Hell (3 page)

I am horrified
to discover that the first column on the list is dominated by several different
types of tobacco, and the second column by batteries – think about it. I study
the form for some considerable time, and even enjoy deciding how I will spend
my twelve pounds fifty.

A bell rings,
as if announcing the end of class. The cell door is opened to allow me to join
the other inmates and spend forty-five minutes in the exercise yard. I’m sure
you’ve seen this activity portrayed in many films – it’s not quite the same
experience when you have to participate yourself. Before going down to the
yard, we all have to undergo another body search, not unlike one you might go
through at an airport. We are then led down three flights of iron steps to an
exercise yard at ground level.

I pace around the furlong square that is enclosed by a high
red-brick wall, with a closely mown threadbare lawn in the
centre
.

After a couple
of rounds, I’m joined by Gordon, the voice who greeted me this morning from the
window on the other side of the block. He turns out to be tall and slim, with
the build of an athlete. He tells me without any prompting that he has already
served eleven years of a fourteen-year sentence for murder. This is the fifth
prison they’ve sent him to. Can’t be for good
behaviour
,
is my first
reaction.*
The
author in me is
curious to find out more about him, but I don’t have to ask any questions
because he never stops talking, which I later discover is a common trait among
lifers.

Gordon is due
out in three years’ time and, although dyslexic, has taken an Open University
degree in English and is now studying for a law degree. He also claims to have
written a book of poetry, which I seem to recall reading something about in the
Daily Mail
.

‘Don’t talk to
me about the press,’ he screeches like a tape recorder you can’t switch off.
‘They always get it wrong. They said I shot my lover’s boyfriend when I found
them in bed together, and that he was an Old
Etonian
.’

‘And he wasn’t
an Old
Etonian
?’ I probe innocently.

‘Yeah, course
he was,’ said Gordon. ‘But I didn’t shoot him, did I? I stabbed him seventeen
times.’

I feel sick at
this matter-of-fact revelation, delivered with neither remorse nor irony.

Gordon goes on
to tell me that he was twenty at the time, and had run away from home at the
age of fourteen, after being sexually abused. I shuddered, despite the sun
beaming down on me. I wonder just how long it will be before I’m not sickened
by such confessions. How long before I don’t shudder? How long before it
becomes matter-of-fact, commonplace?

As we continue
our circumnavigation of the yard, he points out Ronnie Biggs, who’s sitting on
a bench in the far corner surrounded by geraniums.

‘They’ve just
planted those, Jeff,’ says Gordon. ‘They must have known you were
comin
’.’ Again, he doesn’t laugh. I glance across to see a
sick old man with a tube coming out of his nose.
A man who
doesn’t look as if he has long to live.

Another
circuit, before I ask Gordon about a young West Indian who has his face turned
to the wall, and hasn’t moved an inch since I walked into the yard.

‘He killed his
wife and young daughter,’ says Gordon. ‘He’s tried to commit suicide three
times since they locked him up, and doesn’t talk to no one.’

I felt
strangely compassionate for this double murderer as we pass him for a third
time. As we overtake another man who looks totally lost, Gordon whispers, ‘
That’s
Barry George, who’s just been done for killing Jill
Dando
.’ I didn’t tell him that Jill was an old friend and
we both hail from Weston-super...

Mare.
For the first time in my life, I keep my counsel. ‘No
one in here believes he did it,’ says Gordon, ‘including the screws.’ I still
make no comment. However, George’s and my trial ran concurrently at the Old
Bailey, and I was surprised by how many senior lawyers and laymen told me they were
disturbed by the verdict. ‘I’ll bet he gets off on appeal,’
*

Gordon adds as
another bell rings to indicate that our forty-five minutes of ‘freedom’ is up.

Once again we
are all searched before leaving the yard, which puzzles me; if we didn’t have anything
on us when we came in, how could we have acquired anything while we were
walking around the yard? I feel sure there is a simple explanation. I ask
Gordon.

