Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (23 page)

I drop into Darren’s cell to have a blackcurrant cordial and
watch him play a game of backgammon with Jimmy. He tells me that my meeting
with the security officer was timed so that I wouldn’t be able to go out into
the exercise yard, as they felt it might be wise for me to cool it a little.
Darren seems to know everything that’s going on, and I take the opportunity to
tell him about my nocturnal sightings.

Darren laughs. ‘You’re a peeping Tom,’ he says. ‘That has to
be Malcolm.
Macho Malcolm.’

‘He’s even more irresistible than me,’ chips in Jimmy.

‘Do I sense a good story for the diary?’ I ask tentatively.

‘Half a dozen,’ says Darren, ‘but not tonight because we’re
just about to be banged up.’ He can’t hide his pleasure at the thought of
keeping me waiting for another few hours.

Once I’m banged up, I start making extensive notes for my
phone call to Alison, who returns from New Zealand tomorrow. I then turn to
Hamlet. I am resolved to read, or reread, the entire works of Shakespeare –
thirty-seven plays – by the time they transfer me to an open prison. If I
succeed, I’ll move on to the Sonnets.

After a couple of acts, I switch on the TV to watch the
unforgettable John Le Mesurier in Dad’s Army. What a distinguished career he
had, making a virtue of letting other people take centre stage. Not something
I’ve ever been good at.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…

Tomorrow, I will need to book a call at seven in the evening
with my son James, to find out if the emerald has arrived. I can’t contact him
today because on Monday we’re banged up at five-thirty, and he’ll still be at
work in the City.

Tomorrow… Macho Malcolm leaves for his D-cat prison, and
neither Darren nor Jimmy
are
willing to breathe a word
about his sex life until he’s off the premises. However, I can report that the
woman officer who was spotted outside Malcolm’s window was today seen walking
down the corridor with him towards his cell. But this is the stuff of rumours;
tomorrow I will be able to give you the facts as reported by Darren and Jimmy.
However, Darren did let slip that three women were involved. He knows only too
well such a hint will keep me intrigued for another night.

Tomorrow…

As for today, I rise a few minutes before six and write for
two hours.

Pottery.
I take a grapefruit into
art class, and an empty jar of marmalade for Keith (kidnapping) as part of
another still life he’s drawing for his A level course. Keith didn’t even take
up painting until he was sent to prison. When he comes up for parole in six
months’ time, he will leave, at the age of forty-six, with an A level. Much
credit must go to Anne and Paul, who
are
every bit as
proud of this achievement as Keith himself.

Keith tells me how sorry he was to read about my mother’s
death, and goes on to say that he was in prison when his wife died of breast
cancer at the age of thirty-nine. He then adds the poignant comment, ‘I shall
not mourn her death until after I’ve been released.’

Shaun (forgery, artist) confirms that he’s given up on Dale,
and will now concentrate on Jules, Steve and Jimmy. We discuss how he’ll deal
with the arrival on Wednesday of his cache of special drawing paper, oils,
chalks and pencils without the other prisoners becoming aware of what I’m up
to. We don’t want to get our smuggler into any trouble, and we certainly don’t
need any other inmates to feel envious.

Envy is even more prevalent in prisons than it is in the
outside world, partly because all emotions are heightened in such a hot-house
atmosphere, and partly because any little privilege afforded to one, however
slight, seems so unfair to others who are not treated in the same way.

I spend the remainder of the class reading a book on the
lives of the two great female Impressionists, Marie Laurencin and Berthe
Morisot.

Gym.
Once again I complete my
programme in the allocated hour. Just to give you an update on my progress,
when I first arrived at Wayland four weeks ago, I managed 1,800 metres on the
rowing machine, and today I passed 2,200 for the first time. When, and if, I
ever get to a D-cat establishment, I can only hope they have a well-equipped
gym.

Mr Chapman unlocks my cell door to let me know that Mr
Carlton-Boyce wants to see me.

Mr Carlton-Boyce, who seems to be the governor on my case,
tells me that he can do nothing about the reinstatement of my D-cat until the
police confirm that they will not be going ahead with any enquiry concerning
the Simple Truth appeal.

‘However,’ he adds, ‘once that confirmation comes through,
we will transfer you to an open prison as quickly as possible. I am still
receiving a pile of letters from the public every day,’ he adds, ‘but they just
don’t understand that my hands are tied.’ I accept this, but point out that
it’s been six weeks, and the police haven’t even interviewed me. He nods, and
then asks me if I have any other problems. I say no, although I have a feeling
he’s referring to Ellis and the gym incident.

