Hell

tell Billy that I suspect Greg Dyke, the new Director General, having spent his working life in commercial television, will want to reverse that trend. The beneficiaries, Billy goes on to tell me, giving detailed statistics, are Sky Digital and the other digital TV stations. Their graphs have a steady upward trend.

I ask Billy when he will have completed his degree course. He removes a sheet of paper from a file below the window. ‘September,’ he replies.

‘And then what?’ I ask.

‘I may take your advice and write a novel. I’ve no idea if I can do it, but the judge certainly gave me enough time to find out.’

I can’t always pick up every word this Glaswegian utters, but I’m deciphering a few more syllables each day. I’ve decided to ask Alison to send him a copy of Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy. I consider it’s exactly the type of work Billy would appreciate, especially as it was Mr Seth’s first novel, so he’ll discover what he’s up against.

When I leave him, the pool table is occupied, the queue for the two telephones is perpetual, and the afternoon film is Carry on Camping. I return to my cell, door unlocked, and continue writing.

6.00 pm

Supper. I risk a vegetable fritter and two prison potatoes (three mistakes). I continue to drink my bottled water as if I have an endless supply (the temperature today is 91°). Double-bubble is fast looming, and I’ll need to see Del Boy fairly soon if I am to survive. As I move down the hotplate, Andy (murder) slips two chocolate ice-creams onto my tray. ‘Put one in your pocket,’ he whispers. Now I discover what the word treat really means. Del Boy is standing at the other end of the counter in his role as number one hotplate man. An official title. As I pass the custard pie, I ask if we could meet up later. He nods. He can smell when someone’s in trouble. As a Listener, Derek is allowed to visit any cell if another inmate needs to discuss a personal problem. And I have a personal problem. I’m running out of water.

7.00 pm

I settle down to go over my script for the day before turning to the post. The pattern continues unabated, but to my surprise, few mention the Kurds. Paul (credit-card fraud) told me when I was queuing up at the canteen that The Times had made it clear that I had no involvement with the collecting or distributing of any monies. That had been the responsibility of the Red Cross. However, there was one letter in the pile that didn’t fall into any of the usual slots.

I have now been locked up in a Category A, high-security prison for two weeks, which I share with thirty-two murderers, and seventeen other lifers mainly convicted of attempted murder or manslaughter; I’ve lost my mother, who I adored; I’ve been incarcerated on the word of a man who colluded with the News of the World to set me up, and by a woman who is a self-confessed thief; and I’m about to be sent to the Isle of Wight, a C-cat prison, because of the word of Baroness Nicholson. So I confess I had to chuckle, a rare event recently, when I received the following missive.

Chan’s Optometrist

Mr J Archer

Belmarsh House

Belmarsh

South East London

Mr Kenneth Chan BSc. MCOptom.

90 High Street

Lee-on-Solent

Hampshire

PO13 9DA

31/7/2001

Dear Mr. Archer

I am sorry to trouble you. The reason I write to you is because one of my patients like your spectacles (The rimless pair you wore when you went to the funeral). I would be most grateful if you can let me know the brand, the model number, the colour and the size of the frame. All these information should be printed on the sides of the frame. Your reply will be appreciated.

Thank you for your attention!

90 High Street, Lee-on-Solent, Hampshire PO 13 9DA Telephone. 023 92 551919

8.40 pm

My cell door is unlocked by an officer and Del Boy is allowed to join me. His smile is as wide as ever, as he strolls in looking like a rent collector visiting someone who doesn’t always pay on time. He takes a seat on the end of the bed. For some time we discuss his upcoming appeal and the fact that he cannot read or write. It transpires that he can make out the odd word if he concentrates, but can only sign his name.

‘I’ve never needed much more,’ he explains. ‘I’m a barrow boy, not a banker.’

He makes a fair point, because were you to close your eyes and listen to him speak, although he’s quite unable to hide his cockney upbringing you certainly wouldn’t know he was black. He promises to take reading lessons just as soon as I depart for the Isle of Wight. I’m not convinced he’ll ever find out which floor the education department is on, until the curriculum includes ‘double-bubble’.

‘Now how can I help?’ he asks. ‘Because I’m the man.’

‘Well, if you’re the man, Derek, I’m running out of water, among other things.’

‘No problem,’ he replies, ‘and what are the other things?’

‘I’d like three bottles of Highland Spring, two packets of McVitie’s chocolate biscuits and a tube of toothpaste.’

‘No problem,’ he repeats. ‘They’ll be delivered to your cell in the morning, squire.’

‘And no double-bubble?’

‘No double-bubble.’ He hesitates. ‘As long as you agree never to say anything because if anyone found out it wouldn’t do my reputation any good.’

‘No problem,’ I hear myself saying.

On the outside, in that world I have vacated, a handful of people can make things happen. The secret is to know that handful of people. It’s no different on the inside. Derek ‘Del Boy’ Bicknell is a natural Chief Whip, Fletch, the Leader of the Opposition, Billy, Secretary of State for Education, Tony, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Paul, Home Secretary, and Colin, Secretary of State for Defence. Wherever you are, in whatever circumstances, leadership will always emerge. Block One, spur one, houses thirty-two murderers, seventeen lifers, and, without realizing it, has formed an inmates’ Cabinet. Nothing on paper, nothing official, but it works.

After Derek departs, I settle down on my bed to finish John Grisham’s The Partner. It’s too long, but what a storyteller.

10.07 pm

I put my head on the pillow. I can scarcely believe it, no more rap music. Well done, Mitchell.

Day 15 Thursday 2 August 2001

5.51 am

A full night’s sleep. For the first time I can hear the cars on the road in the distance. I write for two hours, interrupted only by the occasional bark of an Alsatian.

8.00 am

Breakfast. Frosties and long-life milk (second day).