A Prison Diary

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘For example,’ he continues, ‘you could hit someone over the head with your steel Thermos flask You could pour the hot water from your Thermos over another prisoner; you could remove one of the iron struts from under your bed and you’d have a crude knife; I’ve even seen someone’s throat cut with a sharpened phonecard. Fletch picks up his plastic lavatory brush. ‘One prisoner quite recently used his razor supply to shave down the handle [nine inches in length] so that he turned his bog brush into a sword, and then in the middle of the night stabbed his cell-mate to death.’

  ‘But that would only ensure that he remained in prison for the rest of his life,’ I reminded him.

  ‘He already had a life sentence,’ said Fletch without emotion. ‘If a prisoner is determined to kill his cell-mate or even another prisoner, it’s all too easy, because once you’re banged up, the screws can’t spend all night checking what’s taking place on the other side of the iron door.’

  Only two weeks ago I would have been appalled, horrified, disgusted by this matter-of-fact conversation. Am I already becoming anaesthetized, numbed by anything other than the most horrific?

  When I leave Fletch’s cell, Colin (football hooligan) is waiting to see me. He hands me a copy of his rewritten critique on Frank McCourt’s latest book, ’Tis, as well as a poem that he’s written. Colin offers me a banana, not my usual fee for editing, but a fair exchange in the circumstances.

  I return to my cell and immediately commit to paper everything Fletch has told me.

  12 noon

  Lunch. Tony has selected a jacket potato covered in grated cheese. I eat his offering slowly while listening to the cricket on the radio. England have already collapsed, and were all out for 161 in their second innings, leaving Australia to chase a total of 156 to win the match and retain the Ashes. I leave the radio on, kidding myself that if Gough and Caddick make an early breakthrough, we could be in with a chance. Wrong again.

  3.00 pm

  Exercise. I haven’t been out of the building for three days, and decide I must get some fresh air. After being searched, I step out into the yard, and immediately spot the two tearaways who threatened me the last time I took some exercise. They’re perched up against the wire at the far end of the yard, skulking. I glance behind to find Billy and Colin are tracking me. Billy adds the helpful comment, ‘You need a haircut, Jeffrey.’ He’s right.

  I’m joined on the walk by Peter Fabri, who is all smiles. He’s out on Monday, to be reunited with his wife and six-week-old child. As I have been writing about him this morning, I check over my facts. ‘You were offered a thousand pounds to beat up a witness, in a trial due to be heard at the Bailey in the near future?’

  ‘Even that’s changed since I last saw you,’ said Peter. ‘He’s now offering me forty thousand to bump off the witness. He told me that he’s made a profit of two hundred thousand on the crime for which he’s been charged, so he reckons it’s worth forty to have the only witness snuffed out. You know,’ says Peter, ‘I think if I was in this place for another fortnight, he’d be offering me a hundred grand.’

  Home Secretary, I hope you’re still paying attention.

  Peter remains with me for three more circuits of the yard before he returns to his friends – three other prisoners with sentences of six weeks or less. I continue walking and notice that Billy and Colin have been replaced by Paul and Del Boy. I spot Fletch standing in the far corner. He likes corners, because from such a vantage point he can view his private domain. It becomes clear he has a protection rota working on my behalf, and I feel sure the officers loitering on the far side of the yard are only too aware of what he’s up to.

  I pass William Keane leaning against the wire fence chatting to his brother. He jumps up and runs across to join me. Paul and Del Boy immediately take a pace forward, and only relax when I put my arm round William’s shoulder. After all, I haven’t let anyone know which one of those sitting round the perimeter is the cause of problem.

  Once again, I use the time to check the facts that William told me in the workshop. He corrects a couple of errors on the price of cocaine and once again explains how pure heroin is diluted/cut before becoming a joey or bags. When he has completed this explanation, I ask him what he intends to do when he’s released in twelve weeks’ time.

  ‘Salvage,’ he says.

  ‘Salvage?’ I repeat, thinking this must have something to do with shipping.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to buy old cars, patch them up, see that they get their MOT certificate and then sell them on the estates round here.’

  ‘Can you make an honest living doing that?’ I ask.

  ‘I hope so, Jeffrey,’ he says, ‘because I’m getting too old [thirty-five] for this game. In any case, there’s enough of my family costing the government a thousand pounds a week without me adding to the taxpayers’ burden. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘if they had let me out last week I might have ended up murdering someone.’ I stop in my tracks and Paul and Del Boy almost collide into the back of me. ‘My brother’s just told me’ – he points to the other side of the yard where a tall, dark-haired young man is leaning up against the fence – ‘that my sister Brinie was kidnapped last week and repeatedly raped, and as most of the family are in jail, there’s not a lot we can do about it.’ I’m speechless. ‘The bastard’s been arrested, so we must hope that the judge gets it right this time.’ He pauses. ‘But for his sake let’s hope he doesn’t end up in the same prison as one of my brothers. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘don’t bet on that, because the odds are quite short.’

