Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (2 page)

I’m just about to start writing up what has happened to me
today when Chris switches on the television. First we have half an hour of
EastEnders followed by Top Gear, and then a documentary on Robbie Williams.
Chris is clearly establishing his right to leave the TV on, with a programme he
has selected, at a volume that suits him. Will he allow me to watch Frasier
tomorrow?

I lie in bed on my thin mattress, my head resting on a
rock-hard pillow, and think about Mary and the boys, aware that they too must
be enduring their own private hell. I feel as low as I did during my first
night at Belmarsh. I have no idea what time I finally fall asleep. I thought I
had escaped from hell.

So much for purgatory.

Intermittent, fitful sleep, unaided by a
rock-hard pillow, a cellmate who snores and occasionally talks in his sleep;
sadly, nothing of literary interest.
Rise and write for two hours.

Cell-mate wakes and grunts. I carry on writing. He then
jumps off the top bunk and goes to the lavatory in the corner of the cell. He
has no inhibitions in front of me, but then he has been in prison for five
years. I am determined never to go to the loo in my cell, while I’m still in
a one-up
, one-down, unless he is out I go on working as if
nothing is happening. It’s quite hard to distract me when I’m writing, but when
I look up I see Chris standing there in the nude. His chest is almost
completely covered with a tattoo of an eagle towering over a snake, which he
tells me with pride he did himself with a tattoo gun. On the knuckles of his
fingers on both hands are diamonds, hearts, spades and clubs, while on his
shoulders he has a massive spider’s web that creeps down his back. There’s not
much pink flesh left unmarked. He’s a walking canvas.

The cell doors are unlocked so we can all go and have
breakfast; one hour earlier than in Belmarsh. Chris and I walk down to the
hotplate. At least the eggs have been boiled quite recently – like today. We’re
also given a half carton of semi-skimmed milk, which means that I can drop the
long-life version from my weekly shopping list and spend the extra 79p on some
other luxury, like marmalade.

Mr Newport pops his head round the cell door to announce
that Mr Tinkler, the principal officer, would like a word with me. Even the
language at Wayland is more conciliatory. When I leave my cell, he adds, ‘It’s
down the corridor, second door on the left’

When I enter Mr Tinkler’s room, he stands up and ushers me
into a chair on the other side of his desk as if he were my bank manager. His
name is printed in silver letters on a triangular piece of wood, in case anyone
should forget. Mr Tinkler resembles an old sea captain rather than a prison officer.
He has weathered, lined skin and a neatly cut white beard. He’s been in the
service for over twenty years and I learn that he will be retiring next August.
He asks me how I’m settling in – the most common question asked by an officer
when meeting a prisoner for the first time. I tell him about the state of my
room and the proclivities of my cell-mate. He listens attentively and, as there
is little difference in our age, I detect some sympathy for my predicament. He
tells me that as soon as my induction is over he plans to transfer me to a
single cell on C block which houses mainly lifers. Mr Tinkler believes that
I’ll find the atmosphere there more settled, as I will be among a group of
prisoners closer to my own age. I leave his office feeling considerably better
than when I entered it.

I’ve only been back in my cell for a few minutes when Mr
Newport pops his head round the door again. ‘We’re moving you to a cell down
the corridor. Pack your belongings and follow me.’ I hadn’t really unpacked so
this exercise doesn’t take too long. The other cell also turns out to be a
double, but once I’m inside Mr Newport whispers, ‘We’re hoping to leave you on
your own.’ Mr Tinkler’s sympathy is translated into something far more tangible
than mere words.

I slowly unpack my possessions from the regulation prison
plastic bag for the seventh time in three weeks.

As I now have two small cupboards, I put all the prison
clothes like shirts, socks, pants, gym kit, etc. in one, while I place my
personal belongings in the other. I almost enjoy how long it takes to put my
new home in order.

