Heaven: A Prison Diary (2 page)

‘However,’ he
says, again before I can respond, ‘if that’s what you want, I’ll have a word
with my opposite number at Spring Hill and see if she can help.’

Once Mr New has
completed his discourse, we go downstairs to meet Matthew, the current orderly.
Matthew is a shy young man, who has a lost, academic air about him. I can’t imagine
what he’s doing in prison. Despite Mr New talking most of the time, Matthew
manages to tell me what his responsibilities are, from making tea and coffee
for the eleven occupants of the building, through to preparing induction files
for every prisoner.

He’s out on a
town leave tomorrow, so I will be thrown in at the deep end.

Dean grabs my
laundry bag and then accompanies me to supper, explaining that orderlies have
the privilege of eating on their own thirty minutes ahead of all the other
inmates.

‘You get first
choice of the food,’ he adds, ‘and as there are about a dozen of us,’
(hospital, stores, reception, library, gym, education, chapel and gardens; it’s
quite a privilege). All this within twenty-four hours isn’t going to make me
popular.

DAY 91

WEDNESDAY 17 OCTOBER
200
1

I wake a few
minutes after five and go for a pee in the latrine at the end of the corridor.

Have you
noticed that when you’re disoriented, or fearful, you don’t go to the lavatory
for some time? There must be a simple medical explanation for this. I didn’t
‘open my bowels’ – to use the doctor’s expression – for the first five days at
Belmarsh, the first three days at Wayland and so far ‘no-go’ at NSC.

Dean turns up
to take me to breakfast. I may not bother in future, as I don’t eat porridge,
and it’s hardly worth the journey for a couple of slices of burnt toast. Dean
warns me that the
press are
swarming all over the
place, and large sums are being offered for a photo of me in prison uniform.
Should they get a snap, they will be disappointed to find me strolling around in
a T-shirt and jeans. No arrows, no number, no ball and chain.

At reception, I
ask Mr Daff if it would be possible to have a clean T-shirt, as my wife is
visiting me this afternoon.

‘Where do you
think you fuckin’ are, Archer, fuckin’ Harrods?’

As a new
prisoner, I continue my induction course. My first meeting this morning is in
the gym. We all assemble in a small Portacabin and watch a ten minute
blackand-white video on safety at work. The instructor concentrates on lifting,
as there are several jobs at NSC that require you to pick up heavy loads, not
to mention numerous prisoners who will be pumping weights in the gym. Mr
Masters, the senior gym officer, who has been at NSC for nineteen years, then
gives us a guided tour of the gym and its facilities. It is not as large or
well equipped as Wayland, but it does have three pieces of cardiovascular kit
that will allow me to remain fit – a rowing machine, a step machine and a
bicycle. The gym itself is just large enough to play basketball, whereas the
weights room is about half the size of the one at Wayland. The gym is open
every evening except Monday from 5.30 pm to 7.30 pm, so you don’t have (grunt,
grunt – the pigs are having breakfast) to complete the programme in a given
hour. I hope to start this weekend, by which time I should have found my way
around (grunt, grunt). Badminton is the most popular sport, and although NSC
has a football team, the recent foot-andmouth problems have played havoc when
it comes to being allowed out onto the pitch (grunt, grunt).

Education.
We all meet in the chapel. The education officer
takes us through the various alternatives on offer. Most of the new inmates sit
sulkily in their chairs, staring blankly at her. As I have already been
allocated a job as the SMU orderly, I listen in respectful silence, and once
she’s finished her talk, report back to my new job.

Matthew is away
on a town visit today, but I quickly discover that the SMU job has three main
responsibilities:
a.
Making tea and
coffee for the eleven staff who regularly work in the building, plus those who
drop in to visit a colleague.
b.
Preparing
the files for new inductees so that the officers have all their details to
hand: sentence, FLED (full licence eligibility date), home address, whether
they have a home or job to go to, whether they have any money of their own,
whether their family want them back.
c.
Preparing
prisoners’ forms for visits, days out, weekend leave, work out and
compassionate or sick leave.

It will also be
part of my job to see that every prisoner is sent to the relevant officer,
according to his needs. Mr Simpson, the resident probation officer tells me,
‘I’ll see anyone if I’m free, otherwise ask them to make an appointment,’
allowing him to deal with those prisoners who have a genuine problem, and avoid
those who stroll in to complain every other day.

I go to lunch
with the other orderlies. The officer in charge of the kitchen, Wendy, tells me
that NSC was commended for having the best food in the prison service. She
says, ‘You should try the meat and stop being a VIP [vegetarian in prison].’
Wendy is a sort of pocket-sized Margaret Thatcher. Her kitchen is spotless,
while her men slave away in their pristine white overalls leaving one in no
doubt of their respect for her. I promise to try the meat in two weeks’ time
when I fill in my next menu voucher. (See overleaf.)

Now I’m in a
D-cat prison, I’m allowed one visit a week. After one-third of my sentence has
been completed, other privileges will be added. Heaven knows what the press
will make of my first town visit. However, all of this could change rapidly
once my appeal has been heard. If your sentence is four years or more, you are
only eligible for parole, whereas if it’s less than four years, you will
automatically be released after serving half your sentence, and if you’ve been
a model prisoner, you can have another two months off while being tagged
2

Back to today’s visit.
Two old friends, David Paterson and
Tony Bloom, accompany Mary.

