Heaven: A Prison Diary (3 page)

‘But I took him
off.’

‘Why?’ asks Mr
New, as he lights a cigarette.

‘His father
collapsed yesterday afternoon and was taken into Canterbury Hospital.

He’s been
diagnosed with a brain tumour and the doctors think he may not survive the
week.’

‘Right,’ says
Mr New, stubbing out his cigarette, ‘sign him up for a compassionate leave
order, and let’s get him off to Canterbury as quickly as
possible.’
,

Mr New tells me
that Matthew’s mother died a year ago, having suffered from
MS,
and his grandmother a few weeks later. This all took place soon after he
committed the offence that resulted in him being sent to prison for fifteen
months.

Matthew walks
in.

Mr New and Mr
Gough could not have been more sympathetic. Forms are signed and countersigned
with unusual speed, and Matthew is even allowed to use the office phone to
arrange for his girlfriend to pick him up. A few minutes later, Governor Berlyn
appears and agrees with Mr New that the boy (I think of Matthew as a boy
because he’s even younger than my son) must be shipped out as quickly as
possible. Then the problems start to arise.

Matthew, who
only has four weeks left to serve, doesn’t know anyone in Canterbury, so he’ll
have to be locked up overnight in the local jail, despite his girlfriend and
her mother staying at a hotel near the hospital. But worse, because Matthew is
only allowed twenty-four hours compassionate leave, he will have to travel back
from Canterbury and spend the second night at NSC, after which he will be
released on Friday morning for weekend leave, when he need not return until
Sunday evening. ‘Why not just let the
boy go
and be
with his father, and return on Sunday night?’ I ask. Both Mr Berlyn and Mr New
nod their agreement, but tell me that there is no way round the Home Office
regulations.

Matthew’s
girlfriend arrives at the barrier, and he is driven quickly away. I pray that
Matthew’s father doesn’t die while they are on the motorway. I recall with
sadness learning that my mother was dying during my trial. Mr Justice Potts
wouldn’t allow me to leave the court to be with her, as he didn’t accept the
doctor’s opinion that she only had a few hours to live. I eventually arrived at
her bedside an hour or so before she died by which time she was past
recognizing me.

Three prisoners
who arrived yesterday check in for their induction talk. They pepper me with
questions. I feel a bit of a fraud, trying to answer them, having only been
around for forty-eight hours and still on induction myself. Mr Gough gives them
the talk I heard two days ago. I hand out a booklet emphasizing his comments. A
young prisoner whispers in my ear that he can’t read. HELP. I tell him to come
back and see me if he has any further problems.

Mr New appears,
and runs through my responsibilities. We open a large cupboard crammed full of
forms and files, which he feels needs reorganizing. He lights up another
cigarette.

Mr Simpson, the
probation officer, asks me to join him in his office on the first floor, as he
wants to bring my case file up to date. He asks me if I saw a probation officer
after being convicted.

‘Yes, but only
for a few minutes,’ I tell him, ‘while I was still at the Old Bailey.’

‘Good,’ he
says, ‘because that will show you’re domiciled in London, and make it easier
for you to be moved to Spring Hill.’ He checks his computer and gives me the
name of my probation officer. ‘Drop
her a
line,’ he
advises, ‘and tell her you want to be transferred.’

Mr New joins me
in the kitchen for another cigarette break. I learn that he’s due to leave NSC
in January, when he will be transferred to Norwich Prison as a governor, Grade
5.4

He then
produces all the necessary forms for my transfer. Although he’ll speak to Mrs
McKenzie-Howe, his opposite number at Spring Hill, he’s not optimistic. Not
only are they full, but it’s a resettlement prison, and I don’t need
resettling; I’m not looking for a job when I’m released, or a home and, as I
have no financial problems, I just don’t fit any of the usual categories.

