Hell (4 page)

‘It’s just a
way of life,’ says Jack, a
fortyeight
-year-old who
has spent the last
twentytwo
years in and out of
different prisons. ‘My problem,’ he adds, ‘is I’m no longer qualified to do
anything when I get out.’

The last person
who told me that was a Conservative Member of Parliament a few days before the
last election. He lost.

Jack invites me
to visit his cell on the ground floor. I’m surprised to find three beds in a
room not much larger than mine. I thought he was about to comment on how lucky
I was to have a single cell, but no, he simply indicates a large drawing
attached to the wall.

‘What do you
think that is, Jeff?’ he demands.

‘No idea,’ I
reply. ‘Does it tell you how many days, months or years you still have to go
before you’re released?’

‘No,’ Jack
responds. He then points below the washbasin where a small army of ants are
congregating. I’m a bit slow and still haven’t put two and two together.
‘Each night,’ Jack goes on to explain, ‘the three of us organize
ant races, and that’s the track.
A sort of ants’ Ascot,’ he adds with a
laugh.

‘But what’s the
stake?’ I enquire, aware that no one is allowed to have any money inside a
prison.

‘On Saturday
night, the one who’s won the most races during the week gets to choose which
bed they’ll sleep in for the next seven days.’

I stare at the
three beds. On one side of the room, up against the wall, is
a
single bed while on the other side are
bunk beds.

‘Which does the
winner choose?’

‘You’re
fuckin
’
*
dumb, Jeff. The top one, of course; that
way you’re farthest away from the ants, and can be sure of a night’s sleep.’

‘What do the
ants get?’ I ask.

‘If they win,
they stay alive until the next race.’

‘And if they
lose?’

‘We put them
into tomorrow’s soup.’ I think it was a joke.

Another bell
sounds and the officers immediately corral us back into our cells and slam the
doors shut. They will not be unlocked again until eight tomorrow morning.

A senior officer
stops me as I am returning to my cell to tell me that the Governor wants a
word. I follow him, but have to halt every few yards as he unlocks and locks
countless iron-barred gates before I’m shown into a comfortable room with a
sofa, two easy chairs and pictures on the wall.

Mr
Peel, the Governor of Block Three, rises and shakes my
hand before motioning me to an easy chair. He asks me how I am settling in. I
assure him that the medical wing isn’t something I’d want to experience ever
again. Block Three, I admit, although dreadful, is a slight improvement.

Mr
Peel nods, as if he’s heard it all before.

He then
explains that there are five Governors at
Belmarsh
,
and he’s the one responsible for arranging my visit to
Grantchester
to attend my mother’s funeral.

He goes on to
confirm that everything is in place, but I must be ready to leave at seven
o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m about to ask why seven o’clock when the service
isn’t until eleven, and the journey to
Grantchester
usually takes about an hour, when he rises from his place and adds, ‘I’ll see
you again just as soon as you’ve returned from Cambridge.’

Mr
Peel says goodnight but doesn’t shake hands a second
time. I leave his office and try to find the way back to my cell. As I’m
unescorted, I lose my way. An officer quickly comes to my rescue and guides me
back on the straight and narrow, obviously confident that I wasn’t trying to
escape. I couldn’t find my way in, let alone out, I want to tell him.

Once locked
back up in my tiny room, I return to
The
Moon’s a Balloon
and read about David
Niven’s
first experience of sex, and laugh, yes laugh, for the first time in days. At
eleven, I turn off my light. Two West Indians on the same floor are shouting
through their cell windows, but I can neither follow nor understand what they
are saying.
*
They go on hollering at each other like a married couple
who ought to get divorced.

I have no idea
what time it was when I fell asleep.

I wake a few
minutes after four, but as I am not due to be picked up until seven I decide to
write for a couple of hours. I find I’m writing more slowly now that there are
so few distractions in my life.

An officer
unlocks my cell door and introduces himself as George. He asks me if I would
like to have a shower. My towel has been hanging over the end of my bed all
night and is still damp, but at least they’ve supplied me with a
Bic
razor so that I can set about getting rid of two days’
growth. I consider cutting my throat, but the thought of failure and the idea
of having to return to the hospital wing is enough to put anyone off.

The experience
of that medical wing must deter most prisoners from harming themselves, because
it’s not the easy option. If you are sent back to the top floor you’d better be
ill, or you will be by the time they’ve finished with you.

I go off to
have my shower. I’m getting quite good at anticipating when to press the button
so that the flow of water doesn’t stop.

‘Are you
ready?’ George asks politely.

‘Yes,’ I say,
‘except that my black tie has been confiscated along with my cufflinks.’

George’s fellow
officer hands me a black tie, and a pair of cufflinks materialize. I can only
assume that they had anticipated my problem. I point out to George that his
black tie is smarter than mine.

‘Possibly, but
mine’s a clip-on,’ he says, ‘otherwise I’d happily lend it to you.’

‘A clip-on?’
I repeat in mock disdain.

‘Prison
regulations,’ he explains. ‘No officer ever wears a tie as it puts him at risk
of being strangled.’

I learn
something new every few minutes.

The two of them
escort me to the front hall, but not before we’ve passed through seven
double-bolted floor-to-ceiling barred gates. When we reach the reception area,
I am once again strip-searched. The officers carry out this exercise as
humanely as possible, though it’s still humiliating.

I am then taken
out into the yard to find a white Transit van awaiting me. Once inside, I’m
asked to sit in the seat farthest from the door. George sits next to the door,
while his colleague slips into the spare seat directly behind him. The tiny
windows are covered with bars and blacked out; I can see out, though no one can
see in. I tell George that the
press are
going to be
very frustrated.

