‘Of course he did,’ says David, ‘it was in his contract.’
On this occasion we do get to see the closing titles, because the duty officer has checked what time the film finishes. He prefers not to have thirty or forty disenchanted lifers on his hands.
At five we’re invited to return to our cells for lock-up. This invitation takes the form of an officer bellowing at the top of his voice. On arrival, I find another 200 letters waiting for me on the bottom bunk. All of them have been opened, as per prison regulations, to check they do not contain any drugs, razor blades or money. Reading every one of them kills another couple of hours while you’re ‘banged up’. I’m beginning to think in prison jargon.
The public seems genuinely concerned about my plight. Many of them comment on the judge’s summing-up and the harshness of the sentence, while others point out that bank robbers, paedophiles and even those charged with manslaughter often get off with a two- or three-year sentence. The recurring theme is ‘What does Mr Justice Potts have against you?’ I confess I don’t know the answer to that question, but what cannot be denied is that I asked my barrister, Nick Purnell, on the third, fourth and seventh days of the trial to speak to the judge privately in chambers about his obvious prejudice, and request a retrial. However, my silk advised against this approach, on the grounds that it would only turn the whole trial into an all-out battle between the two of us. Lest you might think I am making this all up conveniently after the event, I also confided my fears to the Honourable Michael Beloff QC, Gilbert Gray QC and Johnnie Nutting QC during the trial.
It wasn’t until the second hour that I came across a letter demanding that I should apologize to all those I had let down. The next letter in the pile is from Mary. I read it again and again. She begins by remarking that she couldn’t remember when she had last written to me. She reminds me that she is off to Strathclyde University this morning to chair the summer school on solar energy, accompanied by the world’s press and my son Will. Thank God for Will. He’s been a tower of strength. At the end of the week, she flies to Dresden to attend another conference, and is hoping to be back in time to visit me at Belmarsh on Sunday morning. I miss her and the children, of course I do, but above anything I hope it won’t be too long before the press become bored with me and allow Mary to carry on with her life.
When I come to the end of the letters, Terry helps me put them into four large brown envelopes so they can be sent on to Alison, my PA, in order that everyone who has taken the trouble to write receives a reply. While Terry is helping me, he begins to tell me his life story and how he ended up being in jail. He’s not a lifer, which is perhaps another reason they asked him if he was willing to share a cell with me.
Terry has been in prison twice, graduating via Borstal and a remand centre. He began sniffing solvents as a child, before moving on to cannabis by the age of twelve. His first offence was robbing a local newsagent because he needed money for his drug habit. He was sentenced to two years and served one. His second charge was for robbing a jeweller’s in Margate of £3,000 worth of goods for which he hoped to make around £800 from a London fence. The police caught him red-handed (his words), and he was sentenced to five years. He was twenty-two at the time, and served three and a half years of that sentence before being released.
Terry had only been out for seven months when he robbed an optician’s – designer goods, Cartier, Calvin Klein and Christian Dior, stolen to order. This time he was paid £900 in cash, but arrested a week later. The fingerprints on the shop window he put his fist through matched his, leaving the police with only one suspect. The judge sentenced him to another five years.
Terry hopes to be released in December of this year. Prison, he claims, has weaned him off drugs and he’s only thankful that he’s never tried heroin. Terry is nobody’s fool, and I only hope that when he gets out he will not return for a third time. He swears he won’t, but a prison officer tells me that two-thirds of repeat offenders are back inside within twelve months.
‘We have our regulars just like any Blackpool hotel, except we don’t charge for bed and breakfast.’
Terry is telling me about his mother, when suddenly there is a wild commotion of screaming and shouting that reverberates throughout the entire block. It’s the first time I’m glad that my cell door is locked. The prisoners in Block One are yelling at a man who is being escorted to the medical centre on the far side of the yard. I remember it well.
‘What’s all that about?’ I ask as I stare out of our cell window.
‘He’s a nonce,’ Terry explains.
‘Nonce?’
‘Prison slang for a nonsense merchant, a paedophile. If he’d been on this block we would have jugged him long ago.’
‘Jugged him?’
‘A jug of boiling hot water,’ Terry explains, ‘mixed with a bag of sugar to form a syrup. Two cons would hold him down while the liquid is poured slowly over his face.’
‘My God, that must be horrific.’
‘First the skin peels off your face and then the sugar dissolves, so you end up disfigured for the rest of your life – no more than he deserves,’ Terry adds.
‘Have you ever witnessed that?’ I ask.
‘Three times,’ he replies matter-of-factly. ‘One nonce, one drug dealer, and once over an argument about someone who hadn’t returned a two-pound phonecard.’ He pauses before adding, ‘If they were to put him on this block, he’d be dead within twenty-four hours.’
I’m terrified, so I can only wonder what sort of fear they live in. The moment the prisoner disappears into the medical centre, the shouting and yelling stops.
4.00 pm
The cell door is at last unlocked and we are allowed out into the exercise yard. On my first circuit, about two hundred yards, I’m joined by a young prisoner – come to think of it, everyone is young except for me and David. His name is Nick, and if it weren’t for his crooked front teeth and broken nose, he would be a good-looking man. He’s been in prison for the past fourteen years, and he’s only thirty-three, but he hopes to be out in four years’ time as long as he can beat his latest rap.
