Heaven: A Prison Diary (14 page)

Several of the
officers are kind enough to comment on the outcome of the enquiry, but I’ve
also fallen to second item with them. It seems that the two prisoners who
absconded last night, Marley and Tom, were picked up early this morning by the
police, only six miles from the prison. They were arrested, charged and
transferred to Lincoln Prison.

They will each
have forty-two days added to their sentence and will never be allowed to apply
for a D-cat status again, as they are now categorized as an escape risk.

Slipped to
third item on
Live at Five
, but as I
have been exonerated, it’s clearly not news.

If I had
embezzled the £57 million, or any part of it, I would have remained the lead
item for a couple of days, and the prison would have been swarming with
photographers waiting for my transfer to Lincoln.

Not one
photographer in sight.

A passing mention of the Red Cross statement on the ten o’clock
news.
I can see I shall have to abscond if I hope to make the headlines
again.

Irony.
Eamon, my former room-mate, is now able to move in
with his friend Shaun. They have been offered the room vacated by the two men
who absconded.

A torch is
flashed in my eyes, and I wake to see an officer checking if I’m in bed asleep
and have not absconded. I’m no longer asleep.

I oversleep and
only start writing just after seven.

The broadsheets
all report the findings of the KPMG report. Several point out that none of this
would have arisen if Baroness Nicholson, a former Tory MP turned Liberal peer,
hadn’t made her complaint to Sir John Stevens in the first place. I call Mary
to discuss our next move, but there’s no reply.

I have a visit
today from Doreen and Henry Miller. Doreen is a front-bench spokesman in the
Lords having previously been a minister under John Major. She brings me up to
date with news of the Upper House, and tells me that the latest Lords reform
bill is detested on both sides of the chamber. The Bill ignores John Wakeham’s
excellent Royal Commission report, and doesn’t placate the Labour party because
not a large enough percentage of peers will be elected, and doesn’t placate the
Tory party because it removes all the remaining hereditary peers. ‘It cannot,’
Doreen assures me, ‘reach the statute book in its present form, because it will
meet with so much opposition in both Houses.’
10

When Doreen and
Henry leave, I don’t know where the ninety minutes went.

I call Mary,
but the phone just rings and rings.

Watch England
beat South Africa 29-9 and despite the Irish hiccup, begin to believe we might
be the best rugby team in the world. If I’m let out in time, I will travel to
Australia to see the next world rugby cup.

I call Mary.
Still no reply.

After checking
in for roll-call I join Doug at the hospital to find four officers in the
waiting room. One of them, Mr Harding, is spattered with blood. Mr Hocking, the
chief security officer, is taking a photograph of him. It turns out that Mr
Hocking, acting on a tip-off, was informed that two inmates had disappeared
into Boston to pick up some booze, so he and three other officers were lying in
wait for them. However, when they were spotted returning, the first prisoner
grabbed Mr Harding’s heavy torch and hit him over the head, allowing his mate
enough time to escape. The first prisoner was wrestled to the ground and
handcuffed, and is now locked up in the segregation block.

The second has
still to reappear, although they know which prisoner it is. Even a cub reporter
would realize there’s an ongoing story here.

Phone Mary in Cambridge; no reply.
Try London and only get
the answering machine.

Report to Linda at the hospital.
Doug’s away on a town leave
(7 am to 7 pm) so I’m temporary keeper of the pills.

During lunch, I
discover from one of the gym orderlies that they caught the second inmate who
was trying to bring drink back into the prison. He’ll be shipped out to
Nottingham this afternoon.

Self-abuse is
often one of the reasons they move offenders out so quickly. It’s not unknown
for a prisoner who is kept in lock-up overnight to cut his wrists or even break
an arm, and then blame it on the officer who charged him. The prisoner can then
claim he was attacked first, which means that he can’t be moved until there has
been a full enquiry.

Mr Hocking took
several photographs of both prisoners, which will make that course of action a
little more difficult to explain.

The morning
papers are predicting that I’ll soon be moved to Spring Hill so I can be nearer
my family. One or two of them even suggest that I should never have been sent
to Wayland or NSC in the first place simply on an allegation made by Ms
Nicholson.

After the news,
I call Mary again, but there’s still no reply.

One of my
duties at SMU is the distribution of bin liners. At eight-thirty every morning,
two prisoners, Alf and Rod, check in for work and take away a bin liner each.
This morning Alf demands ten. I will allow you a few seconds to fathom out why,
because I couldn’t.

I make a weekly
order for provisions on a Friday, which is delivered on Monday, and always
includes ten bin liners, so Alf is about to wipe out my entire stock in one
day. I can’t believe he’s trading them and they are far too big for the small
wastepaper baskets in his room, so I give in and ask why the sudden demand. Alf
tells me that the directorgeneral of the Prison Service, Martin Narey, is
visiting NSC on Wednesday, and the governor wants the place smartened up for
his inspection. Fair enough. However, if Mr Narey is half-intelligent, it won’t
take him long to realize that NSC is a neglected dump and short of money. If
they show him the north or south block, he’ll wonder if we have any cleaners as
he holds his nose and steps gingerly through the rubbish. The visits room is a disgrace
and extracurricular activities almost non-existent. However, if he is only
shown the canteen, gym, farm, hospital and SMU, he will leave with a favourable
impression.

I’m told the
real purpose for Mr Narey’s visit is to discuss how this prison will prepare
for resettlement status once the new governor takes over in January.

Mr Belford, a
south block officer, pops in for a coffee. He tells me that the inmate who
photographed me in my room failed to sell the one picture he managed to snap, because
the negative came out so poorly.

Today’s new
inductees from Nottingham include a pupil barrister (ABH), a taxi driver
(overcharging) and a farm labourer (theft from his employer). They all end up
on the farm because the prison is overcrowded and there are no other jobs
available.