The three of
them turn up twenty minutes late, which only emphasizes how dreadful the
250-mile round journey from London must be. Mary and I have thirty minutes on
our own, and she tells me that my solicitors have approached Sir Sydney
Kentridge QC to take over my appeal if it involves that Mr Justice Potts was
prejudiced against me before the trial started. The one
witness
who could testify, Godfrey Barker, is now proving reluctant to come forward. He
fears that his wife, who works at the Home Office, may lose her job. Mary feels
he will do what is just. I feel he will vacillate and fall by the wayside. She
is the optimist, I am the pessimist. It’s usually the other way round.

During the
visit, both Governor Berlyn, and PO New stroll around, talking to the families
of the prisoners. How different from Wayland. Mr New tells us that NSC has now
been dubbed ‘the cushiest prison in England’

(
Sun
), which he
hopes will produce a better class of inmate in future; ‘The best food in any
prison’ (
Daily Star
); I have ‘the
biggest room in the quietest block’ (
Daily
Mail
); and, ‘he’s the only one allowed to wear his own clothes’
(Daily Mirror)
. Not one fact correct.

The hour and a
half passes all too quickly, but at least I can now have a visitor every week.
I can only wonder how many of my friends will be willing to make a seven-hour
round trip to spend an hour and a half with me.

Canteen.
At Wayland, you filled in an order form and then
your supplies were delivered to your cell. At NSC there is a small shop which
you are allowed to visit twice a week between 5.30 pm and 7.30 pm so you can
purchase what you need – razor blades, toothpaste, chocolate, water,
blackcurrant juice and most important of all, phonecards.

I also need a
can of shaving foam as I still shave every day.

What a
difference a D-cat makes.

I go across to
the kitchen for supper and join two prisoners seated at the far end of the
room. I select them because of their age. One turns out to be an accountant,
the other a retired insurance broker. They do not talk about their crimes. They
tell me that they no longer work in the prison, but travel into Boston every
morning by bus, and have to back each afternoon by five. They work at the local
Red Cross shop, and earn £13.50 a week, which is credited to their canteen
account. Some prisoners can earn as much as £200 a week, giving them a chance
to save a considerable sum by the time they’re released. This makes a lot more
sense than turfing them out onto the street with the regulation £40 and no job
to go to.

I join Doug at
the hospital for a blackcurrant juice, a McVitie’s biscuit and the Channel 4
news. In Washington DC, Congress and the Senate were evacuated because of an
anthrax scare. There seem to be so many ways of waging a modern war. Are we in
the middle of the Third World War without realizing it?

I return to the
north block for roll-call to prove I have not absconded.
3
Doug assures
me that it becomes a lot easier after the first couple of weeks, when the
checks fall from six a day to four. My problem is that the final roll-call is
at ten, and by then I’ve usually fallen asleep.

DAY 92

THURSDAY 18 OCTOBER
200
1

Because so much
is new to me, and so much unknown, I am still finding my way around.

Mr Hughes and Mr
Jones, the officers in charge of the north block, try to deal quickly with
prisoners’ queries and, more important, attempt to get things ‘sorted’, making
them popular with the other inmates. The two blocks resemble Second World War
Nissen huts. The north block consists of a 100-yard corridor, with five spurs
running off each side. Each corridor has nine rooms – you have your own key,
and there are no bars on the windows.

Two prisoners
share each room. My roommate David is a lifer (murder), and has the largest
room: not the usual five paces by three, but seven paces by three. I have
already requested a transfer to the nosmoking spur on the south block, which
tends to house the older, more mature prisoners. Despite the
News of the World
headline, ‘Archer demands
cell change’, the nosmoking rule is every prisoner’s right.

However,
Governor Berlyn is unhappy about my going across to the south block because
it’s next to a public footpath, which is currently populated by several
journalists and photographers.

The corridor
opposite mine has recently been designated a no-smoking zone, and Mr Berlyn
suggests I move across to one of the empty rooms on that spur. As the prison is
presently low in numbers, I might even be left on my own. Every prisoner I have
shared a cell with has either sold his story to the tabloids, or been subjected
to front-page exposés – always exaggerated and never accurate.

My working day
as SMU orderly is 8.30 am to 12, lunch, then 1 pm to 4.30 pm. I arrive
expecting to find Matthew so he can begin the handover, but Mr Gough is the
only person on parade. He has his head down, brow furrowed, staring at his
computer. He makes the odd muttering sound to himself, before asking politely
for a cup of tea.

9.00 am
Still no sign of
Matthew. I read through the daily duties book, and discover that among my
responsibilities are mopping the kitchen floor, sweeping all common areas,
vacuuming the carpets and cleaning the two lavatories as well as the kitchen.
Thankfully, the main occupation, and the only thing that will keep me from
going insane, is dealing with prisoners’ queries. By the time I’ve read the
eight-page folder twice, there is still no sign of Matthew, which is beginning
to look like a hanging offence.

If you are late
for work, you are ‘nicked’, rare in a D-cat prison, because being put on report
can result in loss of privileges – even being returned to a C-cat – according
to the severity of your offence. Being caught taking drugs or absconding is an
immediate recategorization offence. These privileges and punishments are in
place to make sure everyone abides by the rules.

Mr New, the
principal officer, arrives just as Mr Gough enters the room.

‘Where’s
Matthew?’ he asks.

I then observe
the officers at their best, but the Prison Service at its most ineffective.

‘That’s why I
came looking for you,’ says Mr Gough. ‘Matthew reported back late last night’ –
an offence that can have you transferred to a C-cat, because it’s assumed that
you’ve absconded – ‘and he was put on report.’ The atmosphere immediately
changes.