and two years ago he contracted encephalitis. Once I’ve filled in his chart and handed it to Linda, I look up encephalitis in the medical dictionary. Poor fellow. Life imprisonment he may deserve, encephalitis he does not.
DAY 206 SATURDAY 9 FEBRUARY 2002
2.00 pm
Mary and James visit me today, and it’s far from being a social event. Mary even has a written agenda. I do adore her.
On the domestic front, she has purchased a small Victorian mirror for the hall, and seeks my approval. She goes on to tell me that Baroness Nicholson has written saying that she wants to end the feud, claiming that she never intended anyone to think that I had misappropriated any funds in the first place. In which case, how did I end up in a cell three paces by five, banged up for fourteen hours a day at Wayland, if the police and Prison Service misunderstood her? [23]
As for the prejudice of Mr Justice Potts, it remains to be seen whether Godfrey Barker is still willing to make a witness statement. He has confirmed, on many occasions, in the presence of several witnesses, that Potts, at a dinner party he and his wife attended, railed against me for some considerable time.
4.00 pm
When my name is called over the tannoy to report to reception, I assume that James has left something for me at the gate. I’ve been expecting a dozen
Someone else has sent seven books of first-class stamps and a packet of stamped envelopes, after hearing how many letters I’m receiving every day. Mr Garley, the duty officer, explains that I can’t have the stamps (could be exchanged for drugs), but I can have the stamped envelopes (prison logic). Shouldn’t the rule be universal to all prisons? At Belmarsh, a category A prison, stamps are permitted. I make no comment. It’s not Mr Garley’s fault, and he can’t do anything about it.
DAY 207 SUNDAY 10 FEBRUARY 2002
7.21 am
Gail is angry. She’s recently bought a smart new dark green Peugeot, which she parks outside the hospital. Yesterday, one of the prisoners put matchsticks in her locks, so that when she tried to open the door, she pushed the matchstick further in and jammed the lock.
4.00 pm
Club Hospital meets for tea and biscuits. One of our new members, who has only been with us for a month, will be released tomorrow. He was charged with road rage and sentenced to three months. He will have spent six weeks in prison. I’ve watched him carefully at our get-togethers and as he goes about his business around the prison. He is well educated, well mannered and looks quite incapable of swatting a fly.
He tells the group that he stopped his car to go to the aid of a woman who was being attacked, but for his troubles, got punched to the ground by what turned out to be her boyfriend. The two of them then drove off. He returned home, but was later arrested for road rage as the woman bore witness that he attacked her. Had he gone to the police station first and reported them for assault, the other man would now be in jail, not him. He has lost his job with the pharmaceutical company he’s been with for twenty-one years, and is worried about getting another one now he has a criminal record. His wife has stuck by him, and she hopes that one of his old firm’s rivals will want to take advantage of his expertise. [24] This brings me onto the subject of wives.
Of the seven married Club members present today, two of their wives have had to sell their homes and move to smaller houses in another area; two have had to go out to work full time while trying to bring up children (three in one case, two in the other), and the other two have received divorce petitions while in jail. I’m the seventh.
I make no excuse for the crimes committed, but I feel it bears repeating that it’s often the wives who suffer even more than the husbands – for them there is no rehabilitation programme.
DAY 208 MONDAY 11 FEBRUARY 2002
9.00 am
One of the prisoners waiting to be seen by Dr Walling this morning is a regular attendee. Today he somehow managed to get a nail stuck in his head. It only grazed the surface of his skull, but produced a lot of blood. Once Gail has cleaned and bandaged him up, he asks, ‘Could I have rust on the brain?’
2.00 pm
The prison is jam-packed; 211 at lock up last night. Two inmates have been released this morning, and three new prisoners arrived this afternoon from Leicester. They couldn’t be more different. One is eighteen, and serving a six-week sentence for a road-traffic offence. He has only two more weeks to serve before taking up a place at Leicester University in September to read mathematics. The second is around twenty-four – he is doing six months for punching someone in a pub. He requests counselling for his drink problem; drink is considered by the prison authorities to be just as much a drug as cannabis or heroin. The third is serving six years for GBH, a year of which he spent in Belmarsh.
6.00 pm
I attend the weekly CARAT meeting, but one of the prisoners objects to my presence, so I leave immediately.
The drugs counsellor tells me later that because I’ve never been an addict myself and am writing a diary, he doesn’t feel free to express himself while I’m there – fair enough.
I settle down to read the latest booklet on the subject of addiction,
DAY 209 TUESDAY 12 FEBRUARY 2002
9.00 am
We have a full surgery this morning: three for release, two for a week’s temporary release and eleven with imagined or real illnesses. Dr Allwood, a thorough and conscientious man, always takes his time. In fact, after forty minutes, one of the inmates in the waiting room complains about how long he’s taking. Gail leaps out of the surgery and tells the prisoner that her husband visited his GP last week and had to sit around for three hours, and that was after having to wait a week before he could make an appointment. The inmate snarls.
Chris, a lifer (murdered his wife), rolls up his sleeve and shows me a faded scar on the inside of his arm. ‘I did that,’ he says, thrusting it under the gaze of the complaining prisoner, who looks surprised. ‘Yeah,’ he continues, ‘stabbed in the middle of the night by my pad-mate, wasn’t I, and when I pressed the emergency button no screws came to help me because I was on the top floor.’ Chris now has the full attention of the rest of the surgery. ‘No doctor at Gartree to come to my aid, so I sewed it up myself.’ I look at his faded scar in disbelief, but Gail nods to confirm she’s seen many examples of amateur stitching over the years.
