Hell (A Prison Diary 1)

‘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.

3.07 pm

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.’