I call Alison. I make an appointment to speak to Jonathan
Lloyd, my agent, at five tomorrow and my son James at seven. I have to book
‘time calls’ because, as you will recall, no one can phone

Banged up for another fourteen hours, so once I’ve gone over
my script, I turn to my letters, one of which is from a journalist.

How flattering the press can be when they want something.

I watch David Starkey present the first of an engrossing
four-part series on the six wives of Henry VIII. I had no idea that Catherine
of Aragon had been made regent and conducted a war against the Scots (Flodden
1513) while Henry was away fighting his own battles in France, or that they
were married for over thirty years, and of course would have remained together
until death if she had only produced a son. More please, Dr Starkey. I can’t
wait to learn about Anne Boleyn next week; even I know that she was the mother
of Elizabeth I, but not a lot more.

The lead story on the news is that John Prescott’s
retaliatory punch during the election campaign is to be referred to the CPS.
Over the past few weeks several inmates have pointed out that they are serving
sentences from six months to three years for punching someone after they had
been attacked, so they’re looking forward to the deputy prime minister joining
us. I have little doubt that the CPS will sweep the whole incident under the
carpet,
I say when I raise the subject with Darren. They
didn’t in your case,’ he remarks.

True, but it won’t go unnoticed by the public that we can
expect two levels of justice in Britain as long as New Labour
are
in power. I just can’t see Mr Prescott arriving at
Belmarsh in two sweatboxes. Perhaps I do the CPS an injustice. Tomorrow and
tomorrow and tomorrow…

I suspect that Tuesday September 11th 2001 will be etched on
the memories of everyone in the free world as among the blackest days in
history. But I shall still report it as it unfolded for me, in time sequence,
although aware that my earlier reportage may appear frivolous.

Pottery is cancelled because Anne’s car has broken down, so
all the prisoners in the art class have to return to their cells (the first
irony). Back on A block, everyone on my spur is shaking hands with Malcolm, who
is about to be transferred to a D-cat. He comes to my cell to say farewell, and
hopes that I will be joining him soon, as he knows Spring Hill is also my first
choice.

‘When
are
Group 4 collecting you?’
I ask.

They aren’t,’ he replies. ‘Now I’m in a D-cat and past my
FLED, I can drive myself over to Aylesbury, and as long as I’ve checked in by
three this afternoon, no one will give a damn.’

No sooner has Malcolm left the wing, than Jimmy slips into
my cell. ‘I’m ready to talk now,’ he says.

Jimmy and Malcolm are both D-cats (Jimmy remains at Wayland
because his home is nearby) and are the only two inmates at Wayland allowed to
work outside the prison walls every day. Both of them have a job maintaining
the grounds beyond the perimeter fence during the
week,
and at an animal sanctuary on Saturday mornings. The sanctuary is a voluntary
project, which concentrates on helping animals in distress. The work ranges
from assisting lame beasts to walk or birds to fly, to having to bury them when
they die.

Every Saturday morning at the sanctuary, Jimmy and Malcolm
join several volunteers from the local village. Among them one lady who has
left Malcolm in no doubt how she feels about him – Malcolm has the rugged looks
of a matinee idol, and possesses an inordinate amount of charm.

One of the tasks none of the volunteers relish
is having
to bury dead animals, and Percy the hedgehog was
no exception. Everyone was surprised when the lady in question stepped forward
and volunteered to bury Percy. Malcolm, gallant as ever, quickly agreed to
accompany her into the forest that bordered the sanctuary.

Armed with spades, they disappeared into the thicket.
Forty-five minutes later they reappeared but, Jimmy noticed, minus their
spades.

‘Where’s your spade, mate?’ demanded Jimmy.

‘I knew there was something else we were meant to do,’
Malcolm blurted out. They both charged back into the forest, and Malcolm
returned only just in time to be escorted back to the prison.

Jimmy goes on to tell me that Malcolm left Wayland just in
time, because one of the ladies who served behind the counter at family visits
has also just signed up to join the group on Saturdays at the animal sanctuary.
Not to mention the female officer who I saw standing outside his cell window
for an hour two nights ago, who is now thinking of applying for a transfer…

‘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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.