Heaven: A Prison Diary (20 page)

The last inmate
to see the doctor is a patient called Robinson. He’s shaking and trying in vain
to keep warm. I’ve been in prison long enough now to spot a heroin addict at
thirty paces. While he waits for his appointment, Robinson confides that he’s
desperately trying to kick the habit, and has put himself on a compulsory urine
test every morning. He’s thirty-two years old, and has been in and out of
prison for the past fourteen years.

‘I’m lucky to
be alive,’ he says. ‘After I got nicked this time, I took the rap and let me
mate get off in exchange for a promise he’d send me ten quid a week while I’m
inside.’

The ‘friend’
died a few weeks later after injecting himself from a contaminated batch of
heroin.

‘If the deal
had been the other way round,’

Robinson
suggests, ‘I’d be the dead man.’

Over lunch I
discuss the drug problem in prisons with the two gym orderlies, both of whom
abhor the habit. I am shocked – can I still be shocked? –
when
Jim (burglary, antiques only) tells me that 30 per cent of the inmates at NSC
are on heroin. But more depressing still, when Jim was here eight years ago for
a previous offence, he says only a handful of the inmates were on drugs. What
will it be like in ten years’ time?

As I walk back
from lunch, I see Brian and John, the CSV Red Cross workers, heading towards
me. They’ve both been taken off the job and confined to the prison while an
enquiry is being conducted. Maria, who runs the Red Cross shop in Boston, has
been accused of smuggling contraband (twelve paperbacks) into the prison.
Apparently she should have informed the gate staff of her request to have the
books autographed by me.

Brian tells me
they left her in tears, and I am bound to say that what started out as a simple
goodwill gesture has ended in turmoil; the Red Cross
have
been removed as participants in the CSV scheme, and Brian and John have lost
their jobs. I resolve to find out if there is more to it – prison has taught me
not to automatically take something on trust – and if there isn’t, to try to
right this injustice.

Carl suggests
we watch
Midnight Express
, a sure way
of reminding ourselves just how lucky we all are. And to think Turkey wants to
be a full member of the European Union.

Dr Walling is
on duty today. He’s full of good cheer, and brings Christmas presents for Linda
and myself. Linda gets a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, and he presents me
with a bottle of Scotch. Linda quickly grabs the bottle, explaining that it’s
against prison rules to offer prisoners alcohol. If I’d been caught with a
bottle of whisky (actually I don’t drink spirits) I would have lost my job, and
possibly have been sent to a B-cat with added days. Dr Walling looks suitably
embarrassed.

Simon
(abduction of his son, mess orderly) drops in to deliver Linda’s sandwich
lunch.

While I make
her a coffee, Simon tells me he’s moving room today. His room-mate, a married
man with two children, asked him last night if he’d ever considered being
bisexual. Simon tells me that he jumped out of bed, got dressed, left the room
and demanded to be moved, as he didn’t want to be locked up with, in his words,
‘a raving faggot’.

I watch
Great Artists
on BBC 2. The subject is
Breughel, and all the little Breughels.

Fall asleep in
my chair, exhausted. It must be the combination of writing and hospital duties.
Can’t complain though, as the days are passing far more
quickly.

Prison life is
like a game of cricket; every day you discover a new way of getting out.

The doctor has
to pass as fit this morning an inmate by the name of Hal (cat burglar, six
months) before he goes up in front of the governor. Last night Hal left the
prison and walked into Boston. He dropped into one of the local pubs, had a
pint and then purchased a bottle of vodka, a bottle of rum and a six-pack of
Fosters. Hal didn’t feel like walking the six miles back, so he decided to
thumb a lift to the prison. Mr Blackman, one of our younger officers, obliged
and happily escorted Hal back, confiscated the contraband and booked him into
the segregation block. Hal was due to be released in January, but I fear it’s
now looking more like February. It turns out that he also suggested to Mr
Blackman that if he dropped him off half a mile from the prison, he could keep
the bounty. Nice try, Hal.

