Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (28 page)

Mr Tinkler says that he needs to see me following my
interview with Mr Walton. Steve tells me that he has never known the two
meetings to take place on the same day, which he takes as a sign they will be
moving me soon. I’ve come to learn what ‘soon’ means in prison, so I don’t
comment.

Shane is roaming around the corridor in his dirty rugby kit,
avoiding the shower room and being nice to everyone. He even walks across to my
cell to congratulate me on how well I refereed the match (frankly, not that
well). Darren later tells me that Monster (taxi driver, transporting cannabis)
had warned him of his impending doom if he doesn’t reform.
Far
more effective than a ticking-off from an officer.

I finish The Tempest in peace. Shane has got the message,
but for how long?

Meeting with the PO, Mr Tinkler.
He
tells me that he’s signed my D-cat forms, but they still have to be
countersigned by my spur officer, Mr Clegg. Mr Tinkler leaves me in no doubt
about how he feels the system has treated me. I accept that he and the
uniformed staff have done everything in their power to make my incarceration in
Wayland bearable, remembering that I was never meant to come here in the first
place.

Carl (GBH, servery, goal every match) comes down to our spur
to say goodbye. It’s always interesting to see how the different prisoners
react to someone who’s being released. There are those who will be leaving
themselves within weeks, even months, who hug him and shake him by the hand,
while the long-termers look on sullenly with envy in their eyes.

My abiding memory of Carl will be the day I put on a smart
pair of brown loafers when Mary came to visit me, and he said, ‘I’ve got a pair
just like those, Jeff. Did you get them in Harrods?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘So did
I
,’ said Carl. ‘But I’ll
bet you paid for yours.’ As Carl leaves, Mr Clarke comes onto the spur and
wishes him luck. ‘I feel sure well be seeing you again’ he adds.

Pottery.
My pot, or however we
think of it, is drying, so I watch Shaun add Jules’s head to last week’s
shoulders. Jules is pleased with the result and wants the original to give to
his mother, always an excellent sign. Normally Shaun would charge £5 or the
equivalent in tobacco, but he explains to Jules that my publishers have to see
all the sketches first. I promise that, once they have, Jules will be sent the
original. (See plate section.)

Jules has already been enhanced, which affords him several
privileges, including wearing his own clothes. He’s recently come down to our
spur to take over Danny’s cell. He tells me that they’ve enrolled him as a
Listener which, as I’ve already explained, is a big responsibility. His
educational programme (A level English) is going well, and when he says, ‘I
won’t be coming back once I’ve been released,’ in his case, I believe him.

Gym.
Complete programme in one
hour, steady or slight improvement almost every day.

Mr Clegg takes me through my D-cat form and, as my spur
officer, signs me off as a model prisoner. By that he means no drugs, no
violence,
no
other charges since entering prison. The
document will now be passed on to Mr King, who in turn will send it up to Mr
Carlton-Boyce, who in turn…

Mr Clegg goes on to tell me that a prisoner has reported him
for racism. Now whatever failings Mr Clegg might have, being a racist is not
one of them. So when I return to the spur, I brief Nigel (GBH), known as
Preacher (see plate section), who is the block’s race relations representative.
He tells me that he’ll speak to Mr King and try to straighten things out.

Mary has flown to Washington for the fiftieth birthday of a
mutual friend, so I can’t call her. I begin Henry IV, Part I.

My little special needs group are now breaking records every
week. Alex is even joining in with catchball, which rounds off every session.
Darren has promised to take them over once I depart, which is a relief, because
he’s almost as much of a martinet as I am.

Mr King tells me that my D-cat forms have been handed over
to Mr Carlton-Boyce. He also adds that Nigel has been to see him about Mr
Clegg, and made it clear that no other prisoner has ever described him as a
racist. Mr King thanks me for my intervention, explaining that this sort of
slur is hard to remove once it’s been written up on an officer’s report.

‘Tell Ms Nicholson that,’ I say in a moment of anger.

Lunch.
I have a small portion of
beans and chips as
it’s
canteen day. How can I hope to
lose weight with a diet of beans and chips supplemented by Cadbury’s Fruit and
Nut plus crisps? I shall have to become the gym orderly at my next prison.

The prime minister hints that the bombing of Afghanistan is
about to begin. He adds that the ground war that will follow could continue
beyond next summer. I can only wonder where I’ll be next summer.

Manage Act IV of Henry TV, Part I before falling asleep.

If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet,’
declares Falstaff. I have to look up gurnet.

Governor Carlton-Boyce calls for me to confirm that my D-cat
is going through the system. He asks if I have any preference as to which
prison I would like to be moved to. It becomes clear he hasn’t read Tony
Morton-Hooper’s letter. I explain that as my main residence is in London, any
D-cat in that area would be fine, because then my family will find it easier to
visit. We discuss Latchmere House, Spring Hill and Stamford Hill. He says he’ll
check on availability and let me know.

Amazing Brookes cartoon of Osama bin Laden as a poisonous
mushroom in Nature Notes on the back of today’s Times (see plate section). I
call Chris Beetles, who represents the cartoonist and ask if we should add it
to the collection.

I have been putting together a cartoon collection – with
Chris’s help – for the past fifteen years, which I had intended to leave to the
Palace of Westminster (Parliament). I’m even having second thoughts about that.
The collection comprises around three hundred drawings, and includes works by
Beerbohm, Vicky, Gould, Kal, Searle, Furniss, Steadman and Scarfe, amongst many
others. The collection also includes sixteen Brookes, but only nine hang in the
flat. Chris feels we should remove Hague from the wall (an octopus surrounded
by suckers) and replace him with bin Laden. The cartoonist keeps the odd gem
for his private collection, so I may not be able to acquire it
Should
you be wondering, black and white, £850, colour,
£1,450. Chris points out that he hasn’t yet seen the quintessential cartoon
summing up the full horror of September 11th.

