‘Lock-up,’ hollers someone from the front desk. I shake hands with three men who I had no idea I would meet a month ago, and wonder if I will ever see again. [43] I return to my cell.
When I reach the top floor, I find Mr Weedon standing by my door.
‘When you get out of here,’ he says, ‘be sure you write it as it is. Tell them about the problems both sides are facing, the inmates and the officers, and don’t pull your punches.’ I’m surprised by the passion in his voice. ‘But let me tell you something you can’t have picked up in the three weeks you’ve spent with us. The turnover of prison staff is now the service’s biggest problem, and it’s not just because of property prices in London. Last week I lost a first-class officer who left to take up a job as a tube driver. Same pay but far less hassle, was the reason he gave. Good luck, sir,’ he says, and locks me in.
9.00 pm
I begin to prepare for my imminent departure. Fletch has already warned me that there will be no official warning, just a knock on my cell door around six-thirty and a ‘You’re on the move, Archer, so have your things ready.’ ‘There’s only one thing I can guarantee,’ he adds. ‘Once you’ve been down to the reception area you will be kept hanging around for at least another hour while an officer completes the paperwork.’
9.30 pm
I read through the latest pile of letters, including ones from Mary, Will, and another from Geordie Greig, the editor of Tatler, who ends with the words, There’s a table booked for lunch at Le Caprice just as soon as you’re out. No fair-weather friend he.
I then check over the day’s script and decide on an early night.
10.14 pm
I turn out the light on Belmarsh for the last time.
Day 22 Thursday 9 August 2001
4.40 am
I wake from a restless sleep, aware that I could be called at any time. I decide to get up and write for a couple of hours.
6.43 am
I check my watch. It’s six forty-three, and there’s still no sign of life out there in the silent dark corridors, so I make myself some breakfast. Sugar Puffs, the last selection in my Variety pack, long-life milk and an orange.
6.51 am
I shave, wash and get dressed. After some pacing around my five-by-three cell, I begin to pack. When I say pack, I must qualify that, because you are not allowed a suitcase or a holdall; everything has to be deposited into one of HM Prisons’ plastic bags.
7.14 am
I’ve finished packing but there is still no sign of anyone stirring. Has my transfer been postponed, cancelled even? Am I to remain at Belmarsh for the rest of my life? I count every minute as I pace up and down, waiting to make my official escape. What must it be like waiting to be hanged?
7.40 am
I empty the last drop of my UHT milk into a plastic mug, eat a McVitie’s biscuit, and begin to wonder if there is anyone out there. I reread Mary’s and Will’s letters. They cheer me up.
8.15 am
My cell door is at last opened by a Mr Knowles.
‘Good morning,’ he says cheerfully. ‘We’ll be moving you just as soon as we’ve got all the remand prisoners off to the Bailey.’ He checks his watch. ‘So I’ll be back around 9.30. If you’d like to take a shower, or if there’s anything else you need to do, I’ll leave your door open.’
Forgive the cliché, but I breathe a sigh of relief to have it confirmed that I really am leaving. I take a shower – I’ve now mastered the palm, press, soap, palm, press method.
During the next hour several prisoners drop by to say farewell as the news spreads around the spur that I’m departing. Del Boy relieves me of my last bottle of water, saying he could get used to it. Once he’s left, I suggest to an officer that I would like to give my radio to one of the prisoners who never gets a visit. The officer tells me that it’s against the regulations.
‘To give something to someone in need is against the regulations?’ I query.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘You may be trying to bribe him, or repay him for a supply of drugs. If you were seen giving a radio to another prisoner, you would immediately be put on report and your sentence might even be lengthened by twenty-eight days.’
My problem is that I just don’t think like a criminal.
I wait until the officer is out of sight, then nip downstairs and leave the radio and a few other goodies on Fletch’s bed. He’ll know whose needs are the greatest.
9.36 am
Mr Knowles returns to escort me to the reception area where I first appeared just three long weeks ago. I am placed in a cubicle and strip-searched, just as I was on the day I arrived. Once I’ve put my clothes back on, they handcuff me – only for the second time – and then lead me out of the building and into what I would describe as a Transit van. Down the left-hand side are four single seats, one behind each other. On the right-hand side is a cubicle in which the prisoner is placed like some untamed lion. Once I’m locked in, I stare out of the little window for some time, until, without any warning, the vast electric barred gates slide slowly open.
As the black Transit van trundles out of Belmarsh, I have mixed feelings. Although I am delighted and relieved to be leaving, I’m also anxious and nervous about being cast into another world, having to start anew and form fresh relationships all over again.
It has taken me three weeks to pass through Hell. Am I about to arrive in Purgatory?
Jeffrey Archer
