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6.00 am
I write for two hours.
8.13 am
Breakfast. It’s Shredded Wheat again. Eat one, save one.
9.00 am
Pottery. I take my new book, Arts and Artists, along to my class to while away the two-hour period. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone that I’m not working on a sculpture as long as I’m studying some medium of art.
Shaun appears to be depressed, which could be nothing more than the melancholy of an artist lost in his thoughts. After an hour of painting, he opens his sketch book to reveal an excellent drawing of a Wayland landscape (fairly bleak) and another of a prison door. Then he confides why he is so low. Probation have decided not to let him out two months early on a tag because he failed to appear in court. However, this two-month hold-up will pose some problems for both of us. The quality of the paper, pencils, pastels and oils that are available at Wayland are obviously not up to professional standards, so it may become necessary to enlist the help of a member of the art department to purchase the materials he needs. Shaun will have to select someone who believes in his talent, and more importantly, he needs to trust me enough to believe I will pay him back after he’s been released in November. A member of staff tells me later that Shaun is the most talented prisoner they have come across since they started working in prisons. Our conversation is interrupted by a security officer who says I’m wanted in reception.
10.12 am
A senior officer from Belmarsh is waiting for me in the room with the comfortable chairs. The governor of Belmarsh has put her in charge of the investigation into the theft of seven pages of my diary. You will recall that Trevor Kavanagh, the Surfs political editor, handed the script over to Mary, who in turn passed the seven handwritten pages on to my lawyer.
The officer tells me that she has been in the Prison Service for nearly twenty years, and adds that she isn’t on a whitewash expedition. She makes it clear from the outset that the seven pages of script could not have been stolen by a prisoner, as they wouldn’t have had access to a photocopier. She goes even further and admits that they have narrowed the likely culprit down to one of two officers.
She then hands me a photocopy of my first seven pages, and after reading only a few lines I recall how distraught I was at Belmarsh. I confirm that I had written these pages when I was in the medical centre on my first day, but I have no way of knowing when they were removed or returned, or by whom. I only recall leaving the cell once in the first twenty-four hours, and that was for a forty-five-minute break in the exercise yard. She nods, as if she not only knows when I left my cell, but exactly how many minutes I was out of the room.
‘You were then escorted across to B block to begin your induction. Did you have the script with you at the time?’
Yes, I posted the pages to my PA every three or four days, but not before they were checked by Roy the censor, who I didn’t meet until the third day, so it can’t have been him.’
‘No, it certainly wasn’t Roy,’ she replied, ‘because the Sun received the material the following morning. And in any case, Roy’s bright enough to understand the law of copyright. Whoever did this must have been surprised and disappointed that the Sun wouldn’t touch it.’
She leaves after about an hour, promising to let me know the outcome of her investigation.
12.15 pm
Lunch: vegetable soup and a chocolate wafer. Sergio slips me a banana.
2.00 pm
In order to make up my five lessons a week, I have to attend an education class on a Tuesday afternoon.
The Education Department is situated next to the library, and once I’ve signed in, I report to room one as instructed. I enter a classroom containing twenty small desks set out in a U-shape facing a teacher. Her name is Ms Jocelyn Rimmington, and she looks as if she’s been plucked straight out of an Evelyn Waugh novel. Her job is a difficult one, and I watch her carry it out with consummate skill and ingenuity. She has eight charges, including me. The prisoner she’s talking to is learning basic English so he can take a plumbing exam. The inmate on his right is reading Chaucer as part of an A level course, and on his left is an inmate who is learning to read and write. The remaining four prisoners are preparing for GCSE English. Ms Rimmington moves slowly and methodically from desk to desk, answering each and every question thrown at her until she reaches me.
Wendy tells me that you’re in the middle of writing another book.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I reply.
‘And she thinks the best thing would be for you to carry on with it, until we decide what to do with you.’
I don’t demur; after all, what’s the point of telling this charming lady that I would prefer to do something more productive. It’s obvious that either Wendy Sergeant, who is head of the department, or those above her, lack the imagination of the education department at Belmarsh, who had me conducting a creative writing class before the end of my first week.
5.00 pm
Supper. I eat very little because the only gym session I can attend today is at six o’clock.
6.00 pm
Gym. Complete a full session, mainly because half the regulars are out playing football. Today is the final trial before they select the team for the first match on Sunday. As I cannot be present at Lord’s for the one day final between Somerset and Leicestershire, I’ll have to settle for Wayland versus RAP Methwold.
7.30 pm
After a long press, press, press-button shower, 1 return to the cell and dry myself with a mean little rough green towel. Sergio knocks on the door, walks in, plonks himself on the end of the bed and without any preamble, starts to give me another lecture on emeralds.
