A Prison Diary Purgatory (2003)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘God knows,’ says Jimmy, ‘what Malcolm will get up to in a D-cat where the regime is far more relaxed.’

  ‘Is he married?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Jimmy replies. ‘Happily.’

  1.17 pm

  I am sitting on the end of my bed reading The Times when Darren bursts in without knocking - most unlike him.

  ‘Switch on your TV’ he says without explanation, ‘they’re running it on every channel.’

  Together we watch the horrors unfold in New York. I assume that the first plane must have been involved in some tragic accident, until we both witness a second jet flying into the other tower of the World Trade Center. To begin with, I feel the commentator’s comparison with Pearl Harbor is somewhat exaggerated. But later, when I realize the full extent of the devastation and loss of life, I am less sure. The reporters have already moved on to asking, ‘Who is responsible?’

  Although I am mesmerized by this vile piece of history as it continues to unfold, prison timetables cannot be altered, whatever is taking place in the rest of the world. If I don’t report to the gym by three fifteen, they will come in search of me.

  3.15 pm

  Much of the talk in the gym is of the carnage in New York and its consequences, although several of the prisoners continue their bench presses, oblivious to what’s taking place in the outside world. As soon as the hour is up, I rush back to my cell to find that the Pentagon has been hit by a third domestic carrier, and a fourth commercial plane thought to have been heading for the White House has crashed just outside Pennsylvania.

  430 pm

  For several hours, I sit glued to the television. Among the snippets of news offered between the continual replays of the two planes crashing into the twin towers is a statement by William Hague; he has postponed the announcement of who will be the next leader of the Conservative Party as a mark of respect to the American people.

  The prime minister cancels his speech to the TUC in Brighton and hurries back to Downing Street, where he makes a statement fully supporting President Bush, and describing terrorism as the new world evil.

  7.00 pm

  The sight of innocent people jumping out of those towers and the voices of passengers trapped on a domestic flight talking to their next of kin on mobile phones will be, for me, the enduring memory of this evil day. Calling my agent and my son James was to have been the highlight of my day. It now seems somewhat irrelevant.

  DAY 56 - WEDNESDAY 12 SEPTEMBER 2001

  5.44 am

  Yesterday was dominated by the news from America, and what retaliation George W. Bush might take.

  Tony Blair seized the initiative by calling a press conference at No. 10 for 2 pm, which would be seen by the citizens of New York just as they were waking. I don’t want to appear cynical but, at the end of the press conference, when the prime minister agreed to take questions, did you notice who he selected from a packed audience of journalists? The BBC (Andrew Marr), ITV (John Sergeant), CNN (Robin Oakley), Channel 4 (Eleanor Goodman), The Times (Philip Webster) and the Sun (Trevor Kavanagh). I sense Alastair Campbell’s skills very much in evidence: only the major television companies and two Murdoch newspapers. However, to be fair, by recalling Parliament, Blair looks like the leading statesman in Europe, and that on the day when the Tory party are planning to announce their new leader.

  9.00 am

  Life goes on at Wayland, so I report to the art room for my pottery class. Our clandestine accomplice has successfully smuggled in the special materials that Shaun needs to complete his art work for this volume.

  11.15 am

  I call Alison at the office for an update. She tells me that the pressure has shifted onto KPMG to deliver an interim report, so as not to keep me waiting until they’ve completed the full investigation which apparently now includes some accusations Ms Nicholson has made against the Red Cross which have nothing to do with me. Can’t spare any more units, as I have to speak to James tonight, so I say goodbye.

  2.00 pm

  Football. Wayland’s match against RAF Marham is, to my surprise, still on. Not that I expect there would have been many fighter pilots in the visitors’ team. We lose 4-3, despite Jimmy’s scoring two goals. Three of our team receive red cards, so Wayland ended up with only eight players on the field, having led 3-2 at half-time. By the way, all three players deserved to be sent off. As soon as I return to my cell, I switch on the TV.

