Purgatory Read online

  I have never seen a more frightened man in my life. What he didn’t know was that I was even more terrified than he was. I couldn’t forget the punishment meted out in Belmarsh for being a grass - hot water mixed with sugar thrown in your face - or the man with the four razor-blade scars administered in the shower. I quickly leave the exercise yard and go back to my cell, pull the door closed, and sit on the end of the bed, shaking.

  4.00 pm

  When Jules returns, I’m still shaking. I go off in search of Dale.

  ‘I know that bastard’ says Dale. ‘Just leave him to me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I ask

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘I have to. I’m trying not to cause any trouble.’

  ‘He won’t trouble you again, that I guarantee.’ He then raises his twenty-seven-stone frame from the end of the bed and departs.

  4.30 pm

  Association: I emerge from the enhanced wing with two Mars bars, having played a couple of games of backgammon with Darren. I become aware of the most incredible uproar emanating from the games room. Am I about to experience my first riot? I glance anxiously round the door to see a group of West Indians playing dominoes. Every time they place a domino on the table, it’s slammed down as if a judge were trying to bring a rowdy courtroom to order. This is followed by screaming delight more normally associated with Lara scoring a century at Sabina Park. The officer on duty, Mr Nutbourne, and the other inmates playing snooker, pool and table tennis don’t seem at all disturbed by this. I stroll across to join the dozen or so West Indians and decide to watch a couple of games. One of them looks up from the table, and shouts, ‘You wanna try your luck, man?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply, and take a seat vacated by one of the players.

  A West Indian with greying hair divides the dominoes between the four of us and we each end up with seven pieces. The player on my right is able to begin the game as he has a double six. He places his prize with a thump in the middle of the table, which is followed by shouts and screams from the assembled gathering. The game progresses for four rounds without any player failing to place a domino on the end of the line. During the next round the player on my left doesn’t have a three or six, so passes and, as I have a six, I place my domino quietly on the table. I notice the brothers are becoming a little less noisy. By this time a large crowd has gathered round until only two of us are left with one domino; I have a five and a four, but it is my opponent’s turn. If he’s going to win, he has to hit, and hit now. The brothers fall almost silent. Can the player on my left thwart me and win the game? I pray for the second time that day. He has neither a four nor a one, and passes without a murmur. I try desperately to keep a poker face, while holding my last domino in the palm of my hand. A forest of black eyes are staring at me. I quietly place my four next to the four on the right-hand end and so much bedlam breaks out that even Mr Nutbourne decides to find out what’s going on. I rise to leave.

  ‘Another game, man? Another game?’ they demand.

  ‘How kind of you’ I say, ‘but I must get back to my writing. It’s been a pleasure to play you.’ This is followed by much slapping of hands. I depart quickly, aware that if I were to play a second round, the myth would be shattered. Frankly I know nothing of the subtleties of the game, having just brought a new meaning to the phrase ‘beginner’s luck.

  5.45 pm

  Supper. When I reach the hotplate, Dale takes my plastic bowl and, just as Tony always did at Belmarsh, decides what I shall be allowed to eat. He selects a vegetarian quiche, a few lettuce leaves carefully extracted from a large bowl and a tomato. I will no longer have to think about what to eat as long as Dale’s on duty.

  6.00 pm

  Jules and I are banged up again until eight tomorrow morning. Fourteen hours in a cell seven paces by three, just in case you’ve forgotten. As it’s Sunday, there are no letters awaiting me, so I just go over my script before returning to Hermann Hesse.

  9.00 pm

  Jules and I watch Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline in French Kiss, which has us both laughing, but then we are a captive audience.

  10.54 pm

  I settle my head on my new soft pillow. It isn’t goose down, or even duck feather - just foam rubber - but I know luxury when I feel it.

  DAY 26 - MONDAY 13 AUGUST 2001

  6.03 am

  Yesterday’s early morning commotion in the corridor turned out to be a prisoner needing medication and the assistance of a Listener. He had pressed the emergency call button. There’s one in every cell next to the door which, when pressed, illuminates a small red light in the corridor, while another flashes up in the main office. It is known by the inmates as room service, although prison orders state that it must be used only in emergencies, otherwise you will be placed on report. I couldn’t find out why the prisoner needed the help of a Listener, but as it was his first night at Wayland, it could have been for any number of reasons. Remembering my first night, I can only sympathize. I write for two hours.

  8.15 am

  Breakfast. Sugar Puffs (mine), milk (theirs). One egg on a slice of toast (theirs), a second slice of toast (theirs), marmalade (mine).

  10.00 am

  Banged up for two hours, which I plan on using to work on the second draft of this morning’s script. That’s assuming there are no interruptions - there are two.

  10.49 am

  The cell door is unlocked by Mr Newport, who wants to talk to Jules about his application for a change of status from C-cat to D-cat. Jules explains that he has written his reasons in a letter so that they (the authorities) will have all the relevant details on record. Mr Newport glances over the two pages and promises to arrange an interview with Mr Stainthorpe, the classifications officer. The cell door is banged shut.

  11.09 am

  The cell door is opened a second time. On this occasion it’s Mr Nutbourne, who says, ‘Now tell me, Jeffrey’ (the first officer to call me by my Christian name) ‘do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘You decide,’ I suggest.

  ‘You won’t be going to C wing after all, because we’re going to move you down to join your friends on the enhanced corridor.’

  ‘So what’s the bad news?’ I ask.

  Unfortunately, a cell won’t be available until 29 August, when the next prisoner on that corridor will have completed his sentence.’

  ‘But you could still put me in a single cell on another part of the block.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ he says with a grin, before slamming the door closed.

  12 noon

  Lunch: soup (minestrone) and a piece of brown bread (fresh). Couldn’t face the meat pie. Heaven knows what animal’s inside it..

  2.00 pm

  Gym: I’m the first to set foot in the gym, only to find that the running machine has broken down. Damn, damn, damn.

  I warm up and stretch for a few minutes before doing ten minutes on the rower. I manage 1,909 metres, a vast improvement on yesterday. A little light weight training before moving on to a bicycle, the like of which I have never seen before. I can’t get the hang of it until Mr Maiden comes to my rescue and explains that once you’ve set the speed, the peddles just revolve until you stop them. He sets the pace at thirty kilometres per hour, and leaves me to get on with it. I sweat away for ten minutes, and then realize I don’t know how to turn it off. I shout to Everett (GBH) for help - a black man who I sat next to during the dominoes encounter - but he just grins, or simply doesn’t understand my predicament. When my screaming goes up a decibel, Mr Maiden finally comes to my rescue. He can’t stop laughing as he shows me which button I have to press to bring the machine to a halt. It’s marked STOP - in red. I fall off the bike, exhausted, which causes much mirth among the other prisoners, especially the dominoes players. I use the rest of my time lying on a rubber mat recovering.

  As the prisoners begin to make their way back to their cells - no gates, no searches - I’m called to Mr Maiden’s office. Once his door