I begin writing
again, only to be interrupted by three officers marching into my cell:
Mr
Weedon
, accompanied by
Mr
Abbott and
Mr
Cook, who are
ominously wearing rubber gloves.
Mr
Weedon
explains that this is a cell search – known by
prisoners as a spin – and for obvious reasons it has to be carried out without
any warning.
‘What are you
searching for?’ I ask.
‘Guns, knives,
razor blades, drugs, and anything that is against prison regulations. I am the
supervising officer,’ says
Mr
Weedon
,
‘because
Mr
Cook and
Mr
Abbott are being tested for the National Vocational Qualification, and this
search is part of that test. We will start with
a
strip-search
,’ he says, keeping a straight face.
I stand in the
middle of my tiny cell, and remove my Tiger T-shirt. I then hold my hands high
in the air before being asked to turn a complete circle.
Mr
Abbott then tells me to rub my hands vigorously through my hair, which I do –
hidden drugs, just in case you haven’t worked it out. This completed, I am
allowed to put my T-shirt back on.
Mr
Cook then asks
me to take off my shoes, socks, trousers and pants, all of which are carefully examined
by the two junior officers wearing rubber gloves. Once again I am asked to turn
a full circle before they invite me to lift the soles of my feet so they can
check if I’m wearing any plasters that might be concealing drugs. There are no
plasters, so they tell me to get dressed.
‘I will now
accompany you to a waiting room while your cell is being searched,’
Mr
Weedon
says. ‘But first I must
ask if you are in possession of anything that belongs to another prisoner, such
as guns, knives or drugs?’
‘Yes, I have an
essay written by Tony Croft, and a poem by Billy
Little
.’
I rummage around in a drawer, and hand them over.
They look
quickly through them before passing them back. ‘I am also in possession of a
library book,’ I say, trying not to smirk.
They try hard
not to rise, but they still turn the pages and shake the book about.
(Drugs or money this time.)
‘I see
it’s
due back today, Archer, so make sure you return it by
lock-up, because we wouldn’t want you to be fined, would we.’
Mr
Weedon
scores a point.
‘How kind of
you to forewarn me,’ I say.
‘Before we can
begin a thorough search of your cell,’ continues
Mr
Abbott, ‘I have to ask, are you in possession of any legal papers that you do
not wish us to read?’
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Thank you,’
says
Mr
Weedon
. ‘That
completes this part of the exercise. Your cell will now be searched by two
other officers.’
I was told
later that this is done simply for their self-protection, so that should they
come across anything illegal, with four officers involved, two sets of two, it
becomes a lot more difficult for a prisoner to claim ‘it’s a set-up, guv’ and
that whatever was found had been planted.
‘Burglars!’
I hear shouted by someone at the top of their
voice, sounding as if it had come from a nearby cell. I look a little surprised
that the officers don’t all disappear at speed.
Mr
Weedon
smiles.
‘That’s us,’ he says.
‘We’ve been
spotted, and it’s just another prisoner warning his mates that we’re out on one
of our searching expeditions, so they’ll have enough time to dispose of
anything incriminating. You’ll hear several toilets being flushed during the
next few minutes and see a few packages being thrown out of the window.’
Mr
Abbott and
Mr
Cook leave me to
be replaced by
Ms
Taylor and
Ms
Lynn, who begin to search my cell.
Mr
Weedon
escorts me to the
waiting room on the other side of the spur and locks me in. Bored, I stroll
over to the window on the far side of the room, and look down on a well-kept
garden. A dozen or so prisoners are planting, cutting, and weeding for a pound
an hour. The inmates are all wearing yellow Day-Glo jackets, while the one
supervisor is dressed casually in blue jeans and an
opennecked
shirt. It’s a neat, well-kept garden, but then so would anyone’s be, if they
had a dozen gardeners at a pound an hour.
I am amused to
see that one of the prisoners is clipping a hedge with a large pair of shears,
quite the most lethal weapon I’ve seen since arriving at
Belmarsh
.
I do hope they search his cell regularly.
Twenty minutes
later I’m let out, and escorted back to Cell 30. All my clothes are in neat
piles, my waste-paper bin emptied, and I have never seen my cell looking so
tidy.
However, the
officers have removed my second pillow and the lavatory bleach that Del Boy had
so thoughtfully supplied on my
first day on Block One.*
Supper.
I take down my second tin of ham (49p) to be opened
by a helper on the hotplate. Tony adds two potatoes and a spoonful of peas, not
all of them stuck together. After I’ve eaten dinner, I wash my plastic dishes
before returning downstairs to join my fellow inmates for Association. I decide
to tell only Fletch, Tony and Billy that I’ll be leaving in the morning. Fletch
said that he was aware of my imminent departure, but didn’t realize it was that
imminent.
Sitting in his
cell along with the others feels not unlike the last day of term at school,
when, having packed your trunk, you hang around in the dorm, wondering how many
of your contemporaries you will keep in touch with.
Fletch tells us
that he’s just spent an hour with
Ms
Roberts, and has
decided to appeal against both his sentence and verdict. I am delighted, but
can’t help wondering if it will affect his decision to allow the contents of
the little green book to be published.
‘On the
contrary,’ he says. ‘I want the whole world to know who these evil people are
and what they’ve done.’
‘But what if
they ask you to name the judges, the schoolmasters, the policemen and the
politician?’
‘Then I shall
name them,’ he says.
‘And what about the other ten children who were put through the
same trauma?
How do you
expect them to react?’ Tony asks. ‘After all, they must now all
be
in their late thirties.’
Fletch pulls
out a file from his shelf and removes a sheet of paper with ten names typed in
a single column. ‘During the next few weeks I intend to write to everyone named
on this list and ask if they are willing to be interviewed by my solicitor. A
couple are married and may not even have told their wives or family, one or two
will not be that easy to track down, but I’m confident that several of them
will back me up, and want the truth to be known.’
‘What about
***, **** and *****?’
‘I shall name
them in court,’ Fletch says firmly. ‘*** of course is dead, but **** and *****
are very much alive.’
Tony starts to
applaud while Billy, not given to showing much outward sign of emotion, nods
vigorously.
‘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.
*
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.
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.’
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.
I turn out the
light on
Belmarsh
for the last time.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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?
A PRISON DIARY.
Copyright © 2002 by
Jeffrey Archer.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For
information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y.
10010. Not all images included in the print edition of this title are available
in this
ebook
edition.
www.stmartins.com
Library
of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Archer, Jeffrey, 1940...