Hell (6 page)

‘I’ll send
round my man to see you, your Lordship,’ Pat says with a grin. ‘He’ll take care
of you.’

I thank Pat,
not quite sure if he’s teasing me. Once I’ve completed another press-button
shower – I’ve almost mastered it – and dried myself, I return to my cell to
have breakfast. Breakfast was handed to me last night in a plastic
bag,
only moments after I’d rejected the evening meal. I
extract a very hard-boiled egg from the bag, before disposing of the rest of
its contents in the plastic bucket under the sink. While eating the egg – white
only, avoiding the yolk – I stare out of my window and watch the planes as they
descend at regular, sixty-second intervals into City Airport. A pigeon joins me
on the ledge, but he’s on the outside. I retrieve a piece of stale bread from
the bucket under the washbasin, break it into small crumbs and drop them on the
sill. He rejects my offering, coos and flies away.

The cell is
unlocked again, this time for Association, and the duty officer asks me if I
want to attend a church service. Not being utterly convinced there is a God I
rarely go to church in
Grantchester
, despite the fact
that my wife was for many years the choir-mistress. However, on this occasion
it will mean a long walk and forty-five minutes in a far larger room than my
cell, so without hesitation I thank God and say yes.

‘RC or Church
of England?’ the officer enquires.

‘C of E,’ I
reply.

‘Then you’ll be
on the second shift. I’ll call you around 10.30 straight after Association.’

During
Association, prison officers watch to see if you become part of a clique or
gang, and how you behave while in a group, or if you’re simply a loner. I’m
about to leave my cell, only to find a queue of prisoners waiting at my door.
Most of them want autographs so they can prove to their partners or girlfriends
that they were on the same block as the notorious Jeffrey Archer.

When I’ve
finished what can only be described as a signing session not unlike the ones I
usually carry out at
Hatchard’s
, I’m joined by my new
Listener, Kevin. He confirms that James was shipped out to
Whitemoor
early this morning.

‘So what do you
need, Jeffrey? Can I call you Jeffrey?’

‘Of course.
What do I need?’ I repeat. ‘How about a bowl of cornflakes
with some real milk, two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, mushrooms and a cup of hot
chocolate.’

Kevin laughs.
‘I can sort out some Weetabix, skimmed milk, fresh bread.

Anything else?’

‘A decent
razor, some shampoo, a bar of soap and a change of towels?’

‘That may take
a little longer,’ he admits.

As everyone
knows what I’m in for, I ask the inevitable question.

‘I was part of
the Dome
jewellery
raid, wasn’t I,’ he says as if
everybody was.

What a sentence
to deliver to an author.

‘How did you
become involved?’ I asked.

‘Debt,’ he explains, ‘and a measure of bad luck.’

Nick
Purnell’s
words rang in my ears.

Don’t believe anything you’re told in
prison, and never reveal to your fellow inmates any details of your own case
.
‘Debt?’
I repeat.

‘Yeah, I owed a
man thirteen hundred pounds, and although I hadn’t spoken to him for over a
year, he suddenly calls up out of the blue and demands to see me.’ I don’t
interrupt the flow. ‘We met up at a pub in Brighton where he told me he needed
a speedboat and driver for a couple of hours and if I was willing to do it, I
could forget the debt.’

‘When did he
expect you to carry out the job?’ I ask.

‘The next
morning,’ Kevin replied. ‘I told him I couldn’t consider it because I’d already
got another job lined up.’

‘What job?’ I
asked.

‘Well, my dad
and I’ve got a couple of boats that we fish off the coast, and they were both
booked for the rest of the week.

“Then I want my
money,” the man demanded, so I wasn’t left with a lot of choice. You see, I was
skint
at the time, and anyway, he had a reputation as
a bit of a hard man, and all he wanted me to do was transport four men from one
side of the river to the other.

The whole
exercise wouldn’t take more than ten minutes.’

‘One thousand three hundred pounds for ten minutes’ work?
You must have realized that there was a catch?’

