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12 noon
Lunch. When I reach the hotplate, Dale looks anxious and whispers that he has to see me urgently.
I return to my cell, flick on the television to find that England are 12 for 2 and an Australian victory now looks certain. All we can hope for now is a draw. The untutored Jules thinks England can still win. Bless him. After all, he has only taken to watching cricket because he’s stuck in the same cell as me.
2.00 pm
Gym. I complete my usual programme and feel I’m just about back to the level of fitness I was before being sentenced. I leave the exercise room to check up on what’s happening in the main hall, where I find a volleyball match in progress. So many prisoners want to join in that they are playing one team on and one team off. By the end of the game, I accept the fart that I can no longer hope to play at this level, and appoint myself referee. Within a minute, I’ve given a penalty point because a prisoner swears following one of my decisions. A near riot breaks out and it’s several minutes before I can get the game started again. What then follows is a close, well-fought match without another swear word uttered. When I blow the final whistle, the players on both sides all turn to face me, and swear as one.
3.20 pm
After a shower, I sit in my tiny cell and watch England fight their way back to 107 for 2. Jules is still convinced England can win. Dale visits me in my cell soon after Jules has disappeared off to education. Dale warns me that he’s been interviewed by a security officer. Although they have no proof, they are fairly sure that the five PS20 postal orders he received last week came from me, and they’ve warned him that if any further monies materialize that cannot be accounted for, they’ll set up a full enquiry. We both agree that payments will have to cease, and with it my weekly supplies. Help!
3.50 pm
The same officer interviews me thirty minutes later, saying he has reason to believe I have been sending money in to another prisoner. The officer could not have been more reasonable, and adds that if it occurs again, it could greatly harm my chances of regaining D-cat status. It is then that he asks me if I am being bullied and paying someone to protect me. I burst out laughing. The officer obviously feels that Dale, at six foot three and twenty-seven stone, is my paid minder.
I make it clear that no one is bullying me, and I don’t require any protection, but if I do he will be the first person to hear about it. The last thing I need is to jeopardize my D-cat, or be beaten up.
I return to my cell to find England are 207 for 3 at tea and Butcher is playing out of his skin. Even McGrath is being regularly dispatched to all parts of the ground. Could Jules be right?
4.30 pm
Exercise. I go out into the yard every day now, not just because I need the exercise but to pick up stories from the prisoners on different wings. Many of them are professional criminals, while others are just stupid or lazy. The most dangerous and frightening are a combination of all three. However, a minority are bright; but for the circumstances of their upbringing many of them might well have held down responsible positions. Darren agrees with me, but pointing to an inmate a few paces ahead of us, adds, ‘But not in his case.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Who’s he?’
That’s Dumbo,’ he says, but offers no further explanation until we have passed him and he is well out of earshot.
‘In December last year,’ Darren continues, ‘Dumbo was unemployed and facing the prospect of a distinctly un-merry Christmas. His wife said she’d had enough, and told him to go out and get some money and she didn’t care how. Dumbo disappeared off to the town’s largest toy store, where he shoplifted a replica gun. He then walked across the road, held up the local chemist and departed with fourteen hundred pounds in cash. He returned home, handed over the money to his wife, confident that she would feel he’d done a good day’s work. But after counting the notes, she told him that it wasn’t enough and to go and get some more. Hold your breath,’ said Darren, ‘Dumbo once again leaves his home, returns to the high street, walks back into the same chemist shop with the intention of repeating the hold-up, only to find two police officers interviewing the proprietor. Dumbo was arrested on the spot, accompanied to the nearest police station, charged and later sentenced to eight years for robbery while in the possession of a firearm.’
No novelist would dare to consider such a plot.
5.15 pm
When I return to my cell, Jules is glued to the television. Butcher is still at the crease. We both watch as Jules’s prediction comes true and England sweep to a famous victory - Butcher, having scored the winning run, is 173 not out. This is an innings he will not be the only person to remember for the rest of his life.
I feel I should point out that Jules is every bit as excited as I am. A convert. A week ago he couldn’t understand a draw, let alone what a follow on was, now he can’t wait for next Thursday to watch the fifth and final test. I do hope he doesn’t expect them all to end like this.
5.45 pm
Supper. I’m tucking into my beans and chips when Mr Meanwell unlocks the cell door and asks to have a private word with me. He doesn’t speak again until we are in his office and the door is closed.
‘You were lucky to have got away with it this time, but don’t do it again,’ he warns me. ‘If you do, it could hold up your D-cat for months. And if you’re thinking of doing anything with Sergio, wait until he’s completed his sentence.’ I’m impressed by how well-informed Mr Meanwell is.
DAY 34 - TUESDAY 21 AUGUST 2001
6.11 am
Slept well, write for two hours.
8.15 am
Breakfast. It’s Rice Crispies again. It’s taken me until the middle of the second week to work out that it’s Shredded Wheat on Monday, Rice Crispies on Tuesday, cornflakes on Wednesday. Nothing changes. Everything is by rote.
10.00 am
My induction seems to have run its course. However, I remain on the induction wing as I wait for a single cell to become vacant I am made aware of this because the cycle has begun again: a new group of prisoners is being seen by a member of the Board of Visitors. I peer through the little mesh window in the door; it’s not Mr Flintcroft this time, but a lookalike.
