Hell (5 page)

She reveals an
amazing piece of new evidence concerning
Mr
Justice
Potts that, if substantiated, could cause there to be a retrial.

Mary then goes
over the mistakes she thinks the judge made during the trial. She is convinced
that the appeal judges will at least reduce my four-year sentence.

‘You don’t seem
pleased,’ she adds as we walk along the bank of the River Cam.

‘For the first
time in my life,’ I tell her, ‘I assume the worst, so that if anything good
happens, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.’ I’ve become a pessimist overnight.

We return from
the river bank, walk back towards the house and over a wooden bridge that spans
Lake Oscar – in reality it’s a large pond full of koi carp, named after one of
my wife’s
favourite
cats, who after five years of
purring and pawing at the water’s edge failed to catch a single fish. After
feeding our Japanese and Israeli immigrants, we return to the house and prepare
ourselves to face the press.

David Howell
says that he doesn’t want me driven to the church in a police car and suggests
that I accompany Mary and the family on foot for the four-hundred-yard walk
from the Old Vicarage to the parish church. The police and the prison officers
were doing everything in their power to remember that the occasion is my
mother’s funeral.

We leave by the
front door, to find a crowd of journalists, photographers and cameramen waiting
outside the gates. I estimate their number to be about a hundred (George later
tells the Governor over his mobile phone that it’s nearer two hundred). My
younger son, James, and his girlfriend
Talita
, lead
the little party on the quarter-mile journey to the church. They are followed
by William and my adopted sister, Liz, with Mary and
myself
bringing up the rear. The cameramen literally fall over each other as they try
to get their shots while we make our way slowly up to the parish church. One
ill-mannered lout shouts questions at us, so I turn and talk to Mary. He only
gives up when he realizes none of us is going to grace him with a reply.

I find myself
feeling bitter for the first time in my life.

When we reach
the church door I am greeted by my cousin Peter, who is handing out copies of
the Order of Service, while his wife Pat guides us to a pew in the front row.

I’m touched by
how many of my
mother’s friends have travelled
from
all over the world to attend the little service – from America, Canada and even
Australia – not to mention many friends from the West Country where she spent
most of her life.

The Order of
Service has been selected by Mary and reveals so much about the thought and
preparation my wife puts into everything. She must have taken hours selecting
the prayers, hymns, readings and music, and she hits just the right note.
Bishop Walker once again officiates, and my stepbrother, David Watson, gives a
moving address in which he recalls my mother’s boundless energy, love of
learning and wicked sense of
humour
.

I read the
final lesson, Revelation XXI, verses 1–7, and as I face the congregation,
wonder if I’ll manage to get the words out.

I’m relieved to
discover that I don’t have to spend those final moments with my mother
accompanied by the press, as they at least have had the courtesy to remain
outside.

The service
lasts for fifty minutes, and is about the only time that day when I can
concentrate on my mother and her memory. Not for the first time am I thankful
that she didn’t live to see me convicted, and my thoughts turn to the
sacrifices she made to ensure I had a decent education, and was given as good a
start as possible, remembering that my father died leaving debts of around five
hundred pounds, and mother had to go out to work to make ends meet. I tried in
the later years to make life a little easier for her, but I was never able to
repay her properly.

The service
ends with ‘
Jesu
, Joy of Man’s
Desiring
’,
and Mary and I follow the Bishop and the choir down the aisle. When we reach
the vestry, George immediately joins us. A member of the press has called
Belmarsh
to ask why I was allowed to return to the Old
Vicarage.

‘You’ll have to
say your goodbyes here, I’m afraid,’ he tells us. ‘The Governor has phoned to
say you can’t go back to the house.’ I spend the next few minutes shaking hands
with everyone who has attended the service and am particularly touched by the
presence of Donald and Diana
Sinden
, who my mother
adored.

After thanking
the Bishop, my
family join
me as we begin the long
slow walk back to the prison van parked at
Cantalupe
Farm. I glance to my left as we pass the Old Vicarage.

This time the
press become
even more frantic. They begin to holler out
their questions like a repeater gun.

‘Are you
expecting to remain a lord?’

‘Do you hope to
win your appeal?’

‘Do you want to
say anything about your mother?’

‘Do you
consider yourself a criminal?’

After about a
hundred yards or so they finally give up, so Mary and I chat about her
forthcoming trip to
Strathclyde
University, where she
will chair a summer school on solar energy. The date has been in her diary for
some months, but she offers to cancel the trip and stay in London so she can
visit me in
Belmarsh
. I won’t hear of it, as I need
her to carry on as normal a life as possible. She sighs. The truth is
,
I never want Mary to see me in
Belmarsh
.

When we reach
the van, I turn back to look at the Old Vicarage, which I fear I won’t be
seeing again for some time. I then hug my family one by one, leaving Mary to
last. I look across to see my driver David
Crann
in
tears – the first time in fifteen years I’ve seen this former SAS warrior show
any vulnerability.

On the slow
journey back to
Belmarsh
, I once again consider what
the future holds for me, and remain convinced I must above all things keep my
mind alert and my body fit.

The writing of
a day-to-day diary seems to be my best chance for the former, and a quick
return to the gym the only hope for the latter.

Within moments
of arriving back at
Belmarsh
, I’m put through another
strip-search before being escorted to my cell on Block Three. Once again, James
the Listener is waiting for me. He has from somewhere, somehow, purloined a
carton of milk, a new
razor*
and two, yes two, towels. He perches
himself on the end of the bed and tells me there is a
rumour
that they are going to move me to another block on Monday, as Beirut is only
the induction wing.

‘What’s the
difference?’ I ask.

‘If you’re
going to be here for a couple of weeks, they have to decide which block to put
you on while you’re waiting to be transferred to a D-cat. I think you’re going
to Block One,’ says James, ‘so you’ll be with the lifers.’