‘I was
suspicious, but had no idea what they were really up to.’

‘So what
happened next?’

‘I took the
boat as instructed up to Bow Creek, moored it near the jetty a few hundred
yards from the Dome and waited. Suddenly all hell broke loose. Three police
boats converged on me, and within minutes I was surrounded by a dozen armed
officers shouting at me to lie down on the deck with my hands above my head.
One of them said, “Blimey it’s not him,” and I later discovered that I’d been
brought in at the last minute to replace someone who had let the gang down.’

‘But by then
you must have known what they were up to?’

‘Nope,’ he
replied, ‘I’m thirty-five years old, and this is my first offence. I’m not a
criminal, and after what my family and I have been put through, I can tell you
I won’t be coming back to prison again.’

I can’t explain
why I wanted to believe him. It might have been his courteous manner, or the
way he talked about his wife and fourteen-year-old son. And he was certainly
going to pay dearly for a foolish mistake; one that he would regret for the
rest of his life.
*

‘Archer,
Collins, Davies, Edwards,’ booms the voice of
Mr
King, an officer not given to subtlety as he continues to bellow out names until
he comes to Watts, before adding, ‘C of E, now.’

‘I think we’ll
have to continue this conversation at some other time,’ I suggest. ‘Our Lord
calls and if he doesn’t,
Mr
King certainly does.’ I
then join the other prisoners who are waiting on the middle landing to be
escorted to the morning service.

A crocodile of
prisoners proceeds slowly along the polished linoleum floor until we’re stopped
for another body search before entering the chapel. Why would they search us
before going into a place of worship? We file into a large hall where each
worshipper is handed a Bible. I take my place in the second row next to a young
black man who has his head bowed. I glance around at what appears to be a full
house.

The Chaplain,
David (his name is written in bold letters on a label attached to his
wellworn
jacket), takes his place at the front of the
chapel and calls for silence. He is a man of about forty-five,
stockily
built, with a pronounced limp and a stern smile.
He stares down at his congregation of murderers, rapists, burglars and
wife-beaters. Not surprisingly, it takes him a couple of minutes to bring such
a flock to order.

While he goes
about his task, I continue to look around the room. It’s square in shape, and I
would guess measures about twenty paces by twenty. The outer walls are red
brick and the room holds about two hundred plastic chairs, in rows of twenty.
On the four walls there are paintings of Christ and his Disciples, Christ being
carried to the tomb after being taken down from the Cross, the Virgin Mother
with an angel, the Raising of Lazarus, and Christ calming the storm.

Directly behind
the Chaplain is a rock band – their leader is a pretty, dark-haired girl who
has a guitar slung over her shoulder.

She is accompanied
by five Gospel singers, all of whom have tiny microphones pinned to their
lapels. In front of the group is a man seated with his back to the
congregation. He is working a slide projector that flashes up on a white sheet
hung in front of him the words of the first hymn.

When the
Chaplain finally gains silence – achieved only after a threat that anyone
caught talking would immediately be escorted back to their cell – he begins the
service by delivering three prayers, all unsubtly spelling out the simple message
of doing good by your
neighbour
. He then turns to the
girl with the guitar and gives her a slight bow. Her gentle voice rings out the
melody of the first hymn, more of a Gospel message, which is accompanied
heartily by the black prisoners who make up well over half the congregation,
while the rest of us are a little more reserved. The group’s backing singers
are all white, and give as good as they get, even when the clapping begins.
After the last verse has rung out, we are all ready for the sermon, and what a
sermon it turns out to be.

The Chaplain’s
chosen theme is murder.

He then invites
us to pick up our Bibles – which he describes as the biggest bestseller of all
time – and turn to the book of Genesis.

He glances in
my direction and winks.

‘And it all
began with Cain and Abel,’ he tells us, ‘because Cain was the first murderer.

Envious of his
brother’s success, he gained revenge by killing him. But God saw him do it and
punished him for the rest of his life.’

