Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (22 page)

Sergio tries his brother again.
Still
engaged.

According to Sergio, the civil service remains the only
untainted profession. Although his brother is an adviser to several ministers,
he doesn’t need a bodyguard because it is accepted that he will never take a
bribe from
either the
Mafia, the guerrillas or the
army. The countryside, he assures me, is beautiful and the beaches that face
both the Pacific and the Atlantic rival any that can be found in America or
Europe.
And as for the women…

Since the age of twenty-six, I’ve been lucky enough to
organize my own life, so having to follow the same routine day in and day out,
weekends included, is enough to make one go stark raving bonkers. If I weren’t
writing this diary, and Sergio didn’t exist, they would have had to put me in a
straitjacket long before now and cart me off to the nearest asylum.

Gym.
I put myself through a tough
workout, and what makes it even tougher is that I’m surrounded by
prisoners
a third of my age. At the end of the session I
climb onto the scales, to find I’ve put on a pound in the last week. I’ll have
to cut down on my chocolate intake. One of the many disadvantages of being
locked up in a cell for hour upon hour is that sometimes you eat simply because
there is nothing else to do (this is one of the reasons prisoners experiment
with drugs, and addicts need a regular fix). In future I must show more
self-control. If I don’t buy it, I can’t eat it.

Between each exercise, ten minutes on the treadmill, the
rower and the bicycle, I walk a complete circuit of the gym to get my breath
back. By now I know most of the prisoners and the workouts they do, and usually
acknowledge or encourage them as I stroll by. As I pass Jimmy he flexes his
muscles, and describes himself as a gay icon; I’m seen by the other inmates as
the geriatric icon.

Today I spot a six-foot-three West Indian of about twenty
stone
who’s
lifting massive weights on his own, so I
stop to watch him.

‘What are you fuckin’ staring at?’ he demands, once he’s put
the weights down.

Just watching,’ I reply.

Then fuck off. I know you talk to everyone else, but you
don’t fuckin’ talk to me.’ I can’t stop laughing, which doesn’t seem to please
him and has the officers on edge. ‘Do you want your fuckin’ head knocked off?’
he asks.

‘I don’t think so, Ellis.’ He looks surprised that I know
his name. ‘Not if you’re hoping to be out of here in two weeks’ time.’ He looks
even more surprised that I know when he’s due to be released. He grunts, turns
his back on me and lifts 210 kilos. In prison, what you know is every bit as
important as who you know.

As I cross the corridor to join Darren in his cell for a
game of backgammon, I spot Sergio on the phone. He’s holding a stack of £2
phonecards in his left hand; by now he must have traded everything he owns.
Lately, his cell looks as if the bailiffs have paid a visit.

After three games, I return to my cell in possession of
another Mars bar. If I am going to lose weight, I’m going to have to start
losing at backgammon. I glance to my left to see Sergio furiously beckoning me.

‘I need another phonecard’ he says desperately. I remove the
one I always carry in the back pocket of my jeans and hand it over. He smiles.
I return to my cell, sit at my desk and wait, sensing a board meeting is
imminent.

Sergio walks in, pushes the door to (if anyone enters your
cell, officer or inmate, it’s against regulations to lock yourself in) and
turns on the TV – a sign that means he doesn’t want to be overheard. He takes
his usual place on the end of the bed, as befits the managing director. He
opens his A4 pad.

‘The stone takes off,’ he checks his watch, ‘in a couple of
hours.’ He can’t resist a huge grin as he keeps me waiting. I nod. If I were to
speak, it would only hold up the inevitable repetition of the entire
conversation he and his brother have just held. And who can blame him? However,
I’ll skip the next forty minutes and give you a precis of what has caused such
a big grin.

Sergio’s brother has in fact completed all the paperwork and
booked the tiny package onto a Lufthansa flight that leaves Bogota for Heathrow
via Frankfurt in two hours’ time (10.30 am in Bogota, 4.30 pm at Wayland). He
has faxed all the relevant details to my office in London, so they’ll know when
and where to pick up the gem. Sergio pauses at this point and waits for some
well-earned praise. He goes on to confirm that the emerald has come from the
Muzo mining district, famous for the quality of its stones.
It’s
3.3 carats, and cost $9,000 (mountain price). Now all we can do is
wait
until I find out what value is placed on the emerald by
my gemmologist. Sergio looks up from his notes, and adds that his brother would
like confirmation that the fax has arrived in my office.