  4.00 pm

  Most of the Muslim world are swearing allegiance to America, as they must all be fearful of retaliation. Yasser Arafat even gives blood to prove his solidarity with the citizens of New York. The prime minister continues to underline his support for the United States, as he considers the atrocities in New York to be an attack on the democratic world. I suspect he views this as his Falklands. Let’s hope it’s not his Vietnam.

  6.00 pm

  After supper Sergio convenes a board meeting. Item No. 1, he confirms that the suitcase and contents have been delivered to his friend in north London. Item No. 2. The emerald has arrived in London, with all the correct paperwork completed. Item No. 3. A colleague of his brother’s will be flying into London on Saturday, bringing with him the gold necklace, a catalogue raisonne of Botero and four photos of Botero oils that are for sale. He pauses and waits for my reaction. I smile. It all sounds too good to be true.

  8.00 pm

  All the news programmes are replaying footage from every angle of the American passenger jets flying into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York. All the commentators are in no doubt that the US will seek some form of revenge, once they can identify the culprit. Who can blame them? It’s going to take a very big man to oversee this whole operation. President Kennedy proved to be such a man when he was faced with the Cuban crisis. I only hope that George W. Bush is of the same mettle.

  7.00 pm

  I phone James. He tells me that he’s tired; he’s just started his new job in the City. Because of the upheaval in the American market they expect him to be at his desk by 7 am, and he doesn’t leave the office until after 7 pm. However, he confirms over the phone that the emerald has arrived, so out of curiosity I ask him what it looks like.

  ‘It looks magnificient, Dad,’ is his simple reply. ‘But I’ve no idea if it’s worth ten thousand dollars.’

  ‘When are you hoping to see the expert?’

  ‘Sometime this weekend.’

  I don’t ask any more questions as I wish to save my remaining units for Mary.

  Quite a lot seems to be happening this weekend. Mary will visit Wayland on Friday. liana will have news of the Botero paintings on Saturday. Sergio’s friend flies into London on Sunday, by which time James should have a realistic valuation of the emerald. I only wish I could read Monday’s diary now. Don’t even think about it.

  DAY 57 - THURSDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 2001

  6.03 am

  It was a clear cold night, and for the first time two flimsy blankets were not enough to keep me warm. I had to lie very still if I was not to freeze. It reminded me of being back at boarding school. As two blankets are the regulation issue, I shall have to speak to Darren about the problem. I’m pretty confident he will have a reserve stock.

  8.15 am

  I watch breakfast television while eating my cornflakes. The news coming out of Washington is that the State Department seems convinced that it was, as has already been widely reported, Osama bin Laden who orchestrated the terrorist attacks. We must now wait and see how George W. Bush plans to retaliate. The president’s description of the terrorists as ‘folks’ hasn’t filled the commentators with confidence. Rudy Giuliani, the Mayor of New York, on the other hand, is looking more like a world statesman every day. When the report switches from Washington to New York, I am surprised to observe a pall of smoke still hanging over the city. It’s only when the cameras pan down onto the rubble that one is made fully aware of just how long it will be before that city’s physical scars can be healed.

  9.00 a
m

  We’re banged up for an hour owing to officers’ staff training.

  10.00 am

  Pottery. I make my way quickly across to the art class as I need to see Shaun, and find out if he now has all the art materials he needs. I’m disappointed to find that he’s not around, so I end up reading a book on the life of Picasso, studying in particular Guernica which he painted in support of his countrymen at the time of the Spanish Civil War. I know it’s a masterpiece, but I desperately need someone like Brian Sewell to explain to me why.

  2.00 pm

  Gym. Completed my full programme, and feel fitter than I have done for years.

