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  ‘He’s as good as gold,’ says Linda. ‘A gipsy, who, once convicted, never puts a foot wrong; he’s always released as a model prisoner after serving half his sentence. But once he’s left us, he’s usually back within a year,’ she adds.

  10.30 pm

  Television news footage reveals Kabul as it had been under the rule of the Taliban. Amongst the buildings filmed is Kabul jail, which makes NSC look like the Ritz; twenty men would have occupied my room with only three urine-stained, ragged mattresses between them.

  I sleep soundly.

  DAY 122

  SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER 2001

  Anyone who’s incarcerated wants their sentence to pass as quickly as possible. If you’re fortunate enough to have an interesting job, as I have at SMU, that certainly helps kill Monday to Friday. That just leaves the other problem — the weekend. Once you’ve reached your FLED and can work outside the prison, have a town visit every week and a week out every month, I’m told the months fly by, but should I fail to win my appeal against length of sentence, none of this will kick in until July next year – another eight months. So boredom will become my greatest challenge.

  I can write, but not for every hour of every day. With luck there’s a rugby match to watch on Saturday afternoon, and a visitor to look forward to seeing on Sunday. So, for the record:

  Saturday

  6.00 am Write this diary for two hours.

  8.15 am Breakfast.

  9.00 am Read The Times, or any other paper available.

  10.00 am Work on the sixth rewrite of Sons of Fortune.

  12 noon Lunch.

  2.00pm Watch New Zealand beat Ireland 40-29 on BBC1.

  4.00pm Watch Wales beat Tonga 51-7 on BBC2. *

  4.40 pm Watch the highlights of England’s record-breaking win of 134-0 against Romania on ITV.

  6.00 pm Continue to work on Sons of Fortune and run out of paper. My fault.

  8.15 pm Sign in for roll-call to prove I haven’t absconded, or died of boredom.

  8.30 pm Join Doug in the hospital and watch a Danny de Vito/Bette Midler film, followed by the news.

  10.30 pm Return to my room, go to bed and, despite the noise of Match of the Day coming from the TV room next door, fall asleep.

  DAY 123

  SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER 2001

  6.11 am

  After five weeks at NSC, you must be as familiar with my daily routine as I am so, as from today, I will refer only to highlights or unusual incidents that I think might interest you.

  2.00 pm

  You will recall that I’m allowed one visit a week, and my visitors today are Alan and Della Pascoe. I first met Alan when he was an England schoolboy, and even the casual observer realized that he was destined to be a star. He had a decade at the highest level, and if that time hadn’t clashed with Al Moses – the greatest 400m hurdler in history – Alan would have undoubtedly won two Olympic gold medals, rather than two silvers. We only ran against each other once in our careers; he was seventeen and I was twenty-six. I prefer not to dwell on the result.

  Although I had the privilege of watching Della run for her country (Commonwealth gold medalist and world record holder), we didn’t meet until she married Alan, and our families have been close ever since. They remain the sort of friends who don’t run round the track in the opposite direction when you’ve been disqualified.

  DAY 124

  MONDAY 19 NOVEMBER 2001

  5.30 am

  The noise of three heavy tractors harvesting acres and acres of Brussels sprouts wakes me. If I’m up every day by five-thirty, what time must the farm labourers rise to be on their tractor seats even before I stir?

  8.15 am

  Matthew, as you will remember, was released last Friday, and has been replaced in the SMU by Carl.

  Carl is softly spoken and well mannered. He’s the lead singer in the prison’s rock band, and has the striking good looks required for someone who aspires to that calling: around five foot eleven, slim, with wavy fair hair. He tells me that he has a fifteen-year-old daughter born when he was twenty (he’s not married), so he must be in his mid-thirties.

  Carl arrives at eight-twenty, which is a good start, and as I run through our daily duties, he makes notes. Monday is usually quiet: no inductions or labour board, so I’m able to brief him fully on all personnel resident in the building and their responsibilities. He is a quick study, and also has all the women in the building coming into the kitchen on the flimsiest of excuses. In a week he’ll have everything mastered and I’ll be redundant.

  Now of course you will want to know why this cross between Robbie Williams and Richard Branson is in prison. Simple answer, fraud. Carl took advances on property that he didn’t own, or even properly represent. A more interesting aspect of Carl’s case is that his co-defendant pleaded not guilty, while, on the advice of his barrister, Carl pleaded guilty. But there’s still another twist to come. Because Carl had to wait for the outcome of his co-defendant’s trial before he could be sentenced, he was released on bail for nine months, and during that time ‘did a runner’. He disappeared off to Barcelona, found himself a job and tried to settle down. However, after only a few weeks, he decided he had to come back to England and, in his words, face the music.

  Carl was a little surprised not to be arrested when he landed at Heathrow. He spent the weekend with a friend in Nottingham, and then handed himself in to the nearest police station. The policeman at the desk was so astonished that he didn’t quite know what to do with him. Carl was charged later that day, and after spending a night in custody, was sentenced the following morning to three years. His co-defendant also received three years. His barrister says he would only have got two years if he hadn’t broken bail and disappeared off to Barcelona. Carl is a model prisoner, so he will only serve sixteen months, half his sentence minus two months with a tag.

  2.30 pm

  Mr New phones Spring Hill to enquire about my transfer, but as there’s no reply from Karen’s office, he’ll try again tomorrow. If I were back in my office, I’d try again at 3 pm, 4 pm and 5 pm, but not in prison. Tomorrow will be just fine. After all, I’m not going anywhere.

  5.00 pm

  David (murder) arrives with all my clothes neatly laundered. Lifers have their own washing machine and iron. Jeeves of Pont Street would be proud of him. I hand over three Mars Bars, and my debt is paid.

  6.00 pm

  I need to buy a plug from the canteen (30p) because I keep leaving mine in the washbasin. I’ve lost four in the last four weeks. When I get to the front of the queue they’re sold out. However, Doug tells me he has a drawer full of plugs – of course he does.

  DAY 125

  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