Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (5 page)

When Jules returns, I’m still shaking. I go off in search of
Dale.

‘I know that bastard’ says Dale. ‘Just leave him to me.’

‘What does that mean?’ I ask

‘Don’t ask.’

‘I have to. I’m trying not to cause any trouble.’

‘He won’t trouble you again, that I guarantee.’ He then
raises his twenty-seven-stone frame from the end of the bed and departs.

Association: I emerge from the enhanced wing with two Mars
bars, having played a couple of games of backgammon with Darren. I become aware
of the most incredible uproar emanating from the games room. Am I about to experience
my first riot? I glance anxiously round the door to see a group of West Indians
playing dominoes. Every time they place a domino on the table, it’s slammed
down as if a judge were trying to bring a rowdy courtroom to order. This is
followed by screaming delight more normally associated with Lara scoring a
century at Sabina Park. The officer on duty, Mr Nutbourne, and the other
inmates playing snooker, pool and table tennis don’t seem at all disturbed by
this. I stroll across to join the dozen or so West Indians and decide to watch
a couple of games. One of them looks up from the table, and shouts, ‘You wanna
try your luck, man?’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, and take a seat vacated by one of the
players.

A West Indian with greying hair divides the dominoes between
the four of us and we each end up with seven pieces. The player on my right is
able to begin the game as he has a double six. He places his prize with a thump
in the middle of the table, which is followed by shouts and screams from the
assembled gathering. The game progresses for four rounds without any player
failing to place a domino on the end of the line. During the next round the
player on my left doesn’t have a three or six, so passes and, as I have a six,
I place my domino quietly on the table. I notice the brothers are becoming a
little less noisy. By this time a large crowd has gathered round until only two
of us are left with one domino; I have a five and a four, but it is my
opponent’s turn. If he’s going to win, he has to hit, and hit now. The brothers
fall almost silent. Can the player on my left thwart me and win the game? I
pray for the second time that day. He has neither a four nor a one, and passes
without a murmur. I try desperately to keep a poker face, while holding my last
domino in the palm of my hand.
A forest of black eyes are
staring at me. I quietly place my four next to the four on the right-hand end
and so much bedlam breaks out that even Mr Nutbourne decides to find out what’s
going on. I rise to leave.

‘Another game, man?
Another game?’
they demand.

‘How kind of you’ I say, ‘but I must get back to my writing.
It’s been a pleasure to play you.’ This is followed by much slapping of hands.
I depart quickly, aware that if I were to play a second round, the myth would
be shattered. Frankly I know nothing of the subtleties of the game, having just
brought a new meaning to the phrase ‘beginner’s luck.

Supper.
When I reach the hotplate,
Dale takes my plastic bowl and, just as Tony always did at Belmarsh, decides
what I shall be allowed to eat. He selects a vegetarian quiche, a few lettuce
leaves carefully extracted from a large bowl and a tomato. I will no longer
have to think about what to eat as long as Dale’s on duty.

Jules and I are banged up again until eight tomorrow
morning. Fourteen hours in a cell seven paces by three, just in case you’ve
forgotten. As
it’s
Sunday, there are no letters
awaiting me, so I just go over my script before returning to Hermann Hesse.

Jules and I watch Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline in French
Kiss
, which has us both laughing, but then we are a captive
audience.

I settle my head on my new soft pillow. It isn’t goose down,
or even duck feather – just foam rubber – but I know luxury when I feel it.

Yesterday’s early morning commotion in the corridor turned
out to be a prisoner needing medication and the assistance of a Listener. He
had pressed the emergency call button. There’s one in every cell next to the
door which, when pressed, illuminates a small red light in the corridor, while
another flashes up in the main office. It is known by the inmates as room
service, although prison orders state that it must be used only in emergencies,
otherwise you will be placed on report. I couldn’t find out why the prisoner
needed the help of a Listener, but as it was his first night at Wayland, it
could have been for any number of reasons. Remembering my first night, I can
only sympathize. I write for two hours.

Breakfast.
Sugar Puffs (mine), milk
(theirs).
One egg on a slice of toast (theirs), a second
slice of toast (theirs), marmalade (mine).

