Heaven: A Prison Diary (7 page)

2

Are you writing
a book about chokey?
FF 8282
would make a terrific title.
and since I am only one of countless hacks who envy you the opportunity to
scribble away unencumbered by all the distractions that stop the rest of us
from knocking out
Finnegan’s Remembrance
of War
&

Punishment,
I would, if I were you,
seriously consider not going ahead with your appeal: giving up the chance of
another couple of years at the typewriter could cost you millions.

All right – –
if we must – – let’s be serious for a moment: do you need anything, is there
anything I can do, anyone I can see for you, all that? I know that you have
truckloads of closer –... and far more influential – – friends than I, but
because it’s always on the cards that there may just be something you need that
noone else can come up with, I want you to know that I should do my very best
to sort it out.

But if nothing
else, do drop me the briefest of notes to let me know whether or not you’d like
a visit. If you’d rather be left in peace, I should
of
course,
 
understand. But it would be nice to meet
for the odd laugh...

–
as
if there could be any other kind of laugh, these days.

8.15pm
I sign in for roll-call.
From tomorrow, as I will have completed my two weeks’ induction, I need only
sign in at 11 am, 4 pm and 8.15 pm. Because I’ll be at work, in future, 8.15 pm
will be the one time I have to appear in person. Doug says I will feel the
difference immediately.

Write for two
hours. I’ve now completed 250,000 words since being incarcerated.

Perhaps Alan
Coren is right.

Ten new
prisoners arrived yesterday. They will be seeing the doctor straight after
breakfast before coming to SMU to be given their induction pack, and then be
interviewed by the labour board. One by one they make an appearance. Some are
cocky, know it all, seen it all, nothing to learn, while others are nervous and
anxious, and full of desperate questions.

And then
there’s Michael Keane (lifer, fourteen years so far, aged thirty-nine).

Those of you
who’ve been paying attention for the past 250,000 words will recall my twenty
days at Belmarsh, where I met William Keane on the tea-bag chain gang. His
brother Michael has the same Irish charm, wit and love of
literature, but never forget
that all seven Keane brothers have been in
jail at the same time, costing the taxpayer a million pounds a year. Michael
passes on William’s best wishes, and adds that he heard today that his sister
has just been released from Holloway after serving nine months for a string of
credit-card crimes.

Michael is
hoping for parole in March, and if Irish charm were enough, he’d make it, but
unfortunately, the decision has to be ratified by the Home Office, who will
only read his files, and never see him face to face. His fame among the Keanes
is legendary, because when he was at Belmarsh – a high-security prison – he got
as far as the first outer gate while emptying dustbins. The furthest anyone has
manage
while trying to escape from hell.

A scruffy,
unshaven prisoner called Potts checks into SMU to confirm that he has a meeting
with his solicitor this afternoon. I check my day sheet to see that his lawyer
is booked in for three o’clock.
Potts, who has just come off
a three-hour shift in the kitchen, smiles.

‘See you at
three, Jeff.’

All ten
inductees have been seen by the labour board, and are fixed up with jobs on the
farm, in the kitchen or at the officers’ mess.

One, Kevin (six
years for avoiding paying VAT), has opted for full-time education as he’s in
his final year of a law degree.

Over lunch,
Doug asks me if I’ve put in my takeaway order for the weekend. I realize I’m
being set up, but happily play along. He then tells me the story of two
previous inmates, Bruce and Roy, who were partners in crime.

Bruce quickly
discovered that it was not only easy to abscond from NSC, but equally
straightforward to return unobserved. So one night, he walked the six miles to
Boston, purchased some fish and chips, stole a bicycle, rode back, hid the bike
on the farm and went to bed. Thus began a thriving enterprise known as ‘weekend
orders’. His room-mate Roy would spend the week taking orders from the other
prisoners for supper on Saturday night (the last meal every day is at five o’clock,
so you can be a bit peckish by nine). Armed with the orders, Bruce would then
cycle into Boston immediately after the eight-fifteen roll-call, visit the
local fish and chip shop, McDonalds or KFC – not to mention the pub – and
arrive back within the hour so he could drop off his orders and still be seen
roaming round the corridors long before the 10 pm roll-call.

This dot-con
service ran successfully for several months, in the best traditions of free
enterprise. Unfortunately, there’s always some dissatisfied customer who will
grass, and one night two officers caught Bruce about a mile away from the
prison, laden with food and drink. He was transferred to a C-cat the following
morning. His room-mate Roy, aware it would only be a matter of days before he was
implicated, absconded with all the cash and hasn’t been seen since.

Potts returns
to SMU for the meeting with his solicitor. He has shaved, washed his hair and
is wearing a clean, well-ironed shirt, and his shoes are shining. I have the
unenviable task of telling him that his solicitor rang a few moments ago to
cancel the appointment.

This is a
message to all solicitors and barristers who deal with the incarcerated: your
visit can be the most important event of the week, if not the month, so
don’t
cancel lightly. Potts walks dejectedly back down the
path, head bowed.

Mr Hocking
drops into SMU. He tells me that the whole of spur four on the north block
(nine rooms) has just been searched, because an officer thought he heard a
mobile phone ringing. Possession of a mobile phone is an offence that will
ensure you are sent back to a C-cat the same day.

