A Prison Diary

by Jeffrey Archer

  The sermon this week is taken from Luke. It’s the one about the ninety-nine sheep who are safely locked up in the pen while the shepherd goes off in search of the one that’s strayed. Malcolm faces a congregation of over two hundred that have strayed, and most of them have absolutely no intention of returning to the pen.

  But he somehow battles on, working assiduously on the first six rows, with whom he is having some success. Towards the end of the service his wife reads a lesson, and after the blessing, Malcolm asks his congregation if they would like to come forward and sign the pledge. At least forty prisoners rise from their places and begin to walk forward. They are individually blessed before signing the register.

  They look to me like the same forty who offered themselves up for salvation last week, but I am still in no doubt that Malcolm and his wife are performing a worthwhile mission.

  12 noon

  Lunch. I settle for more beans on toast, an apple and a mug of water. I suppose I should have stated the obvious at some point, namely that alcohol is forbidden, which is no great loss to me as I rarely drink more than a glass of red wine in the evening.

  4.00 pm

  Association. I run downstairs, phonecard in hand, thirteen units left for Mary. A long queue has already formed behind the two payphones. One of the disadvantages of living on the top floor.

  I turn my attention to the large TV in the middle of the room. Several prisoners are watching the Sunday afternoon film with Tom Hanks and Geena Davis. It’s the story of a women’s baseball team set up in 1942 when, because of the outbreak of the Second World War, the men’s teams had to be disbanded.

  I turn my head every few moments but the queue doesn’t seem to diminish, so I go on watching the film. Several prisoners join me during the next half-hour.

  Del Boy (murder) to tell me he’s somehow purloined a copy of the weekly menu for my diary.

  Fletch (murder) wants to come to my cell at six and read something to me. I ask if he could make it seven, as I’ll still be writing at six. ‘Suits me,’ he says, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Prison humour.

  Tony (marijauna only, escaped to Paris) then leans across and asks if the identification of one of his girlfriends could be removed from yesterday’s script. I agree and make a note of her name.

  I spot Billy (murder) and recommend the book of short stories by John MacKenna, but he walks on past me without a word. I suppose by now I shouldn’t be surprised by anything.

  Dennis (GBH, large bag of toiletries) taps me on the shoulder. He starts to tell me about the visit of his son on his first birthday, and how he can’t wait to get out and be with his wife and children. Join the club.

  Miah (murder) who’s the spur hair cutter – known, not surprisingly, as Sweeny Todd – says he can fit me in at seven tomorrow evening. I thank him, explaining that I must have my hair cut before Mary and the boys come to visit me on Thursday. When I glance round, the queue for the phone is down to three. I leave Mr Hanks and Ms Davis and take my place at the back.

  Just as I reach the front, another prisoner barges in front of me. As he’s a double murderer and his right hand has HATE tatooed on his four fingers, I decide not to mention that I thought I was next in line. Ten minutes later he slams down the phone and walks away effing and blinding. I slowly dial the Cambridge number to be reminded that I only have thirteen units left on my card. Mary answers. She sounds cheerful and is full of news. The trip to Dresden went well, and while she was abroad she felt her life was getting back to normal. Perhaps because the German tabloids aren’t quite that obsessed with my incarceration. William accompanied her, and was a tower of strength, while James stayed behind to manage the shop.

  Ten units left.

  Mary tells me that following Emma Nicholson’s letter the police are hinting that they may not even carry out an inquiry. I explain that despite this I’ve been reassigned to C-cat status, and would like my D-cat back as quickly as possible. She assures me that Ramona and James are working on it.

  Seven units left.

  I tell her how many letters I have been receiving every day, and she counters by saying that she’s getting so many at home and in London that there just aren’t enough hours to answer them all. She’s designed an all-purpose reply so that she can get on with her own work.

  Five units left.

  Mary adds that not only are my friends remaining constant, but she’s had a dozen offers to join them on their yachts or in their holiday homes, and one even on safari. I’ve always known we had foul-weather friends, but both of us have been touched by the public’s overwhelming support.

  Three units left.

  I let her know that I’ve already written over forty thousand words of the diary, but can’t be sure what my regular readers will make of it. Mary says she’s looking forward to reading an early draft, and will give me a candid view. She is incapable of doing anything else.

  One unit left.

  We begin our goodbyes, and she reminds me I will be seeing her and the boys on Thursday, something to look forward to.

  ‘Do you know how much I…’

  All units used up. I hear a click, and the phone goes dead.

  As I walk away, I hear the words ‘Lock-up’ bellowed out from just behind me. As reliable as Big Ben, if not as melodious. It has to be five o’clock.

  5.05 pm

  Supper. I go down to the hotplate and have my name ticked off by Paul – prisoners do a seven-day week with no holidays or bank holidays – and pick up a Thermos flask of hot water and a chocolate ice cream. Back in my cell I make a Cup a Soup (mushroom, 22p), eat another Mars Bar (31p), and enjoy a chocolate ice-cream (prison rations).

