corridor. There is no officer standing by the entrance. It suddenly hits me that I haven’t been searched since the day I arrived. I’m a couple of minutes late, and wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place, as there are only three other prisoners sitting in the pews, along with the chaplain. John Framlington is dressed in a long, black gown and black cape with crimson piping, and welcomes me with literally open arms.
The chapel is very impressive, with its wood-panelled walls and small oils depicting the life of Christ. The simple altar is covered in a cloth displaying a white cross with splashes of gold. There is also a large wooden cross hanging from the wall behind the altar. The seating consists of six rows of twenty wooden chairs set in a semicircle reminiscent of a small amphitheatre. I take a seat in the third row as a group of men and women all dressed in red T-shirts enters by the backdoor. They assemble their music on stands while a couple strap on guitars and a flautist practises a few notes. She’s very pretty. I wonder if it’s because it’s my twenty-fifth day in prison. But that would be an ungallant thought. She is pretty.
By ten forty-five the congregation has swelled to seven, but we are still outnumbered by the nine-strong choir. The prisoners are all seated to the right of the altar while the choir is standing on the left. A man, who appears to be the group’s leader, suggests we move across and join him on their side of the chapel. All seven of us dutifully obey. I’ve just worked out why the congregation at Belmarsh was over two hundred, week in and week out, while at Wayland it’s down to seven. Here you are allowed to stroll around the buildings for long periods of time, so if you wish to make contact with someone from another wing, it’s not all that difficult. In Belmarsh, chapel was a rare opportunity to catch up with a friend from another block, relay messages, pass on drugs and occasionally even pray.
The chaplain then walks up to the front, turns and welcomes us all. He begins by introducing Shine who, he tells us, are a local group that perform for several churches in the diocese.
We all join in the first hymn, ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, and Shine turn out to be rather good. Despite our depleted numbers, the service still swings along. Once the chaplain has delivered the opening prayer, he comes and sits amongst the congregation. He doesn’t conduct any other part of the service, as that has been left in the capable hands of the leader of Shine. Next we sing ‘Amazing Grace’, which is followed by a lesson from Luke, read by another member of the group. Following another hymn we are addressed by the leader of Shine. He takes his text from the first reading of the Good Samaritan. He talks about people who walk by on the other side when you are in any trouble. This time I do thank God for my family and friends, because so few of them have walked by on the other side.
The service ends with a blessing from the chaplain, who then thanks the group for giving up their time. I return to my cell and write notes on everything I have just experienced.
12.09 pm
I call Mary in Grantchester. How I miss my weekends with her, strolling around the garden at the Old Vicarage: the smell of the flowers and the grass, feeding the fish and watching students idly punting on the Cam. Mary briefs me on what line she intends to take on the Today programme, now that the Foreign Office and the KDP (Kurdish Democratic Party) have confirmed how the money for the Kurds was raised and distributed. I try to think how Ms Nicholson will spin herself out of this one.
Mary reminds me that she can’t come to see me until she receives a VO. I confirm I sent her one yesterday. She goes on to tell me that her own book, Photoconversion Volume One: Clean Electricity from Photovoltaics (advance sales 1,229, price PS110), has been well received by the academic world.
We finish by discussing family matters. Although I’ve come to the end of my twenty units, I don’t tell her that I am in possession of another two phonecards as that might cause trouble for Dale, especially if the conversation is being taped. I promise to call her again on Tuesday, and we agree a time. Just in case you’ve forgotten, the calls are always one way: OUT.
My next call is to James, who is giving a lunch party for ten friends at our apartment in London. I do miss his cooking. He tells me who’s sitting round my table and what they are eating: Roquefort, fig and walnut salad, spaghetti, and ice cream, followed by Brie, Stilton or Cheddar. This will be accompanied by an Australian red and a Californian white. I begin to salivate.
‘Dinner’ yells an officer, and I quickly return to the real world.
