A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  Craig didn’t comment as he emptied what remained of the second bottle. ‘Another bottle, barman,’ he said.

  ‘The ’ninety-five, Mr Craig?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Craig. ‘Nothing but the best for my friend.’

  ‘No need to waste your money on me, old fellow,’ said Payne.

  Craig didn’t bother to tell him that it hardly mattered what was on the label, because the barman had already decided how much he was going to charge for ‘keeping shtum’, as he put it.

  Big Al was snoring, which Nick had once described in his diary as sounding like a cross between an elephant drinking and a ship’s foghorn. Nick somehow managed to sleep through any amount of rap music emanating from the nearby cells, but he still hadn’t come to terms with Big Al’s snoring.

  He lay awake and thought about Danny’s decision to give up the chain gang and join him at education. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that while Danny may not have had much of a formal education, he was brighter than anyone he’d taught during the past two years.

  Danny was rapacious about his new challenge, without having any idea what the word meant. He didn’t waste a moment, always asking questions, rarely satisfied with the answers. Nick had read about teachers who discovered that their pupils were cleverer than they were, but he hadn’t expected to come across that problem while he was in prison. And it wasn’t as if Danny allowed him to relax at the end of the day. No sooner had the cell door been slammed for the night than he was perched on the end of Nick’s bunk, demanding that even more questions were answered. And on two subjects, maths and sport, Nick quickly found out that Danny already knew far more than he did. He had an encyclopedic memory that made it quite unnecessary for Nick to look up anything in Wisden or the FA Handbook, and if you mentioned West Ham or Essex, Danny was the handbook. Although he may not have been literate, he was clearly numerate, and had a grasp for figures that Nick knew he could never equal.

  ‘Are you awake?’ asked Danny, breaking into Nick’s thoughts.

  ‘Big Al’s probably preventing anyone in the next three cells from sleeping,’ said Nick.

  ‘I was just thinkin’ that since I signed up for education, I’ve told you a lot about me, but I still know almost nothin’ about you.’

  ‘I was just thinking, and while I know almost nothing about you. You’re still dropping the g.’

  ‘Thinking. Nothing,’ said Danny.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ asked Nick.

  ‘For a start, how did someone like you end up in prison?’ Nick didn’t immediately respond. ‘Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ Danny added.

  ‘I was court-martialled while my regiment was serving with the NATO forces in Kosovo.’

  ‘Did you kill someone?’

  ‘No, but an Albanian died and another was injured because of an error of judgement on my part.’ It was Danny’s turn to remain silent. ‘My platoon was ordered to protect a group of Serbs who had been charged with ethnic cleansing. During my watch, a band of Albanian guerrillas drove past the compound firing their Kalashnikovs in the air, to celebrate the Serbs’ capture. When a car full of them came dangerously close to the compound, I warned their leader to stop firing. He ignored me, so my staff sergeant fired a few warning shots, which resulted in two of them ending up with gunshot wounds. Later one of them died in hospital.’

  ‘So you didn’t kill anyone?’ said Danny.

  ‘No. But I was the officer in charge.’

  ‘And you got eight years for that?’ Nick didn’t comment. ‘I once thought about going into the army,’ said Danny.

  ‘You’d have made a damn good soldier.’

  ‘But Beth was against it.’ Nick smiled. ‘Said she didn’t like the idea of my being overseas half the time when she’d be worrying herself sick about my safety. Ironic really.’

  ‘Good use of the word ironic,’ said Nick.

  ‘How come you don’t get no letters?’

  ‘Any letters. I don’t receive any letters.’

  ‘Why don’t you receive any letters?’ repeated Danny.

  ‘How do you spell receive?’

  ‘R E C I E V E.’

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘Try to remember, i before e except after c – R E C E I V E. There are some exceptions to that rule, but I won’t bother you with them tonight.’ There was another long silence, before Nick eventually replied to Danny’s question. ‘I’ve made no attempt to stay in contact with my family since the court martial, and they’ve made no effort to get in touch with me.’

