Hell (27 page)

The sermon this
week is taken from Luke.

It’s the one
about the ninety-nine sheep who are safely locked up in the pen while the
shepherd goes off in search of the one that’s strayed. Malcolm faces a
congregation of over two hundred that have strayed, and most of them have absolutely
no intention of returning to the pen.

But he somehow
battles on, working assiduously on the first six rows, with
whom
he is having some success. Towards the end of the service his wife reads a
lesson, and after the blessing, Malcolm asks his congregation if they would
like to come forward and sign the pledge. At least forty prisoners rise from
their places and begin to walk forward. They are individually blessed before
signing the register.

They look to me
like the same forty who offered themselves up for salvation last week, but I am
still in no doubt that Malcolm and his wife are performing a worthwhile
mission.

12
noon
Lunch.
I settle for more beans on toast, an apple and a mug of water. I suppose I
should have stated the obvious at some point, namely that alcohol is forbidden,
which is no great loss to me as I rarely drink more than a glass of red wine in
the evening.

Association.
I run downstairs,
phonecard
in hand, thirteen units left for Mary. A long queue has already formed behind
the two payphones.
One of the disadvantages of living on the
top floor.

I turn my
attention to the large TV in the middle of the room. Several prisoners are
watching the Sunday afternoon film with Tom Hanks and
Geena
Davis. It’s the story of a women’s baseball team set up in 1942 when, because
of the outbreak of the Second World War, the men’s teams had to be disbanded.

I turn my head
every few moments but the queue doesn’t seem to diminish, so I go on watching
the film. Several prisoners join me during the next half-hour.

Del Boy
(murder) to tell me he’s somehow purloined a copy of the weekly menu for my
diary.

Fletch (murder)
wants to come to my cell at six and read something to me. I ask if he could
make it seven, as I’ll still be writing at six. ‘Suits me,’ he says, ‘I’m not
going anywhere.’
Prison
humour
.

Tony (
marijauna
only, escaped to Paris) then leans across and
asks if the identification of one of his girlfriends could be removed from
yesterday’s script. I agree and make a note of her name.

I spot Billy
(murder) and recommend the book of short stories by John
MacKenna
,
but he walks on past me without a word. I suppose by now I shouldn’t be
surprised by anything.

Dennis (GBH,
large bag of toiletries) taps me on the shoulder. He starts to tell me about the
visit of his son on his first birthday, and how he can’t wait to get out and be
with his wife and children. Join the club.

Miah
(murder) who’s the spur hair cutter – known, not
surprisingly, as Sweeny Todd – says he can fit me in at seven tomorrow evening.
I thank him, explaining that I must have my hair cut before Mary and the boys
come to visit me on Thursday. When I glance round, the queue for the phone is
down to three. I leave
Mr
Hanks and
Ms
Davis and take my place at the back.

Just as I reach
the front, another prisoner barges in front of me. As he’s a double murderer
and his right hand has HATE
tatooed
on his four
fingers, I decide not to mention that I thought I was next in line. Ten minutes
later he slams down the phone and walks away effing and blinding. I slowly dial
the Cambridge number to be reminded that I only have thirteen units left on my
card.

Mary answers.
She sounds cheerful and is full of news. The trip to Dresden went well, and while
she was abroad she felt her life was getting back to normal.
Perhaps
because the German tabloids aren’t quite that obsessed with my incarceration.
William accompanied her, and was a tower of strength, while James stayed behind
to manage the shop.

Ten units left
.

Mary tells me
that following Emma Nicholson’s letter the police are hinting that they may not
even carry out an inquiry. I explain that despite this I’ve been reassigned to
C-cat status, and would like my D-cat back as quickly as possible. She assures
me that Ramona and James are working on it.

Seven units left
.

I tell her how
many letters I have been receiving every day, and she counters by saying that
she’s getting so many at home and in London that there just aren’t enough hours
to answer them all. She’s designed an
allpurpose
reply so that she can get on with her own work.

Five units left
.

Mary adds that
not only are my friends remaining constant, but she’s had a dozen offers to
join them on their yachts or in their holiday homes, and one even on safari.
I’ve always known we had foul-weather friends, but both of us have been touched
by the public’s overwhelming support.

Three units left
.

I let her know
that I’ve already written over forty thousand words of the diary, but can’t be
sure what my regular readers will make of it. Mary says she’s looking forward
to reading an early draft, and will give me a candid view. She is incapable of
doing anything else.

One unit left
.

We begin our
goodbyes, and she reminds me I will be seeing her and the boys on Thursday,
something to look forward to.

‘Do you know
how much I…’

All units used up
. I hear a click, and
the phone goes dead.

As I walk away,
I hear the words ‘Lock-up’ bellowed out from just behind me.
As
reliable as Big Ben, if not as melodious.
It has to be five o’clock.

Supper.
I go down to the hotplate and have my name ticked
off by Paul – prisoners do a seven-day week with no holidays or bank holidays –
and pick up a Thermos flask of hot water and a chocolate ice cream. Back in my
cell I make a Cup a Soup (mushroom, 22p), eat another Mars Bar (31p), and enjoy
a chocolate ice-cream (prison rations).

I’m washing my
plastic plate in the basin when there’s a knock on the door. The cell door is
pulled open by an officer to reveal the massive frame of Fletch standing in the
doorway. I had quite forgotten he was coming to read something to me.

I smile.
‘Welcome,’ I say, like the spider to the fly. The first thing I notice is that
he’s clutching a small green notebook, not unlike the type we used to write our
essays in at school. After a brief chat about which prison I’m likely to be
sent to, and his opinion of
Mr
Leader, the Deputy
Governor, he turns to the real purpose of his visit.