Among the other
inmates who will appear in front of the governor this morning is Simon
(abducting his son), but only for a warning. It appears he’s been telling
anyone who will listen that his cell-mate is ‘a raving faggot’. The governor
will order him to stop using such inflammatory language otherwise he will lose
his job as mess orderly.

I chat to the
cat burglar as he waits to see the doctor. Hal says he doesn’t care that much
what the governor decides. His partner has left him, his mother won’t speak to
him and he hasn’t seen his father in years. When he gets out, he doesn’t have
anywhere to stay overnight, and only has £37 to his name. He says he needs a
job that will earn him enough money to ensure that he doesn’t have to revert to
stealing again.

I ask him, ‘How
much is enough?’

‘Two hundred
quid,’ he replies. ‘Then I’d have a chance of finding some digs and getting a
job.’

Mr Lewis drops
into the hospital to wish Linda a happy Christmas. While I’m making him a
coffee, he complains that I’ve thrown away the hospital ashtray, so he can’t
enjoy a cigar. I reluctantly supply an old saucer. He tells me that he was
surprised by the Spring Hill decision and, looking round the hospital, says
pointedly, ‘If they suggest Hollesley Bay, don’t even consider it.’

Mary and
William turn up almost an hour late for their visit because of the snow and ice
that caused long hold-ups on the A1. My time with them is cut down to forty minutes.

It’s Mary’s
birthday, and she’s wearing the emerald that Sergio purchased for me from the
Green Mountains after he returned to Columbia.
14
I wanted to also give
her the pot I made at Wayland, but they told me it shattered in the kiln.

We chat about
her forthcoming trip to Kenya for her nephew’s wedding. She’ll be away for the
first ten days of January, but as my appeal won’t be heard until mid-February,
this isn’t a problem. She hopes to see Sir Sidney Kentridge and Godfrey Barker
before she leaves. If Godfrey signs an affidavit confirming that Mr Justice
Potts discussed me adversely at a dinner party they both attended a year before
my arrest, I could be out of here in a few weeks’ time. Will isn’t optimistic.
He feels Godfrey will feel compromised because his wife works for the parole
board.

As Godfrey has
sent me a Christmas card, I can only hope Will’s wrong.

Surely justice
and truth matter to such a man. We shall soon find out.

The
Sunday Telegraph
reports that I’ve
written a 300,000-word novel entitled
Sons
of Fortune
during the
short
time
I’ve been in prison. It might seem short to them, but it’s been 158 days for
me.

I actually
wrote the first three drafts of the novel before my conviction. I had planned
to drive from Boston (Connecticut) to Newhaven via Hartford, where the book is
set, and research the final points before Mr Justice Potts intervened. I ended
up spending the month of August not in the US, but in Belmarsh writing the
first diary.

Five inmates’
names are called over the tannoy. They are told to report to the doctor, which
means they’ve been charged and will later be up in front of the governor for
adjudication: two for smoking cannabis, one for being drunk, one for secreting
£25 in a cigarette tin, and finally Hal, who you will recall thumbed a lift
back from Boston, while in possession of a bottle of vodka, a bottle of rum and
a six-pack of Fosters. Hal did point out to me that it’s a twelve-mile round
trip to Boston and back to NSC, and it was 2 degrees below zero. I don’t think
the governor will consider these to be mitigating circumstances!

Hal loses all
privileges, and has twentyone days added to his sentence.

The governor, Mr Lewis, who has only a few days to go before retirement,
pops into the hospital to check on the end of year audit, or was it just to
enjoy a cup of coffee with Linda and a cigar during his morning break?
As he’s leaving, I ask him to tell me a story.

‘What about my
memoirs?’ he protests, but then recounts an anecdote from his time as governor
of Oxford Prison: two brothers were charged with a burglary, but the elder did
not feel his younger brother would be able to cope with a spell in jail, so he
took the rap and was sentenced to six months. As it turned out, the younger
brother couldn’t cope with being ‘on the out’ without his elder brother, so he
stole a ladder, climbed over the prison wall and broke
into
jail. No one was any the wiser until roll-call that night,
when the duty officer reported that they had one more prisoner than was on the
manifest.

