‘But what’s it made of?’
The ingredients are normally yeast, sugar, water and orange juice. It’s harder to produce during the summer months because you need the hot pipes that run through your cell to be boiling in order to ferment the brew, so it’s almost impossible to get decent hooch in August.’ ‘What’s it taste like?’
‘Awful, but at least it’s guaranteed to get you drunk,’ says Jimmy. ‘Which kills off a few more hours of your sentence, even if you wake up with one hell of a hangover.’
‘If you’re desperate,’ Darren adds, ‘fresh orange juice is still on the canteen list.’
‘How does that help?’
‘Just leave it on your window ledge in the sun for a few days, and you’ll soon find out.’
‘But where can you hide the hooch once you’ve made it?’
‘We used to have the perfect hiding place,’ Darren pauses, ‘but unfortunately they discovered it.’
Jimmy smiles as I wait for an explanation. ‘One Sunday morning,’ Darren continues, ‘the number one brewer on our spur was found roaming around inebriated. When breathalysed, he registered way above the limit. The drug squad were called in, and every cell on the spur was stripped bare, but no alcohol of any kind was discovered. His hiding place would have remained a mystery if a small fire hadn’t broken out in the kitchen. An officer grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and pointed it in the direction of the blaze, only to find that the flames leapt even higher. An immediate halt was called by the chef who fortunately understood the effects of ethanol, otherwise the prison might have been razed to the ground. A full enquiry was held, and three inmates were shipped out to different B-cats the following morning, ‘on suspicion of producing hooch’.’
‘In fact,’ said Darren, ‘It wasn’t hooch they were guilty of brewing. This particular strain of neat alcohol had been made by filtering metal polish through six slices of bread into a plastic mug in the hope of removing any impurities.’
I feel sick, without even having to sample the brew.
Jimmy goes on to point out that not only are some inmates brighter than the officers, but they also have twenty-four hours every day to think up such schemes, while the screws have to get on with their job.
‘But the best hooch I ever tasted,’ said Darren, ‘had a secret ingredient’
‘And what was that, may I ask?’
‘Marmite. But once the screws caught on to how much yeast it contained, they took it off the canteen list’ He pauses. ‘So now we just steal the yeast from the kitchen.’
‘Damn,’ I said. ‘I like Marmite; it was on the Belmarsh canteen list.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good enough reason, my lord, to be transferred back to Belmarsh,’ says Darren. ‘Mind you,’ he adds, ‘perhaps I should have a word with the governor, now it’s known that you are partial to it’
I kick him gently up the backside as an officer is passing in the opposite direction.
‘Did you see that, Mr Chapman? Archer is bullying me.’ ‘I’ll put him on report, and he’ll be back in Belmarsh by the end of the week,’ Mr Chapman promises.
We laugh as we continue on the perimeter circuit. However, I point out how easy it is to make an accusation, and how long it takes to refute it. It’s been a month since Emma Nicholson appeared on Newsnight insinuating that I had stolen money intended for the Kurds, and it will probably be another month before the police confirm there is no case to answer.
‘But just think about that for a minute, Jeffrey. If it hadn’t been for that bitch Nicholson, you would never have met Jimmy and me, who have not only added greatly to your knowledge of prison life, but enabled a further volume to be written.’
7.30 pm
One of the officers says there’s a package for me in the office. I’m puzzled as I’ve already had my mail for today, and registered letters are always opened in front of two officers, around eleven each morning. When I walk in, he makes a point of closing the office door before he hands over a copy of Alan Clark’s Diaries, a pad and a book of stamps. Someone else who considers the regulations damned stupid.
He goes on to say that my wife will be searched when she visits the prison tomorrow. We’re all embarrassed about it,’ he adds, ‘but it will be no worse than at an airport. But perhaps it might be wise to let her know. By the way, the press are still hanging about hoping to catch her when she arrives.’ I thank him and leave.
