A Prison Diary

by Jeffrey Archer

  The service lasts for fifty minutes, and is about the only time that day when I can concentrate on my mother and her memory. Not for the first time am I thankful that she didn’t live to see me convicted, and my thoughts turn to the sacrifices she made to ensure I had a decent education, and was given as good a start as possible, remembering that my father died leaving debts of around five hundred pounds, and mother had to go out to work to make ends meet. I tried in the later years to make life a little easier for her, but I was never able to repay her properly.

  The service ends with ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, and Mary and I follow the Bishop and the choir down the aisle. When we reach the vestry, George immediately joins us. A member of the press has called Belmarsh to ask why I was allowed to return to the Old Vicarage.

  ‘You’ll have to say your goodbyes here, I’m afraid,’ he tells us. ‘The Governor has phoned to say you can’t go back to the house.’ I spend the next few minutes shaking hands with everyone who has attended the service and am particularly touched by the presence of Donald and Diana Sinden, who my mother adored.

  After thanking the Bishop, my family join me as we begin the long slow walk back to the prison van parked at Cantalupe Farm. I glance to my left as we pass the Old Vicarage. This time the press become even more frantic. They begin to holler out their questions like a repeater gun.

  ‘Are you expecting to remain a lord?’

  ‘Do you hope to win your appeal?’

  ‘Do you want to say anything about your mother?’

  ‘Do you consider yourself a criminal?’

  After about a hundred yards or so they finally give up, so Mary and I chat about her forthcoming trip to Strathclyde University, where she will chair a summer school on solar energy. The date has been in her diary for some months, but she offers to cancel the trip and stay in London so she can visit me in Belmarsh. I won’t hear of it, as I need her to carry on as normal a life as possible. She sighs. The truth is, I never want Mary to see me in Belmarsh.

  When we reach the van, I turn back to look at the Old Vicarage, which I fear I won’t be seeing again for some time. I then hug my family one by one, leaving Mary to last. I look across to see my driver David Crann in tears – the first time in fifteen years I’ve seen this former SAS warrior show any vulnerability.

  On the slow journey back to Belmarsh, I once again consider what the future holds for me, and remain convinced I must above all things keep my mind alert and my body fit. The writing of a day-to-day diary seems to be my best chance for the former, and a quick return to the gym the only hope for the latter.

  3.07 pm

  Within moments of arriving back at Belmarsh, I’m put through another strip-search before being escorted to my cell on Block Three. Once again, James the Listener is waiting for me. He has from somewhere, somehow, purloined a carton of milk, a new razor* and two, yes two, towels. He perches himself on the end of the bed and tells me there is a rumour that they are going to move me to another block on Monday, as Beirut is only the induction wing.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ I ask.

  ‘If you’re going to be here for a couple of weeks, they have to decide which block to put you on while you’re waiting to be transferred to a D-cat. I think you’re going to Block One,’ says James, ‘so you’ll be with the lifers.’

  ‘Lifers?’ I gasp. ‘But doesn’t that mean I’ll be locked up all day and night?’

  ‘No, no,’ says James. ‘The lifers have a much more relaxed regime than any other block, because they keep their heads down and don’t want to be a nuisance. It’s the young ones who are on remand or doing short sentences that cause most of the trouble and therefore have to be locked up first.’

  It’s fascinating to discover how much of prison life is the exact opposite to what you would expect.

  James then gives me the bad news. He’s going to be transferred to Whitemoor Prison tomorrow morning, so I won’t be seeing him again, but he has already allocated another inmate called Kevin to be my Listener.

  ‘Kevin’s a good guy,’ he assures me, ‘even if he talks too much. So if he goes on a bit, just tell him to shut up.’

  Before James leaves, I can’t resist asking him what he’s in for.

  ‘Smuggling drugs from Holland,’ he replies matter-of-factly.

  ‘And you were caught?’

  ‘Red-handed.’

  ‘How much were the drugs worth?’

