Hell (A Prison Diary 1)

Thursday 2 August 2001

5.51 am

A full night’s sleep. For the first time I can hear the cars on the road in the distance. I write for two hours, interrupted only by the occasional bark of an Alsatian.

8.00 am

Breakfast. Frosties and long-life milk (second day).

9.00 am

Association. I remind Derek of my acute water-shortage problem. Now down to half a bottle. It’s all under control, he claims.

I line up with the other prisoners for the gym.

Derek Jones (GBH, artist) spots me on the middle corridor and tells me that he did a spell at Camphill on the Isle of Wight. I quiz him, and discover that it has a fully equipped gym, one of the best in the country (by that he means in prisons), but he adds alarmingly that, ‘It’s full of shit-heads and scum. Young tearaways who think of themselves as gangsters because they’ve robbed some old lady. No one on the spur understands why you’re being sent there.’ I panic, desert the queue for the gym, run upstairs, grab my phonecard, rush back down and call Alison.

First I warn her (no time for pleasantries when you only have twenty units on your weekly card) that the next five days of the script are on their way, and to let Ramona know when they have arrived so she can confirm this on her next legal visit. I then ask to be put through to James. My younger son has assumed the role of joint head of the household in charge of finance, while William’s responsibility is to take care of his mother. I don’t lose a moment’s sleep wondering if they’re up to it. I quickly tell Jamie about the Isle of Wight and the loss of my D-cat status.

‘Calm down, Dad,’ he says. ‘We’ve been working on little else for the past forty-eight hours. I know how you must feel being so out of touch, but we’re on the case. Ramona spoke to the Home Office last night, and they’re hinting that it’s unlikely that there will even be an inquiry into the Kurdish matter. No one is taking Nicholson’s accusations seriously, even the tabloids have ignored her.’

‘Yes, but these things still take time; meanwhile I’ve been issued with a movement order.’

‘The same source,’ James continues, ‘is hinting that you’re more likely to end up in the home counties, but they’re still working on it.’

I check my phonecard; I’ve already used six units. ‘Anything else?’ I ask. I want to save as many units as possible for Mary on Sunday.

‘Yes, I need your authority to transfer some dollars into your sterling account. The pound has been off for the past couple of days.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ I tell him.

‘By the way,’ he says, ‘lots of people are talking about the judge’s summing-up, so chin up. Bye, Dad.’

I put the phone down to find I have used seven of my twenty units. I leave James to worry about the currency market while I concentrate on trying to get my hands on a bottle of Highland Spring.

I check my watch. No point in returning to the gym queue, so I settle for a shower. You forget how dirty you are, until you discover how clean you can be.

11.00 am

The officer on the front desk bellows out, ‘Exercise,’ which once again I avoid. It’s 92° out there in the yard, with no shade. I elect to sit in my cell, writing, with the tiny window as wide open as I can force it. When I’ve completed ten pages of script, I switch on the Test Match. The game is only an hour old, and England are 47 for 2.

12 noon

Lunch. I pick up my tray and walk down to the hotplate, but can’t find a single item I would offer an emaciated dog. I leave with a piece of buttered bread and an apple. Back in my cell I tuck into the other half of my tin of Prince’s ham, two more McVitie’s digestive biscuits, and a mug of water. I try to convince myself that Del Boy is the man, and he will deliver – in the nick of time – because there’s only two inches left in the bottle. Have you ever had to measure how much water is left in a bottle?

2.00 pm

An officer appears outside my cell door and orders me to report to the workshop, which I’m not enthusiastic about. After all, my application for education must surely have been processed by now. When I arrive at the bubble on the centre floor to join the other prisoners, I’m searched before having my name ticked off. We are then escorted down a long corridor to our different destinations – workshop and education. When we reach the end of the corridor, prisoners destined for the workshop turn left, those with higher things on their mind, right. I turn right.

When I arrive at education, I walk past a set of classrooms with about six or seven prisoners in each; a couple of prison officers are lounging around in one corner, while a lady sitting behind a desk on the landing crosses off the names of inmates before allocating them to different classrooms. I come to a halt in front of her.

‘Archer,’ I tell her.

She checks down the list, but can’t find my name. She looks puzzled, picks up a phone and quickly discovers that I ought to be in the workshop.

‘But Ms Fitt told me I would be processed for education immediately.’

‘Strange word, immediately,’ she says. ‘I don’t think anyone at Belmarsh has looke