Part 12 (1/2)

I've now fallen into a routine, much as I had in the outside world. The big difference is that I have little or no control over when I can and cannot write, so I fit my hours round the prison timetable. Immediately after evening lock-up is designated for reading letters, break, followed by going over my ma.n.u.script, break, reading the book of the week, break, undress, go to bed, break, try to ignore the inevitable rap music. Impossible.

Every time I finish the day's script, I wonder if there will be anything new to say tomorrow. However, I'm still on such a steep learning curve, I've nowhere near reached that dizzy height. But I confess I now want to leave Belmarsh for pastures new, and pastures is the key word. I long to walk in green fields and taste fresh air.

Billy (lifer, writer, scholar) tells me it will be better once I've settled somewhere, and don't have to spend my energy wondering when and where I will be for the rest of my sentence. He's been at Belmarsh for two years and seven months, and still doesn't know where he's destined for. Tony (marijuana only, escaped from open prison) warns me that, wherever I go, I'll be quickly bored if I don't have a project to work on.

Thankfully, writing these diaries has solved that problem. But for how long?

Day 14 - Wednesday 1 August 2001.

6.21 am.

A long, hot, sleepless night. The rap music went on until about four in the morning, so I was only able to doze off for the odd few minutes. When it finally ceased, a row broke out between someone called Mitch.e.l.l, who I think was in the cell above the music, and another prisoner called Vaz, who owned the stereo below. It didn't take long to learn what Mitch.e.l.l planned to do to Vaz just as soon as his cell door was opened. Their language bore a faint resemblance to the dialogue in a Martin Amis novel, but without any of his style or panache.

8.37 am.

Breakfast. Among my canteen selections is a packet of cereal called Variety, eight different cereals in little boxes. I start off with something called Coco Pops. Not bad, but it's still almost impossible to beat good old Kellogg's Cornflakes.

9.31 am.

The morning papers are delivered to the duty officer. They're full of stories confirming that my status has been changed from D-cat to C... cat because of Emma Nicholson's accusations.

9.50 am.

Ms Labersham arrives and actually knocks politely on my cell door, as if I were capable of opening it. She unlocks 'the iron barrier' and tells me that she has come to escort me to my creative-writing cla.s.s.

I'm taken to a smoke-filled waiting room with no chairs, just a table. Well, that's one way of guaranteeing a standing ovation. Moments later a trickle of prisoners appear, each carrying his own plastic chair. Once the nine of them are settled, Ms Labersham reminds everyone that it's a two-hour session.

She suggests that I should speak for about an hour and then open it up for a general discussion.

I've never spoken for an hour in my life; it's usually thirty minutes, forty at the most before I take questions. On this occasion I speak for just over forty minutes, explaining how I took up writing at the age of thirtyfour after leaving Parliament, with debts of 427,000 and facing bankruptcy. The last time I gave this speech was at a conference in Las Vegas as the princ.i.p.al guest of a US hotel group. They flew me over first cla.s.s, gave me a suite of rooms and sent me home with a cheque for $50,000.

Today, I'm addressing nine Belmarsh inmates, and Ms Labersham has confirmed that my prison account will be credited with 2 (a bottle of Highland Spring and a tube of toothpaste).

When I've finished my talk, I am surprised how lively the discussion is that follows. One of the prisoners, Michael (aged twenty-one, murder), wants to talk about becoming a song writer, a subject about which I know very little. I don't feel I can tell him that a lyricist is as different to a novelist as a brain surgeon is from a gynaecologist. Michael wants me to read out his latest effort. It's already forty verses in length. I offer you one: No room, but to leave You call out, calling for me to come back but all you can hear is the sound of your own voice calling out my name Michael heard yesterday that the judge had given him a tariff of eighteen years.

'At least it's not telephone numbers,' he says.

'Telephone numbers?'

'Nine hundred and ninety-nine years,' he replies.

When I finish reading Michael's work, the group discuss it, before Terry (burglary, former cell-mate) reads three pages of his novel, which he hopes to have finished by the time they release him in December.

The group spend some time debating the use of bad language in a novel. Does it tell you anything about the character the author is writing about? Does it distract from the narrative? They go on to discuss the relative strengths and weaknesses of Terry's story.

They don't pull any punches.

Tony (marijuana only) then tells the group that he is writing a textbook on quantum mechanics, which has been a hobby of his for many years. He explains that his efforts will add nothing to the genre his word but as a project it keeps him occupied for many hours.

The final rendering is one of Billy Little's poems. It's in a different cla.s.s to anything we've heard up until then, and everyone in that room knows it.

Crash Bang Slam Subject despised, committed wrong, broken wounded, buffeted along, concealed confined, isolated state, parental tools, judicial hate.

Golden cuffs, silver chains, reformed pretence, jewelled pains, sapphire screams, diamond faults, brick steel, storage vaults.

