Hell (16 page)

This week I
notice that the congregation is roughly split in two, with a sort of
demarcation zone about halfway back. The prisoners seated in the first eight
rows have only one purpose – to follow every line in the Bible that the
Chaplain refers to, to sing at the top of their voices and participate fully in
the spirit of the service. The back nine rows show scant interest in
proceedings, and I observe that they have formed smaller groups of two, three
or four, their heads bowed deep in conversation. I assume they’re friends from
different spurs and find the service one of the few opportunities to meet up,
chat, and pass on messages. Quite possibly even drugs – if they are willing to go
through a
fairly humiliating process.*

The Chaplain’s
text this Sunday comes from the Gospel of St John, and concentrates in
particular on the prodigal son. Last week it was Cain and Abel. I can only
assume that next week it will be
Honour
Among
Thieves.

The Chaplain
tells his flock that he is only going to speak to them for five minutes, and
then addresses us for twelve, but to be fair, he was quite regularly
interrupted with cries of ‘Alleluia’, and ‘Bless us, Lord’. The Chaplain’s
theme is that if you leave the bosom of your family, try to make it alone, and
things go wrong, it doesn’t mean that your father won’t welcome you back if you
are willing to admit you’ve made mistakes. Many of those in the front four rows
start jumping up and down and cheering.

After the
service is over, and we have all been searched again, I’m escorted back to
House Block One, but not before several inmates from Block Three come across to
say hello. Remember Mark, Kevin and Dave? I’m brought up to date with all of
their hopes and expectations as we slowly make our way back to our separate
blocks. No one moves quickly in prison, because it’s just another excuse to
spend more time out of your cell. As I pass the desk at the end of my spur, I
spot a pile of Sunday newspapers. The
News
of the World
is by far the most popular, followed by the
Sunday Mirror
, but there is also quite a
large order for the
Sunday Times
.

When I return
to my cell, I find my room has been swept and tidied, and my bed made up with
clean sheets. I’m puzzled, because there was nothing in the prison handbook
about room service. I find out later that
Taal
(Ghanaian, murder, lifer) wants to thank me for helping him write a letter to
his mother.

Returning
favours
is far more commonplace in prison than it is
outside.

12 noon
Lunch: grated cheese, a tomato,
a green apple and a mug of Highland Spring. I’m running out of water and will
in future have to order more bottles of Highland Spring and less chocolate from
the canteen.

After lunch I
sit down to write the second draft of this morning’s script, as I won’t be let
out again until four, and then only for forty-five minutes. I clean my glasses
and notice that without thinking, I’ve begun to split my double Kleenex tissue
so that I can make the maximum use of both sheets.

Association.
During the hour break, I don’t join the others
in the yard for exercise because of the
News
of the World
article, which means I’ll be stuck inside all day. I can’t
remember the last time I remained indoors for twenty-four hours.

I join Fletch
(murder) in his cell, along with Billy (murder) and Tony (marijuana only,
escaped to Paris). They’re discussing in great detail an article in the
Sunday Times
about
paedophiles
,
and I find myself listening intently. Because on this subject, as in many
others concerning what goes on in prison, I recall Lord
Longford’s
words, ‘Don’t assume all prisoners have fixed views.’ I feel on safer ground
when the discussion turns to the Tory Party leadership. Only Tony, who reads
The Times
, can be described as a
committed liberalist. Most of the others, if they are anything, are New
Labour
.
*

They all agree
that Ken Clarke is a decent enough sort of bloke – pint at the local and all
that, and not interested in his appearance, but they know very little about
Iain Duncan Smith, other than he comes from the right wing of the Party and
therefore has to be their enemy. I suggest that it’s never quite that simple.
IDS has clear views on most issues, and they shouldn’t just label him in that
clichéd way. He’s a complex and thoughtful man – his father, I remind them, was
a Second World War hero, flying Spitfires against the Germans and winning the
DSO and
Bar
. They like that. I suspect if we were at
war now, his son would be doing exactly the same thing.

‘But he has the
same instincts as Ann
Widdecombe
,’ says Fletch. ‘Bang
‘
em
up and throw away the key.’

‘That may well
be the case, but don’t forget Ann is supporting Ken Clarke, despite his views
on Europe.’

‘That doesn’t
add up,’ says Billy.

‘Politics is
like prison,’ I suggest. ‘You mustn’t assume anything, as the exact opposite
often turns out to be the reality.’

‘Back to your
cells,’ bellows a voice.

I leave the
lifers and return to my cell on the top floor to be incarcerated until nine
tomorrow morning – sixteen hours. Think about it, sixteen hours. That’s the
length of time you will spend between rising in the morning and going to bed at
night.

Just as I
arrive at my door, another lifer (Doug) hands me an envelope. ‘It’s from a
prisoner on Block Two,’ he says. ‘He evidently told you all about it yesterday
when you were in the exercise yard.’ I throw the envelope on the bed and switch
on the radio, to be reminded that it’s the hottest day of the year (92°). I
open my little window to its furthest extent (six inches) to let in whatever
breeze there is, but I still feel myself sweating as I sit at my desk checking
over the day’s script.

I glance up at
the cupboard behind my bed, grateful for the clean clothes that Mary sent in
this morning.

