Hell

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘I see that there are a lot of empty seats in the stands,’ says Mr Hughes, ‘but I find it hard to believe that they’re all now in prison.’

  Just as Macey goes to his blocks, I spot Joseph standing in the corner – a man who prefers the centre of the room. I leave the World Athletics Championships for a moment to join him.

  ‘Any news of your son?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’ He looks surprised that I’ve found out about his problem. ‘I’ve phoned his mother, who says that he’s under arrest and she’s trying to get in touch with the British Consul. They’ve got him banged up in a local jail. What are prisons like in Cyprus?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I tell him. ‘Until they sent me to Belmarsh, I didn’t know what they were like in England. Just be thankful it’s not Turkey. What’s he been charged with?’

  ‘Nothing. They found him asleep in a house where some locals had been smoking cannabis, but they’ve warned him he could end up with a seven-year sentence.’

  ‘Not if he was asleep, surely,’ I suggest. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Eighteen, and what makes it worse, while I’m stuck in here I can’t do anything about it. My wife says she’ll phone the Governor the moment she hears anything.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I say, and return to the athletics.

  Mr Hughes tells me I missed Macey. He came second in his heat, in a new personal best. ‘You can’t ask for more than a PB from any athlete,’ says Roger Black, the BBC commentator, and adds, ‘Stay with us, because it’s going to be an exciting day here in Edmonton.’

  ‘Lock-up,’ shouts the officer behind the desk at the other end of the room.

  I politely point out to the officer that Roger Black has told us we must stay with him.

  ‘Mr Black is there, and I’m here,’ comes back the immediate reply, ‘so it’s lock-up, Archer.’

  6.00 pm

  Supper. I am now in possession of two tins of Prince’s ham (49p), so I take one down to the hotplate to have it opened. Tony adds two carefully selected potatoes, which makes a veritable feast when accompanied by a mug of blackcurrant juice.

  After supper I return to work on my script, when suddenly the door is opened by an officer I have never seen before.

  ‘Good evening,’ he says. ‘I know you’ll be off soon, so I wonder if you’d be kind enough to sign this book for my wife. The bookshop told me that it was your latest.’

  ‘I would be happy to do so,’ I tell him, ‘but it’s not mine. It’s been written by Geoffrey Archer. I spell my name with a J. It’s a problem we’ve both had for years.’

  He looks a little surprised, and then says, ‘I’ll take it back and get it changed. See you at the same time tomorrow.’

  Once I’ve finished today’s script, I read three letters Alison has handed over to Tony Morton-Hooper. One of them is from Victoria Barnsley, the Chairman of my publisher, HarperCollins, saying that she is looking forward to reading In the Lap of the Gods, and goes on to let me know that Adrian Bourne, who has taken care of me since Eddie Bell, the former Chairman, left the company, will be taking early retirement. I’ll miss them both as they have played such an important role in my publishing career.

  The second letter is from my young researcher, Johann Hari, to tell me that he’s nearly ready to go over his notes for In the Lap of the Gods.* Though he points out that he still prefers the original title Serendipity.

  The last letter is from Stephan Shakespeare, who was my chief of staff when I stood as Conservative candidate for Mayor of London. His loyalty since the day I resigned brings to mind that wonderful poem by Kipling, ‘The Thousandth Man’. Among the many views Stephan expresses with confidence is that Iain Duncan Smith will win the election for Leader of the Conservative Party by a mile.

  We won’t have to wait much longer to find out if he’s right.

  Day 21

  Wednesday 8 August 2001

  6.03 am

  This will be my last full day at Belmarsh. I mustn’t make it too obvious, otherwise the press will be waiting outside the gate, and then accompany us all the way to Norfolk. I sit down at my desk and write for two hours.

  8.07 am

  Breakfast. Shreddies, UHT milk, and an apple. I empty the box of Shreddies, just enough for two helpings.

  9.00 am

  I am standing in my gym kit, ready for my final session, when Ms Williamson unlocks my cell door and asks if I’m prepared to do another creative-writing class.

