Hell (30 page)

The room is so
packed that you can’t move more than a few feet without bumping into someone.
There are two running machines, two rowing machines and two step machines, in
which the younger prisoners show scant interest. I do a six-minute warm-up on
the running machine at five miles an hour, which affords me an excellent view of
what’s going on in the
centre
of the room. The
fortyseven
fit young men are pumping weights, not a pretty
sight, especially as most of them are simply on an ego trip to establish their
status among the other prisoners on the block. I wonder how many of them have
worked out that Fletch, Tony, Billy and Del Boy carry the most influence on our
spur, and not one of them would be able to locate the gym.

Once I’ve
completed 2,000
metres
on the rower in nine minutes,
I move on to some light weight-training, before doing another ten minutes on
the running machine at eight miles an hour. While I’m running, I begin to
notice that many of the lifers have a poor posture. Their backs are not
straight, and they swing their shoulders when lifting heavy weights rather than
use their arm muscles properly. The two officers in charge can’t do much more
than keep an eye on what’s going on in both rooms. It would be far more
sensible to have three sessions of gym each day, with fewer bodies present,
then
the coach would be able to
fulfil
a more worthwhile role than just acting as a babysitter. I put this suggestion
to one of the officers, and once again they fall back on ‘staff shortages’.

After ten
minutes on the running machine, I return to the weights before ending on the step
machine. When the officer bellows out, ‘Last five minutes,’ I move on to
stretching exercises and complete in one hour exactly the same
programme
as I would have gone through in the basement gym
of my London flat. The only difference is that there, there wouldn’t be a
murderer in sight.

Back in the
changing room, I feel I’ve done well until Dennis (former Arsenal and
Brentford
player) joins me and reports that he’s scored six
goals. I congratulate him, and ask him if it’s true that he’s been selected to captain
Belmarsh
for the annual fixture against Holloway?
This brings far more laughter and cheers than it deserves, although half the
prisoners immediately volunteer to play in goal.

‘No, thank
you,’ says Dennis. ‘I’ve got enough women problems as it is.’

‘But you told
me that you’d had a good visit on Sunday when your wife and child came to see
you?’

‘One of my
wives,’ corrects Dennis.
‘And one of my children.’

‘How many
others do you have?’ I ask.

‘Three of
both,’ he admits.

‘But that’s
bigamy,’ I say.
‘Or possibly
trigamy
.’

‘Get a life,
Jeff,
I’m not married to any of them. There are no fathers
hanging around with shotguns nowadays. They’re all partners, not wives. Like a
company chairman, I have several shareholders. Thank God I’m banged up in here
at the moment,’ he adds, ‘because if they called an AGM I wouldn’t want to have
to explain why they won’t be getting a dividend this year.’

It’s clear that
none of the other prisoners listening to this conversation consider it at all
unusual, let alone reprehensible. Heaven knows what Britain will be like in
fifty years’ time if everyone has three ‘wives’ but doesn’t bother to actually
marry any of them.

When I return
to my cell, I find my canteen order waiting for me on the bed. I drink mug
after mug of water, followed by two
KitKats
, before
going off to have a shower.

Association.
My first assignment is to return a bottle of
water to Del Boy (Highland Spring) before searching out Tony to hand over a
Mars Bar, followed by Colin (twelve first-class stamps). Having cleared my
debts (bubbles) – no one charges me double bubble – I join the other prisoners
seated around the television. They’re watching the World Athletics
Championships. An officer called
Mr
Hughes brings me
up to date on progress so far. After the first day of the decathlon,
Macey
is leading by one point, and is preparing for his
heat in the 110
metre
hurdles, which is the first
event of the second day. I tell
Mr
Hughes that
Edmonton was where I had originally planned to spend my summer holiday.

‘I see that
there are a lot of empty seats in the stands,’ says
Mr
Hughes, ‘but I find it hard to believe that they’re all now in prison.’

Just as
Macey
goes to his blocks, I spot Joseph standing in the
corner – a man who prefers the
centre
of the room. I
leave the World Athletics Championships for a moment to join him.

‘Any news of your son?’
I ask.

‘No.’ He looks
surprised that I’ve found out about his problem. ‘I’ve phoned his mother, who
says that he’s under arrest and she’s trying to get in touch with the British
Consul. They’ve got him banged up in a local jail. What are prisons like in
Cyprus?’ he asks.

‘I’ve no idea,’
I tell him. ‘Until they sent me to
Belmarsh
, I didn’t
know what they were like in England. Just be thankful it’s not Turkey. What’s
he been charged with?’

‘Nothing.
They found him asleep in a house where some locals
had been smoking cannabis, but they’ve warned him he could end up with a
seven-year sentence.’

‘Not if he was
asleep, surely,’ I suggest.

‘How old is
he?’

‘Eighteen, and
what makes it worse, while I’m stuck in here I can’t do anything about it.

My wife says
she’ll phone the Governor the moment she hears anything.’

‘Good luck,’ I
say, and return to the athletics.

Mr
Hughes tells me I missed
Macey
.
He came second in his heat, in a new personal best. ‘You can’t ask for more
than a PB from any athlete,’ says Roger Black, the BBC commentator, and adds,
‘Stay with us, because it’s going to be an exciting day here in Edmonton.’

‘Lock-up,’
shouts the officer behind the desk at the other end of the room.

I politely
point out to the officer that Roger Black has told us we must stay with him.

‘
Mr
Black is there, and I’m here,’ comes back the immediate
reply, ‘so it’s lock-up, Archer.’

Supper.
I am now in possession of two tins of Prince’s ham
(49p), so I take one down to the hotplate to have it opened. Tony adds two
carefully selected potatoes, which makes a veritable feast when accompanied by
a mug of blackcurrant juice.

