television screen. ‘Not a chance,’ Linda tells him.
Once Linda has sorted out the genuinely ill from the trying-it-on brigade, I’m handed four lists of those she has sanctioned to be off work for the day. I deliver a copy to the south block unit office, the farm office, the north block, the gatehouse amd education before going to breakfast.
8.30 am
It’s Matthew’s last day at NSC and he’s on the paper chase. He takes a double-sided printed form from department to department, the hospital, gym, canteen, stores and reception, to gather signatures authorizing his release tomorrow. He starts with Mr Simpson, the probation officer at SMU, and will end with the principal officer Mr New. He will then have to hand in this sheet of paper at reception tomorrow morning before he can finally be released. It’s not unknown for a prisoner’s release paper to disappear overnight, which can hold up an inmate’s departure for several hours.
I’ll miss Matthew, who, at the age of twenty-four, will be returning to university to complete his PhD. He’s taught me a great deal during the past five weeks. I’ve met over a thousand prisoners since I’ve been in jail, and he is one of a handful who I believe should never have been sent to prison. I wish him luck in the future; he’s a fine young man.
12 noon
I drop into the hospital to see if sister needs me.
‘Not at the moment,’ says Linda, ‘but as we’re expecting seventeen new arrivals this afternoon, please come back around four, or when you see the sweat box driving through the front gate.’
‘How’s Bill?’ I enquire.
‘He lasted about forty minutes,’ she replies dryly, ‘but sadly failed to produce a specimen. I sent him back to the farm, but of course told him to return immediately should the problem arise again.’
2.00 pm
On returning to SMU I find a prisoner sitting in the waiting room, visibly shaking. His name is Moore. He tells me that he’s been called off work for a meeting with two police officers who are travelling down from Derbyshire to interview him. He’s completed seventeen months of a five-year sentence, and is anxious to know why they want to see him.
2.30 pm
The police haven’t turned up. I go to check on Moore – to find he’s a gibbering wreck.
2.53 pm
The two Derbyshire police officers arrive. They greet me with a smile and don’t look at all ferocious. I take them up to an interview room on the first floor and offer them a cup of tea, using the opportunity to tell them that Moore is in a bit of a state. They assure me that it’s only a routine enquiry, and he has nothing to be anxious about. I return downstairs and pass on this message; the shaking stops.
3.26 pm
Moore departs with a smile and a wave; I’ve never seen a more relieved man.
4.00 pm
The seventeen new prisoners arrive in a sweat box via Birmingham and Nottingham. I report to the hospital to check their blood pressure and note their weight and height. It’s not easy to carry out my new responsibilities while all seventeen of them talk at once. What jobs are there? How much are you paid? Can I go to the canteen tonight? What time are roll-calls? Which is the best block? Can I make a phone call?
7.00 pm
Doug returns from his day on the fork-lift trucks. He’s pleased to be doing the course because if he hopes to retain his HGV licence, he would still have to take it in a year’s time. The course is costing him ?340 but he’d be willing to pay that just to be allowed out for three days; ‘In fact, I’d pay a lot more,’ he says.
8.15 pm
After roll-call I take a bath before going over to the south block to say goodbye to Matthew. By the time I check in at the hospital at 7.30 am tomorrow morning he will be a free man. I do not envy him, because he should never have been sent to prison in the first place.
DAY 121 FRIDAY 16 NOVEMBER 2001
10.00 am
All seventeen new inmates are waiting in the conservatory for their introductory talk before they sign the pledge (on drugs). They’re all chatting away, with one exception; he’s sitting in the corner, head bowed, foot tapping, looking anxious. This could be for any number of reasons, but even though the officers keep a suicide watch during the first forty-eight hours of a prisoner’s arrival, I still report my anxieties to Mr New. He tells me to bring the prisoner into his office but make it look routine.
When the man emerges forty minutes later, he is smiling. It turns out that X is a schedule A conviction, which usually means a sexual offence against a minor. However, X was sentenced to six months for lashing out at his son. He’ll only serve twelve weeks, and the fact that he’s in a D-cat prison shows there is no previous history of violence. However, if word got out that he’s schedule A, other inmates would assume he’s a paedophile. Mr New has advised the prisoner to say, if asked what he’s in for, that he took a swipe at a guy who tried to jump a taxi queue. As he’s only serving twelve weeks, it’s just believable.
11.30 am
Storr marches into the building, waving a complaint form. Yesterday, after returning from a town visit, he failed a breathalyser test; yes, you can be breathalysed in prison without having driven – in fact walking is quite enough. Storr protested that he never drinks even ‘on the out’ and the real culprit is a bottle of mouthwash. Storr is sent back to the north block to retrieve the offending bottle, which has about an inch of red liquid left in the bottom. The label lists alcohol as one of several ingredients. After some discussion, Mr New decides Storr will be retested tomorrow morning. If the test proves negative, his explanation will be accepted. [9] He will then be subjected to regular random tests, and should one of them prove positive, he will be shipped back to his C-cat. Storr accepts this judgment, and leaves looking pleased with himself.
2.30 pm
I ask Mr New if there is any progress on my transfer to Spring Hill. He shakes his head.
4.00 pm
I report back to the hospital and carry out three more urine tests on the inductees we didn’t get round to yesterday, measure their blood pressure and record their weight. Among them is a prisoner called Blossom, who is returning to NSC for the third time in as many years.
‘He’s as good as gold,’ says Linda. ‘A gipsy, who, once convicted, never puts a foot wrong; he’s always released as a model prisoner after serving half his sentence. But once he’s left us, he’s usually back within a year,’ she adds.
10.30 pm
Television news footage reveals Kabul as it had been under the rule of the Taliban. Amongst the buildings filmed is Kabul jail, which makes NSC look like the Ritz; twenty men would have occupied my room with only three urine-stained, ragged mattresses between them.
I sleep soundly.
DAY 122 SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER 2001
Anyone who’s incarcerated wants their sentence to pass as quickly as possible. If you’re fortunate enough to have an interesting job, as I have at SMU, that certainly helps kill Monday to Friday. That just leaves the other problem – the weekend. Once you’ve reached your FLED and can work outside the prison, have a town visit every week and a week out every month, I’m told the months fly by, but should I fail to win my appeal against length of sentence, none of this will kick in until July next year – another eight months. So boredom will become my greatest
