A Prison Diary Purgatory (2003)
Page 14
2.00 pm
After lunch I pick up Legendary Gems and turn to the chapter on emeralds. Everything Sergio has told me during the past ten days is verified by the author, which gives me more confidence in Sergio. However, two crucial questions remain: does Sergio have the right contacts and can he replace the middlemen? I am pleased to see that Laurence Graff warrants three mentions in the diamond chapter.
To date I haven’t mentioned Laurence Graff (of Graff’s of Bond Street, Madison Avenue and Monte Carlo), but I’m rather hoping he will agree to value the gem for me. Laurence and I first met at a charity function many years ago when I was the auctioneer. Since then he and his wife, Anne-Marie, have told me many stories about the diamond trade which have found their way into my books. It was Laurence who gave me the idea for the short story ‘Cheap at Half the Price’.
3.00 pm
Jimmy rushes into my cell with a large grin on his face. He scowls at Darren’s new curtain rail, immediately aware of who must have supplied it.
‘I am the bearer of glad tidings,’ he says. ‘A prisoner on our spur will be leaving tomorrow morning, a week earlier than originally planned. He keeps the cleanest cell on the block. He’s even decorated it, and best news of all, it’s on the quiet side of the spur, so you’d better have a word with Meanwell before someone else grabs it.’
I’m just about to go off in search of Mr Meanwell, when Jimmy adds, ‘He’s off today, but he’s back on tomorrow morning at 7.30, and don’t forget you’ve got the special needs group at 8.45, so you’d better see him straight after breakfast.’ Darren walks in, livid to find Jimmy sitting on the end of my bed. He’s obviously picked up the same piece of information and had hoped to be the first to impart it.
‘I think you’ll find my information was as welcome as your curtain rail,’ suggests Jimmy smugly.
‘Only if his lordship ends up getting David’s cell,’ says Darren, well aware that I am playing them against each other. Still, like two children, they find the challenge irresistible.
7.00 pm
After supper, Sergio reveals good news. Having visited the mountain, his brother has selected a 4-carat emerald at a cost of $10,000.
‘If my contact confirms that its shop value is twenty thousand, then I’ll buy it,’ I tell him. ‘If not…’ Sergio looks up and frowns. ‘Purchase the emerald,’ I continue, ‘and have it sent to London. I’ll need proper certification, but if my valuer says he can sell me a stone of the same quality at the same price or cheaper, it will all have been a waste of your time, and I’ll return the stone to Colombia at my expense.’
‘My whole reputation rests on this one stone?’ Sergio asks.
‘You’ve got it,’ I tell him.
DAY 44 - FRIDAY 31 AUGUST 2001
8.21 am
Breakfast. I eat my cereal out of a china bowl, my toast on a plate and drink my milk from a mug. Mary has selected the plate and bowl from the Bridgewater collection and the beaker - a garish object covered in the American stars and stripes - was a gift Will brought back from the States.
When I’ve finished my breakfast I fill my washbasin with hot water and Fairy Liquid, allowing my newly acquired treasures to soak while I go off in search of Mr Meanwell. The block’s senior officer has been off for two days, so was unaware that David had been released six days early, and that his cell on the enhanced wing has suddenly become available. He’ll let me know what he’s decided later today.
I return to my cell and find a gathering of West Indians in the corridor. They’ve come to say farewell to a prisoner who is leaving this morning, having served six years of a nine-year sentence for armed robbery - his first offence.
Most of you reading this will have already formed a picture of him in your mind, as I would have done only a couple of months ago. A young black thug who’s better off locked up, and who will probably beat up some other innocent person the moment he’s released and be back in prison within a year.
In fact, he is thirty-two years old, five foot eight, slim and good-looking. He was the one who politely asked if he could read my newspapers every evening. And he has used his six years productively. First to pass his GCSEs (five) and two years later A levels in English and History.
