Hell

across to join Fletch, who I feel confident will know exactly who he is.

‘He’s got twenty-one days for shoplifting,’ Fletch tells me, ‘and has a mental age of about eleven’ He pauses. ‘They should never have sent him to Belmarsh in the first place.’

‘Then why put him on the lifers’ wing?’ I ask.

‘For his own protection,’ says Fletch. ‘He was attacked in the yard during exercise this afternoon, and some other cons continued to bully him when he returned to Block Two. He’s only got nine more days left to serve so they’ve put him in my cell.’ Now I understand why there are two beds in Fletch’s cell, as I suspect this is not an unusual solution for someone in distress.

One of the phones becomes free – a rare occurrence – so I take advantage of it and call Mary in Grantchester. She’s full of news, including the fact that the former head of the prison service, Sir David Ramsbotham, has written to The Times saying it was inappropriate to send me to prison – community service would have been far more worthwhile. She tells me she also has a sackful of letters talking about the iniquity of the judge’s summing-up – not to mention the sentence – and she’s beginning to wonder if there might be the possibility of a retrial. I think not. Mr Justice Potts has retired, and the last thing the establishment would want to do is embarrass him.

After thirty-seven years of marriage I know Mary so well that I can hear the strain of the last few weeks in her voice. I recall Ms Roberts’ words the first time we met: ‘It can be just as traumatic for your immediate family on the outside, as it is for you on the inside.’ My two-pound BT phonecard is about to run out, but not before I tell her that she’s a veritable Portia and I am no Brutus.

The moment I put the phone down, I find another lifer, Colin (GBH), standing by my side. He wants to have a word about his application to do an external degree at Ruskin College, Oxford. I have already had several chats with Colin, and he makes an interesting case study. In his youth (he’s now thirty-five), he was a complete wastrel and tearaway, which included a period of being a professional football hooligan. In fact, he has written a fascinating piece on the subject, in which he now admits that he is ashamed of what he got up to. Colin has been in and out of jail for most of his adult life, and even when he’s inside, he feels it is nothing less than his duty to take the occasional swing at a prison officer. This always ends with a spell in segregation and time being added to his sentence. On one occasion he even lost a couple of teeth, which you can’t miss whenever he grins.

‘That’s history,’ he tells me, because he now has a purpose. He wants to leave prison with a degree, and qualifications that will ensure he gets a real job. There is no doubt about his ability. Colin is articulate and bright, and having read his essays and literary criticism, I have no doubt that if he wants to sit for a degree, it’s well within his grasp. And this is a man who couldn’t read or write before he entered prison. I have a real go at him, assuring him that he’s clever enough to take a degree and to get on with it. I start pummelling him on the chest as if he was a punch bag. He beams over to the duty officer seated behind the desk at the far end of the room.

‘Mr King, this prisoner is bullying me,’ says Colin, in a plaintive voice.

The officer smiles. ‘What have you been saying to him, Archer?’

I repeat the conversation word for word.

‘Quite agree with you, Archer,’ he says, and returns to reading the Sun

6.00 pm

Supper. Vegetarian fingers, overcooked and greasy, peas that are glued together, and a plastic mug of Highland Spring (49p).

8.00 pm

I’ve just finished checking over my script for the day when my cell door is opened by an officer. Fletch is standing in the doorway and asks if he can join me for a moment, which I welcome. He takes a seat on the end of the bed, and I offer him a mug of blackcurrant juice. Fletch reminds me that he’s a Listener, and adds that he’s there if I need him.

The Listeners

Who are they?

How do I contact them?

How do I know I can trust them?

Listeners are inmates, just as you are, who have been trained by the Samaritans in both suicide awareness and befriending skills.

You can talk to a Listener about anything in complete confidence, just as you would a Samaritan. Everything you say is treated with confidentiality.

Listeners are rarely shocked and you don’t have to be suicidal to talk to one. If you have any worries or concerns, however great or small, they are there for you. If you have concerns about a friend or cellmate and feel unable to approach a member of the spur staff or healthcare team, then please tell a Listener in confidence. It is not grassing and it may save a life.

Listeners are easy to contact. Their names are displayed on orange cards on their cell doors and on most notice boards throughout the House-Blocks or ask any member of the spur staff.

Listeners are all bound by a code of confidentiality that doesn’t only run from House-Block to House-Block but also through a great number of Prisons throughout the country. Any breach of that confidentiality would cause irreparable damage to the benefits achieved, and because of this code Listeners are now as firmly established as your cell door.

He then begins to explain the role of Listeners and how they came into existence after a fifteen-year-old boy hanged himself in a Cardiff jail some ten years ago. He passes me a single sheet of paper that explains their guidelines. Among Fletch’s responsibilities is to spot potential bullies and – perhaps more important – potential victims, as most victims are too frightened to give you a name because they fear revenge at a later date, either inside or outside of prison

I ask him to share some examples with me. He tells me that there are two heroin addicts on the spur and although he won’t name them, it’s hard not to notice that a couple of the younger lifers on the ground floor have needle tracks up and down their arms. One of them is only nineteen and has tried to take his own life twice, first with an overdose, and then later when he attempted to cut his wrist with a razor.

‘We got there just in time,’ says Fletch. ‘After that, the boy was billeted with me for five weeks.’

Fletch feels it’s also vitally important to have a good working relationship with the prison staff – he doesn’t call them screws or kangaroos – otherwise the system just can’t work. He admits there will always be an impenetrable barrier, which he describes as the iron door, but he has done his best to break this down by forming a prison committee of three inmates and three officers who meet once a month to discuss each other’s problems. He says with some considerable pride that there hasn’t been a serious incident on his spur for the past eight months.

He then tells me a story about an occasion when he was released from prison some years ago for a previous offence. He decided to call into his bank and cash a cheque. He climbed the steps, stood outside the bank and waited for someone to open the door for him. He looks up from the end of the bed at the closed cell door. ‘You see, it doesn’t have a handle on our side, so you always have to wait for someone to open it. After so long in prison, I’d simply forgotten how to open a door.’

Fletch goes on to tell me that being a Listener gives him a reason for getting up each day. But like all of us, he has his own problems. He’s thirty-seven, and will be my age, sixty-one, when he is eventually released.

‘The truth is that I’ll never see the outside world again.’ He pauses. ‘I’ll die in prison.’ He pauses again. ‘I just haven’t decided when.’

Fletch has unwittingly made me his Listener.

Day 11 Sunday 29 July 2001

6.27 am

Sundays are not a good day in prison because you spend so much time locked up in your cell. When you ask why, the officers simply say, ‘It’s because we’re short-staffed.’ I can at least use six of those hours writing.