Hell (A Prison Diary 1)

brick steel, storage vaults.

Uranium plutonium, nuclear chalice,

poison regimes, political malice,

confounded dark, loomin’ sin,

&nb

sp; atomised spirits, crushed within.

Seditious dissent, proletarian class,

duplicate religion, misleading mass,

ruinous poverty’s, reducing rod,

whipping barbarous, bloodthirsty God.

Liberated justice, equality bound,

desecrating capitalists, unholy ground,

revolutionary concept, militant fire,

diligent radical, poetic desire.

Billy Little (BX7974)

During the last few minutes they begin to discuss when we’ll get together again. The matter that most concerns the group is whether it should be during Association time or considered as an education class. On this they are equally divided, and I wonder if they will ever meet again.

12 noon

Lunch. I open a tin of ham (67p), extract half of it, to which I add two hard-boiled potatoes (prison issue). During the afternoon, I devour three digestive biscuits, and swig nearly a whole bottle of Evian. If I continue at this rate, I’ll be out of water by Saturday, and like so many prisoners, facing the problem of double-bubble. Do you recall Del Boy cutting a cigarette in half, and expecting a whole one back the following day?

1.07 pm

My appeals against change of status and being sent to the Isle of Wight are brought round to my cell for signing. Ms Taylor says that the Deputy Governor wants the forms returned to her office as soon as possible. I read slowly through the two-page legal document, making only one small emendation. I sign on the dotted line, but remain convinced that the Home Office has already made up its mind, and there is nothing I can do about it. The golden rule seems to be: it mustn’t look as if Archer’s getting special treatment, even if he’s being treated unjustly.

2.24 pm

My cell door is opened by Mr Bentley, who tells me that I must report to reception as there are several parcels for me to collect.

When I leave the spur, I am not searched for the first time and the duty officer simply points to the end of the corridor and says, ‘My colleague will guide you.’ It’s taken them two weeks to feel confident that I have no interest in escaping or dealing in drugs. Actually if you tried to escape from Belmarsh – and the roof is the furthest anyone has managed – you’d need an architect’s plan; the whole building is a maze. Even if you work here, I imagine it would take several weeks before you could confidently find your way around. Sometimes I wonder how the prison officers find their way out at night.

At the end of every corridor, a barred gate is opened and I am ushered through it. None of the gatekeepers seem to be surprised that I’m unaccompanied. I finally arrive outside the little cubbyhole called reception. The doors are pulled open to reveal Mr Pearson and Mr Leech.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Mr Pearson says, and then quickly corrects himself, ‘Archer. I’m afraid we only have fourteen registered parcels for you this week.’ He begins to remove them one by one from the shelves behind him. Half an hour later, I am the proud owner of four more Bibles, three copies of the New Testament, and a prayer book. I retain one copy of the New Testament, which is leather-bound, as I feel Terry would appreciate it. I suggest to Mr Leech that the rest should be sent to Mr Powe at the chapel. The other packages consist of three novels, two scripts and a proposal of marriage from a blonde woman of about fifty, who adds that if I don’t fancy her, she has a daughter of twenty-four (photo enclosed).

I’ve considered printing her ‘Dear Geoffrey,’ (sic) letter and photograph, but my solicitors have advised against it.

When they’ve opened the final package on the shelf, I point to a box of tissues and ask, ‘Are those also mine by any chance?’

Mr Pearson looks at Mr Leech, and says, ‘I think they are.’

He passes across two boxes of tissues, making the whole expedition worthwhile.

Mr Pearson accompanies me – I say accompanies, because I didn’t get the feeling of being escorted – back to my cell en route. He tells me that the prison was built ten years ago by a Canadian architect and it’s all right-angles.