Purgatory Read online

  ‘And some of them even manage to make more money inside prison than they did outside’ adds Jason.

  The call for tea is bellowed down the corridor by an officer. I close my notepad, thank Jason for the slippers and wash bag, not to mention the tutorial, and return to my cell.

  5.00 pm

  Supper: vegetarian pie and two potatoes. If I become enhanced, I will be allowed to have my own plate plus a mug or cup sent in, not to mention curtains.

  6.00 pm

  Write for just over an hour.

  7.15 pm

  Watch Sue Barker and Roger Black sum up the World Athletics Championship, which has been a disaster for Britain. One gold for Jonathan Edwards in the triple jump and a bronze for Dean Macey in the decathlon. The worst result for Britain since the games began in 1983, and that was following such a successful Olympics in Sydney. I’m almost able to convince myself that I’m glad I was prevented from attending.

  8.00 pm

  Read through my letters. Just over a hundred today.

  9.00 pm

  Jules and I watch a modern version of Great Expectations with Robert De Niro and Gwyneth Paltrow. If I hadn’t been in prison, I would have walked out after fifteen minutes.

  I begin to read Famous Trials selected by John Mortimer. I start with Rattenbury and Stones, the problem of a younger man falling in love with an older woman. Now that’s something I haven’t experienced. I fall asleep around eleven.

  DAY 27 - TUESDAY 14 AUGUST 2001

  6.18 am

  Overslept. After a night’s rain, the sun is peeping through my four-bar window. I write for a couple of hours.

  8.20 am

  Breakfast: two Weetabix, one hard-boiled egg and a piece of toast.

  10.56 am

  I’ve been writing for about an hour when the cell door is opened; Mr Clarke tells me that as part of my induction I must attend a meeting with a representative from the BoV (Board of Visitors). Everything has an acronym nowadays.

  Nine prisoners assemble in a waiting room opposite Mr Newport’s office. There are eleven comfortable chairs set in a semicircle, and a low table in the middle of the room. If there had been a few out-of-date magazines scattered on the table, it could have passed for a GP’s waiting room. We have to hang around for a few minutes before being joined by a man in his late fifties, who looks like a retired solicitor or bank manager. He’s about five foot nine with greying hair and a warm smile. He wears an open-neck shirt and a pair of grey flannels. I suspect that the only other time he’s this casually dressed is on a Sunday afternoon.

  He introduces himself as Keith Flintcroft, and goes on to explain that the Board is made up of sixteen local people appointed by the Home Office. They are not paid, which gives them their independence.

  ‘We can see the governor or any officer on request, and although we have no power, we do have considerable influence. Our main purpose,’ he continues, ‘is to deal with prisoners’ complaints. However, our authority ends when it comes to an order of the governor. For example, we cannot stop a prisoner being placed in segregation, but we can make sure that we are supplied with details of the offence within a period of seventy-two hours. We can also read any written material on a prisoner with the exception of their legal papers or medical records.’

  Mr Flintcroft comes over as a thoroughly decent bloke, a man who obviously believes in giving service to the local community. Just like so many thousands of citizens up and down the country he expects little reward other than the satisfaction of doing a worthwhile job. I believe that if he felt a prisoner was getting a rough deal, he would, within the limits of his power, try to do something about it.

  He ends his ten-minute chat by saying, ‘You’ll find that we spend a lot of our time roaming around the prison. You can’t miss us because we wear these distinctive buff-coloured name badges. So feel free to come and talk to us whenever you want to - in complete confidence. Now, are there any questions?’

  To my surprise, there are none. Why doesn’t anyone mention the state of the cells on the induction wing compared with the rest of the prison? Why, when there is a painter on each wing, who I observe working every day, isn’t there one to spruce up the induction wing? Do they leave the wing in a filthy condition so that when inmates are moved to another part of the prison they’ll feel it’s an improvement, or is it that they just can’t cope with the turnover of prisoners? Either way, I would like to tell Governor Kate Cawley (I’ve discovered the governor’s name on a notice board, but haven’t yet come across her) that it’s degrading, and a blip in an otherwise well-run prison. Why are the induction prisoners locked up for such long hours while the rest of the inmates are given far more freedom? And why… And then it hits me. I am the only person in that room who hasn’t been through this process before, and the others either simply don’t give a damn or can’t see the point of it. They are mostly hardened criminals who just want to complete their sentence and have as easy a time as possible before returning to a life of crime. They believe that the likes of Mr Flintcroft will make absolutely no difference to their lives. I suspect that the likes of Mr Flintcroft have, over the years, made a great deal of difference to their lives, without their ever realizing or appreciating it.

  Once Mr Flintcroft accepts that there are going to be no questions, we all file out and return to our cells. I stop and thank him for carrying out his thankless task.

  12 noon

  Mr Chapman tells me I have a large parcel in reception, which I can pick up after dinner (lunch).

  12.15 pm

  Lunch: spam fritters, two potatoes and a glass of Evian. HELP! I’m running out of Evian.

  12.35 pm

  I report to reception and collect my parcel, or what’s left of it. It originally consisted of two books: Alan Clark’s Diaries, and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby, which has been sent in by Anton, one of James’s closest friends. They’re accompanied by a long letter about the latest bust-up with his girlfriend (I do love the young - only their problems exist) and, from Alison, a dozen writing pads, two packets of liquid-point pens and six books of first-class stamps. Mr Chapman explains that I can keep the long letter from Anton, but everything else will be placed in my box at reception and returned to me only when I’m transferred or released.

  3.15 pm

  I have become so accustomed to prison life that I not only remember to take my gym card, but also a towel and a bottle of water to my afternoon gym session. The running machine still isn’t working, so I’m back to ten minutes on the rower (1,837 metres - not very impressive) followed by a light weight-training session and ten minutes on the bike, which I now know how to turn on and, more importantly, turn off.

  Everett (GBH) leaves his 240-pound bench press, and asks if he can have a swig of my Evian. I nod, as I don’t think there’s much of an alternative. A moment later his black weight-lifting partner - taller and wider - strolls across and takes a swig without asking. By the time I’ve finished stretching, the bottle is empty.

  Once I’m back on my wing I try to take a shower, but the door is locked. I look through the tiny window. It’s all steamed up, and two prisoners are banging on the door trying to get out. I cannot believe that it is prison policy to lock them in and me out. I hang around for about ten minutes with a couple of other prisoners before an officer eventually appears. I tell him I’d like to have a shower.

  ‘You’ve missed your chance.’

  ‘I didn’t have a chance,’ I tell him. It’s been locked for the past ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ve only been away for a minute, maybe two,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve been standing here for nearly ten minutes,’ I politely point out.

  If I say it’s one minute, it’s one minute,’ he says.

  I return to my cell. I now feel cold and sweaty. I sit down to write.

  6.00 pm

  Supper. A bowl of thick, oily soup is all I can face. Back in my cell I pour myself half a mug of blackcurrant ju