Hell

by Jeffrey Archer

  At the end of every corridor, a barred gate is opened and I am ushered through it. None of the gatekeepers seem to be surprised that I’m unaccompanied. I finally arrive outside the little cubbyhole called reception. The doors are pulled open to reveal Mr Pearson and Mr Leech.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Mr Pearson says, and then quickly corrects himself, ‘Archer. I’m afraid we only have fourteen registered parcels for you this week.’ He begins to remove them one by one from the shelves behind him. Half an hour later, I am the proud owner of four more Bibles, three copies of the New Testament, and a prayer book. I retain one copy of the New Testament, which is leather-bound, as I feel Terry would appreciate it. I suggest to Mr Leech that the rest should be sent to Mr Powe at the chapel. The other packages consist of three novels, two scripts and a proposal of marriage from a blonde woman of about fifty, who adds that if I don’t fancy her, she has a daughter of twenty-four (photo enclosed).

  I’ve considered printing her ‘Dear Geoffrey,’ (sic) letter and photograph, but my solicitors have advised against it.

  When they’ve opened the final package on the shelf, I point to a box of tissues and ask, ‘Are those also mine by any chance?’

  Mr Pearson looks at Mr Leech, and says, ‘I think they are.’

  He passes across two boxes of tissues, making the whole expedition worthwhile.

  Mr Pearson accompanies me – I say accompanies, because I didn’t get the feeling of being escorted – back to my cell en route. He tells me that the prison was built ten years ago by a Canadian architect and it’s all right-angles.

  ‘It might have been more sensible,’ he mutters, ‘to have consulted serving prison officers, and then we could have pointed out the problems staff and inmates come up against every day.’ Before I can offer an opinion, I find myself locked back in my cell.

  2.57 pm

  I’ve only been in my cell for a few minutes when Mr Weedon reappears bearing a slip of paper. It’s a movement schedule, confirming my worst fears. I will be transferred to the Isle of Wight sometime during the week of 6 August 2001. It is as I thought; the Home Office have made up their minds, and are unwilling to take any personal needs into consideration. I sink onto my bed, depressed. I am helpless, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  3.14 pm

  I’m writing the second draft of today’s script, when the alarm bell goes off. I can hear running feet, raised voices and the scurrying of prison officers. I look out of my barred window but can see nothing but an empty yard. I gaze through the four-by-nine-inch slit in my door, and quickly realize that the commotion is not on our spur. I’ll have to wait for Association before I can find out what happened.

  4.00 pm

  Association. Once again, I fail to get on the gym rota and suspect it’s the same eight inmates who are pre-selected every day, and I haven’t been a member of the club long enough to qualify. Let’s hope they have a bigger gym on the Isle of Wight.

  When I reach the ground floor, I see that Fletch is placed strategically in one corner, as he is at the beginning of every Association, in case anyone needs to seek his help or advice. I slip across and have a word.

  ‘What was all the noise about?’ I ask.

  ‘A fight broke out on Block Two.’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Yes, some con called Vaz has been playing rap music all night, and the man in the cell above him hasn’t slept for three days.’

  ‘He has my sympathy,’ I tell Fletch.

  ‘They didn’t come face to face until this afternoon,’ continues Fletch, ‘when Mitchell, who was in the cell above, not only laid out Vaz with one punch, but set fire to his cell and ended up jumping on top of his stereo.’ Fletch paused. ‘It was one of those rare occasions when the prison staff took their time to reach the scene of the crime; after all, they’d received several complaints during the week from other prisoners concerning ‘the Vaz attitude problem”.’

  ‘What happened to the other guy?’

  ‘Mitchell?’ said Fletch. ‘Officially banged up in segregation, but they’ll be moving him to another wing tomorrow; after all, as I explained to Mr Marsland, he was doing no more than representing the views of the majority of inmates.’ Another insight into how prison politics work, with Fletch acting as the residents’ spokesman.

