his wife in a motorcar' I had no idea there was such a charge. I repeat his story here with the usual government health warning. Nazraf tells me that he locked his wife in the car for her own safety because he was at the time transferring a large sum of cash from his place of work to a local bank.

He's in the restaurant business and for several years has been very successful, making an annual profit of around 200,000. He adds with some considerable pa.s.sion that he still loves his wife, and would prefer a reconciliation, but she has already filed for divorce.

Nazraf comes across as a bright, intelligent man, so I have to ask him why he isn't out on bail. He explains that the court demanded a sum of 40,000 to be put up by at least four different people, and he didn't want his friends or business a.s.sociates to know that he was in any trouble. He had always a.s.sumed that the moment he was sent to jail, his wife would come to her senses and drop the charges. That was five weeks ago and she hasn't budged. The trial takes place in mid...

September...

This is all I could find out before we were released from the waiting room to continue on our separate paths I to Block One, Nazraf to Block Four. His final destination also puzzles me, because Block Four usually houses terrorists or extremely high-security risks. I'd like to meet Nazraf again, but I have a feeling I never will.

6.00 pm Supper. Provisions have arrived from the canteen and been left in a plastic bag on the end of my bed. I settle down to a plate of tinned Spam, a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, two McVitie's digestive biscuits and finally a mug of blackcurrant juice, topped up with Evian water. What more could a man ask for.

8.00 pm a.s.sociation. I am asked to join a group of 'more mature' prisoners at sixty-one I am by far the oldest, if not the most mature for their weekly committee meeting in Fletch's cell.

Other attendees include Tony (marijuana only), Billy (murder), Colin (GBH) and Paul (murder).

Like any well-run board meeting, we have a chairman, Fletch, and an agenda. First we discuss the hours we are permitted to be out of our cells, and how Mr Marsland has made conditions more bearable since he became the senior officer. Fletch considers that relations between the two parties who live on different sides of 'the iron barrier' are far more tenable even amicable than at any time in the past. Colin is still complaining about a particular warder, who I haven't yet come across. According to Colin, he treats the prisoners like sc.u.m, and will put you on report if you as much as blink in front of him. He's evidently proud of the fact that he's put more people on report than any other officer, and that tells you all you need to know about him, Colin suggests.

I decide to observe this man from a distance and see if Colin's complaint is justified.

Most of the officers make an effort 'to keep a lid on things', preferring a calm atmosphere, only too aware that lifers' moods swing from despair to hope and back to despair again in moments. This can, in the hands of an unthinking officer, lead to violence. Colin, I fear, is quick to wrath, and doesn't need to take another step backwards, just as things are going a little better for him.

The next subject the committee discuss is prison finance. Tony reports that the Governor, Hazel Banks, has been given a bonus of 24,000 for bringing Belmarsh Prison costs down by four hundred thousand.

Hardly something a free enterprise merchant like myself could grumble about. However, Paul feels the money would have been better spent on inmates' education and putting electricity into the cells. I have no idea if these figures are accurate, but Tony confirms that he checked them in Sir David Ramsbotham's (head of the prison service) annual review.

When the meeting breaks up, Derek Del Boy Bicknell (murder) interesting that he has not been invited to join the committee meeting asks if he could have a private word with me. 'I've got something for you to read,' he says. I walk across the ground floor from Cell 9 to Cell 6. After he's offered me a selection of paperbacks, I discover the real reason he wishes to see me.

He wants to discuss his appeal, and produces a letter from his solicitor. The main grounds for his appeal appear to be that his former solicitor advised him not to go into the witness box when he wanted to. He subsequently sacked the solicitor and his QC. He has since appointed a new legal team to advise him, but he's not yet chosen a QC. Imagine my surprise when I discover one of his grounds for appeal is that he is unable to read or write, and therefore never properly understood what his rights were. I look up at a shelf full of books above his bed.

'You can't read?'

'No, but don't tell anyone. You see, I've never really needed to as a car salesman.'

This is a prisoner who carries a great deal of responsibility on the spur. He's a Listener and number one on the hotplate. I earlier described him as a man who could run a private company and I have not changed my mind. Del Boy brings to mind Somerset Maugham's moving short story, 'The Bell Ringer'. However, it's still going to be a disadvantage for him not to be able to study his legal papers. I begin to wonder how many other prisoners fall into the same category, and worse, just won't admit it. I go over the grounds of appeal with Del Boy line by line.

He listens intently, but can't make any notes.

8.45 pm Lock-up is called so I return to my cell to face delighted to face another pile of letters left on my bed by Ray the censor. I realize the stack will be even greater tomorrow when the papers inform their readers that I will not be going to an open prison, after Emma Nicholson has dropped her 'I was only doing my duty' barb into an already boiling cauldron.