The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  ‘But wouldn’t it be much better if we could then take the ones who showed genuine interest and do something more lasting, more worthwhile for them? Like an A-level course?’

  ‘Now why on earth would you want to do that?’

  Alan winced. He’d been too keen, too quick. But then he looked up to see that Grant was smiling at him: it was a joke.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. We’d be delighted, but it would be a huge commitment.’

  ‘One which I would relish, I think. If these men genuinely want to learn, to improve themselves, then it’s my duty…’

  Grant cut in, much to Alan’s relief.

  ‘Richard did warn me that you were an idealist, Mr Cadbury.’

  ‘I’m sure he did. And please, call me Alan.’

  Grant was smiling broadly now, and shaking Alan’s hand.

  ‘That sounds absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much, Alan. I’ll have a word with the Club convenor when I return. I’ll also mention it to the Education Service. I can’t thank you enough. Splendid. Yes, splendid.’

  * * *

  A few days later, in the first week of October, Alan received an official envelope marked HMP Blackfen, in which was a letter from The Lifers’ Club. It gave an address in Luton where he could contact the Prison Education Service and discuss his ideas. He wrote a letter to The Lifers’ Club by hand and then phoned the Education Service.

  Setting up the A-level course was hard work. He had to provide an outline which had to conform closely with the Examining Board’s specification for their archaeology syllabus. In addition, he also had to specify how much ‘contact time’ he would have with each student; thankfully, however, the Prison Education Service were able to negotiate a way around the fieldwork and site visit requirements. It was well into autumn by the time everyone agreed on the study programme, which was now scheduled to begin on January 7th, with a general talk about the archaeology of the Fens and why it’s so special, so much richer than what you might find on the dryland, at sites like Flax Hole. Maybe, Alan hoped, that might catch Ali’s interest. After the talk, and as a special concession, the Governor had agreed to hold a tea and coffee reception for everyone attending. That way they hoped they’d get a good initial audience and with luck Alan could persuade sufficient students to enrol for the full A-level course, which would start a month later.

  He was tempted to call Lane, to thank him. But his instinct told him to let it be. Lane may have engineered the introduction, but that might have been simply to enable Alan to hear Grant’s version of events, the Governor’s inside opinion of Ali and thereby persuade Alan to give up the case for good. Whatever Lane’s intention, Alan doubted that he would approve of the outcome of the meeting. He’d wait until he had something to take back to Lane. Something that would force him to reconsider his opinion of Ali. Though what that might be, Alan had absolutely no idea.

  Alan was aware he was taking a huge risk. If Ali’s experiences over the past two years had embittered or radicalised him, he would be unlikely to want to take up something as seemingly marginal as an A-level archaeology course. For all Alan knew, he might indeed have become a religious fundamentalist, sitting alone in solitary confinement, resentfully planning mayhem against the West. But whatever had happened over the past seven years, he still hoped he could somehow re-discover the same breezy, intelligent person he’d known at Flax Hole.

  In fairness to himself, Alan had thought long and hard about the implications of the new course. If, for example, Ali didn’t show up, but sufficient numbers of other students did, then he was lumbered with over a year of lectures and numerous personal supervisions. And he’d have to follow through. He’d have to deliver. You can’t raise people’s hopes and then just dash them, on what would seem like a whim. Alan didn’t rate his conscience, but even he didn’t feel he could drop everything, just because one key student hadn’t shown up. No, it was going to be a personal gamble. A very big one.

  Six

  Alan’s heart sank as he walked across the damp car park. The finished building with its massive, black-topped security wall was far more depressing than he’d imagined nearly twenty years ago, when he’d helped dig the Roman site beneath it. To his left he recognised one of their old spoil heaps, which had been tastefully landscaped into a gentle tree-clad bank to protect visitors’ cars from the biting north-easterly winds of early January.

  The Home Office had chosen Blackfen because it was deep in the Fens, and like Dartmoor, any escaping prisoner would have to find his way through a cruelly exposed landscape: no rocks or savage hounds, but deep, water-filled dykes. As he made his way towards the Visitors’ Entrance, he could see groups of tired, blowsy women with children clinging to their sides and baby buggies everywhere. They must be the prisoners’ wives, girlfriends and families, he thought, as he approached the double glass doors. It was hard not to feel sorry for them: there was no laughter behind their eyes, which flicked restlessly from one person to another, as if expecting an assault. Nearly every woman was smoking, but not in the relaxed way you see in the outside world; instead, the smoke was sucked down deep, with hollow cheeks and tense, anxious expressions, while bent, nicotine-stained, fingers gripped the filters, as if for dear life.

  There was a small queue at the main doorway. He had been trying to fix in his mind precisely where their trenches had been twenty years ago, when a voice from behind two thicknesses of glass sharply demanded his name, and reason for his visit. He fumbled inside the battered knapsack that held his notes and produced the authorisation letter from the Education Service, which he passed through a hatch in the wall next to the window. He heard it fall, and the faint sound of another hatch opening inside. Less than a minute later, the door to his right opened and a uniformed prison officer, complete with a Hollywood-style bunch of keys dangling from a chain at his waist, stood there, reading his letter.