‘Your latest rap?’ I repeat.
‘Yeah, they’ve been trying to pin arson on me after what I got up to in Durham, but they’ve got no proof that I set fire to my cell, so they’ll have to drop the charge.’ He’s joined by another lifer who has just completed four of his eighteen years.
There seems to be a completely different attitude among the lifers. They often say, ‘Don’t bother to count the first six years.’ They acknowledge they won’t be out next week, next month, or even next year, and have settled for a long spell of prison life. Most of them treat me with respect and don’t indulge in clever or snide remarks.
On the next circuit I’m joined by Mike (armed robbery), who tells me that he listened to Ted Francis and Max Clifford on the radio last night, and adds that the boys just can’t wait for one of them to be sent to prison. ‘We don’t like people who stitch up their mates – especially for money.’ I stick assiduously to Nick Purnell’s advice and make no comment.
When I return to the cell, Terry is about to go down for supper. I tell him I just can’t face it, but he begs me to join him because tonight it’s pineapple upside-down pudding, and that’s his favourite. I join him and go through the ritual of selecting a couple of burnt mushrooms in order to lay my hands on an extra upside-down pudding.
By the time I get back to the cell, Terry is sweeping the room and cleaning the washbasin. I’ve been lucky to be shacked up with someone who is so tidy, and hates anything to be out of place. Terry sits on the bed munching his meal, while I read through what I’ve penned that day. Once Terry’s finished, he washes his plate, knife, fork and spoon before stacking them neatly on the floor in the corner. I continue reading my script while he picks up a Bible. He turns to the Book of Hebrews, which I confess I have never read, and studies quietly for the next hour.
Once I’ve completed my work for the day,
I return to reading The Moon’s a Balloon, which I put down just after ten when war has been declared. The pillows are a little softer than those on Block Three, for which I am grateful.
Day 7
Wednesday 25 July 2001
5.17 am
‘Fuck off,’ cries a voice so loud it wakes me.
It’s a few moments before I realize that it’s Terry shouting in his sleep. He mumbles something else which I can’t quite decipher, before he wakes with a start. He climbs out of bed, almost as if he’s unaware there’s someone in the bunk below him. I don’t stir, but open my eyes and watch carefully. I’m not frightened; although Terry has a past record of violence, I’ve never seen any sign of it. In fact, despite the use of bad language in his novel, he never swears in front of me – at least not when he’s awake.
Terry walks slowly over to the wall and places his head in the corner like a cat who thinks he’s about to die. He doesn’t move for some time, then turns, picks up a towel by the basin, sits down on the plastic chair and buries his head in the towel. Desperate and depressed. I try to imagine what must be going through his tortured mind. He slowly raises his head and stares at me, as if suddenly remembering that he’s not alone.
‘Sorry, Mr Archer,’ he says. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘It’s not important,’ I reply. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘It’s a recurring nightmare,’ he says, ‘but for some unexplainable reason it’s been worse for the past couple of weeks. When I was a kid,’ he pauses, no doubt considering whether to confide in me, ‘my stepfather used to beat me and my mum with a leather strap, and I’ve suddenly started having nightmares about it all these years later.’
‘How old were you at the time?’ I ask.
‘About six, but it carried on until I was sixteen, when my mum died.’
‘How did your mother die?’ I ask. ‘After all, she can’t have been that old?’
‘It’s all a bit of a mystery,’ Terry says quietly. ‘All I know for certain is that they found her body in the front room by the grate, and then my stepfather buggered off to Brighton with my stepsister.’ I have a feeling that Terry knows only too well what and who caused his mother’s death, but he isn’t yet willing to impart that information. After all, he’s well aware I’m writing a daily diary.
‘So what happened to you when he disappeared off to Brighton?’
‘I was taken into care, followed by Borstal, remand home and finally jail – a different sort of education to yours.’ How can those of us who have had a comparatively normal upbringing begin to understand what this young man has been through – is going through?
‘Sorry,’ he repeats, and then climbs back onto the top bunk, and is asleep again within minutes.
I climb out of bed, clean my teeth, rub a cold flannel over my face and then settle down to write for the first session of the day. At this early hour, all the other prisoners are asleep, or at least I assume they are, because not a sound is coming from the surrounding cells. Even the early-morning patrol of barking Alsatians doesn’t distract me any longer.
In London I live near a railway track that winds its way into Waterloo, but I am never woken by the late-night or early-morning trains. In prison, it’s rap music, inmates hollering at each other, and Alsatians that don’t disturb a lifer’s dreams. Once I’ve completed my two-hour session, I begin the lengthy process of shaving.
Although my life is beginning to fall into a senseless routine, I hope to at least break it up today by going to the gym. I’ve put my name down for the 10 am to 11 am session this morning, as I’m already missing my daily exercise.
