Heaven: A Prison Diary Part 12

4.08 pm An announcement over the tannoy instructs me to report to reception. I arrive to be told by Sergeant Major Daff that I have been sent two Christmas cakes one from Mrs Gerald Scarfe, better known as Jane Asher, with a card, from which I reproduce only the final sentence: I'm baking you a cake for Christmas with a hacksaw and file inside.

See you soon, love Jane and one from a ladies' group in Middleton.

As no prisoner is allowed to receive any foodstuffs in case they contain alcohol or drugs, Mr Daff agrees that one can go to the local retirement home, and the other to the special needs children. So it's all right for the children to be stoned out of their minds and the old-age pensioners to be drugged up to the eyeb.a.l.l.s, but not me.

'It's Home Office regulations,' explains Mr Daff.

5.00 pm I spot Peter (lifer, arson) coming up the drive. He looks in a bit of a daze, so I invite him to join me in the hospital for coffee and biscuits. We chat for nearly an hour.

The biggest shock for Peter on leaving prison for the first time in over thirty years was the number of 'coffin dodgers' (old people) that were on the streets of Boston doing their Christmas shopping. In 1969, the life expectancy for a man was sixty-eight years and for a woman seventy-three; it's now seventy-six and eighty-one respectively.

Peter also considered many of the young women dressed 'very tarty', but he did admit that he couldn't stop staring at them. Peter, who is six foot four inches tall and weighs eighteen stone, was surprised that he no longer stands out in a crowd, as he would have done thirty-one years ago. When he visited Safeways supermarket, it was the first time he'd seen a trolley; in the past he had only been served at a counter and used a shopping basket. And as for money, he knows of course about decimalization, but when he last purchased something from a shop there were 240 pennies in a pound, half-crowns, ten s.h.i.+lling notes and the guinea was still of blessed memory.

Peter was totally baffled by pelican crossings and was frightened to walk across one.

However the experience he most disliked was having to use a changing room to try on clothes behind a curtain, while members of the public walked past him particularly female a.s.sistants who didn't mind drawing back the curtain to see how he was getting on. He was amazed that he could try on a s.h.i.+rt and then not have to purchase it.

I suspect that the process of rehabilitation accompanied town visits (six in all), unaccompanied town visits, weekend home visits, week visits, CSV work, followed by a job in the community will take him at least another three to four years, by which time Peter will qualify for his old-age pension. I can only wonder if he will ever rejoin the real world and not simply be moved from one inst.i.tution to another.

10.00 pm I listen to the ten o'clock news. Roy Whiting has been given life imprisonment for the murder of Sarah Payne. Once the sentence has been pa.s.sed, we discover that Whiting had already been convicted some years ago for abducting a child, and s.e.xually abusing a minor. His sentence on that occasion? Four years.

DAY 148 - THURSDAY 13 DECEMBER 2001.

6.00 am Orderlies are the prison's school prefects.

They're given their jobs because they can be trusted. In return, they're expected to work for these privileges, such as eating together in a small group, and in my case having a single room with a television.

There are over a dozen orderlies in all.

Yesterday both reception orderlies were sacked, leaving two much sought-after vacancies.

Martin, the senior of the two reception orderlies, was due to be discharged this morning, two months early, on tag (HCD). The only restriction was that he must remain in his place of residence between the hours of 7 pm and 7 am. Martin had already completed the 'paper chase', which had to be carried out the day before release. Unfortunately, before departing this morning he decided to take with him a brand-new prison-issue denim top and jeans, and several s.h.i.+rts. A blue and white striped prison s.h.i.+rt apparently sells at around a hundred pounds on the outside, especially if it has the letters NSC on the pocket.

When the theft was discovered, he was immediately sacked and, more sadly, so was the other orderly, Barry, whose only crime was that he wouldn't gra.s.s on Martin. It's rough justice when the only way to keep your job is to gra.s.s on your mate when you know what the consequences will be for that person not to mention how the other inmates will treat you in the future. We will find out the punishment tomorrow when both men will be up in front of the governor.

2.00 pm I am disappointed to receive a letter from William Payne, the governor of Spring Hill, turning down my application for transfer.

His reasons for rejecting me are shown in his letter reproduced here. (See opposite.) I feel I should point out that the last five inmates from NSC who have applied to Spring Hill have all been accepted. It's not worth appealing, because I've long given up expecting any justice whenever the Home Office is involved.