The younger
brother was arrested and charged with breaking into a prison. He got three
months, and ended up sharing a cell with his brother.

Mr Lewis went
on to tell me about two prisoners who escaped from Oxford Crown Court while
handcuffed to each other. They ran down the street pursued by the police, but
when they came to a zebra crossing, one decided to cross the road while the
other kept on going. The handcuffs that bound them together collided with the
Belisha beacon at full speed, and they swung round and knocked each other out.

Today is a
nightmare for security. First there are the truly stupid inmates who abscond
sometime during the morning and then return to the prison on Boxing Day
evening. If they are also drunk, they are allowed to sleep it off, with
twenty-eight days added to their sentence. Second are the group who slip out to
Boston and arrive back with provisions and food. As long as they remain in
their rooms and cause no trouble, the officers turn a blind eye. Should they
cause any trouble, they also get twenty-eight days. This is known as ‘Nelson
time’, and occurs only at Christmas.

It must seem
madness to you, but when you have 211 inmates and only 5 officers on duty, it’s
no more than common sense. Why aren’t there more officers on duty?
Because the service is understaffed and underpaid.

The average
prison officer is paid £17,000 a year, and this year’s pay rise was 1.8 per
cent. Why not send the offenders back to a closed prison? Because they are all
already overcrowded (67,500 in Britain) and if you did, the D-cats would be
empty. Then cut down on D-cats? If you did that, you would never rehabilitate
anyone. Prisoners in a D... cat used to be released at 8 am (with the exception
of lifers) on Christmas Eve and had to return to prison before 8 pm on Boxing
Day. But Michael Howard put a stop to that when he became Home Secretary. This
little break was more for the staff than the prisoners.

Dave (murder)
is among the walking wounded, and comes to surgery doubled up with stomach
cramps. Sister gives him painkillers that contain certain opiates. She then has
to make out a separate form, which I take across to security because if Dave
were to have an MDT he would show up positive.

Sister is
especially vigilant in these cases, looking out for those prisoners who fake
the pain in order to get the drugs, especially when they know they’re about to
be tested for heroin. In Dave’s case, there is no doubt that he’s in real pain,
and any case, he’s been a model prisoner since the day he arrived at NSC. He’s
desperate to impress the parole board and be released as soon as possible.

He’s already
served twenty-one years, and his wife says she can’t wait much longer.

Despite its
being Christmas Eve, one inmate will not be able to avoid a nicking because he
has pushed his luck a little too far. During an MDT, he attempted to exchange a
tube of someone else’s urine for his while he was in the loo. It turns out that
he got this drug-free sample from another prisoner in exchange for a Mars Bar.

Sue from
accounts drops into the hospital to tell me that my private money has run out,
and that’s why my canteen account only showed £1.20 in credit. Had she let me
know a week ago, I could have asked Mary to top it up. However, Sue explains
that she is not allowed to let a prisoner know that his money is running low,
and can only inform him if he asks directly for his account balance. The reason
is that most inmates are penniless, and don’t need to be continually reminded
of that fact. Fair enough.

Doug returns
from the canteen laden with goodies, and tells me that an inmate has just been
nicked for ordering a taxi to take him on a round trip to Boston. The cab
company phoned the prison, so two officers were waiting when the inmate
returned. He was caught in possession of forty-eight cans of lager and one
bottle each of whisky, vodka and brandy. He also had six packets of fish and
chips, a melon, a carton of strawberries, a pot of cream and a box of jellied
eels.

The prisoner
begged to be placed in the segregation cell overnight in case the inmates who
had lost their ‘Christmas cheer’ thought he’d sold the goodies to someone else.
The duty officer duly obliged, but he’ll still be up in front of the governor
on Boxing Day.