Jeffrey Archer - Hell

I assure her I will not sign another library book. She nods and slams the door closed.

I continue writing, aware that the next opportunity for a break will come when we have the allocated forty-five minutes for afternoon exercise. I’m already becoming used to the routine of the door opening, lining up to be searched, and then being released into the yard. I’ve written about another two thousand words before the door opens again.

Having gone through the ritual, I stroll around the large square accompanied by Vincent (burglary) and another man called Mark (driving offence), who supports Arsenal. One circuit, and I discover that the only way to stop Mark boring me to death about his favourite football team is to agree with him that Arsenal, despite Manchester United’s recent record, is the best team in England.

Desperate for a change of subject, I point to a sad figure walking in front of us, the only prisoner in the yard who looks older than me.

‘Poor old thing,’ says Vincent. ‘He shouldn’t be here, but he’s what’s known as a bag man – nowhere to go, so he ends up in prison.’

‘But what was his crime?’ I ask.

‘Nothing, if the truth be known. Every few weeks he throws a brick through a shop window and then hangs around until the police turn up to arrest him.’

‘Why would he do that?’ I ask.

‘Because he’s got nowhere to go and at least while he’s inside the poor old sod is guaranteed a bed and three meals a day.’

‘But surely the police have worked that out by now?’ I suggest.

‘Yes, of course they have, so they advise the magistrate to bind him over. But he’s even found a way round that, because the moment the magistrate fails to sentence him, he shouts out at the top of his voice, “You’re a stupid old fucker, and I’m going to throw a brick through your window tonight, so see you again tomorrow.” That assures him at least another six weeks inside, which is exactly what he was hoping for in the first place. He’s been sentenced seventy-three times in the past thirty years, but never for more than three months. The problem is that the system doesn’t know what to do with him.’

A young black man runs past me, to the jeers of those lolling up against the perimeter fence. He is not put off, and if anything runs a little faster. He’s lean and fit, and looks like a quartermiler. I watch him, only to be reminded that my planned summer holiday at the World Athletics Championships in Edmonton with Michael Beloff has been exchanged for three weeks in Belmarsh.

‘Let’s get moving,’ whispers Vincent. ‘We want to avoid that one at any cost,’ he adds, pointing to a lone prisoner walking a few paces ahead of us. Vincent doesn’t speak again until we’ve overtaken him, and are out of earshot. He then answers my unasked question. ‘He’s a double murderer – his wife and her boyfriend.’ Vincent goes on to describe how he killed them both. I found the details so horrific that I must confess I didn’t feel able to include Vincent’s words in this diary until six months after I’d left Belmarsh. If you’re at all squeamish, avoid reading the next three paragraphs.

This is Vincent’s verbatim description.

That bastard returned home unexpectedly in the middle of the day, to find his wife making love to another man. The man tried to escape out of the bedroom window, but was knocked out with one punch. He then tied the two of them next to each other on the bed, before going down to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later holding a serrated carving knife with a seven-inch blade. During the next hour, he stabbed the lover eleven times making sure he was still alive before finally cutting off his balls .

Once the man had died, he climbed on the bed and raped his wife, who was still tied up next to her dead lover. At the last moment he came all over the dead man’s face. He then climbed off the bed, and stared at his hysterical wife. He waited for some time before inserting the carving knife deep into her vagina. He then pulled the blade slowly up through her body .

During the trial, he told the jury that he’d killed her to prove how much he loved her. He was sentenced to life with no prospect of parole .

‘Just remember to avoid him at any cost,’ says Vincent. ‘He’d slit your throat for a half-ounce of tobacco, and as he’s going to spend the rest of his life in here, nothing can be added to his sentence whatever he gets up to.’

I feel sure he’s just the sort of fellow Mr Justice Potts was hoping I’d bump into.

The hooter blasts out, the unsubtle indication that our forty-five minutes is up. We are called in, block by block, so that we can return to our individual cells in smaller groups. As I’m on Block Three, I have to hang around and wait to be called. When they call Two, I notice that the double murderer is striding purposefully towards me. I bow my head hoping he won’t notice, but when I look up again, I see he’s staring directly at me and still heading in my direction. I look towards the four officers standing by the gate who stiffen, while the group of black men up against the fence stare impassively on. The double murderer comes to a halt a few paces in front of me.

‘Can I speak to you?’ he asks.

‘Yes, of course,’ I reply, trying to sound as if we were casual acquaintances at a garden party.

‘It’s just that I would like to say how much I enjoy your books, particularly The Prodigal Daughter . I’ve been in here for eleven years and I’ve read everything you’ve written. I just wanted to let you know.’ I’m speechless. ‘And by the way,’ he adds, ‘if you want that bitch of a secretary bumped off, I’ll be happy to arrange it for you.’

I really thought I was going to be sick as I watched him disappear through the gate. Thank God, into another block.

5.00 pm

I’m only locked up for a couple of hours before the bell goes for supper. I pick up my tray and grab a tin of fruit that was donated by James – my first Listener – the night before he was transferred to Whitemoor. When I join the hotplate queue, I ask Vincent if he has a tin opener. He points to an opener attached to the wall on the far side of the room, ‘But you’re not allowed to open anything before you’ve collected your grub.’ I notice that he’s holding a tin of Shipham’s Spam.

‘I’ll swap you half my tin of fruit for half your Spam.’

‘Agreed,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring it up to your cell as soon as I’ve collected my meal.’

Once again I can’t find anything at the hotplate that looks even vaguely edible, and settle for a couple of potatoes.

‘You ought to go for the vegetarian option,’ says a voice.

I look round to see Pat. ‘Mary won’t be pleased when she finds out you’re not eating, and let’s face it, the vegetarian option is one of the few things they can’t make a complete mess of.’ I take Pat’s advice and select a vegetable fritter. As we pass the end of the counter, another plastic bag containing tomorrow’s breakfast is handed to me. ‘By the way,’ says Pat pointing to the man who has just served me, ‘that’s Peter the press, he’ll wash and iron that shirt for you.’

‘Thank you, Pat,’ I say, and turning back to Peter add, ‘My children are coming to visit tomorrow and I want to look my best for them.’

‘I’ll make you look as if you’ve just stepped out of Savile Row,’ Peter says. ‘I’ll stop by your cell and pick up the shirt once I’ve finished serving breakfast.’

I move on and collect a Thermos flask of hot water from another prisoner, half for a Cup a Soup, half for shaving. As I climb the yellow iron steps back to Cell 29 on the second floor, I overhear Mark, the Arsenal supporter, having a word with Mr Tuck, the officer on duty. He’s pointing out, very courteously, that there are no ethnic representatives among those selected to be Listeners, tea-boys or servers behind the hotplate, despite the fact that they make up over 50 per cent of the prison population. Mr Tuck, who strikes me as a fair man, nods his agreement, and says he’ll have a word with the Governor. Whether he did or not, I have no way of knowing. [17]