‘Right now,’ I ask, ‘or when you’ve completed your report?’
because I can see that he’s only about halfway through the pages that are
covered in his neat Spanish hand. He considers this for a moment, and then says,
‘No, I’ll finish first.

The second piece of news,’ continues Sergio, turning another
page, unable to suppress an even broader grin, ‘is that Liana’ – his former
school friend – ‘has tracked down four Boteros in private hands. In private
hands,’ he repeats with considerable emphasis. ‘And they could be for sale. She
will send the details to your office some time next week.’ He checks his diary.
That will give you twelve days to evaluate them. Evaluate,’ he repeats. Is that
the correct word?’ I nod, impressed. ‘By the time you have decided on a
realistic price, I will be back in Colombia and can take over negotiations.’ He
closes the A4 pad.

‘I’d better call my son,’ I say, aware the ball is back in
my court. ‘Any units left on my phonecard?’ I ask, returning to the real world.

I call James on his mobile and ask where he is.

‘In the car, Dad, but I’ll be back at the flat in about
fifteen minutes.’ I put the phone down. Three units gone – mobiles gobble
units. I return to my cell to tell Sergio I won’t know if James has received
the fax for another fifteen minutes. This gives Sergio enough time to repeat
the highlights of his earlier triumph not unlike replays of Owen’s hat-trick
against Germany.

I call Jamie at the flat and ask him if he’s received the
fax.

‘Yes’ he replies, ‘it arrived forty minutes ago.’

‘And does it give you all the details you need?’

‘Yes,’ he replies.

I put the phone down. Sergio leaves me as he has to report
for his job behind the hotplate. Although he too has to return to the real
world, that grin just doesn’t leave his face.

Exercise.
Darren and I are joined
by Jason (conspiracy to blackmail) on our afternoon power walk. We pass Shaun
who is sketching Jules, with whom I shared a cell for the first two weeks. He’s
now finished Darren and Dale and once he’s completed Jules, he’ll only have
Jimmy to do, so he should have a full house by the end of the week.

‘Why do I have this feeling,’ asks Darren, ‘that you
consider the Prison Service has only one purpose, and that is to cater for your
every need?’

‘That’s neither accurate nor fair,’ I protest. ‘I’ve tried
to organize my entire life around the schedule the Prison Service demands. It
makes it twice as difficult to carry out my usual routines, but it has put
another perspective on the unforgiving minute.’

‘I wish I could work the system,’ says Jason. ‘They had me
in for an MDT (mandatory drugs test) this afternoon, a la Ann Widdecombe.’

‘Will it prove positive?’ I ask.

‘No chance, I’m in the clear. What a nerve,’ he adds,
‘suggesting that it was ‘on the grounds of reasonable suspicion’.’

‘Knowing your past record,’ says Darren – well aware that
Jason occasionally dabbles in heroin – ‘how can you be so confident you’re in
the clear?’

‘Simple,’ Jason replies. ‘For the past three days I’ve been
drinking more water than Jeffrey, I must have been up peeing at least seven
times every night.’

We’re banged up for fourteen hours. After I’ve checked over
the day’s script, I turn to my letters. I am particularly touched by a missive
from Gillian Shephard. She describes herself as ‘your temporary MP’. She offers
her support and goes on to point out that, ‘No one can suggest I’m after your
vote. After all, members of the House of Lords, convicted prisoners and
lunatics are not entitled to a vote.’ She concludes,
There’s
only one category left for you to fulfil, Jeffrey.’

I climb into bed and start to think about an aeroplane
that’s already halfway across the Atlantic on its way to Heathrow. In its
massive hold there is a tiny package, no larger than an Oxo cube, and inside a
tiny emerald that will either be on its way back to Bogota in a few days’ time,
or hanging on my family’s Christmas tree come December.