  Billy Little (murder) asks me if I can join him in his cell to discuss a paper he’s writing on globalization. He wants to discuss the BBC; its role and responsibility as a public broadcaster. He produces a graph to show how its viewing figures dropped by 4 per cent between 1990 and 1995, and another 4 per cent between 1995 and 2000. I tell Billy that I suspect Greg Dyke, the new Director General, having spent his working life in commercial television, will want to reverse that trend. The beneficiaries, Billy goes on to tell me, giving detailed statistics, are Sky Digital and the other digital TV stations. Their graphs have a steady upward trend.

  I ask Billy when he will have completed his degree course. He removes a sheet of paper from a file below the window. ‘September,’ he replies.

  ‘And then what?’ I ask.

  ‘I may take your advice and write a novel. I’ve no idea if I can do it, but the judge certainly gave me enough time to find out.’

  I can’t always pick up every word this Glaswegian utters, but I’m deciphering a few more syllables each day. I’ve decided to ask Alison to send him a copy of Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy. I consider it’s exactly the type of work Billy would appreciate, especially as it was Mr Seth’s first novel, so he’ll discover what he’s up against.

  When I leave him, the pool table is occupied, the queue for the two telephones is perpetual, and the afternoon film is Carry on Camping. I return to my cell, door unlocked, and continue writing.

  6.00 pm

  Supper. I risk a vegetable fritter and two prison potatoes (three mistakes). I continue to drink my bottled water as if I have an endless supply (the temperature today is 91°). Double-bubble is fast looming, and I’ll need to see Del Boy fairly soon if I am to survive. As I move down the hotplate, Andy (murder) slips two chocolate ice-creams onto my tray. ‘Put one in your pocket,’ he whispers. Now I discover what the word treat really means. Del Boy is standing at the other end of the counter in his role as number one hotplate man. An official title. As I pass the custard pie, I ask if we could meet up later. He nods. He can smell when someone’s in trouble. As a Listener, Derek is allowed to visit any cell if another inmate needs to discuss a personal problem. And I have a personal problem. I’m running out of water.

  7.00 pm

  I settle down to go over my script for the day before turning to the post. The pattern continues unabated, but to my surprise, few mention the Kurds. Paul (credit-card fraud) told me when I was queuing up at the canteen that The Times had made it clear that I had no involvement with the collecting or distributing of any monies. That had been the responsibility of the Red Cross. However, there was one letter in the pile that didn’t fall into any of the usual slots.

  I have now been locked up in a Category A, high-security prison for two weeks, which I share with thirty-two murderers, and seventeen other lifers mainly convicted of attempted murder or manslaughter; I’ve lost my mother, who I adored; I’ve been incarcerated on the word of a man who colluded with the News of the World to set me up, and by a woman who is a self-confessed thief; and I’m about to be sent to the Isle of Wight, a C-cat prison, because of the word of Baroness Nicholson. So I confess I had to chuckle, a rare event recently, when I received the following missive.

  Chan’s Optometrist

  Mr J Archer

  Belmarsh House

  Belmarsh

  South East London

  Mr Kenneth Chan BSc. MCOptom.

  90 High Street

  Lee-on-Solent

  Hampshire

  PO13 9DA

  31/7/2001

  Dear Mr. Archer

  I am sorry to trouble you. The reason I write to you is because one of my patients like yo
ur spectacles (The rimless pair you wore when you went to the funeral). I would be most grateful if you can let me know the brand, the model number, the colour and the size of the frame. All these information should be printed on the sides of the frame. Your reply will be appreciated.

  Thank you for your attention!

  90 High Street, Lee-on-Solent, Hampshire PO 13 9DA Telephone. 023 92 551919

  8.40 pm

  My cell door is unlocked by an officer and Del Boy is allowed to join me. His smile is as wide as ever, as he strolls in looking like a rent collector visiting someone who doesn’t always pay on time. He takes a seat on the end of the bed. For some time we discuss his upcoming appeal and the fact that he cannot read or write. It transpires that he can make out the odd word if he concentrates, but can only sign his name.

