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Yours as an artist,
I am quite unable to read the signature. In the second post there is another letter in the same bold red hand:
1/8/01 5.05 pm
Dear Geofrey [sic]
After having sealed my letter to you I realized that I wrote PS15m instead of PS1.5m So just to reassure you, I’m not an idiot, I repeat my offer to spring you and a few other trustworthy buddies!
Yours in every greater art,
Again, I cannot read the signature.
DAY 25 - SUNDAY 12 AUGUST 2001
5.56 am
Woken by voices in the corridor, two officers, one of them on a walkie-talkie. They open a cell door and take a prisoner away. I will find out the details when my door is unlocked in a couple of hours’ time.
6.05 am
Write for two hours.
8.15 am
Breakfast. Sugar Puffs (prison issue), long-life milk (mine, because it’s Sunday). Beans on burnt toast (prison’s).
10.00 am
I go to the library for the first time and sign up. You are allowed to take out two books, a third if your official work is education. The library is about the same size as the weight-lifting room and, to be fair, just as well stocked. They have everything from Graham Greene to Stephen King, I, Claudius to Harry Potter.
However, although Forsyth, Grisham, Follett and Jilly Cooper are much in evidence, I can find none of my books on the shelves. I hope that’s because they are all out on loan. Lifers often tell me they’ve read them all - slowly - and in some cases several times.
I take out a copy of The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse, which I haven’t read in years, and Famous Trials selected by John Mortimer. Naturally I have to fill in another form, and then my choices are stamped by the library orderly - a prisoner - to be returned by 26 August. I’m rather hoping to have moved on by then.
Kevin, the prisoner who stamps my library card, tells me that all my books were removed from the shelves the day they found out I was being transferred to Wayland.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Direct order from the number one governor.
It seems that Belmarsh informed her that the prisoners were stealing your books, and if they could then get you to Sign them, the black-market price is a thousand pounds.’
I believe everything except the thousand pounds, which sounds like a tabloid figure.
10.30 am
I check my watch, leave the library and quickly make my way across to the chapel on the other side of the corridor. There is no officer standing by the entrance. It suddenly hits me that I haven’t been searched since the day I arrived. I’m a couple of minutes late, and wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place, as there are only three other prisoners sitting in the pews, along with the chaplain. John Framlington is dressed in a long, black gown and black cape with crimson piping, and welcomes me with literally open arms.
The chapel is very impressive, with its wood-panelled walls and small oils depicting the life of Christ. The simple altar is covered in a cloth displaying a white cross with splashes of gold. There is also a large wooden cross hanging from the wall behind the altar. The seating consists of six rows of twenty wooden chairs set in a semicircle reminiscent of a small amphitheatre. I take a seat in the third row as a group of men and women all dressed in red T-shirts enters by the backdoor. They assemble their music on stands while a couple strap on guitars and a flautist practises a few notes. She’s very pretty. I wonder if it’s because it’s my twenty-fifth day in prison. But that would be an ungallant thought. She is pretty.
By ten forty-five the congregation has swelled to seven, but we are still outnumbered by the nine-strong choir. The prisoners are all seated to the right of the altar while the choir is standing on the left. A man, who appears to be the group’s leader, suggests we move across and join him on their side of the chapel. All seven of us dutifully obey. I’ve just worked out why the congregation at Belmarsh was over two hundred, week in and week out, while at Wayland it’s down to seven. Here you are allowed to stroll around the buildings for long periods of time, so if you wish to make contact with someone from another wing, it’s not all that difficult. In Belmarsh, chapel was a rare opportunity to catch up with a friend from another block, relay messages, pass on drugs and occasionally even pray.
The chaplain then walks up to the front, turns and welcomes us all. He begins by introducing Shine who, he tells us, are a local group that perform for several churches in the diocese.
We all join in the first hymn, ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, and Shine turn out to be rather good. Despite our depleted numbers, the service still swings along. Once the chaplain has delivered the opening prayer, he comes and sits amongst the congregation. He doesn’t conduct any other part of the service, as that has been left in the capable hands of the leader of Shine. Next we sing ‘Amazing Grace’, which is followed by a lesson from Luke, read by another member of the group. Following another hymn we are addressed by the leader of Shine. He takes his text from the first reading of the Good Samaritan. He talks about people who walk by on the other side when you are in any trouble. This time I do thank God for my family and friends, because so few of them have walked by on the other side.
The service ends with a blessing from the chaplain, who then thanks the group for giving up their time. I return to my cell and write notes on everything I have just experienced.
