Hell (A Prison Diary 1)

‘Three times,’ he replies matter-of-factly. ‘One nonce, one drug dealer, and once over an argument about someone who hadn’t returned a two-pound phonecard.’ He pauses before adding, ‘If they were to put him on this block, he’d be dead within twenty-four hours.’

I’m terrified, so I can only wonder what sort of fear they live in. The moment the prisoner disappears into the medical centre, the shouting and yelling stops.

4.00 pm

The cell door is at last unlocked and we are allowed out into the exercise yard. On my first circuit, about two hundred yards, I’m joined by a young prisoner – come to think of it, everyone is young except for me and David. His name is Nick, and if it weren’t for his crooked front teeth and broken nose, he would be a good-looking man. He’s been in prison for the past fourteen years, and he’s only thirty-three, but he hopes to be out in four years’ time as long as he can beat his latest rap.

‘Your latest rap?’ I repeat.

‘Yeah, they’ve been trying to pin arson on me after what I got up to in Durham, but they’ve got no proof that I set fire to my cell, so they’ll have to drop the charge.’ He’s joined by another lifer who has just completed four of his eighteen years.

There seems to be a completely different attitude among the lifers. They often say, ‘Don’t bother to count the first six years.’ They acknowledge they won’t be out next week, next month, or even next year, and have settled for a long spell of prison life. Most of them treat me with respect and don’t indulge in clever or snide remarks.

On the next circuit I’m joined by Mike (armed robbery), who tells me that he listened to Ted Francis and Max Clifford on the radio last night, and adds that the boys just can’t wait for one of them to be sent to prison. ‘We don’t like people who stitch up their mates – especially for money.’ I stick assiduously to Nick Purnell’s advice and make no comment.

When I return to the cell, Terry is about to go down for supper. I tell him I just can’t face it, but he begs me to join him because tonight it’s pineapple upside-down pudding, and that’s his favourite. I join him and go through the ritual of selecting a couple of burnt mushrooms in order to lay my hands on an extra upside-down pudding.

By the time I get back to the cell, Terry is sweeping the room and cleaning the washbasin. I’ve been lucky to be shacked up with someone who is so tidy, and hates anything to be out of place. Terry sits on the bed munching his meal, while I read through what I’ve penned that day. Once Terry’s finished, he washes his plate, knife, fork and spoon before stacking them neatly on the floor in the corner. I continue reading my script while he picks up a Bible. He turns to the Book of Hebrews, which I confess I have never read, and studies quietly for the next hour.

Once I’ve completed my work for the day, I return to reading The Moon’s a Balloon, which I put down just after ten when war has been declared. The pillows are a little softer than those on Block Three, for which I am grateful.

Day 7

Wednesday 25 July 2001

5.17 am

‘Fuck off,’ cries a voice so loud it wakes me.

It’s a few moments before I realize that it’s Terry shouting in his sleep. He mumbles something else which I can’t quite decipher, before he wakes with a start. He climbs out of bed, almost as if he’s unaware there’s someone in the bunk below him. I don’t stir, but open my eyes and watch carefully. I’m not frightened; although Terry has a past record of violence, I’ve never seen any sign of it. In fact, despite the use of bad language in his novel, he never swears in front of me – at least not when he’s awake.

Terry walks slowly over to the wall and places his head in the corner like a cat who thinks he’s about to die. He doesn’t move for some time, then turns, picks up a towel by the basin, sits down on the plastic chair and buries his head in the towel. Desperate and depressed. I try to imagine what must be going through his tortured mind. He slowly raises his head and stares at me, as if suddenly remembering that he’s not alone.

‘Sorry, Mr Archer,’ he says. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘It’s not important,’ I reply. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘It’s a recurring nightmare,’ he says, ‘but for some unexplainable reason it’s been worse for the past couple of weeks. When I was a kid,’ he pauses, no doubt considering whether to confide in me, ‘my stepfathe

r used to beat me and my mum with a leather strap, and I’ve suddenly started having nightmares about it all these years later.’

‘How old were you at the time?’ I ask.

‘About six, but it carried on until I was sixteen, when my mum died.’

‘How did your mother die?’ I ask. ‘After all, she can’t have been that old?’

‘It’s all a bit of a mystery,’ Terry says quietly. ‘All I know for certain is that they found her body in the front room by the grate, and then my stepfather buggered off to Brighton with my stepsister.’ I have a feeling that Terry knows only too well what and who caused his mother’s death, but he isn’t yet willing to impart that information. After all, he’s well aware I’m writing a daily diary.

‘So what happened to you when he disappeared off to Brighton?’

‘I was taken into care, followed by Borstal, remand home and finally jail – a different sort of education to yours.’ How can those of us who have had a comparatively normal upbringing begin to understand what this young man has been through – is going through?

‘Sorry,’ he repeats, and then climbs back onto the top bunk, and is asleep again within minutes.

I climb out of bed, clean my teeth, rub a cold flannel over my face and then settle down to write for the first session of the day. At this early hour, all the other prisoners are asleep, or at least I assume they are, because not a sound is coming from the surrounding cells. Even the early-morning patrol of barking Alsatians doesn’t distract me any longer.

In London I live near a railway track that winds its way into Waterloo, but I am never woken by the late-night or early-morning trains. In prison, it’s rap music, inmates hollering at each other, and Alsatians that don’t disturb a lifer’s dreams. Once I’ve completed my two-hour session, I begin the lengthy process of shaving.