‘They’ve got to
go through the whole procedure every time,’ Gordon explains as we climb back up
the steps. ‘It’s the regulations.’

When we reach
the third floor, we go our separate ways.

‘Goodbye,’ says
Gordon, and we never meet again.

I read three
days later in the
Sun
that Ronald
Biggs and I shook hands after Gordon had introduced us.

Locked back up
in my cell, I continue to write, only to hear the key turning before I’ve
completed a full page. It’s
Ms
Roberts, the Deputy
Governor. I stand and offer her my little steel chair. She smiles, waves a
hand, and perches herself on the end of the bed.

She confirms
that the arrangements for my visit to the parish church in
Grantchester
to attend my mother’s funeral have been sanctioned by the Governor. They have
checked the police computer at Scotland Yard, and as I have no previous
convictions, and no history of violence, I am automatically a Category D
prisoner,*
which she explains is important because it means that during the funeral
service the prison officers accompanying me need not wear a uniform, and
therefore I will not have to be handcuffed.

The press will
be disappointed, I tell her.

‘It won’t stop
them claiming you were,’ she replies.

Ms
Roberts goes on to tell me that I will be moved from the
medical wing to Block Three sometime after lunch. There is no point in asking
her when exactly.

I spend the
rest of the morning locked up in my cell, writing, sticking to a routine I have
followed for the past twenty-five years – two hours on, two hours off – though
never before in such surroundings. When I normally leave home for a writing
session I go in search of somewhere that has a view of the ocean.

12 noon
I’m let out of my cell to join
a queue for lunch. One look at what’s on offer and I can’t face it – overcooked
meat, Heaven knows from which animal, mushy peas swimming in water, and potatoes
that Oliver Twist would have rejected. I settle for a slice of bread and a tin
cup of milk, not a cup of tinned milk. I sit at a nearby table, finish lunch in
three minutes, and return to my cell.

I don’t have to
wait long before another woman officer appears to tell me that I’m being
transferred to Cell Block Three, better known by the inmates as Beirut. I pack
my plastic bag which takes another three minutes while she explains that Beirut
is on the other side of the prison.

‘Anything must
be better than the medical wing,’ I venture.

‘Yes, I suppose
it is a little better,’ she says.

She hesitates.
‘But not that much better.’

She escorts me
along several linking corridors, unlocking and locking even more barred gates,
before we arrive in Beirut. My appearance is greeted by cheers from several
inmates. I learn later that bets had been placed on which block I would end up
in.

Each of the
four blocks serves a different purpose, so it shouldn’t have been difficult to
work out that I would end up on
Three
– the induction
block. You remain in ‘induction’ until they have assessed you, like a plane
circling above an airport waiting to be told which runway you can finally land
on.
More of that later.

My new cell
turns out to be slightly larger, by inches, and a little more humane, but, as
the officer promised, only just. The walls are an easier-to-live-with shade of
green, and this time the lavatory has a flush. No need to pee in the washbasin
any more. The view remains consistent. You just stare at another red-brick
block, which also shields all human life from the sun. The long walk from the
medical block across the prison to Block Three had itself served as a pleasant
interlude, but I feel sick at the thought of this becoming a way of life.

A tea-boy or
Listener
*
called James is waiting outside my cell to greet me. He has a
kind face, and reminds me of a prefect welcoming a new boy on his first day at
school, the only difference being that he’s twenty years younger than I am.
James tells me that if I need any questions answered I should not hesitate to
ask. He advises me not to say anything to anyone – prisoners or officers –
about my sentence or appeal, or to discuss any subject I don’t want to see in a
national newspaper the following day. He warns me that the other prisoners all
believe they’re going to make a fortune by phoning the
Sun
to let a journalist know what I had for lunch. I thank him for
the advice my QC has already proffered. James passes over another rock-hard
pillow with a green pillowcase, but this time I’m given two sheets and two
blankets. He also hands me a plastic plate, a plastic bowl, a plastic mug and a
plastic knife and fork. He then tells me the bad news, England
were
all out for 187. I frown.

