Heaven (A Prison Diary 3)

10.45 pm

I spend my first night at NSC in my own room. No music, no smoke, no hassle.

DAY 94

SATURDAY 20 OCTOBER 2001

6.00 am

Weekends are deadly in a prison. Jules, my pad-mate at Wayland used to say the only time you’re not

in prison is when you’re asleep. So over the weekend, a lot of prisoners just remain in bed. I’m lucky because I have my writing to occupy me.

8.00 am

I spot Matthew, who must have returned from Canterbury last night. His father is still in a coma, and he accompanies me to the office so he can phone the hospital. Although my official working week is Monday to Friday, it’s not unusual for an officer to be on duty at SMU on a Saturday morning.

Mr Downs and Mr Gough are already at their desks, and after I’ve made them both a cup of tea, Matthew takes me through my official duties for any given day or week. If I were to stick to simply what was required, it would take me no more than a couple of hours each day.

Over a cup of tea (Bovril for me), Matthew tells me about his nightmare year.

Matthew is twenty-four, six foot one, slim, dark-haired and handsome without being aware of it. He’s highly intelligent, but also rather gauche, and totally out of place in prison. He read marine anthropology at Manchester University and will complete his PhD once he’s released. I ask him if he’s a digger or an academic. ‘An academic,’ he replies, without hesitation.

His first job after leaving university was as a volunteer at a museum in his home town. He was happy there, but soon decided he wanted to return to university. That was when his mother contracted MS and everything began to go badly wrong. After his mother was bedridden, he and his sister took it in turns to help around the house, so that his father could continue to work. All three found the extra workload a tremendous strain. One evening while at work in the museum, Matthew took home some ancient coins to study. I haven’t used the word ‘stole’ because he returned all the coins a few days later. But the incident weighed so heavily on his conscience that he informed his supervisor. Matthew thought that would be the end of the matter. But someone decided to report the incident to the police. Matthew was arrested and charged with breach of trust. He pleaded guilty, and was assured by the police that they would not be pushing for a custodial sentence. His solicitor was also of the same opinion, advising Matthew that he would probably get a suspended sentence or a community service order. The judge gave him fifteen months.5

Matthew is a classic example of someone who should not have been sent to jail; a hundred hours of community service might serve some purpose, but this boy has spent the last three months with murderers, drug addicts and burglars. He won’t turn to a life of crime, but how many less intelligent people might? It’s a rotten system that allows such a person to end up in prison.

My former secretary, Angie Peppiatt, stole thousands of pounds from me, and still hasn’t been arrested. I feel for Matthew.

12 noon

Lunch today is just as bad as Belmarsh or Wayland. Matthew explains that Wendy is off. I must remember to eat only when Wendy is on duty.

2.00 pm

I report to the hospital and take over Doug’s caretaker role, while he visits his daughter. I settle down with a glass of blackcurrant juice and Evian to watch England slaughter Ireland, and win the Grand Slam, the Triple Crown and … after all, we are far superior on paper. Unfortunately, rugby is not played on paper but on pitches. Ireland hammer us 20-14, and return to the Emerald Isles with smiles on their faces.

I’m still sulking when a tall, handsome black man strolls in. His name is Clive. I only hope he’s not ill, because if he is, I’m the last person he needs. He tells me that he’s serving the last third of his sentence, and has just returned from a week’s home leave — part of his rehabilitation programme.

Clive and I are the only two prisoners who have the privilege of visiting Doug in the evenings. I quickly discover why Doug enjoys Clive’s company. He’s bright, incisive and entertaining and, if it were not politically incorrect, I would describe him as sharp as a cartload of monkeys. Let me give you just one example of how he works the system.

During the week Clive works as a line manager for a fruit-packing company in Boston. He leaves the prison after breakfast at eight and doesn’t return until seven in the evening. For this, he is paid £200 a week. So during the week, NSC is no more than a bed and breakfast, and the only day he has to spend in prison is Sunday. But Clive has a solution for that as well.

Two Sundays in every month he takes up his allocated town visits, while on the third Sunday he’s allowed an overnight stay.

‘But what about the fourth or fifth Sunday?’ I ask.

‘Religious exemption,’ he explains.

‘But why, when there’s a chapel in the grounds?’ I demand.

‘Your chapel is in your grounds,’ says Clive, ‘because you’re C of E. Not me,’ he adds. ‘I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. I must visit my place of worship at least one Sunday in every month, and the nearest one just happens to be in Leicester.’

After a coffee, Clive invites me over to his room on the south block to play backgammon. His room turns out not to be five paces by three, or even seven by three. It’s a little over ten paces by ten. In fact it’s larger than my bedroom in London or Grantchester.

‘How did you manage this?’ I ask, as we settle down on opposite sides of the board.

‘Well, it used to be a storeroom,’ he explains, ‘until I rehabilitated it.’