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5.00 pm
Dean takes me off to supper in the canteen. The food looks far better than Wayland’s, and it is served and eaten in a central hall, rather like at boarding school.
6.00 pm
Write for two hours, and feel exhausted. When I’ve finished, I walk across to join Doug in the hospital. He seems to have all the up-to-date gossip. He’s obviously going to be invaluable as my deep throat. We sit and watch the evening news in comfortable chairs. Dean joins us a few minutes later, despite the fact that he is only hours away from being released. He says that my laundry has already been washed and returned to my room.
8.15 pm
I walk back to the north block and report to the duty officer for roll-call. Mr Hughes wears a peaked cap that resembles Mr Mackay’s in Porridge, and he enjoys the comparison. He comes across as a fierce sergeant major type (twenty years in the army) but within moments I discover he’s a complete softie. The inmates like and admire him; if he says he’ll do something, he does it. If he can’t, he tells you.
I return to my room and push myself to write for another hour, despite a smoke-filled room and loud music.
10.00 pm
Final roll-call. Fifteen minutes later I’m in bed and fast asleep, oblivious to David’s smoke and music.
DAY 90
TUESDAY 16 OCTOBER 2001
5.30 am
Alsatians woke me at Belmarsh, at Wayland it was officers jangling keys as they made their early morning rounds, but as NSC is only 100 yards from the coastline, it’s the constant squawk of seagulls that causes you to open your eyes. Later, much later, the muffled grunts of swine are added, as the largest group of residents at NSC are the pigs living on the 900-acre prison farm. I drape a pair of black boxer shorts over the light above my head to make sure David is not woken while I continue my writing routine. He doesn’t stir. At seven-thirty I make my way to the shower room at the end of the corridor.
8.00 am
Dean accompanies me to breakfast: porridge from Monday to Friday, and cereal at weekends, he explains. I satisfy myself with a very hard-boiled egg and a couple of slices of burnt toast.
8.30 am
Induction. During the first week at NSC, a prisoner spends his time finding out how the place works, while the officers try to discover as much as possible about the new inmate. My first appointment is with Dr Walling, the prison doctor, who asks the usual questions about drugs, smoking, drinking, illnesses and allergies. After twenty minutes of prodding, breathing in, being weighed, and having my eyes, ears, teeth and heart checked, Dr Walling’s only piece of advice is not to overdo it in the gym.
‘Try not to forget you are sixty-one,’ he reminds me.
As I leave the surgery, Doug, the hospital orderly a friend of Darren (Wayland, marijuana only), beckons me into the private ward. Doug is six foot, and about sixteen stone, with a full head of hair just beginning to grey, and I would guess is in his late forties. The ward has eight beds, one of which is Doug’s, as someone has to be resident at night in case a prisoner is suddenly taken ill. But what a job; not only does Doug have a room the size of a penthouse suite, but he also has his own television, and his own bathroom. He tells me that he’s in for tax evasion, but doesn’t elaborate. Doug closes the door to his kingdom and confirms that medical orderly is the best job in the prison. However, he assures me that the second-best position at NSC is orderly at the sentence management unit (SMU). Doug whispers that the SMU job is coming up in just over four weeks’ time when the present incumbent, Matthew, will be released. Mr New, the senior officer — equivalent to Mr Tinkler at Wayland — will make the final decision, but Doug will put in a good word for me. ‘Whatever you do,’ he adds, ‘don’t end up working on the farm. Winter’s not far off, so if the food doesn’t kill you, the farm will.’ As I leave, he adds, ‘Come and have a drink this evening.’ (By that he means tea or coffee.) ‘I’m allowed two guests from seven to ten, and you’d be welcome.’ I thank him and, silently, my old mentor Darren. Who you know is just as important on the inside as it is on the outside.
10.30 am
My second induction meeting is to decide what job I’ll do while I’m at NSC. I make my way to the sentence management unit, a building that was formerly the governor’s house and is situated just a few yards from the front gate. The pathway leading up to the entrance is lined with tired red flowers. The light blue front door could do with a lick of paint; it looks as if it is regularly kicked open rather than pushed.
The first room I enter has the feel of a conservatory. It has a dozen wooden chairs, and a notice board covered in information leaflets. Four officers, including a Mr Gough, who looks like a prep school master, occupy the first room on the ground floor. As he ticks off my name, Mr Gough announces, in a broad Norfolk accent, that he will be speaking to all the new inductees once everyone has come across from their medical examination. But as Dr Walling is taking fifteen minutes with each new prisoner, we may be sitting around for some time. As I wait impatiently in the conservatory, I become aware how filthy the room is. At Wayland, the floors shone from their daily buffing, and if you stood still for more than a few moments, someone painted you.
Eventually, all seven new inductees turn up. Mr Gough welcomes us, and begins by saying that as most prisoners spend less than three months at NSC, the officers aim to make our time as civilized as possible while they prepare us for returning to the outside world. Mr Gough explains that at NSC anyone can abscond. It’s all too easy as there are no walls to keep you in. ‘But if you do decide to leave us, please remember to leave your room key on your pillow.’ He’s not joking.
He then tells us about a young man, who absconded sixteen hours before he was due to be released. He was picked up in Boston the following morning and transferred to a C-cat, where he spent a further six weeks. Point taken.
Mr Gough takes us through the jobs that are available for all prisoners under the age of sixty, pointing out that over half the inmates work on the farm. The other half can enrol for education, or take on the usual jobs in the kitchen, or painting, gardening or as a cleaner.
Mr Gough ends by telling us that we all have to abide by a ‘no drugs policy’. Refusing to sign the three documents stating you are not on drugs and will agree at any time to a voluntary drugs test will rule you out of becoming ‘enhanced’ in eight weeks’ time. Enhancement allows you a further £5 a week to spend in the canteen, along with several other privileges. To a question, Mr Gough replies, ‘Wearing your own clot
hes is not permitted in an open prison as it would make absconding that much easier.’ However, I did notice that Doug (tax evasion) was wearing a green T-shirt and brown slacks held up by the most outrageous Walt Disney braces. There’s always someone who finds a way round the system.
I happily sign all of Mr Gough’s drug forms and am then sent upstairs to be interviewed by another officer. Mr Donnelly not only looks like a farmer, but is also dressed in green overalls and wearing Wellington boots. No wonder the place is so dirty. He appears keen for me to join him on the farm, but I explain (on Doug’s advice) that I would like to be considered for Matthew’s job as SMU orderly. He makes a note, and frowns.
12 noon
After ten weeks locked up in Wayland and always being handed a plate of food, I can’t get used to helping myself. One of the kitchen staff laughs when I pass over my plate and expect to be served. ‘A clear sign you’ve just arrived from a closed prison,’ he remarks. ‘Welcome to the real world, Jeff.’
