Part 6 (1/2)

'No,' I reply, 'but they did promise I wouldn't have to share a cell with you.'

This feeble effort is greeted by clapping and cheers, which I later learn was because I'd stood up to a man who had blown his brother's head off. I'm glad I was told this later because, let me a.s.sure you, if I'd known at the time I would have kept my mouth shut.

The door is opened again, and this time Mr Aveling tells me that the senior officer on the block wants to see me. This is greeted by more jeers and applause. 'Be careful, Jeff, he thinks you're after his job.'

I'm led to an even more comfortable room, with chairs, a desk and even pictures on the walls, to be greeted by four officers, three men and one woman. Mr Marsland, the most senior officer present, two pips on his epaulettes,* confirms the rumour that as I won't be staying long he has put me on the lifers' spur. I was obviously unable to mask my horror at the very idea, because he quickly rea.s.sures me.

'You'll find it's the most settled wing in the prison, as most of the inmates have sentences ranging between twelve and twentyfive years, and all they want is an easy life.

Otherwise they'll never be considered for transfer to a B- or C-cat, let alone parole.' Yet again, exactly the opposite of what one might imagine. 'And we also have a request,' says Mr Marsland looking down at a sheet of paper. 'Mrs Williamson is running a creativewriting course, and wonders if you would be willing to address her cla.s.s?'

'Of course I will,' I said. 'How many normally attend?'

'Because it's you, we think they'll be record numbers,' says Mrs Williamson, 'so it could be as many as twelve.' I haven't addressed an audience of twelve since I was the GLC candidate for Romford thirty years ago.

'One problem has arisen,' continues Mr Marsland, 'I'm afraid there are no single cells available on the lifers' spur at the moment, so you'll have to share.' My heart sinks. Will I end up with a murderer, a rapist or a drug addict, or a combination of all three? 'But we'll try to find you a sensible cell-mate,' he concludes before standing to signal that the interview is over.

I return to the waiting room and only have to hang around for a few more minutes before we are taken off to our new cells. Once again I've been put on the top floor I think this must be for security reasons. Cell 40 is a little larger than Cell 29, where I last resided, but far from double the size, remembering that it has to accommodate two prisoners. It measures seven paces by four, rather than five by three, and up against the far wall, directly in front of the lavatory, is a small bunk bed, which one would more normally a.s.sociate with a nursery.

My room-mate turns out to be Terry. Terry the writer. He is the one who approached me in the yard and asked if I would read his ma.n.u.script. He's been selected to join me because he doesn't smoke, a rarity amongst inmates, and it's a prison regulation that if you don't smoke, they can't make you share a cell with someone who does. The authorities a.s.sumed I would be aware of this rule. I wasn't.

Terry, as I have already mentioned, is halfway through writing a novel and seems pleased to discover who his cell-mate will be.

I find out later why, and it's not because he wants me to help him with his syntax.

Terry is outwardly courteous and friendly, and despite my continually asking him to call me Jeffrey, he goes on addressing me as Mr Archer. We agree that he will have the top bunk and I the bottom, on account of my advanced years. I quickly discover that he's very tidy, happy to make both beds, sweep the floor and regularly empty our little plastic bucket.

I begin to unpack my cellophane bag and store my possessions in the tiny cupboard above my bed. Once we've both finished unpacking, I explain to Terry that I write for six hours a day, and hope he will understand if I don't speak to him during those set two-hour periods. He seems delighted with this arrangement, explaining that he wants to get on with his own novel. I'm about to ask how it's progressing, when the door is opened and we're joined by a prison officer who has intercepted my freshly ironed white s.h.i.+rt. The officer begins by apologizing, before explaining that he will have to confiscate my white s.h.i.+rt, because if I were to wear it, I might be mistaken for a member of the prison staff.

This is the white s.h.i.+rt that I'd had washed and ironed by Peter the press so that I could look smart for Will and James's visit. I'm now down to one blue s.h.i.+rt, and one T-s.h.i.+rt (borrowed). He places my white s.h.i.+rt in yet another plastic bag for which I have to sign yet another form. He a.s.sures me that it will be returned as soon as I have completed my sentence.

12 noon After a second session of writing, the cell door is opened and we are let out for a.s.sociation. I join the lifers on the ground floor, which has an identical layout to House Block Three. The lifers (23 murderers plus a handful of ABH and GBH* to make up the numbers) range in age from nineteen to fifty, and view me with considerable suspicion. Not only because I'm a Conservative millionaire, but far worse, I will only be with them for a few days before I'm dispatched to an open prison. Something they won't experience for at least another ten years. It will take a far greater effort to break down the barriers with this particular group than the young fledgeling criminals of House Block Three.

As I stroll around, I stop to glance at the TV. A man of about my age is watching Errol Flynn and David Niven in the black-andwhite version of The Charge of the Light Brigade. I take a seat next to him.

'I'm David,' he says. 'You haven't shaved today.'

I confess my sin, and explain that I was in the process of doing so when an officer told me I would be moving.

'Understood,' said David. 'But I have to tell you, Jeffrey, you're too old for designer stubble. All the lifers shave,' he tells me.