I go off to the
canteen for supper, and again sit at a table with two older prisoners. They are
both in for fraud; one was a local councillor (three and a half months), and
the other an ostrich farmer.
The latter promises to tell me
all the details when he has more time.
It’s
clear there’s going to be no shortage of good stories.
Belmarsh
– murder and GBH; Wayland – drug barons and armed robbers.
NSC is
looking a little more sophisticated.

I join Doug in
the hospital. He has allowed me to store a bottle of blackcurrant juice and a
couple of bottles of Evian in his fridge, so I’ll always have my own supply. As
Doug chats away, I learn a little more about his crime. He hates drug dealers,
and considers his own incarceration a temporary inconvenience. In fact he plans
a cruise to Australia just as soon as he’s released. On ‘the out’ he runs a
small transport company. He has a yard and seven
lorries
,
and employs – still employs – twelve people. He spends half an hour a day on
the phone keeping abreast of what’s going on back at base.

Now to his
crime; his export/import business was successful until a major client went
bankrupt and renegued on a bill for £170,000, placing him under extreme
pressure with his bank. He began to replenish his funds by illegally importing
cigarettes from France. He received a two-year sentence for failing to pay
customs and excise duty to the tune of £850,000.

DAY 93

FRIDAY 19 OCTOBER 2001

I write for two
hours. Boxer shorts draped over the little light that beams down onto my desk
ensure that I don’t disturb David.

I prepare
identity cards for the three new prisoners who arrived yesterday. As each
officer comes in, I make them tea or coffee. In between, I continue to organize
the filing system for inductees. I will still be one myself for another week.

When Mr New
arrives, he leaves his copy of
The Times
in
the kitchen, and retrieves it at six before going home.

I am slowly
getting into a routine. I now meet new prisoners as they appear, and find out
what their problems are before they see an officer. Often they’ve come to the
wrong office, or simply don’t have the right form.

Many of them
want to be interviewed for risk
assessment,
others
need to see the governor, whose office is in the administration block on the other
side of the prison. But the real problem is Mr New himself, because many
prisoners believe that if their request doesn’t have his imprimatur, it won’t
go any further.

This is partly
because he takes an interest in every prisoner, but mainly because he won’t
rush them. He can often take twenty minutes to listen to their problems when
all that is needed is for a form to be signed, which results in four other
prisoners having to sit in the waiting room until he’s finished.

During any one
day, about thirty prisoners visit SMU. I have to be careful not to overstep the
mark, as inmates need to see me as fighting their corner, while the officers
have to feel I’m helping to cut down their workload. I certainly need a greater
mental stimulation than making cups of tea. But however much I take
on,
the pay remains 25p an hour, £8.50 a week.

I pick up my
lunch – vegetable pie and beans. No pudding. I take my tray back to the SMU and
read
The Times.

A prisoner
marches in and demands to be released on compassionate grounds because his
mother is ill. Mr Downs, a shrewd, experienced officer, tells him that he’ll
send a probation officer round to see his mother, so that they can decide if he
should be released.

The prisoner
slopes off without another word. Mr Downs immediately calls the probation
officer in Leicester, just in case the prisoner does have a sick mother.

Bob (lifer)
comes to see the psychiatrist, Christine. Bob is preparing for life outside
once he’s released, possibly next year, but before that can happen, he has to
complete ten town visits without incident. Once he’s achieved this, he will be
allowed out at weekends unescorted. The authorities will then assess if he is
ready to be released. Bob has been in prison for twenty-three years, having
originally been sentenced to fifteen. But as Christine points out, however
strongly she recommends his release, in the end it is always Home Office
decision.

Christine joins
me in the kitchen and tells me about a lifer who went out on his first town visit
after twenty years. He was given £20 so he could get used to shopping in a
supermarket. When he arrived at the cash till and was asked how he would like
to pay, he ran out leaving the goods behind. He just couldn’t cope with having
to make a decision.

‘We also have
to prepare all lifers for survival cooking.’ She adds, ‘
You
have to remember that some prisoners have had three cooked meals a day for
twenty years, and they’ve become so institutionalized they can’t even boil an
egg.’

