Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (25 page)

I phone Alison to discover that the gold necklace, the book
on Botero, the photographs of Botero oils and a sculpture have all arrived in
Cheshire via Bogota.

Gym.
Once again I manage 2,200
metres on the rower.

Board meeting.
Sergio has been on
the phone to Bogota for the past forty minutes. Armed with a dozen cards (£24)
and the judicious use of an illegal pin number, he can now afford to spend an
hour phoning Colombia. His brother is waiting to find out if I have any interest
in the Boteros. I assure him that as soon as I’ve seen the photographs I will
make a decision.

I’m writing at my desk when I hear shouting and screaming in
the corridor. I leave my cell to investigate, and see half a dozen prisoners
standing outside a cell door at the far end of the corridor. I’m told by Darren
that the occupant, Danny (burglar) will be released in the morning, and some of
his friends wished to give him a farewell present. Half a dozen inmates have
filled a black bin liner with water, and added tea bags, sugar, stale bread,
butter and beans. They are now all peeing into it. They then empty the contents
onto the hapless prisoner’s bed just before we are due to be banged up. This
ensures that he will have to spend his final night cleaning up the cell if he
hopes to be released in the morning.

Dr Starkey continues his excellent series on the six wives
of Henry VIII. Tonight it’s Anne Boleyn. Although Starkey spends the whole hour
being fairly critical of the queen, one cannot but admire the lady’s last
sentiment before being beheaded. Her short speech was full of grace, with no
fault placed at the door of Henry VIII She can’t have been all bad.

Pottery.
Carry on producing long
worms for my pot, much to the amusement of the other prisoners, all of whom
show far more promise than I do. Craig (GBH) is making a horse for his mother,
Lloyd (drugs), a heart-shaped jewellery box for his girlfriend, Peter
(burglary), another bowl for his aunt and Paul (murder), yet another Christ on
the cross.

It’s been a week since the terrorists struck New York and
Washington. It now seems unlikely that any more bodies will be rescued from
beneath the rubble, although Mayor Giuliani is a long way off giving orders to
stop the search while there’s the slimmest hope that anyone might still be
alive. He’s lost so many firemen, policemen and city workers and was nearly
killed himself that I can’t see him calling off the search for at least another
week; this despite the fact that nobody other than the closest of relatives
believes that anyone else can have survived.

Danny, the prisoner who had his cell sacked last night, is
now bidding farewell to everyone on the spur as he’s due to be released within the
hour. He seems to bear no grudges and I watch him shaking hands with Jimmy who
tells me later that Danny was probably thankful that his departing gift wasn’t
physical, as it was on Mel’s last night. Jimmy doesn’t go into any detail but
does admit that Mel had to spend his last few hours on the hospital wing.

Call Alison. David’s picked up the package from Sale and she
has sent the Botero details plus photos to Sotheby’s for a realistic valuation,
with copies to me. She has also dispatched the Botero catalogue raisonne as a
gift to the library. At least that way I will get to see the great artist’s
works rather than have the book confiscated and not returned until I am finally
released. Alison has handed the necklace over to James, who awaits my instructions.
Still no valuation on the emerald.

Nothing else worth reporting today, except Jimmy (captain of
everything) has just returned from town leave, and looks as if he’s had sex.
Sex is allowed when you’re on town leave. How could they stop it? Jimmy has
been out so much recently that he almost treats Wayland like a bed and
breakfast motel. Still, to be fair, he’ll only be with us for another three
weeks. Will he leave Wayland before I do?

Things American still dominate the news, as I feel sure they
will for some time to come. Tony Blair has seized the initiative and flown to
Berlin and Paris for talks with the chancellor and the president. In The Times
this morning Peter Riddell describes him as having ‘a good war’, but the truth
is that everyone is waiting to find out what George W. Bush’s response will be
to the Taliban’s stonewalling.

Pottery.
I finish my masterpiece.
My tutor Anne asks the rest of the class to gather round and help her decide
what it is. Four opt for a flowerpot, three an upside-down hat, and one inmate
feels I should have pressed on and produced an umbrella stand.

Another welcome flood of letters today,
including one from John Major and another from George Carey (see opposite).
Both are handwritten and full of understanding and kindness.

Mary tells me in her letter that she’s been in touch with
KPMG who are doing a very thorough job and refusing to be hurried. David Smith,
one of their senior partners, plans to come and see me next Monday together
with my solicitor. She feels, as I have nothing to hide, that I should agree to
the meeting. I had never planned to do otherwise.

Lunch.
Every day you select a
number from the lunch list (see opposite). I always choose the vegetarian
option for reasons I have already explained. As I pass Mr Shepperson, he calls
out two which turns out to be a beef burger. I point out politely that there
must be some mistake. He immediately checks the master list to discover that the
mistake is mine. I’ve circled two, not five. Result? No lunch today. He makes
no attempt to offer me an alternative because all the dishes are pre-selected,
he explains. In any case, that would set a precedent.

Carl (GBH, goal scorer) who serves the puddings on the end
of the
line,
offers me a second orange and turning to
Shepperson says, ‘His lordship has never been the same since I introduced him
to cannabis.’ This is greeted by cheers from the waiting queue. Even Shepperson
manages a smile.

Supper.
This time I circled the
right number, vegetable hotpot, and, because Mr Chapman is on duty, I end up
with two portions.

During the past week George Bush has been criticized –
mainly by journalists – for not being able to string a sentence together. But
today he confounded his critics (me included) by delivering an elegant and
moving speech to Congress. This was not only well written (I read the full text
as reproduced in The Times), but the speech writer had caught his voice because
he delivered the text with such assurance.