  6.21 pm

  Tagged onto the end of the news is an announcement that Iain Duncan Smith has been elected as the new leader of the Conservative Party. He won by a convincing margin of 155,935 (61 per cent) to 100,864 (39 per cent) for Kenneth Clarke. A far better turnout than I had expected. Having spent years trying to convince my party that we should trust our members to select the leader, the 79 per cent turnout gives me some satisfaction. However, I would have to agree with Michael Brown, a former Conservative MP who is now a journalist with the Independent: a year ago you could have got odds of a hundred to one against a man who hadn’t served in either Margaret Thatcher’s or John Major’s governments - at any level - ending up as leader of the Tory party in 2001.

  10.00 pm

  I watch a special edition of Question Time, chaired by David Dimbleby. I only hope the audience wasn’t a typical cross-section of British opinion, because I was horrified by how many people were happy to condemn the Americans, and seemed to have no sympathy for the innocent people who had lost their lives at the hands of terrorists.

  My feelings went out to Philip Lader, the popular former American ambassador, as he found himself having to defend his country’s foreign policy.

  I fall asleep, angry.

  DAY 58 - FRIDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 2001

  6.17 am

  Today is one of those days when I particularly wish I were not in jail. I would like to be in the gallery of the House of Commons following the emergency debate on the atrocities in America, and attending the memorial service at St Paul’s.

  12 noon

  Watching television this afternoon, I find myself agreeing with almost everything the prime minister says in his speech to the House. Iain Duncan Smith responds in a dignified way, leaving the PM in no doubt that the Opposition is, to quote IDS, ‘shoulder to shoulder’ on this issue. It is left to George Galloway and Tam Dalyell to express contrary views, which they sincerely hold. I suspect it would take a nuclear weapon to land on their constituencies - with Osama bin Laden’s signature scribbled across it - before they would be willing to change their minds.

  The service at St Paul’s sees the British at their best and, like Diana, Princess of Wales’ funeral, it strikes exactly the right note, not least by the service opening with the American national anthem and closing with our own.

  I am pleased to see Phil Lader sitting amongst the congregation. But it is George Carey, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who rises to the occasion. He delivers an address that leaves no one in any doubt how he feels about the terrorists, but also expresses the view that this is a time for cool heads to make shrewd judgements, rather than macho remarks demanding immediate retaliation.

  2.00 pm

  Visit. Mary is among the first through the door into the visitors’ room.

  Her news is not good, and she doesn’t try to pretend otherwise. KPMG are going at a snail’s pace, making it clear that they have no interest in my plight, and will deliver their report when they are good and ready. They are hoping to interview me on Monday week, so it looks as if I’ll be stuck at Wayland for at least another month. I feel sure that is not what Sir Nicholas Young, the CEO of the Red Cross, intended when he instigated an internal enquiry, even if it will delight Emma Nicholson. Mary has so obviously done everything she can to expedite matters, but, as she says, it’s an accountant’s duty to leave no piece of paper unturned.

  We discuss our appeal. Mary describes it as our appeal, partly, I think, because she was so offended by Mr Justice Potts aiding and abetting Mrs Peppiatt when she was in the witness box, while in my view not affording Mary the same courtesy when she was put through a similar ordeal.

  We talk about the boys, how admirably they are coping in the circumstances, and the fact that Will is desperate to see me before he returns to New York. Thank God he wasn’t in Manhattan this week. Mary reports that my adopted sister, Elizabeth, is alive and well. Elizabeth had been at work in the city when she heard the explosion and looked out of her window to see the flames belching from the World Trade Center.

  There is a restrained announcement over the intercom asking all visitors to leave. Where did the time go? I feel guilty about Mary. I’ve been unable to hide my disappointment about KPMG’s lack of urgency. She couldn’t have been more supportive during this terrible time in my life, and heaven knows what state I would be in without her love and friendship.

  DAY 59 - SATURDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 2001

  9.00 am

  I call David and ask him to drive to Sale in Cheshire on Monday and pick up a package which is being flown in from Colombia that morning.