Uranium plutonium, nuclear chalice, poison regimes, political malice, confounded dark, loomin' sin, atomised spirits, crushed within.

Seditious dissent, proletarian cla.s.s, duplicate religion, misleading ma.s.s, ruinous poverty's, reducing rod, whipping barbarous, bloodthirsty G.o.d.

Liberated justice, equality bound, desecrating capitalists, unholy ground, revolutionary concept, militant fire, diligent radical, poetic desire.

Billy Little (BX7974) During the last few minutes they begin to discuss when we'll get together again. The matter that most concerns the group is whether it should be during a.s.sociation time or considered as an education cla.s.s. On this they are equally divided, and I wonder if they will ever meet again.

12 noon Lunch. I open a tin of ham (67p), extract half of it, to which I add two hard-boiled potatoes (prison issue). During the afternoon, I devour three digestive biscuits, and swig nearly a whole bottle of Evian. If I continue at this rate, I'll be out of water by Sat.u.r.day, and like so many prisoners, facing the problem of double-bubble. Do you recall Del Boy cutting a cigarette in half, and expecting a whole one back the following day?

1.07 pm My appeals against change of status and being sent to the Isle of Wight are brought round to my cell for signing. Ms Taylor says that the Deputy Governor wants the forms returned to her office as soon as possible. I read slowly through the two-page legal doc.u.ment, making only one small emendation. I sign on the dotted line, but remain convinced that the Home Office has already made up its mind, and there is nothing I can do about it. The golden rule seems to be: it mustn't look as if Archer's getting special treatment, even if he's being treated unjustly.

2.24 pm My cell door is opened by Mr Bentley, who tells me that I must report to reception as there are several parcels for me to collect.

When I leave the spur, I am not searched for the first time and the duty officer simply points to the end of the corridor and says, 'My colleague will guide you.' It's taken them two weeks to feel confident that I have no interest in escaping or dealing in drugs. Actually if you tried to escape from Belmarsh and the roof is the furthest anyone has managed you'd need an architect's plan; the whole building is a maze. Even if you work here, I imagine it would take several weeks before you could confidently find your way around. Sometimes I wonder how the prison officers find their way out at night.

At the end of every corridor, a barred gate is opened and I am ushered through it. None of the gatekeepers seem to be surprised that I'm unaccompanied. I finally arrive outside the little cubbyhole called reception. The doors are pulled open to reveal Mr Pearson and Mr Leech.

'Good afternoon, sir,' Mr Pearson says, and then quickly corrects himself, 'Archer.

I'm afraid we only have fourteen registered parcels for you this week.' He begins to remove them one by one from the shelves behind him. Half an hour later, I am the proud owner of four more Bibles, three copies of the New Testament, and a prayer book. I retain one copy of the New Testament, which is leather-bound, as I feel Terry would appreciate it. I suggest to Mr Leech that the rest should be sent to Mr Powe at the chapel. The other packages consist of three novels, two scripts and a proposal of marriage from a blonde woman of about fifty, who adds that if I don't fancy her, she has a daughter of twenty-four (photo enclosed).

I've considered printing her 'Dear Geoffrey,' (sic) letter and photograph, but my solicitors have advised against it.

When they've opened the final package on the shelf, I point to a box of tissues and ask, 'Are those also mine by any chance?'

Mr Pearson looks at Mr Leech, and says, 'I think they are.'

He pa.s.ses across two boxes of tissues, making the whole expedition worthwhile.

Mr Pearson accompanies me I say accompanies, because I didn't get the feeling of being escorted back to my cell en route. He tells me that the prison was built ten years ago by a Canadian architect and it's all rightangles.

'It might have been more sensible,' he mutters, 'to have consulted serving prison officers, and then we could have pointed out the problems staff and inmates come up against every day.' Before I can offer an opinion, I find myself locked back in my cell.

2.57 pm I've only been in my cell for a few minutes when Mr Weedon reappears bearing a slip of paper. It's a movement schedule, confirming my worst fears. I will be transferred to the Isle of Wight sometime during the week of 6 August 2001. It is as I thought; the Home Office have made up their minds, and are unwilling to take any personal needs into consideration. I sink onto my bed, depressed. I am helpless, and there's nothing I can do about it.

3.14 pm I'm writing the second draft of today's script, when the alarm bell goes off. I can hear running feet, raised voices and the scurrying of prison officers. I look out of my barred window but can see nothing but an empty yard. I gaze through the four-by-nine-inch slit in my door, and quickly realize that the commotion is not on our spur. I'll have to wait for a.s.sociation before I can find out what happened.

4.00 pm a.s.sociation. Once again, I fail to get on the gym rota and suspect it's the same eight inmates who are pre-selected every day, and I haven't been a member of the club long enough to qualify. Let's hope they have a bigger gym on the Isle of Wight.