Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (7 page)

Phone Alison, who says she’ll have finished typing Volume
One – Belmarsh: Hellby Wednesday (70,000 words) and will post it to me
immediately. She reminds me that from Monday she will be on holiday for two
weeks. I need reminding. In prison you forget that normal people go on holiday.

When I return to my cell, I find David (whisky bootlegger)
sweeping the corridor. I tell him about my water shortage. He offers me a large
bottle of diet lemonade and a diet
Robinsons
blackcurrant juice in exchange for a £2 phonecard, which will give him a 43p
profit. I accept, and we go off to his cell to complete the transaction. There
is only one problem: you are not allowed to use phonecards for trading, because
it might be thought you are a drug dealer. Each card has the prisoner’s
signature on the back of it, not unlike a credit card (see plate section).

‘No problem,’ says David (he never swears). ‘I can remove
your name with Fairy Liquid and then replace it with mine.’

‘How will you get hold of a bottle of Fairy Liquid?’

‘I’m the wing cleaner.’

Silly question.

My pad-mate Jules has begun his education course today (life
and social skills) so I have the cell to myself. I’ve been writing for only
about thirty minutes when my door is unlocked and I’m told the prison probation
officer wants to see me. I recall Tony’s (absconding from Ford Open Prison)
words when I was at Belmarsh: Don’t act smart and find yourself on the wrong
side of your probation officer, because they have considerable sway when it
comes to deciding your parole date.’

I’m escorted to a private room, just a couple of doors away
from Mr Tinkler’s office on the first-floor landing. I shake hands with a young
lady who introduces herself as Lisa Dada. She is a blonde of about thirty and
wearing a V-neck sweater that reveals she has just returned from holiday or
spent a long weekend sitting in the sun. Like everyone else, she asks me how I
am settling in. I tell her that I have no complaints other than the state of my
cell, my rude introduction to rap music and window warriors. Lisa begins by
explaining that she has to see every prisoner, but there isn’t much point in my
case because her role doesn’t kick in until six months before my parole. ‘And
as I’m moving to Surrey in about two months’ time,’ she continues, ‘to be
nearer my husband who is a prison officer, you may well have moved to another
establishment long before then, so I can’t do much more than answer any
questions you might have.’

‘How did you meet your husband?’ I ask.

That’s not the sort of question I meant,’ she replies with a
grin.

‘He must be Nigerian.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Dada.
It’s an Igbo tribe name, the
tribe of the leaders and warriors.’

She nods, and says,
We
met in
prison in circumstances that sound as if they might have come from the pages of
one of your novels.’ I don’t interrupt. ‘I had a prisoner who was due to be
released in the morning. The evening before, he was phoning his wife to arrange
what time she should pick him up, but couldn’t hear what she was saying because
of the noise coming from a TV in a nearby cell. He popped his head round the
door and asked if the inmate could turn the volume down, and was told to ‘Fuck
off’. In a moment of anger he dropped the phone, walked into the cell and took
a swing at the man. The inmate fell backwards onto the stone floor, cracked
open his head and was dead before they could get him to a hospital. The first
prison officer on the scene called for the assailant’s probation officer, who
happened to be me. We were married a year later.’

‘What happened to the prisoner?’ I ask.

‘He was charged with manslaughter, pleaded guilty and was
sentenced to three years. He served eighteen months. There was clearly no
intent to murder. I know it sounds silly,’ she adds, ‘but until that moment,
his record was unblemished.’

‘So your husband is black. That can’t have been easy for
you, especially in prison.’

‘No, it hasn’t, but it helps me find a common thread with
the dreadlocks.’

‘So what’s it like being a thirty-something blonde probation
officer?’ I ask

It’s not always easy,’ she admits. ‘Sixty per cent of the
prisoners shout at me and tell me that I’m useless, while the other forty per
cent burst into tears.’

‘Burst into tears?
That lot?’
I
say, thumbing towards the door.

‘Oh, yes. I realize it’s not a problem for you, but most of
them spend their lives having to prove how macho they are, so when they come to
see me it’s the one chance they have to reveal their true feelings. Once they
begin to talk about their families, their partners, children and friends, they
often break down, suddenly aware that others might well be going through an
even more difficult time outside than they are locked up in here.’