8.00 pm
I read a few pages of the Clark Diaries, which I enjoy every bit as much a second time. I also enjoyed Alan’s company, and will never forget a dinner party he gave at Saltwood just before the general election in 1997. Alan posed the question to his guests, ‘What do you think the majority will be at the next election?’ Most of the assembled gathering thought Labour would win by over a hundred. The only dissenter was Michael Howard, who was Home Secretary at the time. He put up a bold defence of John Major’s administration, and told his fellow guests that he felt it was still possible for the Conservatives to win the next election. Alan told him that if he really believed that, he was living in cloud cuckoo land. I don’t know to this day if Michael was simply being loyal to the prime minister. Although I can tell you that, like John Major, he is one of those people who doesn’t cross over to the other side of the road when you’re in trouble.
10.00 pm
Suddenly feel very hungry - eat a bowl of cornflakes and a Mars bar. Check my clothes - still not dry. I don’t bother with another of John Mortimer’s great trials. Feel I have enough murderers surrounding me without having to read about them.
DAY 30 - FRIDAY 17 AUGUST 2001
6.09 am
The first thing I notice when I wake is that my Mach3 razor has disappeared. The wash basin is next to the door. In future, after I’ve shaved, I’ll have to hide it in my cupboard. It would have to be stolen on the day Mary is visiting me; I want to be clean shaven but I don’t want to cut myself to ribbons with a prison razor. It also reminds me that, because I hadn’t expected to be convicted, I’ve been wearing my Longines watch for the past month, and I must hand it over to my son during the visit this afternoon.
8.15 am
Breakfast. Before I go down to the hotplate, I extract a letter from yesterday’s mail that is in Spanish. Dale has told me that one of the servers on the hotplate hails from Colombia, so he should be able to translate it for me. His name is Sergio, and he usually stands quietly on the end of the line, handing out the fruit. I pass the missive across to him, and ask if we could meet later. He nods, and hands me a banana in return.
9.00 am
Today’s induction is education, once again held in the room with the comfy chairs. For the first time the other prisoners show some interest. Why? Because this is how they’ll earn their weekly wage. The head of education introduces herself as Wendy. She must be in her fifties, has curly grey hair, wears a flowery blouse, white skirt and sensible shoes. She has the air of a headmistress. Wendy wheels a little projector up to the front, and begins a slide show. Using the white brick wall as a backdrop, she shows us what her department has to offer. The first slide reveals five options:
Basic skills
English as an additional language
Social and life skills
Business skills
Art, craft and design
‘Education,’ Wendy points out, ‘is part-time (one session a day), so you can only earn seven pounds thirty-five per week.’ The other prisoners don’t take a great deal of interest in this slide, but immediately perk up when the second chart flashes on to the wall. VT and CIT training courses:
Bricklaying
Plumbing
Electrical installation
Painting and decorating
Welding
Motor mechanics
Light vehicle body repair
Industrial cleaning
Computer application
The weekly pay for any one of these courses is also PS7.35, but does give you a basic train
ing for when you return to the outside world.
When the final slide comes up, most of the inmates begin licking their collective lips, because this offers not only real earning power, but a position of responsibility plus perks. The extra money guarantees a more substantial canteen list each week (extra tobacco) and even the opportunity to save something for when you are released. The slide reveals:
Plastic recycling PS10.15 per week
Ration packing PS9.35
Gardening (one of the most sought-after jobs, with a long waiting list) PS9.00
General cleaner PS6.70
Works PS8.50
Kitchen PS8.50
Stores (very popular, longer waiting list than the MCC) PS10.00
Chapel PS8.00
Drug rehabilitation unit PS6.70
Before she can turn back to face her audience, the questions come thick and fast. Wendy points out that most of these jobs already have waiting lists, even washing-up, as there are far more prisoners than jobs. Wendy handles the questions sympathetically, without giving anyone false hopes of being offered one of these more remunerative positions.
