Hell (23 page)

‘The most
outrageous transfer I’ve ever seen was a twenty-seven-stone con who hid the
drugs under the folds of his skin, because he knew no officer would want to
check.’

‘But they must
have machines to do the checking for them?’

‘Yes, they do,
in fact vast sums have been spent on the most sophisticated machinery, but they
only identify razor blades, guns, knives, even ammunition, but not organic
substances. For that, they have to rely on dogs, and a nappy full of urine will
put even the keenest bloodhound off the scent.’

‘So visits are
the most common way of bringing in drugs?’

‘Yes, but don’t
assume that lawyers, priests or prison officers are above being carriers,
because when they turn up for legal and religious visits, or in the case of
officers, for work, they are rarely searched. In some cases lawyers are paid
their fees from drugs delivered to their clients. And when it comes to letters,
if they’re legal documents, the envelope has to be opened in front of you, and
the screws are not allowed to read the contents.

And while
you’re standing in front of a screw, he’s less likely to check under the stamps
or the side flaps. By the way, there’s a legal shop in Fleet Street that is
innocently supplying envelopes with the words LEGAL

DOCUMENT,
Strictly Private and Confidential
printed
on the top left-hand corner.

Several drug
dealers have a monthly supply of such envelopes, and the only time they ever
see a court is when they are standing in the dock.’

‘You also
mentioned priests?’

‘Yes, I knew a
Sikh
giani
[priest] at
Gartree
who used to give his blessing once a week in a prisoner’s cell from where he
supplied the entire Sikh community with drugs.’

‘How did he manage
that?’

‘They were
secreted in his turban. Did you know that a turban can be eighteen feet of
material? You can tuck an awful lot of drugs in there.’ William pauses. ‘Though
in his case, one of his
flock
grassed on him, and he
ended up doing a seven-year bird.’

‘And prison
officers?’

‘Screws are
paid around three hundred pounds a week, and can pick up another thirteen
pounds
an hour
overtime. Think about it. A half-dozen
joeys of heroin and they can double their wages. I knew a member of the kitchen
staff at my last prison
who
brought the stuff in once
a week in his backpack.’

‘But he would
have been liable to a random search at any time?’

‘True,’ William
replied, ‘and they did regularly search his backpack, but not the shoulder
straps.’

‘But if they get
caught?’

‘They end up on
the other side of the bars for a long stretch. We’ve got a couple in here right
now, but they’ll shift them out to D-cats before it becomes common knowledge.’
He pauses.
‘For their own safety.
But the
championship,’ says William, like any good storyteller holding the best until
last, ‘goes to Harry, the amateur referee from Devon.’ By now, William has a
captive audience, as all the workers on our table have stopped depositing their
wares into little plastic bags as they hang on his every word. ‘Harry,’
continues William, ‘used to visit his local prison once a week to referee a
football match. His contact was the goalkeeper, and at the end of each game,
both men would return to the changing room, take off their boots and put on trainers.
They would then leave carrying the other person’s boots. There was enough
heroin
packed into the referee’s hollow studs for him to buy
a country cottage after only a couple of seasons. And remember, every match has
to be played at home. There are no away fixtures for prisoners. However, the
silly man got greedy and started filling up the football as well. He’s
currently serving a
tenyear
sentence in Bristol.’

‘So where does
the dealer get his supplies from?’ I ask William as the hands of the clock edge
nearer and nearer towards twelve, and I am fearful we may never meet again.

‘They’re picked
up for him by mules.’

‘Mules?’

‘The dealer
often recruits university students who are already hooked – probably by him.
He’ll then send them on an
allexpenses
-paid holiday
to Thailand, Pakistan or even Colombia and give them an extra thousand pounds
if they can smuggle a kilo of heroin through customs.’

‘How big is a
kilo?’

‘A bag of sugar.’

‘And what’s it
worth?’