  ‘I’ve never needed much more,’ he explains. ‘I’m a barrow boy, not a banker.’

  He makes a fair point, because were you to close your eyes and listen to him speak, although he’s quite unable to hide his cockney upbringing you certainly wouldn’t know he was black. He promises to take reading lessons just as soon as I depart for the Isle of Wight. I’m not convinced he’ll ever find out which floor the education department is on, until the curriculum includes ‘double-bubble’.

  ‘Now how can I help?’ he asks. ‘Because I’m the man.’

  ‘Well, if you’re the man, Derek, I’m running out of water, among other things.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replies, ‘and what are the other things?’

  ‘I’d like three bottles of Highland Spring, two packets of McVitie’s chocolate biscuits and a tube of toothpaste.’

  ‘No problem,’ he repeats. ‘They’ll be delivered to your cell in the morning, squire.’

  ‘And no double-bubble?’

  ‘No double-bubble.’ He hesitates. ‘As long as you agree never to say anything because if anyone found out it wouldn’t do my reputation any good.’

  ‘No problem,’ I hear myself saying.

  On the outside, in that world I have vacated, a handful of people can make things happen. The secret is to know that handful of people. It’s no different on the inside. Derek ‘Del Boy’ Bicknell is a natural Chief Whip, Fletch, the Leader of the Opposition, Billy, Secretary of State for Education, Tony, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Paul, Home Secretary, and Colin, Secretary of State for Defence. Wherever you are, in whatever circumstances, leadership will always emerge. Block One, spur one, houses thirty-two murderers, seventeen lifers, and, without realizing it, has formed an inmates’ Cabinet. Nothing on paper, nothing official, but it works.

  After Derek departs, I settle down on my bed to finish John Grisham’s The Partner. It’s too long, but what a storyteller.

  10.07 pm

  I put my head on the pillow. I can scarcely believe it, no more rap music. Well done, Mitchell.

  Day 15

  Thursday 2 August 2001

  5.51 am

  A full night’s sleep. For the first time I can hear the cars on the road in the distance. I write for two hours, interrupted only by the occasional bark of an Alsatian.

  8.00 am

  Breakfast. Frosties and long-life milk (second day).

  9.00 am

  Association. I remind Derek of my acute water-shortage problem. Now down to half a bottle. It’s all under control, he claims.

  I line up with the other prisoners for the gym.

  Derek Jones (GBH, artist) spots me on the middle corridor and tells me that he did a spell at Camphill on the Isle of Wight. I quiz him, and discover that it has a fully equipped gym, one of the best in the country (by that he means in prisons), but he adds alarmingly that, ‘It’s full of shit-heads and scum. Young tearaways who think of themselves as gangsters because they’ve robbed some old lady. No one on the spur understands why you’re being sent there.’ I panic, desert the queue for the gym, run upstairs, grab my phonecard, rush back down and call Alison.

  First I warn her (no time for pleasantries when you only have twenty units on your weekly card) that the next five days of the script are on their way, and to let Ramona know when they have arrived so she can confirm this on her next legal visit. I then ask to be put through to James. My younger son has assumed the role of joint head of the household in charge of finance, while William’s responsibility is to take care of his mother. I don’t lose a moment’s sleep wondering if they’re up to it. I quickly tell Jamie about the Isle of Wight and the loss of my D-cat status.

  ‘Calm down, Dad,’ he says. ‘We’ve been working on little else for the past forty-eight hours. I know how you must feel being so out of touch, but we’re on the case. Ramona spoke to the Home Office last night, and they’re hinting that it’s unlikely that there will even be an inquiry into the Kurdish matter. No one is taking Nicholson’s accusations seriously, even the tabloids have ignored her.’

  ‘Yes, but these things still take time; meanwhile I’ve been issued with a movement order.’

  ‘The same source,’ James continues, ‘is hinting that you’re more likely to end up in the home counties, but they’re still working on it.’

