Will tells me that he’s already booked himself in for two weeks’ time, but hopes I will have been transferred to somewhere like Ford long before then. Because I’ve not been reading any newspapers or listening to the news, as I’m heartily sick of inaccurate stories about myself and what I’m up to at Belmarsh, Jamie brings me up to date on the battle for the Tory Party leadership. He reports that the polls clearly indicate that the people who deserted the Conservatives at the last election want Ken Clarke, while the party membership favours Iain Duncan Smith. I like and admire both men, though neither is a close friend. However, it doesn’t take a massive intellect to work out that if we hope to win the next election, or at least make a large enough dent in the government’s majority to ensure that opinion – formers believe we can win the following election, it might be wise to take some notice of the electorate’s views as to who should be our leader.
I consider dropping Ken a note, but realize it may not help his cause.
Will goes on to tell me that Michael Beloff QC, Gilbert Gray QC and Johnnie Nutting QC are in regular touch with my legal team. Gilly wondered if Potts’s animosity had been aimed at Nick Purnell, as it’s the talk of the Bar that he lost his temper with Nick on several occasions during the pre-trial and trial itself, but never once in front of the jury.
‘No,’ I tell them, ‘it was nothing to do with Nick. It was entirely personal.’
I’m momentarily distracted by an attractive young woman sitting directly in front of me in row B. A prisoner with his back to me is leaning across the table and kissing her. I remember being told by Kevin that this was the most common way of passing drugs. I watch more carefully and decide this is about sex, pure animal sex, and has nothing to do with drugs.
James tells me about the film he and Nod (Nadhim Zahawi, a Kurdish friend) enjoyed on Sunday evening, Rush Hour 2, which in normal circumstances I would have seen with them.
‘Don’t worry,’ he adds. ‘We’re keeping a list of all the films you would have enjoyed, so that you can eventually see them on video.’ I don’t like the sound of the word ‘eventually’.
I talk to Will about when he expects to return to America and continue with his work as a documentary cameraman. He tells me that he will remain in England while his mother is so unsettled and feels in such need of him. How lucky I am to be blessed with such a family.
An announcement is made over the tannoy to inform us that all visitors must now leave. Have we really had an hour together? All round the room a great deal of kissing commences before friends and family reluctantly depart. The prisoners have to remain in their places until the last visitor has been signed out and left the room. I spend my time glancing up and down the rows. The man whose kiss had been so overtly sexual now has his head bowed in his hands. I wonder just how long his sentence is, and what age he and his girlfriend will be by the time he’s released from prison.
When the last visitor has left, we all file back out of the room; once again my search is fairly cursory. I never discover what the other prisoners are put through, though. Del Boy tells me later that if they’ve picked up anything suspicious on the video camera, it’s a full strip-search, plus sniffer dogs.
On the way back to my cell, a Block Three prisoner tells me he will be going home next month, having completed his sentence. He adds that he had a visit from his wife who is sticking by him, but if he’s ever sentenced again, she’s made it clear that she’ll leave him.
I’m only a few yards from my cell door when Mr Weedon tells me that the education officer wants to see me. I turn round and he escorts me up to the middle floor.
The education officer is dressed in a smart brown suit. He stands up when I enter the room and shakes me by the hand.
‘My name’s Peter Farrell,’ he says. ‘I see you’ve put yourself down for education.’
‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘I was rather hoping it would give me a chance to use the library.’
‘Yes, it will,’ says Mr Farrell. ‘But I wonder if I could ask you to assist us with those prisoners who are learning to read and write, as I’m rather short-staffed at the moment?’
‘Of course,’ I reply.
‘You’ll get a pound an hour,’ he adds with a grin.
We talk for some time about the fact that there are a number of bright people among the prisoners, especially the lifers, some of whom would be quite capable of sitting for an Open University degree. ‘My biggest problem,’ he explains, ‘is that while the inmates can earn ten to twelve pounds a week in the workshops dropping teabags, jam and sugar into plastic containers, they only receive six pounds fifty a week if they sign up for education. So I often lose out on some potentially able students for the sake of tobacco money.’
My God, there are going to be some speeches I will have to make should I ever return to the House of Lords.
There is a knock on the door, and Mr Marsland, the senior officer, comes in to warn me that it’s almost time for my talk to the lifers on creative writing.
4.00 pm
The lecture is set up in one of the waiting rooms and is attended by twelve prisoners serving life sentences plus two officers to keep an eye on proceedings. There are two types of life sentence, mandatory and discretionary, but all that matters to a lifer is the tariff that has been set by the judge at their trial.
I begin my talk by telling the lifers that I didn’t take up writing until I was thirty-four, after leaving Parliament and facing bankruptcy; so I try to assure them that you can begin a new career at any age. Proust, I remind them, said we all end up doing the thing we’re second best at.
Once I’ve finished my short talk, the first two questions fired at me are about writing a novel, but I quickly discover that the other inmates mostly want to know how I feel about life behind bars and what changes I would make.
‘I’ve only been inside for eight days,’ I keep reminding them.
