Hell (26 page)

Once again, I
use the time to check the facts that William told me in the workshop.

He corrects a
couple of errors on the price of cocaine and once again explains how pure
heroin is
diluted/cut
before becoming a joey or bags.
When he has completed this explanation, I ask him what he intends to do when
he’s released in twelve weeks’ time.

‘Salvage,’ he
says.

‘Salvage?’
I repeat, thinking this must have something to do
with shipping.

‘Yes, I’m going
to buy old cars, patch them up, see that they get their MOT certificate and
then sell them on the estates round here.’

‘Can you make
an honest living doing that?’ I ask.

‘I hope so,
Jeffrey,’ he says, ‘because I’m getting too old [thirty-five] for this game. In
any case, there’s enough of my family costing the government a thousand pounds
a week without me adding to the taxpayers’ burden.

Mind you,’ he
adds, ‘if they had let me out last week I might have ended up murdering
someone.’ I stop in my tracks and Paul and Del Boy almost collide into the back
of me.

‘My brother’s
just told me’ – he points to the other side of the yard where a tall,
darkhaired
young man is leaning up against the fence –
‘that my sister
Brinie
was kidnapped last week and
repeatedly raped, and as most of the family are in jail, there’s not a lot we
can do about it.’ I’m speechless. ‘The bastard’s been arrested, so we must hope
that the judge gets it right this time.’ He pauses.

‘But for his
sake let’s hope he doesn’t end up in the same prison as one of my brothers.

Mind you,’ he
adds, ‘don’t bet on that, because the odds are quite short.’

As we turn the
corner, he points up to a tower block in the distance. ‘That’s where another of
my brothers, Patrick, fell to his death.’ (Have you noticed that
Mrs
Keane has named all her sons after saints or kings?)

‘You’ll
remember
,
that was the occasion when the whole family
attended his funeral along with half the Metropolitan Police.’ He pauses.
‘They’re now saying he might have been pushed. I’ll find out more as soon as I
get out of
here,
and if he was…’ What hope has this
man of remaining on the outside? I ask myself. I found out a few months later
when I met up with yet another brother.
*

When William
slips off to rejoin his brother, I notice that Del Boy and Paul have been
replaced by Tony and David. David (
fiftyfive
, in
possession of a gun) is overweight, out of shape and finding it difficult to
keep up with me. The next person to join me is a young, bright, full-of-life
West Indian, whose story I will not repeat, as it is the mirror image of Peter
Fabri’s
. He too has no intention of even going through an
amber light once they release him from
Belmarsh
.
However, he admits that he’s learnt a lot more about crime than he knew before
he came into prison. He’s also been introduced to drugs in the cell he shares
with two other inmates.

‘I’m clean,
man,’ he says rubbing his hands together. ‘But one of the guys in my cell who’s
due out next week has tried heroin for the first time. He’s hooked now, man, I
tell you he’s hooked.’

Are you still paying attention, Home
Secretary?

I pass the
tearaways
, who haven’t moved an inch for the past forty
minutes and have to satisfy themselves with malevolent stares.

I feel confident
that they aren’t going to risk anything this time.

At four
o’clock, we’re called back in block by block. Several prisoners who are leaving
next week including Peter (offered forty thousand to murder a witness),
Denzil
(come and see me when I’m a star), and Liam (do I
need a barrister or should I represent myself?) come across to shake hands and
wish me luck. I pray that they never see the inside of
Belmarsh
again.

When I arrive
back in my cell there’s another stack of letters waiting for me on my bed,
three stacks to be accurate. I start reading.

It’s turned out
to be most helpful that the censor has to open every one. I’m particularly
touched by a letter Freddie Forsyth sent to the
Daily Telegraph
about the length of my sentence, and the money I’ve
raised for charity. The editor did not publish it.

Last call for supper.
Spur one is always let out first and
called back last, because most of the inmates are lifers who will spend more
time inside than anyone else on the block.

It’s
prison logic and works because the turnover on the
other three spurs is between 10 per cent and 20 per cent a week, so no one
thinks of complaining.

I stroll down
to the hotplate, but only so that my name can be ticked off, pick up a Thermos
of hot water and return to my cell. I make myself a Cup a Soup (tomato, 22p)
and eat a Mars Bar (31p) and a prison apple, as I continue to read today’s
letters.

I pick up
Colin’s critique of Frank McCourt’s
‘
Tis
. The improvement is marked since I read his first effort.
He has now sorted out how much of the story he should reveal before he offers
his critical opinion. This is obviously a man who once you tell him something
is able to respond immediately. I then turn my attention to his poem.

Education
Belmarsh
Open the labyrinths of time blow out the cobwebs and past life of crime
full of knowledge held within the mind is truly a wonderful thing It can be
educated, it can be evolved without education can the problems be solved?

While locked
away, there is plenty to see they entrap the body but your mind is still free
to wonder the universe and grow like a tree So go to the library and pick up a
book watch your mind grow while other cons look It’s not down to them to make
you move so go ahead read and your mind will improve
Colin
Kitto
, May 2001

House Block 1, HMP
Belmarsh
This poem reveals a lot about the man, where he’s going, and where he’s
come from.

I feel sure
that before he completes his sentence, he will have that degree from Ruskin
College. And don’t forget, this is a man who couldn’t read or write before he
came into prison.

There is a
polite knock on the door and I look up to see one of the officers peering
through my little oblong window. He asks if I would be willing to sign
autographs for his two daughters, Joanna and Stephanie. ‘They both enjoy your
books,’ he explains, before adding, ‘though I must admit I’ve never read one.’