  7.00 pm

  I’m washing my plastic plate in the basin when there’s a knock on the door. The cell door is pulled open by an officer to reveal the massive frame of Fletch standing in the doorway. I had quite forgotten he was coming to read something to me.

  I smile. ‘Welcome,’ I say, like the spider to the fly. The first thing I notice is that he’s clutching a small green notebook, not unlike the type we used to write our essays in at school. After a brief chat about which prison I’m likely to be sent to, and his opinion of Mr Leader, the Deputy Governor, he turns to the real purpose of his visit.

  ‘I wonder if I might be allowed to read something to you?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, not sure if it’s to be an essay, a poem, or even the first chapter of a novel. I settle on the bed while Fletch sits in the plastic chair (prisoners are only allowed one chair per cell). He places the little lined book on my desk, opens it at the first page, and begins to read.

  If I had the descriptive powers of Greene and the narrative drive of Hemingway, I still could not do justice to the emotions I went through during the next twenty minutes; revulsion, anger, sympathy, incredulity, and finally inadequacy. Fletch turns another page, tears welling up in his eyes, as he forces himself to resurrect the demons of his past. By the time he comes to the last page, this giant of a man is a quivering wreck, and of all the emotions I can summon up to express my true feelings, anger prevails. When Fletch closes the little green book, we both remain silent for some time.

  Once I’m calm enough to speak, I thank him for the confidence he has shown in allowing me to share such a terrible secret.

  ‘I’ve never allowed anyone in Belmarsh to read this,’ he says, tapping the little green book. ‘But perhaps now you can appreciate why I won’t be appealing against my sentence. I don’t need the whole world to know what I’ve been through,’ he adds in a whisper, ‘so it will go with me to my grave.’ I nod my understanding and promise to keep his confidence.

  10.00 pm

  I can’t sleep. What Fletch has read to me could not have been made up. It’s so dreadful that it has to be true. I sleep for a few minutes and then wake again. Fletch has tried to put the past behind him by devoting his time and energy to being a Listener, helping others, by sharing his room with a bullied prisoner, a drug addict, o
r someone likely to be a victim of sexual abuse.

  I fall asleep. I wake again. It’s pitch black outside my little cell window and I begin to feel that Fletch could give an even greater service if his story were more widely known, and the truth exposed. Then people like me who have led such naive and sheltered lives could surely have the blinkers lifted from their eyes.

  I decide as soon as they let me out of my cell, that I will tell him that I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to suggest that he could do far more good by revealing what actually happened to him than by remaining silent. In all, I think I’ve woken five or six times during the night, my thoughts always returning to Fletch. But one comment he made above all others burns in my mind, Fifty per cent of prisoners in Belmarsh can tell you variations of the same story. Jeffrey, my case is not unique.

  I decide I must use whatever persuasive powers I possess to get him to agree to publish, without reservation, everything in that little green book.

  Day 19

  Monday 6 August 2001

  5.17 am

  I’ve spent a sleepless night. I rise early and write for two hours. When I’ve finished, I pace around my cell, aware that if only I had held onto Fletch’s little green notebook I could have spent the time considering his words in greater detail.

  8.00 am

  I know I’ve eaten a bowl of Corn Pops from my Variety pack, because I can see the little empty box in the waste-paper bin, but I can’t remember when. I go on pacing.

  9.00 am

  An officer opens the cell door. I rush down to the ground floor, only to discover that Fletch is always let out at eight so that he can go straight to the workshops and have everything set up and ready before the other prisoners arrive. Because of the length of his sentence, it’s a real job for him. He’s the works manager, and can earn up to forty pounds a week. I could go along to the workshops, but with seventy or eighty other prisoners hanging around, I wouldn’t be able to hold a private conversation with him. Tony tells me Fletch will be back for dinner at twelve, when he’ll have an hour off before returning to the workshops at one. I’ll have to wait.

  When I return to my cell, I find a letter has been pushed under my door. It’s from Billy Little (murder). He apologizes for being offhand with me during Association the previous evening. August is always a bad month for him, he explains, and he’s not very good company for a number of reasons:

  I last saw my son in August 1998, my favourite gran died in August, the heinous act of murder that I committed took place on August 22, 1998. As you can imagine, I have a lot on my mind.

  I can’t begin to imagine, which I admit when I reply to his letter. He continues…

  During this period, I tend to spend a long time inside myself. This could give an impression to those who don’t know me of being ignorant and unapproachable. For this I apologise.

  By this time tomorrow, you’ll be sunning it up by the pool, or that’s how Springhill will feel in comparison to Hellmarsh. In a way, you’ve been lucky to have spent only a short period here, a period in which you’ve brought the normal inertia of prison to life.

  Over the last three weeks you will have felt the resentment of other prisoners who feel strongly that equality should be practised even in prisons. You no doubt recall the Gilbert and Sullivan quote from The Gondoliers – when everybody is somebody, then nobody is anybody.

  I think what I’m trying to say is that your status, friendliness and willingness to help and advise others has not gone unnoticed by those who are destined to spend a great deal longer incarcerated.

  For this I thank you, and for your inspiration to press me to think more seriously about my writing. I would like to take you up on your offer to keep in touch, and in particular to check over my first novel.