Her final task is to hand round more forms to be filled in. My fellow inmates grab them, and then take some time considering their options. I put a cross next to ‘pottery’ in the education box, but add that I would be happy to do a creative writing course, or teach other prisoners to read and write. Wendy has already pointed out that the education department is understaffed. However, she tells me that such an initiative would require the governor’s approval, and she’ll get back to me. I return to my cell.
11.00 am
I report to the gym to assist with the special needs group. They are about thirty in number, and I’ve been put in charge of four of them: Alex, Robbie, Les and Paul. Three head straight for the rowing machines, while Alex places himself firmly on the treadmill. He sets off at one mile an hour and, with coaxing and patience (something I don’t have in abundance), he manages two miles an hour. I have rarely seen such delight on a competitor’s face. This, for Alex, is his Olympic gold medal. I then suggest he moves on to the step machine while I try to tempt Paul off the rower and onto the running machine. I have to give him several demonstrations as to how it works before he’ll even venture on, and when he finally does, we start him off at half a mile an hour. By using sign language - hands waving up and down - we increase his speed to one mile an hour, I next try to show him how to use the plus and minus buttons. He conquers this new skill by the time he’s walked half a mile. While I teach him how to operate the machine, he teaches me to be patient. By the time he’s done a mile, Paul has mastered the technique completely, and feels like a king. I feel pretty good too.
I look around the room and observe the other prisoners - murderers, drug barons, armed robbers and burglars, gaining just as much from the experience as their charges.
Our final session brings all the group together in the gym where we play a game that’s a cross between cricket and football, called catchball. A plastic ball is bowled slowly along the ground to a child (I must remember that though they think like children, they are not), who kicks it in the air, and then takes a run. If they are caught, they’re out, and someone else takes their place. One of the players, Robbie, catches almost everything, whether it flies above his head, at his feet, or straight at him. This is always greeted with yelps of delight.
By eleven thirty, we’re all exhausted. The group are then ushered out of a especial door at the side of the gym. The boys shake hands and the girls cuddle their favourite prisoner. Carl, a handsome West Indian, gets more cuddles than any of us (they see no colour, only kindness). As they leave to go home, they enquire how long you will be there, and thus I discover why prisoners with longer sentences are selected for this particular responsibility. I make a bold attempt to escape with the group, who all laugh and point at me. When we reach the waiting bus, Mr Maiden finally calls me back.
12 noon
Lunch. I can’t remember what I’ve just eaten because I’m glued to the morning papers. Mary is given rave reviews right across the board - dozens of column inches praising the way she handled John Humphrys.
Lord Longford’s reported dying words, ‘Free Jeffrey Archer’, get a mention in almost every column. I didn’t know Frank Longford well, but enjoyed his wife’s reply to Roy Plomley on Desert Island Discs:
Plomley: ‘Lady Longford, have you ever considered divorce?’
Lady Longford: ‘No, never. Murder several times, but divorce, never.’
I have a feeling Mary would have given roughly the same reply.
2.00 pm
I am watching the Australians leave the field - they were all out for 447 - when the cell door is unlocked and I’m told to report to the visitors’ area. I switch off the TV and head out into the corridor. How unlike Belmarsh. I even have to ask the way. ‘Take the same route as you would for the gym,’ says Mr Chapman, but then turn right at the end of the corridor.’
When I arrive, the two duty officers don’t strip search me, and show no interest in my watch, which is secreted under my shirtsleeve. For visits, all prisoners have to wear striped blue prison shirts and blue jeans.
The visitors’ room is about the same size as the gym and is filled with seventy small round tables, each surrounded by four chairs - one red, three blue. The red chair and the table are bolted together so there is always a gap between you and your visitor. This is to prevent easy passing of illicit contraband. The prisoner sits in the red seat, with his back to the officers. In the middle of each table is a number. I’m fourteen. There is a tuck shop on the far side of the room where visitors can purchase non-alcoholic drinks, chocolate and crisps. The one prisoner trusted to handle cash in the shop is Steve (conspiracy to murder, librarian and accountant) - would-be murderer he may be, thief he is not. Once every prisoner has been seated, the visitors are allowed in.