He doesn’t
unlock the cell door, just pushes two pieces of paper underneath. This puzzles
me. I later learn that an officer cannot unlock a cell door if he is not on
duty.

Once he has
retrieved them, he adds, ‘I’ll be off for the first part of next week, so if I
don’t see you again, good luck with your appeal.’

I begin reading
a book of short stories that had been left on a table by the TV on the ground
floor. It’s titled
The Fallen
and the
author, John
MacKenna
, is someone I’ve not read
before. He’s no storyteller, as so often the Irish are, but oh, don’t I wish I
could write as lyrically as he does.

I finish
reading John
MacKenna
in one sitting (on the end of
the bed) – what assured, confident prose, with an intimate feel for his
countrymen and his country. I conclude that God gave the Irish the gift of
language and threw in some potatoes as an afterthought.

Another good night’s sleep.

Yesterday I
wrote for six hours, three sessions of two, read for three – including my
letters – and slept for eight. Out there where you are, five hours’ sleep was
always enough.

In truth, the
writing is an attempt to fill the day and night with nonstop activity. I feel
sorry for the prisoners who have to occupy those same hours and cannot read or
write.

Breakfast.
Egg and beans on toast, two mornings in a row. I
don’t grumble. I’ve always liked egg and beans.

I hear the
officer on duty holler up from his desk, ‘RCs.’

I press the
buzzer which switches on a red light outside my door – known as room service –
to indicate that I wish to attend chapel. No one comes to unlock the door.

When they yell
a second time, I press the buzzer again, but still no one responds. After they
call a third time, I start banging on my door, but to no avail. Although I am
not a Roman Catholic, after William Keane’s recommendation I would have liked
to hear Father Kevin preach.

Mr
Cousins finally appears to explain that as I am not a
Roman
Catholic,
the officer on duty assumed my name
had been put on the wrong list, and transferred me back to C of E.

I curse under
my breath as I don’t want to be put on report. A curse for me is damn or blast.

‘You can always
go next week,’ he says.

‘Just be sure
you give us enough notice.’

‘I was rather
hoping that I won’t be with you next week,’ I tell him.

He smiles. I
can see he accepts that his colleague has made a mistake, so I decide this
might be a good opportunity to ask about the drug problem as seen from the
other side of the iron barrier. To my surprise
Mr
Cousins is frank – almost enthusiastic – about passing on his views.

Mr
Cousins doesn’t try to pretend that there isn’t a drug
problem in prisons. Only a fool would. He also admits that because of the
casual way officers have to conduct their searches, it’s not that difficult to
transfer drugs from spur to spur, block to block and even across a table during
family visits.

‘Not many
officers,’ he tells me, ‘would relish the idea of having to use rubber gloves
to search up prisoners’ backsides three or four times a day. And even if we did
go to that extreme, the inmates would simply swallow the drugs, which would
only cause even more problems. But,’ he continues, ‘we still do everything in
our power to prevent and cure, and we’ve even had a few successes.’ He pauses.
‘But not that many.’

When a prisoner
enters
Belmarsh
he has an MDT. This takes the form of
a urine sample which is all very well until it comes to heroin, a substance
that can be flushed through the body within twenty-four hours.

Most other
drugs leave some signs in the blood or urine for at least four weeks. On the
day they enter prison, 70 per cent of inmates show positive signs of being on
drugs, and even with the twenty-four-hour proviso, 20 per cent indicate of
heroin. If
Mr
Cousins had revealed these figures to
me only three weeks ago, he would have left me staggered by the enormity of the
problem. Already I have come to accept such revelations as part of everyday
prison life.

‘Our biggest
success rate,’ continues
Mr
Cousins, ‘is among those
prisoners coming up for parole, because towards the end of their sentence, they
have to report regularly to the Voluntary Drug Testing Centre – there’s one in
every prison – to prove they are no longer dependent on drugs, which will be
entered on their report, and can play a part in shortening their sentence. What
we don’t know,’ he adds, ‘is how many of them go straight back on drugs the
moment they’re released. But in recent years we’ve taken a more positive step
to stamp out the problem.

In 1994 we set
up a Dedicated Search Team, known as the ghost-busters, who can move in at any
time without warning and search individual cells, even whole spurs or blocks.
This team of officers was specifically formed following the IRA escape from
Whitemoor
Prison in ‘93, but after all the terrorists were
sent back to Ulster following the Good Friday Agreement, the unit switched
their concentration from terrorism to the misuse of illegal substances. They’ve
had remarkable success in uncovering large amounts of drugs and charging
offenders.

But,’ he reflects,
‘I have to admit the percentage of drug takers still hasn’t fallen, and I speak
as someone who was once a member of the DST. Mind you,’ he adds, ‘it’s just
possible that standing still is in itself an achievement.’

I hear the
first bellow from downstairs for C of E, and thank
Mr
Cousins for his tutorial and his
candour
.

I report to the
middle floor and join those prisoners who wish to attend the morning service.
We line up and are put through the usual search before being escorted to the
chapel. Malcolm (Salvation Army officer) is surprised to see me, as I had told
him yesterday that I intended to go and hear Father Kevin preach. Before I take
my seat in the second row, I give him the
precised
version of how I ended up back in his flock.

No backing
group this week, just taped music, which makes Malcolm’s job all the more
difficult, especially when it comes to stopping the chattering in the back six
rows.

My eyes settle
on a couple of Lebanese drug dealers sitting in the far corner at the back.

They are deep
in conversation. I know that they’re from different spurs, so they obviously
use this weekly get together to exchange information on their clients. Every
time I turn to observe them, their heads are bowed, but not in prayer.