Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (20 page)

While I do a circuit with Jimmy, Shaun continues to draw
Darren, who surprisingly now proves, unlike Dale, to be a still and patient
model. I’m delighted with the preliminary sketches and, more importantly, so
is
Darren. While Shaun is sketching, I ask Darren about the
rabbits. The rabbits, it seems, are no fools. They know when the prisoners are
fed, and burrow under the fence to gather up the food thrown out of the windows
by the inmates after lockup. They are occasionally joined by a family of ducks.
But, and there is always
a but
in prison, there is
also a fox lurking around, who is even more cunning. He also enters under the
fence after lock up, and catches the rabbits while they nibble the food dropped
from the prisoners’ table. The fox has also worked out that there is no such
thing as ‘The Wayland Hunt’.

I tell Shaun that I’ve spoken to Chris Beetles and hope that
it will result in his being in receipt (I select the words carefully) of the
highest quality drawing paper, chalks, watercolours and pencils, so that his
final effort can’t be blamed on his tools. He’s delighted.

Early lock up because of staff shortages. I will have to remain
in my five paces by three
cell
for the next fourteen
hours.

I start reading Jeeves. What a different world Bertie
Wooster lived in. How would Bertie have coped with Wayland? I suppose Jeeves
would have volunteered to take his place.

I wake to the smell of fresh paint, so I feel I should bring
you up to date on my redecoration programme. The white undercoat was finished
yesterday, and while I was at pottery Locke (GBH, spur painter) added a coat of
magnolia to the walls and beige to the door, window ledge and skirting board.

I have always liked brick as a medium, but I find the solid
block of white a little unimaginative, so during pottery class this morning I’m
going to suggest to Shaun that he might design a pattern for the walls, and
then find out if Locke is willing to add ‘interior decorator’ to his portfolio.
It may well cost me another couple of pounds, but I could then enter my cell
for the Turner Prize.

During pottery class, Shaun begins to knock out a few ideas
for a pattern on my walls, and very imaginative they are.

He then produces his sketch pad and shows me his latest
ideas for the book cover. The first one is a cell door with eyes peeping
through the little flap, while the second is a prisoner’s card as displayed
outside every cell. I wonder if he could somehow combine the two.

After lunch I make notes in preparation for a visit from
William, James and David, my driver of fifteen years. Once I’ve done this I
have to learn each of the headings by heart, as I’m not allowed to take
anything into the visitors’ room. I count how many topics need to be covered –
William eight, James nine, David five. After that I’ll have to rely on my
memory.

I shower and shave before putting on a new pair of jeans and
a freshly ironed, blue-striped shirt. I have never been vain, but I am far too
proud to allow the boys to see me looking unkempt – and wondering if prison has
got the better of me.

As I leave the cell to join my children, Locke strolls in. I
haven’t yet summoned up the courage to tell him about my idea for further
redecoration, and I suspect I’ll end up leaving the negotiations to my works
manager, Darren.

When I arrive in the visitors’ area, I am searched for the
first time in over a week, but compared to Belmarsh this exercise is fairly
cursory. I don’t know if suspected drug addicts and dealers receive different
treatment. I’m once again allocated table fourteen, where I take my place in
the red chair, leaving the three blue chairs vacant. I look around the room
that holds about seventy tables, but only five are occupied by prisoners. This
is because of the breakdown of the prison computer, which has thrown the
visiting schedule into chaos.

James is the first through the door, surprise, surprise,
followed by William, then David. Once we have completed the hugs and greetings
I explain that I wish to allocate the two hours judiciously. The first half
hour I’ll spend with William, the second with James and the third with David,
before having the final half hour with all three of them.

