Purgatory Read online

  ‘Yes, if you can find anyone stupid enough to take your wager.’

  The spur bookie is offering 1-3 on Duncan Smith.’

  Those are still good odds, because you can’t lose unless he drops down dead.’

  The bookie or Iain Duncan Smith?’ asks Jimmy. ‘Either’ I reply.

  ‘Good,’ says Darren. Then I’ll put three Mars bars on Duncan Smith as soon as we get back to the spur.’

  4.00 pm

  I visit Sergio in his cell to be given a lesson on emeralds. I’ll let you know why later. Sergio takes his time telling me that emeralds are to Colombia what diamonds are to South Africa. When he’s finished his tutorial, I ask him if it would be possible for his brother to find an emerald of the highest quality. He looks puzzled.

  ‘What sort of price do you have in mind?’ he asks.

  ‘Around ten thousand dollars,’ I tell him.

  He nods. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He looks at his watch and adds, ‘I’ll speak to my brother immediately.’

  5.00 pm

  Sunday supper is always a bag of crisps and a lemon mousse. However, this evening we are offered two lemon mousses because, I note, the sell-by date on the lid is 25 August.

  7.00 pm

  At last there’s something worth watching on television. Victoria and Albert with a cast to kill for. Nigel Hawthorne, Diana Rigg, Peter Ustinov, Jonathan Pryce, David Suchet, John Wood and Richard Briers.

  It only serves to remind me how much I miss live theatre, though at times I feel I’m getting enough drama at the Theatre Royal, Wayland.

  DAY 40 - MONDAY 27 AUGUST 2001

  6.08 am

  Forty days and forty nights, and, like Our Lord, I feel it’s time to come out of the wilderness and get on with some work, despite the fact it’s a bank holiday. I write for two hours.

  8.15 am

  Breakfast. Corn Pops (for a change), UHT milk, a slice of bread and marmalade. I stare at the golly on the jar. I read yesterday in one of the papers that he’s no longer politically correct and will be replaced by a character created by Roald Dahl and illustrated by Quentin Blake. I like golly, he’s been a friend for years. As a man without an ounce of prejudice in him, I am bound to say I think the world has gone mad.

  9.00 am

  I call Mary, who is furious with the Home Office. Winston Churchill has written to the Home Secretary, David Blunkett, asking why I’m still in a Category C jail, and Winston has received a reply from Stephen Harrison, David Blunkett’s private secretary, suggesting that Lady Archer ‘is satisfied that this is the best that can be hoped for’. Home Office officials obviously don’t listen to the Today programme, or read any newspapers. It doesn’t augur well for justice being done to those prisoners who do not have a supportive family. Mary will write to Martin Narey today and put the record straight. My solicitor has not yet received a reply from DCS Perry. Perhaps he’s still on holiday. She’s also written to the governor of Wayland - also no reply. Thank God I’m not locked up in Russia.

  Now I’m no longer on the induction spur, I’m allowed to have my own plate, bowl and mug. Mary promises to dispatch all three today. I can’t wait to be rid of the grey plastic set, even if they won’t allow me to replace the plastic knife, fork and spoon. Mary tells me that the letters of support are still pouring in, and says she’ll send a selection for me to read, plus a list of friends who want to visit me in prison. She confirms that she and William are hoping to visit me on Friday.

  9.15 am

  A block are playing C block at football, and Jimmy (captain of everything) asks if I’d like to be linesman, knowing it will get me out of my cell for at least an hour. How considerate, I tell him, but I don’t know the rules, and I feel sure that there’s more to it than just putting your flag in the air when the ball goes out. Fortunately, one of our reserves is fully proficient in the laws of the game, and runs up and down the line behind me, making me look quite competent.

  The first player I have to adjudicate offside is Jimmy, who makes no protest and immediately raises his arm. The true character of a person cannot be hidden on a playing field.

  By half-time we are two down. However, in the second half, we pull one back and just before the final whistle, Carl (GBH, phonecard problem) thumps in a blinder from twenty yards to level the score. As he is in the next cell to me, I can expect several graphic replays in the corridor, with the yardage becoming longer by the day.

  12.15 pm

  Lunch: Toad-in-the-hole (vegetarian sausage) and peas.

  3.00 pm

  Exercise. We’ve managed about two circuits when Darren, Jimmy and I are joined by what can only be described as a gang of yobs, whose leader is a stockily built youth of about five foot six, with two rings in his nose and one in each ear. From what I can see of his neck, arms and chest, it doesn’t look as if there’s anywhere left on his body to needle another tattoo. As soon as he opens his mouth every other word is fucking-this and fuck-ing-that. I’m no longer shocked by this, but I am surprised by the smell of alcohol on his breath. My usual approach when faced with this situation is to answer any question quietly and courteously. I’ve heard enough stories about prisoners being knifed in the yard over the slightest provocation to do otherwise. But as there are no questions, just abuse hurled at me and my wife, there’s not much I can say in reply. Jimmy and Darren close in, not a good sign, but after another circuit, the young thug and his gang of four back off and go and sit against the fence and glare at us.

  The Home Office could do worse than invite Darren to sit on one of their committees and advise them on prison policy. He is, after all, far better informed than Stephen Harrison, and therefore the Home Secretary. After a spell in Borstal, and two terms in prison, Darren would be a considerable asset to the drugs debate. He adds that when he was first sent to jail, some fifteen years ago, about 30 per cent of prisoners smoked canna-bis and only about 10 per cent were on heroin.

  ‘And today?’ I ask.

  ‘Around twenty to thirty per cent are still on cannabis, with approximately the same percentage, if not more, on heroin. And while the present regulations are in place, there’s no hope of dealing with the problem. Only last week, a prisoner out on his first town visit returned with five hundred pounds’ worth of heroin stuffed up his backside, and every addict in the prison knew about his cache within the hour. They were, if they could afford it, smoking and jabbing themselves all night.’

  ‘But surely the prisoner in question, not to mention his customers, will be caught?’

  The drugs unit interviewed him the following morning. They couldn’t prove anything, but it’s the last town visit he’ll make before he’s released - on the grounds of ‘reasonable suspicion’.’

  ‘More fool him,’ says Jimmy, who goes out on a town visit once a month. ‘Some of them will do anything—’ The group of yobs decide to rejoin us, so I have to face another barrage of abuse. I sometimes wish Mr Justice Potts could do just one circuit with me, but it’s too late, my case was his last, and he was clearly determined to go out with a bang. When we’re called back in, I’m not unhappy to return to the peace and safety of my cell.

  4.07 pm

  Sergio turns up to tell me the details of a conversation he’s had with his brother in Bogota.

  Tomorrow my brother will travel to the green mountains and select an emerald’ declares Sergio. He will then have it valued and insured. He will also send one gold necklace (18 carat). They sell at a tenth of the price they charge in England. I assure him that, if I decide to buy it, I will make a payment direct to bis bank the day after he has been deported. This means he has to put a great deal of trust in me, which he seems happy to do. He accepts that the transaction cannot take place while both of us are still in jail. If he’s successful, I’ll have more confidence in his claim that he can produce a Botero at a sensible price.

  10.00 pm

  Darren lends me his copy of The Prisons Handbook - a sort of Relais & Chateaux guide of jails in England and