A Prison Diary Read online

  ‘How long will they leave him there?’

  ‘About ten days,’ Peach replies.

  ‘Have you ever been in segregation?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he says firmly, ‘I want to get out of this place as quickly as possible, and that’s the easiest way to be sure your sentence is lengthened.’

  Once the commotion has died down, Mr Young returns to unlock the door and we continue our journey back to the cells as if nothing had happened.

  Each block has four spurs, which run off from the centre like a Maltese cross. In the middle of the cross is an octangular glass office, known as the bubble, which is situated on the centre of the three floors. From this vantage point, the staff can control any problems that might arise. As we pass the bubble, I ask the duty officer what happened.

  ‘One of the prisoners,’ he explains, ‘has used threatening and abusive language when addressing a woman officer.’ He adds no further detail to this meagre piece of information.

  Once back in my cell, Terry tells me that the prisoner will be put on report and be up in front of the Governor tomorrow morning. He also confirms that he’ll probably end up with ten days in solitary.

  ‘Have you ever been in segregation?’ I ask him.

  ‘Three times,’ he admits. ‘But I was younger then, and can tell you, I don’t recommend it, even as an experience for your diary. By the way,’ he adds, ‘I’ve just phoned my dad. The Daily Express have been onto him offering a grand for a photo of me – the con Jeffrey has to live with – and they’ve offered him another thousand if he’ll give them all the details of my past criminal record. He told them to bugger off, but he says they just won’t go away. They sounded disappointed when he told them I wasn’t a murderer.’

  ‘You will be by the time the Sunday editions come out,’ I promise him.

  2.00 pm

  Another officer opens the door to tell us that our afternoon Association will be cut short because the prison staff are holding a meeting. Terry tells the officer who passes on this information that any staff meeting should be held when we are banged up, not during Association. He makes a fair point, but all the officer says is, ‘It’s not my decision,’ and slams the door.

  2.02 pm

  What is almost impossible to describe in its full horror is the time you spend banged up. So please do not consider this diary to be a running commentary, because I would only ask you to think about the endless hours in between. Heaven knows what that does to lifers who can see no end to their incarceration, and do not have the privilege of being able to occupy their time writing. In my particular case, there is Hope, a word you hear prisoners using all the time. They hope that they’ll win their case, have their sentence cut, be let out on parole, or just be moved to a single cell. For me, as a Category D prisoner, I simply hope to be transferred to Ford Open Prison as soon as possible. But God knows what a lifer hopes for, and I resolve to try and find out during the next few days.

  4.30 pm

  Association. At last the cell door is opened for an extended period of time – forty-five minutes. When I walk down to join the other inmates on the ground floor, Paul (murder) hands me a book of first-class stamps, and asks for nothing in return. He either has no one to write to, or perhaps can’t write. ‘I hear you’re having a postage problem,’ is all he says, and walks away. I do not explain that my PA is dealing with all my letters, and therefore I have no postage problem, because it would only belittle such a thoughtful gesture.

  During Association I notice that the high barred gates at the end of the room lead onto a larger outer area which has its own television, pool table, and more comfortable chairs. But I’m not permitted to enter this hallowed territory as you can only leave the restricted area if you’re an enhanced prisoner.

  There are three levels of prisoner: basic, standard and enhanced. Every inmate begins their sentence as standard – in the middle. This leaves you the chance to go up or down, and that decision depends solely on your behaviour. Someone who wishes to take on more responsibility, like being a Listener, a tea-boy or a cleaner, will quickly be promoted to enhanced status and enjoy the privileges that go with it. However, anyone who attacks a prison officer or is caught taking drugs will be downgraded to basic. And these things matter when it comes to your standard of living in prison, and later when the authorities consider your parole, and possible early release.

  Terry, my cell-mate, hates authority and refuses to go along with the system, so spends his life bobbing up and down between basic and standard. Derek ‘Del Boy’ Bicknell, on the other hand, took advantage of the system and quickly became enhanced. But then he is bright, and well capable of taking on responsibility. He already has the free run of the ground floor and in fact never seems to be in his cell. I hope by now you have a picture in your mind of Del Boy, because he’s a six-foot, twenty-stone West Indian who wears a thin gold chain around his neck, a thicker one around his right wrist, and sports the latest designer watch. He also wears a fashionable tracksuit and Nike shoes. Come to think of it, I’m the only prisoner who still wears a shirt, but if I were to remain here for any length of time, I would also end up wearing a tracksuit.

  5.30 pm

  Supper, called tea, is being served, so I return to my cell to collect my plastic tray and plate. Tonight it’s egg and bacon and I’m just too hungry to say no. The egg has a solid yolk and the greasy bacon is fatty, curling and inedible. I drink a mug of Highland Spring water (a trade for two autographs on birthday cards) and finish the meal with a bowl of Cup a Soup (minestrone, 24p). At the next election no one will be able to accuse me of not knowing the price of goods in the supermarket, not to mention their true value.

  Terry cleans our utensils before we return to Association on the ground floor, where I find Del Boy running a card school at the other end of the room. Why am I not surprised? He beckons me to join them. The game is made up of four lifers who are playing Kaluki. I watch a couple of hands while trying to keep an eye on the phone queue, as I’m hoping to speak to Mary. She should have returned from her day at Strathclyde University and be back in her hotel. By now you will have realized that she can’t call me.

  Paul (murder and stamps) announces he needs to phone his girlfriend and suggests I take over his hand while he joins the queue.

  ‘Jeff’s got to be an improvement on you,’ says Derek as Paul rises to depart.

  I lose the first hand badly, survive the second, and win the third. Thankfully, before Del Boy starts dealing the fourth, Paul returns.

  ‘His Lordship’s not bad,’ says Derek, ‘not bad at all.’ I’m slowly being accepted.

  The queue for the two phones doesn’t seem to diminish, so I spend some time talking to a young lifer called Michael (murder). He’s very pale-skinned, extremely thin, and covered in tattoos, with needle tracks up and down his arms. He invites me into his cell, and shows me a picture of his wife and child. By the time Michael is released from prison, his eight-month-old daughter will have left school, probably be married and have children of her own. In fact this twenty-two-year-old boy may well be a grandfather by the time he’s released.

  When I leave Michael’s cell to rejoin the others I spot Ms Roberts, the Deputy Governor, who came to visit me when I was on the medical wing. She is surrounded by lifers. Ms Roberts has a real gift for putting these desperate men at ease.

  I finally give up and join the phone queue, aware that we are fast approaching lock-up. When at last I make the one spare phone out of two a lifer who is on the other line leans over to warn me that any conversations made on these phones are tape-recorded by the police. I thank him, but can’t imagine what they would find of interest eavesdropping on a chat with my wife. A hotel operator answers the call and puts me through to her room. The phone rings and rings.

  7.00 pm

  I return to my cell to be faced with another mountain of mail. Terry helps by taking them out of their envelopes before placing them in piles, cards on one side, letters on the other, whil