I return to the ground floor and watch the first half of a Humphrey Bogart black-and-white movie, where Bogey is a sea dog who plays a major part in winning the war in the North Atlantic. However, we are all sent back to our cells at five, so I never discover if it was the Germans or the Americans who won the last War.
5.20 pm
I have an unscheduled visit from two senior officers, Mr Scanell and Mr Green. To be fair, most meetings in prison are unscheduled; after all, no one calls in advance to fix an appointment with your diary secretary. They are concerned that I am no longer going out into the yard during the afternoon to take advantage of forty-five minutes of fresh air and exercise. They’ve heard a rumour that on my last outing I was threatened by another prisoner, and for that reason I’ve remained in my cell. They ask me if this is true, and if so, am I able to supply them with any details of those who threatened me. I tell them exactly what took place in the yard, but add that I am unwilling to name or describe the young tearaway involved. They leave twenty minutes later with several pages of their report sheet left blank.
I ask Tony what would have happened if I’d told them the name of the two culprits.
‘They would have been transferred to another prison later today,’ Tony replied.
‘Wouldn’t it be easier for them to transfer me?’ I suggest.
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Tony. ‘That would demand a degree of lateral thinking, not to mention common sense.’
6.00 pm
Supper. Vegetable stew and a lollipop. The lollipop was superb.
6.43 pm
Fletch visits my cell and tries to convince me that it’s my duty to name the cons who threatened me in the yard, because if I don’t, it won’t be long before they’re doing exactly the same thing to someone less able to take care of themselves. He makes a fair point, but I suggest what the headlines would be the following day if I had given the officers the names: Archer beaten up in yard; Archer demands extra protection; Under-staffed prison service doing overtime to protect Archer, Archer reports prisoner to screw. No, thank you, I tell Fletch, I’d rather sit in my cell and write. He sighs, and before leaving, hands me his copy of the Daily Telegraph. It’s a luxury to have a seventy-two-page paper, even if it is yesterday’s. I devour every page.
The lead story is a poll conducted for the Telegraph by youGov.com showing that, although Iain Duncan Smith is running 40-60 behind Ken Clarke in the national polls, he is comfortably ahead with the Party membership. It seems to be a no-win situation for the Conservatives. The only person who must be laughing all the way to the voting booth is Tony Blair.
7.08 pm
I have a visit from Paul, a tea-boy – which is why he’s allowed to roam around while the rest of us are banged up. He says he has something to tell me, so I pick up my pad, sit on the end of the bed and listen.
Paul is about six foot one, a couple of hundred pounds and looks as if he could take care of himself in a scrap. He begins by telling me that he’s just been released from a drug-rehabilitation course at the Princess Diana centre in Norfolk. It’s taken them eight months to wean him off his heroin addiction. I immediately enquire if he now considers himself cured. Paul just sits there in silence and avoids answering my question. It’s obviously not what he came to talk to me about. He then explains that during his rehab, he was made to write a long self-assessment piece and asks if I will read it, but he insists that no one else on the spur must find out its contents.
‘I wouldn’t bother you with it,’ he adds, ‘if it were not for the fact that several prisoners on this spur have had similar experiences, and they’re not necessarily the ones you might expect.’ He leaves without another word.
If you were to come across Paul at your local, you would assume he was a middle-class successful businessman (he’s in jail for credit-card fraud). He’s intelligent, articulate and charming. In fact he doesn’t look any different to the rest of us, but then why should he? He just doesn’t want anyone to know about his past, and I’m not talking about his ‘criminal past’.
As soon as my cell door is closed, I begin to read the self-assessment piece that is written in his own hand. He had a happy upbringing until the age of six when his parents divorced. Two years later his mother remarried. After that, he and his brothers were regularly thrashed by their stepfather. The only person he put any trust in was an uncle who befriended him and turned out to be a paedophile. His next revelation I would not consider for a plot in a novel, because it turns out that his uncle is now locked up on House Block Two, convicted of indecent assault on an underaged youth. The two men can see each other through the wire mesh across the yard during the afternoon exercise period. Paul doesn’t know what he would do if he were ever to come face to face with his uncle. At no time in his exposition does he offer this as an excuse for his crime, but he points out that child abuse is a common symptom among those serving long-term sentences. I find this quite difficult to come to terms with, having had such a relaxed and carefree upbringing myself. But I decide to ask Fletch if Paul is a) telling the truth, b) correct in his overall assessment.
When I did eventually ask Fletch, I was shocked by his reply. [31]
10.00 pm
After I’ve read through Paul’s piece a second time, I turn to the latest bunch of letters – just over a hundred – which keep my spirits up, until I switch on the nine o’clock news on Radio 4, to discover that there are still no plans to move me from this hellhole.
11.00 pm
I start to read John Grisham’s The Partner, and manage seven chapters before turning the light off just after midnight. I can’t believe it, no rap music.
Day 13 Tuesday 31 July 2001
5.55 am
Woke up before the Alsatians this morning. I’ve finally worked out why they make so much noise. It’s because they are being fed on the same food as the prisoners. Write for two hours.
8.00 am
I finish the box of cornflakes and the last drop of UHT milk, hopeful that my canteen order will materialize at some time later today. I get dressed. I can move another notch up on my belt – I must have lost several pounds, but have no other way of confirming this.
9.00 am
When my cell door is opened, I don’t join the other prisoners to go to the workshop as I have an appointment with the Education Assessor, Judy Fitt, known amongst the prisoners as ‘Misfit’ – a joke she must be heartily sick of.
When Ms Fitt arrives, the officer on the front desk calls for me, or to be more accurate, bellows out my name, as I’m on the top landing, and they never move from the ground floor unless they have to. I go down to meet her. Judy is a short – could lose a few pounds – blonde, of about forty with a happy, optimistic smile. I pick up two chairs from the pile by the TV and place them under the window at the end of the room. I think she’s surprised that I insist on carrying her chair. Once seated, she takes me through all the education curriculum has to offer, from teaching reading and writing skills, through to taking a degree. Her enthusiasm leaves me in no doubt that Judy is another public servant dedicated to her job. She also suggests that in my case I could learn to cook, draw, or even, after all these years of avoiding it, discover how to use a computer. That would impress Mary.