A Prison Diary Purgatory (2003)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘By the way,’ adds Darren, ‘one of the guys on our wing is being transferred tomorrow, so this may be your chance to get off the induction spur.’

  My heart leaps at the news. I try to find out more details as we continue our stroll through a gate and out onto a large open field that is surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire.

  Jimmy wins the toss and elects to bat. Now, for those of you who understand the game of cricket, HM prisons keep to a set of laws that even the MCC have no jurisdiction over. They may or may not give you a better insight into prison thinking:

  (a) Both sides have ten overs each.

  (b) Each over is nine balls and you never change ends.

  (c) Each side must play five bowlers who can bowl two overs each, but not consecutively.

  (d) There are no boundaries and you have to run every run.

  (e) The side with the highest score is the winner.

  (f) The umpire’s decision is final.

  While the other side takes to the field, Dale and Carl pad up for A block. I look in the equipment trolley, hoping I will find a box and a helmet. At the age of sixty-one I don’t fancy facing a twenty-two-year-old West Indian bowler from Brixton who thinks it would be fun to put me in hospital with no fear of being arrested for it. I can’t believe my eyes: bats, pads, helmets, guards, boxes and gloves that are far superior to anything I’ve ever seen at any club game.

  Our openers are both back in the pavilion by the end of the first over with the score at 6 for 2. We may well have first-class equipment, but I quickly discover that it does little for our standard of cricket. Our number four lasts for three balls so in the middle of the third over I find myself walking out to join Jimmy.

  D Block boo me all the way to the crease, bringing a new meaning to the word ‘sledging’. However, there is worse to come because the West Indian I referred to earlier is licking his lips in anticipation. Hell, he’s fast, but he’s so determined to kill me that accuracy is sacrificed and his nine-ball over is extended to thirteen, with four wides. After another couple of overs (don’t forget, nine balls each), Jimmy and I advance happily on to 35 for 4. That is when my captain decides to try and launch the ball over the prison fence and ends up having his middle stump removed.

  I fear neither Neville Cardus nor E. W. Swanton could have done justice to our progress from 35 for 4 to 39 all out. All you need to know is that the West Indian is back on for his second over, and during the next nine balls he takes five wickets at a cost of four runs. I leave the pitch 11 not out, having not faced a ball since my captain returned to the pavilion (bowlers don’t change ends). But all is not lost because when A block takes to the field - thanks to our demon quickie Vincent (manslaughter) - three of our opponents are back in the pavilion by the end of the first over, for a total of only five runs.

  The second bowler is our West Indian. He is robbed with two dropped catches and a plump LBW, or I felt so from cover point. When he comes off, D block have only reached 9 for 2, but then prison rules demand that we render up our third bowler. On his arrival, the game is quickly terminated as the ball is peppered ruthlessly around the pitch. D block reach the required total with no further loss of wickets and five overs to spare.

  On the way back to our cells, the D block captain says, ‘Not bad, Jeff, even though you played like a fucking public school cunt.’ In prison you have to prove yourself every day.

  Once we’re back inside the block, I tell Jimmy that I may be joining him on the enhanced spur.

  ‘I don’t think so, Jeff,’ he replies. The man who’s leaving us is our wing cleaner, and I think they’ve offered his cell to David (whisky bootlegger), the cleaner on your wing.’ My heart sinks. ‘Your best bet is to move into David’s cell, and stay there until another one comes free.’

  8.00 pm

  I return to my cell, but unfortunately there’s no time for a shower before we’re all banged up. I’m tired, sweaty, and even aching a little, having used muscles I don’t normally press into action in the gym. I’m also hungry, so I open a tin of Princes ham (49p) and a packet of crisps (27p).

  9.00 pm

  Jules watches The Bill, while I continue to read Graham Greene’s The Man Within. I fall asleep wondering if this is to be my last night in a double cell.

  DAY 35 - WEDNESDAY 22 AUGUST 2001

  6.04 am

  Wake. Fantasize about the possibility of a single cell. Write for two hours.