The strangest thing happened last night, and I’m going to
have to follow it up today. However, in order for you to be able to understand
its significance, I’ll first have to explain the layout of the enhanced spur on
A
block. The spur is L-shaped, with fourteen cells on
each sprig. If I look out of the window to my left, I can see about five of the
windows on the adjoining sprig.

Around eight yesterday evening, just after I’d finished
writing for the day, I rose from my desk to draw the curtains, when I noticed a
woman officer of about twenty-five years of age (I’d better not describe her in
detail) chatting to a prisoner through his window. I wouldn’t have given it a
second thought – if she hadn’t still been there an hour later… now I’m unable
to tell you any more at the moment, because I was banged up at five forty last
night, and will not be let out until eight fifteen this morning. I shall then
approach the oracle of all knowledge, Darren, and report back to you tomorrow.
I have a feeling he’ll know both the officer and the prisoner and – more
importantly – be able to throw some light on their relationship.

Jimmy, Carl, Jules, Shane and I go across to the changing
rooms for the football match against Lakenheath. After last Sunday’s victory,
and two good training sessions during the week, the
team are
buoyed up and ready for the encounter.

In my role as match reporter, I look around the benches and
check to make sure I know the names of every team member. The players are
becoming quite nervous, and start jumping up and down on the spot as they wait
for the arrival of our coach to deliver his pep talk. Kevin Lloyd appears a few
moments later, a look of despondency on his face.

‘I’m sorry, lads’ he says, ‘but the
game’s
off.’ A voluble groan goes round the changing room. Two of the opposition’
Kevin continues, ‘failed to bring any form of ID with them, so we couldn’t let
them through the gates. I would have accepted credit cards, but they couldn’t
even supply those. I am sorry,’ Kevin repeats, and there’s no doubt he’s as
disappointed as we are.

While the others go off for a further training session, I
have to return to my cell.

I call Mary, who brings
me
up to
date on the reinstatement of my D-cat. ‘KPMG’s report is progressing slowly,’
she tells me, ‘and the police haven’t even decided if they want to interview
you.’ Although the whole exercise is taking longer than she had anticipated,
Mary says there is no reason to believe that they will find Ms Nicholson’s
accusations anything other than spurious.

I suggest that she goes ahead with the Christmas parties
that we always hold in December and let Will and James act as co-hosts. I tell
her to invite everyone who has stood firm and ignore the fair-weather friends
(who have in fact turned out to be very small in number). I add that if I’m in
a D-cat open prison by Christmas, I’ll call up in the middle of the party and
deliver a festive message over the intercom.

I’m just about to leave for exercise when the spur officer
tells me I’m required urgently in the SO’s office. The word ‘urgently’
surprises me, as I haven’t heard it used for the past seven weeks.

I join Mr King in his office, and am introduced to a female
officer I’ve never seen before. Am I at last to meet the governor? No. The
officer’s name is Sue Maiden and she explains that she’s part of the prison’s
security team. She then tells me that it has been reported to her that Ellis,
who resides on B block, was abusive to me in the gym yesterday. I repeat
exactly what took place. She then asks me if I want special protection.

‘Certainly not,’ I reply. ‘That’s the last thing I need.’
She looks relieved.

‘I had to ask,’ she explains.

That’s all I need,’ I repeat. ‘You only have to read the
story in the Sunday Mirror this morning about phonecards to see what the press
would make of that.’

‘Understood, but we’ll still have to speak to Ellis.’

‘Fine, but not at my request’ I make clear. She seems to
accept this proviso, and I depart to find the barred gate that leads out on to
the exercise yard has already been bolted, leaving me locked inside and unable
to take my daily walk around the yard.

I spend the forty minutes with Sergio in his cell. He tells
me that there is only one recognized carrier willing to fly in and out of
Bogota, and then only on a Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. Sergio mentions that
it’s not easy to attract holidaymakers to a country where there are forty
murders a day in the capital alone. He uses the rest of exercise time to give me
a geography lesson. I am shown in Darren’s Times atlas (he’s playing
backgammon) where the emerald mountains are situated, as well as the extensive
oil fields in the valleys to the east. I also discover that both the Andes and
the Amazon make entrances and exits through Colombia.