I recall Nick Purnell’s parting words, ‘Don’t believe anything anyone tells you in prison, and never discuss your case or your appeal.’
‘Archer,’ yells a voice. I leave the glass cell and return to reception where I am told to fill out another form. ‘Name, age, height, weight?’ the prison officer behind the counter demands.
‘Archer, 61, 5ft 10, 178lbs.’
‘What’s that in stones?’ he asks.
‘12st 10lbs,’ I tell him, and he fills in yet another little square box.
‘Right, go next door, Archer, where you’ll find my colleague waiting for you.’
This time I am met by two officers. One standing, one sitting behind a desk. The one behind the desk asks me to stand under an arc light and strip. The two officers try to carry out the entire exercise as humanely as possible. First, I take off my jacket, then my tie, followed by my shirt. ‘Aquascutum, Hilditch & Key, and YSL,’ says the officer who is standing up, while the other writes this information down in the appropriate box. The first officer then asks me to raise my arms above my head and turn a complete circle, while a video camera attached to the wall whirrs away in the background. My shirt is returned, but they hold on to my House of Commons cufflinks. They hand back my jacket, but not my tie. I am then asked to slip off my shoes, socks, trousers and pants. ‘Church’s, Aquascutum and Calvin Klein,’ he announces. I complete another circle, and this time the officer asks me to lift the soles of my feet for inspection. He explains that drugs are sometimes concealed under plasters. I tell them I’ve never taken a drug in my life. He shows no interest. They return my pants, trousers, socks and shoes but not my leather belt.
‘Is this yours?’ he asks, pointing to a yellow backpack on the table beside me.
‘No, I’ve never seen it before,’ I tell him.
He checks the label. ‘William Archer,’ he says.
‘Sorry, it must be my son’s.’
The officer pulls open the zip to reveal two shirts, two pairs of pants, a sweater, a pair of casual shoes and a washbag containing everything I will need. The washbag is immediately confiscated while the rest of the clothes are placed in a line on the counter. The officer then hands me a large plastic bag with HMP Belmarsh printed in dark blue letters, supported by a crown. Everything has a logo nowadays. While I transfer the possessions I am allowed to keep into the large plastic bag, the officer tells me that the yellow backpack will be returned to my son, at the government’s expense. I thank him. He looks surprised. Another officer escorts me back to the glass cell, while I cling onto my plastic bag.
This time I sit next to a different prisoner, who tells me his name is Ashmil; he’s from Kosovo, and still in the middle of his trial. ‘What are you charged with?’ I enquire.
‘The illegal importing of immigrants,’ he tells me, and before I can offer any comment he adds, ‘They’re all political prisoners who would be in jail, or worse, if they were still in their own country.’ It sounds like a well-rehearsed line. ‘What are you in for?’ he asks.
‘Archer,’ rings out the same officious voice, and I leave him to return to the reception area.
‘The doctor will see you now,’ the desk officer says, pointing to a green door behind him.
I don’t know why I’m surprised to encounter a fresh-faced young GP, who rises from behind his desk the moment I walk in.
‘David Haskins,’ he announces, and adds, ‘I’m sorry we have to meet in these circumstances.’ I take a seat on the other side of the desk while he opens a drawer and produces yet another form.
‘Do you smoke?’
‘No.’
‘Drink?’
‘No, unless you count the occasional glass of red wine at dinner.’
‘Take any drugs?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any history of mental illness?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever tried to abuse yourself?’
‘No.’
He continues through a series of questions as if he were doing no more than filling in details for an insurance policy, to which I continue to reply, no, no, no, no and no. He ticks every box.
‘Although I don’t think it’s necessary,’ he said looking down at the form, ‘I’m going to put you in the medical wing overnight before the Governor decides which block to put you on.’
I smile, as the medical wing sounds to me like a more pleasant option. He doesn’t return the smile. We shake hands, and I go back to the glass cell. I only have to wait for a few more moments before a young lady in prison uniform asks me to accompany her to the medical wing. I grab my plastic bag and follow her.
We climb three floors of green iron steps before we reach our destination. As I walk down the long corridor my heart sinks. Every person I come across seems to be in an advanced state of depression or suffering from some sort of mental illness.
‘Why have they put me in here?’ I demand, but she doesn’t reply. I later learn that most first-time offenders spend their first night in the medical centre because it is during your first twenty-four hours in prison that you are most likely to try and commit suicide. [1]
I’m not, as I thought I might be, placed in a hospital ward but in another cell. When the door slams behind me I begin to understand why one might contemplate suicide. The cell measures five paces by three, and this time the brick walls are painted a depressing mauve. In one corner is a single bed with a rock-hard mattress that could well be an army reject. Against the side wall, opposite the bed, is a small square steel table and a steel chair. On the far wall next to the inch-thick iron door is a steel washbasin and an open lavatory that has no lid and no flush. I am determined not to use it. [2]Jeffrey Archer – %5bA Prison Diary 01%5d – Hell (v5.0) (html)/A_Prison_Diary.html – filepos486980 On the wall behind the bed is a window encased with four thick iron bars, painted black, and caked in dirt. No curtains, no curtain rail. Stark, cold and unwelcoming would be a generous description of my temporary residence on the medical wing. No wonder the doctor didn’t return my smile. I am left alone in this bleak abode for over an hour, by which time I’m beginning to experience a profound depression.
A key finally turns in the lock to allow another young woman to enter. She is dark-haired, short and slim, dressed in a smart striped suit. She shakes me warmly by the hand, sits on the end of the bed, and introduces herself as Ms Roberts, the Deputy Governor. She can’t be a day over twenty-six.
‘What am I doing here?’ I ask. ‘I’m not a mass murderer.’
‘Most prisoners spend their first night on the medical wing,’ she explains, ‘and we can’t make any exceptions, I’m afraid, and especially not for you.’ I don’t say anything – what is there to say? ‘One more form to complete,’ she tells me, ‘that’s if you still want to attend your mother’s funeral on Saturday.’ [3] I can sense that Ms Roberts is trying hard to be understanding and considerate, but I fear I am quite unable to hide my distress.
‘You will be moved onto an induction block tomorrow,’ she assures me, ‘and just as soon as you’ve been categorized A, B, C, or D, we’ll transfer you to another prison. I have no doubt you’ll be Category D – no previous convictions, and no history of violence.’ She rises from the end of the bed. Every officer carries a large bunch of keys that jingle whenever they move. ‘I’ll see you again in the morning. Have you been able to make a phone call?’ she asks as she bangs on the heavy door with the palm of her hand.
‘No,’ I reply as the cell door is opened by a large West Indian with an even larger smile.
‘Then I’ll see what I can do,’ she promises before stepping out into the corridor and slamming the door closed behind her.
[1] 73 people committed suicide in British prisons in 2001, 22 of them were first-time offenders Over 1,500 prisoners attempted hanging, strangulation or suffocation in 2000, a rise of 50 per cent over the 1999 figures