  ‘The police claimed a street value of £3.3 million. I can only imagine it must have been Harley Street,’ adds James with a wry smile.

  ‘How much did you receive for doing the job?’

  ‘Five thousand pounds.’

  ‘And your sentence?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘And Kevin?’ I ask. ‘What’s he in for?’

  ‘Oh, he was on that Dome jewellery caper, driving one of the getaway boats – trouble was he didn’t get away.’ James pauses. ‘By the way,’ he says, ‘the staff tell me that you aren’t eating.’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite accurate,’ I reply. ‘But I am living on a diet of bottled water, KitKat and Smith’s crisps, but as I’m only allowed to spend twelve pounds fifty a week, I’m already running out of my meagre provisions.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘You’ll be allowed another canteen list once they’ve transferred you to a new wing, so fill yours in tonight and Kevin can hand it in first thing in the morning.’

  I smile at the man’s ingenuity and see why the prison officers have made him a Listener. They obviously, like LBJ,* feel it’s better to have him pissing out of the tent, rather than pissing in.

  James then changes the subject to the leadership of the Conservative Party. He wants Kenneth Clarke to be the next leader, and he’s disappointed that Michael Portillo missed the cut by one vote, because he’s never heard of Iain Duncan Smith.

  ‘Why Clarke?’ I ask.

  ‘His brother was the Governor of Holloway, and has the reputation of being a fair and decent man. Mr Clarke strikes me as the same sort of bloke.’ I have to agree with James, feeling that he’s summed up Ken rather well.

  4.30 pm

  James leaves when Mr Weedon appears by the door, impatient to lock me back in. I’m beginning to learn the names of the officers. I check my watch, it’s just after four thirty. Mr Weedon explains that as it’s a Saturday and they’re short-staffed, they won’t be opening the door again until nine o’clock the next morning. As the cell door slams shut, I reflect on the fact that for the next seventeen hours I will be left alone in a room nine feet by six.

  6.00 pm

  I feel very low. This is the worst period of the day. You think of your family and what you might be doing at this time on a Saturday evening – James and I would have been watching the Open Golf from Lytham & St Anne’s, hoping against hope that Colin Montgomerie would at last win a major. William might be reading a book by some obscure author I’d never heard of. Mary would probably be in the folly at the bottom of the garden working on volume two of her book, Molecular to Global Photosynthesis, and around seven I would drive across to Saffron Walden to visit my mother, and discuss with her who should lead the Tory Party.

  My mother is dead. James is in London with his girlfriend. William is on his way back to New York. Mary is at the Old Vicarage alone, and I’m locked up in jail.

  10.00 pm

  It’s dark outside – no curtains to cover my little cell window. I’m exhausted. I pick up one of my new towels, fold it, and place it across my pillow. I lower my head onto the towel and sleep for ten hours.

  Day 4

  Sunday 22 July 2001

  5.43 am

  I wake to find my tiny cell filled with sunlight. I place my feet on the floor and can smell my own body. I decide that the first thing I must do is have a long shave before even thinking about a writing session. As soon as they unlock the door, I’ll make a dash for the showers.

  There’s no plug in the basin so I decide to improvise, and
fill my plastic soup bowl with warm water and turn it into a shaving bowl.* The prison have supplied a stick of shaving soap, an old-fashioned shaving brush – I don’t think it’s badger hair – and a plastic Bic razor, not unlike the one you’re given when travelling on British Airways (economy). It takes me some time to build up any lather. Above the basin is a steel-plated mirror measuring four inches square which reflects a blurred image of a tired, bristly man. After my shave in lukewarm water, I feel a lot better, even though I’ve cut myself several times.

  I return to my chair behind the little square table, and with my back to the window begin writing. The sun is shining through the four panes of glass, reproducing a shadow of the bars on the wall in front of me – just in case I should forget where I am.

  9.01 am

  The key turns in the lock and my cell door is pushed open. I look up at an officer who has a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘What’s happened to your cell card?’ he asks. He’s referring to a white card* attached to my cell door stating my name – Archer, D-cat, release date July 19th, 2005.