  ‘When do you have it planned for?’ I ask, not wanting her to know that this is my last day, and I’ve somehow managed to get myself on the gym rota.

  She looks at her watch. ‘In about half an hour,’ she replies.

  I curse under my breath, change out of my gym kit into slacks and a rather becoming Tiger T-shirt which Will packed for me the day I was sentenced. On my way to the classroom, I pass Joseph at the pool table. He’s potting everything in sight, and looking rather pleased with himself.

  ‘Any more news about Justin?’ I enquire.

  He smiles. ‘They’ve deported him.’ He glances at his watch. ‘He should be landing at Heathrow in about an hour.’ He pots a red. ‘His mother will be there to meet him, and I’ve told her to give him a good clip round the ear.’ He sinks a yellow. ‘She won’t, of course,’ he adds with a grin.

  ‘That’s good news,’ I tell him, and continue my unescorted journey to the classroom.

  When I arrive I find Mr Anders, the visiting teacher, waiting for me. He looks a bit put out, so I immediately ask him how he would like to play it.

  ‘Had you anything planned?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ I tell him. ‘Last week we agreed that the group would bring in something they had written to read to the class, and then we would all discuss it. But not if you had anything else in mind.’

  ‘No, no, that sounds fine.’

  This week, nine prisoners and three members of staff turn up. Four of them have remembered to bring along some written work: Colin reads his critique of Frank McCourt’s latest book, Tony takes us through his essay on prison reform, which is part of the syllabus for Ruskin College, Oxford, Terry reads a chapter of his novel and we end with Billy’s piece on his reaction to hearing that he’d been sentenced to life, and his innermost thoughts during the hours that followed. I chose Billy’s work to end on, because as before it was in a different class to any other contribution. I end the session with a few words about the discipline of writing, aware that I would not be with them this time tomorrow. I’m confident that at least three of the group will continue with their projects after I’ve departed, and that in time Billy’s efforts will be published. I will be the first in the queue for a signed copy.

  On the way back to my cell, I bump into Liam, who, when he’s on the hotplate, always tries to slip me a second ice-cream. He thrusts out his hand and says, ‘I just wanted to say goodbye.’ I turn red; I’ve not said a word to anybody following my meeting with Mr Leader, so how has Liam found out?

  ‘Who told you?’ I asked.

  ‘The police,’ he replied. ‘They’ve agreed to bail, so I’m being released this morning. My solicitor says that probably means that they are going to drop all the charges.’

  ‘I’m delighted,’ I tell him. ‘But how long have you been in jail?’

  ‘Three and a half months.’

  Three and a half months Liam has been locked up in Belmarsh waiting to find out that the police are probably going to drop all the charges. I wish him well before he moves on to shake another well-wisher by the hand. What was he charged with? Perverting the course of justice. A taped phone conversation was the main evidence, which the court has now ruled inadmissible.

  Once I’m back on the spur, I phone Alison to let her know that ten more days of the diary are on their way. She tells me that the letters are still pouring in, and she’ll forward on to Wayland those from close friends. I then warn her I’m running out of writing pads; could she send a dozen on to Wayland along
with a couple of boxes of felt-tip pens? Interesting how I use the word dozen without thinking, despite the fact that decimalization has been with us for over thirty years. In another thirty years, will my grandchildren take the euro for granted and wonder what all the fuss was about?

  12 noon

  Lunch. Egg and beans, my favourite prison food, but this time I only get one egg because there’s an officer sitting where Paul is usually placed. However, Tony still manages a few extra beans.

  2.00 pm

  I begin writing again, only to be interrupted by three officers marching into my cell: Mr Weedon, accompanied by Mr Abbott and Mr Cook, who are ominously wearing rubber gloves. Mr Weedon explains that this is a cell search – known by prisoners as a spin – and for obvious reasons it has to be carried out without any warning.

  ‘What are you searching for?’ I ask.

  ‘Guns, knives, razor blades, drugs, and anything that is against prison regulations. I am the supervising officer,’ says Mr Weedon, ‘because Mr Cook and Mr Abbott are being tested for the National Vocational Qualification, and this search is part of that test. We will start with a strip-search,’ he says, keeping a straight face.