I try valiantly to parry their questions, but Mr Marsland and his deputy soon have to come to my rescue when the subject changes to how the prison is run, and in particular their complaints about lock-up times, food, no ice* and wages. These all seem to be fair questions, though nothing to do with writing. The officers try to answer their queries without prevarication and both have so obviously given considerable thought to inmates’ problems. They often sympathize, but appear to have their hands tied by regulations, bureaucracy and lack of money.
One prisoner called Tony, who seems not only to be bright but to have a real grasp of figures, discusses the £27 million budget that Belmarsh enjoys, right down to how much it costs to feed a prisoner every day. I will never forget the answer to that question – £1.27 is allocated for three meals per prisoner per day.
‘Then the caterers must be making a pound a day off every one of us,’ Tony retorts.
The meeting goes on well beyond the scheduled hour, and it’s some time before one of the prisoners, Billy Little who hails from Glasgow, actually asks another question about writing. Do I use my novels to expound any particular political prejudice? No, I reply firmly, otherwise I’d have very few readers. Billy is a left-winger by upbringing and persuasion and argues his case well. He finds a great deal of pleasure in giving me a hard time and making me feel ill at ease with the other prisoners. By the end of a heated exchange, he is at least listening to my point of view.
On the way back to the cells, Billy tells me he’s written a short story and some poetry. He asks if I would be willing to read them and offer an opinion; a sentence I usually dread when I’m on the outside. He nips into his cell on the ground floor, extracts some sheets of paper from a file and passes them over to me. I leave him to find Derek ‘Del Boy’ Bicknell waiting for me outside. He warns me that Terry, my cell-mate, has been talking to the press, and to be wary of saying anything to him.
‘Talking to the press?’
‘Yeah, the screws caught him on the phone to the Sun. I’m told that the going rate for an exclusive with anyone who has shared a cell with yo
u is five grand.’
I thank Derek and assure him I haven’t discussed my case or anything of importance with Terry and never would.
When I return to my cell, I find Terry looking shamefaced. He confirms that he has spoken to the Sun, and they’re keen to know when I’m being moved to Ford.
‘You’ll be on the front page tomorrow,’ I warn him.
‘No, no, I didn’t tell them anything,’ he insists.
I try not to laugh as I settle down to read through another three hundred letters that have been opened by the censor and left on the end of my bed. I can’t believe he’s had the time to read many, if any, of them.
When I’ve finished the last one, I lie back on my bed and reluctantly pick up Billy Little’s twelve-page essay. I turn the first page. I cannot believe what I’m reading. He has such command of language, insight, and that rare gift of making the mundane interesting that I finish every word, before switching off the light a few minutes after ten. I have a feeling that you’re going to hear a lot more about this man, and not just from me.
Day 9
Friday 27 July 2001
2.11 am
I am woken in the middle of the night by rap music blasting out from a cell on the other side of the block. I can’t imagine what it must be like if you’re trying to sleep in the next cell, or even worse in the bunk below. I’m told that rap music is the biggest single cause of fights breaking out in prison. I’m not surprised. I had to wait until it was turned off before I could get back to sleep. I didn’t wake again until eight minutes past six. Amazingly, Terry can sleep through anything.
6.08 am
I write for two hours, and as soon as I’ve completed the first draft of what happened yesterday, I strip down to my underpants, put a towel round my waist, and place another one on the end of the bed with a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo next to it.
My cell door is opened at eight twenty-three. I’m out of the starting gate like a thoroughbred, sprint along the corridor and into the shower room. Three of the four showers are already occupied by faster men than I. However, I still manage to capture the fourth stall, and once I’ve taken a long press-button shower, I feel clean for the first time in days.
When I return to my cell, Terry is still fast asleep, and even a prison officer unlocking the door doesn’t disturb him. The new officer introduces himself as Ray Marcus, and explains that he works in the censor’s department and is the other half of June Stelfox, who took care of my correspondence on House Block Three. His job is to check every item of mail a prisoner is sent, to make sure that they’re not receiving anything that is against the regulations: razor blades, drugs, money – or even food. To be fair, although the censors open every letter, they don’t read them. Ray is carrying a registered package which he slits open in front of me, and extracts a Bible. The eleventh in nine days. Like the others, I donate it to the chapel. He then asks if he can help in any way with my mail problem. Ray, as he prefers to be called, is courteous and seems almost embarrassed by the fact that I’m not allowed to open my own post. I tell him not to worry, because I haven’t opened my own post for years.
I hand over three large brown envelopes containing all the letters I’ve received the day before, plus the first week (70 pages) of my handwritten script, together with twelve first-class stamps. I ask if they can all be sent back to my PA, Alison, so that she can carry on as if I was on holiday or abroad. He readily agrees, but points out that as senior censor, he is entitled to read anything that I am sending out.
‘That’s fine by me,’ I tell him.
‘I’d rather wait until it’s published,’ he says with a grin. ‘After all, I’ve read everything else you’ve written.’
When he leaves he doesn’t close my door, as if he knows what a difference this simple gesture makes to a man who will be locked up for twenty-two hours every day. This privilege lasts only for a few minutes before another officer strolling by slams it shut, but I am grateful nevertheless.