No sooner has he departed than Jules appears in the corridor carrying a plastic bag full of his worldly goods. He is taking over Steve’s cell. He tells me that the past week has not been a happy one because he’s had to share our old cell with a heroin addict who was injecting himself two, sometimes three times a day.
8.45 am
On Friday mornings the gym is taken over by the special needs group. They’re an enthusiastic bunch who, despite their problems, bring a range of skills and boundless energy to everything they do. Les performs well on the rowing machine (1,000m in ten minutes), while Robbie enjoys lifting weights and Paul prefers to run. But when it comes to the game of catchball that we always play at the end of any session, Robbie can catch anything that comes his way. He could, and would, happily field in the slips for England.
All of them are chatterboxes, and demand answers to their endless questions. Do you have a father? Do you have a mother? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Are you married? Do you have any children? By the end of the hour’s session, I am physically and mentally exhausted, and full of admiration for their carer, Ann, who spends every waking moment with them.
At the end of the session, I watch them leave, chatting, laughing and - I hope - happier. There, but for the grace of God…
2.54 pm
Mr Nutbourne opens the cell door. ‘You’re moving again, Jeffrey,’ he says. ‘You’ve been allocated David’s old cell on the enhanced spur.’ He winks.
Thank you,’ I reply, and prepare for my ninth move in six weeks. The whole process takes less than an hour, because on this occasion I’m assisted by a local removal company: Darren, Sergio and Jimmy Ltd.
My new cell is on the ground floor with the enhanced prisoners. Number seventeen is opposite Darren’s cell, who has Steve (conspiracy to murder and librarian) on one side, and Jimmy (Ecstasy courier, captain of everything) on the other. The officers describe it as the grown-up spur, and personally select who will be allowed to reside there. To have made it in three weeks is considered quite an achievement, although Darren managed it in four days.
The cells are exactly the same size as in any other part of the prison, but the table on which I’m now working is far larger (four feet by two). I also have an extra cupboard for my possessions, which seem to grow as each day passes, not unlike when you’re on holiday.
5.00 pm
Once I’ve completed my move, I join Darren and Sergio for a walk in the exercise yard. I stop halfway round to watch Shaun sketching Dale. He is still proving to be a restless model, but despite this Shaun is producing a good likeness of him.
6.00 pm
After supper I call Mary (my new spur has a phone of its own, which any self-respecting estate agent would describe as ‘an added amenity’). She’s full of news, some good, some not so good. The police confirm that they will not be presenting their report on the Simple Truth until they’ve read the findings of the KPMG report. This won’t be handed in to the Red Cross for at least another two, perhaps three weeks. Mary tells me that the police reply to Tony Morton-Hooper’s letter was not unhelpful, and she hopes that once the KPMG report is finished, it will only be a matter of days before they move me to an open prison.
I use the remainder of my twenty units catching up with all things domestic, particularly what is happening at the Old Vicarage. When the phonecard flicks out, indicating I have only thirty seconds left, I promise to call again on Sunday. Don’t forget, I no longer have an endless source of cards.
As soon as I replace the receiver, Sergio takes over the phone. He has the advantage of being able to hold a conversation in a language no one else on the spur can eavesdrop on, but the disadvantage of needing at least five phonecards every time he dials home.
6.50 pm
Sergio’s brother has selected four emeralds for consideration. He confirms they range in price from ten to fifteen thousand dollars. Once he has made the final choice, I will await a valuation from my expert. His brother claims that any one of the gems would retail on the London market at around $20,000. If this proves to be accurate, then I’ll be happy to purchase the selected gem and give it to Mary as her Christmas present. Ah, you’ve finally discovered why I’m going to all this trouble.
8.15 pm
To my delight, I discover that our spur is unlocked first and banged up last, giving us an extra few minutes at each end of the day. What I enjoy most about being below stairs is the silence, or near silence, compared with the floor above. No rap music, no window warriors and no conversations shouted from one end of the corridor to the other. There is actually a feeling of community on this spur.