‘There were a
lot of them hanging round earlier this morning waiting for you,’ he tells me,
‘but a high-security van left about an hour ago at full speed and they all
chased after it. They’ll be halfway to Nottingham before they realize you’re
not inside.’

The electric gates
slide open once again, this time to let me out. I know the journey to Cambridge
like the clichéd ‘back of my hand’ because I’ve made it once, sometimes twice,
a week for the past twenty years. But this time I am taken on a route that I
never knew existed, and presume it can only be for security reasons. I once
remember John Major’s driver telling me that he knew
twentytwo
different routes from
Chequers
to No.

10, and another
twenty back to Huntingdon, and none of them was the most direct.

I find it a little
stifling in the back of the van. There is no contact with the driver in the
front, or the policeman sitting beside him, because they are sealed off, almost
as if they’re in a separate vehicle. I sense that George and his colleague are
a little nervous – I can’t imagine why, because I have no intention of trying
to escape, as I abhor any form of violence. I learn later they are nervous
because should anything go wrong they’ll be blamed for it – and something does
go wrong.

When we reach
the M11, the van remains at a steady fifty on the inside lane, and I begin to
feel sick cooped up in that
armourplated
compartment
on wheels. Our first destination is the Cambridge Crematorium, which is
situated on the north side of the city, so when we come off the motorway at
exit thirteen, I’m surprised to find that the driver turns left, and starts
going in the wrong direction. We travel for a couple of miles towards Royston,
before pulling into a large car park attached to the Siemens Building.

George explains
that Siemens is where they have agreed to liaise with the local police before
travelling on to the crematorium.

One
enterprising black-leather-clad motorcyclist (journalist) who spotted the van
coming off the roundabout at exit thirteen has followed us to the Siemens
Building. He skids to a halt, and immediately taps out some numbers on his
mobile phone. The policeman seated in the front makes it clear that he wants to
be on the move before any of the biker’s colleagues join him. But as we have to
wait for the local police before we can proceed, we’re stuck.

It is of course
unusual to have a cremation before the church service, but the crematorium was
free at 10 am and the church not until midday. The following day the
press come
up with a dozen reasons as to why the funeral had
been conducted in this order – from the police demanding it, through to me
wanting to fool them. Not one of them published the correct reason.

Within minutes,
the police escort arrives and we are on our way.

When we drive
into the crematorium, there are over a hundred journalists and photographers
waiting for us behind a barrier that has been erected by the police. They must
have been disappointed to see the white van disappear behind the back of the
building, where they slipped me in through the entrance usually reserved for
the clergy.

Peter Walker,
an old friend and the former Bishop of Ely, is waiting to greet us. He guides
me through to a little room, where he will put on his robes and I will change
into a new suit, which my son William is bringing over from the Old Vicarage. I
will be only too happy to be rid of the clothes I’ve been wearing for the past
few days. The smell of prison is a perfume that even Nicole Kidman couldn’t
make fashionable.

The Bishop
takes me through the cremation service, which, he says, will only last for
about fifteen minutes. He confirms that the main funeral service will be
conducted in the Parish Church of St Andrew and St Mary in
Grantchester
at twelve o’clock.

A few minutes
later, my immediate
family arrive
via the front door
and have to face the clicking cameras and the shouted questions.

Mary is wearing
an elegant black dress with a simple brooch that my mother left her in her
will. She is ashen-faced, which was my last memory of her before I left the dock.
I begin to accept that this terrible ordeal may be even more taxing for my
family who are trying so hard to carry on their daily lives while not letting
the world know how they really feel.

When Mary comes
through to join me in the back, I hold on to her for some time. I then change
into my new suit, and go through to the chapel and join the rest of the family.
I greet each one of them before taking my place in the front row, seated
between William and Mary. I try hard to concentrate on the fact that we are all
gathered together in memory of my mother, Lola, but it’s hard to forget I’m a
convict, who in a few hours’ time will be back in prison.

The Bishop
conducts the service with calm and quiet dignity, and when the curtains are
finally drawn around my mother’s coffin, Mary and I walk forward and place a
posy of heather next to the wreath.

Mary leaves by
the front door, while I return to the back room where I am greeted by another
old friend. The two prison officers are surprised when Inspector Howell from
the local constabulary says, ‘Hello, Jeffrey, sorry to see you in these
circumstances.’

I explain to
them that when I was Chairman of Cambridge Rugby Club, David was the 1st XV
skipper, and the best scrum-half in the county.

‘How do you
want to play it?’ I ask.

David checks
his watch. ‘The service at
Grantchester
isn’t for
another hour, so I suggest we park up at
Cantalupe
Farm, and wait at the Old Vicarage, until it’s time to leave for the church.’

I glance at
George to see if this meets with his approval. ‘I’m happy to fall in with
whatever the local constabulary
advise
,’ he says.

I’m then driven
away to
Cantalupe
Farm in my
armoured
van, where the owner, Antony Pemberton, has kindly allowed us to park.

Mary and the
boys travel separately in the family car. We then all make our way by foot over
to the Old Vicarage accompanied by only a couple of photographers as the rest
of the press are massed outside St Andrew’s; they have all assumed that we
would be travelling directly to the parish church.

We all wait
around in the kitchen for a few moments, while Mary Anne, our housekeeper,
makes some tea,
pours
a large glass of milk and cuts
me a slice of chocolate cake. I then ask George if I might be allowed to walk
around the garden.

The Old
Vicarage at
Grantchester
(circa 1680) was, at the
beginning of the last century, the home of Rupert Brooke. The beautiful garden
has been tended for the past fifteen years by my wife and Rachael, the
gardener. Between them they’ve turned it from a jungle into a haven. The trees
and flowerbeds are exquisite and the walks to and from the river quite
magnificent. George and his colleague, though never more than a few paces away,
remain out of earshot, so Mary and I are able to discuss my appeal.