Hell

by Jeffrey Archer

  I spend an hour filling up my cellophane bag, carrying it across the corridor, emptying it, then rearranging my belongings in Cell 30. I have just completed this task when my new cell door is opened, and I’m ordered to go down to the hotplate for supper.

  6.00 pm

  I once again settle for the vegetarian option, although Paul (murder and stamps), who ticks off each name on a clipboard at the hotplate, tells me that the chicken is passable. I risk it. He’s wrong again. I won’t give him a third chance.

  During Association I spend half an hour with Billy Little (murder) in his cell, going over his work. He tells me he has at least another twenty years to serve as his tariff is open-ended, so I advise him to start writing a novel, even a trilogy. He looks doubtful. He’s not a man who’s ever put much faith in the word of a Conservative.

  There’s a knock on the cell door and a massive giant of a man ambles into the room looking like a second-row forward in search of a scrum. I noticed him on the first day as he stood alone in the far corner of the room, staring silently through me. He was hard to miss at over six foot, weighing around twenty-one stone. He’s never said a word to me since my arrival on the spur, and I confess to being a little apprehensive about him, even frightened. He’s known as Fletch.

  He’s come to ‘let me know’ that Terry is no longer complaining about my being moved into a single cell because he accepts that by phoning the Sun he was ‘out of order’, but he has since been warned that one of the Sunday papers is going to run a story about him hitting a woman over the head with a snooker ball wrapped in a sock. One of the many things prisoners will not tolerate is anyone attacking a woman. Terry has told Fletch that he’s terrified that some of the inmates will beat him up once the story is published.* Fletch is letting it be known that he doesn’t want any trouble, ‘even though he accepts that the lad was stupid to have talked to the press in the first place’. Fletch looks at me and says, ‘I must be the only person on the spur who hasn’t spoken to you, but then I hate everything you stand for. Don’t take it personally,’ he adds and then leaves without another word.

  Billy tells me that Fletch is one of the most respected prisoners on the spur and, to my surprise, a Listener. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he adds, ‘because I can tell you that one of the reasons we have so little trouble on this wing is because he was a bouncer for a London nightclub before he ended up in here. Last year he single-handedly stopped a riot over the state of the food. The screws could never have contained the problem on their own, and they know it.’

  I leave Billy and return to Association to play a couple of hands of Kaluki with Del Boy (murder), Colin (GBH) and Paul (murder – seventy-five years between them). I win the first hand and lose the second by 124 points. It’s been that sort of a day.

  Just as I’m about to return to my cell for lock-up, Ms Roberts appears on the floor. Terry rushes across to her and begins an animated conversation. She does her best to calm him down. When he is placated enough to move on, I ask her if she’s had a call from my solicitor.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘and I’ll have a word with you first thing in the morning. I hope you’ll feel it’s good news.’ I don’t press her for any details because several other prisoners have formed a queue as they also wish to speak to the Deputy Governor before lock-up.

  9.00 pm

  It has, as I have already stated, been an up and down sort of day, but I feel a little better after Ms Roberts’ comments. What will she have to tell me tomorrow?

  For the next couple of hours I go through another hundred letters that the censor has left on my bed. The pattern is now firmly set, but there is one letter in particular that amuses me – I am writing to give you my full support, as I suspect that no one else is bothering to do so at the present time. I smile because Ms Buxton of Northants reminds me just how fortunate I am to have so many people willing to fight my corner. I only have to think about Terry’s phantom visitor to realize just how lucky I am.

  Day 10

  Saturday 28 July 2001

  5.42 am

  I wake in a cold sweat, having had the strangest dream. I’m back at Oxford in the sixties, where I win the University cross-country trials, which would automatically ensure that I was awarded a Blue and a place in the team against Cambridge. As I ran the one hundred yards in my youth, this scenario seems somewhat unlikely. But it gets worse. I’m disqualified, and the race is awarded to the man who came second. When the cup is presented to him I lose my temper with the judges. The judges are David Coleman and the late Ron Pickering – two of the most decent men God ever put on Earth. They tell me they had to disqualify me because they just didn’t believe I could possibly have won. No doubt the prison psychiatrist will have a theory.

  6.11 am

  I don’t begin writing immediately as I consider the task I have set myself over the past few days: a close study of lifers.

  On spur one, there are fifty-two men serving life sentences.* I’ve now held long conversations with about twenty of them, and have come to the conclusion that they fall roughly into two categories. This is of course an over-simplification, as each individual is both complex and unique. The first group consist of those who insist, ‘It wasn’t me, guv, it was all a stitch up. They didn’t even find the murder weapon, but because of my previous record I fitted neatly into the required police profile.’

  The other group hold their hands in the air and admit to a moment of madness, which they will eternally regret, and accept they must pay the penalty the law demands. One or two even add, ‘It’s no more than I deserve.’

  My natural sense of justice makes me worry about the first group; are they all liars, or is there anyone on this spur serving a life sentence who is in fact innocent? But more of that later.

  9.00 am

  Saturdays differ from every other day of the week because you’re not supplied with a plastic bag containing breakfast the night before when you queue for supper. At 9 am your cell door is opened and you go down to the canteen for a cooked breakfast – egg, beans and chips. I accept the egg and beans, and wonder how many Saturdays it will be before I’m willing to add the chips.