  I stand in the middle of my tiny cell, and remove my Tiger T-shirt. I then hold my hands high in the air before being asked to turn a complete circle. Mr Abbott then tells me to rub my hands vigorously through my hair, which I do – hidden drugs, just in case you haven’t worked it out. This completed, I am allowed to put my T-shirt back on. Mr Cook then asks me to take off my shoes, socks, trousers and pants, all of which are carefully examined by the two junior officers wearing rubber gloves. Once again I am asked to turn a full circle before they invite me to lift the soles of my feet so they can check if I’m wearing any plasters that might be concealing drugs. There are no plasters, so they tell me to get dressed.

  ‘I will now accompany you to a waiting room while your cell is being searched,’ Mr Weedon says. ‘But first I must ask if you are in possession of anything that belongs to another prisoner, such as guns, knives or drugs?’

  ‘Yes, I have an essay written by Tony Croft, and a poem by Billy Little.’ I rummage around in a drawer, and hand them over. They look quickly through them before passing them back. ‘I am also in possession of a library book,’ I say, trying not to smirk. They try hard not to rise, but they still turn the pages and shake the book about. (Drugs or money this time.)

  ‘I see it’s due back today, Archer, so make sure you return it by lock-up, because we wouldn’t want you to be fined, would we.’ Mr Weedon scores a point.

  ‘How kind of you to forewarn me,’ I say.

  ‘Before we can begin a thorough search of your cell,’ continues Mr Abbott, ‘I have to ask, are you in possession of any legal papers that you do not wish us to read?’

  ‘No,’ I reply.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mr Weedon. ‘That completes this part of the exercise. Your cell will now be searched by two other officers.’

  I was told later that this is done simply for their self-protection, so that should they come across anything illegal, with four officers involved, two sets of two, it becomes a lot more difficult for a prisoner to claim ‘it’s a set-up, guv’ and that whatever was found had been planted.

  ‘Burglars!’ I hear shouted by someone at the top of their voice, sounding as if it had come from a nearby cell. I look a little surprised that the officers don’t all disappear at speed.

  Mr Weedon smiles. ‘That’s us,’ he says. ‘We’ve been spotted, and it’s just another prisoner warning his mates that we’re out on one of our searching expeditions, so they’ll have enough time to dispose of anything incriminating. You’ll hear several toilets being flushed during the next few minutes and see a few packages being thrown out of the window.’

  Mr Abbott and Mr Cook leave me to be replaced by Ms Taylor and Ms Lynn, who begin to search my cell.

  Mr Weedon escorts me to the waiting room on the other side of the spur and locks me in. Bored, I stroll over to the window on the far side of the room, and look down on a well-kept garden. A dozen or so prisoners are planting, cutting, and weeding for a pound an hour. The inmates are all wearing yellow Day-Glo jackets, while the one supervisor is dressed casually in blue jeans and an open-necked shirt. It’s a neat, well-kept garden, but then so would anyone’s be, if they had a dozen gardeners at a pound an hour.

  I am amused to see that one of the prisoners is clipping a hedge with a large pair of shears, quite the most lethal weapon I’ve seen since arriving at Belmarsh. I do hope they search his cell regularly.

  Twenty minutes later I’m let out, and escorted back to Cell 30. All my clothes are in neat piles, my waste-paper bin emptied, and I have never seen my cell looking so tidy. However, the officers have removed my second pillow and the lavatory bleach that Del Boy had so thoughtfully supplied on my first day on Block One.*

  6.00 pm

  Supper. I take down my second tin of ham (49p) to be opened by a helper on the hotplate. Tony adds two potatoes and a spoonful of peas, not all of them stuck together. After I’ve eaten dinner, I wash my plastic dishes before returning downstairs to join my fellow inmates for Association. I decide to tell only Fletch, Tony and Billy that I’ll be leaving in the morning. Fletch said that he was aware of my imminent departure, but didn’t realize it was that imminent.