'You've got to cling on to whatever dignity you can in a h.e.l.lhole like this,' he adds, 'and a warm shower and a good shave are probably the best way to start the day.' David goes on chatting during the film as if it was nothing more than background muzak. He apologizes for not having read any of my novels, a.s.suring me that his wife has enjoyed all of them, but he only finds time to read whenever he's in jail. I resist asking the obvious question.

'What are you reading at the moment?' I enquire.

'Ackroyd's Life of d.i.c.kens,' he replies.

And, as if he senses my incredulity, adds, 'Mr Micawber, what a character, bit like my father to be honest, always in debt. Now remind me, what was his Christian name?'

'Wilkins,' I reply.

'Just testing, Jeffrey, just testing. Actually I tried to get one of your books out of the library the other day, but they've removed them all from the shelves. A diabolical liberty, that's what I'd call it. I told them I wanted to read it, not steal the b.l.o.o.d.y thing.' I begin to notice how few prisoners use bad language in front of me. One of the other inmates, who has been watching the TV, leans across and asks me if the story's true. I can just about recall Tennyson's poem of the gallant six hundred, and I'm fairly certain Errol Flynn didn't ride through the enemy lines, and thrust a sword into the heart of their leader.

'Of course he did,' says David, 'it was in his contract.'

On this occasion we do get to see the closing t.i.tles, because the duty officer has checked what time the film finishes. He prefers not to have thirty or forty disenchanted lifers on his hands.

At five we're invited to return to our cells for lock-up. This invitation takes the form of an officer bellowing at the top of his voice.

On arrival, I find another 200 letters waiting for me on the bottom bunk. All of them have been opened, as per prison regulations, to check they do not contain any drugs, razor blades or money. Reading every one of them kills another couple of hours while you're 'banged up'. I'm beginning to think in prison jargon.

The public seems genuinely concerned about my plight. Many of them comment on the judge's summing-up and the harshness of the sentence, while others point out that bank robbers, paedophiles and even those charged with manslaughter often get off with a two- or three-year sentence. The recurring theme is 'What does Mr Justice Potts have against you?' I confess I don't know the answer to that question, but what cannot be denied is that I asked my barrister, Nick Purnell, on the third, fourth and seventh days of the trial to speak to the judge privately in chambers about his obvious prejudice, and request a retrial. However, my silk advised against this approach, on the grounds that it would only turn the whole trial into an allout battle between the two of us. Lest you might think I am making this all up conveniently after the event, I also confided my fears to the Honourable Michael Beloff QC, Gilbert Gray QC and Johnnie Nutting QC during the trial.

It wasn't until the second hour that I came across a letter demanding that I should apologize to all those I had let down. The next letter in the pile is from Mary. I read it again and again. She begins by remarking that she couldn't remember when she had last written to me. She reminds me that she is off to Strathclyde University this morning to chair the summer school on solar energy, accompanied by the world's press and my son Will.

Thank G.o.d for Will. He's been a tower of strength. At the end of the week, she flies to Dresden to attend another conference, and is hoping to be back in time to visit me at Belmarsh on Sunday morning. I miss her and the children, of course I do, but above anything I hope it won't be too long before the press become bored with me and allow Mary to carry on with her life.

When I come to the end of the letters, Terry helps me put them into four large brown envelopes so they can be sent on to Alison, my PA, in order that everyone who has taken the trouble to write receives a reply. While Terry is helping me, he begins to tell me his life story and how he ended up being in jail. He's not a lifer, which is perhaps another reason they asked him if he was willing to share a cell with me.

Terry has been in prison twice, graduating via Borstal and a remand centre. He began sniffing solvents as a child, before moving on to cannabis by the age of twelve. His first offence was robbing a local newsagent because he needed money for his drug habit. He was sentenced to two years and served one. His second charge was for robbing a jeweller's in Margate of 3,000 worth of goods for which he hoped to make around 800 from a London fence. The police caught him red-handed (his words), and he was sentenced to five years. He was twenty-two at the time, and served three and a half years of that sentence before being released.

Terry had only been out for seven months when he robbed an optician's designer goods, Cartier, Calvin Klein and Christian Dior, stolen to order. This time he was paid 900 in cash, but arrested a week later. The fingerprints on the shop window he put his fist through matched his, leaving the police with only one suspect. The judge sentenced him to another five years.

Terry hopes to be released in December of this year. Prison, he claims, has weaned him off drugs and he's only thankful that he's never tried heroin. Terry is n.o.body's fool, and I only hope that when he gets out he will not return for a third time. He swears he won't, but a prison officer tells me that twothirds of repeat offenders are back inside within twelve months.

'We have our regulars just like any Blackpool hotel, except we don't charge for bed and breakfast.'

Terry is telling me about his mother, when suddenly there is a wild commotion of screaming and shouting that reverberates throughout the entire block. It's the first time I'm glad that my cell door is locked. The prisoners in Block One are yelling at a man who is being escorted to the medical centre on the far side of the yard. I remember it well.

'What's all that about?' I ask as I stare out of our cell window.

'He's a nonce,' Terry explains.

'Nonce?'

'Prison slang for a nonsense merchant, a paedophile. If he'd been on this block we would have jugged him long ago.'

'Jugged him?'

'A jug of boiling hot water,' Terry explains, 'mixed with a bag of sugar to form a syrup.

Two cons would hold him down while the liquid is poured slowly over his face.'