  As we turn the corner, he points up to a tower block in the distance. ‘That’s where another of my brothers, Patrick, fell to his death.’ (Have you noticed that Mrs Keane has named all her sons after saints or kings?) ‘You’ll remember, that was the occasion when the whole family attended his funeral along with half the Metropolitan Police.’ He pauses. ‘They’re now saying he might have been pushed. I’ll find out more as soon as I get out of here, and if he was…’ What hope has this man of remaining on the outside? I ask myself. I found out a few months later when I met up with yet another brother.*

  When William slips off to rejoin his brother, I notice that Del Boy and Paul have been replaced by Tony and David. David (fifty-five, in possession of a gun) is overweight, out of shape and finding it difficult to keep up with me. The next person to join me is a young, bright, full-of-life West Indian, whose story I will not repeat, as it is the mirror image of Peter Fabri’s. He too has no intention of even going through an amber light once they release him from Belmarsh. However, he admits that he’s learnt a lot more about crime than he knew before he came into prison. He’s also been introduced to drugs in the cell he shares with two other inmates.

  ‘I’m clean, man,’ he says rubbing his hands together. ‘But one of the guys in my cell who’s due out next week has tried heroin for the first time. He’s hooked now, man, I tell you he’s hooked.’

  Are you still paying attention, Home Secretary?

  I pass the tearaways, who haven’t moved an inch for the past forty minutes and have to satisfy themselves with malevolent stares. I feel confident that they aren’t going to risk anything this time.

  At four o’clock, we’re called back in block by block. Several prisoners who are leaving next week including Peter (offered forty thousand to murder a witness), Denzil (come and see me when I’m a star), and Liam (do I need a barrister or should I represent myself?) come across to shake hands and wish me luck. I pray that they never see the inside of Belmarsh again.

  4.00 pm

  When I arrive back in my cell there’s another stack of letters waiting for me on my bed, three stacks to be accurate. I start reading. It’s turned out to be most helpful that the censor has to open every one. I’m particularly touched by a letter Freddie Forsyth sent to the Daily Telegraph about the length of my sentence, and the money I’ve raised for charity. The editor did not publish it.

  4.49 pm

  Last call for supper. Spur one
is always let out first and called back last, because most of the inmates are lifers who will spend more time inside than anyone else on the block. It’s prison logic and works because the turnover on the other three spurs is between 10 per cent and 20 per cent a week, so no one thinks of complaining.

  I stroll down to the hotplate, but only so that my name can be ticked off, pick up a Thermos of hot water and return to my cell. I make myself a Cup a Soup (tomato, 22p) and eat a Mars Bar (31p) and a prison apple, as I continue to read today’s letters.

  6.00 pm

  I pick up Colin’s critique of Frank McCourt’s ’Tis. The improvement is marked since I read his first effort. He has now sorted out how much of the story he should reveal before he offers his critical opinion. This is obviously a man who once you tell him something is able to respond immediately. I then turn my attention to his poem.

  Education Belmarsh

  Open the labyrinths of time

  blow out the cobwebs

  and past life of crime

  full of knowledge held within

  the mind is truly a wonderful thing

  It can be educated, it can be evolved

  without education

  can the problems be solved?

  While locked away, there is plenty to see

  they entrap the body

  but your mind is still free

  to wonder the universe

  and grow like a tree

  So go to the library

  and pick up a book

  watch your mind grow

  while other cons look

  It’s not down to them

  to make you move

  so go ahead read

  and your mind will improve

  Colin Kitto, May 2001

  House Block 1, HMP Belmarsh

  This poem reveals a lot about the man, where he’s going, and where he’s come from. I feel sure that before he completes his sentence, he will have that degree from Ruskin College. And don’t forget, this is a man who couldn’t read or write before he came into prison.

  There is a polite knock on the door and I look up to see one of the officers peering through my little oblong window. He asks if I would be willing to sign autographs for his two daughters, Joanna and Stephanie. ‘They both enjoy your books,’ he explains, before adding, ‘though I must admit I’ve never read one.’

  He doesn’t unlock the cell door, just pushes two pieces of paper underneath. This puzzles me. I later learn that an officer cannot unlock a cell door if he is not on duty. Once he has retrieved them, he adds, ‘I’ll be off for the first part of next week, so if I don’t see you again, good luck with your appeal.’

  7.00 pm

  I begin reading a book of short stories that had been left on a table by the TV on the ground floor. It’s titled The Fallen and the author, John MacKenna, is someone I’ve not read before. He’s no storyteller, as so often the Irish are, but oh, don’t I wish I could write as lyrically as he does.

  10.50 pm

  I finish reading John MacKenna in one sitting (on the end of the bed) – what assured, confident prose, with an intimate feel for his countrymen and his country. I conclude that God gave the Irish the gift of language and threw in some potatoes as an afterthought.

