‘So what do you need, Jeffrey? Can I call you Jeffrey?’
‘Of course. What do I need?’ I repeat. ‘How about a bowl of cornflakes with some real milk, two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, mushrooms and a cup of hot chocolate.’
Kevin laughs. ‘I can sort out some Weetabix, skimmed milk, fresh bread. Anything else?’
‘A decent razor, some shampoo, a bar of soap and a change of towels?’
‘That may take a little longer,’ he admits.
As everyone knows what I’m in for, I ask the inevitable question.
‘I was part of the Dome jewellery raid, wasn’t I,’ he says as if everybody was.
What a sentence to deliver to an author. ‘How did you become involved?’ I asked.
‘Debt,’ he explains, ‘and a measure of bad luck.’
Nick Purnell’s words rang in my ears.
‘Yeah, I owed a man thirteen hundred pounds, and although I hadn’t spoken to him for over a year, he suddenly calls up out of the blue and demands to see me.’ I don’t interrupt the flow. ‘We met up at a pub in Brighton where he told me he needed a speedboat and driver for a couple of hours and if I was willing to do it, I could forget the debt.’
‘When did he expect you to carry out the job?’ I ask.
‘The next morning,’ Kevin replied. ‘I told him I couldn’t consider it because I’d already got another job lined up.’
‘What job?’ I asked.
‘Well, my dad and I’ve got a couple of boats that we fish off the coast, and they were both booked for the rest of the week. “Then I want my money,” the man demanded, so I wasn’t left with a lot of choice. You see, I was skint at the time, and anyway, he had a reputation as a bit of a hard man, and all he wanted me to do was transport four men from one side of the river to the other. The whole exercise wouldn’t take more than ten minutes.’
‘One thousand three hundred pounds for ten minutes’ work? You must have realized that there was a catch?’
‘I was suspicious, but had no idea what they were really up to.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘I took the boat as instructed up to Bow Creek, moored it near the jetty a few hundred yards from the Dome and waited. Suddenly all hell broke loose. Three police boats converged on me, and within minutes I was surrounded by a dozen armed officers shouting at me to lie down on the deck with my hands above my head. One of them said, “Blimey it’s not him,” and I later discovered that I’d been brought in at the last minute to replace someone who had let the gang down.’
‘But by then you must have known what they were up to?’
‘Nope,’ he replied, ‘I’m thirty-five years old, and this is my first offence. I’m not a criminal, and after what my family and I have been put through, I can tell you I won’t be coming back to prison again.’
I can’t explain why I wanted to believe him. It might have been his courteous manner, or the way he talked about his wife and fourteen-year-old son. And he was certainly going to pay dearly for a foolish mistake; one that he would regret for the rest of his life. [15]
‘Archer, Collins, Davies, Edwards,’ booms the voice of Mr King, an officer not given to subtlety as he continues to bellow out names until he comes to Watts, before adding, ‘C of E, now.’
‘I think we’ll have to continue this conversation at some other time,’ I suggest. ‘Our Lord calls and if he doesn’t, Mr King certainly does.’ I then join the other prisoners who are waiting on the middle landing to be escorted to the morning service.
11.00 am
A crocodile of prisoners proceeds slowly along the polished linoleum floor until we’re stopped for another body search before entering the chapel. Why would they search us before going into a place of worship? We file into a large hall where each worshipper is handed a Bible. I take my place in the second row next to a young black man who has his head bowed. I glance around at what appears to be a full house.
The Chaplain, David (his name is written in bold letters on a label attached to his well-worn jacket), takes his place at the front of the chapel and calls for silence. He is a man of about forty-five, stockily built, with a pronounced limp and a stern smile. He stares down at his congregation of murderers, rapists, burglars and wife- beaters. Not surprisingly, it takes him a couple of minutes to bring such a flock to order.
While he goes about his task, I continue to look around the room. It’s square in shape, and I would guess measures about twenty paces by twenty. The outer walls are red brick and the room holds about two hundred plastic chairs, in rows of twenty. On the four walls there are paintings of Christ and his Disciples, Christ being carried to the tomb after being taken down from the Cross, the Virgin Mother with an angel, the Raising of Lazarus, and Christ calming the storm.
Directly behind the Chaplain is a rock band – their leader is a pretty, dark-haired girl who has a guitar slung over her shoulder. She is accompanied by five Gospel singers, all of whom have tiny microphones pinned to their lapels. In front of the group is a man seated with his back to the congregation. He is working a slide projector that flashes up on a white sheet hung in front of him the words of the first hymn.
When the Chaplain finally gains silence – achieved only after a threat that anyone caught talking would immediately be escorted back to their cell – he begins the service by delivering three prayers, all unsubtly spelling out the simple message of doing good by your neighbour. He then turns to the girl with the guitar and gives her a slight bow. Her gentle voice rings out the melody of the first hymn, more of a Gospel message, which is accompanied heartily by the black prisoners who make up well over half the congregation, while the rest of us are a little more reserved. The group’s backing singers are all white, and give as good as they get, even when the clapping begins. After the last verse has rung out, we are all ready for the sermon, and what a sermon it turns out to be.
The Chaplain’s chosen theme is murder. He then invites us to pick up our Bibles – which he describes as the biggest bestseller of all time – and turn to the book of Genesis. He glances in my direction and winks.
‘And it all began with Cain and Abel,’ he tells us, ‘because Cain was the first murderer. Envious of his brother’s success, he gained revenge by killing him. But God saw him do it and punished him for the rest of his life.’
His next chosen example of a murderer was Moses, who, he told us, killed an Egyptian and also thought he’d got away with it, but he hadn’t because God had seen him, so he too was punished for the rest of his life. I don’t remember that bit, because I thought Moses died peacefully in his bed aged 130.
‘Now I want you to turn to the Second Book of Samuel,’ declares the Chaplain. ‘Not the first book, the second book, where you’ll find a king who was a murderer. King David. He killed Uriah the Hittite, because he fancied his wife Bathsheba. He had Uriah placed in the front line of the next battle to make sure he was killed so he could end up marrying Bathsheba. However, God also saw what he was up to, and punished him accordingly. Because God witnesses every murder, and will punish anyone who breaks his commandments.’
‘Alleluia,’ shout several of the congregation in the front three rows.
I later learnt from the Deputy Governor that at least half the congregation were murderers, so the Chaplain was well aware of the audience he was playing to.
After the sermon is over the Gospel singers sing a quiet reprise while the Chaplain asks if all those who are willing to put their trust in God might like to come forward and sign the pledge. A queue begins to form in front of David, and he blesses them one by one. Once they are back in their seats, we sing the last hymn before receiving the Chaplain’s final blessing. As we file out, I thank the Reverend before being searched – but what could possibly change hands during the service, when they’ve already searched us before we came in? I find out a week later. We are then escorted back to our cells and locked up once again.
12 noon
At midday we’re let out for Sunday lunch. There are four different dishes on offer – turkey, beef, ham and stew. As I am unable to tell which is which, I settle for some grated cheese and two slices of un-margarined bread, before returning to my cell to sit at my little table and slowly nibble my cheese sandwich.
Once I’ve finished lunch, which takes all of five minutes, I start writing again. I continue uninterrupted for a couple of hours until Kevin returns clutching a plastic bag of goodies – two Weetabix, a carton of milk, two small green apples, a bar of soap and – his biggest triumph to date – two packets of Cup a Soup, minestrone and mushroom. I don’t leave him in any doubt how grateful I am before settling down to a plastic bowl of Weetabix