I watch the different prisoners’ wives, partners, girlfriends and children as they walk through the door and try to guess which table they’ll go to. Wrong almost every time. Mary’s about fifth through the gate. She is wearing a long white dress which shows off that glorious mop of dark hair. Will is only a pace behind, followed by my agent and close friend, Jonathan Lloyd. He and Will take a seat near the door, so that Mary and I can have a little time to ourselves.
Mary brings me up to date with what’s happening at the Red Cross. Their CEO, Sir Nicholas Young, has been most supportive; no fence-sitter he. Because of his firm statements Mary feels confident that it won’t be long before I am moved on to an open prison. She also feels that the Prison Service and the police have been put in an embarrassing position, and will fall back on claiming that they had no choice but to follow up Nicholson’s accusation. The Red Cross may even consider taking legal action against her. The lawyers’ advice is, if they do, we should remain on the sidelines. I agree. She beckons to Will who comes over to join us.
Will tells me that he’s been monitoring everything, and although it’s tough for me, they are both working daily on my behalf. I confess that there are times in the dead of night when you wonder if anyone is out there. But I realize when it comes to back-up, there can’t be a prisoner alive with a more supportive family. When Will’s completed his report, Jonathan is finally allowed to join us, while Will goes off to purchase six Diet Cokes and a bottle of Highland Spring. (Three of the Cokes are for me.)
Jonathan has travelled up to Wayland to discuss my latest novel. He also wants an update on the diaries. I’m able to tell him that Belmarsh is completed (70,000 words) although I still need to read it through once again, but hope to have it on his desk in about two weeks’ time.
We discuss selling the newspaper rights separately, while allowing my publisher a 10 per cent topping right on the three volumes, as they’ve been so good to me in the past. But we all agree that nothing should happen until we know the outcome of my appeal, both for conviction and sentence.
Once Jonathan feels his business is
complete, he retires once again, so that I can spend the last half hour with Mary and Will. When we’re alone, we recap on all that needs to be done before we meet again in a fortnight’s time. At least I now have enough phonecards to keep in regular touch.
Steve comes across to clear our table - it’s the first time Mary has met someone convicted of conspiracy to murder. This tall, elegant man ‘looks more like a company secretary than a would-be murderer’ is her only comment. ‘You probably pass a murderer on the street once a week,’ I suggest.
‘Time for visitors to leave,’ announces a voice behind me. I unstrap my Longines watch to exchange it for a twenty-dollar Swatch I purchased in a rash moment at Washington airport. Will is facing the two officers, who are seated on a little platform behind me. He nods, and we both put on our new watches.
‘All visitors must now leave,’ repeats the officer politely but firmly. We begin our long goodbyes and Mary is among the last to depart.
When I leave the room, the officer asks me to take off my shoes, which he checks carefully, but doesn’t ask me to remove anything else, including my socks. He shows no interest in my watch and nods me through.
4.17 pm
Back in my cell, I find my canteen order has been left on the end of the bed. Hip, hip, and my clothes are finally dry, hooray. As I unpack my wares, Dale arrives with back-up provisions.
6.00 pm
Supper. Beans and chips accompanied by a large mug of Volvic.
7.00 pm
Exercise. Dale joins Jimmy, Darren and me as we walk around the yard, and manages all three circuits. On the last one, he spots the artist he told me about yesterday. He is sitting in the far corner sketching a prisoner. An inmate is leaning up against the fence in what he assumes is a model’s pose. We walk across to take a look. The drawing is excellent, but the artist immediately declares that he’s not happy with the result. I’ve never known an artist say anything else. As he’s more than fully occupied, we agree to meet tomorrow evening at the same time.
Purgatory Page 7