9.06 am
Just after nine, the cell door is opened and my weekly twelve pounds fifty pence worth of canteen provisions are passed over to me by a lady in a white coat. I thank her, but she doesn’t respond. I sit on the end of my bed, unpack each item one by one. I settle down to enjoy a bowl of cornflakes swimming in fresh milk. This is the meal I would normally have in my kitchen at home, an hour before going to the gym. I’m used to a disciplined, well-ordered life, but it’s no longer self-discipline because someone else is giving the orders.
10.00 am
I’m pacing up and down the cell waiting for the gym call when a voice bellows out from below, ‘Gym is cancelled.’ My heart sinks and I stare out of the barred window, wondering why. When the door is eventually opened for Association, Derek, known as Del Boy, who runs the hotplate and seems to have a free rein of the block, appears outside my door.
‘Why was gym cancelled?’ I ask.
‘A con has got out onto the roof via a skylight in the gym,’ he explains. Result – gym closed until further notice and will not open again until security has double-checked every possible exit and the authorities consider it a safe area again. He grins, enjoying his role as the prison oracle.
‘Anything else I can help you with?’ Del Boy enquires.
‘Bottled water and an A4 writing pad,’ I reply.
‘They’ll be with you before the hour has chimed, squire.’
I’ve already learnt not to ask what myriad of deals will have to be carried out to achieve this simple request. James had warned me on my first day about the prison term ‘double-bubble’, meaning certain favours have to be repaid twice over. During Association yesterday evening, I witnessed Derek cut a rolled-up cigarette in half and then pass it over to another prisoner. This was on a Tuesday, and the hapless inmate knew he wouldn’t be able to repay the debt until today, when he would have his next canteen. But his craving was so great that he accepted, knowing that he would have to give Del Boy a whole cigarette in return, or he could never hope to strike up another bargain with him – or anyone else, for that matter.
11.10 am
It must have been a few minutes after eleven when my cell door is yanked open again to reveal Mr Loughnane. Just the sight of him lifts my spirits. He tells me that he has spoken to his opposite number at Ford Open Prison, who will have to refer the matter to the Governor, as he doesn’t have the authority to make the final decision.
‘How long do you expect that will take?’ I ask.
‘Couple of days at the most. He’ll probably come back to me on Friday, and when he does, I’ll be in touch with Group 4.’ This simple transaction would take the average businessman a couple of hours at most. For the first time in years, I’m having to move at someone else’s pace.
1.00 pm
We are all sent off to work. I’m down on the register under ‘workshops’ where I will have to pack breakfast bags that will eventually end up in other prisons. My salary will be 50p an hour. New Labour’s minimum-wage policy hasn’t quite trickled down to convicted felons. The truth is we’re captive labour. I’m about to join the chain gang when another prison officer, Mr Young, asks me to wait behind until the others have left for the work area. He returns a few minutes later, to tell me that I’ve received so much registered mail they have decided to take me to it, rather than bring the stack to me.
Another long walk in a different direction, even more opening and closing of barred gates, by which time I have learnt that Mr Young has been in the prison service for eleven years, his annual basic pay is £24,000, and it’s quite hard, if not impossible, to find somewhere to live in London on that salary.
When we arrive at reception, two other officers are standing behind a counter in front of rows and rows of cluttered wooden shelves. Mr Pearson removes thirty-two registered letters and parcels from a shelf behind him and places them on the counter. He starts to open them one by one in front of me – another prison regulation. The two officers then make a little pile of Bibles and books and another of gifts which they eventually place in a plastic bag, and once I’ve signed the requisite form, hand them all across to me.
‘Peach,’ says Mr Pearson, and another prisoner steps forward to have a parcel opened in front of him. It’s a pair of the latest Nike trainers, which have been sent in by his girlfriend.
Both clutching onto
our plastic bags, we accompany Mr Young back to Block One. On the way, I apologize to Peach – I never did find out his first name – for keeping him waiting.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘You kept me out of my cell for nearly an hour.’
Mr Young continues to tell us about some of the other problems the prison service is facing. We are onto staff benefits and shiftwork when an alarm goes off, and officers appear running towards us from every direction. Mr Young quickly unlocks the nearest waiting room and bundles Peach and myself inside, locking the door firmly behind us. We stare through the windows as officers continue rushing past us, but we have no way of finding out why. A few moments later, a prisoner, held down by three officers and surrounded by others, is dragged off past us in the opposite direction. One of the officers is pushing the prisoner’s head down, while another keeps his legs bent so that when he passes us he leaves an impression of a marionette controlled by invisible strings. Peach tells me that it’s known as being ‘bent up’ or ‘twisted up’, and is part of the process of ‘control and restraint’.
‘Control and restraint?’
‘The prisoner will be dragged into a strip cell and held down while his clothes are cut off with a pair of scissors. He’s then put in wrist locks, before they bend his legs behind his back. Finally they put a belt around his waist that has handcuffs on each side, making it impossible for him to move his arms or legs.’
‘And then what?’
‘They’ll take him off to segregation,’ Peach explains. ‘He’ll be put into a single cell that consists of a metal sink, metal table and metal chair all fixed to the wall, so he can’t smash anything up.’
A Prison Diary Page 7
