Hell

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Yes, I’m going to buy old cars, patch them up, see that they get their MOT certificate and then sell them on the estates round here.’

  ‘Can you make an honest living doing that?’ I ask.

  ‘I hope so, Jeffrey,’ he says, ‘because I’m getting too old [thirty-five] for this game. In any case, there’s enough of my family costing the government a thousand pounds a week without me adding to the taxpayers’ burden. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘if they had let me out last week I might have ended up murdering someone.’ I stop in my tracks and Paul and Del Boy almost collide into the back of me. ‘My brother’s just told me’ – he points to the other side of the yard where a tall, dark-haired young man is leaning up against the fence – ‘that my sister Brinie was kidnapped last week and repeatedly raped, and as most of the family are in jail, there’s not a lot we can do about it.’ I’m speechless. ‘The bastard’s been arrested, so we must hope that the judge gets it right this time.’ He pauses. ‘But for his sake let’s hope he doesn’t end up in the same prison as one of my brothers. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘don’t bet on that, because the odds are quite short.’

  As we turn the corner, he points up to a tower block in the distance. ‘That’s where another of my brothers, Patrick, fell to his death.’ (Have you noticed that Mrs Keane has named all her sons after saints or kings?) ‘You’ll remember, that was the occasion when the whole family attended his funeral along with half the Metropolitan Police.’ He pauses. ‘They’re now saying he might have been pushed. I’ll find out more as soon as I get out of here, and if he was…’ What hope has this man of remaining on the outside? I ask myself. I found out a few months later when I met up with yet another brother.*

  When William slips off to rejoin his brother, I notice that Del Boy and Paul have been replaced by Tony and David. David (fifty-five, in possession of a gun) is overweight, out of shape and finding it difficult to keep up with me. The next person to join me is a young, bright, full-of-life West Indian, whose story I will not repeat, as it is the mirror image of Peter Fabri’s. He too has no intention of even going through an amber light once they release him from Belmarsh. However, he admits that he’s learnt a lot more about crime than he knew before he came into prison. He’s also been introduced to drugs in the cell he shares with two other inmates.

  ‘I’m clean, man,’ he says rubbing his hands together. ‘But one of the guys in my cell who’s due out next week has tried heroin for the first time. He’s hooked now, man, I tell you he’s hooked.’

  Are you still paying attention, Home Secretary?

  I pass the tearaways, who haven’t moved an inch for the past forty minutes and have to satisfy themselves with malevolent stares. I feel confident that they aren’t going to risk anything this time.

  At four o’clock, we’re called back in block by block. Several prisoners who are leaving next week including Peter (offered forty thousand to murder a witness), Denzil (come and see me when I’m a star), and Liam (do I need a barrister or should I represent myself?) come across to shake hands and wish me luck. I pray that they never see the inside of Belmarsh again.

  4.00 pm

  When I arrive back in my cell there’s another stack of letters waiting for me on my bed, three stacks to be accurate. I start reading. It’s turned out to be most helpful that the censor has to open every one. I’m particularly touched by a letter Freddie Forsyth sent to the Daily Telegraph about the length of my sentence, and the money I’ve raised for charity. The editor did not publish it.

  4.49 pm

  Last call for supper. Spur one is always let out first and called back last, because most of the inmates are lifers who will spend more time inside than anyone else on the block. It’s prison logic and works because the turnover on the other three spurs is between 10 per cent and 20 per cent a week, so no one thinks of complaining.

  I stroll down to the hotplate, but only so that my name can be ticked off, pick up a Thermos of hot water and return to my cell. I make myself a Cup a Soup (tomato, 22p) and eat a Mars Bar (31p) and a prison apple, as I continue to read today’s letters.

  6.00 pm

  I pick up Colin’s critique of Frank McCourt’s ’Tis. The improvement is marked since I read his first effort. He has now sorted out how much of the story he should reveal before he offers his critical opinion. This is obviously a man who once you tell him something is able to respond immediately. I then turn my attention to his poem.

