Jeffrey Archer
Heaven
The third book in the Prison Diary series, 2004
DAY 89 MONDAY 15 OCTOBER 2001
2.30 pm
The signpost announces North Sea Camp, one mile. As we approach the entrance to the prison, the first thing that strikes me is that there are no electric gates, no high walls and no razor wire.
I am released from my sweat box and walk into reception, where I am greeted by an officer. Mr Daff has a jolly smile and a military air. He promises that after Wayland, this will be more like Butlins. ‘In fact,’ he adds, ‘there’s a Butlins just up the road in Skegness. The only difference is, they’ve got a wall around them.’
Here, Mr Daff explains, the walls are replaced by roll-calls – 7.30 am, 11.45 am, 3.30 pm, 8.15 pm and 10.00 pm, when I must present myself to the spur office: a whole new regime to become accustomed to.
While Mr Daff completes the paperwork, I unpack my HMP plastic bags. He barks that I will only be allowed to wear prison garb, so all my T-shirts are taken away and placed in a possessions box marked ARCHER FF8282.
Dean, a prison orderly helps me. Once all my belongings have been checked, he escorts me to my room – please note, room, not cell. At NSC, prisoners have their own key, and there are no bars on the windows. So far so good.
However, I’m back to sharing with another prisoner. My room-mate is David. He doesn’t turn the music down when I walk in, and a rolled-up cigarette doesn’t leave his mouth. As I make my bed, David tells me that he’s a lifer, whose original tariff was fifteen years. So far, he’s served twenty-one because he’s still considered a risk to the public, despite being in a D-cat prison. His original crime was murder – an attack on a waiter who leered at his wife.
4.00 pm
Dean (reception orderly) informs me that Mr Berlyn, one of the governors, wants to see me. He accompanies me to the governor’s Portakabin, where I am once again welcomed with a warm smile. After a preliminary chat, Mr Berlyn says that he plans to place me in the education department. The governor then talks about the problem of NSC’s being an open prison, and how they hope to handle the press. He ends by saying his door is always open to any prisoner should I need any help or assistance.
5.00 pm
Dean takes me off to supper in the canteen. The food looks far better than Wayland’s, and it is served and eaten in a central hall, rather like at boarding school.
6.00 pm
Write for two hours, and feel exhausted. When I’ve finished, I walk across to join Doug in the hospital. He seems to have all the up-to-date gossip. He’s obviously going to be invaluable as my deep throat. We sit and watch the evening news in comfortable chairs. Dean joins us a few minutes later, despite the fact that he is only hours away from being released. He says that my laundry has already been washed and returned to my room.
8.15 pm
I walk back to the north block and report to the duty officer for roll-call. Mr Hughes wears a peaked cap that resembles Mr Mackay’s in
I return to my room and push myself to write for another hour, despite a smoke-filled room and loud music.
10.00 pm
Final roll-call. Fifteen minutes later I’m in bed and fast asleep, oblivious to David’s smoke and music.
DAY 90 TUESDAY 16 OCTOBER 2001
5.30 am
Alsatians woke me at Belmarsh, at Wayland it was officers jangling keys as they made their early morning rounds, but as NSC is only 100 yards from the coastline, it’s the constant squawk of seagulls that causes you to open your eyes. Later, much later, the muffled grunts of swine are added, as the largest group of residents at NSC are the pigs living on the 900-acre prison farm. I drape a pair of black boxer shorts over the light above my head to make sure David is not woken while I continue my writing routine. He doesn’t stir. At seven-thirty I make my way to the shower room at the end of the corridor.
8.00 am
Dean accompanies me to breakfast: porridge from Monday to Friday, and cereal at weekends, he explains. I satisfy myself with a very hard-boiled egg and a couple of slices of burnt toast.
8.30 am
Induction. During the first week at NSC, a prisoner spends his time finding out how the place works, while the officers try to discover as much as possible about the new inmate. My first appointment is with Dr Walling, the prison doctor, who asks the usual questions about drugs, smoking, drinking, illnesses and allergies. After twenty minutes of prodding, breathing in, being weighed, and having my eyes, ears, teeth and heart checked, Dr Walling’s only piece of advice is not to overdo it in the gym.
‘Try not to forget you are sixty-one,’ he reminds me.
As I leave the surgery, Doug, the hospital orderly a friend of Darren (Wayland, marijuana only), beckons me into the private ward. Doug is six foot, and about sixteen stone, with a full head of hair just beginning to grey, and I would guess is in his late forties. The ward has eight beds, one of which is Doug’s, as someone has to be resident at night in case a prisoner is suddenly taken ill. But what a job; not only does Doug have a room the size of a penthouse suite, but he also has his own television, and his own bathroom. He tells me that he’s in for tax evasion, but doesn’t elaborate. Doug closes the door to his kingdom and confirms that medical orderly is the best job in the prison. However, he assures me that the second-best position at NSC is orderly at the sentence management unit (SMU). Doug whispers that the SMU job is coming up in just over four weeks’ time when the present incumbent, Matthew, will be released. Mr New, the senior officer – equivalent to Mr Tinkler at Wayland – will make the final decision, but Doug will put in a good word for me. ‘Whatever you do,’ he adds, ‘don’t end up working on the farm. Winter’s not far off, so if the food doesn’t kill you, the farm will.’ As I leave, he adds, ‘Come and have a drink this evening.’ (By that he means tea or coffee.) ‘I’m allowed two guests from seven to ten, and you’d be welcome.’ I thank him and, silently, my old mentor Darren.
10.30 am
My second induction meeting is to decide what job I’ll do while I’m at NSC. I make my way to the sentence management unit, a building that was formerly the governor’s house and is situated just a few yards from the front gate. The pathway leading up to the entrance is lined with tired red flowers. The light blue front door could do with a lick of paint; it looks as if it is regularly kicked open rather than pushed.
The first room I enter has the feel of a conservatory. It has a dozen wooden chairs, and a notice board covered in information leaflets. Four officers, including a Mr Gough, who looks like a prep school master, occupy the first room on the ground floor. As he ticks off my name, Mr Gough announces, in a broad Norfolk accent, that he will be speaking to all the new inductees once everyone has come across from their medical examination. But as Dr
