‘Which reminds me,’ I continue, ‘could you ask James to wear a cheap watch the next time he visits me, and then I can exchange my Longines.’ I hadn’t for a moment imagined I would end up in prison, so I was wearing my favourite watch on the day of the verdict, and after twenty years I’d be sorry if it was stolen. James has hankered after it for some time and has already asked me to leave it to him in my will (mercenary brat). ‘Will can have the rest of the estate as long as I can have the watch,’ James insists. Longines have stopped making that particular slim model. Nevertheless, William had agreed to the deal as he considers the overall arrangement very satisfactory.
‘I think you’d better wait until you’ve left Belmarsh before you start swapping watches,’ advises Tony. ‘And then only when you can be sure that the regulations are a little more relaxed.’
We complete all legal matters, and as he can’t escape until the hour is up, we turn our thoughts to the World Athletics Championships in Edmonton, where I had hoped to be spending my summer holiday with Michael Beloff.* Tony tells me the fantastic news that Jonathan Edwards has taken the gold in the triple jump.
‘He won easily,’ Tony adds, ‘clearing nearly eighteen metres. He’s so relaxed since his gold in Sydney that I doubt if he will be beaten before the next Olympics at Athens in 2004, and even Mr Justice Potts won’t be able to stop you being there to witness that.’
When the prison officer returns to open the door on Tony’s side of the room, I leave him in no doubt that the number one priority is sorting out the Kurdish debacle, so that my D-cat can be reinstated as quickly as possible. I also add that I do not require any lawyers to travel to Norfolk at vast expense. They can relay messages through Mary, who’s as bright as any of them. Tony smiles, agrees and shakes hands. He has the hands of a heavyweight boxer, and I suspect he’d survive well in prison. They release him, but as I don’t have a yellow band around my wrist, I slump back into the seat on the other side of the table and wait.
12 noon
In the lunch queue – always a great place to catch up on the gossip – Fletch briefs me on Joseph’s problem. I now understand why he couldn’t pot a ball on the pool table this morning. When I reach the hotplate, Tony recommends the ‘spaghetti vegetarian’, which is disguised to look like bolognaise.
‘Au gratin?’ I suggest.
‘Of course, my Lord. Liam, fetch his lordship the grated Parmesan.’ A small plastic packet of grated cheese is produced from under the hotplate, opened in front of the duty officer and sprinkled over my spaghetti. This is greeted with a huge round of applause from the prisoners and laughter from the officers. In a lifer’s day, this is an event
Back in my cell I enjoy the dish, but then it is my twentieth day on prison rations. I’ve been able to take another notch in on my belt. So I reckon I’ve lost about half a stone.
2.00 pm
When the cell door is opened again, I dash down to the middle level, already dressed in my gym kit, and keep running on the spot by the barred gate. This time I am ticked off the select list of eight from our spur. After a search followed by a route march to another part of the building I’ve never been to before we arrive in a changing room where we are all supplied with a light blue singlet and dark blue shorts. This, I assume, is just in case any prisoner has spent time at both Oxford and Cambridge.
The gym is divided into two sections. The larger room is the size of a basketball court, where twelve of the prisoners play six-a-side football. We currently have one former Arsenal and Brentford player residing at Belmarsh. There is also a weight-lifting room, about a third of the size of the basketball court, where forty-seven sweaty, tattooed, rippling muscled youths pump iron, so that when they get out of here they will be even more capable of causing grievous bodily harm.
The room is so packed that you can’t move more than a few feet without bumping into someone. There are two running machines, two rowing machines and two step machines, in which the younger prisoners show scant interest. I do a six-minute warm-up on the running machine at five miles an hour, which affords me an excellent view of what’s going on in the centre of the room. The forty-seven fit young men are pumping weights, not a pretty sight, especially as most of them are simply on an ego trip to establish their status among the other prisoners on the block. I wonder how many of them have worked out that Fletch, Tony, Billy and Del Boy carry the most influence on our spur, and not one of them would be able to locate the gym.
Once I’ve completed 2,000 metres on the rower in nine minutes, I move on to some light weight-training, before doing another ten minutes on the running machine at eight miles an hour. While I’m running, I begin to notice that many of the lifers have a poor posture. Their backs are not straight, and they swing their shoulders when lifting heavy weights rather than use their arm muscles properly. The two officers in charge can’t do much more than keep an eye on what’s going on in both rooms. It would be far more sensible to have three sessions of gym each day, with fewer bodies present, then the coach would be able to fulfil a more worthwhile role than just acting as a babysitter. I put this suggestion to one of the officers, and once again they fall back on ‘staff shortages’.
After ten minutes on the running machine, I return to the weights before ending on the step machine. When the officer bellows out, ‘Last five minutes,’ I move on to stretching exercises and complete in one hour exactly the same programme as I would have gone through in the basement gym of my London flat. The only difference is that there, there wouldn’t be a murderer in sight.
Back in the changing room, I feel I’ve done well until Dennis (former Arsenal and Brentford player) joins me and reports that he’s scored six goals. I congratulate him, and ask him if it’s true that he’s been selected to captain Belmarsh for the annual fixture against Holloway? This brings far more laughter and cheers than it deserves, although half the prisoners immediately volunteer to play in goal.
‘No, thank you,’ says Dennis. ‘I’ve got enough women problems as it is.’
‘But you told me that you’d had a good visit on Sunday when your wife and child came to see you?’
‘One of my wives,’ corrects Dennis. ‘And one of my children.’
‘How many others do you have?’ I ask.
‘Three of both,’ he admits.
‘But that’s bigamy,’ I say. ‘Or possibly trigamy.’
‘Get a life, Jeff, I’m not married to any of them. There are no fathers hanging around with shotguns nowadays. They’re all partners, not wives. Like a company chairman, I have several shareholders. Thank God I’m banged up in here at the moment,’ he adds, ‘because if they called an AGM I wouldn’t want to have to explain why they won’t be getting a dividend this year.’
It’s clear that none of the other prisoners listening to this conversation consider it at all unusual, let alone reprehensible. Heaven knows what Britain will be like in fifty years’ time if everyone has three ‘wives’ but doesn’t bother to actually marry any of them.
When I return to my cell, I find my canteen order waiting for me on the bed. I drink mug after mug of water, followed by two KitKats, before going off to have a shower.
4.00 pm
Association. My first assignment is to return a bottle of water to Del Boy (Highland Spring) before searching out Tony to hand over a Mars Bar, followed by Colin (twelve first-class stamps). Having cleared my debts (bubbles) – no one charges me double bubble – I join the other prisoners seated around the television. They’re watching the World Athletics Championships. An officer called Mr Hughes brings me up to date on progress so far. After the first day of the decathlon, Macey is leading by one point, and is preparing for his heat in the 110 metre hurdles, which is the first event of the second day. I tell Mr Hughes that Edmonton was where I had originally planned to spend my summer holiday.
‘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 ano
ther 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?’
A Prison Diary Page 21
