articles from the store. Oh, no, Shaun is far brighter than that. He discovered that if you buy an item and present your gift voucher, the assistant will hand back the change in cash. Shaun also found out that if you purchase something for PS1,000 (and he saw Chris Eubank buying a television with genuine vouchers) and return the item an hour later, they don’t reimburse you with vouchers. Once again, they hand over cash.
Armed with this information, Shaun acquired a map of England (kindly supplied by a helpful assistant) showing every John Lewis outlet in the country. He then began to travel the land, cashing vouchers in each town he passed through. He was finally caught when his co-conspirator panicked, went to the police and grassed on him (Shaun’s words).
I wonder what Shaun will turn his mind to once he’s released. I only mention this because when the conversation changed to the clash between Ken Clarke and Iain Duncan Smith, Shaun added a piece of knowledge to the euro debate which neither of the candidates seems to have grasped.
‘Have you ever seen a euro note?’ Shaun asked.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I admitted.
It’s Monopoly money and will be quite easy to reproduce. From 1 January it will be legal tender in seventeen countries across Europe, and I’ll bet most of the shops don’t have any way of identifying a fake. Someone’s going to make a fortune.’
I recall that Shaun has only three more weeks of his sentence to serve.
11.15 am
I return to my cell and find I have a beige door, a neat blue square around my basin and cream skirting. I go in search of Stan, and present him with a phonecard – value: PS2; worth: inestimable.
11.30 am
I call Paula (Alison is on holiday) and discover to my great relief that the last ten days’ text of this script have arrived. It doesn’t bear thinking about having to rewrite those 30,000 words. You may well ask why I didn’t make a copy. Because there isn’t a copier available. Then why don’t I hand the papers over to my wife after a visit? Because it’s against the regulations. My only chance is to rely on the Post Office, and it hasn’t let me down yet.
12 noon
Lunch. I mournfully watch the test match while eating my vegetable soup. Australia are piling on the runs at a rate of four an over.
3.00 pm
Exercise. Jimmy is chatting about his girlfriends, and don’t forget this is a man who had three women come to see him at his last visit. At some time, he tells me, he’s slept with all three of them – not at the same time, he’s not kinky, just healthy – and what’s more they didn’t leave scratching each other’s eyes out. Nevertheless, this brings me on to a taboo subject I haven’t yet mentioned: sex or the lack of it – unless you are a homosexual. Darren reminds us that in Sweden and Holland they allow conjugal visits, which I can’t see happening in this country for many years. The current solution is to put a notice on the message board (see opposite) and hope the problem will go away. It will be interesting to see which comes first: the legalization of cannabis or conjugal visits.
After two weeks of walking round the perimeter of Wayland prison, I can now spot evil, fear, helplessness and sadness at thirty paces. But even I am puzzled by a crouching man who always sits alone in the same place every day, huddled up against the fence. He can’t be much more than thirty, perhaps thirty-five, and he rarely moves from his solitary position. I ask Darren about him.
Tragic,’ he says. ‘Alistair is one of your lot – public school, followed by university, where he graduated as a heroin addict. If he doesn’t kick the habit, he’ll be in prison for the rest of his life.’
‘How can that be possible?’ I ask.
‘Simple. He regularly gets caught injecting himself, and always ends up with a few more months being added to his sentence. In fact, even on the day he was sent down, he was found with a needle in his arm. Somehow, and it must have been before the judge passed sentence or soon after he was taken down, he managed to stuff a needle covered in cellophane, a plunger and ten grams of heroin wrapped in a condom up his backside. He then took a laxative so that he could empty his bowels as soon as he arrived at Belmarsh, Once they’d banged him up that evening – and don’t forget there’s a lavatory in every cell – he injected himself with heroin and passed out. At the nine o’clock flap check the night officer found him lying on the floor with a needle stuck in his arm and several grams of heroin sprinkled on the floor beside him. He must be one of the few prisoners who has managed to have time added to his sentence before breakfast the following morning.’
I look at the tragic, hunched-up figure and wonder if prison is the right answer.
6.00 pm
Supper. I can’t remember what I eat, but I do recall finding two extra cartons of milk on my window sill. Sergio is exercising his authority as the new No. 1 on the hotplate.
DAY 38 – SATURDAY 25 AUGUST 2001
‘Bien, gracias,y to?’
‘No, tu, tu, tu.’
‘Tu, tu, tu:
‘Bueno. We must meet later today,’ Sergio adds, ‘for another lesson.’ At least ten prisoners standing in the queue, and three officers behind the hotplate, assume I am simply learning Spanish, as we have no wish for them to find out what we’re really up to. But more of that later.
5.11 am
I wake and think about how I would be spending the August bank holiday weekend if I were not in prison. I also begin to consider whether there are any advantages to being in jail. Certainly, incarceration is something to be added to one’s experiences, particularly as it has come at a period in life when I felt I was marking time. I’ve also had to stretch myself – unfortunate pun. But I’ve already reached a stage where I am gaining little from the experience. As I could be stuck here for a while longer, it might be wise to have an escape plan – escape of the mind.
I’ve already completed Belmarsh: Hell, and have penned 44,000 words of Wayland: Purgatory. I can’t wait to get to heaven, whenever and wherever that might be.
8.15 am
‘Buenos dias,’ I say to Sergio as he passes me a boiled egg and a slice of toast.
‘Buenos dias,’ he repeats. ‘Como estas tu?’