Banged up for two hours, which I plan on
using to work on the second draft of this morning’s script.
That’s
assuming there are no interruptions – there are two.

The cell door is unlocked by Mr Newport, who wants to talk
to Jules about his application for a change of status from C-cat to D-cat.
Jules explains that he has written his reasons in a letter so that they (the
authorities) will have all the relevant details on record. Mr Newport glances
over the two pages and promises to arrange an interview with Mr Stainthorpe,
the classifications officer. The cell door is banged shut.

The cell door is opened a second time. On this occasion it’s
Mr Nutbourne, who says, ‘Now tell me, Jeffrey’ (the first officer to call me by
my Christian name) ‘do you want the good news or the bad news?’

‘You decide,’ I suggest.

‘You won’t be going to C wing after all, because we’re going
to move you down to join your friends on the enhanced corridor.’

‘So what’s the bad news?’ I ask.

Unfortunately, a cell won’t be available until 29 August,
when the next prisoner on that corridor will have completed his sentence.’

‘But you could still put me in a single cell on another part
of the block.’

‘Don’t push your luck,’ he says with a grin, before slamming
the door closed.

Lunch: soup (minestrone) and a piece of brown bread (fresh).
Couldn’t face the meat pie.
Heaven knows what animal’s
inside it
..

Gym: I’m the first to set foot in the gym, only to find that
the running machine has broken down. Damn, damn, damn.

I warm up and stretch for a few minutes before doing ten
minutes on the rower. I manage 1,909 metres, a vast improvement on yesterday. A
little light weight training before moving on to a bicycle, the like of which I
have never seen before. I can’t get the hang of it until Mr Maiden comes to my
rescue and explains that once you’ve set the speed, the peddles just revolve
until you stop them. He sets the pace at thirty kilometres per hour, and leaves
me to get on with it. I sweat away for ten minutes, and then realize I don’t
know how to turn it off. I shout to Everett (GBH) for help – a black man who I
sat next to during the dominoes encounter – but he just grins, or simply
doesn’t understand my predicament. When my screaming goes up a decibel, Mr
Maiden finally comes to my rescue. He can’t stop laughing as he shows me which
button I have to press to bring the machine to a halt. It’s marked STOP – in
red. I fall off the bike, exhausted, which causes much mirth among the other
prisoners, especially the dominoes players. I use the rest of my time lying on
a rubber mat recovering.

As the prisoners begin to make their way back to their cells
– no gates, no searches – I’m called to Mr Maiden’s office. Once his door is
closed and no other prisoner can overhear, he asks,
Would
you like to join the staff on Friday morning to assist with a special needs
group from Dereham Adult Training Centre?’

‘Of course I would,’ I tell him.

Jimmy is the only other prisoner who presently helps that
group, so perhaps you should have a word with him.’

I thank Mr Maiden and return to my cell. I don’t immediately
take a shower as I am still sweating from the bicycle experience, so I use the
time to call my PA, Alison. I tell her I need more A4 pads and pens because I’m
currently writing two to three thousand words a day. I also need stamped
envelopes addressed to her – large A4 size for the manuscript and slightly
smaller ones so I can turn round my daily postbag. Alison tells me that because
of the sackfuls of letters I am receiving both in prison and at the office, as
well as having to type two scripts at once, she’s putting in even longer hours
than when I was a free man.

‘And to think that you were worried about losing your job if
I were to end up in jail,’ I remind her. Just wait until I get my hands back on
my novel. You’ll be working weekends as well.’

Alison confirms that the last five chapters of Belmarsh have
arrived safely, thanks to the cooperation of Roy, the censor. No such problem
at Wayland, where you just drop your envelope in a postbox and off it goes. I
remind her that I need the Belmarsh script back as soon as possible, to go over
it once again before I let Jonathan Lloyd (my agent) read it for the first
time. My final request is to be put through to Will.

He’s in Cambridge with Mary.’

Although I check to see how many units are left on the
phonecard, I haven’t needed to worry about the problem lately as Dale seems to
be able to arrange an endless supply of them.

