I have become so accustomed to prison life that I not only remember to take my gym card, but also a towel and a bottle of water to my afternoon gym session. The running machine still isn’t working, so I’m back to ten minutes on the rower (1,837 metres – not very impressive) followed by a light weight-training session and ten minutes on the bike, which I now know how to turn on and, more importantly, turn off.
Everett (GBH) leaves his 240-pound bench press, and asks if he can have a swig of my Evian. I nod, as I don’t think there’s much of an alternative. A moment later his black weight-lifting partner – taller and wider – strolls across and takes a swig without asking. By the time I’ve finished stretching, the bottle is empty.
Once I’m back on my wing I try to take a shower, but the door is locked. I look through the tiny window. It’s all steamed up, and two prisoners are banging on the door trying to get out. I cannot believe that it is prison policy to lock them in and me out. I hang around for about ten minutes with a couple of other prisoners before an officer eventually appears. I tell him I’d like to have a shower.
‘You’ve missed your chance.’
‘I didn’t have a chance,’ I tell him. It’s been locked for the past ten minutes.’
‘I’ve only been away for a minute, maybe two,’ he says.
‘I’ve been standing here for nearly ten minutes,’ I politely point out.
If I say it’s one minute, it’s one minute,’ he says.
I return to my cell. I now feel cold and sweaty. I sit down to write.
6.00 pm
Supper. A bowl of thick, oily soup is all I can face. Back in my cell I pour myself half a mug of blackcurrant juice. The only luxury left. At least I’m still losing weight.
6.30 pm
Exercise: I walk around the perimeter fence with Jimmy and Darren. Just their presence stops most inmates from giving me a hard time.
7.00 pm
I finally manage a shower. I then put on a prison tracksuit, grey and baggy, but comfortable. I decide to call Mary. There is a queue for the phone as this is the most popular time of day. When it’s my turn, I dial the Old Vicarage only to find that the line is engaged.
I spot Dale hanging around in the corridor, obviously wanting to speak to me. He tells me that the money hasn’t arrived. I assure him that if it isn’t in the morning post, I’ll chase it up. I try Mary again – still engaged. I go back to my cell and prepare my desk for an evening session. I check my watch. It’s 7.55 pm. I’ll only have one more chance. Back to the phone. I call Cambridge. Still engaged. I return to my cell to find an officer standing by the door. I’m banged up for another twelve hours.
8.00 pm
I read through today’s script and then prepare outline notes for the first session tomorrow, to the accompaniment of two West Indians hollering at each other from cells on opposite sides of the wing. I remark to Jules that they seem to be shouting even louder than usual. He resignedly replies that there’s not a lot you can do about window warriors. I wonder. Should I push my luck? I go over to the window and suggest in a polite but firm voice that they don’t need to shout at each other. A black face appears at the opposite window. I wait for the usual diatribe.
‘Sorry, Jeff,’ he says, and continues the conversation in a normal voice. Well, you can only ask.
DAY 28 – WEDNESDAY 15 AUGUST 2001
6.04 am
I wake, only to remember where I am.
8.15 am
Breakfast: when I go down to the hotplate to collect my meal, Dale gives me a nod to indicate that the money has arrived.
8.30 am
Phone Mary to be told that she’s doing the Today programme with John Humphrys tomorrow morning and will be visiting me on Friday with Will. As James is on holiday, she suggests that the third place is taken by Jonathan Lloyd. He wants to discuss my new novel, Sons of Fortune, and the progress of the diary. As I am allowed only one visit a fortnight, this seems a sensible combination of business and pleasure, although I will miss not seeing James.
Phone Alison, who says she’ll have finished typing Volume One – Belmarsh: Hellby Wednesday (70,000 words) and will post it to me immediately. She reminds me that from Monday she will be on holiday for two weeks. I need reminding. In prison you forget that normal people go on holiday.
When I return to my cell, I find David (whisky bootlegger) sweeping the corridor. I tell him about my water shortage. He offers me a large bottle of diet lemonade and a diet Robinsons blackcurrant juice in exchange for a PS2 phonecard, which will give him a 43p profit. I accept, and we go off to his cell to complete the transaction. There is only one problem: you are not allowed to use phonecards for trading, because it might be thought you are a drug dealer. Each card has the prisoner’s signature on the back of it, not unlike a credit card (see plate section).
‘No problem,’ says David (he never swears). ‘I can remove your name with Fairy Liquid and then replace it with mine.’
‘How will you get hold of a bottle of Fairy Liquid?’
‘I’m the wing cleaner.’
Silly question.
10.00 am
My pad-mate Jules has begun his education course today (life and social skills) so I have the cell to myself. I’ve been writing for only about thirty minutes when my door is unlocked and I’m told the prison probation officer wants to see me. I recall Tony’s (absconding from Ford Open Prison) words when I was at Belmarsh: Don’t act smart and find yourself on the wrong side of your probation officer, because they have considerable sway when it comes to deciding your parole date.’
I’m escorted to a private room, just a couple of doors away from Mr Tinkler’s office on the first-floor landing. I shake hands with a young lady who introduces herself as Lisa Dada. She is a blonde of about thirty and wearing a V-neck sweater that reveals she has just returned from holiday or spent a long weekend sitting in the sun. Like everyone else, she asks me how I am settling in. I tell her that I have no complaints other than the state of my cell, my rude introduction to rap music and window warriors. Lisa begins by explaining that she has to see every prisoner, but there isn’t much point in my case because her role doesn’t kick in until six months before my parole. ‘And as I’m moving to Surrey in about two months’ time,’ she continues, ‘to be nearer my husband who is a prison officer, you may well have moved to another establishment long before then, so I can’t do much more than answer any questions you might have.’
‘How did you meet your husband?’ I ask.
That’s not the sort of question I meant,’ she replies with a grin.
‘He must be Nigerian.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Dada. It’s an Igbo tribe name, the tribe of the leaders and warriors.’
She nods, and says, We met in prison in circumstances that sound as if they might have come from the pages of one of your novels.’ I don’t interrupt. ‘I had a prisoner who was due to be released in the morning. The evening before, he was phoning his wife to arrange what time she should pick him up, but couldn’t hear what she was saying because of the noise coming from a TV in a nearby cell. He popped his head round the door and asked if the inmate could turn the volume down, and was told to ‘Fuck off’. In a moment of anger he dropped the phone, walked into the cell and took a swing at the man. The inmate fell backwards onto the stone floor, cracked open his head and was dead before they could get him to a hospital. The first prison officer on the scene called for the assailant’s probation officer, who happened to be me. We were married a year later.’
‘What happened to the prisoner?’ I ask.
