Heaven: A Prison Diary (29 page)

The drugs
counsellor tells me later that because I’ve never been an addict myself and am writing
a diary, he doesn’t feel free to express himself while I’m there – fair enough.

I settle down
to read the latest booklet on the subject of addiction,
Is Your Child on Drugs?
No, thank God. However, it’s a fascinating
read. It is not uncommon for a child to start smoking at seven – eleven is the
norm – so it’s no surprise that some children are hooked on heroin by the age
of fourteen.

We have a full
surgery this morning: three for release, two for a week’s temporary release and
eleven with imagined or real illnesses. Dr Allwood, a thorough and
conscientious man, always takes his time. In fact, after forty minutes, one of
the inmates in the waiting room complains about how long he’s taking. Gail
leaps out of the surgery and tells the prisoner that her husband visited his GP
last week and had to sit around for three hours, and that was after having to
wait a week before he could make an appointment. The inmate snarls.

Chris, a lifer
(murdered his wife)
,
rolls up his sleeve and shows me
a faded scar on the inside of his arm. ‘I did that,’ he says, thrusting it
under the gaze of the complaining prisoner, who looks surprised. ‘Yeah,’ he
continues, ‘stabbed in the middle of the night by my pad-mate, wasn’t I, and
when I pressed the emergency button no screws came to help me because I was on
the top floor.’

Chris now has
the full attention of the rest of the surgery. ‘No doctor at Gartree to come to
my aid, so I sewed it up myself.’ I look at his faded scar in disbelief, but
Gail nods to confirm she’s seen many examples of amateur stitching over the
years.

‘Just a needle
and thread was all I needed,’ he adds.

Mr Berlyn
marches into the hospital and says he needs an urgent word with me. We go into
the ward. He has been in touch with Mr Le Sage at HMP Stocken about my
accompanying him when he gives his talk to schools on the problems of young
people becoming involved in drugs and ending up in prison. The good news is
that Mr Le Sage is looking for a new prisoner to assist him, and has agreed to
travel up to NSC next Monday to talk about the possibility of my working
alongside him.

This is the
best news I’ve had since being appointed hospital orderly.

Escaping the confines
of NSC, visiting schools and feeling I’m doing something worthwhile must be the
next step on this particular journey. I thank Mr Berlyn and once again have
something to look forward to. Next Monday.

Only two new inductees today because the prison is full.
When I check my board, I note one of them is called Blackburn. We already have
a Blackburn, I tell the young lad sitting in front of me.

‘Yeah, that’s
my dad,’ he says. ‘He was my co-defendant.’ I smell a story. ‘You’ll never
believe what we’re in for, Jeff,’ he adds. I remain silent. ‘We were caught
stealing Lion Bars, and got three and a half years.’

‘That sounds a
bit rough,’ I venture foolishly.

‘Yeah, well, I
have to admit, Jeff, it was forty-six tons of ‘em with a street value of nearly
two hundred grand.’

‘But how do you
fence chocolate bars?’

He laughs. We
already had a buyer.’

‘At what price?’

‘Forty grand.’

‘So how did you
get caught?’

‘One of the
night watchmen who was part of our team grassed us up, didn’t he.’

‘Why?’

‘He was up for
a minor charge of burglary and did a deal with the scum.’

‘Did he get
off?’

‘Yeah, they
dropped the charge, didn’t they, but nicked him for somethin’ else a couple of
months later and then they banged him up in the Scrubs … with my father.’

Mr Hocking
drops in to say that he’s pleased I might be going out to assist a prison
officer with his drugs talk. He’s already informed the governor that I am not
considered a security risk. He’s only been with me a couple of minutes when his
radio intercom asks him to report back to the security office immediately.

‘We’ve had
another one,’ are the only words I clearly hear. I look suitably inquisitive.

‘We’ve got a
serial informer,’ he explains, ‘he writes every day telling us who the drug
dealers are and where we’ll find the next drop. So far he’s been on the button
every time.’

‘Do you know
who the informer is?’ I ask.

‘No idea, don’t
want to know,’ he replies.

‘All I can tell
you is that the handwriting is the same every time.’

I dreamed last
night about a lovely man called John Bromley – Brommers to his friends – who
died of cancer a few days ago.

I had the
privilege of working with him – you didn’t work
for
John, even though he was the head of ITV’s sport. He had an
amazing gift of making even the tea lady feel part of the team. If you had a
love of sport, good humour, fine wine and beautiful women, he was quite simply
the best company a man could ask for. I predict that his memorial service will
be as well attended as any prime minister’s. I only hope I’m out in time to be
there.

A beautiful
black Labrador called Bessie saunters into the hospital accompanied by two
officers from the drug squad. I am told to wait in the lobby while Bessie goes
about her work. Through the closed door, I can hear her padding around sniffing
for drugs among my personal possessions. If Bessie can read, she’ll find
several books, pamphlets and papers on drugs, but until you can fail an MDT for
Ribena, Bovril or Evian, not much else.

The other
prisoners sitting in the lobby waiting to see the doctor can’t mask their
surprise. A few moments later, the door is opened and Bessie reappears, and as
she passes by, ignores me – a good sign, because if Bessie starts to sniff you,
you’re in trouble.

If she licks
you, you’ll be up on a charge. I ought to be pleased, but when I return to the
ward, Bessie’s paw-prints are everywhere, and I scrubbed the floor only
yesterday.

