Hell Read online

  ‘Are you expecting to remain a lord?’

  ‘Do you hope to win your appeal?’

  ‘Do you want to say anything about your mother?’

  ‘Do you consider yourself a criminal?’

  After about a hundred yards or so they finally give up, so Mary and I chat about her forthcoming trip to Strathclyde University, where she will chair a summer school on solar energy. The date has been in her diary for some months, but she offers to cancel the trip and stay in London so she can visit me in Belmarsh. I won’t hear of it, as I need her to carry on as normal a life as possible. She sighs. The truth is, I never want Mary to see me in Belmarsh.

  When we reach the van, I turn back to look at the Old Vicarage, which I fear I won’t be seeing again for some time. I then hug my family one by one, leaving Mary to last. I look across to see my driver David Crann in tears – the first time in fifteen years I’ve seen this former SAS warrior show any vulnerability.

  On the slow journey back to Belmarsh, I once again consider what the future holds for me, and remain convinced I must above all things keep my mind alert and my body fit. The writing of a day-to-day diary seems to be my best chance for the former, and a quick return to the gym the only hope for the latter.

  3.07 pm

  Within moments of arriving back at Belmarsh, I’m put through another strip-search before being escorted to my cell on Block Three. Once again, James the Listener is waiting for me. He has from somewhere, somehow, purloined a carton of milk, a new razor* and two, yes two, towels. He perches himself on the end of the bed and tells me there is a rumour that they are going to move me to another block on Monday, as Beirut is only the induction wing.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ I ask.

  ‘If you’re going to be here for a couple of weeks, they have to decide which block to put you on while you’re waiting to be transferred to a D-cat. I think you’re going to Block One,’ says James, ‘so you’ll be with the lifers.’

  ‘Lifers?’ I gasp. ‘But doesn’t that mean I’ll be locked up all day and night?’

  ‘No, no,’ says James. ‘The lifers have a much more relaxed regime than any other block, because they keep their heads down and don’t want to be a nuisance. It’s the young ones who are on remand or doing short sentences that cause most of the trouble and therefore have to be locked up first.’

  It’s fascinating to discover how much of prison life is the exact opposite to what you would expect.

  James then gives me the bad news. He’s going to be transferred to Whitemoor Prison tomorrow morning, so I won’t be seeing him again, but he has already allocated another inmate called Kevin to be my Listener.

  ‘Kevin’s a good guy,’ he assures me, ‘even if he talks too much. So if he goes on a bit, just tell him to shut up.’

  Before James leaves, I can’t resist asking him what he’s in for.

  ‘Smuggling drugs from Holland,’ he replies matter-of-factly.

  ‘And you were caught?’

  ‘Red-handed.’

  ‘How much were the drugs worth?’

  ‘The police claimed a street value of £3.3 million. I can only imagine it must have been Harley Street,’ adds James with a wry smile.

  ‘How much did you receive for doing the job?’

  ‘Five thousand pounds.’

  ‘And your sentence?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘And Kevin?’ I ask. ‘What’s he in for?’

  ‘Oh, he was on that Dome jewellery caper, driving one of the getaway boats – trouble was he didn’t get away.’ James pauses. ‘By the way,’ he says, ‘the staff tell me that you aren’t eating.’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite accurate,’ I reply. ‘But I am living on a diet of bottled water, KitKat and Smith’s crisps, but as I’m only allowed to spend twelve pounds fifty a week, I’m already running out of my meagre provisions.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘You’ll be allowed another canteen list once they’ve transferred you to a new wing, so fill yours in tonight and Kevin can hand it in first thing in the morning.’

  I smile at the man’s ingenuity and see why the prison officers have made him a Listener. They obviously, like LBJ,* feel it’s better to have him pissing out of the tent, rather than pissing in.

  James then changes the subject to the leadership of the Conservative Party. He wants Kenneth Clarke to be the next leader, and he’s disappointed that Michael Portillo missed the cut by one vote, because he’s never heard of Iain Duncan Smith.

  ‘Why Clarke?’ I ask.

  ‘His brother was the Governor of Holloway, and has the reputation of being a fair and decent man. Mr Clarke strikes me as the same sort of bloke.’ I have to agree with James, feeling that he’s summed up Ken rather well.

  4.30 pm

  James leaves when Mr Weedon appears by the door, impatient to lock me back in. I’m beginning to learn the names of the officers. I check my watch, it’s just after four thirty. Mr Weedon explains that as it’s a Saturday and they’re short-staffed, they won’t be opening the door again until nine o’clock the next morning. As the cell door slams shut, I reflect on the fact that for the next seventeen hours I will be left alone in a room nine feet by six.

  6.00 pm

  I feel very low. This is the worst period of the day. You think of your family and what you might be doing at this time on a Saturday evening – James and I would have been watching the Open Golf from Lytham & St Anne’s, hoping against hope that Colin Montgomerie would at last win a major. William might be reading a book by some obscure author I’d never heard of. Mary would probably be in the folly at the bottom of the garden working on volume two of her book, Molecular to Global Photosynthesis, and around seven I would drive across to Saffron Walden to visit my mother, and discuss with her who should lead the Tory Party.

  My mother is dead. James is in London with his girlfriend. William is on his way back to New York. Mary is at the Old Vicarage alone, and I’m locked up in jail.

  10.00 pm

  It’s dark outside – no curtains to cover my little cell window. I’m exhausted. I pick up one of my new towels, fold it, and place it across my pillow. I lower my head onto the towel and sleep for ten hours.

  Day 4

  Sunday 22 July 2001

  5.43 am

  I wake to find my tiny cell filled with sunlight. I place my feet on the floor and can smell my own body. I decide that the first thing I must do is have a long shave before even thinking about a writing session. As soon as they unlock the door, I’ll make a dash for the showers.

  There’s no plug in the basin so I decide to improvise, and fill my plastic soup bowl with warm water and turn it into a shaving bowl.* The prison have supplied a stick of shaving soap, an old-fashioned shaving brush – I don’t think it’s badger hair – and a plastic Bic razor, not unlike the one you’re given when travelling on British Airways (economy). It takes me some time to build up any lather. Above the basin is a steel-plated mirror measuring four inches square which reflects a blurred image of a tired, bristly man. After my shave in lukewarm water, I feel a lot better, even though I’ve cut myself several times.

  I return to my chair behind the little square table, and with my back to the window begin writing. The sun is shining through the four panes of glass, reproducing a shadow of the bars on the wall in front of me – just in case I should forget where I am.

  9.01 am

  The key turns in the lock and my cell door is pushed open. I look up at an officer who has a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘What’s happened to your cell card?’ he asks. He’s referring to a white card* attached to my cell door stating my name – Archer, D-cat, release date July 19th, 2005.

  ‘It’s been removed,’ I explain. ‘I’ve had six of them in the past two days. I think you’ll find they’ve become something of a collector’s item.’

  Despite the absence of my card, the officer allows me to go off to the shower room, where I join a group of n