  10.00 am

  I’m given the choice of taking exercise in the yard, or remaining banged-up in my cell. I sign up for exercise.

  On the first two circuits of the yard I’m joined by a group of drug dealers who ask me if I need anything, from marijuana to crack cocaine to heroin. It takes them some time to accept that I’ve never taken a drug in my life, and don’t intend to start now.

  ‘We do a lot of business with your lot,’ one of them adds casually.

  I would like to have replied, ‘And I hope you rot in jail for the rest of your life,’ but didn’t have the guts.

  The next inmate to join me is a hot-gospeller who hopes that while I’m in Belmarsh I’ll discover Christ. I explain that I consider one’s religion to be a personal and private matter, but thank him for his concern. He isn’t quite that easy to shake off and sticks with me for five more circuits: unlike a visit from a Jehovah’s Witness, there’s no way of slamming the front door.

  I hope to manage a few circuits on my own so I can think for a moment, but no such luck because I’m joined by a couple of East End tearaways who want my opinion on their upcoming court case. I warn them that my knowledge of the law is fairly sketchy, so perhaps I’m the wrong person to approach. One of them becomes abusive, and for the first time since arriving at Belmarsh, I’m frightened and fearful for my own safety. Paul has already warned me that there might well be the odd prisoner who would stick a knife in me just to get himself on the front pages and impress his girlfriend.

  Within moments, Billy Little and Fletch are strolling a pace behind me, obviously having sensed the possible danger, and although the two young hooligans are not from our spur, one look at Fletch and they are unlikely to try anything. The tearaways peel off, but I have a feeling they will hang around and bide their time. Perhaps it would be wise for me to avoid
the exercise yard for a couple of days.

  I’m finally joined by a charming young black prisoner, who wants to tell me about his drumming problem. It takes another couple of circuits before I realize that he doesn’t play in a rock band; drumming is simply slang for burglary. I consider this particular experience a bit of a watershed. If you didn’t know what ‘drumming’ was before you began reading this diary, you’re probably as naive as I am. If you did, these scribblings may well be commonplace.

  12 noon

  Lunch. I am now a fully fledged vegetarian. Outside of prison I founded a club known as VAF and VOP, which many of my friends have become members of after sending a donation to the Brompton Hospital.* VAF is ‘vegetarian at functions’. I have long believed that it is impossible, even in the best-run establishments, to prepare three hundred steaks as each customer would wish them cooked, so I always order the vegetarian alternative because I know it will have been individually prepared. VOP stands for ‘vegetarian on planes’. I suspect many of you are already members of this club, and if you are, pay up and send your five pounds to the Brompton Hospital immediately. I am now adding VIP to my list, and can only hope that none of you ever qualify for membership.

  2.00 pm

  The cell door is opened and I am told that Ms Roberts wants to see me. I feel my heart pounding as I try to recall her exact words the previous evening.

  When I join her in a room just off the bubble, she immediately confirms that my solicitors have been in touch, and she has told them that she wants me out of Belmarsh as quickly as possible. She adds that they moved Barry George (murder of Jill Dando) this morning, and I’m due out next. However, she has just received a phone call from a chief inspector in the Metropolitan Police, to warn her that they have received a letter from the Baroness Emma Nicholson, demanding an inquiry into what happened to the £57 million I raised for the Kurds.

  I assure Ms Roberts that I was in no way involved with the receiving or distribution of any monies for the Kurds, as that was entirely the responsibility of the Red Cross. She nods.

  ‘If the police confirm that they will not be following up Ms Nicholson’s inquiry, then we should have you out of Belmarsh and off to a D-cat by the end of the week.’

  As I have always in the past believed in justice, I assume that the police will quickly confirm that I was not involved in any way.

  Ms Roberts goes on to confirm that Ford, my first choice, is unwilling to take me because of the publicity problem, but she hopes to discuss some alternatives with me on Monday.

  Ms Roberts suggests that as my next lecture is coming up on Thursday, I should be released from my cell from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon, so I can prepare for the talk in the library where I will have access to reference books. She knows only too well that I can give this talk without a moment’s preparation but, unlike the Baroness Nicholson, she is concerned about what I’m going through.

  4.00 pm

  Association. During the Saturday afternoon break, I go down to the ground floor, hoping to watch some cricket on the TV, but I have to settle for horse racing as a large number of prisoners are already sitting round the set intent on following the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Epsom. The sport of kings has never been one of those pastimes that I’ve taken a great deal of interest in. I’ve long accepted George Bernard Shaw’s maxim on horse racing, that it’s nothing more than a plot between the upper classes and the lower classes to fleece the middle classes. I turn away from the television and see a slight, rather anaemic-looking young man standing alone in the corner. He’s wearing a raspberry-coloured tracksuit, the official garb of prisoners who do not have their own clothes. I’ve not come across him before, but he looks a most unlikely murderer. I stroll across to join Fletch, who I feel confident will know exactly who he is.

