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  ‘I see that there are a lot of empty seats in the stands,’ says Mr Hughes, ‘but I find it hard to believe that they’re all now in prison.’

  Just as Macey goes to his blocks, I spot Joseph standing in the corner – a man who prefers the centre of the room. I leave the World Athletics Championships for a moment to join him.

  ‘Any news of your son?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’ He looks surprised that I’ve found out about his problem. ‘I’ve phoned his mother, who says that he’s under arrest and she’s trying to get in touch with the British Consul. They’ve got him banged up in a local jail. What are prisons like in Cyprus?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I tell him. ‘Until they sent me to Belmarsh, I didn’t know what they were like in England. Just be thankful it’s not Turkey. What’s he been charged with?’

  ‘Nothing. They found him asleep in a house where some locals had been smoking cannabis, but they’ve warned him he could end up with a seven-year sentence.’

  ‘Not if he was asleep, surely,’ I suggest. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Eighteen, and what makes it worse, while I’m stuck in here I can’t do anything about it. My wife says she’ll phone the Governor the moment she hears anything.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I say, and return to the athletics.

  Mr Hughes tells me I missed Macey. He came second in his heat, in a new personal best. ‘You can’t ask for more than a PB from any athlete,’ says Roger Black, the BBC commentator, and adds, ‘Stay with us, because it’s going to be an exciting day here in Edmonton.’

  ‘Lock-up,’ shouts the officer behind the desk at the other end of the room.

  I politely point out to the officer that Roger Black has told us we must stay with him.

  ‘Mr Black is there, and I’m here,’ comes back the immediate reply, ‘so it’s lock-up, Archer.’

  6.00 pm

  Supper. I am now in possession of two tins of Prince’s ham (49p), so I take one down to the hotplate to have it opened. Tony adds two carefully selected potatoes, which makes a veritable feast when accompanied by a mug of blackcurrant juice.

  After supper I return to work on my script, when suddenly the door is opened by an officer I have never seen before.

  ‘Good evening,’ he says. ‘I know you’ll be off soon, so I wonder if you’d be kind enough to sign this book for my wife. The bookshop told me that it was your latest.’

  ‘I would be happy to do so,’ I tell him, ‘but it’s not mine. It’s been written by Geoffrey Archer. I spell my name with a J. It’s a problem we’ve both had for years.’

  He looks a little surprised, and then says, ‘I’ll take it back and get it changed. See you at the same time tomorrow.’

  Once I’ve finished today’s script, I read three letters Alison has handed over to Tony Morton-Hooper. One of them is from Victoria Barnsley, the Chairman of my publisher, HarperCollins, saying that she is looking forward to reading In the Lap of the Gods, and goes on to let me know that Adrian Bourne, who has taken care of me since Eddie Bell, the former Chairman, left the company, will be taking early retirement. I’ll miss them both as they have played such an important role in my publishing career.

  The second letter is from my young researcher, Johann Hari, to tell me that he’s nearly ready to go over his notes for In the Lap of the Gods.* Though he points out that he still prefers the original title Serendipity.

  The last letter is from Stephan Shakespeare, who was my chief of staff when I stood as Conservative candidate for Mayor of London. His loyalty since the day I resigned brings to mind that wonderful poem by Kipling, ‘The Thousandth Man’. Among the many views Stephan expresses with confidence is that Iain Duncan Smith will win the election for Leader of the Conservative Party by a mile.

  We won’t have to wait much longer to find out if he’s right.

  Day 21

  Wednesday 8 August 2001

  6.03 am

  This will be my last full day at Belmarsh. I mustn’t make it too obvious, otherwise the press will be waiting outside the gate, and then accompany us all the way to Norfolk. I sit down at my desk and write for two hours.

  8.07 am

  Breakfast. Shreddies, UHT milk, and an apple. I empty the box of Shreddies, just enough for two helpings.

  9.00 am

  I am standing in my gym kit, ready for my final session, when Ms Williamson unlocks my cell door and asks if I’m prepared to do another creative-writing class.

  ‘When do you have it planned for?’ I ask, not wanting her to know that this is my last day, and I’ve somehow managed to get myself on the gym rota.

  She looks at her watch. ‘In about half an hour,’ she replies.

  I curse under my breath, change out of my gym kit into slacks and a rather becoming Tiger T-shirt which Will packed for me the day I was sentenced. On my way to the classroom, I pass Joseph at the pool table. He’s potting everything in sight, and looking rather pleased with himself.

  ‘Any more news about Justin?’ I enquire.

  He smiles. ‘They’ve deported him.’ He glances at his watch. ‘He should be landing at Heathrow in about an hour.’ He pots a red. ‘His mother will be there to meet him, and I’ve told her to give him a good clip round the ear.’ He sinks a yellow. ‘She won’t, of course,’ he adds with a grin.

  ‘That’s good news,’ I tell him, and continue my unescorted journey to the classroom.

  When I arrive I find Mr Anders, the visiting teacher, waiting for me. He looks a bit put out, so I immediately ask him how he would like to play it.

  ‘Had you anything planned?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ I tell him. ‘Last week we agreed that the group would bring in something they had written to read to the class, and then we would all discuss it. But not if you had anything else in mind.’

  ‘No, no, that sounds fine.’

  This week, nine prisoners and three members of staff turn up. Four of them have remembered to bring along some written work: Colin reads his critique of Frank McCourt’s latest book, Tony takes us through his essay on prison reform, which is part of the syllabus for Ruskin College, Oxford, Terry reads a chapter of his novel and we end with Billy’s piece on his reaction to hearing that he’d been sentenced to life, and his innermost thoughts during the hours that followed. I chose Billy’s work to end on, because as before it was in a different class to any other contribution. I end the session with a few words about the discipline of writing, aware that I would not be with them this time tomorrow. I’m confident that at least three of the group will continue with their projects after I’ve departed, and that in time Billy’s efforts will be published. I will be the first in the queue for a signed copy.

  On the way back to my cell, I bump into Liam, who, when he’s on the hotplate, always tries to slip me a second ice-cream. He thrusts out his hand and says, ‘I just wanted to say goodbye.’ I turn red; I’ve not said a word to anybody following my meeting with Mr Leader, so how has Liam found out?

  ‘Who told you?’ I asked.

  ‘The police,’ he replied. ‘They’ve agreed to bail, so I’m being released this morning. My solicitor says that probably means that they are going to drop all the charges.’

  ‘I’m delighted,’ I tell him. ‘But how long have you been in jail?’

  ‘Three and a half months.’

  Three and a half months Liam has been locked up in Belmarsh waiting to find out that the police are probably going to drop all the charges. I wish him well before he moves on to shake another well-wisher by the hand. What was he charged with? Perverting the course of justice. A taped phone conversation was the main evidence, which the court has now ruled inadmissible.

  Once I’m back on the spur, I phone Alison to let her know that ten more days of the diary are on their way. She tells me that the letters are still pouring in, and she’ll forward on to Wayland those from close friends. I then warn her I’m running out of writing pads; could she send a dozen on to Wayland along