‘So where does the dealer get his supplies from?’ I ask William as the hands of the clock edge nearer and nearer towards twelve, and I am fearful we may never meet again.
‘They’re picked up for him by mules.’
‘Mules?’
‘The dealer often recruits university students who are already hooked – probably by him. He’ll then send them on an all-expenses-paid holiday to Thailand, Pakistan or even Colombia and give them an extra thousand pounds if they can smuggle a kilo of heroin through customs.’
‘How big is a kilo?’
‘A bag of sugar.’
‘And what’s it worth?’
‘The dealer passes on that kilo for around £28,000-£35,000 to sellers, known as soldiers. The soldiers then add baking powder and brick dust until they have four kilos, which they sell on in grams or joeys [33] for forty pounds a time to their customers. A top soldier can make a profit of seventy to a hundred thousand pounds a month. And don’t forget, Jeff, it’s cash, so they won’t end up paying any tax, and with that kind of profit there are a lot of punters out there willing to take the risk. The heroin on sale at King’s Cross or Piccadilly,’ William continues, ‘will usually be about four to seven per cent pure. The heroin that the mule brings back from an all-expenses-paid holiday could be as high as 92 per cent pure. By the way,’ he adds, ‘if the soldiers didn’t dilute their wares – cut the smack – they’d kill off most of their customers within a week.’
‘How many heroin addicts are there in this country?’ I ask.
‘Around a quarter of a million,’ William replies, ‘so it’s big business.’
‘And how many of those…’
A buzzer goes to alert the prison staff that the work period is over, and in a few moments we will be escorted back to our cells. William says, ‘It’s nice to have met you, Jeffrey. Give my regards to your wife – a truly remarkable woman. Sorry about the judge. Strange that he preferred to believe the word of someone who admitted in court to being a thief. But whatever you do, keep writing the books, because however long you live, there’s always going to be a Keane in jail.’
William offers me one final piece of advice before we part. ‘I know you’ve been attending chapel on Sundays, but try the RCs this week. Father Kevin preaches a fine sermon, and you’ll like him.’
I walk back to my cell, delighted to have missed education, having spent two hours being educated.
On the route march back to my cell I’m joined by Ali (breach of trust, stole £28,000 from his employer, gave it all back), who has also received his movement order. He will be going to Springhill on Monday, a D-cat. He asks where I’m heading.
‘I can’t be sure,’ I tell him. ‘I’m down for the Isle of Wight sometime next week, but I’ve appealed against the move.’
‘Can’t blame you. By the way, did you notice how peaceful the workshop was this afternoon?’ Ali asks.
‘I didn’t see any difference from the last time I was there.’
‘No, the whole atmosphere changed the moment you walked into the room. The prison officers and even the inmates stop swearing, and a lot more work gets done.’
‘I can’t believe that.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Ali, ‘they all know you’re writing a book and you might mention them by name.’
‘Not yours,’ I remind him, ‘you’re still referred to as Ali. You’re only the second person who wants their identity kept a secret.’
Once we reach the apex that divides Blocks One and Two, we go our separate ways. I wish him well.
As soon as I’m back in my cell, I grab a McVitie’s biscuit and pour out my last mug of water, leaving only a dribble in the bottom of the bottle. I’m about to discover if Del Boy is the man.
I turn on the radio. England are all out for 185. I drown my sorrows in the last cup of water before starting on what I expect to be an extended writing session. I’m fearful of forgetting even a line of William Keane’s monologue.
4.30 pm
Supper. Vegetable pie and beans. I turn the radio back on to follow the cricket. Australia are 46 without loss, chasing a total of 185. Shall I continue writing, or be a masochist? I decide to go on listening for a few more minutes In the next over, Slater is bowled, and by the time the cell door is opened for Association two hours later, Australia are 105 for 7, with only Gilchrist among the recognized batsmen still left at the crease.
7.00 pm
Association. I go in search of Del Boy like a helpless addict desperate for a fix. I find him sitting on his bed, head bowed, looking mournful. He bends down and slowly pulls out from under his bed a large brown-paper bag, and like a conjuror, produces three bottles of Highland Spring and two packets of McVitie’s chocolate – I repeat, chocolate – biscuits. He is, unquestionably, the man.
I cuddle him. ‘Get off me,’ he says pushing me away. ‘If anyone saw you doing that, I’d never be able to show my face in the East End again.’
I laugh, thank him, and carry off his spoils to my cell.
I pour myself a mug of water and am munching a chocolate biscuit when there’s a knock on the cell door. I look up to see my next-door neighbour, Richard, standing in the doorway. I feel his eyes boring into me. ‘The fuckin’ Mirror,’ he says almost in a shout, ‘have been round to our fuckin’ house and are pestering my fuckin’ mum.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say ‘But why are they doing that?’
‘Just because I’m in the next fuckin’ cell to you,’ he says plaintively. I nod my understanding. ‘They say you’re going to describe me in your fuckin’ book as a vicious criminal and they fear for your fuckin’ safety. Do you think I’m fuckin’ vicious?’
‘You’ve given me no reason to believe so,’ I reply.
‘Well, now they’re threatening my fuckin’ mum, telling her that if she doesn’t supply a fuckin’ photo of me, they’ll make it worse.’
‘How?’ I asked.
‘By telling their fuckin’ readers what I did.’
‘I’m afraid you must phone your mother and explain to her that they’ll do that in any case. By the way, what are you in for?’
‘Murder,’ he replies. ‘But it wasn’t my fuckin’ fault.’
‘Why, what happened?’
‘I was out drinking with the boys at my fuckin’ local, and when we left the fuckin’ pub we came face to face with a bunch of fuckin’ Aussie backpackers who accused us of stealing their fuckin’ wallets. I promise you, Jeff, I’d never seen the fuckin’ bastards before in my life.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘Well, one of ’em had a fuckin’ knife, and when my mate punched him, he dropped the fuckin’ thing on the pavement. I grabbed it and when another of them came for me, I fuckin’ stabbed him. It was only fuckin’ self-defence.’
‘And he died from one stab?’
‘Not exactly.’ He hesitates. ‘The coroner said there were seven stab wounds, but I was so fuckin’ tanked up that I can’t remember a fuckin’ thing about it.’ He pauses. ‘So make sure you tell your fuckin’ readers that I’m not a vicious criminal.’ [34]
Once Richard returns to his cell, I go back over William Keane’s words, before turning to the latest round of letters, still running at over a hundred a day. When I’ve finished them, I start reading a new book, The Day after Tomorrow, recommended by Del Boy – somewhat ironic. It’s over seven hundred pages, a length that would normally put me off, but not in my present circumstances. I’ve only read a few pages, when there’s a knock on the cell door. It’s Paul (credit-card fraud). They’re transferring him tomorrow morning back to the drug-rehab centre in Norfolk, so we may never meet again. He shakes hands as if we were business associates, and then leaves without another word.