3.00 pm Six new inductees: four on short sentences ranging from three weeks to nine months, and two lifers who, for the past sixteen years, have been banged up for twenty-two hours a day. They are walking around the perimeters of the prison (no walls) in a daze, and can't understand why they're not being ordered back to their cells. Linda tells me that lifers often report at the end of the first week with foot-sores and colds, and take far longer to adapt to open conditions.

One of the short-termers from Nottingham who's been placed in the no-smoking spur on the south block that has mostly more mature CSV workers who only return to the prison at night tells me with a wry smile that he couldn't sleep last night because it was so quiet.

6.00 pm A visit from Mr Hocking. I'm no longer to dispose of personal papers, letters, envelopes or notes in the dustbin outside the hospital, as a prisoner was caught rifling through the contents last night. In future I must hand them to a security officer, who will shred them. NSC does not want to repeat the Belmarsh debacle, where an officer stole a chapter of my book and tried to sell it to the Sun.

8.00 pm I sit in my palace and hold court with Doug, Clive and Carl, or at least that's how it feels after Belmarsh and Wayland.

In London, Mary is hosting our Christmas party.

DAY 149 - FRIDAY 14 DECEMBER 2001.

10.00 am Today is judgment day. Three prisoners are up in front of the governor. Inmates take a morbid interest in the outcome of any adjudication as it's a yardstick for discovering what they can hope to get away with.

Martin, the reception orderly who pleaded guilty to attempting to steal prison clothes on the day he was due to be released, has his tagging privileges removed, and seven days added to his sentence. So for the sake of a pair of jeans and a few prison s.h.i.+rts, Martin will remain at NSC until a couple of weeks before Easter, rather than spending Christmas at home with his wife and family. Added to this, the sixty-seven days will not be spent in the warmth of reception as an orderly, but on the farm in the deep mid-winter cleaning out the pig pens.

Barry is next up. His crime was not gra.s.sing on Martin. Although Martin stated clearly at the adjudication that Barry was not party to the offence, he also loses his orderly job, and returns to the farm as a shepherd.

For the governor to expect him to 'gra.s.s' on his friend (I even doubt if they were friends) seems to me a little rough.

Finding competent replacements will not be easy. The rumour is that Peter (lifer, just had his first day out after thirty-one years) has been offered the job as the next step in his rehabilitation. Peter tells me that he doesn't want to be an orderly, and is happy to continue sweeping up leaves.

The third prisoner in front of the governor this morning is Ali, a man serving three months for theft. Ali has refused to work on the farm and locked himself in his room. For this act of defiance, he has four days added to his sentence. This may not sound excessive, and in normal circ.u.mstances I don't think he could complain, as it's the statutory sentence for refusing to work. However, the four days are Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and 27 December.

Ali arrives in the hospital moments after the adjudication and bursts into tears. The governor decides that I should be punished as well, because Linda puts me in charge of him. It's ten-forty and the governor wants Ali back on the farm by this afternoon. Fortunately, England are playing India. It's the second day of the Test, and Ali knows his cricket. We settle down in the hospital ward to watch the final session of the day. Sachin Tendulkar is at the crease so Ali stops crying.

By lunchtime (end of play in Madras), Tendulkar has scored 123 and Ali's tears have turned to smiles.

He's back on the farm at one o'clock.

3.00 pm Seven new prisoners in from Nottingham today, and as we only released three this morning, our numbers reach 211; our capacity is 220. The weekly turnover at NSC is about 20 per cent, and I'm told it always peaks at this time of year. I'm also informed by one of the lifers that there are more absconders over Christmas, many of whom give themselves up on Boxing Day evening. The governor's att.i.tude is simple; if they return to the gate and apologize, they have twentyeight days added to their sentence; if they wait until they're picked up by the police, then in addition to the added twenty-eight days, they're s.h.i.+pped out to a B-cat the following morning.

4.00 pm Linda asks me to take two blood samples down to the gate, so they can be sent to Pilgrim Hospital. On the three-hundred-yard walk, I become distracted by a new idea for how the twins discover their ident.i.ty in Sons of Fortune. When I arrive at the gate, the blood samples are no longer in the plastic packet, and must have fallen out en route. I run for the first time in weeks. I don't want to lose my job, and end up working on the farm. I see Jim (gym orderly) running towards me he's found the samples on the side of the path. I thank him between puffs he's saved me from my first reportable offence. Actually, I think I should confess at this stage that some weeks ago I picked up a penny from the path and have kept the tiny coin in my jeans pocket, feeling a slight defiance in possessing cash. I put the samples back in their plastic packet and hand them in at the gate.

