Purgatory (A Prison Diary 2)

‘Imran Khan,’ I reply.

The Pakistani fast bowler?’ he asks in disbelief.

‘Yes, but he was bowling slow leg breaks at the time.’

‘You’re still batting number five. Report to the top corridor in five minutes.’

I change into a tracksuit, place a bottle top in the gap in my door and run to the gate to find Darren waiting for me.

‘Like the new Swatch,’ he says. ‘What happened to the Longines?’

I tell him of my illicit transfer of the watch to Will during the last family visit.

The screws will have spotted it,’ Darren assures me, ‘and they would have been only too happy to see that particular watch leave the prison. Think of the trouble it would have caused them if someone had stolen it. Be warned, they don’t miss much.’

‘By the way,’ adds Darren, ‘one of the guys on our wing is being transferred tomorrow, so this may be your chance to get off the induction spur.’

My heart leaps at the news. I try to find out more details as we continue our stroll through a gate and out onto a large open field that is surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire.

Jimmy wins the toss and elects to bat. Now, for those of you who understand the game of cricket, HM prisons keep to a set of laws that even the MCC have no jurisdiction over. They may or may not give you a better insight into prison thinking:

(a) Both sides have ten overs each.

(b) Each over is nine balls and you never change ends.

(c) Each side must play five bowlers who can bowl two overs each, but not consecutively.

(d) There are no boundaries and you have to run every run.

(e) The side with the highest score is the winner.

(f) The umpire’s decision is final.

While the other side takes to the field, Dale and Carl pad up for A block. I look in the equipment trolley, hoping I will find a box and a helmet. At the age of sixty-one I don’t fancy facing a twenty-two-year-old West Indian bowler from Brixton who thinks it would be fun to put me in hospital with no fear of being arrested for it. I can’t believe my eyes: bats, pads, helmets, guards, boxes and gloves that are far superior to anything I’ve ever seen at any club game.

Our openers are both back in the pavilion by the end of the first over with the score at 6 for 2. We may well have first-class equipment, but I quickly discover that it does little for our standard of cricket. Our number four lasts for three balls so in the middle of the third over I find myself walking out to join Jimmy.

D Block boo me all the way to the crease, bringing a new meaning to the word ‘sledging’. However, there is worse to come because the West Indian I referred to earlier is licking his lips in anticipation. Hell, he’s fast, but he’s so determined to kill me that accuracy is sacrificed and his nine-ball over is extended to thirteen, with four wides. After another couple of overs (don’t forget, nine balls each), Jimmy and I advance happily on to 35 for 4. That is when my captain decides to try and launch the ball over the prison fence and ends up having his middle stump removed.

I fear neither Neville Cardus nor E. W. Swanton could have done justice to our progress from 35 for 4 to 39 all out. All you need to know is that the West Indian is back on for his second over, and during the next nine balls he takes five wickets at a cost of four runs. I leave the pitch 11 not out, having not faced a ball since my captain returned to the pavilion (bowlers don’t change ends). But all is not lost because when A block takes to the field - thanks to our demon quickie Vincent (manslaughter) - three of our opponents are back in the pavilion by the end of the first over, for a total of only five runs.

The second bowler is our West Indian. He is robbed with two dropped catches and a plump LBW, or I felt so from cover point. When he comes off, D block have only reached 9 for 2, but then prison rules demand that we render up our third bowler. On his arrival, the game is quickly terminated as the ball is peppered ruthlessly around the pitch. D block reach the required total with no further loss of wickets and five overs to spare.

On the way back to our cells, the D block captain says, ‘Not bad, Jeff, even though you played like a fucking public school cunt.’ In prison you have to prove yourself every day.

Once we’re back inside the block, I tell Jimmy that I may be joining him on the enhanced spur.

‘I don’t think so, Jeff,’ he replies. The man who’s leaving us is our wing cleaner, and I think they’ve offered his cell to David (whisk

y bootlegger), the cleaner on your wing.’ My heart sinks. ‘Your best bet is to move into David’s cell, and stay there until another one comes free.’

8.00 pm

I return to my cell, but unfortunately there’s no time for a shower before we’re all banged up. I’m tired, sweaty, and even aching a little, having used muscles I don’t normally press into action in the gym. I’m also hungry, so I open a tin of Princes ham (49p) and a packet of crisps (27p).

9.00 pm

Jules watches The Bill, while I continue to read Graham Greene’s The Man Within. I fall asleep wondering if this is to be my last night in a double cell.