  10.00 am

  No gym on Saturday, so I make sure I’m standing by the gate when exercise is called. To my surprise Dale is seated in the corner of the yard having his portrait finished. As I pass, he mumbles something about how much trouble he would have been in had he failed to show up two weekends in a row. When I return to my cell after forty-five minutes’ hard walking, Darren tells me that we probably covered about three miles. I push open my heavy door to find my cell is spotless. The room has been swept, cleaned and the floor polished by Darren’s latest recruit, all for PS1. No problems with the minimum wage at Wayland, especially when you can only pay in Mars bars, tobacco or, if it’s a big deal, a phonecard.

  4.00 pm

  Mr Meanwell calls me into his office to let me know that an envelope containing the rules of backgammon has been opened and sent down to reception. It will not be returned to me until I leave Wayland, as the item is on the prohibited list.

  ‘How can the rules of backgammon be on the prohibited list?’ I ask.

  The rules came in book form,’ he explains, and shrugs his shoulders.

  If they had been in a magazine, could I have had them?’ I enquire. He nods.

  6.00 pm

  Early bang up. I channel hop so I can keep watching the latest news from Manhattan. I am moved by the sight of the New Yorkers on the streets applauding their firemen as they drive back and forth to the World Trade Center. Americans have a tremendous sense of patriotism and awareness of the country they belong to. It must have been the same in Britain during the last war.

  DAY 60 - SUNDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 2001

  12 noon

  Not a lot to report except Sergio is nervous about leaving. He will be deported in twelve days’ time and we haven’t yet received a valuation for the emerald. He’s also waiting to hear about the second package which contains the gold necklace, and can’t wait to see the photographs of the Boteros, as well as the catalogue raisonne.

  I spend a long time reading the papers, and feel the coverage of all that has taken place in America this week elicited the very highest standards of journalism from the British press, not always the case on a Sunday.

  DAY 61 - MONDAY 17 SEPTEMBER 2001

  6.19 am

  The news is still all about New York, where Mayor Giuliani appears to be emulating his hero, Mayor La Guardia. Everything had gone wrong for Rudy Giuliani this year. He stood down from the Senate race against Hillary Clinton when he was diagnosed with cancer, and he then moved his mistress into Gracie Mansion to face the wrath of his popular wife and the Big Apple’s press; in fact to quote the New York Times, ‘he seems to have lost the plot’. And then, without warning, the city he loves is attacked by terrorists and all the talents boredom disguises suddenly return.r />
  When I stood for Mayor of London, I spent a week in New York shadowing Giuliani as he went about his daily work, and quickly discovered that he has real power and a real budget to back it up. The truth is that Giuliani runs New York in a way Ken Livingstone can never hope to govern London. Tony Blair’s dream of emulating the Americans with mayors in all our major cities would have been admirable, if only he allowed the mayor to be backed up with finance and executive power. Livingstone can huff and puff, but in the end only Blair can blow the house down.

  9.00 am

  Pottery. Out of boredom I begin, to Anne’s surprise, to work on a flowerpot. Or that is what I’ve told my fellow inmates it’s going to be. First you take the putty, run a circle of steel through it to cut off a smaller chunk and then roll it out to produce a long thin worm-like shape. You then twist the long thin worm into a circle and several long worms later all placed on top of each other and you have a pot, or thaf s the theory. An hour later I have a base and five long worms. The blessed release bell clangs.

  11.30 am

  I phone Alison to discover that the gold necklace, the book on Botero, the photographs of Botero oils and a sculpture have all arrived in Cheshire via Bogota.

  3.00 pm

  Gym. Once again I manage 2,200 metres on the rower.

  5.15 pm

  Board meeting. Sergio has been on the phone to Bogota for the past forty minutes. Armed with a dozen cards (PS24) and the judicious use of an illegal pin number, he can now afford to spend an hour phoning Colombia. His brother is waiting to find out if I have any interest in the Boteros. I assure him that as soon as I’ve seen the photographs I will make a decision.