Hell (10 page)

There seems to
be a completely different attitude among the lifers. They often say, ‘Don’t
bother to count the first six years.’

They
acknowledge they won’t be out next week, next month, or even next year, and
have settled for a long spell of prison life.

Most of them
treat me with respect and don’t indulge in clever or snide remarks.

On the next
circuit I’m joined by Mike (armed robbery), who tells me that he listened to
Ted Francis and Max Clifford on the radio last night, and adds that the boys
just can’t wait for one of them to be sent to prison. ‘We don’t like people who
stitch up their mates – especially for money.’ I stick assiduously to Nick
Purnell’s
advice and make no comment.

When I return
to the cell, Terry is about to go down for supper. I tell him I just can’t face
it, but he begs me to join him because tonight it’s pineapple upside-down
pudding, and that’s his
favourite
. I join him and go
through the ritual of selecting a couple of burnt mushrooms in order to lay my
hands on an extra upside-down pudding.

By the time I
get back to the cell, Terry is sweeping the room and cleaning the washbasin.
I’ve been lucky to be shacked up with someone who is so tidy, and hates
anything to be out of place. Terry sits on the bed munching his meal, while I
read through what I’ve penned that day. Once Terry’s finished, he washes his
plate, knife, fork and spoon before stacking them neatly on the floor in the
corner. I continue reading my script while he picks up a Bible. He turns to the
Book of Hebrews, which I confess I have never read, and studies quietly for the
next hour.

Once I’ve
completed my work for the day, I return to reading
The Moon’s a Balloon
,
which
I put down just after ten when war has been declared. The pillows are a little softer
than those on Block Three, for which I am grateful.

‘Fuck off,’
cries a voice so loud it wakes me.

It’s
a few moments before I realize that it’s Terry shouting
in his sleep. He mumbles something else which I can’t quite decipher, before he
wakes with a start. He climbs out of bed, almost as if he’s unaware there’s
someone in the bunk below him. I don’t stir, but open my eyes and watch
carefully. I’m not frightened; although Terry has a past record of violence, I’ve
never seen any sign of it. In fact, despite the use of bad language in his
novel, he never swears in front of me – at least not when he’s awake.

Terry walks
slowly over to the wall and places his head in the corner like a cat who thinks
he’s about to die. He doesn’t move for some time, then turns, picks up a towel
by the basin, sits down on the plastic chair and buries his head in the towel.
Desperate and depressed.
I try to imagine what must be going
through his tortured mind. He slowly raises his head and stares at me, as if
suddenly remembering that he’s not alone.

‘Sorry,
Mr
Archer,’ he says. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘It’s not
important,’ I reply. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘It’s a
recurring nightmare,’ he says, ‘but for some unexplainable reason it’s been
worse for the past couple of weeks. When I was a kid,’ he pauses, no doubt
considering whether to confide in me, ‘my stepfather used to beat me and my mum
with a leather strap, and I’ve suddenly started having nightmares about it all
these years later.’

‘How old were
you at the time?’ I ask.

‘About six, but
it carried on until I was sixteen, when my mum died.’

‘How did your
mother die?’ I ask. ‘After all, she can’t have been that old?’

‘It’s all a bit
of a mystery,’ Terry says quietly. ‘All I know for certain is that they found
her body in the front room by the grate, and then my stepfather buggered off to
Brighton with my stepsister.’ I have a feeling that Terry knows only too well
what and who caused his mother’s death, but he isn’t yet willing to impart that
information. After all, he’s well aware I’m writing a daily diary.

‘So what
happened to you when he disappeared off to Brighton?’

‘I was taken
into care, followed by
Borstal
, remand home and finally
jail – a different sort of education to yours.’ How can those of us who have
had a comparatively normal upbringing begin to understand what this young man
has been through – is going through?

‘Sorry,’ he
repeats, and then climbs back onto the top bunk, and is asleep again within
minutes.

I climb out of
bed, clean my teeth, rub a cold flannel over my face and then settle down to
write for the first session of the day.

At this early
hour, all the other prisoners are asleep, or at least I assume they are, because
not a sound is coming from the surrounding cells. Even the early-morning patrol
of barking Alsatians doesn’t distract me any longer.

In London I
live near a railway track that winds its way into Waterloo, but I am never
woken by the late-night or early-morning trains. In prison, it’s rap music,
inmates hollering at each other, and Alsatians that don’t disturb a lifer’s
dreams. Once I’ve completed my two-hour session, I begin the lengthy process of
shaving.

Although my
life is beginning to fall into a senseless routine, I hope to at least break it
up today by going to the gym. I’ve put my name down for the 10 am to 11 am
session this morning, as I’m already missing my daily exercise.

Just after
nine, the cell door is opened and my weekly twelve pounds fifty pence worth of
canteen provisions are passed over to me by a lady in a white coat. I thank
her, but she doesn’t respond. I sit on the end of my
bed,
unpack each item one by one. I settle down to enjoy a bowl of cornflakes
swimming in fresh milk. This is the meal I would normally have in my kitchen at
home, an hour before going to the gym. I’m used to a disciplined, well-ordered
life, but it’s no longer self-discipline because someone else is giving the
orders.