  I’ll be resident here for another month or two, or three, before they move me onto a first stage lifer main centre [Billy has been at Belmarsh for two years and seven months] I’ll let you know my address once I’ve settled. My number is at the bottom of this letter.

  You are Primus Inter Pares

  Yours,

  Billy (BX7974)

  I sit down at my table and reply immediately.

  12 noon

  When Fletch arrives back from the workshops, he finds me waiting by his cell door. He steps inside and invites me to join him.* I ask if I might be allowed to borrow his notebook so that I can consider more carefully the piece he read to me the previous evening. He hesitates for a moment, then goes to a shelf above his bed, burrows around and extracts the little green notebook. He hands it over without comment.

  I grab an apple for lunch and return to my cell. Reading Fletch’s story is no less painful. I go over it three times before pacing up and down. My problem will be getting him to agree to publish his words in this diary.

  3.37 pm

  Mr Bentley opens my cell door to let me know that the Deputy Governor wishes to see me. As I am escorted to Mr Leader’s office, I can only wonder what bad news he will have to impart this time. Am I to be sent to Parkhurst or Brixton, or have they settled on Dartmoor? When the Deputy Governor’s door is opened, I am greeted with a warm smile. Mr Leader’s demeanour and manner are completely different from our last meeting. He is welcoming and friendly, which leads me to hope that he is the bearer of better news.

  He tells me that he has just heard from the Home Office that I will not be going to Camphill on the Isle of Wight or Elmer in Kent, but Wayland. I frown. I’ve never heard of Wayland.

  ‘It’s in Norfolk,’ he tells me. ‘C-cat and very relaxed. I’ve already spoken to the Governor,’ he adds, ‘and only one other member of my staff is aware of your destination.’ I take this as a broad hint that it might be wise not to tell anyone else on the spur of my destination, unless I want to be accompanied throughout the entire journey by the national press. I nod and realize why he has taken the unusual step of seeing me alone. I’m about to ask him a question, when he answers it.

  ‘We plan to move you on Thursday.’

  Only three more days at Hellmarsh, is my first reaction, and, after asking him several more questions, I thank him and return to my cell unescorted. I spend the next hour considering every word Mr Leader has said. I recall asking him which he would rather be going to, Wayland or the Isle of Wight. ‘Wayland,’ he’d replied without hesitation.

  In prison it’s necessary to fight each battle day by day if you’re eventually going to win the war. First it was getting off the medical centre and onto Block Three. Then was escaping Block Three (Beirut) and being moved to Block One to live among a more mature group of prisoners. Next was being transferred from Belmarsh to a C-cat prison. Now I shall be pressing to regain my D-cat status, so that I can leave Wayland as quickly as possible for an open prison. But that’s tomorrow’s battle. Several prisoners have ‘Take each day as it comes’ scrawled on their walls.

  4.00 pm

  I try to write, but so much has already happened today that I find it hard to concentrate. I munch a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut (32p), and drink a mug of Evian (49p) topped up with Robinson’s blackcurrant juice (97p).

  6.00 pm

  Supper. I catch Fletch in the queue for the hotplate, and he agrees to join me in my cell at seven. ‘Miah [murder] is cutting my hair at seven,’ I tell him, ‘so could we make it seven fifteen? I can’t afford to miss the appointment, as I’m still hoping for a visit from my wife on Thursday.’

  7.00 pm

  Association. I sit patiently in a chair on number 2 landing waiting for Miah. He doesn’t turn up on time to cut my hair, so I return to my cell and wait for Fletch. He does arrive on time and takes a seat on the end of the bed. He doesn’t bother with any preamble.

  ‘You can include my piece in your book if you want to,’ he says, ‘and if you do, let’s hope it does some good.’

  I tell him that if a national newspaper serializes the diary, then his words will be read by millions of people, and the politicians will have to finally stop pretending that i
t isn’t happening or they will simply be guilty by association.

  We begin to go through the script line by line, filling in details such as names, times and places so that the casual reader can properly follow the sequence of events. Tony (marijuana only) joins us a few minutes later. It turns out that he’s the only other person to have read the piece, and it also becomes clear that it was on his advice that Fletch decided not only to write about his experiences, but to allow a wider audience to read them.

  There’s a knock on the door. It’s Miah (murder). He apologizes about missing his appointment to cut my hair, but he’s only just finished his spell on the hotplate. He explains that he can’t fit me in tomorrow, because of his work schedule, but he could cut my hair during Association on Wednesday. I warn him that if he fails to keep the appointment on Wednesday, I’ll kill him, as my wife is coming to visit me on Thursday and I must look my best. Miah laughs, bows and leaves us. I’ll kill him. I said it without thinking, and to a convicted murderer. Miah is 5ft 4in, and I doubt if he weighs ten stone; the man he murdered was 6ft 2in and weighed 220 pounds. Strange world I’m living in.

  Fletch, Tony and I continue to go over the script, and when we’ve completed the task, Fletch stands up and shakes me by the hand to show the deal has been agreed.