Heaven (A Prison Diary 3)

Wives or partners are a crucial factor in a prisoner’s survival. It’s not too bad if the sentence is short, but even then the partner often suffers as much, if not more, being alone on the outside. In Mary’s case, she is now living her life in a glare of publicity she never sought.

4.15 pm

There’s a timid knock on the door. I open it to find a prisoner who wants to talk about writing a book (this occurs at least once a week). His name is Saman, and he’s a Muslim Kurd. He is currently working on a book entitled The History of Kurdistan, and wonders if I’ll read a few chapters. (Saman read engineering at a university in Kurdistan.) When he has completed his sentence, Saman wants to settle down in this country, but fears he may be deported.

‘Why are you at NSC?’ I ask him.

Saman tells me that he was convicted of causing death by dangerous driving, for which he was sentenced to three years. He’s due to be released in December.

DAY 102

SUNDAY 28 OCTOBER 2001

6.00 am

Today’s is my mother’s birthday. She would have been eighty-nine.

8.15 am

After breakfast I read The Sunday Times in the library. Rules concerning newspapers differ from prison to prison, often without rhyme or reason. At Wayland the papers were delivered to your cell, but you can’t have your own newspaper at NSC.

While I’m reading a long article on anthrax, another prisoner looks over his copy of the News of the World, and says, ‘I’m glad to find out you’re earning fifty quid a week, Jeff.’ We both laugh. He knows only too well that orderlies are paid £8.50 a week, and only those prisoners who go out to work can earn more. Funnily enough, this sort of blatant invention or inaccuracy has made my fellow inmates more sympathetic.

10.00 am

Phone Mary in Grantchester and at last get a ringing tone. She’s just got back from Munich, which she tells me went well. Not all the Germans are aware that her husband is a convict. Her book, Clean Electricity from Photovoltaics, was received by the conference with acclaim. After struggling for some years to complete volume one, she ended up selling 907 copies. Mind you, it is £110 a copy, and by scientific standards, that is a best-seller. I use up an entire phonecard (twenty units) getting myself up to date with all her news.

11.00 am

A message over the tannoy informs inmates that they can report to the drug centre for voluntarily testing. A negative result can help with parole or tagging applications. By the time I arrive, there’s already a long queue. I stand behind Alan (fraud) who is being transferred to Spring Hill tomorrow. He says he’ll write and let me know how the place compares to NSC and try and find out how my application is progressing.

I reach the head of the queue. Mr Vessey — he of the hatchet face who never smiles — points to a lavatory so I can give him a sample of urine in a little plastic bottle. He then places a filter into the bottle that will show, by five separate black lines, if I am positive or negative, for everything from cannabis to heroin. If two little black lines come up opposite each drug, then you’re clear, if only one line appears, you’ve tested positive and will be up in front of the governor first thing in the morning.

An inmate three ahead of me tests positive for cannabis, and explodes when Mr Vessey says he’ll be on report tomorrow. He storms out, mouthing expletives. Mr Vessey smiles. My own test comes up with only double lines, which is greeted with mock applause by those still waiting in the queue.

‘And pour your piss down the drain, Archer,’ says Mr Vessey. ‘If you leave it hanging around, this lot would happily sell it to the News of the World.’

12 noon

Lunch. I’m joined by Brian (chapel orderly and organist). He was convicted of conspiracy to defraud an ostrich farming company of seven million pounds. His barrister convinced him that if he pleaded not guilty, a trial could take ten months, and if he were then found guilty he might end up with a six- or seven-year sentence. He advised Brian to plead guilty to a lesser charge, so that he would be sentenced to less than four years. He took the advice, and was sentenced to three years ten months. His two co-defendants decided on a trial and the jury found them not guilty. Brian considers that pleading guilty was the biggest mistake of his life.

2.00 pm

Write for two hours.

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6.30 pm

I go to chapel to be joined by five other prisoners. Brian the ostrich man is playing the organ (very professionally). I take Holy Communion in memory of my mother, and can’t help reflecting that it’s my first sip of wine in three months. The vicar offers each of us a tiny plastic thimble of wine. It’s only later that I work out why: some prisoners would attend the service just to drain the chalice.

The vicar, the Rev Johnson, is over seventy. A short, dapper man, he gives us a short, dapper sermon on why he is not quite sure about born-again Christians. We then pray for those Christians who were murdered while taking part in a church service in Pakistan.

Covering the wall behind the altar and part of the ceiling is a painting of the Last Supper. After the service, the vicar tells me that a former prisoner painted it, and each of the disciples was modelled on an inmate. He chuckles, ‘Only Christ isn’t a convict.’

DAY 103

MONDAY 29 OCTOBER 2001