  He motioned Alan to come inside. The door slammed behind him. They were now standing in a large, modern entrance hall. Architecturally it was very severe, but then this was a prison.

  ‘If you follow me, Mr Cadbury, I’ll take you there; but it’s quite a long walk. Would you care to visit the toilet first?’

  Alan pushed the Gents door open and found the usual array of cubicles, but no urinals. He was surprised to see a prison officer standing on duty, next to the hand basins. There were rows of individual cubicles along two walls. He chose the nearest one and when safely inside did what he came to do. At first he was too busy feeling the welcome sense of relief to notice that two cameras were looking down at him. The first was in the cubicle itself, and the second in the ceiling of the room outside, high above his head. From time to time his eye was caught by the higher one as it moved from one cubicle to another, but there was no regularity. It wasn’t on auto, but was being moved remotely, by someone, somewhere else. He found himself wondering whether he was being ogled by a pervert in HMP Central Toilet Control, somewhere miles away. It had a strangely inhibiting effect on him. Made him feel dirty. So breaking the habit of a lifetime (his dad had once told him, when an old ewe pissed into his boots, that ‘urine, lad is sterile’), he washed his hands vigorously.

  He rejoined his escort officer in the Entrance Hall. He was smiling.

  ‘Unnerving, aren’t they?’

  Alan was in no doubt what he was talking about.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a little intrusive.’ He was aware that sounded ludicrously stiff-upper-lippish, but he continued. ‘Are they everywhere?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cameras?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Everywhere.’

  ‘Even in the officers’ section, in your own part of the prison?’

  ‘Especially there, sir. Imagine what would happen if there was a hostage situation. You’d want the authorities to know what was going on then, wouldn’t you, sir?’

  Alan was speechless. He was quite right, of course
you would. But the human cost of such security boggled his mind. He simply couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have no personal privacy. You couldn’t so much as pick your nose, let alone eat the bogey.

  Perhaps it was a hangover from his childhood, but he also hated formality; he detested dressing up in smart clothes and being on best behaviour. Even putting on the tie he was now wearing was an unwelcome imposition, and he knew he’d tear it off as soon as he was back in the car park. That’s why he liked the digging life: it was informality taken to extremes. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like living the Blackfen life, whether prisoner or screw.

  By now they were walking down a series of brightly lit, dead straight corridors. Sometimes he caught glimpses of the outside. It was a strange, almost night-time, world of blinding sodium lights and no horizon – all views being cut short by the vast block-built wall that both symbolised and enforced their confinement. That wall was immense. As he walked, he briefly closed his eyes, yes, he thought, you could probably see Chatteris, or Tubney out there, across the huge open space that was once Eastrea Mere. They could perfectly well have built a sturdy electric fence; at least you could have seen through it. Only then did he realise that the wall was about more than security. It was retribution. Punishment. Confinement. He had only been there for a quarter of an hour, and was already resenting its presence. Being a true-born Fenman, Alan loved the horizon.

  As they made their way along the corridors, his escort had to unlock and open a series of metal doors, seemingly put there at random. Presumably, Alan thought, it was something to do with security. He waited while yet another door was unlocked. But this time the officer also opened a second door, on the left. It gave into a fairly ordinary looking modern classroom, with screen, projector, a green blackboard and a long desk, complete with a box of chalks, at the front. Alan looked around him. The room was still empty, but when eventually they came in, the class would be sitting on six tiers of continuous benches and narrow tables. At a pinch, Alan rapidly estimated, the room could have held about seventy.

  The officer pressed a bell by the door and glanced at his watch.

  ‘They’ll be here in a couple of minutes,’ he said

  Alan wondered who ‘they’ might be. He knew it was a patently stupid idea, but he couldn’t get mad axe-men and baby-eaters out of his brain. His mind was starting to race. To calm his thoughts he looked around him. He started to unzip his laptop case to connect it to the projector, when the officer raised his hand, to stop him.

  ‘I’d wait, if I were you sir, we may not be in here.’ His eyes were raised to the ceiling as he received a message through his walkie-talkie’s earpiece.

  He was right. Another officer took them to a classroom further along the corridor. This one was slightly smaller. Alan again started to unpack. But before he had managed to retrieve anything, the second officer cut in

  ‘Before you unpack, Sir, I’d like to give you a tour of the security arrangements. Normally speaking there will always be two officers with you, but if there were to be an emergency call-out, you would need to be aware of what you can do for yourself.’

  There were plenty of panic buttons, and not just around the lecturer’s end of the room. By now, four prison officers had assembled in the room. Alan rummaged inside his bag looking for his notes, and as he did so, one of the officers slipped out and they could hear the sound of doors in the corridor being locked and unlocked.

  While they were waiting for the projector, two of the younger officers moved towards the back of the room, presumably Alan thought, to be in place for the arrival of the prisoners. That left an older man with him at the front desk. Alan liked the look of him. He wore his hair less brutally cropped and didn’t seem quite as hard-nosed as some of the younger men. Alan approached him.