  ‘Even your mum and dad?’ said Danny.

  ‘My mother died giving birth to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is your father still alive?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes, but he was colonel of the same regiment I served in. He hasn’t spoken to me since the court martial.’

  ‘That’s a bit rough.’

  ‘Not really. The regiment is his whole life. I was meant to follow in his footsteps and end up as the commanding officer, not being court-martialled.’

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aunts and uncles?’

  ‘One uncle, two aunts. My father’s younger brother and his wife, who live in Scotland, and another aunt in Canada, but I’ve never met her.’

  ‘No other relations?’

  ‘Relatives is a better word. Relations has a double meaning.’

  ‘Relatives.’

  ‘No. The only person I’ve ever really cared for was my grandfather, but he died a few years ago.’

  ‘And was your grandfather an army officer too?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick, laughing. ‘He was a pirate.’

  Danny didn’t laugh. ‘What sort of pirate?’

  ‘He sold armaments to the Americans during the Second World War; made a fortune – enough to retire on, buy a large estate in Scotland and set himself up as a laird.’

  ‘A laird?’

  ‘Clan leader, master of all he surveys.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re rich?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Nick replied. ‘My father somehow managed to squander most of his inheritance while he was colonel of the regiment – “Must keep up appearances, old boy,” he used to say. Whatever was left over went on the upkeep of the estate.’

  ‘So you’re penniless? You’re like me?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick, ‘I’m not like you. You’re more like my grandfather. And you wouldn’t have made the same mistake as I did.’

  ‘But I ended up in ’ere with a twenty-two-year sentence.’

  ‘In here. Don’t drop the h.’

  ‘In here,’ repeated Danny.

  ‘But unlike me, you shouldn’t be in here,’ said Nick quietly.

  ‘Do you believe that?’ said Danny, unable to hide his surprise.

  ‘I didn’t until I read Beth’s letter, and clearly Mr Redmayne also thinks the jury made the wrong decision.’

  ‘What’s hanging from the chain round your neck?’ asked Danny.

  Big Al woke with a start, grunted, climbed out of bed, pulled down his boxer shorts and plonked himself on the lavatory. Once he’d pulled the flush, Danny and Nick tried to get to sleep before he started snoring again.

  Beth was on a bus when she first felt the pains. The baby wasn’t due for another three weeks, but she knew at once that she would have to get to the nearest hospital somehow if she didn’t want her first child to be born on the number 25.

  ‘Help,’ she moaned when the next wave of pain hit her. She tried to stand when the bus came to a halt at a traffic light. Two older women seated in front of her turned round. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ said the first one.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ said the second. ‘You ring the bell, and I’ll get her off the bus.’

  Nick handed Louis ten cigarettes after he’d finished brushing off the hair from his shoulders.

  ‘Thank you, Louis,’ said Nick, as if he were addressing his regular barber at Trumper’s in Cur
zon Street.

  ‘Always a pleasure, squire,’ said Louis as he threw a sheet around his next customer. ‘So what’s your pleasure, young man?’ he asked, running his fingers through Danny’s thick, short hair.

  ‘You can cut that out for a start,’ said Danny, pushing Louis’s hand away. ‘All I want is a short back and sides.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Louis, picking up his clippers and studying Danny’s hair more closely.

  Eight minutes later Louis put down his scissors and held up a mirror so Danny could see the back of his head.

  ‘Not bad,’ Danny admitted as a voice shouted out: ‘Back to your cells. Association’s over.’

  Danny slipped Louis five cigarettes as an officer hurried across and joined them.

  ‘So what’s it to be then, guv? Short back and sides?’ Danny asked looking at Mr Hagen’s bald head.

  ‘Don’t get lippy with me, Cartwright. Back to your cell, and be smart about it or you might just find yourself on report.’ Mr Hagen placed the scissors, razor, clippers, brush and an assortment of combs into a box, which he then locked and took away.