Supper.
I can’t face the hotplate, despite Tony’s
recommendation of Spam fritter, so I have another portion of grated cheese,
open a small tin of coleslaw (41p) and – disaster – finish the last drop of my
last bottle of Highland Spring. Thank heavens that
it’s
canteen tomorrow and I’m allowed to spend another £12.50.

During the
early evening, I go over my manuscript, and as there are no letters to deal
with, I turn my attention to the envelope that was handed to Doug in the yard.
It turns out to be a TV script for a thirty-minute pilot set in a women’s
prison. It’s somehow been smuggled out of Holloway and into
Belmarsh
(no wonder it’s easy to get hold of drugs).

The writer has
a good ear for prison language, and allows you an interesting insight into life
in a women’s prison, but I fear
Cell
Block H
and
Bad Girls
have
already done this theme to death. It’s fascinating to spot the immediate
differences in a women’s prison to
Belmarsh
. Not
least the searching procedure, the fact that lesbianism is far more prevalent
in female prisons than homosexuality is in male establishments, and, if you can
believe it, the level of violence is higher.

They don’t
bother waiting until you’re in the shower before they throw the first punch.

Anywhere, at
any time, will do.

It’s a long hot
evening, and I have visits from Del Boy, Paul, Fletch and finally Tony.

Tony (hotplate,
marijuana only, escaped to Paris) started life as a B-cat prisoner, and was
transferred after three and a half years to Ford Open (first offence, no
history of violence). After eight blameless months they allowed him out on a
town visit, so he happily set off for
Bognor
Regis.
But after four visits to that seaside resort during the next four months, he
became somewhat bored with the cold, deserted beach and the limited shopping
centre
. That’s when he decided there were other towns he’d
like to visit on his day off.

When they let
him out the following month, he took the boat-train to Paris.

The prison
authorities were not amused. It was only when he moved on to Spain, two years
later, that they finally caught up with him and he was arrested. After spending
sixteen months in a Spanish jail waiting to be deported (canteen, fifty pounds
a week, and no bang-up until nine), they sent him back to the UK. Tony now
resides in this high-security double A-Category prison, from where no one has
ever escaped, and will remain
put
until he has
completed his full sentence (twelve years). No time was added to his sentence,
but there will be no remission (half off for good
behaviour
)
and he certainly won’t be considered for an open prison again. This
fifty-four-year-old somehow keeps smiling and even manages to tell his story
with
selfdeprecating
humour
.

Tony leaves me
with a copy of the
Sunday Mirror
.
Although it’s not a paper I’m in the habit of reading, I am at least able to
bring myself up to date on the county cricket scores, not to mention who among
the fighting fit will find a place in the England team for the third Test against
Australia on Thursday. My beloved Somerset are in second place in the county
championship and doing well in their current fixture against
Glamorgan
. On the England front, the
Mirror
’s cricket correspondent is suggesting it’s time to bring
back Tufnell. I did an auction for Phil during his testimonial year, and
although he’s not always popular with the selectors, the packed banqueting hall
at the Dorchester proved the regard in which he is held by the Middlesex
supporters. It seems that Thorpe,
Hussain
, Vaughan
and Croft are all injured and will not make the starting line while a reluctant
Atherton will be called on once again to skipper the side. It doesn’t seem to
improve his batting.

Meanwhile,
Australia fields the same team that so roundly defeated us at Lords. I always
thought it was the visiting side that was meant to have injury problems.

I finally
finish
The Moon’s a Balloon
,
which left me with the distinct feeling
that
Mr
Niven
must have
lived a charmed life. I only met him once, and that was at a literary luncheon
in Yorkshire, where he was on the circuit with
Bring on the Empty Horses
, the sequel to the book I’ve just
finished reading.

It was an
occasion I shall never forget, because the other author was James Herriot of
It Shouldn’t Happen to
a
Vet
fame. I was there to launch my first effort,
Not
A
Penny More,
Not A Penny Less
, and was naturally delighted to be among such illustrious
company. After the speeches had concluded, the authors were each escorted to a
table, so that they could sign copies of their books.

Mr
Niven’s
queue stretched across
the dining-room floor and out of the front door, while
Mr
Herriot’s fans were almost as legion. In my case, I didn’t have a single
customer. When the signing was over,
Mr
Niven
graciously came across to my table, purchased a copy
of
Penny
, and told me he would read
it on the flight back to Los Angeles the following day. He turned out to be one
of the three people who paid for the book. A generous gesture, which many
people have since told
me
was typical. But imagine my
surprise when a few days later I received a handwritten letter from the
Bel
Air Hotel.

Dear Jeffrey
,
Much enjoyed Penny, have no doubt it will sell even more copies than
Horses by the time you’re my age
.

Yours ever David

Bang on ten,
the rap music begins blasting out.

Gunshot to the
head,
pussyboy
gets dead Gunshot to the head,
pussyboy
gets dead Gunshot to the head,
pussyboy
gets dead Gunshot to the head,
pussyboy
gets dead
Gunshot to the head,
pussyboy
gets dead Gunshot to
the head,
pussyboy
gets
dead…

Have you ever
stopped at a traffic light to find yourself next to an open car with its radio
full on? Do you then allow the offending driver to accelerate away? Imagine
being in a cell with the music blasting out on both sides of you, but you can’t
accelerate away.