Hell Read online

  At the end of every corridor, a barred gate is opened and I am ushered through it. None of the gatekeepers seem to be surprised that I’m unaccompanied. I finally arrive outside the little cubbyhole called reception. The doors are pulled open to reveal Mr Pearson and Mr Leech.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Mr Pearson says, and then quickly corrects himself, ‘Archer. I’m afraid we only have fourteen registered parcels for you this week.’ He begins to remove them one by one from the shelves behind him. Half an hour later, I am the proud owner of four more Bibles, three copies of the New Testament, and a prayer book. I retain one copy of the New Testament, which is leather-bound, as I feel Terry would appreciate it. I suggest to Mr Leech that the rest should be sent to Mr Powe at the chapel. The other packages consist of three novels, two scripts and a proposal of marriage from a blonde woman of about fifty, who adds that if I don’t fancy her, she has a daughter of twenty-four (photo enclosed).

  I’ve considered printing her ‘Dear Geoffrey,’ (sic) letter and photograph, but my solicitors have advised against it.

  When they’ve opened the final package on the shelf, I point to a box of tissues and ask, ‘Are those also mine by any chance?’

  Mr Pearson looks at Mr Leech, and says, ‘I think they are.’

  He passes across two boxes of tissues, making the whole expedition worthwhile.

  Mr Pearson accompanies me – I say accompanies, because I didn’t get the feeling of being escorted – back to my cell en route. He tells me that the prison was built ten years ago by a Canadian architect and it’s all right-angles.

  ‘It might have been more sensible,’ he mutters, ‘to have consulted serving prison officers, and then we could have pointed out the problems staff and inmates come up against every day.’ Before I can offer an opinion, I find myself locked back in my cell.

  2.57 pm

  I’ve only been in my cell for a few minutes when Mr Weedon reappears bearing a slip of paper. It’s a movement schedule, confirming my worst fears. I will be transferred to the Isle of Wight sometime during the week of 6 August 2001. It is as I thought; the Home Office have made up their minds, and are unwilling to take any personal needs into consideration. I sink onto my bed, depressed. I am helpless, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  3.14 pm

  I’m writing the second draft of today’s script, when the alarm bell goes off. I can hear running feet, raised voices and the scurrying of prison officers. I look out of my barred window but can see nothing but an empty yard. I gaze through the four-by-nine-inch slit in my door, and quickly realize that the commotion is not on our spur. I’ll have to wait for Association before I can find out what happened.

  4.00 pm

  Association. Once again, I fail to get on the gym rota and suspect it’s the same eight inmates who are pre-selected every day, and I haven’t been a member of the club long enough to qualify. Let’s hope they have a bigger gym on the Isle of Wight.

  When I reach the ground floor, I see that Fletch is placed strategically in one corner, as he is at the beginning of every Association, in case anyone needs to seek his help or advice. I slip across and have a word.

  ‘What was all the noise about?’ I ask.

  ‘A fight broke out on Block Two.’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Yes, some con called Vaz has been playing rap music all night, and the man in the cell above him hasn’t slept for three days.’

  ‘He has my sympathy,’ I tell Fletch.

  ‘They didn’t come face to face until this afternoon,’ continues Fletch, ‘when Mitchell, who was in the cell above, not only laid out Vaz with one punch, but set fire to his cell and ended up jumping on top of his stereo.’ Fletch paused. ‘It was one of those rare occasions when the prison staff took their time to reach the scene of the crime; after all, they’d received several complaints during the week from other prisoners concerning ‘the Vaz attitude problem”.’

  ‘What happened to the other guy?’

  ‘Mitchell?’ said Fletch. ‘Officially banged up in segregation, but they’ll be moving him to another wing tomorrow; after all, as I explained to Mr Marsland, he was doing no more than representing the views of the majority of inmates.’ Another insight into how prison politics work, with Fletch acting as the residents’ spokesman.

  Billy Little (murder) asks me if I can join him in his cell to discuss a paper he’s writing on globalization. He wants to discuss the BBC; its role and responsibility as a public broadcaster. He produces a graph to show how its viewing figures dropped by 4 per cent between 1990 and 1995, and another 4 per cent between 1995 and 2000. I tell Billy that I suspect Greg Dyke, the new Director General, having spent his working life in commercial television, will want to reverse that trend. The beneficiaries, Billy goes on to tell me, giving detailed statistics, are Sky Digital and the other digital TV stations. Their graphs have a steady upward trend.

  I ask Billy when he will have completed his degree course. He removes a sheet of paper from a file below the window. ‘September,’ he replies.

  ‘And then what?’ I ask.

  ‘I may take your advice and write a novel. I’ve no idea if I can do it, but the judge certainly gave me enough time to find out.’

  I can’t always pick up every word this Glaswegian utters, but I’m deciphering a few more syllables each day. I’ve decided to ask Alison to send him a copy of Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy. I consider it’s exactly the type of work Billy would appreciate, especially as it was Mr Seth’s first novel, so he’ll discover what he’s up against.

  When I leave him, the pool table is occupied, the queue for the two telephones is perpetual, and the afternoon film is Carry on Camping. I return to my cell, door unlocked, and continue writing.

  6.00 pm

  Supper. I risk a vegetable fritter and two prison potatoes (three mistakes). I continue to drink my bottled water as if I have an endless supply (the temperature today is 91°). Double-bubble is fast looming, and I’ll need to see Del Boy fairly soon if I am to survive. As I move down the hotplate, Andy (murder) slips two chocolate ice-creams onto my tray. ‘Put one in your pocket,’ he whispers. Now I discover what the word treat really means. Del Boy is standing at the other end of the counter in his role as number one hotplate man. An official title. As I pass the custard pie, I ask if we could meet up later. He nods. He can smell when someone’s in trouble. As a Listener, Derek is allowed to visit any cell if another inmate needs to discuss a personal problem. And I have a personal problem. I’m running out of water.

  7.00 pm

  I settle down to go over my script for the day before turning to the post. The pattern continues unabated, but to my surprise, few mention the Kurds. Paul (credit-card fraud) told me when I was queuing up at the canteen that The Times had made it clear that I had no involvement with the collecting or distributing of any monies. That had been the responsibility of the Red Cross. However, there was one letter in the pile that didn’t fall into any of the usual slots.

  I have now been locked up in a Category A, high-security prison for two weeks, which I share with thirty-two murderers, and seventeen other lifers mainly convicted of attempted murder or manslaughter; I’ve lost my mother, who I adored; I’ve been incarcerated on the word of a man who colluded with the News of the World to set me up, and by a woman who is a self-confessed thief; and I’m about to be sent to the Isle of Wight, a C-cat prison, because of the word of Baroness Nicholson. So I confess I had to chuckle, a rare event recently, when I received the following missive.

  Chan’s Optometrist

  Mr J Archer

  Belmarsh House

  Belmarsh

  South East London

  Mr Kenneth Chan BSc. MCOptom.

  90 High Street

  Lee-on-Solent

  Hampshire

  PO13 9DA

  31/7/2001

  Dear Mr. Archer

  I am sorry to trouble you. The reason I write to you is because one of my patients like yo