‘And the shouters, what do they imagine they’re achieving?’

‘Getting the rage out of their system.
Such a disciplined regime creates pent-up emotions, and I’m often on the
receiving end. I’ve experienced everything, including obscene language and
explicit descriptions of what they’d like to do to me, while all the time
staring at my breasts. One prisoner even unzipped his jeans and started
masturbating.
All that for twenty-one thousand a year.’

‘So why do you do it?’

‘I have the occasional success, perhaps one in ten, which
makes it all seem worthwhile when you go home at night.’

‘What’s the worst part of your job?’

She pauses and thinks for a moment. ‘Having to tell a
prisoner that his wife or partner doesn’t want him back just before they’re due
to be released.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Many long-term prisoners phone their wives twice a week,
and are even visited by them once a fortnight. But it’s only when their
sentence is drawing to a close and a probation officer has to visit the
matrimonial home that the wife confesses she doesn’t want her husband back.
Usually because by then they are living with another man –
sometimes their husband’s best friend.’

‘And they expect you to break the news?’

‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘Because they can’t
face doing it themselves, even on the phone.’

‘And is there any particular set of prisoners you don’t like
dealing with?
The paedophiles, murderers, rapists, drug
dealers, for example?’

‘No, I can handle all of them’ she says. ‘But the group I
have no time for are the burglars.’

‘Burglars?’

They show neither remorse nor conscience. Even when they’ve
stolen personal family heirlooms they tell you it’s all right because the
victim can claim it back on insurance.’ She glances at her watch. I’m meant to
be asking you some questions,’ she pauses, ‘not that the usual ones apply.’

‘Try me,’ I suggest. Lisa removes a sheet of paper from a
file and reads out the listed questions.

‘Are you married?, Are you living with your wife?, Have you
any children?, Do you have any other children?, Are any of them in need of
assistance or financial help?, Will you be returning to your family when you
are released?, When you are released, do you have any income other than the
ninety pounds the State provides for you?, Do you have somewhere to sleep on
your first night out of prison?, Do you have a job to go to, with a guaranteed
source of income?’ She looks up. ‘The purpose of the last question is to find
out if you’re likely to commit an offence within hours of leaving prison.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ I ask.

‘Because, for some of them, this is the
only place that guarantees three meals a day, a bed and someone to talk to.
You’ve got a good example on your wing. Out last month, back inside this month.
Robbed an old lady of her bag and then immediately handed it back to her. He
even hung around until the police arrived to make sure he was arrested.’

I think I know the prisoner she’s referring to, and make a
mental note to have a word with him. Our hour is drawing to a close, so I ask
if she will stick with it.

‘Yes. I’ve been in the service for ten years and, despite everything,
it has its rewards. Mind you, it’s changed a lot during the last decade. When I
first joined, the motto emblazoned on our notepaper used to read, Advise,
Assist and Befriend. Now it’s Enforcement, Rehabilitation and Public
Protection; the result of a massive change in society, its new-found freedom
and the citizen’s demands for safety. The public doesn’t begin to understand
that at least thirty per cent of people in prison shouldn’t be locked up at
all, while seventy per cent, the professional criminals, will be in and out for
the rest of their lives.’

There’s a knock on the door. My hour’s up, and we haven’t
even touched on the problem of drugs. Mr Chapman enters carrying two bundles of
letters. Lisa looks surprised.

‘That’s only the first post’ Mr Chapman tells her.

‘I can quite believe it,’ she says. ‘My parents send their
best wishes. My father wanted you to sign one of his books, but I told him it
would be most unprofessional.’ I rise from my place. ‘Good luck with your
appeal,’ she adds, as we shake hands. I thank her and return to my cell.

Lunch: macaroni cheese and diet lemonade. I hate lemonade,
so I spend some considerable time shaking the bottle in an effort to remove the
bubbles. I have a considerable amount of time.

