Purgatory Read online

  ‘But what’s it made of?’

  The ingredients are normally yeast, sugar, water and orange juice. It’s harder to produce during the summer months because you need the hot pipes that run through your cell to be boiling in order to ferment the brew, so it’s almost impossible to get decent hooch in August.’ ‘What’s it taste like?’

  ‘Awful, but at least it’s guaranteed to get you drunk,’ says Jimmy. ‘Which kills off a few more hours of your sentence, even if you wake up with one hell of a hangover.’

  ‘If you’re desperate,’ Darren adds, ‘fresh orange juice is still on the canteen list.’

  ‘How does that help?’

  ‘Just leave it on your window ledge in the sun for a few days, and you’ll soon find out.’

  ‘But where can you hide the hooch once you’ve made it?’

  ‘We used to have the perfect hiding place,’ Darren pauses, ‘but unfortunately they discovered it.’

  Jimmy smiles as I wait for an explanation. ‘One Sunday morning,’ Darren continues, ‘the number one brewer on our spur was found roaming around inebriated. When breathalysed, he registered way above the limit. The drug squad were called in, and every cell on the spur was stripped bare, but no alcohol of any kind was discovered. His hiding place would have remained a mystery if a small fire hadn’t broken out in the kitchen. An officer grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and pointed it in the direction of the blaze, only to find that the flames leapt even higher. An immediate halt was called by the chef who fortunately understood the effects of ethanol, otherwise the prison might have been razed to the ground. A full enquiry was held, and three inmates were shipped out to different B-cats the following morning, ‘on suspicion of producing hooch’.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Darren, ‘It wasn’t hooch they were guilty of brewing. This particular strain of neat alcohol had been made by filtering metal polish through six slices of bread into a plastic mug in the hope of removing any impurities.’

  I feel sick, without even having to sample the brew.

  Jimmy goes on to point out that not only are some inmates brighter than the officers, but they also have twenty-four hours every day to think up such schemes, while the screws have to get on with their job.

  ‘But the best hooch I ever tasted,’ said Darren, ‘had a secret ingredient’

  ‘And what was that, may I ask?’

  ‘Marmite. But once the screws caught on to how much yeast it contained, they took it off the canteen list’ He pauses. ‘So now we just steal the yeast from the kitchen.’

  ‘Damn,’ I said. ‘I like Marmite; it was on the Belmarsh canteen list.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good enough reason, my lord, to be transferred back to Belmarsh,’ says Darren. ‘Mind you,’ he adds, ‘perhaps I should have a word with the governor, now it’s known that you are partial to it’

  I kick him gently up the backside as an officer is passing in the opposite direction.

  ‘Did you see that, Mr Chapman? Archer is bullying me.’ ‘I’ll put him on report, and he’ll be back in Belmarsh by the end of the week,’ Mr Chapman promises.

  We laugh as we continue on the perimeter circuit. However, I point out how easy it is to make an accusation, and how long it takes to refute it. It’s been a month since Emma Nicholson appeared on Newsnight insinuating that I had stolen money intended for the Kurds, and it will probably be another month before the police confirm there is no case to answer.

  ‘But just think about that for a minute, Jeffrey. If it hadn’t been for that bitch Nicholson, you would never have met Jimmy and me, who have not only added greatly to your knowledge of prison life, but enabled a further volume to be written.’

  7.30 pm

  One of the officers says there’s a package for me in the office. I’m puzzled as I’ve already had my mail for today, and registered letters are always opened in front of two officers, around eleven each morning. When I walk in, he makes a point of closing the office door before he hands over a copy of Alan Clark’s Diaries, a pad and a book of stamps. Someone else who considers the regulations damned stupid.

  He goes on to say that my wife will be searched when she visits the prison tomorrow. We’re all embarrassed about it,’ he adds, ‘but it will be no worse than at an airport. But perhaps it might be wise to let her know. By the way, the press are still hanging about hoping to catch her when she arrives.’ I thank him and leave.

  8.00 pm

  I read a few pages of the Clark Diaries, which I enjoy every bit as much a second time. I also enjoyed Alan’s company, and will never forget a dinner party he gave at Saltwood just before the general election in 1997. Alan posed the question to his guests, ‘What do you think the majority will be at the next election?’ Most of the assembled gathering thought Labour would win by over a hundred. The only dissenter was Michael Howard, who was Home Secretary at the time. He put up a bold defence of John Major’s administration, and told his fellow guests that he felt it was still possible for the Conservatives to win the next election. Alan told him that if he really believed that, he was living in cloud cuckoo land. I don’t know to this day if Michael was simply being loyal to the prime minister. Although I can tell you that, like John Major, he is one of those people who doesn’t cross over to the other side of the road when you’re in trouble.

  10.00 pm

  Suddenly feel very hungry - eat a bowl of cornflakes and a Mars bar. Check my clothes - still not dry. I don’t bother with another of John Mortimer’s great trials. Feel I have enough murderers surrounding me without having to read about them.

  DAY 30 - FRIDAY 17 AUGUST 2001

  6.09 am

  The first thing I notice when I wake is that my Mach3 razor has disappeared. The wash basin is next to the door. In future, after I’ve shaved, I’ll have to hide it in my cupboard. It would have to be stolen on the day Mary is visiting me; I want to be clean shaven but I don’t want to cut myself to ribbons with a prison razor. It also reminds me that, because I hadn’t expected to be convicted, I’ve been wearing my Longines watch for the past month, and I must hand it over to my son during the visit this afternoon.

  8.15 am

  Breakfast. Before I go down to the hotplate, I extract a letter from yesterday’s mail that is in Spanish. Dale has told me that one of the servers on the hotplate hails from Colombia, so he should be able to translate it for me. His name is Sergio, and he usually stands quietly on the end of the line, handing out the fruit. I pass the missive across to him, and ask if we could meet later. He nods, and hands me a banana in return.

  9.00 am

  Today’s induction is education, once again held in the room with the comfy chairs. For the first time the other prisoners show some interest. Why? Because this is how they’ll earn their weekly wage. The head of education introduces herself as Wendy. She must be in her fifties, has curly grey hair, wears a flowery blouse, white skirt and sensible shoes. She has the air of a headmistress. Wendy wheels a little projector up to the front, and begins a slide show. Using the white brick wall as a backdrop, she shows us what her department has to offer. The first slide reveals five options:

  Basic skills

  English as an additional language

  Social and life skills

  Business skills

  Art, craft and design

  ‘Education,’ Wendy points out, ‘is part-time (one session a day), so you can only earn seven pounds thirty-five per week.’ The other prisoners don’t take a great deal of interest in this slide, but immediately perk up when the second chart flashes on to the wall. VT and CIT training courses:

  Bricklaying

  Plumbing

  Electrical installation

  Painting and decorating

  Welding

  Motor mechanics

  Light vehicle body repair

  Industrial cleaning

  Computer application

  The weekly pay for any one of these courses is also PS7.35, but does give you a basic train