While the other two disappear.
Will
updates me on the KPMG report and my D-cat reinstatement. Mary has been in
touch with Gillian Shephard, currently my local MP, who has promised to contact
the governor of Wayland and make it clear that once the police have dropped
their enquiry, I ought to be moved on to an open prison as quickly as possible.
Mind you, the Prison Service’s idea of as quickly as possible…

Will also reports that he hopes to return to America in
about three weeks as he has been offered several new commissions for
documentaries. To his surprise, he’s also been approached about some work in
London.

While I try to recall my eight points, Will briefs me about
his mother. Mary is holding up well in the circumstances, but he feels that she
has probably been most affected by the whole experience.

I then ask if Will could do three things for me. First, give
Chris Beetles £200 in order that Shaun will be in receipt of the art materials
he needs. Second, select a bowl and plate from the Bridgewater collection and
send them to Darren at Wayland, a man whose kindness I will never be able to
repay properly. Finally, I ask if he will somehow get hold of my special Staedtler
liquid pens, because— Will points to the tray in front of me, where I see he
has slipped two behind a can of Diet Coke. I smile, but wonder if I can get the
treasure back to my cell without it being confiscated.

Once I’ve completed my list, he brings me up to date on his
social life. Ten minutes later he leaves me and James takes his place.

I spend some considerable time briefing James on Sergio’s
background, and explain how three weeks in prison, in such intense
circumstances,
is
the equivalent of about three months
on the outside. He nods, as he’s well aware that this is only background before
I broach the real subject. Having established Sergio’s credentials, about which
I tell him I have only my instinct to go on, we then discuss the subject of
emeralds in great detail. I explain for an investment of $10,000, subject to
valuation, we will acquire one emerald which will arrive in London later this
week If Sergio turns out to have been honest about the emerald, it might then
be worth getting him to search for a Botero.

‘If he doesn’t manage to find any paintings,’ I add, ‘then
the worse case scenario is that Mary will end up with a rather special
Christmas present’

Because James has inherited his mother’s brains and my
barrow-boy instincts, there’s no need to repeat anything. We agree to speak
again by phone towards the end of the week. I smile across at David and he
joins us.

After a few preliminaries about his wife, Sue, and whether
they had a good holiday, I can see he’s nervous, which has always been David’s
way of telling me something is worrying him. I try to make it as easy as
possible for both of us.

‘Are you still thinking of
emigrating
to Australia?’ I ask.

‘No’ he replies, ‘much as I’d like to, it’s near impossible
to get on the quota, unless you have a job to go to, or relatives already
living there.’

‘I suppose I’ll have a better chance now I’ve been to
prison,’ I suggest, before adding, ‘So what are you planning to do?’

‘Sue and I are thinking of settling in Turkey. We’ve spent
our last few holidays there, and we like the people, the climate and most of
all the cost of living.’

‘So when would you want to leave?’

In a couple of months, if that’s all right
with you, boss?’

I smile and tell him that’s just fine. We shake hands like
old friends, because that’s exactly what we are.

The four of us spend the last thirty minutes together
swapping stories as if I wasn’t in jail. I think I’ve made this observation
before, but if your friends could be in prison with you, it would be almost
bearable.

I place the pens Will smuggled in into my shirt pocket and
just hope. I’m sorry to see the boys leave, and it’s only their absence that
reminds me just how much I love them. The officer who carries out the search
checks my mouth, under my tongue, makes me take off my shoes, and then finishes
with a Heathrow check. I escape – which means for the next week I’ll be able to
write with the implement of my choice.

After supper I convene a board meeting in Sergio’s cell.
‘The ball is now in your court,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve selected the emerald, so
we’re about to discover if you’re a serious player or a mountebank.’ He has
asked me to use one expression and one word every day that he won’t have heard
before. He immediately looks up mountebank in his Spanish/English dictionary.

He then stands and formally shakes my hand. The ball is now
in my court,’ he repeats, ‘and you’re about to find out that despite the
circumstances in which we’ve met, I am not a mountebank.’ I want to believe
him.

One of the interesting aspects of writing this diary during
the day, and correcting the script of volume one in the evening, is being
reminded just how horrendous an experience Belmarsh was.