The next lifer
to see Christine is Mike.

After
twenty-two years in prison (he’s fortynine), Mike is also coming to the end of
his sentence. He invites me to supper on Sunday night (chicken curry). He’s
determined to prove that he can not only take care of himself, but cook for others
as well.

I walk over to
the canteen and join Ron the fraudster and Dave the ostrich farmer for
cauliflower cheese. Ron declares that the food at NSC is as good as most
motorway cafés. This is indeed a compliment to Wendy.

Mr Hughes (my
wing officer) informs me I can move across to room twelve in the nosmoking
corridor.

When I locate
the room I find it’s filthy, and the only furniture is a single unmade bed, a
table and a chair. I despair. I am so pathetic at times like this.

In the opposite
cell is a prisoner called Alan who is cleaning out his room, and asks if he can
help. I enquire what he would charge to transform my room so that it looks like
his.

‘Four
phonecards,’ he says (£8).

‘Three,’ I
counter. He agrees. I tell him I will return at eight-fifteen for roll-call and
see how he’s getting on.

I check in for
roll-call before going off to see my new quarters. Alan has taken on an
assistant, and they are slaving away. While Alan scrubs the cupboards, the
assistant is working on the walls. I tell them I’ll return at ten and clear my
debts. The only trouble is that I don’t have any phonecards, and won’t have
before canteen on Wednesday. Doug comes to my rescue and takes over Darren’s
role of purveyor of essential goods.

Doug appears
anxious. He tells me that his fourteen-year-old daughter has suffered an
epileptic fit. He’s being allowed to go home tomorrow and visit her.

We settle down
to watch the evening film, and are joined by the senior security officer, Mr Hocking.
He warns me that
a
News
of the World
journalist is roaming
around the grounds but, with a bit of luck, will fall into the Wash. Just
before he leaves, he asks Doug if he’s on home leave tomorrow.

‘Yes, I’m off
to see my daughter, back by seven,’ Doug confirms.

‘Then we’ll
need someone to be on duty after sister leaves at one. We mustn’t forget how
many drugs there are in this building.

Would you be
willing to stand in as temporary hospital orderly, Jeffrey?’ he asks.

‘Yes, of
course,’ I reply.

I return to the
north block for roll-call, before checking my room. I don’t recognize it.

It’s spotless.
I thank Alan, who takes a seat on the corner of the bed He tells me that he has
a twelve-month sentence for receiving stolen goods. He owns two furniture
shops, in
Leicester
whose turnover last year was a
little over £500,000, showing him a profit of around £120,000.

He has a wife
and two children, and between them they’re keeping the business ticking over
until he has completed his sentence in four weeks’ time. It’s his first
offence, and he certainly falls into that category of ‘never again’.

I spend my
first night at NSC in my own room. No music, no smoke, no hassle.

Weekends are
deadly in a prison. Jules, my pad-mate at Wayland used to say the only time
you’re not in prison is when you’re asleep. So over the weekend, a lot of
prisoners just remain in bed. I’m lucky because I have my writing to occupy me.

I spot Matthew,
who must have returned from Canterbury last night. His father is still in a
coma, and he accompanies me to the office so he can phone the hospital.
Although my official working week is Monday to Friday, it’s not unusual for an
officer to be on duty at SMU on a Saturday morning.

Mr Downs and Mr
Gough are already at their desks, and after I’ve made them both a cup of tea,
Matthew takes me through my official duties for any given day or week. If I
were to stick to simply what was required, it would take me no more than a
couple of hours each day.

Over a cup of
tea (Bovril for me), Matthew tells me about his nightmare year.

Matthew is
twenty-four, six foot one, slim, dark-haired and handsome without being aware
of it. He’s highly intelligent, but also rather gauche, and totally out of
place in prison. He read marine anthropology at Manchester University and will
complete his PhD once he’s released. I ask him if he’s a digger or an academic.
‘An academic,’ he replies, without hesitation.