‘Why?’ asks Mr New, as he lights a cigarette.
‘His father collapsed yesterday afternoon and was taken into Canterbury Hospital. He’s been diagnosed with a brain tumour and the doctors think he may not survive the week.’
‘Right,’ says Mr New, stubbing out his cigarette, ‘sign him up for a compassionate leave order, and let’s get him off to Canter-bury as quickly as possible.’ ,
Mr New tells me that Matthew’s mother died a year ago, having suffered from MS, and his grandmother a few weeks later. This all took place soon after he committed the offence that resulted in him being sent to prison for fifteen months.
Matthew walks in.
Mr New and Mr Gough could not have been more sympathetic. Forms are signed and countersigned with unusual speed, and Matthew is even allowed to use the office phone to arrange for his girlfriend to pick him up. A few minutes later, Governor Berlyn appears and agrees with Mr New that the boy (I think of Matthew as a boy because he’s even younger than my son) must be shipped out as quickly as possible. Then the problems start to arise.
Matthew, who only has four weeks left to serve, doesn’t know anyone in Canterbury, so he’ll have to be locked up overnight in the local jail, despite his girlfriend and her mother staying at a hotel near the hospital. But worse, because Matthew is only allowed twenty-four hours compassionate leave, he will have to travel back from Canterbury and spend the second night at NSC, after which he will be released on Friday morning for weekend leave, when he need not return until Sunday evening. ‘Why not just let the boy go and be with his father, and return on Sunday night?’ I ask. Both Mr Berlyn and Mr New nod their agreement, but tell me that there is no way round the Home Office regulations.
10.30 am
Matthew’s girlfriend arrives at the barrier, and he is driven quickly away. I pray that Matthew’s father doesn’t die while they are on the motorway. I recall with sadness learning that my mother was dying during my trial. Mr Justice Potts wouldn’t allow me to leave the court to be with her, as he didn’t accept the doctor’s opinion that she only had a few hours to live. I eventually arrived at her bedside an hour or so before she died by which time she was past recognizing me.
11.00 am
Three prisoners who arrived yesterday check in for their induction talk. They pepper me with questions. I feel a bit of a fraud, trying to answer them, having only been around for forty-eight hours and still on induction myself. Mr Gough gives them the talk I heard two days ago. I
hand out a booklet emphasizing his comments. A young prisoner whispers in my ear that he can’t read. HELP. I tell him to come back and see me if he has any further problems.
12.15 pm
Mr New appears, and runs through my responsibilities. We open a large cupboard crammed full of forms and files, which he feels needs reorganizing. He lights up another cigarette.
2.00 pm
Mr Simpson, the probation officer, asks me to join him in his office on the first floor, as he wants to bring my case file up to date. He asks me if I saw a probation officer after being convicted.
‘Yes, but only for a few minutes,’ I tell him, ‘while I was still at the Old Bailey.’
‘Good,’ he says, ‘because that will show you’re domiciled in London, and make it easier for you to be moved to Spring Hill.’ He checks his computer and gives me the name of my probation officer. ‘Drop her a line,’ he advises, ‘and tell her you want to be transferred.’
3.30 pm
Mr New joins me in the kitchen for another cigarette break. I learn that he’s due to leave NSC in January, when he will be transferred to Norwich Prison as a governor, Grade 5.4 He then produces all the necessary forms for my transfer. Although he’ll speak to Mrs McKenzie-Howe, his opposite number at Spring Hill, he’s not optimistic. Not only are they full, but it’s a resettlement prison, and I don’t need resettling; I’m not looking for a job when I’m released, or a home and, as I have no financial problems, I just don’t fit any of the usual categories.
5.00 pm
I go off to the canteen for supper, and again sit at a table with two older prisoners. They are both in for fraud; one was a local councillor (three and a half months), and the other an ostrich farmer. The latter promises to tell me all the details when he has more time. It’s clear there’s going to be no shortage of good stories. Belmarsh — murder and GBH; Wayland — drug barons and armed robbers. NSC is looking a little more sophisticated.
7.00 pm
I join Doug in the hospital. He has allowed me to store a bottle of blackcurrant juice and a couple of bottles of Evian in his fridge, so I’ll always have my own supply. As Doug chats away, I learn a little more about his crime. He hates drug dealers, and considers his own incarceration a temporary inconvenience. In fact he plans a cruise to Australia just as soon as he’s released. On ‘the out’ he runs a small transport company. He has a yard and seven lorries, and employs — still employs — twelve people. He spends half an hour a day on the phone keeping abreast of what’s going on back at base.
Now to his crime; his export/import business was successful until a major client went bankrupt and renegued on a bill for £170,000, placing him under extreme pressure with his bank. He began to replenish his funds by illegally importing cigarettes from France. He received a two-year sentence for failing to pay customs and excise duty to the tune of £850,000.
DAY 93
FRIDAY 19 OCTOBER 2001
6.00 am
I write for two hours. Boxer shorts draped over the little light that beams down onto my desk ensure that I don’t disturb David.
8.15 am