Pottery.
Paul gives us a lecture with
slides on Rothko, Man Ray, Magritte and Andy Warhol. Several of the prisoners
voice an opinion often heard about modern artists, only they put it more
bluntly.

That’s fuckin’ crap, why would anyone pay good money for
that shit? My seven-year-old daughter could knock you up one of those.’

Neither of our tutors, Paul nor Anne, comments; both are
professional artists and know only too well that if they could ‘knock up one of
those’, they wouldn’t be teaching in prison.

After the lecture Shaun presents me with a pattern for my
cell wall – unquestionably influenced by Magritte.
It’s
fun, but I wonder if Locke is capable of reproducing it. I’ll have to discuss
the problem with my chef de chantier, Darren. Will I really be allowed a sun
and moon in my room?

Education, Tuesday afternoon is a bit of a farce. I have to
attend an education class to make up the statutory number of lessons required
by a part-time worker – £6.50 a week – so end up sitting at the back of the
classroom working on this script.

I’ve asked Wendy Sergeant (Head of the Education Department)
if I can teach one lesson a week of creative writing, as I did at Belmarsh. Her
latest comment on the subject is that the prisoners don’t want another inmate
teaching them. I find this unlikely because at least one inmate a day asks me
to read and comment on something they’ve written, so I wonder what the truth
really is. I won’t bother Wendy again as it’s obvious that someone else has
made the decision, and she is simply carrying out instructions. In future I’ll
just sit at the back of the classroom and continue working for myself.

Board meeting.
Sergio reports that
he’s spoken to his brother again, and all the arrangements are in place. But he
has an anxious look on his face.

‘What’s the problem?’ I ask.

‘I’m worried about my brother,’ he explains. ‘He’s a civil
servant, an academic, not used to the way business is carried out in Colombia.
It must have taken a great deal of courage for him to travel to the mountain
where no one would give a second thought to killing you for a thousand dollars.
Now we want him to hand over ten thousand in cash and then transport the
emerald to the airport without any protection.’ Sergio pauses. ‘I fear for his
life.’

My first thought is that Sergio is trying to get off the
hook now that he’s leaving these shores in a few weeks’ time.

What are you suggesting?’ I venture.

‘Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until I return to Bogota,
then I can handle the problem personally. I fear for my brother’s life,’ he
repeats.

Once Sergio is back in Bogota I will have lost all contact
with him, not to mention my £200. He has claimed many times during the past
three weeks that several prisoners have offered to transfer money to his
account in Bogota in exchange for a regular supply of drugs, but he has always
turned them down. Has he in fact accepted every payment? Is that account now in
surplus thus guaranteeing him an easy life once he’s back in Colombia? However,
I feel I am left with no choice but to take the high road.

‘If you’re in any doubt about your brother’s safety,’ I tell
him, let’s postpone the sending of the emerald until you return to Bogota.’

Sergio looks relieved. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow,’ he says,
‘and then I’ll let you know our decision.’

I close the board meeting because, given the circumstances,
there’s not a lot more to discuss.

Exercise.
Shaun has finished his
preliminary sketch of Darren, and is now making a further attempt at Dale.

As Jimmy and I proceed on our usual circuit (there isn’t a
lot of choice) we pass a group of three officers who are posted to keep an eye
on us. One of them is a young, not unattractive, woman. Jimmy tells me that she
has a ‘bit of a thing’ about Malcolm (ABH, punched a publican) who she will
miss when he’s transferred to his D-cat prison on Monday.

‘The stories I could tell you about Malcolm’ says Jimmy.

‘Yes, yes,’ I say, my ears pricking up.

‘No, no,’ says Jimmy. ‘I’m not saying a word about that man
until I’m sure he’s safely ensconced at Latchmere House. He flattened that
publican with one punch.’ He pauses. ‘But ask me again next week.’