  Education Belmarsh

  Open the labyrinths of time

  blow out the cobwebs

  and past life of crime

  full of knowledge held within

  the mind is truly a wonderful thing

  It can be educated, it can be evolved

  without education

  can the problems be solved?

  While locked away, there is plenty to see

  they entrap the body

  but your mind is still free

  to wonder the universe

  and grow like a tree

  So go to the library

  and pick up a book

  watch your mind grow

  while other cons look

  It’s not down to them

  to make you move

  so go ahead read

  and your mind will improve

  Colin Kitto, May 2001

  House Block 1, HMP Belmarsh

  This poem reveals a lot about the man, where he’s going, and where he’s come from. I feel sure that before he completes his sentence, he will have that degree from Ruskin College. And don’t forget, this is a man who couldn’t read or write before he came into prison.

  There is a polite knock on the door and I look up to see one of the officers peering through my little oblong window. He asks if I would be willing to sign autographs for his two daughters, Joanna and Stephanie. ‘They both enjoy your books,’ he explains, before adding, ‘though I must admit I’ve never read one.’

  He doesn’t unlock the cell door, just pushes two pieces of paper underneath. This puzzles me. I later learn that an officer cannot unlock a cell door if he is not on duty. Once he has retrieved them, he adds, ‘I’ll be off for the first part of next week, so if I don’t see you again, good luck with your appeal.’

  7.00 pm

  I begin reading a book of short stories that had been left on a table by the TV on the ground floor. It’s titled The Fallen and the author, John MacKenna, is someone I’ve not read before. He’s no storyteller, as so often the Irish are, but oh, don’t I wish I could write as lyrically as he does.

  10.50 pm

  I finish reading John MacKenna in one sitting (on the end of the bed) – what assured, confident prose, with an intimate feel for his countrymen and his country. I conclude that God gave the Irish the gift of language and threw in some potatoes as an afterthought.

  Day 18

  Sunday 5 August 2001

  6.00 am

  Another good night’s sleep.

  Yesterday I wrote for six hours, three sessions of two, read for three – including my letters – and slept for eight. Out there where you are, five hours’ sleep was always enough. In truth, the writing is an attempt to fill the day and night with nonstop activity. I feel sorry for the prisoners who have to occupy those same hours and cannot read or write.

  8.00 am

  Breakfast. Egg and beans on toast, two mornings in a row. I don’t grumble. I’ve always liked egg and beans.

  9.30 am

  I hear the officer on duty holler up from his desk, ‘RCs.’

  I press the buzzer which switches on a red light outside my door – known as room service – to indicate that I wish to attend chapel. No one comes to unlock the door. When they yell a second time, I press the buzzer again, but still no one responds. After they call a third time, I start banging on my door, but to no avail. Although I am not a Roman Catholic, after William Keane’s recommendation I would have liked to hear Father Kevin preach.

  10.03 am

  Mr Co
usins finally appears to explain that as I am not a Roman Catholic, the officer on duty assumed my name had been put on the wrong list, and transferred me back to C of E. I curse under my breath as I don’t want to be put on report. A curse for me is damn or blast.

  ‘You can always go next week,’ he says. ‘Just be sure you give us enough notice.’

  ‘I was rather hoping that I won’t be with you next week,’ I tell him.

  He smiles. I can see he accepts that his colleague has made a mistake, so I decide this might be a good opportunity to ask about the drug problem as seen from the other side of the iron barrier. To my surprise Mr Cousins is frank – almost enthusiastic – about passing on his views.

  Mr Cousins doesn’t try to pretend that there isn’t a drug problem in prisons. Only a fool would. He also admits that because of the casual way officers have to conduct their searches, it’s not that difficult to transfer drugs from spur to spur, block to block and even across a table during family visits.