‘The dealer
passes on that kilo for around £28,000–£35,000 to sellers, known as soldiers.
The soldiers then add baking powder and brick dust until they have four kilos,
which they sell on in grams or
joeys*
for forty pounds a time to their
customers. A top soldier can make a profit of seventy to a hundred thousand
pounds a month. And don’t forget, Jeff,
it’s
cash, so
they won’t end up paying any tax, and with that kind of profit there are a lot
of punters out there willing to take the risk. The heroin on sale at King’s
Cross or Piccadilly,’ William continues, ‘will usually be about four to seven
per cent pure.

The heroin that
the mule brings back from an all-expenses-paid holiday could be as high as 92
per cent pure. By the way,’ he adds, ‘if the soldiers didn’t dilute their wares
– cut the smack – they’d kill off most of their customers within a week.’

‘How many
heroin addicts are there in this country?’ I ask.

‘Around a
quarter of a million,’ William replies, ‘so it’s big business.’

‘And how many
of those…’

A buzzer goes to
alert the prison staff that the work period is over, and in a few moments we
will be escorted back to our cells.

William says,
‘It’s nice to have met you, Jeffrey. Give my regards to your wife – a truly
remarkable woman. Sorry about the judge.

Strange that he
preferred to believe the word of someone who admitted in court to being a
thief.
But whatever you do, keep writing the books, because
however long you live, there’s always going to be a Keane in jail.’

William offers
me one final piece of advice before we part. ‘I know you’ve been attending
chapel on Sundays, but try the RCs this week. Father Kevin preaches a fine
sermon, and you’ll like him.’

I walk back to
my cell, delighted to have missed education, having spent two hours being
educated.

On the route
march back to my cell I’m joined by Ali (breach of trust, stole £28,000 from
his employer, gave it all back), who has also received his movement order. He
will be going to Springhill on Monday, a D-cat. He asks where I’m heading.

‘I can’t be
sure,’ I tell him. ‘I’m down for the Isle of Wight sometime next week, but I’ve
appealed against the move.’

‘Can’t blame you.
By the way, did you notice how peaceful
the workshop was this afternoon?’ Ali asks.

‘I didn’t see
any difference from the last time I was there.’

‘No, the whole
atmosphere changed the moment you walked into the room. The prison officers and
even the inmates stop swearing, and a lot more work gets done.’

‘I can’t
believe that.’

‘Oh yes,’ says
Ali, ‘they all know you’re writing a book and you might mention them by name.’

‘Not yours,’ I
remind him, ‘you’re still referred to as Ali. You’re only the second person who
wants their identity kept a secret.’

Once we reach
the apex that divides Blocks One and Two, we go our separate ways. I wish him
well.

As soon as I’m
back in my cell, I grab a
McVitie’s
biscuit and pour
out my last mug of water, leaving only a dribble in the bottom of the bottle.
I’m about to discover if Del Boy is the man.

I turn on the
radio. England
are
all out for 185. I drown my sorrows
in the last cup of water before starting on what I expect to be an extended
writing session. I’m fearful of forgetting even a line of William Keane’s
monologue.

Supper.
Vegetable pie and beans.
I
turn the radio back on to follow the cricket. Australia
are
46 without loss, chasing a total of 185.

Shall I
continue writing, or be a masochist? I decide to go on listening for a few more
minutes In the next over, Slater is bowled, and by the time the cell door is
opened for Association two hours later, Australia are 105 for 7, with only
Gilchrist among the recognized batsmen still left at the crease.

Association.
I go in search of Del Boy like a helpless
addict desperate for a fix. I find him sitting on his bed, head bowed, looking
mournful. He bends down and slowly pulls out from under his bed a large
brown-paper bag, and like a conjuror, produces three bottles of Highland Spring
and two packets of
McVitie’s
chocolate – I repeat,
chocolate – biscuits. He is, unquestionably, the man.

I cuddle him.
‘Get off me,’ he says pushing me away. ‘If anyone saw you doing that, I’d never
be able to show my face in the East End again.’

I laugh, thank
him, and carry off his spoils to my cell.

