Hell Read online

  ‘We got there just in time,’ says Fletch. ‘After that, the boy was billeted with me for five weeks.’

  Fletch feels it’s also vitally important to have a good working relationship with the prison staff – he doesn’t call them screws or kangaroos – otherwise the system just can’t work. He admits there will always be an impenetrable barrier, which he describes as the iron door, but he has done his best to break this down by forming a prison committee of three inmates and three officers who meet once a month to discuss each other’s problems. He says with some considerable pride that there hasn’t been a serious incident on his spur for the past eight months.

  He then tells me a story about an occasion when he was released from prison some years ago for a previous offence. He decided to call into his bank and cash a cheque. He climbed the steps, stood outside the bank and waited for someone to open the door for him. He looks up from the end of the bed at the closed cell door. ‘You see, it doesn’t have a handle on our side, so you always have to wait for someone to open it. After so long in prison, I’d simply forgotten how to open a door.’

  Fletch goes on to tell me that being a Listener gives him a reason for getting up each day. But like all of us, he has his own problems. He’s thirty-seven, and will be my age, sixty-one, when he is eventually released.

  ‘The truth is that I’ll never see the outside world again.’ He pauses. ‘I’ll die in prison.’ He pauses again. ‘I just haven’t decided when.’

  Fletch has unwittingly made me his Listener.

  Day 11

  Sunday 29 July 2001

  6.27 am

  Sundays are not a good day in prison because you spend so much time locked up in your cell. When you ask why, the officers simply say, ‘It’s because we’re short-staffed.’ I can at least use six of those hours writing.

  Many of the lifers have long-term projects, some of which I have already mentioned. One is writing a book, another taking a degree, a third is a dedicated Listener. In fact, although I may have to spend most of today locked up in my cell, Fletch, Billy, Tony, Paul, Andy and Del Boy all have responsible jobs which allow them to roam around the block virtually unrestricted. This makes sense, because if a prisoner has a long sentence, they may feel they have nothing to lose by causing trouble, but once you’ve given them privileges – and not being locked up all day is unquestionably a privilege – they’re unlikely to want to give up that freedom easily.

  8.03 am

  I shave using a Bic razor supplied by HMP. They give you a new razor every day, and it is a punishable offence to be found with two of them in your cell, so every evening, just before lock-up, you trade in your old one for a new one.

  As soon as the cell door is opened, I make a dash for the shower, but four young West Indians get there before me. One of them, Dennis (GBH), has the largest bag of toiletries I have ever seen. It’s filled with several types of deodorant and aftershave lotions. He is a tall, well-built, good-looking guy who rarely misses a gym session. When I tease him about the contents of his bag, Dennis simply replies, ‘You’ve got to be locked up for a long time, Jeff, before you can build up such a collection on twelve-fifty a week.’ Another of them eventually emerges from his shower stall and comments about my not having flipflops on my feet. ‘Quickest way to get verrucas,’ he warns me. ‘Make sure Mary sends you in a pair as quickly as possible.’

  Having repeatedly to push the button with the palm of one hand while you soap yourself with the other is a new skill I have nearly mastered. However, when it comes to washing your hair, you suddenly need three hands. I wish I were an octopus.

  When I’m finally dry, my three small thin green prison towels are all soaking – I should only have one, but thanks to Del Boy…I return to my cell, and because I’m so clean, I’m made painfully aware of the prison smell. If you’ve ever travelled on a train for twenty hours and then slept in a station waiting room for the next eight, you’re halfway there. Once I’ve put back on yesterday’s clothes, I pour myself another bowl of cornflakes. I think I can make the packet (£1.47) last for seven helpings before I’ll need to order another one. I hear my name being bellowed out by an officer on the ground floor, but decide to finish my cornflakes before reporting to him – first signs of rebellion?

  When I do report, Mr Bentley tells me that there’s a parcel for me in reception. This time no one escorts me on the journey, or bothers to search me when I arrive. The parcel turns out to be a plastic bag full of clothes sent in by Mary: two shirts, five T-shirts, seven pairs of pants, seven pairs of socks, two pairs of gym shorts, a tracksuit, and two sweaters. The precise allocation that prison regulations permit. Once back in my cell I discard my two-day-old pants and socks to put on a fresh set of clothes, and now not only feel clean, but almost human.

  I spend a considerable time arranging the rest of my clothes in the little cupboard above my bed and as it has no shelves this becomes something of a challenge.* Once I’ve completed the exercise, I sit on the end of the bed and wait to be called for church.

  10.39 am

  My name is among several others bellowed out by the officer at the front desk on the ground floor, followed by the single word ‘church’. All those wishing to attend the service report to the middle landing and wait by the barred gate near the bubble. Waiting in prison for your next activity is not unlike hanging around for the next bus. It might come along in a few moments, or you may have to wait for half an hour. Usually the latter.

  While I’m standing there, Fletch joins me on the second-floor landing to warn me that there’s an article in the News of the World suggesting that I’m ‘lording it’ over the other prisoners. Apparently I roam around in the unrestricted areas in a white shirt, watching TV, while all the other prisoners are locked up. He says that although everyone on the spur knows it’s a joke, the rest of the block (three other spurs) do not. Fletch advises me to avoid the exercise yard today, as someone might want ‘to make something of it’.

  The more attentive readers will recall that my white shirt was taken away from me last week because I could be mistaken for an officer; my feeble attempt to watch cricket on TV ended in having to follow the progress of the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes; and by now all of you know how many hours I’ve been locked in my cell. How the News of the World can get every fact wrong surprises even me.

  The heavy, barred gate on the middle floor is eventually opened, and I join prisoners from the other three spurs who wish to attend the morning service. Although everyone is searched, they now hardly bother with me. The process has become not unlike going through a customs check at Heathrow. There are two searchers on duty this morning, one male and one female officer. I notice the queue to be searched by the woman is longer than the one for the man. One of the lifers whispers, ‘They can’t add anything to your sentence for what you’re thinking.’

  When I enter the chapel I return to my place in the second row. This time the congregation is almost 80 per cent black, despite the population of the prison being around fifty-fifty. The service is conducted by a white officer from the Salvation Army, and his small band of singers are also all white. When I next see Mr Powe, I must remember to tell him how many churches, not so far away from Belmarsh, have magnificent black choirs and amazing preachers who encourage you to cry Alleluia. Something else I learnt when I was candidate for Mayor.

  This week I notice that the congregation is roughly split in two, with a sort of demarcation zone about halfway back. The prisoners seated in the first eight rows have only one purpose – to follow every line in the Bible that the Chaplain refers to, to sing at the top of their voices and participate fully in the spirit of the service. The back nine rows show scant interest in proceedings, and I observe that they have formed smaller groups of two, three or four, their heads bowed deep in conversation. I assume they’re friends from different spurs and find the service one of the few opportunities to meet up, chat, and pass on messages. Quite possibly even drugs – if they are willi