  ‘It’s strange, I’ve done loads of lectures and to all sorts of audiences, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt as apprehensive as I do now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Mr Cadbury, you’ll be fine. They’re not monsters, you know, despite what the press might have you believe.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. I know that.’ He paused, ‘But I suppose it’s the surroundings. They don’t help, do they?’

  ‘It’s the same for the inmates. But you’d be surprised how quickly they get used to the place. One of them once told me it’s like a bad smell: after a few minutes you cease to notice it. It never goes away, but you learn to live with it.’

  Suddenly, Alan sensed an opportunity amongst the small talk. He leapt on it.

  ‘Do you know any of the men yourself, personally?’

  The older man smiled.

  ‘I should hope I do, sir. I’m on the long-term prisoners’ welfare council and being the senior officer on J Block.’

  ‘J Block?’

  ‘That’s where we are, sir. It’s where we accommodate the Lifers. We try to make it a little bit more relaxed than the rest of the prison.’

  ‘But hardly free-and-easy.’ Alan added.

  ‘Quite, sir. But some of these men will never get out. Others could be here thirty years, or more. It’s only human to try to make their lives easier.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘what’s the point of a short, sharp shock if you’re in for life? I can see that. So do you get much time alone with the men?’

  ‘Yes, with those who want to talk. A few don’t. They’re the ones to watch…’

  Time was passing. Alan pressed on, eager.

  ‘I’m having trouble trying to fix my audience in my mind and I do want to pitch the talk right. Each group is different. You might think that Women’s Institutes are the same…’

  ‘Jam and Jerusalem?’ the officer interrupted, grinning

  ‘Quite. But they never are. Take the ones around Cambridge. They’re mostly academics’ wives and very knowledgeable about certain things. Out here in the Fens they’re different, but many are farmers’ wives, so you can often learn a good deal of useful stuff about life in remote places. Lecturing, especially the questions afterwards, can be a two-way process.’

  The officer thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘These chaps have plenty of time to read. And many of them do. And of course now there’s the internet.’

  ‘J Block’s on the web?’ Alan was surprised.

  ‘Yes, the whole prison is, but it’s strictly supervised by Security and the Education Service.’

  ‘As you might know,’ Alan continued, ‘I want this introductory talk to lead to an A-level course.’

  ‘Yes, I did know that. If I were a bit younger I might have enrolled myself. It’s on posters all around the jail. You wouldn’t have seen them. The Lifers did them themselves.’

  ‘Tell me frankly, do you think I’ve got any chance of getting an A-level group together, or will it flop?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure it won’t flop. There’s quite a lot of interest here. History Hunters is very popular on Sunday evenings. We’ve DVDs and tapes of them in the Lifers’ library and your programmes have been borrowed a lot in the past week. I can tell you, we’re expecting a big turn-out.’

  ‘Do you know any men who seem particularly interested?’ Alan asked.

  He held his breath while the officer thought. Alan could see he was mentally counting them.

  ‘I reckon there are at least a dozen, that I can think of, offhand. Maybe more, as I don’t know every man personally.’

  ‘In the outside world most archaeological audiences tend to be a bit elderly and we’re always trying to attract youngster people to join us. Will that be the same here, d’you think?’

  Again the officer paused.

  ‘You’re right.’

  Alan’s heart sank at these words

  ‘Most of them are a bit older, generally in their fifties and sixties.’

  His words were cut short by the officer who had gone
for the projector. He was now brandishing it triumphantly.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said to the man standing by Alan, ‘had to go all the way to Room 6 to find this. I don’t know what happens to these things. It’s as if someone was nicking them.’

  ‘What, in a jail? You must be joking?’

  ‘Piss off, Fred,’ he laughed at the other officer, ‘but I’m sure there were half a dozen back in May. Now we’re down to just two. Bloody ridiculous.’

  They reeled out an extension cable and set up the projector. Alan attached his laptop and was about to boot the system, when one of the officers stopped him.

  ‘Best go to the front,’ he advised in a confidential tone, ‘they’ll be here any moment now.’

  * * *

  A red light started flashing over one of the three doors at the back. Two officers went across and stood either side of it, facing into the room. Meanwhile Alan had instinctively moved behind the desk, where he stood at the centre, with an officer at each end. He felt a distinct sense of trepidation, verging on outright fear.

  As he stood waiting he could imagine what the scene would look like from a distance. He could see himself standing alone, with his left hand moving almost imperceptibly towards one of the panic buttons. But he knew he mustn’t touch it. That would screw up all his plans. Then the double doors below the red light opened and the light went out.

  Most of the prisoners would not have been out of place catching the early morning train to Waterloo, from somewhere in suburban Surrey. They wore their own clothes and were chatting in a relaxed fashion. A couple waved to Alan (he assumed they were the organisers of the Club) and they then distributed themselves across the benches, like any other group of mature students. After he had been introduced to the class by an education officer, Alan was about to begin, when the red light flashed again and another prisoner entered the room, accompanied by two officers. He sat in a reserved seat by the door. Unlike the rest of the prisoners, he was wearing handcuffs. Alan realised with more than a slight chill who he was.