Incidentally, the other gym orderly Bell is also the NSC goalkeeper. He used to be at Spring Hill, but asked for a transfer to be nearer his wife. NSC needed a goalkeeper, so the transfer only took four days. Thanks to this little piece of subterfuge we're now on a winning streak. However, I have to report that the goalkeeper's wife has run off with his best friend, which may account for Bell being sent off last week. We lost 5-0.

DAY 150 - SAt.u.r.dAY 15 DECEMBER 2001.

7.30 am I now have to work seven days a week, as there's a surgery on Sat.u.r.day and Sunday.

It's a small price to pay for all the other privileges of being hospital orderly.

Not many patients today, eleven in all, but then there's no work to skive off on a Sat.u.r.day morning. Sister leaves at ten-thirty and I have the rest of the day to myself, unless there's an emergency.

11.00 am Spend a couple of hours editing Sons of Fortune, and only take breaks for lunch, and later to watch the prison football match.

2.00 pm The football manager and coach is a senior officer called Mr Masters. He's proud of his team, but when it comes to abusing the referee, he's as bad as any other football fan.

Today he's linesman, and should be supporting the ref, not to mention the other linesman. But both receive a tirade of abuse, as Mr Masters feels able to give his opinion on an offside decision even though he's a hundred yards away from the offence, and the linesman on the other side of the pitch is standing opposite the offending player. To be fair, his enthusiasm rubs off on the rest of the team, and we win a sc.r.a.ppy game 2-0.

DAY 151 - SUNDAY 16 DECEMBER 2001.

7.30 am Only five inmates turn up for early morning surgery. Linda explains that although the prison has a photographic club, woodwork shop, library, gym and chapel, a lot of the prisoners spend the weekend in bed, rising only to eat or watch a football match on TV.

It seems such a waste of their lives.

2.00 pm My visitors today are Malcolm and Edith Rifkind. Malcolm and I entered the House around the same time, and have remained friends ever since. Malcolm is one of those rare animals in politics who has few enemies.

He was Secretary of State for Defence and Foreign Secretary under John Major, and I can't help reflecting how no profession other than politics happily divests itself of its most able people when they are at their peak. It's the equivalent of dropping Beckham or Wilkinson at the age of twenty-five. Still, that's the prerogative of the electorate, and one of the few disadvantages of living in a democracy.

Malcolm and his wife Edith want to know all about prison life, while I wish to hear all the latest gossip from Westminster. Malcolm makes one political comment that will remain fixed in my memory: 'If in 1979 the electorate had offered us a contract for eighteen years, we would have happily signed it, so we can't complain if we now have to spend a few years in the wilderness.' He and Edith have travelled up from London to see me, and they will now drive on to Edinburgh. I cannot emphasize often enough how much I appreciate the kindness of friends.

8.00 pm Mr Baker drops in for coffee and a chat. The officers' mess is closed over the weekend, so the hospital is the natural pit stop. He tells me that one prisoner has absconded, while another, on returning from his town visit, was so drunk that he had to be helped out of his wife's car. That will be his last town visit for several months. And here's the rub, it was his first day out of prison for six years.

DAY 152 - MONDAY 17 DECEMBER 2001.

8.50 am 'Papa to Hotel, Papa to Hotel, how do you read me?'

This is PO New's call sign to Linda, and I'm bound to say that the hospital is the nearest I'm going to get to a hotel while I remain incarcerated in one of Her Majesty's establishments.

It's a freezing morning in this flat, open part of Lincolns.h.i.+re, so there's a long queue for the doctor. First in line are those on the paper chase, due for release tomorrow. The second group comprises those facing adjudication one caught injecting heroin, a second in possession of money (20) and finally the inmate who came back drunk last night. The doctor declares all three fit, and can see no medical reason that might be used as mitigating circ.u.mstances in their defence.

The heroin addict is subsequently transferred back to Lincoln. The prisoner found with 20 in his room claims that he just forgot to hand it in when he returned from a town visit, so ends up with seven days added.