  8.15 am

  Breakfast Cornflakes and one slice of toast. Dale is missing from behind the hotplate.

  10.00 am

  I spot Dale in the corridor. He tells me he’s resigned from his job at the hotplate. He’s sick of getting up thirty minutes before the rest of us just to be abused by inmates who never feel their serve of chips is large enough.

  I see my name is chalked up on the blackboard outside the office to report to the SO, Mr Meanwell. I go straight to the e. He has a registered letter for me, and slits it open. He a two-sided typed missive which he hands over, but ; no interest in reading. While he checks inside the envel-I for drugs, money, even stamps, I begin to read the letter, and after only a paragraph, pass it back to Mr Meanwell. When he peruses it, a look of disbelief comes over his face. The writer wants to borrow PS10,000 to invest in ‘an impossible to lose deal’ and he’s willing to split the profits fifty-fifty.

  ‘How often do you get one of these?’ he asks.

  Two or three times a week,’ I confess, ‘asking for sums for as little as fifty pounds right up to a million for yet another ‘impossible to lose deal’.’

  ‘By the way,’ he says as he hands me the empty envelope, ‘you may be moving today.’ By the way, by the way, by the way - so casual for him, so important to me. ‘One of the chaps on the enhanced spur is being transferred to a prison nearer his home and we’re allocating his cell to an inmate who will take over his responsibilities as cleaner. Once that’s been sorted out, - Mr Meanwell is old enough still to include the word ‘out’ - ‘we’ll move you into his cell. I did think of sending you straight to the enhanced spur,’ he admits, ‘but there were two reasons not to. First, the spur needs a cleaner and you wouldn’t be my first choice for that particular job, and second, I want you on the quieter side where it’s not possible for other prisoners to peer through your window during exercise.’

  Once I leave Mr Meanwell, I go in search of David (whisky bootlegger and spur cleaner). I find him attached to the industrial cleaner whirring around the floor of the induction corridor. He invites me along to his present cell on the first floor which, compared to my one up, one down on the induction wing, is the difference between Fawlty Towers and the Ritz.

  11.00 am

  Exercise. During the first circuit I’m asked by Chris (burglary) if I’ll sponsor him for a half marathon in aid of the NSPCC. I agree to PS1 a mile, as long as it comes out of my private finances and not my canteen account. Otherwise I’ll be without food and bottled water for several weeks. He assures me that the authorities will allow that, so I sign up. He sticks with us for half a circuit, by which time I’ve learnt that he’s the type of burglar our probation officer, Lisa Dada, so despises. He’s twenty-seven years old and has spent eight of the last ten years in jail. He simply considers burglary a way of life. In fact, his parting words are, ‘I’m out in six weeks’ time, Jeff, but don’t worry, your house is safe.’ I realize those of you who have never been to jail may find this strange, but I now feel more sympathy for some of the murderers in Belmarsh than I do for professional burglars.

  It was sometime later that I began to ponder on how he could run thirteen miles without occupying half the local constabulary to make sure he didn’t escape. I’ll ask him tomorrow.

  Jason (conspiracy to blackmail) joins us on the second circuit and congratulates me on being moved to a single cell.

  ‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ I remind him.

  ‘No, but it will this afternoon.’

  Prison has many similarities to the
outside world. One is that you quickly discover who actually knows what’s going on and who only picks up fag ends. Jason knows exactly what’s happening.

  ‘Of course, if you want to,’ Jason adds, ‘you can always get yourself transferred to another prison.’

  ‘And how would I manage that?’

  ‘Write yourself a note and drop it in the complaints box. You don’t even have to sign it. It’s known as ‘the grass box’.’

  ‘And what would I have to suggest?’

  ‘Archer is offering me drugs and I can’t resist much longer, or Archer is bullying me and I’m near breaking point. If they believe it, you’d be transferred the same day. In fact your feet wouldn’t even touch the ground.’

  12 noon

  Lunch. The hotplate seems empty without the massive frame of Dale dominating proceedings. It looks as if Sergio has been promoted to No. 1 in his place, because he now stands next to the duty officer and hands out the dishes according to whether you’re one, two, three (vegetarian) or four.

