have any money of their own, whether their family want them back.
c. Preparing prisoners’ forms for visits, days out, weekend leave, work out and compassionate or sick leave.
It will also be part of my job to see that every prisoner is sent to the relevant officer, according to his needs. Mr Simpson, the resident probation officer tells me, ‘I’ll see anyone if I’m free, otherwise ask them to make an appointment,’ allowing him to deal with those prisoners who have a genuine problem, and avoid those who stroll in to complain every other day.
11.45 am
I go to lunch with the other orderlies. The officer in charge of the kitchen, Wendy, tells me that NSC was commended for having the best food in the prison service. She says, ‘You should try the meat and stop being a VIP [vegetarian in prison].’ Wendy is a sort of pocket-sized Margaret Thatcher. Her kitchen is spotless, while her men slave away in their pristine white overalls leaving one in no doubt of their respect for her. I promise to try the meat in two weeks’ time when I fill in my next menu voucher. (See overleaf.)
2.00 pm
Now I’m in a D-cat prison, I’m allowed one visit a week. After one-third of my sentence has been completed, other privileges will be added. Heaven knows what the press will make of my first town visit. However, all of this could change rapidly once my appeal has been heard. If your sentence is four years or more, you are only eligible for parole, whereas if it’s less than four years, you will automatically be released after serving half your sentence, and if you’ve been a model prisoner, you can have another two months off while being tagged [2]
Back to today’s visit. Two old friends, David Paterson and Tony Bloom, accompany Mary.
The three of them turn up twenty minutes late, which only emphasizes how dreadful the 250-mile round journey from London must be. Mary and I have thirty minutes on our own, and she tells me that my solicitors have approached Sir Sydney Kentridge QC to take over my appeal if it involves that Mr Justice Potts was prejudiced against me before the trial started. The one witness who could testify, Godfrey Barker, is now proving reluctant to come forward. He fears that his wife, who works at the Home Office, may lose her job. Mary feels he will do what is just. I feel he will vacillate and fall by the wayside. She is the optimist, I am the pessimist. It’s usually the other way round.
During the visit, both Governor Berlyn, and PO New stroll around, talking to the families of the prisoners. How different from Wayland. Mr New tells us that NSC has now been dubbed ‘the cushiest prison in England’ (
The hour and a half passes all too quickly, but at least I can now have a visitor every week. I can only wonder how many of my friends will be willing to make a seven-hour round trip to spend an hour and a half with me.
5.00 pm
Canteen. At Wayland, you filled in an order form and then your supplies were delivered to your cell. At NSC there is a small shop which you are allowed to visit twice a week between 5.30 pm and 7.30 pm so you can purchase what you need – razor blades, toothpaste, chocolate, water, blackcurrant juice and most important of all, phonecards. I also need a can of shaving foam as I still shave every day.
What a difference a D-cat makes.
6.00 pm
I go across to the kitchen for supper and join two prisoners seated at the far end of the room. I select them because of their age. One turns out to be an accountant, the other a retired insurance broker. They do not talk about their crimes. They tell me that they no longer work in the prison, but travel into Boston every morning by bus, and have to back each afternoon by five. They work at the local Red Cross shop, and earn ?13.50 a week, which is credited to their canteen account. Some prisoners can earn as much as ?200 a week, giving them a chance to save a considerable sum by the time they’re released. This makes a lot more sense than turfing them out onto the street with the regulation ?40 and no job to go to.
7.00 pm
I join Doug at the hospital for a blackcurrant juice, a McVitie’s biscuit and the Channel 4 news. In Washington DC, Congress and the Senate were evacuated because of an anthrax scare. There seem to be so many ways of waging a modern war. Are we in the middle of the Third World War without realizing it?
8.15 pm
I return to the north block for roll-call to prove I have not absconded. [3] Doug assures me that it becomes a lot easier after the first couple of weeks, when the checks fall from six a day to four. My problem is that the final roll-call is at ten, and by then I’ve usually fallen asleep.
DAY 92 THURSDAY 18 OCTOBER 2001
6.00 am
Because so much is new to me, and so much unknown, I am still finding my way around.
Mr Hughes and Mr Jones, the officers in charge of the north block, try to deal quickly with prisoners’ queries and, more important, attempt to get things ‘sorted’, making them popular with the other inmates. The two blocks resemble Second World War Nissen huts. The north block consists of a 100-yard corridor, with five spurs running off each side. Each corridor has nine rooms – you have your own key, and there are no bars on the windows.
Two prisoners share each room. My room-mate David is a lifer (murder), and has the largest room: not the usual five paces by three, but seven paces by three. I have already requested a transfer to the no-smoking spur on the south block, which tends to house the older, more mature prisoners. Despite the
The corridor opposite mine has recently been designated a no-smoking zone, and Mr Berlyn suggests I move across to one of the empty rooms on that spur. As the prison is presently low in numbers, I might even be left on my own. Every prisoner I have shared a cell with has either sold his story to the tabloids, or been subjected to front-page exposes – always exaggerated and never accurate.
8.30 am
My working day as SMU orderly is 8.30 am to 12, lunch, then 1 pm to 4.30 pm. I arrive expecting to find Matthew so he can begin the handover, but Mr Gough is the only person on parade. He has his head down, brow furrowed, staring at his computer. He makes the odd muttering sound to himself, before asking politely for a cup of tea.
9.00 am
Still no sign of Matthew. I read through the daily duties book, and discover that among my responsibilities are mopping the kitchen floor, sweeping all common areas, vacuuming the carpets and cleaning the two lavatories as well as the kitchen. Thankfully, the main occupation, and the only thing that will keep me from going insane, is dealing with prisoners’ queries. By the time I’ve read the eight-page folder twice, there is still no sign of Matthew, which is beginning to look like a hanging offence.
If you are late for work, you are ‘nicked’, rare in a D-cat prison, because being put on report can result in loss of privileges – even being returned to a C-cat – according to the severity of your offence. Being caught taking drugs or absconding is an immediate recategorization offence. These privileges and punishments are in place to make sure everyone abides by the rules.
Mr New, the principal officer, arrives just as Mr Gough enters the room.
‘Where’s Matthew?’ he asks.
I then observe the officers at their best, but the Prison Service at its most ineffective.