Mr Chapman warns me that I will not be able to go to the gym
this afternoon as I have to attend a CARAT (Counselling, Assessment, Referral,
Advice and Through-care) meeting on drugs. This is another part of my
induction. Despite the fact I’ve never touched a drug in my life, I can’t
afford to miss it. Otherwise I will never be moved from this filthy, dank,
noisy wing. Naturally I comply.

I try to pick up my books and notepads from reception only
to be told by Mr Meanwell (a man who regularly reminds me ‘Meanwell is my name,
and mean well is my nature’) that I can’t have them because it’s against prison
regulations. All notepads and pens have to be purchased from the canteen and
all books ordered through the
library, who buy
them
direct from Waterstone’s.

‘But in Belmarsh they allowed me to have two notepads, two
packets of pens and any number of books I required sent in, and they’re a
maximum-security prison.’

‘I know,’ says Meanwell with a smile. ‘It’s a damn silly
rule, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

I thank him. Many of the senior officers know only too well
what’s sensible and what isn’t, but are worried that if I receive what could be
construed as special treatment it will be all over the tabloids the following
morning. The rule is enforced because books, pads and pens are simply another
way to smuggle in drugs. However, if I’m to go on writing, I’ll have to
purchase these items from the canteen, which means I’ll need to cut down on
Spam and Weetabix.

I’ve been writing for about an hour when I am called to the
CARAT meeting. Once again, eleven of us assemble in the room with the
comfortable chairs. The CARAT representative is a young lady called Leah, who
tells us that if we have any drug-related problems, she is there to advise and
help. Leah reminds me of Mr Flintcroft, although she’s pushing an even larger
boulder up an even steeper hill.

I glance around the room at the other prisoners. Their faces
are blank and resigned. I’m probably the only person present who has never
taken a drug. The one comment Leah makes that catches the prisoners’ attention
is that if they were to have a period on D wing, the drug-free wing, it might
even help with their parole. But before Leah can finish her sentence a ripple
of laughter breaks out, and she admits that it’s possible there are even more
drugs on D wing than on A, B or C. Drug-free wings in most prisons have that
reputation.

When Leah comes to the end of her eight-minute discourse and
invites questions, she is greeted with silence, the same silence Mr Flintcroft
experienced.

I leave, feeling a little more cynical. Drugs are the
biggest problem the Prison Service is currently facing, and not one prisoner
has a question for the CARAT representative, let alone attempts to engage her
in serious debate. However, I am relieved to observe that two inmates remain
behind to have a private conversation with Leah.

Kit change.
Once a week you report
to the laundry room for a change of sheets, pillowcases, towels and gym kit. I
now have six towels and include four of them in my weekly change. They are all
replaced, despite each prisoner only being allowed two. However, they won’t
replace my second pillowcase because you’re allowed only one. I can’t
understand the logic of that.

You’re meant to wash your own personal belongings, but I
have already handed over that responsibility to Darren, who is the enhanced
wing’s laundry orderly. He picks up my bag of washing every Thursday, and
returns it later that evening. He asks for no recompense. I must confess that
the idea of washing my underpants in a sink shared with someone else’s dirty
cutlery isn’t appealing.

Supper.
Unworthy
of mention.

Exercise.
I walk round the
perimeter of the yard with Darren and another inmate called Steve. Steve was convicted
of conspiracy to murder. He is an accountant by profession, well spoken,
intelligent and interesting company. His story turns out to be a fascinating
one. He was a senior partner in a small successful firm of accountants. He fell
in love with one of the other partners, who
was
already married to a colleague. One night, on his way home from work, Steve
stopped at a pub he regularly frequented. He knew the barman well and told him
that given half a chance he’d kill the bastard (meaning his girlfriend’s
husband). Steve thought nothing more of it until he received a phone call from
the barman saying that for the right price it could be arranged. The phone call
was being taped by the police, as were several others that followed. It was
later revealed in court that the barman was already in trouble with the police
and reported Steve in the hope that it would help have the charges against him
dropped. It seems the key sentence that mattered was, ‘Are you certain you want
to go ahead with it?’ which was repeated by the barman several times. ‘Yes,’
Steve always replied.