Part 7 (1/2)

11.10 am

It must have been a few minutes after eleven when my cell door is yanked open again to reveal Mr Loughnane. Just the sight of him lifts my spirits. He tells me that he has spoken to his opposite number at Ford Open Prison, who will have to refer the matter to the Governor, as he doesn't have the authority to make the final decision.

'How long do you expect that will take?' I ask.

'Couple of days at the most. He'll probably come back to me on Friday, and when he does, I'll be in touch with Group 4.' This simple transaction would take the average businessman a couple of hours at most. For the first time in years, I'm having to move at someone else's pace.

1.00 pm

We are all sent off to work. I'm down on the register under 'workshops' where I will have to pack breakfast bags that will eventually end up in other prisons. My salary will be 50p an hour. New Labour's minimum-wage policy hasn't quite trickled down to convicted felons. The truth is we're captive labour. I'm about to join the chain gang when another prison officer, Mr Young, asks me to wait behind until the others have left for the work area. He returns a few minutes later, to tell me that I've received so much registered mail they have decided to take me to it, rather than bring the stack to me.

Another long walk in a different direction, even more opening and closing of barred gates, by which time I have learnt that Mr Young has been in the prison service for eleven years, his annual basic pay is 24,000, and it's quite hard, if not impossible, to find somewhere to live in London on that salary.

When we arrive at reception, two other officers are standing behind a counter in front of rows and rows of cluttered wooden shelves. Mr Pearson removes thirty-two registered letters and parcels from a shelf behind him and places them on the counter. He starts to open them one by one in front of me another prison regulation. The two officers then make a little pile of Bibles and books and another of gifts which they eventually place in a plastic bag, and once I've signed the requisite form, hand them all across to me.

'Peach,' says Mr Pearson, and another prisoner steps forward to have a parcel opened in front of him. It's a pair of the latest Nike trainers, which have been sent in by his girlfriend.

Both clutching onto our plastic bags, we accompany Mr Young back to Block One. On the way, I apologize to Peach I never did find out his first name for keeping him waiting.

'No problem,' he says. 'You kept me out of my cell for nearly an hour.'

Mr Young continues to tell us about some of the other problems the prison service is facing. We are onto staff benefits and s.h.i.+ftwork when an alarm goes off, and officers appear running towards us from every direction. Mr Young quickly unlocks the nearest waiting room and bundles Peach and myself inside, locking the door firmly behind us. We stare through the windows as officers continue rus.h.i.+ng past us, but we have no way of finding out why. A few moments later, a prisoner, held down by three officers and surrounded by others, is dragged off past us in the opposite direction. One of the officers is pus.h.i.+ng the prisoner's head down, while another keeps his legs bent so that when he pa.s.ses us he leaves an impression of a marionette controlled by invisible strings. Peach tells me that it's known as being 'bent up' or 'twisted up', and is part of the process of 'control and restraint'.

'Control and restraint?'

'The prisoner will be dragged into a strip cell and held down while his clothes are cut off with a pair of scissors. He's then put in wrist locks, before they bend his legs behind his back. Finally they put a belt around his waist that has handcuffs on each side, making it impossible for him to move his arms or legs.'

'And then what?'

'They'll take him off to segregation,' Peach explains. 'He'll be put into a single cell that consists of a metal sink, metal table and metal chair all fixed to the wall, so he can't smash anything up.'

'How long will they leave him there?'

'About ten days,' Peach replies.

'Have you ever been in segregation?' I ask.

'No,' he says firmly, 'I want to get out of this place as quickly as possible, and that's the easiest way to be sure your sentence is lengthened.'

Once the commotion has died down, Mr Young returns to unlock the door and we continue our journey back to the cells as if nothing had happened.

Each block has four spurs, which run off from the centre like a Maltese cross. In the middle of the cross is an octangular gla.s.s office, known as the bubble, which is situated on the centre of the three floors. From this vantage point, the staff can control any problems that might arise. As we pa.s.s the bubble, I ask the duty officer what happened.

'One of the prisoners,' he explains, 'has used threatening and abusive language when addressing a woman officer.' He adds no further detail to this meagre piece of information.

Once back in my cell, Terry tells me that the prisoner will be put on report and be up in front of the Governor tomorrow morning.

He also confirms that he'll probably end up with ten days in solitary.

'Have you ever been in segregation?' I ask him.

'Three times,' he admits. 'But I was younger then, and can tell you, I don't recommend it, even as an experience for your diary. By the way,' he adds, 'I've just phoned my dad.

The Daily Express have been onto him offering a grand for a photo of me the con Jeffrey has to live with and they've offered him another thousand if he'll give them all the details of my past criminal record. He told them to b.u.g.g.e.r off, but he says they just won't go away. They sounded disappointed when he told them I wasn't a murderer.'

'You will be by the time the Sunday editions come out,' I promise him.

2.00 pm

Another officer opens the door to tell us that our afternoon a.s.sociation will be cut short because the prison staff are holding a meeting. Terry tells the officer who pa.s.ses on this information that any staff meeting should be held when we are banged up, not during a.s.sociation. He makes a fair point, but all the officer says is, 'It's not my decision,' and slams the door.

2.02 pm

What is almost impossible to describe in its full horror is the time you spend banged up.

So please do not consider this diary to be a running commentary, because I would only ask you to think about the endless hours in between. Heaven knows what that does to lifers who can see no end to their incarceration, and do not have the privilege of being able to occupy their time writing. In my particular case, there is Hope, a word you hear prisoners using all the time. They hope that they'll win their case, have their sentence cut, be let out on parole, or just be moved to a single cell. For me, as a Category D prisoner, I simply hope to be transferred to Ford Open Prison as soon as possible. But G.o.d knows what a lifer hopes for, and I resolve to try and find out during the next few days.

4.30 pm a.s.sociation. At last the cell door is opened for an extended period of time forty-five minutes. When I walk down to join the other inmates on the ground floor, Paul (murder) hands me a book of first-cla.s.s stamps, and asks for nothing in return. He either has no one to write to, or perhaps can't write. 'I hear you're having a postage problem,' is all he says, and walks away. I do not explain that my PA is dealing with all my letters, and therefore I have no postage problem, because it would only belittle such a thoughtful gesture.

During a.s.sociation I notice that the high barred gates at the end of the room lead onto a larger outer area which has its own television, pool table, and more comfortable chairs. But I'm not permitted to enter this hallowed territory as you can only leave the restricted area if you're an enhanced prisoner.

There are three levels of prisoner: basic, standard and enhanced. Every inmate begins their sentence as standard in the middle.

This leaves you the chance to go up or down, and that decision depends solely on your behaviour. Someone who wishes to take on more responsibility, like being a Listener, a tea-boy or a cleaner, will quickly be promoted to enhanced status and enjoy the privileges that go with it. However, anyone who attacks a prison officer or is caught taking drugs will be downgraded to basic. And these things matter when it comes to your standard of living in prison, and later when the authorities consider your parole, and possible early release.

Terry, my cell-mate, hates authority and refuses to go along with the system, so spends his life bobbing up and down between basic and standard. Derek 'Del Boy'