I pour myself a
mug of water and am munching a chocolate biscuit when there’s a knock on the
cell door. I look up to see my next-door
neighbour
,
Richard, standing in the doorway. I feel his eyes boring into me.

‘The
fuckin
’
Mirror
,’
he says almost in a shout, ‘have been round to our
fuckin
’
house and are pestering my
fuckin
’ mum.’

‘I’m sorry to
hear that,’ I say ‘
But
why are they doing that?’

‘Just because
I’m in the next
fuckin
’ cell to you,’ he says
plaintively. I nod my understanding. ‘They say you’re going to describe me in
your
fuckin
’ book as a vicious criminal and they fear
for your
fuckin
’ safety. Do you think I’m
fuckin
’ vicious?’

‘You’ve given
me no reason to believe so,’ I reply.

‘Well, now
they’re threatening my
fuckin
’ mum, telling her that
if she doesn’t supply a
fuckin
’ photo of me, they’ll
make it worse.’

‘How?’
I asked.

‘By telling
their
fuckin
’ readers what I did.’

‘I’m afraid you
must phone your mother and explain to her that they’ll do that in any case. By
the way, what are you in for?’

‘Murder,’ he
replies. ‘But it wasn’t my
fuckin
’ fault.’

‘Why, what happened?’

‘I was out
drinking with the boys at my
fuckin
’ local, and when
we left the
fuckin
’ pub we came face to face with a
bunch of
fuckin
’ Aussie backpackers who accused us of
stealing their
fuckin
’ wallets. I promise you, Jeff,
I’d never seen the
fuckin
’ bastards before in my
life.’

‘So what
happened next?’

‘Well, one of ‘
em
had a
fuckin
’ knife, and when
my mate punched him, he dropped the
fuckin
’ thing on
the pavement. I grabbed it and when another of them came for me, I
fuckin
’ stabbed him. It was only
fuckin
’
selfdefence
.’

‘And he died
from one stab?’

‘Not exactly.’
He hesitates. ‘The coroner said there were
seven stab wounds, but I was so
fuckin
’ tanked up
that I can’t remember a
fuckin
’ thing about it.’ He
pauses. ‘So make sure you tell
your
fuckin
’ readers that I’m not a vicious criminal.’
*

Once Richard
returns to his cell, I go back over William Keane’s words, before turning to
the latest round of letters, still running at over a hundred a day. When I’ve
finished them, I start reading a new book,
The
Day after Tomorrow
, recommended by Del Boy – somewhat ironic. It’s over
seven hundred pages, a length that would normally put me off, but not in my
present circumstances. I’ve only read a few pages, when there’s a knock on the
cell door. It’s Paul (credit-card fraud).

They’re
transferring him tomorrow morning back to the drug-rehab
centre
in Norfolk, so we may never meet again. He shakes hands as if we were business
associates, and then leaves without another word.

I place my head
on a pillow that no longer feels rock-hard, and reflect on the day. I can’t
help thinking that hurling red
balls at Australians is
,
on balance, preferable to sticking knives into them.

Silent night.
Woken by the Alsatians at 6
am.

Should have been up in any case.
Write for two hours.

Breakfast.
Rice
Krispies
,
long-life milk and an orange.

Avoid the
workshop. It’s not compulsory to do more than three sessions a week. Continue
writing.

12 noon
Turn on cricket to hear CMJ
telling me that Australia are all out for 190, giving them a lead of only five
runs on the first innings.

England
are
still in with a fighting chance.

Lunch.
The rule for lunch and supper – called dinner and tea
– is that you fill in a meal slip the day before and drop it in a plastic box
on the ground floor. The menus for the week are posted on a board so you can
always select in advance. If you fail to fill in the slip – as I regularly do –
you’re automatically given ‘A’. ‘A’ is always the vegetarian option, ‘B’ today
is pan-fried fish – that’s spent more time swimming in oil than the sea, ‘C’ is
steak and kidney pie – you can’t see inside it, so avoid at all costs.
Puddings: semolina or an apple. Perhaps this is the time to remind you that
each prisoner has £1.27 spent on them for
three meals a day.