  ‘Not many officers,’ he tells me, ‘would relish the idea of having to use rubber gloves to search up prisoners’ backsides three or four times a day. And even if we did go to that extreme, the inmates would simply swallow the drugs, which would only cause even more problems. But,’ he continues, ‘we still do everything in our power to prevent and cure, and we’ve even had a few successes.’ He pauses. ‘But not that many.’

  When a prisoner enters Belmarsh he has an MDT. This takes the form of a urine sample which is all very well until it comes to heroin, a substance that can be flushed through the body within twenty-four hours. Most other drugs leave some signs in the blood or urine for at least four weeks. On the day they enter prison, 70 per cent of inmates show positive signs of being on drugs, and even with the twenty-four-hour proviso, 20 per cent indicate of heroin. If Mr Cousins had revealed these figures to me only three weeks ago, he would have left me staggered by the enormity of the problem. Already I have come to accept such revelations as part of everyday prison life.

  ‘Our biggest success rate,’ continues Mr Cousins, ‘is among those prisoners coming up for parole, because towards the end of their sentence, they have to report regularly to the Voluntary Drug Testing Centre – there’s one in every prison – to prove they are no longer dependent on drugs, which will be entered on their report, and can play a part in shortening their sentence. What we don’t know,’ he adds, ‘is how many of them go straight back on drugs the moment they’re released. But in recent years we’ve taken a more positive step to stamp out the problem.

  In 1994 we set up a Dedicated Search Team, known as the ghost-busters, who can move in at any time without warning and search individual cells, even whole spurs or blocks. This team of officers was specifically formed following the IRA escape from Whitemoor Prison in ‘93, but after all the terrorists were sent back to Ulster following the Good Friday Agreement, the unit switched their concentration from terrorism to the misuse of illegal substances. They’ve had remarkable success in uncovering large amounts of drugs and charging offenders. But,’ he reflects, ‘I have to admit the percentage of drug takers still hasn’t fallen, and I speak as someone who was once a member of the DST. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘it’s just possible that standing still is in itself an achievement.’

  I hear the first bellow from downstairs for C of E, and thank Mr Cousins for his tutorial and his candour.

  10.30 am

  I report to the middle floor and join those prisoners who wish to attend the morning service. We line up and are put through the usual search before being escorted to the chapel. Malcolm (Salvation Army officer) is surprised to see me, as I had told him yesterday that I intended to go and hear Father Kevin preach. Before I take my seat in the second row, I give him the precised version of how I ended up back in his flock.

  No backing group this week, just taped music, which makes Malcolm’s job all the more difficult, especially when it comes to stopping the chattering in the back six rows. My eyes settle on a couple of Lebanese drug dealers sitting in the far corner at the back. They are deep in conversation. I know that they’re from different spurs, so they obviously use this weekly get together to exchange information on their clients. Every time I turn to observe them, their heads are bowed, but not in prayer.

  The sermon this week is taken from Luke. It’s the one about the ninety-nine sheep who are safely locked up in the pen while the shepherd goes off in search of the one that’s strayed. Malcolm faces a congregation of over two hundred that have strayed, and most of them have absolutely no intention of returning to the pen.

  But he somehow battles on, working assiduously on the first six rows, with whom he is having some success. Towards the end of the service his wife reads a lesson, and after the blessing, Malcolm asks his congregation if they would like to come forward and sign the pledge. At least forty prisoners rise from their places and begin to walk forward. They are individually blessed before signing the register.

  They look to me like the same forty who offered themselves up for salvation last week, but I am still in no doubt that Malcolm and his wife are performing a worthwhile mission.

  12 noon

  Lunch. I settle for more beans on toast, an apple and a mug of water. I suppose I should have stated the obvious at some point, namely that alcohol is forbidden, which is no great loss to me as I rarely drink more than a glass of red wine in the evening.

  4.00 pm

  Association. I run downstairs, phonecard in hand, thirteen units left for Mary. A long queue has already formed behind the two payphones. One of the disadvantages of living on the top floor.

