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‘And he wasn’t an Old Etonian?’ I probe innocently.
‘Yeah, course he was,’ said Gordon. ‘But I didn’t shoot him, did I? I stabbed him seventeen times.’
I feel sick at this matter-of-fact revelation, delivered with neither remorse nor irony. Gordon goes on to tell me that he was twenty at the time, and had run away from home at the age of fourteen, after being sexually abused. I shuddered, despite the sun beaming down on me. I wonder just how long it will be before I’m not sickened by such confessions. How long before I don’t shudder? How long before it becomes matter-of-fact, commonplace?
; As we continue our circumnavigation of the yard, he points out Ronnie Biggs, who’s sitting on a bench in the far corner surrounded by geraniums.
‘They’ve just planted those, Jeff,’ says Gordon. ‘They must have known you were comin’.’ Again, he doesn’t laugh. I glance across to see a sick old man with a tube coming out of his nose. A man who doesn’t look as if he has long to live.
Another circuit, before I ask Gordon about a young West Indian who has his face turned to the wall, and hasn’t moved an inch since I walked into the yard.
‘He killed his wife and young daughter,’ says Gordon. ‘He’s tried to commit suicide three times since they locked him up, and doesn’t talk to no one.’
I felt strangely compassionate for this double murderer as we pass him for a third time. As we overtake another man who looks totally lost, Gordon whispers, ‘That’s Barry George, who’s just been done for killing Jill Dando.’ I didn’t tell him that Jill was an old friend and we both hail from Weston-super-Mare. For the first time in my life, I keep my counsel. ‘No one in here believes he did it,’ says Gordon, ‘including the screws.’ I still make no comment. However, George’s and my trial ran concurrently at the Old Bailey, and I was surprised by how many senior lawyers and laymen told me they were disturbed by the verdict. ‘I’ll bet he gets off on appeal,’* Gordon adds as another bell rings to indicate that our forty-five minutes of ‘freedom’ is up.
Once again we are all searched before leaving the yard, which puzzles me; if we didn’t have anything on us when we came in, how could we have acquired anything while we were walking around the yard? I feel sure there is a simple explanation. I ask Gordon.
‘They’ve got to go through the whole procedure every time,’ Gordon explains as we climb back up the steps. ‘It’s the regulations.’
When we reach the third floor, we go our separate ways.
‘Goodbye,’ says Gordon, and we never meet again.
I read three days later in the Sun that Ronald Biggs and I shook hands after Gordon had introduced us.
11.45 am
Locked back up in my cell, I continue to write, only to hear the key turning before I’ve completed a full page. It’s Ms Roberts, the Deputy Governor. I stand and offer her my little steel chair. She smiles, waves a hand, and perches herself on the end of the bed. She confirms that the arrangements for my visit to the parish church in Grantchester to attend my mother’s funeral have been sanctioned by the Governor. They have checked the police computer at Scotland Yard, and as I have no previous convictions, and no history of violence, I am automatically a Category D prisoner,* which she explains is important because it means that during the funeral service the prison officers accompanying me need not wear a uniform, and therefore I will not have to be handcuffed.
The press will be disappointed, I tell her.
‘It won’t stop them claiming you were,’ she replies.
Ms Roberts goes on to tell me that I will be moved from the medical wing to Block Three sometime after lunch. There is no point in asking her when exactly.
I spend the rest of the morning locked up in my cell, writing, sticking to a routine I have followed for the past twenty-five years – two hours on, two hours off – though never before in such surroundings. When I normally leave home for a writing session I go in search of somewhere that has a view of the ocean.
12 noon
I’m let out of my cell to join a queue for lunch. One look at what’s on offer and I can’t face it – overcooked meat, Heaven knows from which animal, mushy peas swimming in water, and potatoes that Oliver Twist would have rejected. I settle for a slice of bread and a tin cup of milk, not a cup of tinned milk. I sit at a nearby table, finish lunch in three minutes, and return to my cell.
I don’t have to wait long before another woman officer appears to tell me that I’m being transferred to Cell Block Three, better known by the inmates as Beirut. I pack my plastic bag which takes another three minutes while she explains that Beirut is on the other side of the prison.
‘Anything must be better than the medical wing,’ I venture.
‘Yes, I suppose it is a little better,’ she says. She hesitates. ‘But not that much better.’
She escorts me along several linking corridors, unlocking and locking even more barred gates, before we arrive in Beirut. My appearance is greeted by cheers from several inmates. I learn later that bets had been placed on which block I would end up in.
Each of the four blocks serves a different purpose, so it shouldn’t have been difficult to work out that I would end up on Three – the induction block. You remain in ‘induction’ until they have assessed you, like a plane circling above an airport waiting to be told which runway you can finally land on. More of that later.
My new cell turns out to be slightly larger, by inches, and a little more humane, but, as the officer promised, only just. The walls are an easier-to-live-with shade of green, and this time the lavatory has a flush. No need to pee in the washbasin any more. The view remains consistent. You just stare at another red-brick block, which also shields all human life from the sun. The long walk from the medical block across the prison to Block Three had itself served as a pleasant interlude, but I feel sick at the thought of this becoming a way of life.
A tea-boy or Listener* called James is waiting outside my cell to greet me. He has a kind face, and reminds me of a prefect welcoming a new boy on his first day at school, the only difference being that he’s twenty years younger than I am. James tells me that if I need any questions answered I should not hesitate to ask. He advises me not to say anything to anyone – prisoners or officers – about my sentence or appeal, or to discuss any subject I don’t want to see in a national newspaper the following day. He warns me that the other prisoners all believe they’re going to make a fortune by phoning the Sun to let a journalist know what I had for lunch. I thank him for the advice my QC has already proffered. James passes over another rock-hard pillow with a green pillowcase, but this time I’m given two sheets and two blankets. He also hands me a plastic plate, a plastic bowl, a plastic mug and a plastic knife and fork. He then tells me the bad news, England were all out for 187. I frown.
‘But Australia are 27 for two,’ he adds with a grin. He’s obviously heard about my love of cricket. ‘Would you like a radio?’ he asks. ‘Then you can follow the ball-by-ball commentary.’