  ‘See you in a month’s time,’ said Louis as Danny hurried back to his cell.

  21

  ‘ROMANS AND C OF E!’ bellowed a voice that could be heard from one side of the block to the other.

  Danny and Nick stood waiting by the door, while Big Al happily snored away, abiding by his long-held belief that while you’re asleep you’re not in prison. The heavy key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Danny and Nick joined a stream of prisoners making their way towards the prison chapel.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’ asked Danny as they walked down the spiral staircase to the ground floor.

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘I’m an agnostic.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Someone who believes we can’t know if there’s a God, as opposed to an atheist, who is certain there isn’t one. But it’s still a good excuse to be out of the cell for an hour every Sunday morning, and in any case, I enjoy singing. Not to mention the fact that the padre gives a damn good sermon – even if he does seem to spend an inordinate amount of time on remorse.’

  ‘Padre?’

  ‘Army term for a priest,’ explained Nick.

  ‘Inordinate?’

  ‘Excessive, longer than necessary. What about you? Do you believe in God?’

  ‘Used to, before all this ’appened.’

  ‘Happened,’ said Nick.

  ‘Happened,’ repeated Danny. ‘Beth and me are Roman Catholics.’

  ‘Beth and I are Roman Catholics; you can’t say me is a Roman Catholic.’

  ‘Beth and I are Roman Catholics, so we know the Bible almost off by heart, even though I wasn’t able read it.’

  ‘Is Beth still coming this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Danny, a smile appearing on his face. ‘I can’t wait to see ’er.’

  ‘Her,’ said Nick.

  ‘Her,’ said Danny dutifully.

  ‘Don’t you ever get fed up with me continually correcting you?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Danny, ‘but I know it will please Beth, because she always wanted me to better myself. Still, I’m lookin’ forward to the day when I can correct you.’

  ‘Looking forward.’

  ‘Looking forward,’ repeated Danny as they reached the entrance to the chapel, where they waited in line as each prisoner was given a body search before being allowed to enter.

  ‘Why bother to search us before we go in?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Because it’s one of the few occasions when prisoners from all four blocks can congregate in one place, and have a chance to exchange drugs or information.’

  ‘Congregate?’

  ‘Get together. A church has a congregation.’

  ‘Spell it,’ demanded Danny.

  They reached the front of the line, where two officers were carrying out searches – a short woman who was over forty and must have survived on a diet of prison food, and a young man who looked as if he spent a lot of time bench-pressing. Most of the prisoners seemed to want to be searched by the woman officer.

  Danny and Nick strolled into the chapel, another large rectangular room but this time filled with long wooden benches that faced an altar displaying a silver cross. On the brick wall behind the altar was a huge mural depicting The Last Supper. Nick told Danny it had been painted by a murderer, and that the models for the disciples had all been inmates at the time.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ said Danny.

  ‘Just because you’re a murderer doesn’t mean you can’t have other talents,’ said Nick. ‘Don’t forget Caravaggio.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve met him,’ admitted Danny.

  ‘Turn to page 127 in your hymn books,’ announced the chaplain, ‘and we’ll all sing, “He Who Would Valiant Be”.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you to Caravaggio as soon as we’re back in the cell,’ promised Nick as the little organ struck up the opening chord.

  As they sang, Nick couldn’t be sure if Danny was reading the words or knew them off by heart after years of attending his local church.

  Nick looked around the chapel. He wasn’t surprised that the benches were as packed as a football stand on a Saturday afternoon. A group of prisoners huddled together in the back row were deep in conversation, not even bothering to open their hymn books as they exchanged details of which new arrivals needed drugs; they’d already dismissed Danny as ‘no man’s land’. Even when they fell on their knees they made no pretence of mouthing the Lord’s Prayer; redemption wasn’t on their minds.