  Three,’ Sergio says, without even glancing at the list, and then carefully selects my dish. The transfer of power has in no way affected me.

  1.45 pm

  Gym. The treadmill is working again so I’m almost able to carry out a full programme. With the new medicine ball exercise I’m up to fifteen, with a one-minute break, but after a further nine I’m exhausted and grateful when Mr Maiden blows the five-minute whistle so I can warm down. As we leave, everyone else picks up their assigned gym card before disappearing back to their cells. I no longer have a gym card. It’s been stolen every day since I arrived, and the management have given up bothering to-issue me with a new one.

  3.30 pm

  I come out of the shower to find Ms Webb waiting for me.

  ‘When the induction wing is banged up at four o’clock,’ she says, ‘I’ll leave your door open because we’re going to move you across to number two cell on the far spur.’

  I think about throwing my arms round Ms Webb, but as I only have a towel covering me, I feel sure she would put me on report, so I simply say, Thank you.’

  Once I’m dressed, I place all my belongings into the Belmarsh plastic bag in preparation for the move to the other side of the block. I am packed and ready to leave long before four.

  This will be my eighth move in five weeks.

  4.06 pm

  David (whisky bootlegger) is waiting for me in his old cell. It’s typical of his good manners that he has left the room spotless.

  Now that I have an extra cupboard, it takes me nearly an hour to decide where everything should go. Although the cell remains the regulation five paces by three, it suddenly feels much larger when you no longer have to share the cramped space with another prisoner. No more having to keep out of someone else’s way. No more television programmes I don’t want to watch. No more having to check whose slippers you’ve put on, that you’re using your own toothpaste, soap, even lavatory paper. No more

  There’s a knock on the cell door and Darren, Jimmy, Sergio and Steve make an entrance.

  ‘It’s a house-warming party,’ Darren explains, ‘and, like any good party, we come bearing gifts.’

  Sergio has three five-by-five-inch steel mirrors, the regulation size. He fixes them on the wall with prison toothpaste. I can now see my head and upper body for the first time in five weeks.

  Steve supplies - can you believe it - net curtains to hide my barred window, and at night tone down the glare of the fluorescent lights. Jimmy has brought all the paraphernalia needed - board, Blu-tack, etc. - to attach my family photos to the wall.

  Lad Darren demands a roll of drums before he will reveal his gift, because he’s come up with every prisoner’s dream: a plug. No longer will I have to shave in my cereal bowl.

  ‘Anything else you require, my lord?’ Steve enquires.

  ‘I’m out of Evian.’

  For the first time the visiting team admits defeat. A survey has been carried out and it’s been discovered that I am the only prisoner on the block who purchases bottled water from the canteen.

  ‘So, like the rest of us,’ says Darren, ‘if you want more water, you’ll have to turn on the tap.’

  ‘However,’ adds Sergio, ‘now that I’m number one on the hotplate,’ he pauses, ‘you will be able to have an extra carton of milk from time to time.’

  What more could a man ask for?

  7.00 pm

  I read over today’s script in my silent cell and when I’ve finished editing I place the six pages in one of my new drawers. Every ten days the sheets are transferred to a large brown envelope (30,000 words) and sent off to Alison to type up.

  I settle down on my bed to watch A Touch of Frost. David Jason is as consistent as ever, but the script is too flimsy to sustain itself for two hours, so I switch off the television and, for the first time in ten days, also the light, climb into my single bed and sleep. Goodbye, window warriors, may I never hear from you again.

  DAY 36 - THURSDAY 23 AUGUST 2001

  5.18 am

  I wake, depressed about two matters. When I phoned Mary last night, she told me that the Red Cross have asked KPMG to audit the Simple Truth campaign, because some of their larger donors have been making waves and they want to dose the subject once and for all. Tony Morton-Hooper wrote to the police, pointing out that this internal audit has nothing to do with my involvement with the campaign. Mary and Tony are doing everything they can to get the police to admit that the whole enquiry is a farce and that Ms Nicholson’s accusations were made without a shred of evidence. Despite their efforts I have a feeling the police will not close their enquiry until they’ve considered his report, so it could now be months before my D-cat is reinstated.

