Hell (A Prison Diary 1)

‘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.

4.30 pm

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.

6.00 pm

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.

10.00 pm

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.

Day 4

Sunday 22 July 2001

5.43 am

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 steel-plated 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.

9.01 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 n

oisy 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.

‘I’ll send round my man to see you, your Lordship,’ Pat says with a grin. ‘He’ll take care of you.’

I thank Pat, not quite sure if he’s teasing me. Once I’ve completed another press-button shower – I’ve almost mastered it – and dried myself, I return to my cell to have breakfast. Breakfast was handed to me last night in a plastic bag, only moments after I’d rejected the evening meal. I extract a very hard-boiled egg from the bag, before disposing of the rest of its contents in the plastic bucket under the sink. While eating the egg – white only, avoiding the yolk – I stare out of my window and watch the planes as they descend at regular, sixty-second intervals into City Airport. A pigeon joins me on the ledge, but he’s on the outside. I retrieve a piece of stale bread from the bucket under the washbasin, break it into small crumbs and drop them on the sill. He rejects my offering, coos and flies away.

9.30 am

The cell is unlocked again, this time for Association, and the duty officer asks me if I want to attend a church service. Not being utterly convinced there is a God I rarely go to church in Grantchester, despite the fact that my wife was for many years the choir-mistress. However, on this occasion it will mean a long walk and forty-five minutes in a far larger room than my cell, so without hesitation I thank God and say yes.

‘RC or Church of England?’ the officer enquires.