  ‘He’s got twenty-one days for shoplifting,’ Fletch tells me, ‘and has a mental age of about eleven’ He pauses. ‘They should never have sent him to Belmarsh in the first place.’

  ‘Then why put him on the lifers’ wing?’ I ask.

  ‘For his own protection,’ says Fletch. ‘He was attacked in the yard during exercise this afternoon, and some other cons continued to bully him when he returned to Block Two. He’s only got nine more days left to serve so they’ve put him in my cell.’ Now I understand why there are two beds in Fletch’s cell, as I suspect this is not an unusual solution for someone in distress.

  One of the phones becomes free – a rare occurrence – so I take advantage of it and call Mary in Grantchester. She’s full of news, including the fact that the former head of the prison service, Sir David Ramsbotham, has written to The Times saying it was inappropriate to send me to prison – community service would have been far more worthwhile. She tells me she also has a sackful of letters talking about the iniquity of the judge’s summing-up – not to mention the sentence – and she’s beginning to wonder if there might be the possibility of a retrial. I think not. Mr Justice Potts has retired, and the last thing the establishment would want to do is embarrass him.

  After thirty-seven years of marriage I know Mary so well that I can hear the strain of the last few weeks in her voice. I recall Ms Roberts’ words the first time we met: ‘It can be just as traumatic for your immediate family on the outside, as it is for you on the inside.’ My two-pound BT phonecard is about to run out, but not before I tell her that she’s a veritable Portia and I am no Brutus.

  The moment I put the phone down, I find another lifer, Colin (GBH), standing by my side. He wants to have a word about his application to do an external degree at Ruskin College, Oxford. I have already had several chats with Colin, and he makes an interesting case study. In his youth (he’s now thirty-five), he was a complete wastrel and tearaway, which included a period of being a professional football hooligan. In fact, he has written a fascinating piece on the subject, in which he now admits that he is ashamed of what he got up to. Colin has been in and out of jail for most of his adult life, and even when he’s inside, he feels it is nothing less than his duty to take the occasional swing at a prison officer. This always ends with a spell in segregation and time being added to his sentence. On one occasion he even lost a couple of teeth, which you can’t miss whenever he grins.

  ‘That’s history,’ he tells me, because he now has a purpose. He wants to leave prison with a degree, and qualifications that will ensure he gets a real job. There is no doubt about his ability. Colin is articulate and bright, and having read his essays and literary criticism, I have no doubt that if he wants to sit for a degree, it’s well within his grasp. And this is a man who couldn’t read or write before he entered prison. I have a real go at him, assuring him that he’s clever enough to take a degree and to get on with it. I start pummelling him on the chest as if he was a punch bag. He beams over to the duty officer seated behind the desk at the far end of the room.

  ‘Mr King, this prisoner is bullying me,’ says Colin, in a plaintive voice.

  The officer smiles. ‘What have you been saying to him, Archer?’

  I repeat the conversation word for word.

  ‘Quite agree with you, Archer,’ he says, and returns to reading the Sun

  6.00 pm

  Supper. Vegetarian fingers, overcooked and greasy, peas that are glued together, and a plastic mug of Highland Spring (49p).

  8.00 pm

  I’ve just finished checking over my script for the day when my cell door is opened by an officer. Fletch is standing in the doorway and asks if he can join me for a moment, which I welcome. He takes a seat on the end of the bed, and I offer him a mug of blackcurrant juice. Fletch reminds me that he’s a Listener, and adds that he’s there if I need him.

  The Listeners

  Who are they?

  How do I contact them?

  How do I know I can trust them?

  Listeners are inmates, just as you are, who have been trained by the Samaritans in both suicide awareness and befriending skills.

  You
can talk to a Listener about anything in complete confidence, just as you would a Samaritan. Everything you say is treated with confidentiality.

  Listeners are rarely shocked and you don’t have to be suicidal to talk to one. If you have any worries or concerns, however great or small, they are there for you. If you have concerns about a friend or cellmate and feel unable to approach a member of the spur staff or healthcare team, then please tell a Listener in confidence. It is not grassing and it may save a life.

  Listeners are easy to contact. Their names are displayed on orange cards on their cell doors and on most notice boards throughout the House-Blocks or ask any member of the spur staff.

  Listeners are all bound by a code of confidentiality that doesn’t only run from House-Block to House-Block but also through a great number of Prisons throughout the country. Any breach of that confidentiality would cause irreparable damage to the benefits achieved, and because of this code Listeners are now as firmly established as your cell door.

  He then begins to explain the role of Listeners and how they came into existence after a fifteen-year-old boy hanged himself in a Cardiff jail some ten years ago. He passes me a single sheet of paper that explains their guidelines. Among Fletch’s responsibilities is to spot potential bullies and – perhaps more important – potential victims, as most victims are too frightened to give you a name because they fear revenge at a later date, either inside or outside of prison

  I ask him to share some examples with me. He tells me that there are two heroin addicts on the spur and although he won’t name them, it’s hard not to notice that a couple of the younger lifers on the ground floor have needle tracks up and down their arms. One of them is only nineteen and has tried to take his own life twice, first with an overdose, and then later when he attempted to cut his wrist with a razor.