‘Who?’ I enquire.
He checks his list. ‘William and James Archer.’
I am about to suggest it might have been more considerate of someone to warn me yesterday rather than tell me a few minutes before my sons are due to arrive. However, as Mr Highland has already threatened to place me on report for such insolence, I decide to keep my counsel.
3.00 pm
Over eighty prisoners from all four blocks are streaming towards the visitors’ area. On the long walk to the other side of the building, I come across some inmates from my short stay on House Block Three. It’s rather like meeting up with old school chums. ‘How are you?’ ‘What have you been up to?’ ‘Have you met up with…?’ When we arrive in the waiting area, the search is far more rigorous than usual. Del Boy had already warned me that this is the one time the staff are nervous about the transfer of money, drugs, blades, knives, even guns, and anything else that might be passed from a relation or family friend on to a prisoner. I am pleased to discover that my own search is fairly cursory. After the search, I am asked to place a yellow sash over my shoulder so I look like a child about to go on a bike ride. This is to indicate that I’m a prisoner, so that I can’t stroll out with my sons once the visit is over. I’m bound to say that I find this tiny act humiliating.
I’m then ushered into a room about the size of a large gymnasium. Chairs are set out in five long rows marked A to E. I report to a desk that is raised three or four feet above the ground, and another officer checks his list and then tells me to go to C11. All the prisoners sit on the right-hand side, opposite their visitors who sit on the left. There is a small, low table in between us which is screwed to the floor, and is meant to keep you apart. There is also a balcony above us that overlooks the whole room, with even more officers staring down on the proceedings to see if they can spot anything being passed across the tables below them. They are assisted by several CCTV cameras. A notice on the walls states that the tapes can be used as evidence for a further prosecution, and in capitals adds: THIS APPLIES TO BOTH PRISONERS AND THEIR VISITORS.
I walk down three rows to find William sitting on his own. He jumps up and gives me a big hug, and I’m reminded just how much I’ve missed him. James, he tells me, is at the canteen purchasing my favourite beverage. He appears a few minutes later, carrying a tray of Diet Cokes and several KitKats. The boys laugh when I pull all three Cokes towards my side of the table, and make no attempt to offer them even a stick of the KitKat.
Will begins by telling me about Mary’s visit to Strathclyde University, where she made a short statement to the press before delivering her lecture. She began by remarking that it was the largest turnout she had ever managed for a lecture on quantum solar-energy conversion.
Will is not surprised to learn that I have received over a thousand letters and cards in the first few days at Belmarsh, and he tells me there are almost three times that number back at the flat. Support is coming in from every quarter, James adds, including thoughtful statements from John Major and George Carey.
‘Alison has had a list typed up,’ my younger son continues, ‘but they wouldn’t allow me to bring anything into the visits room, so I’ll have it posted on to you tomorrow.’
This news gives me such a lift, and makes me feel guilty that I had ever doubted my friends would stand by me.
I alert the two boys to the fact that I am writing a day-to-day diary, and will need to see my agent, Jonathan Lloyd, my publisher, Victoria Barnsley, and my editor, Robert Lacey, fairly soon, but, as I am only allowed one personal visit every two weeks, I don’t want to see anyone other than the family until I’ve been moved to an open prison.
Will tells me that he’s already booked himself in for two weeks’ time, but hopes I will have been transferred to somewhere like Ford long before then. Because I’ve not been reading any newspapers or listening to the news, as I’m heartily sick of inaccurate stories about myself and what I’m up to at Belmarsh, Jamie brings me up to date on the battle for the Tory Party leadership. He reports that the polls clearly indicate that the people who deserted the Conservatives at the last election want Ken Clarke, while the party membership favours Iain Duncan Smith. I like and admire both men, though neither is a close friend. However, it doesn’t take a massive intellect to work out that if we hope to win the next election, or at least make a large enough dent in the government’s majority to ensure that opinion – formers believe we can win the following election, it might be wise to take some notice of the electorate’s views as to who should be our leader.
I consider dropping Ken a note, but realize it may not help his cause.
Will goes on to tell me that Michael Beloff QC, Gilbert Gray QC and Johnnie Nutting QC are in regular touch with my legal team. Gilly wondered if Potts’s animosity had been aimed at Nick Purnell, as it’s the talk of the Bar that he lost his temper with Nick on several occasions during the pre-trial and trial itself, but never once in front of the jury.
‘No,’ I tell them, ‘it was nothing to do with Nick. It was entirely personal.’
I’m momentarily distracted by an attractive young woman sitting directly in front of me in row B. A prisoner with his back to me is leaning across the table and kissing her. I remember being told by Kevin that this was the most common way of passing drugs. I watch more carefully and decide this is about sex, pure animal sex, and has nothing to do with drugs.
James tells me about the film he and Nod (Nadhim Zahawi, a Kurdish friend) enjoyed on Sunday evening, Rush Hour 2, which in normal circumstances I would have seen with them.
‘Don’t worry,’ he adds. ‘We’re keeping a list of all the films you would have enjoyed, so that you can eventually see them on video.’ I don’t like the sound of the word ‘eventually’.
I talk to Will about when he expects to return to America and continue with his work as a documentary cameraman. He tells me that he will remain in England while his mother is so unsettled and feels in such need of him. How lucky I am to be blessed with such a family.
An announcement is made over the tannoy to inform us that all visitors must now leave. Have we really had an hour together? All round the room a great deal of kissing commences before friends and family reluctantly depart. The prisoners have to remain in their places until the last visitor has been signed out and left the room. I spend my time glancing up and down the rows. The man whose kiss had been so overtly sexual now has his head bowed in his hands. I wonder just how long his sentence is, and what age he and his girlfriend will be by the time he’s released from prison.
When the last visitor has left, we all file back out of the room; once again my search is fairly cursory. I never discover what the other prisoners are put through, though. Del Boy tells me later that if they’ve picked up anything suspicious on the video camera, it’s a full strip-search, plus sniffer dogs.
On the way back to my cell, a Block Three prisoner tells me he will be going home next month, having completed his sentence. He adds that he had a visit from his wife who is sticking by him, but if he’s ever sentenced again, she’s made it clear that she’ll leave him.
I’m only a few yards from my cell door when Mr Weedon tells me that the education officer wants to see me. I turn round and he escorts me up to the middle floor.
The education officer is dressed in a smart brown suit. He stands up when I enter the room and shakes me by the hand.
‘My name’s Peter Farrell,’ he says. ‘I see you’ve put yourself down for education.’
‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘I was rather hoping it would give me a chance to use the library.’
‘Yes, it will,’ says Mr Farrell. ‘But I wonder if I could ask you to assist us with those prisoners who are learning to read and write, as I’m rather short-staffed at the moment?’