Write for two
hours, feel exhausted, but at least I no longer have to report for the 10 pm
roll-call
..

I join Doug and
Clive at the hospital. Clive tells me that the officers found nothing during
this morning’s search. Often ‘hearing a mobile phone’ is just an excuse to
carry one out when they are actually trying to find something else. Doug chips
in, ‘Truth is, they were looking for another camera which the press have
recently smuggled in. They even know the name of the prisoner involved, and as
he’s due to be released on Friday, they want to be sure he doesn’t leave with a
role of photos that would embarrass them.’

Potts is rushed
to Boston Hospital, having taken an overdose.

I wake thinking
about Potts. He reminds me how awful being incarcerated is, and why inmates
forever live in hope. I later discover that Potts will be moved to Sudbury
Prison, so that he can be near his wife and family. I know how he feels. I’m
still waiting to hear from Spring Hill.

This morning we
have a risk-assessment board. Four prisoners who are applying for early release
on tag (HCD) are to appear before the deputy governor, Mr Leighton, and the
senior probation officer, Mr Simpson. If a candidate has an unblemished record
while in jail – never been put on a charge, never been involved with drugs – he
is in with a chance. But the prime consideration is whether the prisoner is
likely to reoffend. So if the inmate is in for burglary or credit-card fraud,
his chances aren’t that good.

During the next
hour I take each of the four prisoners up to face the board. They leave twenty
minutes later, two with smiles on their faces who want to shake me by the
hand,
and two who barge past me, effing and blinding anyone
who crosses their path.

Mr New has
received a fax from Spring Hill, requesting three more documents and five more
questions answered: a clearance release from the hospital to confirm I’m fit
and well and not on any medication; my records from Belmarsh and Wayland to
show I have never been put on report; and confirmation from NSC that I have not
been put on a charge since I’ve been here. They also want to know if I intend
to appeal against my sentence, and if so, will I be appearing in court.

Mr New looks
surprised when I say that I won’t. There are two reasons for my decision. I
never wish to spend another minute of my life in Belmarsh, which is where they
transfer you if you are due to appear at the High Court, and I’m damned if I’ll
put my wife through the ordeal of facing the press outside the court as she
arrives and departs.

At the
hospital, sister checks over the forms from Spring Hill. Linda ticks all the
little boxes and confirms I am remarkably fit – for my age, cheeky lady.

Over lunch,
Doug warns me that it still might be a couple of months before Spring Hill have
a vacancy because it’s the most popular prison in Britain, and in any case,
they may not enjoy the attendant publicity that I would attract. Bell (a gym
orderly) leans across and informs me, ‘It’s the best nick I’ve ever been to. I
only moved here to be closer to my wife.’

Mr New
reappears clutching my blameless record from Belmarsh and Wayland.

At 4.04 he
faxes Spring Hill with the eight pages they requested. He receives confirmation
that they arrived at 4.09 pm. I’ll keep you informed.

The senior
Listener, Brian (conspiracy to defraud an ostrich company), turns up at SMU.

He asks if the
backs of prisoners’ identity cards can be redesigned, as they currently
advertise the Samaritans and Crimestoppers.

Brian points
out that as no prisoner can dial
an
0800 number the
space would be better used informing new arrivals about the Listeners’ scheme.
He has a point.

Write for two
hours.

Doug tells me
that the governing governor, Mr Lewis, dropped into the hospital today as he’d
read in the
News of the World
that I
keep a secret store of chocolate biscuits in the fridge.

‘Quite right,’
Doug informed him, ‘Jeffrey buys them from the canteen every Thursday, and
leaves a packet here for both of us which we have with my coffee and his Bovril.’

A week ago I
told Linda that you could buy a jar of Marmite from the canteen, but not
Bovril, which I much prefer. The following day a jar of Bovril appeared.

Prisoners break
rules all the time, often without realizing it. Officers have to turn a blind
eye; otherwise everyone would be on a charge every day of the week, and the
prison service would grind to a halt. Of course there’s a difference between
Bovril and beer, between having an extra towel and a mobile phone, or a
hardback book and a tea bag full of heroin. Most officers accept this and use
their common sense.

Two officers,
Mr Spencer and Mr Hayes, join us in the hospital for a coffee break. We learn
that eleven new prisoners came in this evening, and only seven will be released
tomorrow, so the prison is nearly full. They also add that another prisoner has
been placed in the segregation cell overnight and will be up in front of the
governor tomorrow. He’s likely to be on his way back to Lincoln Prison. It
appears that a camera was found in his room, the third one in the past ten
days.

They also know
which newspaper is involved.

In prison, you
don’t think about what can be achieved long term; all thoughts are short term.
When is the next canteen so I can buy another phonecard? Can I change my job?

Will I be
enhanced? Can I move into a single room? At the moment the only thought on my
mind is, can I get to Spring Hill? Not when, can. In prison
when
will only happens after
can
has been achieved.

Fifteen new prisoners in today, among them a Major Willis, who is
sixty-four.
I look forward to finding out what he’s been up to.

Willis, Clarke
(the cleaner) and
myself
do not
have
to work because we’re all over sixty.

But Willis makes
it clear he’s looking for a job, and the labour
board
allocate
him to works (engineering).