‘But Australia
are 27 for two,’ he adds with a grin. He’s obviously heard about my love of
cricket. ‘Would you like a radio?’ he asks.

‘Then you can
follow the ball-by-ball commentary.’

I cannot hide
my delight at the thought, and he leaves me while I make up my new bed. He
returns a few minutes later with a battered black radio, from I know not where.

‘I’ll see you
later,’ he says and disappears again.

I take a
considerable time balancing the radio on the tiny brick window sill with the
aerial poking out between the bars before I am able to tune into the familiar
voice of Christopher Martin-Jenkins on
Test
Match Special
. He’s telling Blowers that he needs a haircut. This is
followed by the more serious news that Australia are now 92 for 2, and both the
Waugh brothers look set in their ways. As it’s an off-writing period, I lie
down on the bed and listen to Graham Gooch’s groan as two catches are dropped
in quick succession. By the time a bell goes for supper, Australia
are
207 for 4, and I suspect are on the way to another
innings victory.

Once again I
reject the prison food, and wonder how long it will be before I have to give
in.

I return to my
cell to find my purchases from the canteen list have been left on the end of my
bed. Someone has entered my cell and left without my knowing, is strangely my
first reaction. I pour a cup of Buxton water into my plastic mug, and remove
the lid from a tube of Pringles. I eat and drink very slowly.

Three hours later
another bell rings. All the cell doors are opened by prison officers and the
inmates congregate on the ground floor for what is known as ‘Association’. This
is the period when you mix with the other prisoners for one hour. As I walk the
longest route I can circumnavigate – walking is now a luxury – I discover what
activities are on offer.

Four black men
wearing gold chains with crosses attached are sitting in one corner playing
dominoes. I discover later that all four of them are in for murder. None of
them appears particularly violent as they consider their next move. I walk on
to see two more inmates playing pool, while others lounge around reading the
Sun
– by far the most popular paper in
the prison if one is to judge on a simple head count. At the far end of the
room is a long queue for the two phones.

Each waiting
caller has a £2
phonecard
which they can use at any
time during Association. I’m told I will receive one tomorrow.

Everything is
tomorrow. I wonder if in a Spanish jail everything is the day after
tomorrow?

I stop and chat
to someone who introduces himself as Paul. He tells me that he’s in for VAT
fraud (seven years), and is explaining how he got caught when we are joined by
a prison officer. A long conversation follows during which the officer reveals
that he also doesn’t believe Barry George killed Jill
Dando
.

‘Why not?’
I ask.

‘He’s just too
stupid,’ the officer replies.

‘And in any
case,
Dando
was killed with one shot, which convinces
me that the murder must have been carried out by a disciplined professional.’
He goes on to tell us that he has been on the same spur as George for the past
eighteen months and repeats, ‘I can tell you he’s just not up to it.’

Pat (murder,
reduced to manslaughter, four years) joins us, and says he agrees. Pat recalls
an incident that took place on ‘prison sports day’ last year, when Barry George
– then on remand – was running in the one hundred yards and fell over at
thirty. ‘He’s a bit of a pervert,’ Pat
adds
, ‘and
perhaps he ought to be locked up, but he’s no murderer.’

When I leave
them to continue my walkabout, I observe that we are penned in at both ends of
the room by a floor-to-ceiling steel-mesh sheet. Everyone nods and smiles as I
pass,
and some prisoners stop me and want to talk about
their upcoming trials, while others who are sending out cards need to know how
to spell Christine or Suzanne.

Most of them
are friendly and address me as Lord Jeff, yet another first. I try to look
cheerful. When I remember that if my appeal fails the minimum time I will have
to serve is two years, I can’t imagine how anyone with a life sentence can
possibly cope.