The drunk gets twenty-one days added to his sentence, and no further town visits until further notice. He is also warned that next time, it's back to a B-cat.

Those in the third group by far the largest are either genuinely ill or don't feel like working on the farm at below-zero temperatures. Most are told to return to work immediately or they will be put on report and come up in front of the governor.

2.00 pm I phone Mary, who has some interesting news. I feel I should point out that Mr Justice Potts claimed at the end of my trial that this is, 'As serious an offence of perjury as I have had experience of and as I have been able to find in the books'.

A Reader in Law at the University of Buckingham has been checking sentencing for those convicted of perjury. She has discovered that, in the period 19912000, 1,024 people were charged with this offence in the United Kingdom. Of the 830 convicted, just under 400 received no custodial sentence at all, while in the case of 410, the sentence was eighteen months or less. Only four people were given a four-year sentence upheld on appeal. One of these framed an innocent man, who served thirty-one months of a seventeen year sentence for a crime he did not commit; the second stood trial twice for a murder of which he was acquitted, but was later convicted of perjury during those trials. The other two were for false declarations related to marriage as part of a largescale immigration racket.

7.17 pm There's a knock on my door, and as the hospital is out of bounds after six o'clock unless it's an emergency, I a.s.sume it's an officer. It isn't. It's a jolly West Indian called Wright.

He's always cheerful, and never complains about anything except the weather.

'Hi, Jeff, I think I've broken my finger.'

I study his hand as if I had more than a first-aid badge from my days as a Boy Scout in the 1950s. I suggest we visit his unit officer. Mr Cole is unsympathetic, but finally agrees Wright should be taken to the Pilgrim Hospital. Wright reports back an hour later with his finger in a splint.

'By the way,' I ask, 'how did you break your finger?'

'Slammed it in a door, didn't I.'

'Strange,' I say, 'because I think I've just seen the door walking around, and it's got a black eye.'

DAY 153 - TUESDAY 18 DECEMBER 2001.

10.00 am In my mailbag is a registered letter from the court of appeal. I print it in full. (See overleaf.) The prison authorities or the courts seem to have been dilatory, as my appeal may be put off until February, rather than held in December. The experts on the subject of appeals, and by that I mean my fellow inmates, tell me that the usual period of time between receiving the above letter and learning the date of one's appeal is around three weeks. It's then another ten days before the appeal itself.

Among my other letters is one from Dame Edna, enquiring about the dress code when she visits NSC.

12 noon Brian (attempt to defraud an ostrich company) thanks me for a box of new paperbacks that have arrived at the Red Cross office in Boston, sent by my publisher.

1.00 pm My new job as hospital orderly means I've had to adjust my writing regime. I now write between the hours of 6 and 7 am, 1 and 3 pm, and 5 and 7 pm. During the weekends, I can fit in an extra hour each day, which means I'm currently managing about thirty-seven hours of writing a week.

6.00 pm I visit the canteen to purchase soap, razor blades, chocolate, Evian and phonecards, otherwise I'll be dirty, unshaven, unfed and unwatered over Christmas, not to mention uncontactable. The officer on duty checks my balance, and finds I'm only 1.20 in credit.

Help!

DAY 154 - WEDNESDAY 19 DECEMBER 2001.

9.00 am 'Archer to report to reception immediately, Archer to report to reception immediately.'

Now Mr Daff has retired, I'm not allowed the same amount of lat.i.tude as in the past.

I've received five parcels today. The first is a book by Iris Murdoch, The Sea, The Sea, kindly sent in by a lady from Dumfries. As I read it some years ago when Ms Murdoch won the Booker Prize, I donate it to the library. The second is a silver bottle opener not much use to an inmate as we're not allowed to drink but a kind gesture nevertheless. I ask if I can give it to Linda. No, but it can be put in the old-age pensioners' raffle.

The third is a Parker pen. Can I give it to Linda? No, but it can be put in the old-age pensioners' raffle. The fourth is a teddy bear from Dorset. I don't bother to ask, I just agree to donate it to the old-age pensioners' raffle. The fifth is a large tube, which, when opened, reveals fifteen posters from the Chris Beetles Gallery, which I've been eagerly awaiting for over a week. I explain that it's a gift to the hospital, so there's no point in putting it in store for me because the hospital will get it just as soon as I am released. This time they agree to let me take it away. Result: one out of five.