His next chosen
example of a murderer was Moses, who, he told us, killed an Egyptian and also
thought he’d got away with it, but he hadn’t because God had seen him, so he
too was punished for the rest of his life. I don’t remember that bit, because I
thought Moses died peacefully in his bed aged 130.

‘Now I want you
to turn to the Second Book of Samuel,’ declares the Chaplain. ‘Not the first
book, the second book, where you’ll find a king who was a murderer. King David.

He killed Uriah
the Hittite, because he fancied his wife Bathsheba. He had Uriah placed in the
front line of the next battle to make sure he was killed so he could end up
marrying Bathsheba. However, God also saw what he was up to, and punished him
accordingly.

Because God
witnesses every murder, and will punish anyone who breaks his commandments.’

‘Alleluia,’
shout several of the congregation in the front three rows.

I later learnt
from the Deputy Governor that at least half the
congregation
were
murderers, so the Chaplain was well aware of the audience he was
playing to.

After the
sermon is over the Gospel singers sing a quiet reprise while the Chaplain asks
if all those who are willing to put their trust in God might like to come
forward and sign the pledge. A queue begins to form in front of David, and he
blesses them one by one. Once they are back in their seats, we sing the last
hymn before receiving the Chaplain’s final blessing. As we file out, I thank
the Reverend before being searched – but what could possibly change hands
during the service, when they’ve already searched us before we came in? I find
out a week later. We are then escorted back to our cells and locked up once
again.

12 noon
At
midday we’re let out for Sunday lunch.

There are four
different dishes on offer – turkey, beef, ham and stew. As I am unable to tell which
is which, I settle for some grated cheese and two slices of un-
margarined
bread, before returning to my cell to sit at my
little table and slowly nibble my cheese sandwich.

Once I’ve
finished lunch, which takes all of five minutes, I start writing again. I
continue uninterrupted for a couple of hours until Kevin returns clutching a
plastic bag of goodies – two Weetabix, a carton of milk, two small green
apples, a bar of soap and – his biggest triumph to date – two packets of Cup a
Soup, minestrone and mushroom. I don’t leave him in any doubt how grateful I am
before settling down to a plastic bowl of Weetabix soaked in milk. The same
bowl I’d used to shave in earlier this morning.

It’s not until
after four has struck that I am allowed to leave the cell again and join the
other prisoners for forty-five minutes in the exercise yard. I quickly learn
that you take any and every opportunity – from religion to work to exercise –
to make sure you get out of your cell. Once again, we’re searched before being
allowed to go into the yard.

Most of the
inmates don’t bother to walk, but simply congregate in groups and sunbathe
while lounging up against the fence.

Just a few of
us stride purposefully round. I walk briskly because I’m already missing my
daily visit to the gym. I notice that several prisoners are wearing the latest
Nike or Reebok trainers. It’s the one fashion statement they are allowed to
make. One of the inmates joins me and shyly offers ten pages of a manuscript
and asks if I would be willing to read them. He tells me that he writes three
pages a day and hopes to finish the work by the time he’s released in December.

I read the ten
pages as I walk. He is clearly quite well educated as the sentences are
grammatically correct and he has a good command of language. I congratulate him
on the piece, wish him well, and even admit that I am carrying out the same
exercise myself.

One or two
others join me to discuss their legal problems, but as I have little knowledge
of the law, I am unable to answer any of their questions. I hear my name called
out on the
tannoy
, and return to the officer at the
gate.

‘
Mr
Peel wants to see you,’ the officer says without
explanation, and this time doesn’t bother to search me as I am escorted to a
little office in the
centre
of the spur. Another form
needs to be filled in, as James had phoned asking if he can visit me on Friday.

‘Do you want to
see him?’ he asks.

‘Of course I
do,’ I reply.

‘They don’t all
want to,’
Mr
Peel remarks as he fills out the form.
When he has completed the task, he asks how I am settling in.