6.11 am
One of the interesting aspects of writing this diary during the day, and correcting the script of volume one in the evening, is being reminded just how horrendous an experience Belmarsh was.
9.00 am
Pottery. Paul gives us a lecture with slides on Rothko, Man Ray, Magritte and Andy Warhol. Several of the prisoners voice an opinion often heard about modern artists, only they put it more bluntly.
That’s fuckin’ crap, why would anyone pay good money for that shit? My seven-year-old daughter could knock you up one of those.’
Neither of our tutors, Paul nor Anne, comments; both are professional artists and know only too well that if they could ‘knock up one of those’, they wouldn’t be teaching in prison.
After the lecture Shaun presents me with a pattern for my cell wall - unquestionably influenced by Magritte. It’s fun, but I wonder if Locke is capable of reproducing it. I’ll have to discuss the problem with my chef de chantier, Darren. Will I really be allowed a sun and moon in my room?
2.00 pm
Education, Tuesday afternoon is a bit of a farce. I have to attend an education class to make up the statutory number of lessons required by a part-time worker - PS6.50 a week - so end up sitting at the back of the classroom working on this script.
I’ve asked Wendy Sergeant (Head of the Education Department) if I can teach one lesson a week of creative writing, as I did at Belmarsh. Her latest comment on the subject is that the prisoners don’t want another inmate teaching them. I find this unlikely because at least one inmate a day asks me to read and comment on something they’ve written, so I wonder what the truth really is. I won’t bother Wendy again as it’s obvious that someone else has made the decision, and she is simply carrying out instructions. In future I’ll just sit at the back of the classroom and continue working for myself.
5.00 pm
Board meeting. Sergio reports that he’s spoken to his brother again, and all the arrangements are in place. But he has an anxious look on his face.
‘What’s the problem?’ I ask.
‘I’m worried about my brother,’ he explains. ‘He’s a civil servant, an academic, not used to the way business is carried out in Colombia. It must have taken a great deal of courage for him to travel to the mountain where no one would give a second thought to killing you for a thousand dollars. Now we want him to hand over ten thousand in cash and then transport the emerald to the airport without any protection.’ Sergio pauses. ‘I fear for his life.’
My first thought is that Sergio is trying to get off the hook now that he’s leaving these shores in a few weeks’ time.
What are you suggesting?’ I venture.
‘Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until I return to Bogota, then I can handle the problem personally. I fear for my brother’s life,’ he repeats.
Once Sergio is back in Bogota I will have lost all contact with him, not to mention my PS200. He has claimed many times during the past three weeks that several prisoners have offered to transfer money to his account in Bogota in exchange for a regular supply of drugs, but he has always turned them down. Has he in fact accepted every payment? Is that account now in surplus thus guaranteeing him an easy life once he’s back in Colombia? However, I feel I am left with no choice but to take the high road.
‘If you’re in any doubt about your brother’s safety,’ I tell him, let’s postpone the sending of the emerald until you return to Bogota.’
Sergio looks relieved. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow,’ he says, ‘and then I’ll let you know our decision.’
I close the board meeting because, given the circumstances, there’s not a lot more to discuss.
6.00 pm
Exercise. Shaun has finished his preliminary sketch of Darren, and is now making a further attempt at Dale.
As Jimmy and I proceed on our usual circuit (there isn’t a lot of choice) we pass a group of three officers who are posted to keep an eye on us. One of them is a young, not unattractive, woman. Jimmy tells me that she has a ‘bit of a thing’ about Malcolm (ABH, punched a publican) who she will miss when he’s transferred to his D-cat prison on Monday.
‘The stories I could tell you about Malcolm’ says Jimmy.
‘Yes, yes,’ I say, my ears pricking up.
‘No, no,’ says Jimmy. ‘I’m not saying a word about that man until I’m sure he’s safely ensconced at Latchmere House. He flattened that publican with one punch.’ He pauses. ‘But ask me again next week.’
DAY 49 - WEDNESDAY 5 SEPTEMBER 2001
9.00 pm
I watch Ian Richardson on BBC 1 playing Dr Bell in a Conan Doyle drama described in The Times as the forerunner to Sherlock Holmes. I will never forget his portrayal of the chief whip in Michael Dobbs’ excellent House of Cards. I’ve known seven chief whips in my time - Willie Whitelaw, Francis Pym, Humphrey Atkins, John Wakeham, Tim Renton, Peter Brooke, and Richard Ryder - but even their combined talents lacked the Machiavellian skills of Francis Urquhart, under whose gaze I certainly wouldn’t have dared to miss a vote.