beginning to experience a profound depression.
A key finally turns in the lock to allow another young woman to enter. She is dark-haired, short and slim, dressed in a smart striped suit. She shakes me warmly by the hand, sits on the end of the bed, and introduces herself as Ms Roberts, the Deputy Governor. She can’t be a day over twenty-six.
‘What am I doing here?’ I ask. ‘I’m not a mass murderer.’
‘Most prisoners spend their first night on the medical wing,’ she explains, ‘and we can’t make any exceptions, I’m afraid, and especially not for you.’ I don’t say anything – what is there to say? ‘One more form to complete,’ she tells me, ‘that’s if you still want to attend your mother’s funeral on Saturday.’ [3] I can sense that Ms Roberts is trying hard to be understanding and considerate, but I fear I am quite unable to hide my distress.
‘You will be moved onto an induction block tomorrow,’ she assures me, ‘and just as soon as you’ve been categorized A, B, C, or D, we’ll transfer you to another prison. I have no doubt you’ll be Category D – no previous convictions, and no history of violence.’ She rises from the end of the bed. Every officer carries a large bunch of keys that jingle whenever they move. ‘I’ll see you again in the morning. Have you been able to make a phone call?’ she asks as she bangs on the heavy door with the palm of her hand.
‘No,’ I reply as the cell door is opened by a large West Indian with an even larger smile.
‘Then I’ll see what I can do,’ she promises before stepping out into the corridor and slamming the door closed behind her.
I sit on the end of the bed and rummage through my plastic bag to discover that my elder son, William, has included amongst my permitted items a copy of David Niven’s
Thank God for a family I adore, and who still seem to care about me. I’m not sure how I would have got through the last few weeks without them. They made so many sacrifices to be with me for every day of the seven-week trial.
There is a rap on the cell door, and a steel grille that resembles a large letter box is pulled up to reveal the grinning West Indian.
‘I’m Lester,’ he declares as he pushes through a pillow – rock hard; one pillow case – mauve; followed by one sheet – green; and one blanket – brown. I thank Lester and then take some considerable time making the bed. After all, there’s nothing else to do.
When I’ve completed the task, I sit on the bed and start trying to read
I eventually fall asleep again, and when I wake just after 4 am, I lie on my back in a straight line, because both my ears are aching after hours on the rock-hard pillow. I think about the verdict, and the fact that it had never crossed my mind even for a moment that the jury could find Francis innocent and me guilty of the same charge. How could we have conspired if one of us didn’t realize a conspiracy was taking place? They also appeared to accept the word of my former secretary, Angie Peppiatt, a woman who stole thousands of pounds from me, while deceiving me and my family for years.
Eventually I turn my mind to the future. Determined not to waste an hour, I decide to write a daily diary of everything I experience while incarcerated.
At 6 am, I rise from my mean bed and rummage around in my plastic bag. Yes, what I need is there, and this time the authorities have not determined that it should be returned to sender. Thank God for a son who had the foresight to include, amongst other necessities, an A4 pad and six felt-tip pens.
Two hours later I have completed the first draft of everything that has happened to me since I was sent to jail.
Day 2 Friday 20 July 2001
8.00 am
I am woken officially – my little trapdoor is opened and I am greeted by the same warm West Indian grin, which turns to a look of surprise when he sees me sitting at the table writing. I’ve already been at work for nearly two hours.
‘You’ll be able to have a shower in a few minutes,’ he announces. I’ve already worked out that in prison a few minutes can be anything up to an hour, so I go on writing. ‘Anything you need?’ he asks politely.
‘Would it be possible to have some more writing paper?’
‘Not something I’m often asked for,’ he admits, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’
Lester returns half an hour later and this time the grin has turned into a shy smile. He slips an A4 pad, not unlike the type I always use, through the little steel trap. In return he asks me for six autographs, only one to be personalized – for his daughter Michelle. Lester doesn’t offer any explanation for why he needs the other five, all to be penned on separate sheets of paper. As no money can change hands in jail, we return to thirteenth-century England and rely on bartering.
I can’t imagine what five Jeffrey Archer signatures are worth: a packet of cigarettes, perhaps? But I am grateful for this trade, because I have a feeling that being allowed to write in this hellhole may turn out to be the one salvation that will keep me sane.
While I wait for Lester to return and escort me from my cell to a shower – even a walk down a long, drab corridor is something I am looking forward to – I continue writing. At last I hear a key turning and look up to see the heavy door swing open, which brings its own small sense of freedom Lester hands me a thin green towel, a prison toothbrush and a tube of prison toothpaste before locking me back in. I clean my teeth, and my gums bleed for the first time in years. It must be some physical reaction to what I’ve been put through during the past twenty- four hours. I worry a little, because during my interrupted night I’d promised myself that I must remain physically and mentally fit. This, according to the prison handbook left in every cell, is nothing less than the management requires. [4]
After a night on the medical wing, one of my first impressions is how many of the staff, dressed in their smart, clean black uniforms, seem able to keep a smile on their face. I’m sitting on my bed wondering what to expect next, when my thoughts are interrupted by someone shouting from the other side of the block.
‘Mornin’, Jeff, bet you didn’t expect to find yourself in ‘ere.’
I look through my tiny window and across the yard to see a face staring at me from behind his own bars. Another grin. ‘I’m Gordon,’ he shouts. ‘See you in the exercise yard in about an hour.’
9.00 am
I’m let out of the cell and walk slowly down the corridor, to enjoy my new-found freedom, as Lester escorts me to the shower room. I feel I should let you know that in my apartment on the Albert Embankment, perhaps the facility of which I am most proud is the shower room. When I step out of it each morning, I feel a new man, ready to face the world. Belmarsh doesn’t offer quite the same facilities or leave you with the same warm feeling. The large stone-floored room has three small press-button showers that issue a trickle of water which is at best lukewarm. The pressure lasts for about thirty seconds before you have to push the button again. This means a shower takes twice as long as usual but, as I am becoming aware, in prison time is the one commodity that is in abundance. Lester escorts me back to my cell, while I cling on to my small soaking towel. He tells me not to lose sight of it, because a towel has to last for seven days.
He slams the door closed.