2.00 pm I happily spend a couple of hours, a.s.sisted by Carl and a box of Blu-Tack, fixing prints by Albert Goodwin, Ronald Searle, Heath Robinson, Emmett, Geraldine Girvan, Paul Riley and Ray Ellis to the hospital walls.

With over 900 Christmas cards littered around the beds, the ward has been transformed into an art gallery. (See opposite.) 5.00 pm I return to the canteen. I'm only 2.50 in credit, whereas I calculate I should have around 18. It's the nearest I get to losing my temper, and it's only when the officer in charge says he's been trying to get the system changed for the past year that I calm down, remembering that it's not his fault. He makes a note of the discrepancy on the computer. I thank him and return to the hospital.

I have no reason to complain; I've got the best job in the prison and the best room, and am allowed to write five hours a day. Shut up, Archer.

6.00 pm I attend the carol service at six-thirty, where I read one of the lessons. Luke 2, verses eight to twenty. As I dislike the modern text, the vicar has allowed me to read from the King James version.

The chapel is packed long before the service is due to begin and the organ is played with great verve and considerable improvisation by Brian (ostrich fraud). The vicar's wife, three officers and four inmates read the lessons. I follow Mr New, and Mr Hughes follows me. We all enjoy a relaxed service of carols and lessons, and afterwards there is the added bonus of mince pies and coffee, which might explain the large turnout.

After the service, Brian introduces me to Maria, who's in charge of the Red Cross shop in Boston. She has brought along my box of paperbacks and asks if I would be willing to sign them. I happily agree.

DAY 155 - THURSDAY 20 DECEMBER 2001.

7.30 am Record numbers report sick with near freezing conditions outside.

11.00 am The last inmate to see the doctor is a patient called Robinson. He's shaking and trying in vain to keep warm. I've been in prison long enough now to spot a heroin addict at thirty paces. While he waits for his appointment, Robinson confides that he's desperately trying to kick the habit, and has put himself on a compulsory urine test every morning. He's thirty-two years old, and has been in and out of prison for the past fourteen years.

'I'm lucky to be alive,' he says. 'After I got nicked this time, I took the rap and let me mate get off in exchange for a promise he'd send me ten quid a week while I'm inside.'

The 'friend' died a few weeks later after injecting himself from a contaminated batch of heroin.

'If the deal had been the other way round,'

Robinson suggests, 'I'd be the dead man.'

12.30 pm Over lunch I discuss the drug problem in prisons with the two gym orderlies, both of whom abhor the habit. I am shocked can I still be shocked? when Jim (burglary, antiques only) tells me that 30 per cent of the inmates at NSC are on heroin. But more depressing still, when Jim was here eight years ago for a previous offence, he says only a handful of the inmates were on drugs. What will it be like in ten years' time?

1.00 pm As I walk back from lunch, I see Brian and John, the CSV Red Cross workers, heading towards me. They've both been taken off the job and confined to the prison while an enquiry is being conducted. Maria, who runs the Red Cross shop in Boston, has been accused of smuggling contraband (twelve paperbacks) into the prison. Apparently she should have informed the gate staff of her request to have the books autographed by me.

Brian tells me they left her in tears, and I am bound to say that what started out as a simple goodwill gesture has ended in turmoil; the Red Cross have been removed as partic.i.p.ants in the CSV scheme, and Brian and John have lost their jobs. I resolve to find out if there is more to it prison has taught me not to automatically take something on trust and if there isn't, to try to right this injustice.

8.00 pm Carl suggests we watch Midnight Express, a sure way of reminding ourselves just how lucky we all are. And to think Turkey wants to be a full member of the European Union.

DAY 156 - FRIDAY 21 DECEMBER 2001.

9.00 am Dr Walling is on duty today. He's full of good cheer, and brings Christmas presents for Linda and myself. Linda gets a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, and he presents me with a bottle of Scotch. Linda quickly grabs the bottle, explaining that it's against prison rules to offer prisoners alcohol. If I'd been caught with a bottle of whisky (actually I don't drink spirits) I would have lost my job, and possibly have been sent to a B-cat with added days. Dr Walling looks suitably embarra.s.sed.

12.00 pm Simon (abduction of his son, mess orderly) drops in to deliver Linda's sandwich lunch.