I’m pacing up
and down the cell waiting for the gym call when a voice bellows out from below,
‘Gym is cancelled.’ My heart sinks and I stare out of the barred window,
wondering why.
When the door is eventually opened for
Association, Derek, known as Del Boy, who runs the hotplate and seems to have a
free rein of the block, appears outside my door.

‘Why was gym
cancelled?’ I ask.

‘A con has got
out onto the roof via a skylight in the gym,’ he explains. Result – gym closed
until further notice and will not open again until security has double-checked
every possible exit and the authorities consider it a safe area again. He
grins, enjoying his role as the prison oracle.

‘Anything else
I can help you with?’ Del Boy enquires.

‘Bottled water
and an A4 writing pad,’ I reply.

‘They’ll be with
you before the hour has chimed, squire.’

I’ve already
learnt not to ask what myriad of deals will have to be carried out to achieve
this simple request. James had warned me on my first day about the prison term
‘double-bubble’, meaning certain
favours
have to be
repaid twice over. During Association yesterday evening, I witnessed Derek cut
a rolled-up cigarette in half and then pass it over to another prisoner. This
was on a Tuesday, and the hapless inmate knew he wouldn’t be able to repay the
debt until today, when he would have his next canteen.

But his craving
was so great that he accepted, knowing that he would have to give Del Boy a
whole cigarette in return, or he could never hope to strike up another bargain
with him – or anyone else, for that matter.

It must have
been a few minutes after eleven when my cell door is yanked open again to
reveal
Mr
Loughnane
. Just
the sight of him lifts my spirits. He tells me that he has spoken to his
opposite number at Ford Open Prison, who will have to refer the matter to the
Governor, as he doesn’t have the authority to make the final decision.

‘How long do
you expect that will take?’ I ask.

‘Couple of days at the most.
He’ll probably come back to me
on Friday, and when he does, I’ll be in touch with Group 4.’ This simple
transaction would take the average businessman a couple of hours at most. For
the first time in years,
I’m having
to move at someone
else’s pace.

We are all sent
off to work. I’m down on the register under ‘workshops’ where I will have to
pack breakfast bags that will eventually end up in other prisons. My salary
will be 50p an hour. New
Labour’s
minimum-wage policy
hasn’t quite trickled down to convicted felons. The truth is we’re captive
labour
. I’m about to join the chain gang when another
prison officer,
Mr
Young, asks me to wait behind
until the others have left for the work area. He returns a few minutes later,
to tell me that I’ve received so much registered mail they have decided to take
me to it, rather than bring the stack to me.

Another long
walk in a different direction, even more opening and closing of barred gates,
by which time I have learnt that
Mr
Young has been in
the prison service for eleven years, his annual basic pay is £24,000, and it’s
quite hard, if not impossible, to find somewhere to live in London on that
salary.

When we arrive
at reception, two other officers are standing behind a counter in front of rows
and rows of cluttered wooden shelves.
Mr
Pearson
removes thirty-two registered letters and parcels from a shelf behind him and
places them on the counter. He starts to open them one by one in front of me –
another prison regulation. The two officers then make a little pile of Bibles
and books and another of gifts which they eventually place in a plastic bag,
and once I’ve signed the requisite form, hand them all across to me.

‘Peach,’ says
Mr
Pearson, and another prisoner steps forward to have a
parcel opened in front of him. It’s a pair of the latest Nike trainers, which
have been sent in by his girlfriend.

Both clutching
onto our plastic bags, we accompany
Mr
Young back to
Block One. On the way, I apologize to
Peach
– I never
did find out his first name – for keeping him waiting.

‘No problem,’
he says. ‘You kept me out of my cell for nearly an hour.’

Mr
Young continues to tell us about some of the other
problems the prison service is facing. We are onto staff benefits and shiftwork
when an alarm goes off, and officers appear running towards us from every
direction.
Mr
Young quickly unlocks the nearest
waiting room and bundles Peach and myself inside, locking the door firmly
behind us. We stare through the windows as officers continue rushing past us,
but we have no way of finding out why. A few moments later, a prisoner, held
down by three officers and surrounded by others, is dragged off past us in the
opposite direction. One of the officers is pushing the prisoner’s head down,
while another keeps his legs bent so that when he passes us he leaves an
impression of a marionette controlled by invisible strings. Peach tells me that
it’s known as being ‘bent up’ or ‘twisted up’, and is part of the process of
‘control and restraint’.

‘Control and restraint?’

‘The prisoner
will be dragged into a strip cell and held down while his clothes are cut off
with a pair of scissors. He’s then put in wrist locks, before they bend his
legs behind his back. Finally they put a belt around his waist that has
handcuffs on each side, making it impossible for him to move his arms or legs.’

‘And then
what?’

‘They’ll take
him off to segregation,’ Peach explains. ‘He’ll be put into a single cell that
consists of a metal sink, metal table and metal chair all fixed to the wall, so
he can’t smash anything up.’

‘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.’