  I turn my attention to the large TV in the middle of the room. Several prisoners are watching the Sunday afternoon film with Tom Hanks and Geena Davis. It’s the story of a women’s baseball team set up in 1942 when, because of the outbreak of the Second World War, the men’s teams had to be disbanded.

  I turn my head every few moments but the queue doesn’t seem to diminish, so I go on watching the film. Several prisoners join me during the next half-hour.

  Del Boy (murder) to tell me he’s somehow purloined a copy of the weekly menu for my diary.

  Fletch (murder) wants to come to my cell at six and read something to me. I ask if he could make it seven, as I’ll still be writing at six. ‘Suits me,’ he says, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Prison humour.

  Tony (marijauna only, escaped to Paris) then leans across and asks if the identification of one of his girlfriends could be removed from yesterday’s script. I agree and make a note of her name.

  I spot Billy (murder) and recommend the book of short stories by John MacKenna, but he walks on past me without a word. I suppose by now I shouldn’t be surprised by anything.

  Dennis (GBH, large bag of toiletries) taps me on the shoulder. He starts to tell me about the visit of his son on his first birthday, and how he can’t wait to get out and be with his wife and children. Join the club.

  Miah (murder) who’s the spur hair cutter – known, not surprisingly, as Sweeny Todd – says he can fit me in at seven tomorrow evening. I thank him, explaining that I must have my hair cut before Mary and the boys come to visit me on Thursday. When I glance round, the queue for the phone is down to three. I leave Mr Hanks and Ms Davis and take my place at the back.

  Just as I reach the front, another prisoner barges in front of me. As he’s a double murderer and his right hand has HATE tatooed on his four fingers, I decide not to mention that I thought I was next in line. Ten minutes later he slams down the phone and walks away effing and blinding. I slowly dial the Cambridge number to be reminded that I only have thirteen units left on my card. Mary answers. She sounds cheerful and is full of news. The trip to Dresden went well, and while she was abroad she felt her life was getting back to normal. Perhaps because the German tabloids aren’t quite that obsessed with my incarceration. William accompanied her, and was a tower of strength, while James stayed behind to manage the shop.

  Ten units left.

  M
ary tells me that following Emma Nicholson’s letter the police are hinting that they may not even carry out an inquiry. I explain that despite this I’ve been reassigned to C-cat status, and would like my D-cat back as quickly as possible. She assures me that Ramona and James are working on it.

  Seven units left.

  I tell her how many letters I have been receiving every day, and she counters by saying that she’s getting so many at home and in London that there just aren’t enough hours to answer them all. She’s designed an all-purpose reply so that she can get on with her own work.

  Five units left.

  Mary adds that not only are my friends remaining constant, but she’s had a dozen offers to join them on their yachts or in their holiday homes, and one even on safari. I’ve always known we had foul-weather friends, but both of us have been touched by the public’s overwhelming support.

  Three units left.

  I let her know that I’ve already written over forty thousand words of the diary, but can’t be sure what my regular readers will make of it. Mary says she’s looking forward to reading an early draft, and will give me a candid view. She is incapable of doing anything else.

  One unit left.

  We begin our goodbyes, and she reminds me I will be seeing her and the boys on Thursday, something to look forward to.

  ‘Do you know how much I…’

  All units used up. I hear a click, and the phone goes dead.

  As I walk away, I hear the words ‘Lock-up’ bellowed out from just behind me. As reliable as Big Ben, if not as melodious. It has to be five o’clock.

  5.05 pm

  Supper. I go down to the hotplate and have my name ticked off by Paul – prisoners do a seven-day week with no holidays or bank holidays – and pick up a Thermos flask of hot water and a chocolate ice cream. Back in my cell I make a Cup a Soup (mushroom, 22p), eat another Mars Bar (31p), and enjoy a chocolate ice-cream (prison rations).