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A crocodile of prisoners proceeds slowly along the polished linoleum floor until we’re stopped for another body search before entering the chapel. Why would they search us before going into a place of worship? We file into a large hall where each worshipper is handed a Bible. I take my place in the second row next to a young black man who has his head bowed. I glance around at what appears to be a full house.
The Chaplain, David (his name is written in bold letters on a label attached to his well-worn jacket), takes his place at the front of the chapel and calls for silence. He is a man of about forty-five, stockily built, with a pronounced limp and a stern smile. He stares down at his congregation of murderers, rapists, burglars and wife-beaters. Not surprisingly, it takes him a couple of minutes to bring such a flock to order.
While he goes about his task, I continue to look around the room. It’s square in shape, and I would guess measures about twenty paces by twenty. The outer walls are red brick and the room holds about two hundred plastic chairs, in rows of twenty. On the four walls there are paintings of Christ and his Disciples, Christ being carried to the tomb after being taken down from the Cross, the Virgin Mother with an angel, the Raising of Lazarus, and Christ calming the storm.
Directly behind the Chaplain is a rock band – their leader is a pretty, dark-haired girl who has a guitar slung over her shoulder. She is accompanied by five Gospel singers, all of whom have tiny microphones pinned to their lapels. In front of the group is a man seated with his back to the congregation. He is working a slide projector that flashes up on a white sheet hung in front of him the words of the first hymn.
When the Chaplain finally gains silence – achieved only after a threat that anyone caught talking would immediately be escorted back to their cell – he begins the service by delivering three prayers, all unsubtly spelling out the simple message of doing good by your neighbour. He then turns to the girl with t
he guitar and gives her a slight bow. Her gentle voice rings out the melody of the first hymn, more of a Gospel message, which is accompanied heartily by the black prisoners who make up well over half the congregation, while the rest of us are a little more reserved. The group’s backing singers are all white, and give as good as they get, even when the clapping begins. After the last verse has rung out, we are all ready for the sermon, and what a sermon it turns out to be.
The Chaplain’s chosen theme is murder. He then invites us to pick up our Bibles – which he describes as the biggest bestseller of all time – and turn to the book of Genesis. He glances in my direction and winks.
‘And it all began with Cain and Abel,’ he tells us, ‘because Cain was the first murderer. Envious of his brother’s success, he gained revenge by killing him. But God saw him do it and punished him for the rest of his life.’
His next chosen example of a murderer was Moses, who, he told us, killed an Egyptian and also thought he’d got away with it, but he hadn’t because God had seen him, so he too was punished for the rest of his life. I don’t remember that bit, because I thought Moses died peacefully in his bed aged 130.
‘Now I want you to turn to the Second Book of Samuel,’ declares the Chaplain. ‘Not the first book, the second book, where you’ll find a king who was a murderer. King David. He killed Uriah the Hittite, because he fancied his wife Bathsheba. He had Uriah placed in the front line of the next battle to make sure he was killed so he could end up marrying Bathsheba. However, God also saw what he was up to, and punished him accordingly. Because God witnesses every murder, and will punish anyone who breaks his commandments.’
‘Alleluia,’ shout several of the congregation in the front three rows.
I later learnt from the Deputy Governor that at least half the congregation were murderers, so the Chaplain was well aware of the audience he was playing to.
After the sermon is over the Gospel singers sing a quiet reprise while the Chaplain asks if all those who are willing to put their trust in God might like to come forward and sign the pledge. A queue begins to form in front of David, and he blesses them one by one. Once they are back in their seats, we sing the last hymn before receiving the Chaplain’s final blessing. As we file out, I thank the Reverend before being searched – but what could possibly change hands during the service, when they’ve already searched us before we came in? I find out a week later. We are then escorted back to our cells and locked up once again.
12 noon
At midday we’re let out for Sunday lunch. There are four different dishes on offer – turkey, beef, ham and stew. As I am unable to tell which is which, I settle for some grated cheese and two slices of un-margarined bread, before returning to my cell to sit at my little table and slowly nibble my cheese sandwich.
Once I’ve finished lunch, which takes all of five minutes, I start writing again. I continue uninterrupted for a couple of hours until Kevin returns clutching a plastic bag of goodies – two Weetabix, a carton of milk, two small green apples, a bar of soap and – his biggest triumph to date – two packets of Cup a Soup, minestrone and mushroom. I don’t leave him in any doubt how grateful I am before settling down to a plastic bowl of Weetabix soaked in milk. The same bowl I’d used to shave in earlier this morning.
4.20 pm
It’s not until after four has struck that I am allowed to leave the cell again and join the other prisoners for forty-five minutes in the exercise yard. I quickly learn that you take any and every opportunity – from religion to work to exercise – to make sure you get out of your cell. Once again, we’re searched before being allowed to go into the yard.
Most of the inmates don’t bother to walk, but simply congregate in groups and sunbathe while lounging up against the fence. Just a few of us stride purposefully round. I walk briskly because I’m already missing my daily visit to the gym. I notice that several prisoners are wearing the latest Nike or Reebok trainers. It’s the one fashion statement they are allowed to make. One of the inmates joins me and shyly offers ten pages of a manuscript and asks if I would be willing to read them. He tells me that he writes three pages a day and hopes to finish the work by the time he’s released in December.
I read the ten pages as I walk. He is clearly quite well educated as the sentences are grammatically correct and he has a good command of language. I congratulate him on the piece, wish him well, and even admit that I am carrying out the same exercise myself. One or two others join me to discuss their legal problems, but as I have little knowledge of the law, I am unable to answer any of their questions. I hear my name called out on the tannoy, and return to the officer at the gate.
‘Mr Peel wants to see you,’ the officer says without explanation, and this time doesn’t bother to search me as I am escorted to a little office in the centre of the spur. Another form needs to be filled in, as James had phoned asking if he can visit me on Friday.
‘Do you want to see him?’ he asks.
‘Of course I do,’ I reply.
‘They don’t all want to,’ Mr Peel remarks as he fills out the form. When he has completed the task, he asks how I am settling in.
‘Not well,’ I admit. ‘Being locked up for seventeen hours…but I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.’
Mr Peel begins to talk about his job and the problems the prison service is going through. He’s been a prison officer for ten years, and his basic pay is still only £24,000, which with overtime at £13.20 an hour (maximum allowed, nine hours a week) he can push up to £31,000. I didn’t tell him that it’s less than I pay my secretary. He then explains that his partner is also a prison officer and she carries out her full overtime stint, which means they end up with £60,000 a year between them, but don’t see a lot of each other. After getting his message across, he changes the subject back to Belmarsh.
‘This is only a reception prison,’ he explains. ‘If you’re convicted and not on remand, we move you to another prison as quickly as possible. But I’m sorry to say we see the same old faces returning again and again. They aren’t all bad, you know, in fact if it wasn’t for drugs, particularly heroin, sixty per cent of them wouldn’t even be here.’
‘Sixty per cent?’ I repeat.
‘Yes, most of them are in for petty theft to pay for their drug habit or are part of the drug culture.’
‘And can they still get hold of drugs in prison?’
