Purgatory Read online

  When I return to the wing, Sergio (hotplate, Colombian) asks me if I would like to join him in his cell on the enhanced spur. He’s kindly translated the letter from the Spanish student; it seems that the young man has just finished a bachelor’s degree and needs a loan if he’s to consider going on to do a doctorate. I thank Sergio, and pen a note on the bottom of the letter, so that Alison can reply.

  ‘Lock up,’ bellows an officer. Just as I’m about to depart, Sergio asks, ‘Can we talk again sometime, as there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you?’ I nod, wondering what this quiet Colombian can possibly want to see me about.

  DAY 31 - SATURDAY 18 AUGUST 2001

  6.21 am

  Had a bad night. There was an intake of young prisoners yesterday afternoon, and several of them turned out to be window warriors. They spent most of the night letting everyone know what they would like to do to Ms Webb, the young woman officer on night duty. Ms Webb is a charming, university-educated woman who is on the fast-track for promotion. Darren told me that whenever a new group of prisoners comes in, they spend the fast twenty-four hours sorting out the ‘pecking order’. At night, Wayland is just as uncivilized as Belmarsh, and the officers show no interest in doing anything about it. After all, the governor is sound asleep in her bed.

  At Belmarsh I was moved into a single cell after four days. In Wayland I’ve been left for eleven days among men whose every second word is ‘fuck’, some of whom have been charged with murder, rape, grievous bodily harm and drug pushing. Let me make it clear: this is not the fault of the prison officers on the ground, but the senior management. There are prisoners who have been incarcerated in Wayland for some time and have never once seen the governor. I do not think that all the officers have met her. Thaf s not what I call leadership.

  One of yesterday’s new intake thought it would be clever to slam my door closed just after an officer had unlocked it so that I could go to breakfast. He then ran up and down the corridor shouting, ‘I locked Jeffrey Archer in, I locked Jeffrey Archer in.’ Luckily, only a few of the prisoners are this moronic, but they still make everyone else’s life unbearable.

  8.15 am

  Breakfast. One look at the lumpy, powdered scrambled egg and a tomato swimming in water and I’m off. As I leave, Sergio suggests we meet in his room at 10.30. I nod my agreement.

  9.00 am

  Saturday is a dreadful day in prison. It’s the weekend and you think about what you and your family might have been doing together. However, because we are ‘unlocked’ during the day, but ‘banged up’ in the early evening, there is always a queue outside my cell door: prisoners wanting letters written, queries answered, or on the scrounge for phonecards and stamps. At least no one bothers to ask me for tobacco. So on a Saturday, my only chance of a clear two hours to write are between six and eight in the morning, and six and eight at night.

  10.00 am

  I call Chris Beetles at his gallery. It’s the opening of his Cat Show, - these ones are in frames not cages - so I don’t waste a lot of his time, and promise I’ll call him back on Monday.

  On my way back to the cell I pass Darren in the corridor and stop to ask him about Sergio, whose cell is three doors away from his.

  ‘A real gentleman,’ says Darren. ‘Keeps himself to himself. In fact I don’t know much more about him now than I did when he arrived at Wayland a year ago. He’s a Colombian, but he’s one of the few prisoners who never touches drugs. He doesn’t even smoke. You’ll like him.’

  10.30 am

  When I arrive at Sergio’s cell he checks his watch as if he assumed I’d be on time. If the Archer theory is correct - namely that you can tell everything you need to know about a prisoner from his cell - then Sergio is a neat and tidy man who likes everything in its place. He offers me his chair, while he sits on the bed. His English is good, although not fluent, and it quickly becomes clear that he has no idea who I am, which helps considerably.

  When I tell him I’m a writer, he looks interested. I promise to have one of my books (Spanish translation) sent in. An hour passes before he tells me anything about himself. He makes it clear, as if he wants the world to know, that Colombians fall into two categories: those who are involved in drugs and those who are not. He and his family come into the latter group, and he seems genuinely pleased when I tell him that I have an aversion to drugs that is bordering on the manic.

  His family, he tells me, have no idea he’s in jail. In fact his weekly call to Bogota accounts for almost his entire income. He’s divorced with no children, so the only people he has to fool are his brother, his sister and his parents. They believe he has a responsible job with an import/export company in London. He will return to Bogota in five weeks’ time. There is no need for him to purchase a plane ticket, as he will be deported. Were he ever to return to Britain, he would immediately be arrested, put back in jail, and would remain locked up until he had completed the other half of his eight-year sentence. He has no plans to come back, he tells me.

  The conversation drifts from subject to subject, to see if we can find anything of mutual interest. He has a great knowledge of emeralds, coffee and bananas - three subjects of which I know virtually nothing, other than their colour. It’s then I spot a photograph of him with, he tells me, his mother and sister. A huge smile comes over my face as he removes the picture from the shelf to allow me a closer look.

  ‘Is that a Botero?’ I ask, squinting at the painting behind his mother. He cannot hide his surprise that I should ever have heard of the maestro.

  ‘Yes it is,’ he says. ‘My mother is a friend of Botero.’

  I almost leap in the air, as I have long dreamed of adding a Botero to my art collection in London or my sculpture collection in Grantchester. In fact Chris Beetles and I travelled to Calabria two years ago to visit the great man at his foundry. Sergio quickly reveals that he knows a considerable amount about Latin American art, and names several other artists including Manzu, Rivera and Betancourt. He has met Botero, and his family are friends of Manzu. I tell him I would love to own one of their works, but both artists are way out of my price range, particularly Botero, who is considered to be the Picasso of South America. The French think so highly of him that they once held an exhibition of his sculptures along the Champs-Elysees; the first time a foreigner has been so honoured.

  ‘It’s just possible I could find one of his works at a price you could afford.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ I ask.

  Sergio then explains to me at great length what he calls the ‘Colombian mentality’.

  ‘To start with, you have to accept that my countrymen only want to deal in cash. They do not trust banks, and do not believe in cheques, which is why they regularly alternate between being rich and penniless. When they are wealthy, they buy everything in sight - jewellery, yachts, cars, houses, paintings, women, anything; when they are poor they sell everything, and the women leave them. But Colombians have no fear of selling,’ he continues, ‘because they always believe that they will be rich again… tomorrow, when they will buy back everything, even the women. I know a trader in Bogota,’ he continues, ‘who bought a Botero for a million dollars, and five years later sold it for two hundred thousand cash. Give me time and I’ll come up with a Botero at the right price,’ he pauses, ‘but I would expect something in return.’

  Am I about to find out if Sergio is a con artist, or as Darren suggested, ‘a real gentleman’?

  ‘I have a problem,’ he adds. ‘I have been in jail for four years, and when I finish half my sentence I will be deported.’ I’m trying to write notes as he speaks. ‘I will be put on a plane without any presents for my three nephews and niece.’ I don’t interrupt. Would it be possible for you to get me three Manchester United shirts for the nephews - seven, ten and eleven years old - and a Lion King outfit for my eight-year-old niece?’

  ‘Anything else?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I need a suitcase, because all I have is a HMP Wayland plastic bag,