I don’t bother to turn on the TV this evening as I am totally engrossed in Robert Goddard’s Caught in the Light. I fall asleep fully dressed. It’s been an exhausting day.
DAY 45 - SATURDAY 1 SEPTEMBER 2001
8.15 am
The first day of a new month. After breakfast, I arrange with Locke (GBH), the spur painter, to have my new cell redecorated in his spare time. As the tariff has to be agreed in tobacco, and as I have no idea of the going rate, Darren (marijuana only) has agreed to act as my works manager for the transaction.
Once Locke has inspected my cell, he announces it will first need an undercoat of white, which will take him two, two-hour sessions. Darren agrees the price on a daily basis. Tomorrow he will add a coat of cream, and on Monday the cell door, the window ledge and frame plus the square around the wash basin will be painted beige. As far as I can work out, the painter will receive one pound’s worth of Golden Virginia (his choice) a day.
So the whole job will cost me PS3 - which, Darren assures me, is the going rate. The paint, however, will be supplied by Her Majesty’s tax payers. Please note that it was Margaret Thatcher who taught me never to say government; ‘Governments don’t pay taxes, Jeffrey, only tax payers do.’
Locke asks me to vacate my cell while the undercoat is being rolled on because once my bed, table and small cupboard have been pulled away from the walls and left in the centre of the room, there will only be enough space for one person.
I cross the corridor to join Sergio in his cell, where we hold a board meeting. Overnight, Sergio has typed out sixteen questions which he needs answered before he speaks to his brother again. For example: do I want to pay the full insurance cost? - Yes. Do I want the gold necklace to be 9, 14 or 18 carat? - 18 carat. Will I have to pay import tax when the chain and emerald land in London? - Don’t know, but I’ll find out
Once Sergio has asked all his questions and written out the answers neatly in Spanish, we move onto item number two on the agenda.
I’ve received a letter from Chris Beetles, who has carried out considerable research into which South American artists have a worldwide market. He reports that Christie’s and Sotheby’s have two Latin American sales a year, both held in New York. With the exception of Botero, who has recently passed $2 million for an oil, only Lamand Tamayo regularly fetches $100,000 or more under the hammer. Sergio reads the letter slowly and places it in his file.
11.00 am
Exercise. It’s Darren’s turn to be sketched by Shaun, and he’s proving a bit of a prima donna. He’s a very private man who doesn’t keep any photographs of himself. He’s still grumbling about his participation as we walk out into the yard. We are greeted by Shaun, who is holding a large art pad in his right hand, and a couple of pencils in his left.
Darren reluctantly agrees to pose, but only on two conditions. That the drawing is carried out on the far side of the yard, where few inmates will see him during their perambulations. He also insists that if he doesn’t like the result, he will be left out of the final montage. I don’t have a lot of choice, so I agree. I can only hope that Shaun will make such a good job of the preliminary sketch that Darren will be converted to the whole idea.
Jimmy and I go off for a circuit while Shaun begins his task. While we stroll round the perimeter, the talk among the inmates is only of football. England are playing Germany tonight, and Wayland are playing Methwold tomorrow. Some of the prisoners tying on the grass against the fence wish Jimmy, our captain, good luck, while another suggests that he couldn’t score in a brothel.
By the end of the third circuit, a likeness is appearing on Shaun’s sketch pad, but I have no way of knowing how Darren will react. He can be so perverse at times.
By the time we’ve completed two more circuits, the officers in the yard are beginning to herd us back to our blocks. We stop to look at Shaun’s effort. Darren joins us to see the outline image for the first time. It’s good, and he knows it. He nods his grudging approval, but finally gives the game away when, as we stroll back into A block, he asks, If that’s only a sketch before Shaun does the final portrait, can I have it for my mother?’ (See (date section.)
12 noon
Standing in the lunch queue I discover from Dumsday (who, Jimmy told me a few days earlier, had adopted an injured crow) that his crow died early this morning, despite his sitting up all night trying to feed it a boiled egg. I return to my cell and eat lunch standing in the middle of the room with the smell of fresh paint all around me. I survey my PS3 investment. Locke has made a good start.