Meanwhile the prime minister’s timing continues to be
faultless. He flew into New York following talks with Chirac in Paris and then
was driven straight to Ground Zero. He was shown round the smouldering site by
Mayor Guiliani, before attending a memorial service at St Patrick’s.

I tune in four hours later to hear the president’s speech to
Congress only to find Mr Blair now sitting in the president’s box – Mrs Bush on
one side of him and Mayor Giuliani on the other. He’s done more to strengthen
the special relationship in one week than anyone since the days of Roosevelt
and Churchill.

Mr Clegg arrives outside my door and stares into my cell. He
informs me that the decor, as designed by Shaun, has not met with the
governor’s approval. The walls must be returned to their original colour by the
end of the week. But as the governor hasn’t been seen on
A
block, let alone my spur, in anyone’s memory, this seems a little unlikely.
However, I go in search of Locke…

In my post, among other things, is a catalogue from
Sotheby’s New York, for their Latin American sale last May. I walk across to
Sergio’s cell and it’s my turn to give him a tutorial. I explain how an auction
works, and what is meant by high and low estimates. On the right-hand side of
each page is a reproduction of a painting or sculpture.
On
the left, the artist’s name and any known provenance of the work.

We immediately check out the two oils, two sculptures and
five drawings by Botero. A sculpture of a reclining woman had a low estimate of
$ 175,000 and sold for $ 190,000. A vast sculpture of a nude woman had a low
estimate of $400,000 but only managed $325,000, whereas an oil painting of a
bowl of flowers which had a low estimate of $225,000, sold for $425,000. The
five drawings, ranging in price from $15,000 to $25,000 failed to reach the
hammer price and were BI (bought in) perhaps because the subject (bull
fighting) would not have appealed to many Americans.

We then carefully check the photos of Boteros that arrived
in the morning post and try to work out what their low estimate might be, and
see if we can spot a bargain. There is a maquette of a nude woman for which I’m
willing to offer $10,000, two small oils, $25,000 and $35,000, a large smiling
cat, $200,000, and a magnificent portrait entitled The Card Players (see plate
section) which we settle on at $400,000, although the seller wants a million.
My bids are all low, and although Sergio will offer the sellers cash, I doubt
if we’ll manage to pick up any of them as Botero is, after all, an established
international name. However, as Sergio points out, although Christie’s and
Sotheby’s have offices in Brazil, Mexico and Argentina, they have no presence
in Colombia, which may provide us with a small edge in an overcrowded market.
He also adds that September 11th may have caused prices to fall suddenly. We’ll
just have to wait and see if he’s right.

When ‘Lock up,’ is bellowed out, I return to my cell.

I fall asleep dreaming of The Card Players. I even know
which wall I would hang it on in London.

George W. Bush and Tony Blair officially name Osama bin
Laden as the man behind the terrorist attack on the twin towers in New York.
Although ships and planes are spotted heading for the Gulf, no one seems to
know when any retaliation is likely to take place.

Bush has warned the Taliban, give up bin Laden or we strike.
The Taliban’s response is that it would be an insult to Allah, but don’t
mention the fact that the leader of the Taliban is bin Laden’s father-in-law.
When Bush was told their response he appeared on TV offering $30 million for
bin Laden, dead or alive. The moment I heard that I feared for the president’s life.

Gym.
Alex (special needs group)
does three sets of ten sit-ups for the first time and, because he can’t speak,
gives me a thumbs-up sign, while Robbie and Les applaud him. They are as yet
unaware that I will also expect them to begin sit-ups next week. One of the few
experiences I shall miss when I leave Wayland (if I ever escape) will be these
weekly sessions.

When I return from the gym the newspapers are on my bed.
They are so full of news from both sides of the Atlantic that I don’t discover
until page eleven of The Times that the CPS are not going ahead with any
assault charges against John Prescott. One or two of the inmates mutter about
one rule for New Labour and another for the rest of us. A senior officer is
even more appalled by the PM’s flippant remark, ‘Well, that’s John, isn’t it?’
So much for, ‘We’ll deal with crime and the causes of crime.’

Phone Mary, who tells me that the governor has sent all the
Prison Service papers showing the stated reasons for my recate-gorization from
D-cat to C-cat He wishes it to be known that it is not the Prison Service that
is holding up my reinstatement She has other news, but not on the phone.

Gym.
2,116 metres on the rower in
ten minutes; three miles on the running machine in twenty-five minutes
fifty-two seconds; and six miles on the bike in ten minutes, making me feel
about forty-five, until I see a West Indian replace me on the running machine
and do twelve mph for twenty minutes. Still, he is a mere twenty-three.

I call Chris at the gallery. He’s unhappy about the Boteros
because he has only black and white reproductions. I agree to do nothing until
Sotheby’s have authenticated them and come back with a low estimate.

I call James. He’s back in London and tells me that our
expert has confirmed that the emerald was a good purchase for $10,000, although
he isn’t willing to place a value on it. I am relieved to discover that Sergio
isn’t a crook, and what’s more, Mary will end up with a special Christmas
present. I wonder where I’ll be this
Christmas?

Today is dominated by one incident worth recording in
detail, and it all began while I was in my cell reading The Times.

I have already explained that during Association a group of
West Indians play dominoes in the main room. The amount of noise that emanates
from each move would lead one to believe that a heavyweight boxing contest was
taking place, which is why a problem arises when a real incident occurs,
because the uproar can hardly reach a higher pitch. However, this time the
noise was accompanied by the ringing of bells and officers running from every
direction towards the Association room. It was like being back in Belmarsh. By the
time I made an entrance, the incident was well under control. However, several
of the brothers still wished to give me their version of events.