‘I’d better call my son,’ I say, aware the ball is back in my court. ‘Any units left on my phonecard?’ I ask, returning to the real world.
3.17 pm
I call James on his mobile and ask where he is.
‘In the car, Dad, but I’ll be back at the flat in about fifteen minutes.’ I put the phone down. Three units gone - mobiles gobble units. I return to my cell to tell Sergio I won’t know if James has received the fax for another fifteen minutes. This gives Sergio enough time to repeat the highlights of his earlier triumph not unlike replays of Owen’s hat-trick against Germany.
3.35 pm
I call Jamie at the flat and ask him if he’s received the fax.
‘Yes’ he replies, ‘it arrived forty minutes ago.’
‘And does it give you all the details you need?’
‘Yes,’ he replies.
I put the phone down. Sergio leaves me as he has to report for his job behind the hotplate. Although he too has to return to the real world, that grin just doesn’t leave his face.
4.30 pm
Exercise. Darren and I are joined by Jason (conspiracy to blackmail) on our afternoon power walk. We pass Shaun who is sketching Jules, with whom I shared a cell for the first two weeks. He’s now finished Darren and Dale and once he’s completed Jules, he’ll only have Jimmy to do, so he should have a full house by the end of the week.
‘Why do I have this feeling,’ asks Darren, ‘that you consider the Prison Service has only one purpose, and that is to cater for your every need?’
‘That’s neither accurate nor fair,’ I protest. ‘I’ve tried to organize my entire life around the schedule the Prison Service demands. It makes it twice as difficult to carry out my usual routines, but it has put another perspective on the unforgiving minute.’
‘I wish I could work the system,’ says Jason. ‘They had me in for an MDT (mandatory drugs test) this afternoon, a la Ann Widdecombe.’
‘Will it prove positive?’ I ask.
‘No chance, I’m in the clear. What a nerve,’ he adds, ‘suggesting that it was ‘on the grounds of reasonable suspicion’.’
‘Knowing your past record,’ says Darren - well aware that Jason occasionally dabbles in heroin - ‘how can you be so confident you’re in the clear?’
‘Simple,’ Jason replies. ‘For the past three days I’ve been drinking more water than Jeffrey, I must have been up peeing at least seven times every night.’
5.40 pm
We’re banged up for fourteen hours. After I’ve checked over the day’s script, I turn to my letters. I am particularly touched by a missive from Gillian Shephard. She describes herself as ‘your temporary MP’. She offers her support and goes on to point out that, ‘No one can suggest I’m after your vote. After all, members of the House of Lords, convicted prisoners and lunatics are not entitled to a vote.’ She concludes, There’s only one category left for you to fulfil, Jeffrey.’
10.00 pm
I climb into bed and start to think about an aeroplane that’s already halfway across the Atlantic on its way to Heathrow. In its massive hold there is a tiny package, no larger than an Oxo cube, and inside a tiny emerald that will either be on its way back to Bogota in a few days’ time, or hanging on my family’s Christmas tree come December.
DAY 53 - SUNDAY 9 SEPTEMBER 2001
5.39 am
The strangest thing happened last night, and I’m going to have to follow it up today. However, in order for you to be able to understand its significance, I’ll first have to explain the layout of the enhanced spur on A block. The spur is L-shaped, with fourteen cells on each sprig. If I look out of the window to my left, I can see about five of the windows on the adjoining sprig.
Around eight yesterday evening, just after I’d finished writing for the day, I rose from my desk to draw the curtains, when I noticed a woman officer of about twenty-five years of age (I’d better not describe her in detail) chatting to a prisoner through his window. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought - if she hadn’t still been there an hour later… now I’m unable to tell you any more at the moment, because I was banged up at five forty last night, and will not be let out until eight fifteen this morning. I shall then approach the oracle of all knowledge, Darren, and report back to you tomorrow. I have a feeling he’ll know both the officer and the prisoner and - more importantly - be able to throw some light on their relationship.