Mr Newport is back again. He’s making his rounds, this time
to deliver canteen lists to every cell. He has already warned me that if the
computer hasn’t transferred my surplus cash from Belmarsh I will be allowed an
advance of only £5 this week. I quickly check the top of the list, to discover
I’m in credit for £20.46. This turns out to be my weekly allowance of £12.50
plus two payments from the education department at Belmarsh for my lecture on
creative writing and two sessions at the workshop. I spend the next thirty
minutes planning how to spend this windfall. I allow myself such luxuries as
Gillette shaving foam, Robertson’s marmalade and four bottles of Evian water.

Lunch.
On Fridays at Wayland lunch
comes in a plastic bag: a packet of crisps, a bar of chocolate, a bread roll
accompanied by a lettuce leaf and a sachet of salad cream. I can only wonder in
which prison workshop and how long ago this meal was packed, because there are
rarely sell-by dates on prison food. I return to my cell to find the canteen
provisions have been deposited on the end of my bed in yet another plastic bag.
I celebrate by thumbing my bread roll in half and spreading Robertson’s Golden
Shred all over it with the aid of my toothbrush handle. I pour myself a mug of
Evian. Already the world is a better place.

Part of the induction process is a private session with the
prison chaplain. Mr John Framlington looks to me as if it’s been some years
since he’s administered his own parish. He explains that he’s a ‘fill-in’, as
he shares the work with a younger man. I assure him that I will be attending
the service on Sunday, but would like to know if it clashes with the RCs. He
looks puzzled.

‘No, we both use the same chapel. Father Christopher has so
many parishes outside the prison to cover each Sunday he holds his service on a
Saturday morning at ten thirty.’ Mr Framlington is interested to discover why I
wish to attend both services. I tell him about my daily diary, and my failure
to hear Father Kevin’s sermon while at Belmarsh. He sighs.

‘You’ll quickly find out that Father Christopher preaches a
far better sermon than I do.’

The first setback of the day.
Mr
Newport
returns,
the bearer of bad news. Six new
prisoners have arrived this afternoon, and once again I will have to share. I
learn later that there are indeed six new inductees but as the prison still has
several empty beds there is no real need for me to share. However, there are
several reporters hanging around outside the prison gates, so the authorities
don’t want to leave the press with the impression I might be receiving
preferential treatment. Mr Newport claims he has selected a more suitable
person to share with me. Perhaps this time it won’t be a Stanley-knife stabber,
just a machete murderer.

I transfer all my personal possessions out of one of the
cupboards and stuff them into the other, along with the prison kit.

My new room-mate appears carrying his plastic bag. He
introduces himself as Jules (see plate section). He’s thirty-five and has a
five-year sentence for drug dealing. He’s already been told that I don’t smoke.

I watch him carefully as he starts to unpack, and I begin to
relax. He has an unusual number of books, as well as an electric chessboard. I
feel confident the evening viewing will not be a rerun of Top of the Pops and
motorbike scrambling. At five to four I leave him to continue his unpacking
while I make my way to the gym for another induction session.

Twenty new inmates are escorted to the gym. There are no
doors to be unlocked on our unimpeded journey to the other side of the
building. I also notice that on the way we pass a library. I never even found
the library at Belmarsh.

The gym is an even bigger shock. It’s quite magnificent.
Wayland has a full-size basketball court, which is fully equipped for badminton
and tennis. The gym instructor asks us to take a seat on a bench where we’re
handed forms to fill in, giving such details as age, weight, height and sports
we are interested in.

‘My name is John Maiden,’ he tells us, ‘and I’m happy to be
called John.’ I never learnt the first name of any officer at Belmarsh. He
tells us the different activities available: cricket, basketball, badminton,
football, rugby and, inevitably, weight training. He then takes us into the
next room, an area overcrowded with bars, dumb-bells and weights. Once again
I’m disappointed to discover that there is only one treadmill, three rowing
machines and no step machine. However, there are some very strange-looking
bikes, the likes of which I’ve never seen before.

A gym orderly (a prisoner who has obviously been trained by
Mr Maiden) takes us round the room and describes how to use each piece of
equipment. He carries out the task most professionally, and should have no
trouble finding a job once he leaves prison. I’m listening intently about bench
pressing when I find Mr Maiden standing by my side.