I dial Cambridge and catch Mary, who is just leaving to
chair a meeting at Addenbrooke’s Hospital, where she is deputy chairman. After
a few words, she passes me over to Will. He is full of news and tells me Mum
has been preparing in her usual diligent way for the Today interview. Since he
spoke to me last, Andy Bearpark, who covered Kurdish affairs at the Overseas Development
Administration during the relevant time, confirms he has been contacted by KPMG
regarding the audit. Will feels the police will be left with little choice but
to complete their initial report quickly and reinstate my D-cat. I thank him,
particularly for the support he’s giving his mother. I then tell him that I’ve
finished the Belmarsh section of the diaries and ask if he’s found time to read
the odd chapter.

‘I just can’t face it, Dad. It’s bad enough that you’re
there.’ I tell him that I have already decided that there will be three volumes
of the prison diary: Hell, Purgatory and Heaven, with an epilogue called ‘Back
to Earth’. This at least makes him laugh. As I’m telling him this, Jimmy passes
me in the corridor and I turn to ask if he could spare me a moment. He nods,
and waits until I finish my conversation with Will.

Jimmy has also heard that I may be joining them on the
enhanced wing, but wonders if Nutboume’s information came from on high.

‘Exactly my thoughts,’ I tell him. I then mention that Mr
Maiden has invited me to join them in the gym on Friday morning to assist with
the special needs group. I’m surprised by his reaction.

‘You jammy bastard,’ says Jimmy. ‘I had to wait a couple of
years before I was invited to join that shift, and you get asked after four
days.’ Funnily enough I hadn’t thought of it as a perk, but simply as doing
something worthwhile.

Jimmy invites me down to his cell for a drink, my only
chance of having a Diet Coke. We’re joined by Jason, who spotted me in the
corridor. Jason hands me a pair of slippers and a wash bag, which are normally
only issued to enhanced prisoners.

‘You jammy bastard,’ repeats Jimmy, before he starts going
on about his weight. Jimmy is six foot
one,
slim and
athletic (see plate section). He trains every day in the gym and is known by
the inmates as Brad Pitt.

‘More like Arm Pitt’ says Jason.

Jimmy smiles and continues to grumble, ‘I need to put on
some weight.’

‘I like you as you are, darling,’ Jason replies.

I decide this is an ideal opportunity to ask them how drugs
are smuggled into prison. Both throw out one-liners to my myriad questions, and
between them continue my education on the subject.

Of the six major drugs – cannabis, speed, Ecstasy, cocaine,
crack cocaine and heroin – only cannabis and heroin are in daily demand in most
prisons. Each wing or block has a dealer, who in turn has runners who handle
any new prisoners when they arrive on the induction wing. It’s known as Drug
Induction. This is usually carried out in the yard during the long exercise
break each morning. The price ranges from double the street value to as much as
a tenfold mark-up depending on supply and demand; even in prison free
enterprise prevails. Payment can be made in several ways. The most common
currency is phonecards or tobacco. You can also send in cash to be credited to
the dealer’s account, but most dealers don’t care for that route, as even the
dumbest officer can work out what they’re up to. The preferred method is for
the recipient of the drugs to arrange for a friend to send cash to the dealer’s
contact on the outside, usually his girlfriend, wife or partner. Just as there
is a canteen list of prices taped to the wall outside the main office, so there
is an accepted but, unprinted list, of available drugs in any prison. For
example, the price of five joints of cannabis would work out at around £10 or
five phonecards; a short line of cocaine would cost about £10, while heroin, a
joey or a bag, which is about half a gram, can cost as much as £20.

Next we discuss the bigger problem of how to get the gear
into prison. Jason tells me that there are several ways. The most obvious is
via visits, but this is not common as the punishment for being caught usually
fits the crime, for both the visitor and the prisoner. If you are caught, you
automatically lose your visits and the use of phonecards. For most prisoners
this is their only lifeline to the outside world. Few, other than desperate
heroin addicts, are willing to sacrifice being able to see their family and
friends once a fortnight or speak to them regularly on the phone.
So most dealers revert to other safer methods because were they to
be caught twice, they not only lose the right to a phonecard as well as a
visit, but will be charged with the offence and can expect to have time added
to their sentence.