Jimmy, Carl, Jules, Shane and I go across to the changing rooms for the football match against Lakenheath. After last Sunday’s victory, and two good training sessions during the week, the team are buoyed up and ready for the encounter.
In my role as match reporter, I look around the benches and check to make sure I know the names of every team member. The players are becoming quite nervous, and start jumping up and down on the spot as they wait for the arrival of our coach to deliver his pep talk. Kevin Lloyd appears a few moments later, a look of despondency on his face.
‘I’m sorry, lads’ he says, ‘but the game’s off.’ A voluble groan goes round the changing room. Two of the opposition’ Kevin continues, ‘failed to bring any form of ID with them, so we couldn’t let them through the gates. I would have accepted credit cards, but they couldn’t even supply those. I am sorry,’ Kevin repeats, and there’s no doubt he’s as disappointed as we are.
While the others go off for a further training session, I have to return to my cell.
11.00 am
I call Mary, who brings me up to date on the reinstatement of my D-cat. ‘KPMG’s report is progressing slowly,’ she tells me, ‘and the police haven’t even decided if they want to interview you.’ Although the whole exercise is taking longer than she had anticipated, Mary says there is no reason to believe that they will find Ms Nicholson’s accusations anything other than spurious.
I suggest that she goes ahead with the Christmas parties that we always hold in December and let Will and James act as co-hosts. I tell her to invite everyone who has stood firm and ignore the fair-weather friends (who have in fact turned out to be very small in number). I add that if I’m in a D-cat open prison by Christmas, I’ll call up in the middle of the party and deliver a festive message over the intercom.
4.30 pm
I’m just about to leave for exercise when the spur officer tells me I’m required urgently in the SO’s office. The word ‘urgently’ surprises me, as I haven’t heard it used for the past seven weeks.
I join Mr King in his office, and am introduced to a female officer I’ve never seen before. Am I at last to meet the governor? No. The officer’s name is Sue Maiden and she explains that she’s part of the prison’s security team. She then tells me that it has been reported to her that Ellis, who resides on B block, was abusive to me in the gym yesterday. I repeat exactly what took place. She then asks me if I want special protection.
‘Certainly not,’ I reply. ‘That’s the last thing I need.’ She looks relieved.
‘I had to ask,’ she explains.
That’s all I need,’ I repeat. ‘You only have to read the story in the Sunday Mirror this morning about phonecards to see what the press would make of that.’
‘Understood, but we’ll still have to speak to Ellis.’
‘Fine, but not at my request’ I make clear. She seems to accept this proviso, and I depart to find the barred gate that leads out on to the exercise yard has already been bolted, leaving me locked inside and unable to take my daily walk around the yard.
5.00 pm
I spend the forty minutes with Sergio in his cell. He tells me that there is only one recognized carrier willing to fly in and out of Bogota, and then only on a Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. Sergio mentions that it’s not easy to attract holidaymakers to a country where there are forty murders a day in the capital alone. He uses the rest of exercise time to give me a geography lesson. I am shown in Darren’s Times atlas (he’s playing backgammon) where the emerald mountains are situated, as well as the extensive oil fields in the vall
eys to the east. I also discover that both the Andes and the Amazon make entrances and exits through Colombia.
6.00 pm
I drop into Darren’s cell to have a blackcurrant cordial and watch him play a game of backgammon with Jimmy. He tells me that my meeting with the security officer was timed so that I wouldn’t be able to go out into the exercise yard, as they felt it might be wise for me to cool it a little. Darren seems to know everything that’s going on, and I take the opportunity to tell him about my nocturnal sightings.
Darren laughs. ‘You’re a peeping Tom,’ he says. ‘That has to be Malcolm. Macho Malcolm.’
‘He’s even more irresistible than me,’ chips in Jimmy.
‘Do I sense a good story for the diary?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Half a dozen,’ says Darren, ‘but not tonight because we’re just about to be banged up.’ He can’t hide his pleasure at the thought of keeping me waiting for another few hours.