12.20 pm
Lunch: Chinese stir-fried vegetables (they may have been stirred, but they are still glued together), an apple, supplemented by a Mars bar (30p), and a glass of Evian. Guests: pre-selected.
1.00 pm
I join Dale on the enhanced wing. I grab Darren’s Sunday Times, and read very slowly while Dale and Jimmy play backgammon. The lead story is the alleged rape of a girl in Essex by Neil and Christine Hamilton. This is more graphically described in Dale’s News of the World, and the implausible story is memorable for Christine Hamilton’s observation, ‘If I wanted to do that sort of thing, it would be in Kensington or Chelsea, not Essex.’
We play several games of backgammon, during which time the assembled gathering questions me about the contest for the Tory party leadership. Darren (marijuana only) is a fan of Michael Portillo, and asks how I feel. I tell him that I think it might have been wise of the 1922 Committee to let all three candidates who reached the second round – Clarke 59, Duncan Smith 54 and Portillo 53 – be presented to the party membership. Leaving Michael out is bound to create some bad feeling and may even cause trouble in the future. It’s quite possible that the membership would have rejected Portillo in any case, but I feel that they should have been allowed the opportunity to do so.
Dale (wounding with intent) is a huge fan of Margaret Thatcher, while Jimmy (Ecstasy courier) voted for John Major. ‘A decent bloke’ he says. It’s sometimes hard to remember that I may be sitting in a room with an armed robber, a drug dealer, a million-pound fraudster, and heaven only knows who else. It’s also worth mentioning that when it comes to their ‘other world’, they never discuss anything in front of me.
3.00 pm
Exercise: I take the long walk around the perimeter of the prison – about half a mile – and several inmates greet me in a more friendly fashion than they did on my first outing last Thursday. The first person to join me is a man who is obviously on drugs. Unlike William Keane – do you remember him from Belmarsh? – I can’t tell which drug he’s on just by looking at his skin. His name is Darrell, and he tells me that his original sentence was for ten years. His crime: cutting someone up in a pub with a broken bottle. He was nineteen at the time. I take a second look. He looks about forty.
Then why are you still here?’ I ask, assuming he will explain that he’s serving a second or third sentence for another offence. ‘Once I ended up in prison, I got hooked on drugs, didn’t I?’ ‘Did you?’
‘Yeah, and I’d never taken a drug before I came in. But when you’re given a ten-year sentence and then banged up for twenty-two hours a day with prisoners who are already on skag, you sort of fall in with it, don’t you? First I was caught smoking cannabis so the governor added twenty-eight days to my sentence.’
Twenty-eight days for smoking cannabis? But…’
‘I then tried cocaine and finally moved on to heroin. Every time I got caught, my sentence was lengthened. Mind you, I’ve been clean for over a year now, Jeff. I’ve had to be, otherwise I’m never going to get out of this fuckin’ shithole, am I?’
‘How long has it been?’
Twenty-one years. I’m forty-one, and over half my sentence has been added because of being caught taking drugs while inside.’
I’m trying to take this in when we’re joined by a burly older man of around my height, who looks Middle Eastern. Darrell slips quietly away, which I fear means trouble. The new man doesn’t bother with any small talk.
‘How would you like to make fifty grand a week while you’re still in prison?’
‘What do you have in mind?’ I ask innocently, because he doesn’t look like a publisher.
‘I’ve got a lorry-load of drugs stuck on the Belgian border waiting to come into this country, but I’m a little short of cash at the moment. Put up fifty grand and you’ll have a hundred by this time next week.’ I quicken my pace and try to lose him, but within seconds he’s caught me up. There would be no risk for you,’ he adds, slightly out of breath. ‘We take all the risk. In any case, no one could pin it on you, not while you’re still in jail.’
I stop in my tracks and turn to face him. ‘I hate drugs, and I detest even more those people who peddle them. If you ever try to speak to me again, I will repeat this conversation, first to my solicitor and then to the governor. And don’t imagine you can threaten me, because they would be only too happy to move me out of here, and my bet
