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nner at the Dorchester. As a huge fan of Darren’s, I happily agreed. When the event finally materialized it fell in the middle of my trial. Mr Justice Potts made it clear to my silk that I should not honour the agreement, even though my name was already printed in the programme. After all, it might influence the jury into believing that I am a charitable man, and I suspect that was the last thing Mr Justice Potts would have wanted.
I’m feeling pretty low, so decide to use the other ten units left on my card to phone Mary. There’s no response. I can’t get in touch with William or James as they are both abroad. I sit on the end of my bed and recall the words of La Rochefoucauld: Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fire.
DAY 39 - SUNDAY 26 AUGUST 2001
6.16 am
Sunday is always the longest day in prison. Wayland is short-staffed and there is nothing for inmates to do other than watch wall-to-wall television. In Belmarsh, chapel was a respite as it got you out of your cell, but in Wayland you’re out of your cell without anything to keep you occupied. Mind you, I’d much rather be in Wayland than locked up in Belmarsh for twenty-two hours a day. I write for a couple of hours.
8.20 am
Breakfast. While I’m waiting in the queue for the hotplate, I get talking to a West Indian who is on my landing. He asks if he can have my Times and Sunday Times when I’ve finished with them. I agree to his request if, in return, he will show me how to clean my cell floor. I only mention this because the West Indians keep the cleanest cells. They are not satisfied with sweeping out the dust and dirt, but spend hours buffing up the linoleum floor until you can see your face in it. Although I shower, shave and put on fresh clothes every day, as well as make my bed and have everything in place before the cell door is opened at 8 am, I never look as smart or have as clean a cell as any of the West Indians on my spur.
9.30 am
On my way to the library I slip in behind a man who frightens me. He has an evil face and is one of those prisoners who is proud to describe himself as a career criminal. He is a burglar by profession, and I’m somewhat surprised to see him heading off towards the library with a pile of glossy, coffee-table books under his arm. I try to make out the titles on the spines while we’re on the move: The Encyclopaedia of Antiques, Know Your Antiques and Antiques in a Modem Market.
‘Are you interested in antiques?’ I ask innocently.
‘Yeah, I’m making a careful study of them.’
‘Are you hoping to work in the antiques trade when you’ve completed your sentence?’
‘I suppose you could say that,’ he replies. ‘I’m sick of nicking ‘em only to find out they’re fuckin’ worthless. From now on I’ll know what to fuckin’ look for, won’t I?’
You would think that after five weeks of mixing with criminals, night and day, I couldn’t still be taken by surprise. It serves to remind me again of Lisa Dada’s words about despising burglars, not to mention my own naivety.
10.00 am
In the library I get talking to an older prisoner called Ron (ABH). Most inmates tell me they never want to return to prison, especially the older ones who have served long sentences. But, time and again, they’ll add the rider, ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t, Jeff. Getting a job when you have a criminal record is virtually impossible, so you stay on the dole, until you slip back into a life of crime.’
It’s a vicious circle for those who leave prison with their statutory PS90, NFA (no fixed abode) and little prospect of work. I don’t know the answer, although I accept there is little you can do for people who are genuinely evil, and not much for those who are congenitally stupid. But the first-offence prisoners who want a second chance often leave prison only to find that for the rest of their lives the work door is slammed in their face.
I accept that perhaps only around 20 per cent of prisoners would be worth special treatment, but I would like to see someone come up with a solution for this particular group, especially the first-time offenders. And how many of you reading this diary can honestly say you’ve never committed a crime? For example:
(a) Smoked cannabis (5 million), crack cocaine (300,000), heroin (250,000)
(b) Stolen something - anything
(c) Fiddled your expenses
(d) Taken a bus or train and not paid for the ticket
(e) Not declared your full income to the taxman
(f) Been over the alcohol limit when driving
(g) Driven a vehicle without tax or insurance
(h) Brought in something from abroad and not paid import tax
I have recently discovered that those very people who commit such crimes often turn out to be the most sanctimonious hypocrites, including one leading newspaper editor. It’s the truly honest people who go on treating one decently, as I’ve found from the thousands of letters I’ve received from the general public over the past few weeks.
10.45 am
Chapel. We’re back to a congregation of eleven. The service is Holy Communion, and I’m not sure I care for the modern version. I must be getting old, or at least old-fashioned.
The service is conducted by John Framlington, resplendent in a long white robe to go with his white beard and head of white hair. He must be well into his seventies and he looks like a prophet. A local Salvation Army officer preaches the sermon, with the theme that we all make mistakes, but that does not mean that we cannot be saved. Once he has delivered his message, he joins John to dispense the bread and wine to his little flock. During the singing of the last hymn, John walks off down the aisle and disappears. We are all left literally standing, not quite sure what to do next. A female face peeps out from behind the organ, and decides to continue playing. This brave little gesture is rewarded by everyone repeating the last verse. When we’ve delivered the final line of ‘O Blessed Jesu, Save Us’ John comes running back down the aisle. He turns to face his congregation, apologizes, blesses us and then disappears for a second time. He’s a good man, and it’s generous of him still to be giving his time every Sunday for such a motley crew as us.