Canteen.
I’m £13.50 in credit (I earn £8.50 a week, and can
supplement that with £10 of my own money). I purchase two phonecards, three
bottles of Evian, a packet of Gillette razor blades, a roll-on deodorant and a
toothbrush, which cleans out my account.

I’m not in
desperate need of all these items, but it’s my way of making sure I can’t buy
any more chocolate as I need to lose the half stone I’ve put on since arriving
at NSC.

I phone James
at work. He tells me that Mary has been on the move for the past few days –
Oundle, London and Cambridge, and then back to London this afternoon.
11

I join Doug in
the hospital. He is anticipating an interview with Exotic Foods on Wednesday or
Thursday, and hopes to begin work next Monday, a week earlier than originally
planned. He has already spoken to Mr Belford about a room on the south block,
in the no-smoking spur, and to Mr Berlyn about his travel arrangements to
Boston.

However, there
is a fly in the ointment, namely Linda, who feels Doug should train his
successor for a week before he leaves.

I call Chris
Beetles’ gallery and wish Chris luck for the opening of the illustrators’ show.

Mary is hoping
to drop in and see the picture I’ve selected for this year’s Christmas card. I
ask him to pass on my love and tell her I’ll ring Cambridge tomorrow evening.
For the first time in thirty-five years, I haven’t spoken to my wife in five
days. Don’t forget, she can’t call me.

One incident of
huge significance took place today. In fact, it’s a short story in its own
right. However, as I write, I don’t yet
know,
the
ending.
But to begin halfway through.

Do you recall
Leon, the PhD who joined us about a week ago? He wants to marry an Indian girl
of high caste, but her father and mother refuse to entertain the idea, and that
was before he was sent to prison (driving without a licence, six months). Well,
he reappeared at SMU at three o’clock this afternoon in what can only be
described as an agitated state. Although we’d had ten new inductees and a
labour board this morning, it was turning out to be a quiet afternoon. I sat
Leon down in the kitchen while Carl made him a cup of tea. He was desperate to
discover if he was going to be granted his HDC and be released early on a tag.
The officer who deals with HDC was in her office, so I went upstairs to ask if
she would see him.

Ten minutes
later Leon reappears and says that a decision will be made tomorrow morning as
to whether he can be released early.

‘Well, that’s
another problem solved,’ says Carl.

‘No, it isn’t,’
says Leon, ‘because if they don’t grant my tag, it will be a disaster.’

Leon doesn’t
strike me as the sort of man who would use the world ‘disaster’ lightly, so I
enquire why. He then briefs us on the latest complication in his love life.

His
girlfriend’s parents have found out that she plans to marry Leon as soon as
he’s released from prison on 6 December. She’s even booked the register office.
She told him over the phone last night that her parents have not only forbidden
the match, but three men who she has never met have recently been selected as
possible husbands and they will be flying in from India at the weekend.

She must then
select one of them before she and her intended bridegroom fly back to Calcutta
to be married on 6 December.

I now fully
understand Leon’s desperation; I go in search of Mr Downs, a senior officer,
who is a shrewd and caring man. I find him in the officers’ room going over tomorrow’s
itinerary for the director-general’s visit. I brief Mr Downs and he agrees to
see Leon immediately.

After their
meeting, Leon tells us that Mr Downs was most sympathetic and will report his
worries direct to the governor. He has asked to see Leon again at eight o’clock
tomorrow morning, one hour before the board meet to decide if he will be
granted a tag. I had assumed that there would be nothing more to tell you until
the outcome of that meeting.
However …

I finally catch
up with Mary, and forty minutes later have used up both my phonecards.

I go over to
the hospital to have a bath, but before doing so tell Doug about Leon. I fail
to reach the bathroom because he tells me he can remember a case where special
dispensation was granted to allow an inmate to be married in the prison chapel.

‘Why don’t you
ask the vicar about it?’ he suggests.

‘Because by
then it will be too late,’ I tell Doug, reminding him of the timetable of the
board meeting at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and the three gentlemen from
India arriving in Sheffield over the weekend.

‘But the Rev
Derek Johnson is over at the chapel right now,’ says Doug, ‘it’s the prison
clergy’s monthly meeting.’

I leave Doug
and walk quickly over to the chapel. The orderly, John (ostrich fraud), tells
me that the vicar has just left, but if I run to the gate I might still catch
him. At sixty-one I’m past running fast, but I do jog, and hope that as the
vicar is even older than I am I’ll make it before he’s driven off. When I
arrive at the gate, his car is at the barrier waiting to be let out. I wave
frantically. He parks the car and joins me in the gatehouse, where I tell him
the whole story. Derek listens with immense sympathy and says that he can, in
certain circumstances, marry the couple in the prison chapel, and he feels
confident that the governor would agree, given the circumstances. He also adds
that if the young lady needed to be put up overnight, he and Mrs Johnson could
supply a room for her. I thank the vicar and return to the north block in
search of Leon.

I find him in
his room and impart my latest piece of news. He’s delighted, and tells me that
he’s spoken to his fiancée again, and she’s already arranged for the wedding to
be held in a local register office as long as he’s released early. If he isn’t,
we have at least come up with an alternative solution. Leon is thanking me
profusely when I hear my name over the tannoy, ‘Archer to report to the south
block unit office immediately.’

I leave Leon to
jog over to the south block and arrive at the unit office at one minute to
nine. I had, for the first time, forgotten to check in for my eight-fifteen
roll-call. If I’d arrived at one minute past nine, I would have been put on
report and have lost my chance of being ‘enhanced’ for another eight weeks. Mr
Belford, the duty officer, who knows nothing of my nocturnal efforts, bursts
out laughing.