Steve (conspiracy to murder, librarian) has just returned
from the visits hall where he’s been in charge of the shop. He tells me that
they’ve had to stop selling Walkers crisps because one of the inmates opened a
packet and pulled out a £20 note (the company’s latest promotional scheme). The
money was immediately impounded by a surveillance officer and credited to the
prisoner’s canteen account (no inmate is allowed to be in possession of money
for obvious reasons). All boxes of Walkers have been replaced with Golden
Wonder until this campaign is over.

After writing for two hours I turn on the news to discover
that the bombing of Afghanistan has begun in earnest. Forty strike aircraft and
fifty cruise missiles (£750,000 each) have been deployed. David Frost
interviews everyone from Kissinger to Clinton, but by 9.30 am we’re none the
wiser as to how the campaign is going.

Exercise.
As Darren, Jimmy and I
stroll round the yard we pass an officer I’ve never seen before because he’s
attached to another block. His name is Zac Carr, known as ‘Z cars’. Jimmy tells
me that he was temporarily suspended for allowing a prisoner to tattoo him.
It’s an offence for one prisoner to tattoo another, let alone an officer. Jimmy
then describes how the prisoner (the best tattoo artist at Wayland) goes about
his craft. I later ask Mr Nutbourne if the story is true. He nods and says, ‘I
could tell you many more stories about Z cars,’ he pauses, smiles, and adds,
‘but I won’t.’

Nigel (GBH, race relations rep) walks into my cell to
complain that black people aren’t represented enough on TV. I sympathize with
him and ask what he feels should be done about it.

They ought to show Crimewatch seven nights a week,’ he adds
with a grin, ‘because that would just about even it up.’ Having got a rise out
of me, he leaves. I continue writing.

Patricia Routledge gives a moving performance in Everyone’s
Nightmare, the true story of a woman who was wrongly convicted of murdering her
mother and spent four years in jail before her sentence was quashed. Once
you’ve been convicted, it can take forever to prove your innocence.

All the papers have stories reporting that I’m about to be
transferred to a D-cat. The Daily Mail mentions five possible prisons, so that
they can eventually tell their readers they got it right. They didn’t. None of
them bother to say that the police have dropped their enquiries. I suppose that
would be asking too much.

The allies have bombed Kabul for a second night, but there
is still no news as to how effective the onslaught has been.

Write for two hours, but am unable to concentrate because I
know Mary is on a flight back from New York. I won’t be able to speak to her
until tomorrow morning as I’m already banged up.

Mr Nutbourne comes to my cell to tell me that he’s off on
holiday to Cuba. He assumes I’ll have been transferred by the time he returns
and says that he’s sorry to have met me in these circumstances, and wishes me
well for the future.

Mr King tells me as I collect my breakfast that I will not
be going to Latchmere House, so they are now trying Spring Hill. As Mr
Carlton-Boyce has not briefed me himself but left it to the duty officer, I
fear this does not bode well.

Exercise.
Darren and I are joined
by a prisoner from Singapore, who wishes to remain anonymous. He tells us that
he’s inside for selling ‘duff heroin to a young girl, who later died in
hospital. He was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to four years. He just
thought I ought to know.

Jimmy has just come back from work and tells me that he saw
a lifer being released this morning who had served over twenty years. He was
accompanied by nine plastic bags and a double bed that he’d made in the
workshop. But he has a problem. No one turned up to collect him, so they had to
put him back in his cell overnight. Heaven knows what they did with the double
bed.

Pottery.
Say farewell to Anne, as
I’m fairly sure I won’t be at Wayland this time next week. She promises to put
my pot in the kiln, and then deliver it to Chris Beetles so that I can give it
to Mary for Christmas.

Rugby.
I referee a match against an
army team from Bassingbourne, which turns ugly in the last few minutes of the
game. Shane (GBH and gym orderly) runs halfway down the pitch and thumps one of
the visiting players. I realize I have no choice but to send him off. I blow my
whistle and chase after him, but two officers run onto the field and drag him
away before I can reach him. He’s immediately banned from participating in any
sport for two weeks. The army team beat us by 25-10, which wasn’t too bad
remembering that we played the second half with only fourteen players on the
field. But then I was the referee.

I start reading Twelfth Night. I would happily exchange my
present abode for a willow cabin.

Governor Carlton-Boyce tells me that there is no room for me
at Spring Hill, so they are now considering North Sea Camp near Boston, in
Lincolnshire. I point out that it would be a round trip from London of 240
miles, and I’d never be able to see my family. Carlton-Boyce doesn’t seem that
interested and simply says, ‘I’m just doing my job, and that’s what I’m paid
for.’

Mrs Wendy Sergeant (head of education) has heard that I’ll
be leaving imminently and asks to interview me for her PhD thesis on ‘prison
reform through education’. As I’ve only been in residence nine weeks, and she’s
served the Prison Service for eleven years, I’m not sure I have a great deal to
offer her, other than to confirm her worst fears.

I tell her that I believe every prisoner should leave being able
to read and write, and that the weekly pay for education ought to be at the
same level as any job in the prison. In fact, I would go further and suggest
that it would benefit society more if prisoners received a higher income for
agreeing to participate in education, rather than cleaning their spur, or
serving chips.

Wendy tells me that she considers many people are unsuitable
for prison and should not be mixing with hardened criminals. She will be
suggesting in her thesis the use of halfway houses, especially as the prisons
are equipped to handle only 62,500 inmates, with over 67,000 presently
convicted.