8.00 pm
Once I’m banged up, I start making extensive notes for my phone call to Alison, who returns from New Zealand tomorrow. I then turn to Hamlet. I am resolved to read, or reread, the entire works of Shakespeare - thirty-seven plays - by the time they transfer me to an open prison. If I succeed, I’ll move on to the Sonnets.
After a couple of acts, I switch on the TV to watch the unforgettable John Le Mesurier in Dad’s Army. What a distinguished career he had, making a virtue of letting other people take centre stage. Not something I’ve ever been good at.
DAY 54 - MONDAY 10 SEPTEMBER 2001
5.51 am
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…
Tomorrow, I will need to book a call at seven in the evening with my son James, to find out if the emerald has arrived. I can’t contact him today because on Monday we’re banged up at five-thirty, and he’ll still be at work in the City.
Tomorrow… Macho Malcolm leaves for his D-cat prison, and neither Darren nor Jimmy are willing to breathe a word about his sex life until he’s off the premises. However, I can report that the woman officer who was spotted outside Malcolm’s window was today seen walking down the corridor with him towards his cell. But this is the stuff of rumours; tomorrow I will be able to give you the facts as reported by Darren and Jimmy. However, Darren did let slip that three women were involved. He knows only too well such a hint will keep me intrigued for another night.
Tomorrow…
As for today, I rise a few minutes before six and write for two hours.
9.00 am
Pottery. I take a grapefruit into art class, and an empty jar of marmalade for Keith (kidnapping) as part of another still life he’s drawing for his A level course. Keith didn’t even take up painting until he was sent to prison. When he comes up for parole in six months’ time, he will leave, at the age of forty-six, with an A level. Much credit must go to Anne and Paul, who are every bit as proud of this achievement as Keith himself.
Keith tells me how sorry he was to read about my mother’s death, and goes on to say that he was in prison when his wife died of breast cancer at the age of thirty-nine. He then adds the poignant comment, ‘I shall not mourn her death until after I’ve been released.’
Shaun (forgery, artist) confirms that he’s given up on Dale, and will now concentrate on Jules, Steve and Jimmy. We discuss how he’ll deal with the arrival on Wednesday of his cache of special drawing paper, oils, chalks and pencils without the other prisoners becoming aware of what I’m up to. We don’t want to get our smuggler into any trouble, and we certainly don’t need any other inmates to feel envious.
Envy is even more prevalent in prisons than it is in the outside world, partly because all emotions are heightened in such a hot-house atmosphere, and partly because any little privilege afforded to one, however slight, seems so unfair to others who are not treated in the same way.
I spend the remainder of the class reading a book on the lives of the two great female Impressionists, Marie Laurencin and Berthe Morisot.
2.00 pm
Gym. Once again I complete my programme in the allocated hour. Just to give you an update on my progress, when I first arrived at Wayland four weeks ago, I managed 1,800 metres on the rowing machine, and today I passed 2,200 for the first time. When, and if, I ever get to a D-cat establishment, I can only hope they have a well-equipped gym.
3.42 pm
Mr Chapman unlocks my cell door to let me know that Mr Carlton-Boyce wants to see me.
Mr Carlton-Boyce, who seems to be the governor on my case, tells me that he can do nothing about the reinstatement of my D-cat until the police confirm that they will not be going ahead with any enquiry concerning the Simple Truth appeal.
‘However,’ he adds, ‘once that confirmation comes through, we will transfer you to an open prison as quickly as possible. I am still receiving a pile of letters from the public every day,’ he adds, ‘but they just don’t understand that my hands are tied.’ I accept this, but point out that it’s been six weeks, and the police haven’t even interviewed me. He nods, and then asks me if I have any other problems. I say no, although I have a feeling he’s referring to Ellis and the gym incident.
5.30 pm
I call Alison. I make an appointment to speak to Jonathan Lloyd, my agent, at five tomorrow and my son James at seven. I have to book ‘time calls’ because, as you will recall, no one can phone
5.45 pm
Banged up for another fourteen hours, so once I’ve gone over my script, I turn to my letters, one of which is from a journalist.
