TUESDAY 20 NOVEMBER 2001
Many aspects of prison life are unbearable: boredom, confinement, missing family and friends. All of these might fade in time. But the two things I will never forget after I’m released will be the noise and the bad language.
When I returned to my room at 10 pm last night, the TV room next door was packed with screaming hooligans; the volume, for a the repeat of the world heavyweight title fight between Lennox Lewis and Hasim Rahman, was so high that it reminded me of being back at Belmarsh when reggae music was blaring out from the adjacent cell. I was delighted to learn that Lennox Lewis had retained his title, but didn’t need to hear every word the commentator said, or the accompanying cheers, screams and insults from a highly partisan crowd. In the end I gave up, went next door and asked if the volume could be turned down a little. I was greeted with a universal chorus of ‘Fuck off!’
10.00 am
Sixteen new inductees turn up for labour board, all clutching their red folders. The message has spread: if you don’t return your folders, you don’t get a job, and therefore no wages. Because the prison is so full at the moment, most of the good jobs – hospital, SMU, library, education, stores, officers’ mess – are filled, leaving only kitchen, cleaners and the dreaded farm. Among the new intake is a PhD and an army officer. I fix it s
o that the PhD, who only has another five weeks to serve, will work in the stores, and the army officer will then take over from him. Only one of the new intake hasn’t a clue what he wants to do, so he inevitably ends up on the farm.
11.00 am
I have already described the paper chase to you, so imagine my surprise when among the three prisoners to turn up this morning, clutching his release papers is Potts. Do you remember Potts? Solicitor didn’t turn up, took an overdose? Well, he’s fully recovered and went back to court for his appeal. However, he was half an hour late and the judge refused to hear his case, despite the fact that it was the Prison Service’s fault that he wasn’t on time. Here we are two weeks later and he’s off tomorrow, even though he wasn’t due for release until the middle of next year. As we are unable to have a lengthy conversation at SMU, I agree to visit him tonight and find out what caused this sudden reversal.
3.00 pm
The governor of Spring Hill (Mr Payne) calls to have a private chat with Mr New. He’s concerned about the attendant publicity should he agree to my transfer. Mr New does everything he can to allay Mr Payne’s anxieties, pointing out that once the tabloids had got their photograph, the press haven’t been seen since. But Mr Payne points out that it didn’t stop a series of stories appearing from ‘insiders’ and ‘released prisoners’ which, although pure fantasy doesn’t help. Mr New tells him that I have settled in well, shared a room with another inmate and am a model prisoner. Mr Payne says he’ll make a decision fairly quickly. I am not optimistic.
6.30 pm
I have been invited to attend a meeting of the Samaritans (from Boston) and the Listeners (prisoners). They meet about once a month in the hospital to exchange views and ideas. They only need me to sign some books for their Christmas bazaar. One of the ladies asks me if she can bring in some more books for signing from the Red Cross bookshop.
‘Of course,’ I tell her.
10.30 pm
There’s a cowboy film on TV, so the noise is bearable – that is, until the final shoot-out begins.
DAY 126
WEDNESDAY 21 NOVEMBER 2001
6.18 am
The mystery of Potts’s early release has been solved. A clerical error resulted in the judge thinking the case should be heard at 10 o’clock, while Potts was able to produce a piece of paper that requested his attendance in court at 10.30 am. The judge subsequently agreed to hear the appeal immediately and, having considered the facts, halved Potts’s sentence. The governor called him out of work at the kitchen to pass on the news that he would be released this morning. The first really happy prisoner I’ve seen in months.
8.15 am
Twelve new inductees due today, and as always, if you look carefully through the list you’ll find a story. Today it’s Cormack. He was released just over six weeks ago on a tag (HDC) and is back, but only for eleven days.
Strict rules are applied when you are granted an HDC. You are released two months early with a tag placed around your ankle. You supply an address at which you will reside during those two months. You must have a home phone. You will be confined to that abode during certain hours, usually between seven in the evening and seven the following morning. You also agree in writing not to take drugs or drink.
Cormack is an unusual case, because he didn’t break any of these rules. But yesterday morning he turned up at the local police station asking to be taken back into custody for the last eleven days because he was no longer welcome at the house he had designated for tagging.
‘Wise man,’ said Mr Simpson, the probation officer who recommended his early release. ‘He kept to the letter of the law, and won’t suffer as a consequence. If he’d attempted to spend the last eleven days somewhere else, he would have been arrested and returned to closed conditions.’ Wise man indeed.
12 noon
Leon the PhD joins me for lunch. He’s the new orderly in stores, which entitles him to eat early. He thanks me for helping him to secure the job. I discover over lunch that his doctorate is in meteorology. He tells me that there are not many job opportunities in his field, so once he’s released he’ll be looking for a teaching position; not easy when you have a prison record. Leon was sentenced to six months for driving without a licence, so will serve only twelve weeks. He tells me that this is not his biggest problem. He’s engaged to a girl who has just left Birmingham University with a first-class honours degree, and like him, wants to be a teacher. So far, so good. But Leon is currently facing racial prejudice in reverse. She is a high-class Brahmin and even before Leon ended up in jail, her parents didn’t consider he was good enough for their daughter. He explains that it is necessary to meet the father on three separate occasions before a daughter’s hand can be granted in wedlock, and following that, you still have to meet the mother. All these ceremonies are conducted formally. Before he was sentenced, Leon had managed only one meeting with the father; now he is being refused a second or third meeting, and the mother is adamant that she will never allow him to enter the family home. Does his fiancée defy her parents and marry the man she loves, or does she obey her father and break off all contact? Seven of the twelve weeks have already passed, but Leon points out that it’s not been easy to stay in touch while you’re only allowed one visit a week, and two phonecards.
3.00 pm
Mr Berlyn (deputy governor) drops into SMU to ask me if I’ve invited any outsiders to come and hear my talk tomorrow night. To be honest, I’d forgotten that I’d agreed to the librarian’s request to give a talk on writing a best-seller. I tell Mr Berlyn that I haven’t invited anyone from inside – or outside – the prison.
He tells me that after reading about the ‘event’ in the local paper, members of the public have been calling in all day asking if they can attend.
Can they? I ask innocently. He doesn’t bother to reply.