  ‘It’s been removed,’ I explain. ‘I’ve had six of them in the past two days. I think you’ll find they’ve become something of a collector’s item.’

  Despite the absence of my card, the officer allows me to go off to the shower room, where I join a group of noisy prisoners who are looking forward to an afternoon visit from their families. One of them, a black guy called Pat, carries a clean, freshly-ironed white shirt on a hanger. I’m full of admiration and ask how he managed it, explaining that my children are coming to see me in a couple of days and I’d like to look my best.

  ‘I’ll send round my man to see you, your Lordship,’ Pat says with a grin. ‘He’ll take care of you.’

  I thank Pat, not quite sure if he’s teasing me. Once I’ve completed another press-button shower – I’ve almost mastered it – and dried myself, I return to my cell to have breakfast. Breakfast was handed to me last night in a plastic bag, only moments after I’d rejected the evening meal. I extract a very hard-boiled egg from the bag, before disposing of the rest of its contents in the plastic bucket under the sink. While eating the egg – white only, avoiding the yolk – I stare out of my window and watch the planes as they descend at regular, sixty-second intervals into City Airport. A pigeon joins me on the ledge, but he’s on the outside. I retrieve a piece of stale bread from the bucket under the washbasin, break it into small crumbs and drop them on the sill. He rejects my offering, coos and flies away.

  9.30 am

  The cell is unlocked again, this time for Association, and the duty officer asks me if I want to attend a church service. Not being utterly convinced there is a God I rarely go to church in Grantchester, despite the fact that my wife was for many years the choir-mistress. However, on this occasion it will mean a long walk and forty-five minutes in a far larger room than my cell, so without hesitation I thank God and say yes.

  ‘RC or Church of England?’ the officer enquires.

  ‘C of E,’ I reply.

  ‘Then you’ll be on the second shift. I’ll call you around 10.30 straight after Association.’

  10.00 am

  During Association, prison officers watch to see if you become part of a clique or gang, and how you behave while in a group, or if you’re simply a loner. I’m about to leave my cell, only to find a queue of prisoners waiting at my door. Most of them want autographs so they can prove to their partners or girlfriends that they were on the same block as the notorious Jeffrey Archer.

  When I’ve finished what can only be described as a signing session not unlike the ones I usually carry out at Hatchard’s, I’m joined by my new Listener, Kevin. He confirms that James was shipped out to Whitemoor early this morning.

  ‘So what do you need, Jeffrey? Can I call you Jeffrey?’

  ‘Of course. What do I need?’ I repeat. ‘How about a bowl of cornflakes with some real milk, two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, mushrooms and a cup of hot chocolate.’

  Kevin laughs. ‘I can sort out some Weetabix, skimmed milk, fresh bread. Anything else?’

  ‘A decent razor, some shampoo, a bar of soap and a change of towels?’

  ‘That may take a little longer,’ he admits.

  As everyone knows what I’m in for, I ask the inevitable question.

  ‘I was part of the Dome jewellery raid, wasn’t I,’ he says as if everybody was.

  What a sentence to deliver to an author. ‘How did you become involved?’ I asked.

  ‘Debt,’ he explains, ‘and a measure of bad luck.’

  Nick Purnell’s words rang in my ears. Don’t believe anything you’re told in prison, and never reveal to your fellow inmates any details of your own case. ‘Debt?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yeah, I owed a man thirteen hundred pounds, and although I hadn’t spoken to him for over a year, he suddenly calls up out of the blue and demands to see me.’ I don’t interrupt the flow. ‘We met up at a pub in Brighton where he told me he needed a speedboat and driver for a couple of hours and if I was willing to do it, I could forget the debt.’

  ‘When did he expect you to carry out the job?’ I ask.

  ‘The next morning,’ Kevin replied. ‘I told him I couldn’t consider it because I’d already got another job lined up.’