After supper I
return to work on my script, when suddenly the door is opened by an officer I
have never seen before.

‘Good evening,’
he says. ‘I know you’ll be off soon, so I wonder if you’d be kind enough to
sign this book for my wife. The bookshop told me that it was your latest.’

‘I would be
happy to do so,’ I tell him, ‘but it’s not mine. It’s been written by Geoffrey
Archer. I spell my name with a J. It’s a problem we’ve both had for years.’

He looks a
little surprised, and then says, ‘I’ll take it back and get it changed. See you
at the same time tomorrow.’

Once I’ve
finished today’s script, I read three letters Alison has handed over to Tony
Morton-Hooper. One of them is from Victoria
Barnsley
,
the Chairman of my publisher, HarperCollins, saying that she is looking forward
to reading
In the Lap of the Gods
,
and goes on to let me know that Adrian Bourne, who has taken care of me since
Eddie Bell, the former Chairman, left the company, will be taking early
retirement. I’ll miss them both as they have played such an important role in
my publishing career.

The second
letter is from my young researcher, Johann
Hari
, to
tell me that he’s nearly ready to go over his notes for
In the Lap of the Gods
.*
Though he points out that he still
prefers the original title
Serendipity
.

The last letter
is from Stephan Shakespeare, who was my chief of staff when I stood as
Conservative candidate for Mayor of London. His loyalty since the day I
resigned brings to mind that wonderful poem by Kipling, ‘The Thousandth Man’.

Among the many
views Stephan expresses with confidence is that Iain Duncan Smith will win the
election for Leader of the Conservative Party by a mile.

We won’t have
to wait much longer to find out if he’s right.

This will be my
last full day at
Belmarsh
. I mustn’t make it too
obvious, otherwise the press will be waiting outside the gate, and then
accompany us all the way to Norfolk. I sit down at my desk and write for two
hours.

Breakfast.
Shreddies
, UHT milk, and an apple.
I empty the box of
Shreddies
, just enough for two helpings.

I am standing
in my gym kit, ready for my final session, when
Ms
Williamson unlocks my cell door and asks if I’m prepared to do another
creative-writing class.

‘When do you
have it planned for?’ I ask, not wanting her to know that this is my last day,
and I’ve somehow managed to get myself on the gym
rota
.

She looks at
her watch. ‘In about half an hour,’ she replies.

I curse under
my breath, change out of my gym kit into slacks and a rather becoming Tiger
T-shirt which Will packed for me the day I was sentenced. On my way to the
classroom, I pass Joseph at the pool table.

He’s
potting
everything in sight, and looking rather pleased
with himself.

‘Any more news about Justin?’
I enquire.

He smiles.
‘They’ve deported him.’ He glances at his watch. ‘He should be landing at
Heathrow in about an hour.’ He pots a red. ‘His mother will be there to meet
him, and I’ve told her to give him a good clip round the ear.’ He sinks a
yellow. ‘She won’t, of course,’ he adds with a grin.

‘That’s good
news,’ I tell him, and continue my unescorted journey to the classroom.

When I arrive I
find
Mr
Anders, the visiting teacher, waiting for me.
He looks a bit put out, so I immediately ask him how he would like to play it.

‘Had you
anything planned?’ he asks.

‘Nothing in
particular,’ I tell him. ‘Last week we agreed that the group would bring in
something they had written to read to the class, and then we would all discuss
it. But not if you had anything else in mind.’

‘No, no, that
sounds fine.’

This week, nine
prisoners and three members of staff turn up. Four of them have remembered to
bring along some written work:

Colin reads his
critique of Frank McCourt’s latest book, Tony takes us through his essay on
prison reform, which is part of the syllabus for Ruskin College, Oxford, Terry
reads a chapter of his novel and we end with Billy’s piece on his reaction to
hearing that he’d been sentenced to life, and his innermost thoughts during the
hours that followed. I chose Billy’s work to end on, because as before it was
in a different class to any other contribution. I end the session with a few
words about the discipline of writing, aware that I would not be with them this
time tomorrow. I’m confident that at least three of the group will continue
with their projects after I’ve
departed,
and that in
time Billy’s efforts will be published. I will be the first in the queue for a
signed copy.

On the way back
to my cell, I bump into Liam, who, when he’s on the hotplate, always tries to
slip me a second ice-cream. He thrusts out his hand and says, ‘I just wanted to
say goodbye.’ I turn red; I’ve not said a word to anybody following my meeting
with
Mr
Leader, so how has Liam found out?

‘Who told you?’
I asked.

‘The police,’ he
replied. ‘They’ve agreed to bail, so I’m being released this morning. My
solicitor says that probably means that they are going to drop all the
charges.’

‘I’m
delighted,’ I tell him. ‘But how long have you been in jail?’

‘Three and a
half months.’

Three and a
half months Liam has been locked up in
Belmarsh
waiting to find out that the police are probably going to drop all the charges.
I wish him well before he moves on to shake another well-wisher by the hand.

What was he
charged with?
Perverting the course of justice.
A
taped phone conversation was the main evidence, which the court has now ruled
inadmissible.

Once I’m back
on the spur, I phone Alison to let her know that ten more days of the diary are
on their way. She tells me that the letters are still pouring in, and she’ll
forward on to Wayland those from close friends. I then warn her I’m running out
of writing pads; could she send a dozen on to Wayland along with a couple of
boxes of felt-tip pens?

Interesting how
I use the word dozen without thinking, despite the fact that decimalization has
been with us for over thirty years. In another thirty years, will my
grandchildren take the euro for granted and wonder what all the fuss was about?

12
noon
Lunch.
Egg and beans, my
favourite
prison food, but
this time I only get
one egg because there’s an officer
sitting where Paul is usually placed. However, Tony still manages a few extra
beans.