  Sitting in his cell along with the others feels not unlike the last day of term at school, when, having packed your trunk, you hang around in the dorm, wondering how many of your contemporaries you will keep in touch with.

  Fletch tells us that he’s just spent an hour with Ms Roberts, and has decided to appeal against both his sentence and verdict. I am delighted, but can’t help wondering if it will affect his decision to allow the contents of the little green book to be published.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he says. ‘I want the whole world to know who these evil people are and what they’ve done.’

  ‘But what if they ask you to name the judges, the schoolmasters, the policemen and the politician?’

  ‘Then I shall name them,’ he says.

  ‘And what about the other ten children who were put through the same trauma? How do you expect them to react?’ Tony asks. ‘After all, they must now all be in their late thirties.’

  Fletch pulls out a file from his shelf and removes a sheet of paper with ten names typed in a single column. ‘During the next few weeks I intend to write to everyone named on this list and ask if they are willing to be interviewed by my solicitor. A couple are married and may not even have told their wives or family, one or two will not be that easy to track down, but I’m confident that several of them will back me up, and want the truth to be known.’

  ‘What about ***, **** and *****?’

  ‘I shall name them in court,’ Fletch says firmly. ‘*** of course is dead, but **** and ***** are very much alive.’

  Tony starts to applaud while Billy, not given to showing much outward sign of emotion, nods vigorously.

  ‘Lock-up,’ hollers someone from the front desk. I shake hands with three men who I had no idea I would meet a month ago, and wonder if I will ever see again.* I return to my cell.

  When I reach the top floor, I find Mr Weedon standing by my door.

  ‘When you get out of here,’ he says, ‘be sure you write it as it is. Tell them about the problems both sides are facing, the inmates and the officers, and don’t pull your punches.’ I’m surprised by the passion in his voice. ‘But let me tell you something you can’t have picked up in the three weeks you’ve spent with us. The turnover of prison staff is now the service’s biggest problem, and it’s not just because of property prices in London. Last week I lost a first-class officer who left to take up a job as a tube driver. Same pay but far less hassle, was the reason he gave. Good luck, sir,’ he says, and locks me in.

  9.00 pm

  I begin to prepare for my imminent departure. Fletch has already warned me that there will be no official warning, just a knock on my
cell door around six-thirty and a ‘You’re on the move, Archer, so have your things ready.’ ‘There’s only one thing I can guarantee,’ he adds. ‘Once you’ve been down to the reception area you will be kept hanging around for at least another hour while an officer completes the paperwork.’

  9.30 pm

  I read through the latest pile of letters, including ones from Mary, Will, and another from Geordie Greig, the editor of Tatler, who ends with the words, There’s a table booked for lunch at Le Caprice just as soon as you’re out. No fair-weather friend he.

  I then check over the day’s script and decide on an early night.

  10.14 pm

  I turn out the light on Belmarsh for the last time.

  Day 22

  Thursday 9 August 2001

  4.40 am

  I wake from a restless sleep, aware that I could be called at any time. I decide to get up and write for a couple of hours.

  6.43 am

  I check my watch. It’s six forty-three, and there’s still no sign of life out there in the silent dark corridors, so I make myself some breakfast. Sugar Puffs, the last selection in my Variety pack, long-life milk and an orange.

  6.51 am

  I shave, wash and get dressed. After some pacing around my five-by-three cell, I begin to pack. When I say pack, I must qualify that, because you are not allowed a suitcase or a holdall; everything has to be deposited into one of HM Prisons’ plastic bags.

  7.14 am

  I’ve finished packing but there is still no sign of anyone stirring. Has my transfer been postponed, cancelled even? Am I to remain at Belmarsh for the rest of my life? I count every minute as I pace up and down, waiting to make my official escape. What must it be like waiting to be hanged?

  7.40 am

  I empty the last drop of my UHT milk into a plastic mug, eat a McVitie’s biscuit, and begin to wonder if there is anyone out there. I reread Mary’s and Will’s letters. They cheer me up.