How flattering the press can be when they want something.
9.00 pm
I watch David Starkey present the first of an engrossing four-part series on the six wives of Henry VIII. I had no idea that Catherine of Aragon had been made regent and conducted a war against the Scots (Flodden 1513) while Henry was away fighting his own battles in France, or that they were married for over thirty years, and of course would have remained together until death if she had only produced a son. More please, Dr Starkey. I can’t wait to learn about Anne Boleyn next week; even I know that she was the mother of Elizabeth I, but not a lot more.
10.00 pm
The lead story on the news is that John Prescott’s retaliatory punch during the election campaign is to be referred to the CPS. Over the past few weeks several inmates have pointed out that they are serving sentences from six months to three years for punching someone after they had been attacked, so they’re looking forward to the deputy prime minister joining us. I have little doubt that the CPS will sweep the whole incident under the carpet, I say when I raise the subject with Darren. They didn’t in your case,’ he remarks.
True, but it won’t go unnoticed by the public that we can expect two levels of justice in Britain as long as New Labour are in power. I just can’t see Mr Prescott arriving at Belmarsh in two sweatboxes. Perhaps I do the CPS an injustice. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…
DAY 55 - TUESDAY 11 SEPTEMBER 2001
5.39 am
I suspect that Tuesday September 11th 2001 will be etched on the memories of everyone in the free world as among the blackest days in history. But I shall still report it as it unfolded for me, in time sequence, although aware that my earlier reportage may appear frivolous.
9.40 am
Pottery is cancelled because Anne’s car has broken down, so all the prisoners in the art class have to return to their cells (the first irony). Back on A block, everyone on my spur is shaking hands with Malcolm, who is about to be transferred to a D-cat. He comes to my cell to say farewell, and hopes that I will be joining him soon, as he knows Spring Hill is also my first choice.
‘When are Group 4 collecting you?’ I ask.
They aren’t,’ he replies. ‘Now I’m in a D-cat and past my FLED, I can drive myself over to Aylesbury, and as long as I’ve checked in by three this afternoon, no one will give a damn.’
No sooner has Malcolm left the wing, than Jimmy slips into my cell. ‘I’m ready to talk now,’ he says.
>
Jimmy and Malcolm are both D-cats (Jimmy remains at Wayland because his home is nearby) and are the only two inmates at Wayland allowed to work outside the prison walls every day. Both of them have a job maintaining the grounds beyond the perimeter fence during the week, and at an animal sanctuary on Saturday mornings. The sanctuary is a voluntary project, which concentrates on helping animals in distress. The work ranges from assisting lame beasts to walk or birds to fly, to having to bury them when they die.
Every Saturday morning at the sanctuary, Jimmy and Malcolm join several volunteers from the local village. Among them one lady who has left Malcolm in no doubt how she feels about him - Malcolm has the rugged looks of a matinee idol, and possesses an inordinate amount of charm.
One of the tasks none of the volunteers relish is having to bury dead animals, and Percy the hedgehog was no exception. Everyone was surprised when the lady in question stepped forward and volunteered to bury Percy. Malcolm, gallant as ever, quickly agreed to accompany her into the forest that bordered the sanctuary.
Armed with spades, they disappeared into the thicket. Forty-five minutes later they reappeared but, Jimmy noticed, minus their spades.
‘Where’s your spade, mate?’ demanded Jimmy.
‘I knew there was something else we were meant to do,’ Malcolm blurted out. They both charged back into the forest, and Malcolm returned only just in time to be escorted back to the prison.
Jimmy goes on to tell me that Malcolm left Wayland just in time, because one of the ladies who served behind the counter at family visits has also just signed up to join the group on Saturdays at the animal sanctuary. Not to mention the female officer who I saw standing outside his cell window for an hour two nights ago, who is now thinking of applying for a transfer…
A Prison Diary Purgatory (2003) Page 17