  I’m also depressed because the Tory party seems to have broken out into civil war, with Margaret Thatcher saying it will be a disaster if Ken Clarke wins, and John Major declaring that if IDS becomes leader well be in Opposition for another decade.

  Six years so far.

  6.00 am

  I write for two hours.

  8.15 am

  After breakfast, Darren picks up my laundry, and warns me that the tumble dryer is still not functioning.

  9.00 am

  Banged up for another two hours because the staff are having their fortnightly training session in the gym. I’m told their activities range from first-aid lessons to self-defence (secure and protect), from checking through the latest Home Office regulations to any race relations problems, plus fire training, HIV reports and likely suicide candidates. One good thing about all this is that the tax payer is saved having to fund my pottery class (PS1.20).

  11.00 am

  I watch Nassar Hussain lose the toss for the fourteenth time in a row. I must ask Mary what the odds are against that

  I walk out into the exercise yard just before the gates are closed at five past eleven. Jimmy points to Mario (not his real name) who is walking a few paces ahead of us. I hope you can recall Mario’s scam. While working on the hotplate he stole almost all the cheese. He then made Welsh rarebit, at a phone-card for two, using an iron as the toaster. Mario was caught creaming off nearly half a million a year from his fashionable London restaurant without bothering to pay any tax on his windfall. Although I have never frequented Mario’s establishment, I know it by reputation. There can be no doubt of the restaurant’s success, because it was one of those rare places that do not accept credit cards - only cash or cheques.

  While we stroll round the yard - Mario’s not into power walking - he explains that approximately half of his income was in cash, the rest cheques or accounts. However, the taxman had no way of finding out what actual percentage was cash, until two tax inspectors visited the restaurant as diners. From careful observation they concluded that nearly half the customers were paying cash, whereas Mario’s tax return showed a mere 10 per cent settled the bill this way. But how could they prove it? The inspectors paid cash themselves and requested a receipt. What they couldn’t know was that
Mario declared all the bills where the customer asked for a receipt, which he then entered in his books. Bills for which no receipts were given were destroyed and the cash then pocketed.

  The taxmen couldn’t become regular customers (their masters wouldn’t allow such an extravagance) and were therefore unable to prove any wrongdoing. That was until a young, newly qualified accountant joined the Inland Revenue and came up with an ingenious idea as to how to ensnare Mario. The fresh-faced youth found out which laundry the restaurant used and over the next three months had the tablecloths and napkins counted. There were 40 per cent more tablecloths than bills and 38 per cent more napkins than customers.

  Mario was arrested and charged with falsifying his accounts. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two years. He will be returning to his restaurant later this year having, in answer to customers’ enquiries, taken a ‘sabbatical’ in his native Florence.

  They’ve got it all wrong, Jeffrey,’ Mario says. The likes of you and me shouldn’t be in jail mixing with all this riff-raff. They should have fined me a million pounds, not paid out thirty-five thousand to accommodate me for a year. My regulars are livid with the police, the courts and the Inland Revenue.’ His final words are, ‘By the way, Jeffrey, do you like buck rarebit?’

  12 noon

  Lunch. Among the many things Mario briefed me on was how to select the best daily dish from the weekly menu. You must only choose dishes that are made with fresh ingredients grown on the premises and not bought in. As from next week there will be variations from my usual vegetarian fare.

  2.00 pm

  I read the morning papers. Margaret and John have placed their cutlasses back in their sheaths and both have fallen silent - for the time being. The press are describing the leadership contest as the most acrimonious in living memory, and one from which the party may never recover. Reading this page a couple of years after the event will give us all the benefit of hindsight. Is it possible that the party that governed for the longest period of time during the twentieth century will not hold office in the twenty-first? Or will Tony Blair suddenly look fallible?