A prisoner marches in and demands to be released on compassionate grounds because his mother is ill. Mr Downs, a shrewd, experienced officer, tells him that he’ll send a probation officer round to see his mother, so that they can decide if he should be released. The prisoner slopes off without another word. Mr Downs immediately calls the probation officer in Leicester, just in case the prisoner does have a sick mother.
Bob (lifer) comes to see the psychiatrist, Christine. Bob is preparing for life outside once he’s released, possibly next year, but before that can happen, he has to complete ten town visits without incident. Once he’s achieved this, he will be allowed out at weekends unescorted. The authorities will then assess if he is ready to be released. Bob has been in prison for twenty-three years, having originally been sentenced to fifteen. But as Christine points out, however strongly she recommends his release, in the end it is always Home Office decision.
Christine joins me in the kitchen and tells me about a lifer who went out on his first town visit after twenty years. He was given ?20 so he could get used to shopping in a supermarket. When he arrived at the cash till and was asked how he would like to pay, he ran out leaving the goods behind. He just couldn’t cope with having to make a decision.
‘We also have to prepare all lifers for survival cooking.’ She adds, ‘You have to remember that some prisoners have had three cooked meals a day for twenty years, and they’ve become so institutionalized they can’t even boil an egg.’
The next lifer to see Christine is Mike. After twenty-two years in prison (he’s forty-nine), Mike is also coming to the end of his sentence. He invites me to supper on Sunday night (chicken curry). He’s determined to prove that he can not only take care of himself, but cook for others as well.
5.00 pm
I walk over to the canteen and join Ron the fraudster and Dave the ostrich farmer for cauliflower cheese. Ron declares that the food at NSC is as good as most motorway cafes. This is indeed a compliment to Wendy.
6.00 pm
Mr Hughes (my wing officer) informs me I can move across to room twelve in the no-smoking corridor.
When I locate the room I find it’s filthy, and the only furniture is a single unmade bed, a table and a chair. I despair. I am so pathetic at times like this.
In the opposite cell is a prisoner called Alan who is cleaning out his room, and asks if he can help. I enquire what he would charge to transform my room so that it looks like his.
‘Four phonecards,’ he says (?8).
‘Three,’ I counter. He agrees. I tell him I will return at eight-fifteen for roll-call and see how he’s getting on.
8.15 pm
I check in for roll-call before going off to see my new quarters. Alan has taken on an assistant, and they are slaving away. While Alan scrubs the cupboards, the assistant is working on the walls. I tell them I’ll return at ten and clear my debts. The only trouble is that I don’t have any phonecards, and won’t have before canteen on Wednesday. Doug comes to my rescue and takes over Darren’s role of purveyor of essential goods.
Doug appears anxious. He tells me that his fourteen-year-old daughter has suffered an epileptic fit. He’s being allowed to go home tomorrow and visit her.
We settle down to watch the evening film, and are joined by the senior security officer, Mr Hocking. He warns me that a
‘Yes, I’m off to see my daughter, back by seven,’ Doug confirms.
‘Then we’ll need someone to be on duty after sister leaves at one. We mustn’t forget how many drugs there are in this building. Would you be willing to stand in as temporary hospital orderly, Jeffrey?’ he asks.
‘Yes, of course,’ I reply.
10.00 pm
I return to the north block for roll-call, before checking my room. I don’t recognize it. It’s spotless. I thank Alan, who takes a seat on the corner of the bed
He tells me that he has a twelve-month sentence for receiving stolen goods. He owns two furniture shops, in Leicester whose turnover last year was a little over ?500,000, showing him a profit of around ?120,000. He has a wife and two children, and between them they’re keeping the business ticking over until he has completed his sentence in four weeks’ time. It’s his first offence, and he certainly falls into that category of ‘never again’.
10.45 pm
I spend my first night at NSC in my own room. No music, no smoke, no hassle.
DAY 94 SATURDAY 20 OCTOBER 2001
6.00 am
Weekends are deadly in a prison. Jules, my pad-mate at Wayland used to say the only time you’re not in prison is when you’re asleep. So over the weekend, a lot of prisoners just remain in bed. I’m lucky because I have my writing to occupy me.
8.00 am
I spot Matthew, who must have returned from Canterbury last night. His father is still in a coma, and he accompanies me to the office so he can phone the hospital. Although my official working week is Monday to Friday, it’s not unusual for an officer to be on duty at SMU on a Saturday morning.
Mr Downs and Mr Gough are already at their desks, and after I’ve made them both a cup of tea, Matthew takes me through my official duties for any given day or week. If I were to stick to simply what was required, it would take me no more than a couple of hours each day.
Over a cup of tea (Bovril for me), Matthew tells me about his nightmare year.
Matthew is twenty-four, six foot one, slim, dark-haired and handsome without being aware of it. He’s highly intelligent, but also rather gauche, and totally out of place in prison. He read marine anthropology at Manchester University and will complete his PhD once he’s released. I ask him if he’s a digger or an academic. ‘An academic,’ he replies, without hesitation.
His first job after leaving university was as a volunteer at a museum in his home town. He was happy there, but soon decided he wanted to return to university. That was when his mother contracted MS and everything began to go badly wrong. After his mother was bedridden, he and his sister took it in turns to help around the house, so that his father could continue to work. All three found the extra workload a tremendous strain. One evening while at work in the museum, Matthew took home some ancient coins to study. I haven’t used the word ‘stole’ because he returned all the coins a few days later. But the incident weighed so heavily on his conscience that he informed his supervisor. Matthew thought that would be the end of the matter. But someone decided to report the incident to the police. Matthew was arrested and charged with breach of trust. He pleaded guilty, and was assured by the police that they would not be pushing for a custodial sentence. His solicitor was also of the same opinion, advising Matthew that he would probably get a suspended sentence or a community service order. The judge gave him fifteen months. [5]
Matthew is a classic example of someone who should not have been sent to jail; a hundred hours of community service might serve some purpose, but this boy has spent the last three months with murderers, drug addicts and burglars. He won’t turn to a life of crime, but how many less intelligent people might? It’s a rotten system that allows such a person to end up in prison.
My former secretary, Angie Peppiatt, stole thousands of pounds from me, and still hasn’t been arrested. I feel for Matthew.
12 noon
Lunch today is just as bad as Belmarsh or Wayland. Matthew explains that Wendy is off. I must remember to eat only when Wendy is on duty.
2.00 pm
I report to the hospital and take over Doug’s caretaker role, while he visits his daughter. I settle down with a glass of blackcurrant juice and Evian to watch England slaughter Ireland, and win the Grand Slam, the Triple Crown and… after all, we are far superior on paper. Unfortunately, rugby is not played on paper but on pitches. Ireland