9.00 am
Breakfast. A bowl of cornflakes with UHT milk from a carton that has been open, and not seen a fridge, for the past twenty-four hours. Wonderful.
10.09 am
Another officer arrives to announce that the Chaplain would like to see me. Glorious escape. He escorts me to the chapel – no search this time – where David Powe is waiting for me. He is wearing the same pale beige jacket, grey flannel trousers and probably the same dog collar as he did when he conducted the service on Sunday. He is literally down at heel. We chat about how I’m settling in – doesn’t everyone? – and then go on to discuss the fact that his sermon on Cain and Abel made it into Private Eye. He chuckles, obviously enjoying the notoriety.
David then talks about his wife, who’s the headmistress of a local primary school, and has written two books for HarperCollins on religion. They have two children, one aged thirteen and the other sixteen. When he talks about his parish – the other prisoners – it doesn’t take me long to realize that he’s a deeply committed Christian, despite his doubting and doubtful flock of murderers, rapists and drug addicts. However, he is delighted to hear that my cell-mate Terry reads the Bible every day. I confess to having never read Hebrews.
David asks me about my own religious commitment and I tell him that when I was the Conservative candidate for Mayor of London, I became aware of how many religions were being practised in the capital, and if there was a God, he had a lot of disparate groups representing him on Earth. He points out that in Belmarsh there are over a hundred Muslims, another hundred Roman Catholics, but that the majority of inmates are still C of E.
‘What about the Jews?’ I ask him.
‘Only one or two that I know of,’ he replies. ‘Their family upbringing and sense of community is so strong that they rarely end up in the courts or prison.’
When the hour is up – everything seems to have an allocated time – he blesses me, and tells me that he hopes to see me back in church on Sunday.
As it’s the biggest cell in the prison, he most certainly will.
11.10 am
Mr Weedon is waiting at the chapel door – sorry, barred gate – to escort me back to my cell. He says that Mr Marsland wants to see me again. Does this mean that they know when I’ll be leaving Belmarsh and where I’ll be going? I ask Mr Weedon but receive no response. When I arrive at Mr Marsland’s office, Mr Loughnane and Mr Gates are also present. They all look grim. My heart sinks and I now understand why Mr Weedon felt unable to answer my question.
Mr Marsland says that Ford Open Prison have turned down my application because they feel they can’t handle the press interest, so the whole matter has been moved to a higher level. For a moment I wonder if I will ever get out of this hellhole. He adds, hoping it will act as a sweetener, that he plans to move me into a single cell because Fossett (Terry) was caught phoning the Sun.
‘I can see that you’re disappointed about Ford,’ he adds, ‘but we’ll let you know where you’ll be going, and when, just as soon as they tell us.’ I get up to leave.
‘I wonder if you’d be willing to give another talk on creative writing?’ asks Mr Marsland. ‘After your last effort, several other prisoners have told us that they want to hear you speak.’
‘Why don’t I just do an eight-week course,’ I reply, ‘as it seems we’re going to be stuck with each other for the foreseeable future?’ I immediately feel guilty about my sarcasm. After all, it isn’t their fault that the Governor of Ford hasn’t got the guts to try and handle a tricky problem. Perhaps he or she should read the Human Rights Act, and learn that this is not a fair reason to turn down my request.
2.00 pm
A woman officer unlocks the cell door, a cigarette hanging from her mouth,* and tells Terry he has a visitor. Terry can’t believe it and tries to think who it could be. His father rarely speaks to him, his mother is dead, his brother is dying of Aids, he’s lost touch with his sister and his cousin’s in jail for murder. He climbs down from the top bunk, smiles
for the first time in days, and happily troops out into the corridor, while I’m locked back in. I take advantage of Terry’s absence and begin writing the second draft of yesterday’s diary.
3.07 pm
Terry returns to the cell an hour later, dejected. A mistake must have been made because there turned out to be no visitor. They left him in the waiting room for over an hour while the other prisoners enjoyed the company of their family or friends.
I sometimes forget how lucky I am.
4.00 pm
Association. As I leave my cell and walk along the top landing, Derek Jones, a young double-strike prisoner, says he wants to show me something, and invites me back to his cell. He is one of those inmates whose tariff is open-ended, and although his case comes up for review by the Parole Board in 2005, he isn’t confident that they will release him.
‘I hear you’re writing a book,’ he says. ‘But are you interested in things they don’t know about out there?’ he asks, staring through his barred window. I nod. ‘Then I’ll tell you something they don’t even know about in here.’ He points to a large stereo in the corner of the room – probably the one that kept me awake last night. It resembles a spaceship. ‘That’s my most valuable possession in the world,’ he says. I don’t interrupt. ‘But I’ve got a problem.’ I still say nothing. ‘It runs on batteries, ‘cause I haven’t got any ice.’
‘Ice? Why would you need ice for a ghetto blaster?’
‘In Cell Electricity,’ he says laughing.
‘Ah, I see.’
A Prison Diary Page 9