  ‘What job?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, my dad and I’ve got a couple of boats that we fish off the coast, and they were both booked for the rest of the week. “Then I want my money,” the man demanded, so I wasn’t left with a lot of choice. You see, I was skint at the time, and anyway, he had a reputation as a bit of a hard man, and all he wanted me to do was transport four men from one side of the river to the other. The whole exercise wouldn’t take more than ten minutes.’

  ‘One thousand three hundred pounds for ten minutes’ work? You must have realized that there was a catch?’

  ‘I was suspicious, but had no idea what they were really up to.’

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘I took the boat as instructed up to Bow Creek, moored it near the jetty a few hundred yards from the Dome and waited. Suddenly all hell broke loose. Three police boats converged on me, and within minutes I was surrounded by a dozen armed officers shouting at me to lie down on the deck with my hands above my head. One of them said, “Blimey it’s not him,” and I later discovered that I’d been brought in at the last minute to replace someone who had let the gang down.’

  ‘But by then you must have known what they were up to?’

  ‘Nope,’ he replied, ‘I’m thirty-five years old, and this is my first offence. I’m not a criminal, and after what my family and I have been put through, I can tell you I won’t be coming back to prison again.’

  I can’t explain why I wanted to believe him. It might have been his courteous manner, or the way he talked about his wife and fourteen-year-old son. And he was certainly going to pay dearly for a foolish mistake; one that he would regret for the rest of his life.*

  ‘Archer, Collins, Davies, Edwards,’ booms the voice of Mr King, an officer not given to subtlety as he continues to bellow out names until he comes to Watts, before adding, ‘C of E, now.’

  ‘I think we’ll have to continue this conversation at some other time,’ I suggest. ‘Our Lord calls and if he doesn’t, Mr King certainly does.’ I then join the other prisoners who are waiting on the middle landing to be escorted to the morning service.

  11.00 am

  A crocodile of prisoners proceeds slowly along the polished linoleum floor until we’re stopped for another body search before entering the chapel. Why would they search us before going into a place of worship? We file into a large hall where each worshipper is handed a Bible. I take my place in the second row next to a young black man who has his head bowed. I glance around at what appears to be a full house.

  The Chaplain, David (his name is written in bold letters on a label attached to his well-worn jacket), takes his place at the front of the chapel and calls for silence
. He is a man of about forty-five, stockily built, with a pronounced limp and a stern smile. He stares down at his congregation of murderers, rapists, burglars and wife-beaters. Not surprisingly, it takes him a couple of minutes to bring such a flock to order.

  While he goes about his task, I continue to look around the room. It’s square in shape, and I would guess measures about twenty paces by twenty. The outer walls are red brick and the room holds about two hundred plastic chairs, in rows of twenty. On the four walls there are paintings of Christ and his Disciples, Christ being carried to the tomb after being taken down from the Cross, the Virgin Mother with an angel, the Raising of Lazarus, and Christ calming the storm.

  Directly behind the Chaplain is a rock band – their leader is a pretty, dark-haired girl who has a guitar slung over her shoulder. She is accompanied by five Gospel singers, all of whom have tiny microphones pinned to their lapels. In front of the group is a man seated with his back to the congregation. He is working a slide projector that flashes up on a white sheet hung in front of him the words of the first hymn.

  When the Chaplain finally gains silence – achieved only after a threat that anyone caught talking would immediately be escorted back to their cell – he begins the service by delivering three prayers, all unsubtly spelling out the simple message of doing good by your neighbour. He then turns to the girl with the guitar and gives her a slight bow. Her gentle voice rings out the melody of the first hymn, more of a Gospel message, which is accompanied heartily by the black prisoners who make up well over half the congregation, while the rest of us are a little more reserved. The group’s backing singers are all white, and give as good as they get, even when the clapping begins. After the last verse has rung out, we are all ready for the sermon, and what a sermon it turns out to be.

  The Chaplain’s chosen theme is murder. He then invites us to pick up our Bibles – which he describes as the biggest bestseller of all time – and turn to the book of Genesis. He glances in my direction and winks.