Mr Hocking
explains that the drug search had a purpose. They are about to make a big
swoop, following another tip-off, and he wanted the other inmates to see that I
was not exempt from being searched. By now everyone in the prison will know,
and some might even wonder if I’m about to be shipped out. I suspect the real
search will take place later today.

I have a legal
visit from my solicitors Tony Morton Hooper and Lord Mishcon, now aged
eighty-four – it’s kind of him to endure the seven-hour round trip. We spend
the next two hours preparing for the upcoming appeal, not that a date has yet
been fixed.

Doug tells me
that we are to have a new governing governor called Mr Beaumont. As he was
governor of Leicester Prison, there will be a lot of inmates who can brief us
about him.

I no longer
have breakfast in the main hall because Linda supplies me with a box of
cornflakes once a week and a half pint of milk every day. Today she added a new
luxury – a banana.

One of the
prisoners in surgery this morning needs a weekend leave form signed by the
doctor, to show he is fit to be out of prison.

Yesterday his
leave was revoked because he drew out a large sum of money from his canteen
account, leaving a balance of only £3.72. You cannot take weekend leave unless
you have at least £4 in your account. It is assumed that if you empty your
account, then you’re probably going to abscond. This seems unlikely in this
case as the prisoner has only two weeks of his sentence left.

Mr Berlyn shows
some common sense, allows the prisoner to put 28p back into the account and
signs his weekend leave pass.

Lunch in the canteen.
Potato bake and cabbage, followed by
sponge cake covered, and I mean covered, in custard. I never eat the second
course, but take it, because Carl can always eat two portions.

Dr Harris is on
duty and his first responsibility is to sign the discharge papers for eight
prisoners who will be released tomorrow. All of them have been granted tagging
status, which allows them to leave two months early as long as they remain in
their homes between the hours of 7 pm and 7 am. These hours can be flexible if
it affects their job.

When I first
arrived at NSC and worked as the orderly in the sentence management unit, the
tagging board of Mr Berlyn and Mr Simpson used to agree to about 50 per cent of
those eligible for this privilege.
Now all eight are granted
on the same day,
25
including a twenty-three-year-old who’s already been
to prison four times.
Lee admits that he was shocked when the board granted
him tagging status, as his offence was punching someone on the nose in a pub
brawl and in any case he looks upon prison as a way of life. In fact, his last
comment to Linda before leaving us was, ‘See you towards the end of the year,
if not before.’ He turns to me and adds, ‘Let’s hope you’re out by then, Jeff.’

I sweep out the
ward and mop the floor. On alternate days I vacuum Linda’s little office
removing Bessie’s paw prints.
All very therapeutic.

I call Mary.
She thanks me for the flowers that I asked Alison to send her yesterday.

She then brings
me up to date on Angie Peppiatt and Mr Justice Potts.

I collect my
post.
Eleven Valentine cards, which I display in the ward for
all to see, plus several letters, including one from John Major and another
from Billy Connolly.

Many years ago
when John was Chancellor of the Exchequer, I asked him to open the extension to
our new folly at the Old Vicarage at our annual summer party. John described
the building as ‘Mary’s second folly’. Billy spoke next and immediately closed
it.

I’ve only just
worked out why it’s the same five inmates who appear at the front of the queue
every morning for medication; Linda as hospital sister will only allow them one
day’s supply of drugs, whereas in a surgery ‘on the out’, she would prescribe
enough for a week, and in some cases even a month.

Why, you may
ask.
a.
If a prisoner were given a
month’s supply he might well take it all on one day.
b.
He could also trade his med
ication for other drugs.26
c.
They could be lost or stolen.

Result, we have
a long queue every morning for one day’s supply of medication, so they will all
be back tomorrow.

Mr Beaumont the
new governor has hit the ground running. He’s demanded that his office be
repainted and all the furniture be replaced, and it all has to be completed by
the time he gets back from a visit to the Home Office tomorrow.

Mr Vessey, a
security officer, marches into the hospital. His appearance usually means that
a prisoner is about to be nicked for some offence. I can’t think of any offence
I’ve committed recently, other than being in possession of a bottle of Ribena
(smuggled in by Doug). Mr Vessey, who never makes any attempt to be friendly,
asks me to accompany him, and takes considerable pleasure in marching me out of
the hospital and across the camp. Several prisoners stare in disbelief. He
eventually tells me my name has come up on the computer for a random MDT test.

He escorts me
into a Portacabin, where I am locked in a room with five other prisoners. Three
of them look relaxed and are happily chatting, while the other two are silent,
twitchy and look distinctly nervous. A few minutes later I hear a key turning
in the lock and another officer joins us.

Four of us came
up on the computer for a random test, while two others are here on ‘reasonable
suspicion’. The serial grasser has undoubtedly offered up their names. The
officer then reads his authority to carry out such a test (see overleaf) before
asking who would like to be tested first.

I stand up and
follow him into an adjoining room. The procedure is then explained to me (see
page 349), and I am requested to sign a form saying I agree to the test. I am
then asked to strip and put on a dressing gown. Mr Vessey hands me a plastic
beaker, and asks me to go to the lavatory next door and fill it with at least
60 ml of urine. Having managed this, I hand the beaker back to Mr Vessey, who
unseals two plastic tubes in my presence and then pours half the urine into
each tube. After I have initialled both, he seals them and places them in a
plastic bag, which he also seals. The bag is then deposited in the fridge. He
points out that my name is not on the bag, only my number, FF8282.

MANDATORY
DRUG TEST AUTHORISATION

FORM