Hell (A Prison Diary 1)

While locked away, there is plenty to see

they entrap the body

but your mind is still free

to wonder the universe

and grow like a tree

So go to the library

and pick up a book

watch your mind grow

while other cons look

It’s not down to them

to make you move

so go ahead read

and your mind will improve

Colin Kitto, May 2001

House Block 1, HMP Belmarsh

This poem reveals a lot about the man, where he’s going, and where he’s come from. I feel sure that before he completes his sentence, he will have that degree from Ruskin College. And don’t forget, this is a man who couldn’t read or write before he came into prison.

There is a polite knock on the door and I look up to see one of the officers peering through my little oblong window. He asks if I would be willing to sign autographs for his two daughters, Joanna and Stephanie. ‘They both enjoy your books,’ he explains, before adding, ‘though I must admit I’ve never read one.’

He doesn’t unlock the cell door, just pushes two pieces of paper underneath. This puzzles me. I later learn that an officer cannot unlock a cell door if he is not on duty. Once he has retrieved them, he adds, ‘I’ll be off for the first part of next week, so if I don’t see you again, good luck with your appeal.’

7.00 pm

I begin reading a book of short stories that had been left on a table by the TV on the ground floor. It’s titled The Fallen and the author, John MacKenna, is someone I’ve not read before. He’s no storyteller, as so often the Irish are, but oh, don’t I wish I could write as lyrically as he does.

10.50 pm

I finish reading John MacKenna in one sitting (on the end of the bed) – what assured, confident prose, with an intimate feel for his countrymen and his country. I conclude that God gave the Irish the gift of language and threw in some potatoes as an afterthought.

Day 18

Sunday 5 August 2001

6.00 am

Another good night’s sleep.

Yesterday I wrote for six hours, three sessions of two, read for three – including my letters – and slept for eight. Out there where you are, five hours’ sleep was always enough. In truth, the writing is an attempt to fill the day and night with nonstop activity. I feel sorry for the prisoners who have to occupy those same hours and cannot read or write.

8.00 am

Breakfast. Egg and beans on toast, two mornings in a row. I don’t grumble. I’ve always liked egg and beans.

9.30 am