  The only time they fell silent was when the chaplain delivered his sermon. Dave, whose name was printed in bold letters on a lapel badge pinned to his cassock, turned out to be a good old-fashioned fire and brimstone priest, who had chosen murder as his text for the day. This drew loud cries of ‘Hallelujah!’ from the first three rows, mainly populated by boisterous Afro-Caribbeans who seemed to know a thing or two about the subject.

  Dave invited his captive audience to pick up their Bibles and turn to the book of Genesis, then informed them that Cain was the first murderer. ‘Cain was envious of his brother’s success,’ he explained, ‘so decided to do away with him.’ Dave then turned to Moses, who he claimed killed an Egyptian and thought he’d got away with it, but he hadn’t, because God had seen him, so he was punished for the rest of his life.

  ‘I don’t remember that bit,’ said Danny.

  ‘Nor do I,’ admitted Nick. ‘I thought Moses died peacefully in his bed at the age of one hundred and thirty.’

  ‘Now I want you all to turn to the second book of Samuel,’ continued Dave, ‘where you’ll find a king who was a murderer.’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ cried the first three rows, if not in unison.

  ‘Yes, King David was a murderer,’ said Dave. ‘He bumped off Uriah the Hittite, because he fancied his wife, Bathsheba. But King David was very cunning, because he didn’t want to be seen to be responsible for another man’s death, so he placed Uriah in the front line of the next battle to make sure that he was killed. But God saw what he was up to and punished him, because God sees every murder and will always punish anyone who breaks His commandments.’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ chorused the first three rows.

  Dave ended the service with closing prayers in which the words ‘understanding’ and ‘forgiveness’ were repeated again and again. He finally blessed his congregation, probably one of the largest in London that morning.

  As they filed out of the chapel, Danny commented, ‘There’s a big difference between this service and the one I go to at St Mary’s.’ Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘This lot don’t take a collection.’

  They were all searched again on the way out, and this time three prisoners were pulled over to one side before being marched off down the purple corridor.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ asked Danny.

  ‘They’re off to segregation,’ explained Nick. ‘Possession of drugs
. They’ll get at least seven days in solitary.’

  ‘It can’t be worth it,’ said Danny.

  ‘They must think so,’ said Nick, ‘because you can be sure they’ll be dealing again the moment they’re released.’

  Danny was becoming more excited by the minute at the thought of seeing Beth for the first time in weeks.

  At two o’clock, an hour before visits were due to take place, Danny was pacing up and down the cell. He had washed and ironed his shirt, pressed his jeans, and spent a long time in the shower washing his hair. He wondered what Beth would be wearing. It was as if he were taking her out on a first date.

  ‘How do I look?’ he asked. Nick frowned. ‘That bad?’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Just what?’ demanded Danny.

  ‘I think Beth might have expected you to shave.’

  Danny looked at himself in the little steel mirror above the washbasin. He quickly checked his watch.

  22

  ANOTHER ROUTE MARCH down another corridor, but this time the line of prisoners was moving a little quicker. No inmate wants to miss one second of a visit. At the end of this corridor was a large waiting room with a wooden bench fixed to the wall. There followed another long wait before prisoners’ names began to be called out. Danny spent the time trying to read the notices pinned to the wall; there were several about drugs and the consequences – applying to both prisoners and visitors – of trying to pass anything over during visits. Another concerned prison policy on bullying, and a third was about discrimination – a word Danny wrestled with, and certainly didn’t know the meaning of. He would have to ask Nick when he got back to the cell after the visit.

  It was nearly an hour before the name ‘Cartwright’ was announced over the tannoy. Danny leapt to his feet and followed a screw into a tiny box room, where he was told to stand on a small wooden platform, legs apart. Another screw – officer – he had never seen before gave him a body search that was far more rigorous than any he’d experienced since being banged up – imprisoned. Big Al had warned him that the search would be even more thorough than usual because visitors often tried to transfer drugs, money, blades, knives and even guns to prisoners during visits.