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The walk across to my new cell via several long corridors is accompanied by the usual opening and closing ceremony of double-barred gates every few yards, and when we finally arrive, we are herded into the inevitable waiting room. I’ve never been much good at waiting. We’ve only been standing around for a few minutes when a young officer, Mr Aveling, opens the door and says, ‘Archer, Mr Loughnane wants to see you about reallocation.’ I’ve only just arrived.
‘They’re letting you out,’ shouts one of the prisoners.
‘Ask if I can share a cell with you, darling,’ shouts another.
‘Don’t pay more than the going rate,’ offers a third. Prison humour.
Mr Aveling escorts me across the corridor to a large, more comfortable room by the standards I’ve become used to during the past few days, and introduces me to Mr Loughnane and Mr Gates. I take a seat opposite them on the other side of the desk.
‘More form-filling, I’m afraid,’ says Mr Loughnane almost apologetically. ‘How are you settling in?’ he asks. I now accept this as the standard opening to any conversation with an officer I haven’t met before.
‘I’m fine, except for having to be locked up in such a confined space for so many hours.’
; ‘Were you at public school?’ Mr Gates asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply, wondering why he asked this non sequitur.
‘It’s just that we find public school boys settle in far more quickly than your average prisoner.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘To be honest,’ he continues, ‘I’ve already filled in most of the boxes about whether you can read or write, if you’re on any drugs and how often you’ve been to jail. I can also confirm that you have been allocated Category D status, and will therefore be moved to an open prison in the near future.’ Like ‘immediately’, ‘near future’ has a different meaning in prison. Mr Loughnane explains that first they have to locate a prison that has a vacancy, and once that has been confirmed, there will be the added problem of transport. I raise an eyebrow.
‘That’s always one of our biggest headaches,’ Mr Loughnane explains. ‘Group 4 organize all the transport between prisons, and we have to fit in with their timetable.’ He then asks, ‘Do you know any Category D prisons you would like to be considered for?’
‘The only open prison I’ve ever heard of is Ford,’ I tell him, ‘and the one piece of information I’ve picked up from a former prisoner is that they have a good library.’
‘Yes, they do,’ confirms Mr Gates checking the prisons handbook on the table in front of him, as if it were a Relais Chateaux guide. ‘We’ll give them a call later this morning and check if they have any spaces available.’
I thank them both before being escorted back to the waiting room.
‘Have they fixed you up with the riverside suite?’ asks one prisoner.
‘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 assure 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 reassures me.
‘You’ll find it’s the most settled wing in the prison, as most of the inmates have sentences ranging between twelve and twenty-five 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 creative-writing course, and wonders if you would be willing to address her class?’
‘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 associate 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 manuscript. 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 assumed 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 shirt. The officer begins by apologizing, before explaining that he will have to confiscate my white shirt, because if I were to wear it, I might be mistaken for a member of the prison staff. This is the white shirt 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 shirt, and one T-shirt (borrowed). He places my white shirt in yet another plastic bag for which I have to sign yet another form. He assures me that it will be returned as soon as I have completed my sentence.
12 noon