2.00 pm
The spur is getting worked up about the match this evening between England and Germany, which is a World Cup qualifying game. I am invited to pull the name of an England player out of a plastic cup, and should my selection score the first goal, I’ll win nine Mars bars. I draw Gerard who, Jimmy assures me, has a good chance of scoring. I read in this morning’s Times that England haven’t won a match on German soil since 1965. But I don’t pass on this information to a football-mad spur. I glance out of my window to see five rabbits eating the left-over food the prisoners have thrown out of their cell. As we are hemmed in behind a twenty-foot fine-meshed wire fence, I wonder how the rabbits get into the prison. I’ll make enquiries.
6.00 pm
On a Saturday, we’re banged up after supper but, as I’ve mentioned, the enhanced spur goes last so we can roam the corridors until six thirty - an extra thirty minutes. I check my TV listings in The Times to find that the football is on BBC 1, but clashes with Jane Austen’s Persuasion on BBC 2. I elect to watch Persuasion while the rest of the spur settles down to follow the match. I’m confident that, if England score, the whole prison will let me know.
Just as Miss Elliot meets Captain Wentworth for the first time, the spur erupts with cheering and shouting. I quickly switch channels and watch a replay of Michael Owen scoring for England, which means I’ve lost a Mars bar. I switch back and continue my vigil with Miss Elliot who, because of her father’s financial problems, has had to move from the family’s magnificent country home to a smaller residence in Bath. I become deeply engrossed in the drama of lost love when there is another eruption of cheering. I switch over to find England have scored a second goal on the stroke of half-time. I discover that the score is 2-1 in England’s favour, so I must have missed the German goal. It was obviously greeted by my fellow inmates in total silence.
I turn back to Persuasion to find that Captain Wentworth is flirting (the occasional glance) with our heroine, the one we want him to marry. There is another roar. I can’t believe it, and switch across to find our other hero, Michael Owen, has scored again, and England are now leading three goals to one. No sooner have I switched back than there is a further roar, so I return to watch a replay of Owen completing his hat-trick, giving England an unbelievable 4-1 lead.
I flick over to Jane Austen and discover that the handsome Captain Wentworth
could be about to marry the wrong girl, but then - an explosion - can it be true? I return to BBC 1 to find Heskey has scored for England and we now lead five goals to one with ten minutes to go. Quickly back to Persuasion where our hero and long-suffering heroine have become engaged. No suggestion of sex, not even a kiss. Long live Jane Austen.
10.00 pm
I finish the Robert Goddard book and then climb into my bed which is still in the middle of the room. I fall asleep to the smell of fresh paint and the sound of my fellow inmates reliving every one of those five England goals.
DAY 46 - SUNDAY 2 SEPTEMBER 2001
10.00 am
After writing for a couple of hours and having breakfast, I report to the gym in my new capacity as football correspondent for the Prison News.
The Wayland team meet in the changing room where they are handed their kit: a light blue shirt, dark blue shorts, blue socks, shin pads and a pair of football boots. As with the cricket match last week, the team are far better equipped than most amateur club sides, and once again all at the tax payers’ expense. All four blocks also have their own strip (A block’s is yellow and black). I assume this is normal practice for every prison across the country.
Once the team has changed, and very smart they look, we’re joined by our coach, Gary, who delivers an unusual team talk. Because the players have been selected from four different blocks and prisoners come and go every week, some of them haven’t even met before. The first thing the eleven men and three subs have to do is to announce their names and the positions they’ll be playing in. You may well consider that this is an insuperable barrier for any team, but not so, because the opposition also have several disadvantages to contend with. To start with, all of Wayland’s fixtures are played at home - think about it - and the rival team are not allowed to bring along any supporters, especially not girlfriends. And when it comes to gamesmanship, our team are in a class of their own, and the officers are just as bad.