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‘It’s just that I would like to say how much I enjoy your books, particularly The Prodigal Daughter. I’ve been in here for eleven years and I’ve read everything you’ve written. I just wanted to let you know.’ I’m speechless. ‘And by the way,’ he adds, ‘if you want that bitch of a secretary bumped off, I’ll be happy to arrange it for you.’
I really thought I was going to be sick as I watched him disappear through the gate. Thank God, into another block.
5.00 pm
I’m only locked up for a couple of hours before the bell goes for supper. I pick up my tray and grab a tin of fruit that was donated by James – my first Listener – the night before he was transferred to Whitemoor. When I join the hotplate queue, I ask Vincent if he has a tin opener. He points to an opener attached to the wall on the far side of the room, ‘But you’re not allowed to open anything before you’ve collected your grub.’ I notice that he’s holding a tin of Shipham’s Spam.
‘I’ll swap you half my tin of fruit for half your Spam.’
‘Agreed,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring it up to your cell as soon as I’ve collected my meal.’
Once again I can’t find anything at the hotplate that looks even vaguely edible, and settle for a couple of potatoes.
‘You ought to go for the vegetarian option,’ says a voice.
I look round to see Pat. ‘Mary won’t be pleased when she finds out you’re not eating, and let’s face it, the vegetarian option is one of the few things they can’t make a complete mess of.’ I take Pat’s advice and select a vegetable fritter. As we pass the end of the counter, another plastic bag containing tomorrow’s breakfast is handed to me. ‘By the way,’ says Pat pointing to the man who has just served me, ‘that’s Peter the press, he’ll wash and iron that shirt for you.’
‘Thank you, Pat,’ I say, and turning back to Peter add, ‘My children are coming to visit tomorrow and I want to look my best for them.’
‘I’ll make you look as if you’ve just stepped out of Savile Row,’ Peter says. ‘I’ll stop by your cell and pick up the shirt once I’ve finished serving breakfast.’
I move on and collect a Thermos flask of hot water from another prisoner, half for a Cup a Soup, half for shaving. As I climb the yellow iron steps back to Cell 29 on the second floor, I overhear Mark, the Arsenal supporter, having a word with Mr Tuck, the officer on duty. He’s pointing out, very courteously, that there are no ethnic representatives among those selected to be Listeners, tea-boys or servers behind the hotplate, despite the fact that they make up over 50 per cent of the prison population. Mr Tuck, who strikes me as a fair man, nods his agreement, and says he’ll have a word with the Governor. Whether he did or not, I have no way of knowing.*
When I arrive back on the second floor Vincent is already waiting for me. I pour half my fruit into his bowl, while he cuts his Spam into two, forking over the larger portion, which I place on the plate next to my vegetable fritter and two potatoes. He also gives me a white T-shirt, which I’m wearing as I write these words.
The cell doors are left open for about ten minutes during which time Peter the press arrives and takes away my dirty white shirt, a pair of pants and socks. ‘I’ll have them back to you first thing tomorrow, squire,’ he promises, and is gone before I can thank him and ask what he would like in return.
My final visitor for the day is Kevin, my Listener, who tells me there’s a rumour that I’m going to be moved to Block One tomorrow, where the regime is a little bit more relaxed and not quite as noisy. I’m sorry to learn this as I’m beginning to make a few friends – Kevin, James, Pat, Vincent, Peter and Mark – and am starting to get the hang of how Block Three works. Kevin sits on the end of the bed and chats as James had warned me he would; but I welcome the company, not to mention the fact that while a Listener is in the room, the door has to be left open.
Kevin had a visit this afternoon from his wife and children. He tells me his fourteen-year-old is now taller than he is, and his nine-year-old can’t understand why he doesn’t come home at night.
Mr Gilford, the duty officer, hovers at my cell door, a hint that even though Kevin is a Listener, it’s perhaps time for him to move on. I ask Mr Gilford if I can empty the remains of my meal in the dustbin at the end of the landing – only one bite taken from the fritter. He nods. The moment I return, the cell door is slammed shut.
I sit on the end of the bed and begin to go through my letters. Just over a hundred in the first post, and not one of them condemning me. Amazing how the British people do not reflect the views of the press – I’ve kept every letter just in case my lawyers want to inspect them: three Members of Parliament, David Faber, John Gummer and Peter Lilley, and two members of the Lords, Bertie Denham and Robin Ferrers, are among those early writers. One former minister not only says how sorry he is to learn that I’m in jail, but adds that Mr Justice Potts’s summing-up was a travesty of justice, and the sentence inexplicable.
I begin to make a mental list of my real friends.
Day 6
Tuesday 24 July 2001
5.44 am
I seem to have settled back into my usual sleep pattern. I wake around 5.30 am, rise at six, and begin my first two-hour writing session just as I would if I were in the tranquillity of my own home. I continue to write uninterrupted until eight.
I make extensive notes on what has taken place during the day, and then the following morning I pen the full script, which usually comes to about three thousand words. I also scribble a note whenever I overhear a casual remark, or a piece of information that might be forgotten only moments later.
I am just about to shave – a process I now take some considerable time over, not just because I have time, but also because I don’t want to be cut to ribbons by my prison razor – when there is a bang on the cell door. My tiny window is flicked open and Ms Newsome shouts, ‘Archer, you’re being moved to House Block One, get your things ready.’
I should have realized by now that such a warning would be followed by at least a two-hour wait, but inexperience causes me to abandon any attempt to shave and quickly gather together my belongings. My only concern is that my children may be visiting me this afternoon and I wouldn’t want them to see me unshaven.
I gather everything together and, as if I were returning home at the end of a holiday, I find I have far more possessions than I started out with. By the time I have stuffed everything into my large HM Prisons plastic bag, I begin to feel apprehensive about moving off Beirut to the lifers’ wing.
10.07 am
My cell door is thrown open again, and I join a dozen or so prisoners who are also being transferred to Block One. I recognize one or two of them from the exercise yard. They can’t resist a chorus of ‘Good morning, Jeff’, ‘How was your breakfast, my Lord?’, and ‘We must be off to the posh block if you’re coming with us.’
Kevin slips into the back of the line to tell me that my white shirt has been washed and pressed by Peter, and he’ll have it sent over to Block One this afternoon, but I’ll have to make out a new provisions list, as each house block has its own canteen.