  I check my phonecard; I’ve already used six units. ‘Anything else?’ I ask. I want to save as many units as possible for Mary on Sunday.

  ‘Yes, I need your authority to transfer some dollars into your sterling account. The pound has been off for the past couple of days.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ I tell him.

  ‘By the way,’ he says, ‘lots of people are talking about the judge’s summing-up, so chin up. Bye, Dad.’

  I put the phone down to find I have used seven of my twenty units. I leave James to worry about the currency market while I concentrate on trying to get my hands on a bottle of Highland Spring.

  I check my watch. No point in returning to the gym queue, so I settle for a shower. You forget how dirty you are, until you discover how clean you can be.

  11.00 am

  The officer on the front desk bellows out, ‘Exercise,’ which once again I avoid. It’s 92° out there in the yard, with no shade. I elect to sit in my cell, writing, with the tiny window as wide open as I can force it. When I’ve completed ten pages of script, I switch on the Test Match. The game is only an hour old, and England are 47 for 2.

  12 noon

  Lunch. I pick up my tray and walk down to the hotplate, but can’t find a single item I would offer an emaciated dog. I leave with a piece of buttered bread and an apple. Back in my cell I tuck into the other half of my tin of Prince’s ham, two more McVitie’s digestive biscuits, and a mug of water. I try to convince myself that Del Boy is the man, and he will deliver – in the nick of time – because there’s only two inches left in the bottle. Have you ever had to measure how much water is left in a bottle?

  2.00 pm

  An officer appears outside my cell door and orders me to report to the workshop, which I’m not enthusiastic about. After all, my application for education must surely have been processed by now. When I arrive at the bubble on the centre floor to join the other prisoners, I’m searched before having my name ticked off. We are then escorted down a long corridor to our different destinations – workshop and education. When we reach the end of the corridor, prisoners destined for the workshop turn left, those with higher things on their mind, right. I turn right.

  When I arrive at education, I walk past a set of classrooms with about six or seven prisoners in each; a couple of prison officers are lounging around in one corner, while a lady sitting behind a desk on the landing crosses off the names of inmates before allocating them to different classrooms. I come to a halt in front of her.

  ‘Archer,’ I tell her.

  She checks down the list, but can’t find my name. She looks puzzled, picks up a phone and quickly discovers that I ought to be in the workshop.

  ‘But Ms Fitt told me I would be processed for education immediately.’

  ‘Strange word, immediately,’ she says. ‘I don’t think anyone at Belmarsh has looke
d up its meaning in the dictionary, and until they do I’m afraid you’ll have to report to the workshops.’ I can’t imagine what the words ‘until they do’ mean. I retrace my steps, walking as slowly as I can in the direction of the workshops, and find I am the last to arrive.

  This time I’m put on the end of the chain gang – a punishment for being the last to turn up. My new, intellectually challenging job is to place two small packets of margarine, one sachet of raspberry jam, and one of coffee into a plastic bag before it’s sealed up and taken away for use in another prison. The young man opposite me who is sealing up the bags and then dropping them into a large cardboard box looks like a wrestler. He’s about five foot ten, early twenties, wears a spotless white T-shirt and smart designer jeans. His heavily muscled arms are bronzed, so it’s not difficult to work out that he hasn’t been in Belmarsh that long. The answer to that question turns out to be three weeks. He tells me that his name is Peter. He’s married with one child and runs his own company.

  ‘What do you do?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m a builder.’ When a prisoner say’s ‘I’m’ something, and not ‘I used to be’ something, then you can almost be certain that their sentence is short or they’re on remand. Peter goes on to tell me that he and his brother run a small building company that specializes in buying dilapidated houses in up-and-coming areas of Essex. They renovate the houses and then sell them on. Last year, between them, they were able to earn around two thousand pounds a week. But that was before Peter was arrested. He comes across as a hard-working, decent sort of man. So what’s he doing in Belmarsh? I ask myself. Who can he possibly have murdered? His brother, perhaps? He answers that question without my having to enquire.