‘Lifers?’
I gasp. ‘But doesn’t that mean I’ll be locked up
all day and night?’

‘No, no,’ says
James. ‘The lifers have a much more relaxed regime than any other block,
because they keep their heads down and don’t want to be a nuisance. It’s the
young ones who are on remand or doing short sentences that cause most of the
trouble and therefore have to be locked up first.’

It’s
fascinating to discover how much of prison life
is the exact
opposite to what you would expect
.

James then
gives me the bad news. He’s going to be transferred to
Whitemoor
Prison tomorrow morning, so I won’t be seeing him again, but he has already
allocated another inmate called Kevin to be my Listener.

‘Kevin’s a good
guy,’ he assures me, ‘even if he talks too much. So if he goes on a bit, just
tell him to shut up.’

Before James
leaves, I can’t resist asking him what he’s in for.

‘Smuggling
drugs from Holland,’ he replies matter-of-factly.

‘And you were
caught?’

‘Red-handed.’

‘How much were
the drugs worth?’

‘The police
claimed a street value of £3.3 million. I can only imagine it must have been
Harley Street,’ adds James with a wry smile.

‘How much did
you receive for doing the job?’

‘Five thousand pounds.’

‘And your sentence?’

‘Six years.’

‘And Kevin?’
I ask. ‘What’s he in for?’

‘Oh, he was on
that Dome
jewellery
caper, driving one of the getaway
boats – trouble was he didn’t get away.’ James pauses. ‘By the way,’ he says,
‘the
staff tell
me that you aren’t eating.’

‘Well, that’s
not quite accurate,’ I reply.

‘But I am
living on a diet of bottled water,
KitKat
and Smith’s
crisps, but as I’m only allowed to spend twelve pounds fifty a week, I’m
already running out of my
meagre
provisions.’

‘Don’t worry,’
he says. ‘You’ll be allowed another canteen list once they’ve transferred you
to a new wing, so fill yours in tonight and Kevin can hand it in first thing in
the morning.’

I smile at the
man’s ingenuity and see why the prison officers have made him a Listener.

They obviously,
like
LBJ,*
feel it’s better to have him pissing out of the tent, rather
than pissing in.

James then
changes the subject to the leadership of the Conservative Party. He wants
Kenneth Clarke to be the next leader, and he’s disappointed that Michael
Portillo missed the cut by one vote, because he’s never heard of Iain Duncan
Smith.

‘Why Clarke?’
I ask.

‘His brother
was the Governor of Holloway, and has the reputation of being a fair and decent
man.
Mr
Clarke strikes me as the same sort of bloke.’
I have to agree with James, feeling that he’s summed up Ken rather well.

James leaves
when
Mr
Weedon
appears by
the door, impatient to lock me back in. I’m beginning to learn the names of the
officers.

I check my
watch,
it’s just after four thirty.

Mr
Weedon
explains that as it’s a
Saturday and they’re short-staffed, they won’t be opening the door again until
nine o’clock the next morning. As the cell door slams shut, I reflect on the
fact that for the next seventeen hours I will be left alone in a room nine feet
by six.

I feel very
low. This is the worst period of the day. You think of your family and what you
might be doing at this time on a Saturday evening – James and I would have been
watching the Open Golf from
Lytham
& St Anne’s,
hoping against hope that Colin
Montgomerie
would at
last win a major. William might be reading a book by some obscure author I’d
never heard of. Mary would probably be in the folly at the bottom of the garden
working on volume two of her book,
Molecular
to Global Photosynthesis
, and
around seven I
would
drive across to Saffron Walden to visit my mother, and discuss with her who
should lead the Tory Party.

My mother is
dead. James is in London with his girlfriend. William is on his way back to New
York. Mary is at the Old Vicarage alone, and I’m locked up in jail.

It’s
dark outside – no curtains to cover my little cell
window. I’m exhausted. I pick up one of my new towels, fold it, and place it
across my pillow. I lower my head onto the towel and sleep for ten hours.

I wake to find
my tiny cell filled with sunlight. I place my feet on the floor and can smell
my own body. I decide that the first thing I must do is have a long shave
before even thinking about a writing session. As soon as they unlock the door,
I’ll make a dash for the showers.

There’s no plug
in the basin so I decide to improvise, and fill my plastic soup bowl with warm
water and turn it into a shaving bowl.
*

The prison have
supplied a stick of shaving soap, an old-fashioned shaving brush – I don’t
think it’s badger hair – and a plastic
Bic
razor, not
unlike the one you’re given when travelling on British Airways (economy). It
takes me some time to build up any lather. Above the basin is a
steelplated
mirror measuring four inches square which
reflects a blurred image of a tired, bristly man. After my shave in lukewarm
water, I feel a lot better, even though I’ve cut myself several times.

I return to my
chair behind the little square table, and with my back to the window begin
writing. The sun is shining through the four panes of glass, reproducing a
shadow of the bars on the wall in front of me – just in case I should forget
where I am.

The key turns
in the lock and my cell door is pushed open. I look up at an officer who has a
puzzled expression on his face.

‘What’s
happened to your cell card?’ he asks. He’s referring to a white
card*
attached
to my cell door stating my name – Archer, D-cat, release date July 19th, 2005.

‘It’s been
removed,’ I explain. ‘I’ve had six of them in the past two days. I think you’ll
find they’ve become something of a collector’s item.’

Despite the
absence of my card, the officer allows me to go off to the shower room, where I
join a group of noisy prisoners who are looking forward to an afternoon visit
from their families. One of them, a black guy called Pat, carries a clean,
freshly-ironed white shirt on a hanger. I’m full of admiration and ask how he
managed it, explaining that my children are coming to see me in a couple of
days and I’d like to look my best.