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I try valiantly to parry their questions, but Mr Marsland and his deputy soon have to come to my rescue when the subject changes to how the prison is run, and in particular their complaints about lock-up times, food, no ice* and wages. These all seem to be fair questions, though nothing to do with writing. The officers try to answer their queries without prevarication and both have so obviously given considerable thought to inmates’ problems. They often sympathize, but appear to have their hands tied by regulations, bureaucracy and lack of money.
One prisoner called Tony, who seems not only to be bright but to have a real grasp of figures, discusses the £27 million budget that Belmarsh enjoys, right down to how much it costs to feed a prisoner every day. I will never forget the answer to that question – £1.27 is allocated for three meals per prisoner per day.
‘Then the caterers must be making a pound a day off every one of us,’ Tony retorts.
The meeting goes on well beyond the scheduled hour, and it’s some time before one of the prisoners, Billy Little who hails from Glasgow, actually asks another question about writing. Do I use my novels to expound any particular political prejudice? No, I reply firmly, otherwise I’d have very few readers. Billy is a left-winger by upbringing and persuasion and argues his case well. He finds a great deal of pleasure in giving me a hard time and making me feel ill at ease with the other prisoners. By the end of a heated exchange, he is at least listening to my point of view.
On the way back to the cells, Billy tells me he’s written a short story and some poetry. He asks if I would be willing to read them and offer an opinion; a sentence I usually dread when I’m on the outside. He nips into his cell on the ground floor, extracts some sheets of paper from a file and passes them over to me. I leave him to find Derek ‘Del Boy’ Bicknell waiting for me outside. He warns me that Terry, my cell-mate, has been talking to the press, and to be wary of saying anything to him.
‘Talking to the press?’
‘Yeah, the screws caught him on the phone to the Sun. I’m told that the going rate for an exclusive with anyone who has shared a cell with you is five grand.’
I thank Derek and assure him I haven’t discussed my case or anything of importance with Terry and never would.
When I return to my cell, I find Terry looking shamefaced. He confirms that he has spoken to the Sun, and they’re keen to know when I’m being moved to Ford.
‘You’ll be on the front page tomorrow,’ I warn him.
‘No, no, I didn’t tell them anything,’ he insists.
I try not to laugh as I settle down to read through another three hundred letters that have been opened by the censor and left on the end of my bed. I can’t believe he’s had the time to read many, if any, of them.
When I’ve finished the last one, I lie back on my bed and reluctantly pick up Billy Little’s twelve-page essay. I turn the first page. I cannot believe what I’m reading. He has such command of language, insight, and that rare gift of making the mundane interesting that I finish every word, before switching off the light a few minutes after ten. I have a feeling that you’re going to hear a lot more about this man, and not just from me.
Day 9
Friday 27 July 2001
2.11 am
I am woken in the middle of the night by rap music blasting out from a cell on the other side of the block. I can’t imagine what it must be like if you’re trying to sleep in the next cell, or even worse in the bunk below. I’m told that rap music is the biggest single cause of fights breaking out in prison. I’m not surprised. I had to wait until it was turned off before I could get back to sleep. I didn’t wake again until eight minutes past six. Amazingly, Terry can sleep through anything.
6.08 am
I write for two hours, and as soon as I’ve completed the first draft of what happened yesterday, I strip
down to my underpants, put a towel round my waist, and place another one on the end of the bed with a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo next to it.
My cell door is opened at eight twenty-three. I’m out of the starting gate like a thoroughbred, sprint along the corridor and into the shower room. Three of the four showers are already occupied by faster men than I. However, I still manage to capture the fourth stall, and once I’ve taken a long press-button shower, I feel clean for the first time in days.
When I return to my cell, Terry is still fast asleep, and even a prison officer unlocking the door doesn’t disturb him. The new officer introduces himself as Ray Marcus, and explains that he works in the censor’s department and is the other half of June Stelfox, who took care of my correspondence on House Block Three. His job is to check every item of mail a prisoner is sent, to make sure that they’re not receiving anything that is against the regulations: razor blades, drugs, money – or even food. To be fair, although the censors open every letter, they don’t read them. Ray is carrying a registered package which he slits open in front of me, and extracts a Bible. The eleventh in nine days. Like the others, I donate it to the chapel. He then asks if he can help in any way with my mail problem. Ray, as he prefers to be called, is courteous and seems almost embarrassed by the fact that I’m not allowed to open my own post. I tell him not to worry, because I haven’t opened my own post for years.
I hand over three large brown envelopes containing all the letters I’ve received the day before, plus the first week (70 pages) of my handwritten script, together with twelve first-class stamps. I ask if they can all be sent back to my PA, Alison, so that she can carry on as if I was on holiday or abroad. He readily agrees, but points out that as senior censor, he is entitled to read anything that I am sending out.
‘That’s fine by me,’ I tell him.
‘I’d rather wait until it’s published,’ he says with a grin. ‘After all, I’ve read everything else you’ve written.’
When he leaves he doesn’t close my door, as if he knows what a difference this simple gesture makes to a man who will be locked up for twenty-two hours every day. This privilege lasts only for a few minutes before another officer strolling by slams it shut, but I am grateful nevertheless.
9.00 am
Breakfast. A bowl of cornflakes with UHT milk from a carton that has been open, and not seen a fridge, for the past twenty-four hours. Wonderful.
10.09 am
Another officer arrives to announce that the Chaplain would like to see me. Glorious escape. He escorts me to the chapel – no search this time – where David Powe is waiting for me. He is wearing the same pale beige jacket, grey flannel trousers and probably the same dog collar as he did when he conducted the service on Sunday. He is literally down at heel. We chat about how I’m settling in – doesn’t everyone? – and then go on to discuss the fact that his sermon on Cain and Abel made it into Private Eye. He chuckles, obviously enjoying the notoriety.
