I concentrate.’ Yo estoy bien, gracias.’
‘Bien, gracias, y tu?’
10.00 am
Gym. I complete a full programme for the first time since being convicted. I’ve lost over half a stone and feel a lot fitter.
I’m about to take a shower when Mr King tells me that the governor wants a word. I’ve so far seen three people who claim the title of governor, and none of them has been Ms Cawley, the No. 1 governor. Am I about to meet her? No. On this occasion it’s a Mr Greenacre, whom I’ve also never come across before. He informs me, ‘You will be receiving a visit from a senior officer at Belmarsh’ – surely they can’t be sending me back there, is my first reaction – ‘as they are investigating the theft of a chapter of your book.’ You will recall that Trevor Kavanagh of the Sun, doyen of political editors, returned those stolen seven pages to Mary. He is well aware of the law of copyright.
It is clear that the culprit must have been an officer as no prisoners at Belmarsh have access to a photocopier. No one else could have unlocked my cell door, removed the script, photocopied and returned it and then sent a copy on to the Sun.
Of course, the deputy governor is only going through the motions. They have no way of finding out which officer was hoping to make a quick buck. The problem the Prison Service is facing is that Trevor will never reveal his source.
Back to the visitor from Belmarsh. Mr Greenacre tells me to expect a senior security officer to interview me on Tuesday morning, which means that, with luck, I’ll miss pottery. I’ll brief you fully next Tuesday.
11.00 am
Exercise. My legs are still aching from the gym session, so I find it quite hard to maintain the pace of Jimmy (twenty-nine) and Darren (thirty-five) as they march round the perimeter of the jail, but I’m damned if I’m going to admit it. They are chatting away about an unusual use of mirrors. Every cell has a five-by-five-inch steel mirror screwed to the wall. Jimmy is telling us about two West Indian prisoners who between them raised enough money to purchase a ghetto blaster and a pair of loud speakers. He describes how they went about arranging to listen to the same music in two different cells.
The first prisoner levered his thin steel mirror off the wall and inserted a coil of wire through one of the tiny holes in a corner. Every evening, after the nine o’clock flap check, he would slip the mirror under his door, then in one movement, slide it across the corridor until it reached the door opposite. After a few days, he could perform this skill as proficiently as any basketball player dunking a ball through a hoop.
The second prisoner then took the wire and attached it to his speaker so that both men could listen to the same music emanating from one source. Ingenious but – I’m told by anyone who lived within a mile of the jail – unnecessary, because on a still evening you could have danced to the music in Freiston town hall.
12 noon
Lunch. England are 200 for 3 and putting up a spirited fight. During the lunch interval I visit Sergio in his cell. He wastes no words, immediately informing me that he has spoken to his brother in Bogota. He always sounds like a man who has only ten units left on his phonecard. Of course, he may turn out to be a con man who has no intention of trying to find a Botero.
In any case nothing can be done until Sergio has completed his sentence. He is due to be deported on 27 September, a month from today, by which time we expect to have worked out a plan to purchase a Botero. Win or lose, I’ll keep you briefed.
3.00 pm
I have my hair cut by Matt (arson for insurance, failed to convince Cornhill or the jury, and was sentenced to three years). Matt has the reputation of being the best barber in the prison. In fact several prison officers also have their hair cut by him. In his last prison, while serving time for a previous offence, Matt enrolled on a hair-styling course, so now he’s a semi-professional. He has all the proper equipment, and within moments of sitting on a chair in the corridor outside his cell, I’m in no doubt about his skill. I need to look neat and tidy for Friday, when Mary and William hope to visit me again. I haven’t forgotten that Mary commented on the length of my hair when she last came to Wayland.
When Matt’s finished the job he even produces a second mirror so I can see the back of my head. He’s not Daniel Hersheson, but for ten units of a phonecard he’s a pretty good imitation.
6.00 pm
At close of play England are 314 for 8 after a gritty 124 not out by Ramprakash assisted by Gough, who was clinging in there helping to avoid another follow on. The two of them enter the pavilion needing another 31 runs to make Australia bat again.
A couple of years ago Darren Gough asked me to conduct the auction at his London testimonial dinner at the Dorchester. As a huge fan of Darren’s, I happily agreed. When the event finally materialized it fell in the middle of my trial. Mr Justice Potts made it clear to my silk that I should not honour the agreement, even though my name was already printed in the programme. After all, it might influence the jury into believing that I am a charitable man, and I suspect that was the last thing Mr Justice Potts would have wanted.
I’m feeling pretty low, so decide to use the other ten units left on my card to phone Mary. There’s no response. I can’t get in touch with William or James as they are both abroad. I sit on the end of my bed and recall the words of La Rochefoucauld: Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fire.
DAY 39 – SUNDAY 26 AUGUST 2001
6.16 am
Sunday is always the longest day in prison. Wayland is short-staffed and there is nothing for inmates to do other than watch wall-to-wall television. In Belmarsh, chapel was a respite as it got you out of your cell, but in Wayland you’re out of your cell without anything to keep you occupied. Mind you, I’d much rather be in Wayland than locked up in Belmarsh for twenty-two hours a day. I write for a couple of hours.
8.20 am
Breakfast. While I’m waiting in the queue for the hotplate, I get talking to a West Indian who is on my landing. He asks if he can have my Times and Sunday Times when I’ve finished with them. I agree to his request if, in return, he will show me how to clean my cell floor. I only mention this because the West Indians keep the cleanest cells. They are not satisfied with sweeping out the dust and dirt, but spend hours buffing up the linoleum floor until you can see your face in it. Although I shower, shave and put on fresh clothes every day, as well as make my bed and have everything in place before the cell door is opened at 8 am, I never look as smart or have as clean a cell as any of the West Indians on my spur.
9.30 am
On my way to the library I slip in behind a man who frightens me. He has an evil face and is one of those prisoners who is proud to describe himself as a career criminal. He is a burglar by profession, and I’m somewhat surprised to see him heading off towards the library with a pile of glossy, coffee-table books under his arm. I try to make out the titles on the spines while we’re on the move: The Encyclopaedia of Antiques, Know Your Antiques and Antiques in a Modem Market.
‘Are you interested in antiques?’ I ask innocently.
‘Yeah, I’m making a careful study of them.’
‘Are you hoping to work in the antiques trade when you’ve completed your sentence?’
‘I suppose you could say that,’ he replies. ‘I’m sick of nicking ‘em only to find out they’re fuckin’ worthless. From now on I’ll know what to fuckin’ look for, won’t I?’
You would think that after five weeks of mixing with criminals, night and day, I couldn’t still be taken by surprise. It serves to remind me again of Lisa Dada’s words about despising burglars, not to mention my own naivety.
10.00 am
In the library I get talking to an older prisoner called Ron (ABH). Most inmates tell me they never want to