‘Are you still refereeing rugby?’ he asks.

‘No. I gave up about ten years ago,’ I tell him. ‘Once the
laws started to change every season I just couldn’t keep up. In any case I
found that even if I only refereed veteran teams I couldn’t keep up, quite
literally.’

‘
Don’t
let knowledge of the laws
worry you,’ said Mr Maiden, ‘we’ll still be able to use you.’

The session ends with a look at the changing room, the
shower facilities and, more importantly, clean lavatories. I’m issued with a
plastic gym card and look forward to returning to my old training regime.

Back in the cell, I find Jules sitting on the top bunk
reading. I settle down to another session of writing before we’re called for
supper.

I select the vegetarian pie and chips and am handed the
obligatory yellow lollipop, which is identical to those we were given at
Belmarsh. If it’s the same company who makes and supplies them to every one of
Her Majesty’s prisons, that must be a contract worth having. Although it’s only
my third meal since I arrived, I think I’ve already spotted the power behind
the hotplate. He’s a man of about thirty-five, six foot three and must weigh
around twenty-seven stone. As I pass him I ask if we could meet later. He nods
in the manner of a man who knows that in the kingdom of the blind… I can only
hope that I’ve located Wayland’s ‘Del Boy’.

After supper we are allowed to be out of our cells for a
couple of hours (Association) until we’re banged up at eight.

What a contrast to Belmarsh. I use the time to roam around
the corridors and familiarize myself with the layout. The main office is on the
first landing and is the hub of the whole wing. From there everything is an
offshoot. I also check where all the phones are situated, and when a prisoner
comes off one he warns me, ‘Never use the phone on the induction landing, Jeff,
because the conversations are taped. Use this one. It’s a screw-free line.’

I thank him and call Mary in Cambridge. She’s relieved that
I’ve rung as she has no way of contacting me, and can’t come to see me until
she’s been sent a visiting order. I promise to put one in tomorrow’s post, and
then she may even be able to drive across next Tuesday or Wednesday. I remind
her to bring some form of identification and that she mustn’t try to pass
anything over to me, not even a letter.

Mary then tells me that she’s accepted an invitation to go
on the Today programme with John Humphrys. She intends to ask Baroness
Nicholson to withdraw her accusation that I stole money from the Kurds, so that
I can be reinstated as a D-cat prisoner and quickly transferred to an open prison.
I tell Mary that I consider this an unlikely scenario.

‘She’s not decent enough to consider such a Christian act,’
I warn my wife.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Mary replies, ‘but I will be able
to refer to Lynda Chafer’s parliamentary reply on the subject and ask why Ms
Nicholson wasn’t in the House that day if she cares so much about the Kurds, or
why had she not at least read the report in Hansard the following morning.’
Mary adds that the BBC
have
told her that they accept
I have no case to answer.

‘When are you going on?’

‘Next Wednesday or Thursday, so it’s important I see you
before then.’

I quickly agree as my units are running out. I then ask Mary
to warn James that I’ll phone him at the office at eleven tomorrow morning, and
will call her again on Sunday evening. My units are now down to ten so I say a
quick goodbye.

I continue my exploration of the wing and discover that the
main Association room and the servery/hotplate double up. The room is about
thirty paces by twenty and has a full-size snooker table which is so popular
that you have to book a week in advance. There is also a pool table and a
table-tennis table, but no TV, as it would be redundant when there’s one in
every cell.

I’m walking back upstairs when I bump into the hotplate man.
He introduces himself as Dale, and invites me to join him in his cell, telling
me on the way that he’s serving eight years for wounding with intent to
endanger life. He leads me down a flight of stone steps onto the lower-ground
floor. This is an area I would never have come across, as it’s reserved for
enhanced prisoners only – the chosen few who have proper jobs and are
considered by the officers to be trustworthy. As you can’t be granted enhanced
status for at least three months, I will never enjoy such luxury, as I am
hoping to be moved to a D-cat fairly quickly.