  Day 18

  Sunday 5 August 2001

  6.00 am

  Another good night’s sleep.

  Yesterday I wrote for six hours, three sessions of two, read for three – including my letters – and slept for eight. Out there where you are, five hours’ sleep was always enough. In truth, the writing is an attempt to fill the day and night with nonstop activity. I feel sorry for the prisoners who have to occupy those same hours and cannot read or write.

  8.00 am

  Breakfast. Egg and beans on toast, two mornings in a row. I don’t grumble. I’ve always liked egg and beans.

  9.30 am

  I hear the officer on duty holler up from his desk, ‘RCs.’

  I press the buzzer which switches on a red light outside my door – known as room service – to indicate that I wish to attend chapel. No one comes to unlock the door. When they yell a second time, I press the buzzer again, but still no one responds. After they call a third time, I start banging on my door, but to no avail. Although I am not a Roman Catholic, after William Keane’s recommendation I would have liked to hear Father Kevin preach.

  10.03 am

  Mr Cousins finally appears to explain that as I am not a Roman Catholic, the officer on duty assumed my name had been put on the wrong list, and transferred me back to C of E. I curse under my breath as I don’t want to be put on report. A curse for me is damn or blast.

  ‘You can always go next week,’ he says. ‘Just be sure you give us enough notice.’

  ‘I was rather hoping that I won’t be with you next week,’ I tell him.

  He smiles. I can see he accepts that his colleague has made a mistake, so I decide this might be a good opportunity to ask about the drug problem as seen from the other side of the iron barrier. To my surprise Mr Cousins is frank – almost enthusiastic – about passing on his views.

  Mr Cousins doesn’t try to pretend that there isn’t a drug problem in prisons. Only a fool would. He also admits that because of the casual way officers have to conduct their searches, it’s not that difficult to transfer drugs from spur to spur, block to block and even across a table during family visits.

  ‘Not many officers,’ he tells me, ‘would relish the idea of having to use rubber gloves to search up prisoners’ backsides three or four times a day. And even if we did go to that extreme, the inmates would simply swallow the drugs, which would only cause even more problems. But,’ he continues, ‘we still do everything in our power to prevent and cure, and we’ve even had a few successes.’ He pauses. ‘But not that many.’

  When a prisoner enters Belmarsh he has an MDT. This takes the form of a urine sample which is all very well until it comes to heroin, a substance that can be flushed through the body within twenty-four hours. Most other drugs leave some signs in the blood or urine for at least four weeks. On the day they enter prison, 70 per cent of inmates show positive signs of being on drugs, and even with the twenty-four-hour proviso, 20 per cent indicate of heroin. If Mr Cousins had revealed these figures to me only three weeks ago, he would have left me staggered by the enormity of the problem. Already I have come to accept such revelations as part of everyday prison life.

  ‘Our biggest success rate,’ continues Mr Cousins, ‘is among those prisoners coming up for parole, because towards the end of their sentence, they have to report regularly to the Voluntary Drug Testing Centre – there’s one in every prison – to prove they are no longer dependent on drugs, which will be entered on their report, and can play a part in shortening their sentence. What we don’t know,’ he adds, ‘is how many of them go straight back on drugs the moment they’re released. But in recent years we’ve taken a more positive step to stamp out the problem.

  In 1994 we set up a Dedicated Search Team, known as the ghost-busters, who can move in at any time without warning and search individual cells, even whole spurs or blocks. This team of officers was specifically formed following the IRA escape from Whitemoor Prison in ‘93, but after all the terrorists were sent back to Ulster following the Good Friday Agreement, the unit switched their concentration from terrorism to the misuse of illegal substances. They’ve had remarkable success in uncovering large amounts of drugs and charging offenders. But,’ he reflects, ‘I have to admit the percentage of drug takers still hasn’t fallen, and I speak as someone who was once a member of the DST. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘it’s just possible that standing still is in itself an achievement.’

  I hear the first bellow from downstairs for C of E, and thank Mr Cousins for his tutorial and his candour.

  10.30 am

  I report to the middle floor and join those prisoners who wish to attend the morning service. We line up and are put through the usual search before being escorted to the chapel.
Malcolm (Salvation Army officer) is surprised to see me, as I had told him yesterday that I intended to go and hear Father Kevin preach. Before I take my seat in the second row, I give him the precised version of how I ended up back in his flock.

  No backing group this week, just taped music, which makes Malcolm’s job all the more difficult, especially when it comes to stopping the chattering in the back six rows. My eyes settle on a couple of Lebanese drug dealers sitting in the far corner at the back. They are deep in conversation. I know that they’re from different spurs, so they obviously use this weekly get together to exchange information on their clients. Every time I turn to observe them, their heads are bowed, but not in prayer.