A Prison Diary Read online

‘The same source,’ James continues, ‘is hinting that you’re more likely to end up in the home counties, but they’re still working on it.’

  I check my phonecard; I’ve already used six units. ‘Anything else?’ I ask. I want to save as many units as possible for Mary on Sunday.

  ‘Yes, I need your authority to transfer some dollars into your sterling account. The pound has been off for the past couple of days.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ I tell him.

  ‘By the way,’ he says, ‘lots of people are talking about the judge’s summing-up, so chin up. Bye, Dad.’

  I put the phone down to find I have used seven of my twenty units. I leave James to worry about the currency market while I concentrate on trying to get my hands on a bottle of Highland Spring.

  I check my watch. No point in returning to the gym queue, so I settle for a shower. You forget how dirty you are, until you discover how clean you can be.

  11.00 am

  The officer on the front desk bellows out, ‘Exercise,’ which once again I avoid. It’s 92° out there in the yard, with no shade. I elect to sit in my cell, writing, with the tiny window as wide open as I can force it. When I’ve completed ten pages of script, I switch on the Test Match. The game is only an hour old, and England are 47 for 2.

  12 noon

  Lunch. I pick up my tray and walk down to the hotplate, but can’t find a single item I would offer an emaciated dog. I leave with a piece of buttered bread and an apple. Back in my cell I tuck into the other half of my tin of Prince’s ham, two more McVitie’s digestive biscuits, and a mug of water. I try to convince myself that Del Boy is the man, and he will deliver – in the nick of time – because there’s only two inches left in the bottle. Have you ever had to measure how much water is left in a bottle?

  2.00 pm

  An officer appears outside my cell door and orders me to report to the workshop, which I’m not enthusiastic about. After all, my application for education must surely have been processed by now. When I arrive at the bubble on the centre floor to join the other prisoners, I’m searched before having my name ticked off. We are then escorted down a long corridor to our different destinations – workshop and education. When we reach the end of the corridor, prisoners destined for the workshop turn left, those with higher things on their mind, right. I turn right.

  When I arrive at education, I walk past a set of classrooms with about six or seven prisoners in each; a couple of prison officers are lounging around in one corner, while a lady sitting behind a desk on the landing crosses off the names of inmates before allocating them to different classrooms. I come to a halt in front of her.

  ‘Archer,’ I tell her.

  She checks down the list, but can’t find my name. She looks puzzled, picks up a phone and quickly discovers that I ought to be in the workshop.

  ‘But Ms Fitt told me I would be processed for education immediately.’

  ‘Strange word, immediately,’ she says. ‘I don’t think anyone at Belmarsh has looked up its meaning in the dictionary, and until they do I’m afraid you’ll have to report to the workshops.’ I can’t imagine what the words ‘until they do’ mean. I retrace my steps, walking as slowly as I can in the direction of the workshops, and find I am the last to arrive.

  This time I’m put on the end of the chain gang – a punishment for being the last to turn up. My new, intellectually challenging job is to place two small packets of margarine, one sachet of raspberry jam, and one of coffee into a plastic bag before it’s sealed up and taken away for use in another prison. The young man opposite me who is sealing up the bags and then dropping them into a large cardboard box looks like a wrestler. He’s about five foot ten, early twenties, wears a spotless white T-shirt and smart designer jeans. His heavily muscled arms are bronzed, so it’s not difficult to work out that he hasn’t been in Belmarsh that long. The answer to that question turns out to be three weeks. He tells me that his name is Peter. He’s married with one child and runs his own company.

  ‘What do you do?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m a builder.’ When a prisoner say’s ‘I’m’ something, and not ‘I used to be’ something, then you can almost be certain that their sentence is short or they’re on remand. Peter goes on to tell me that he and his brother run a small building company that specializes in buying dilapidated houses in up-and-coming areas of Essex. They renovate the houses and then sell them on. Last year, between them, they were able to earn around two thousand pounds a week. But that was before Peter was arrested. He comes across as a hard-working, decent sort of man. So what’s he doing in Belmarsh? I ask myself. Who can he possibly have murdered? His brother, perhaps? He answers that question without my having to enquire.

  ‘I was caught driving my brother’s van without a licence. My brother usually does the driving, but he was off sick for the day, so I took his building tools from the work site to my home and for that the judge sentenced me to six weeks in jail.’

  Let me make it clear. I have no objection to the sentence, but it’s madness to have sent this man to Belmarsh. I do hope that the Home Secretary, Mr Blunkett – who I know from personal dealings when John Major was Prime Minister to be a decent, caring man – will read the next page carefully.

  ‘Are you in a cell on your own?’ I enquire.

  ‘No, I’m locked up with two other prisoners.’

  ‘What are they in for?’

  ‘One’s on a charge of murder awaiting his trial, the other’s a convicted drug dealer.’

  ‘That can’t be much fun,’ I say, trying to make light of it.

  Are you still with me, Home Secretary?

  ‘It’s hell,’ Peter replies. ‘I haven’t slept for more than a few minutes since the night they sent me here. I just can’t be sure what either of them might get up to. I can handle myself, but the two men I’m sharing a cell with are professional criminals.’

  Are you still paying attention, Home Secretary?

  ‘And worse,’ he adds. ‘One of them offered me a thousand pounds to beat up a witness before his trial begins.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I hear myself say.

  ‘And he’s putting more and more pressure on me each day. Of course I wouldn’t consider such an idea, but I’ve still got another three weeks to go, and I’m beginning to fear that I might not be safe even when I get out.’

  Home Secretary, this hard-working family man is fearful for his own safety. Is that what you’re hoping to achieve for someone who’s been caught driving without a licence?

  I’ve received over a thousand letters of support since I arrived a Belmarsh and even at sixty-one I have found prison a difficult experience to come to terms with. Peter is twenty-three, with his whole life ahead of him. Hundreds of people are being sent to this Category A top-security prison who should never be here.

  But what can I do about it? I can hear the Home Secretary asking one of his officials.

  Classify anyone who is arrested as A, B, C or D before their trial begins, not after. Then, if they’re D-cat – first-time offenders with no record of violence – they can, if convicted, be sent direct to an open prison. That way they won’t have to share cells with murderers, drug dealers or professional criminals. And don’t listen to officials when they tell you it can’t be done. Sack them, and do it. I was allocated D-cat status within twenty-four hours because of my mother’s funeral, so I know it can be done.

  Home Secretary, you are doing irreparable damage to decent people’s lives and you have no right to do so.

  While I’m trying to take in Peter’s plight, the pile of plastic bags has grown into a mountain in front of me. Another prisoner who I hadn’t noticed before, obviously an old lag, slots quickly into the one position that ensures the chain moves back into full swing.

  ‘This place is more about retribution than rehabilitation, wouldn’t you say, Jeffrey?’ What is it about the Irish that always makes you relax and feel you’ve known them all your life? I nod my agreement. He smiles, and introd