‘I wonder if I
might be allowed to read something to you?’ he asks.

‘Of course,’ I
reply, not sure if it’s to be an essay, a poem, or even the first chapter of a
novel. I settle on the bed while Fletch sits in the plastic chair (prisoners
are only allowed one chair per cell). He places the little lined book on my
desk, opens it at the first page, and begins to read.

If I had the
descriptive powers of Greene and the narrative drive of Hemingway, I still
could not do justice to the emotions I went through during the next twenty
minutes; revulsion, anger, sympathy, incredulity, and finally inadequacy.
Fletch turns another page, tears welling up in his eyes, as he forces himself
to resurrect the demons of his past. By the time he comes to the last page,
this giant of a man is a quivering wreck, and of all the emotions I can summon
up to express my true feelings, anger prevails. When Fletch closes the little
green book, we both remain silent for some time.

Once I’m calm
enough to speak, I thank him for the confidence he has shown in allowing me to
share such a terrible secret.

‘I’ve never
allowed anyone in
Belmarsh
to read this,’ he says,
tapping the little green book. ‘But perhaps now you can appreciate why I won’t
be appealing against my sentence. I don’t need the whole world to know what
I’ve been through,’ he adds in a whisper, ‘so it will go with me to my grave.’
I nod my understanding and promise to keep his confidence.

I can’t sleep.
What Fletch has read to me could not have been made up. It’s so dreadful that
it has to be true. I sleep for a few minutes and then wake again. Fletch has
tried to put the past behind him by devoting his time and energy to being a
Listener, helping others, by sharing his room with a bullied prisoner, a drug
addict, or someone likely to be a victim of sexual abuse.

I fall asleep.
I wake again.
It’s
pitch black outside my little cell
window and I begin to feel that Fletch could give an even greater service if
his story were more widely known, and the truth exposed. Then people like me
who have led such naive and sheltered lives could surely have the blinkers
lifted from their eyes.

I decide as
soon as they let me out of my cell, that I will tell him that I’ve changed my
mind. I’m going to suggest that he could do far more good by revealing what
actually happened to him than by remaining silent.

In all, I think
I’ve woken five or six times during the night, my thoughts always returning to
Fletch. But one comment he made above all others burns in my mind,
Fifty per cent of prisoners in
Belmarsh
can tell you variations of the same story.
Jeffrey, my case is not unique
.

I decide I must
use whatever persuasive powers I possess to get him to agree to publish,
without reservation, everything in that little green book.

I’ve spent a
sleepless night. I rise early and write for two hours. When I’ve finished, I
pace around my cell, aware that if only I had held onto
Fletch’s
little green notebook I could have spent the time considering his words in
greater detail.

I know I’ve
eaten a bowl of Corn Pops from my Variety pack, because I can see the little
empty box in the waste-paper bin, but I can’t remember when. I go on pacing.

An officer
opens the cell door. I rush down to the ground floor, only to discover that
Fletch is always let out at eight so that he can go straight to the workshops
and have everything set up and ready before the other prisoners arrive. Because
of the length of his sentence, it’s a real job for him. He’s the works manager,
and can earn up to forty pounds a week. I could go along to the workshops, but
with seventy or eighty other prisoners hanging around, I wouldn’t be able to
hold a private conversation with him. Tony tells me Fletch will be back for
dinner at twelve, when he’ll have an hour off before returning to the workshops
at one. I’ll have to wait.

When I return
to my cell, I find a letter has been pushed under my door. It’s from Billy
Little
(murder). He apologizes for being offhand with me
during Association the previous evening. August is always a bad month for him,
he explains, and he’s not very good company for a number of reasons:

I last saw my
son in August 1998, my
favourite
gran died in
August,
the heinous act of murder that I committed took
place on August 22, 1998. As you can imagine, I have a lot on my mind.

I can’t begin
to imagine, which I admit when I reply to his letter. He continues…

During this
period, I tend to spend a long time inside myself. This could give an
impression to those who don’t know me of being ignorant and unapproachable. For
this I
apologise
.

By this time
tomorrow, you’ll be sunning it up by the pool, or that’s how Springhill will
feel in comparison to
Hellmarsh
. In a way, you’ve
been lucky to have spent only a short period here, a period in which you’ve
brought the normal inertia of prison to life.

Over the last
three weeks you will have felt the resentment of other prisoners who feel
strongly that equality should be
practised
even in
prisons. You no doubt recall the Gilbert and Sullivan quote from
The Gondoliers
– when everybody is
somebody, then nobody is anybody.

I think what
I’m trying to say is that your status, friendliness and willingness to help and
advise
others has not gone unnoticed by those who are
destined to spend a great deal longer incarcerated.

For this I
thank you, and for your inspiration to press me to think more seriously about
my writing. I would like to take you up on your offer to keep in touch, and in
particular to check over my first novel.

I’ll be
resident here for another month or two, or three, before they move me onto a
first stage lifer main
centre
[
Billy has been at
Belmarsh
for two years and
seven months
] I’ll let you know my address once I’ve settled. My number is
at the bottom of this letter.

You are Primus
Inter Pares Yours, Billy (BX7974)

I sit down at
my table and reply immediately.

12 noon
When
Fletch arrives back from the workshops, he finds me waiting by his cell door.

He steps inside
and invites me to join him.
*
I ask if I might be allowed to borrow his
notebook so that I can consider more carefully the piece he read to me the
previous evening.

He hesitates
for a moment, then goes to a shelf above his bed, burrows around and extracts
the little green notebook. He hands it over without comment.