Hell Read Free

sit on the bed and start trying to read The Moon’s a Balloon , but my mind
continually wanders. I manage about fifty pages, often stopping to consider the
jury’s verdict, and although I feel tired, even exhausted, I can’t begin to
think about sleep. The promised phone call has not materialized, so I finally
turn off the fluorescent light that shines above the bed, place my head on the
rock-hard pillow and despite the agonizing cries of the patients from the cells
on either side of me, I eventually fall asleep. An hour later I’m woken again
when the fluorescent light is switched back on, the letter box reopens and two
different eyes peer in at me – a procedure that is repeated every hour, on the
hour – to make sure I haven’t tried to take my own life.
    The suicide watch.
    I eventually
fall asleep again, and when I wake just after 4 am, I lie on my back in a
straight line, because both my ears are aching after hours on the rock-hard
pillow. I think about the verdict, and the fact that it had never crossed my
mind even for a moment that the jury could find Francis innocent and me guilty
of the same charge. How could we have conspired if one of us didn’t realize a
conspiracy was taking place? They also appeared to accept the word of my former
secretary, Angie Peppiatt , a woman who stole
thousands of pounds from me, while deceiving me and my family for years.
    Eventually I
turn my mind to the future.
    Determined not
to waste an hour, I decide to write a daily diary of everything I experience
while incarcerated.
    At 6 am, I rise
from my mean bed and rummage around in my plastic bag. Yes, what I need is
there, and this time the authorities have not determined that it should be
returned to sender. Thank God for a son who had the foresight to include,
amongst other necessities, an A4 pad and six felt-tip pens.
    Two hours later
I have completed the first draft of everything that has happened to me since I
was sent to jail.

Day 2 - Friday 20 July 2001
8.00 am
    I am woken
officially – my little trapdoor is opened and I am greeted by the same warm
West Indian grin, which turns to a look of surprise when he sees me sitting at
the table writing. I’ve already been at work for nearly two hours.
    ‘You’ll be able
to have a shower in a few minutes,’ he announces. I’ve already worked out that
in prison a few minutes can be anything up to an hour, so I go on writing.
    ‘Anything you
need?’ he asks politely.
    ‘Would it be
possible to have some more writing paper?’
    ‘Not something
I’m often asked for,’ he admits, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’
    Lester returns
half an hour later and this time the grin has turned into a shy smile. He slips
an A4 pad, not unlike the type I always use, through the little steel trap. In
return he asks me for six autographs, only one to be personalized – for his
daughter Michelle.
    Lester doesn’t
offer any explanation for why he needs the other five, all to be penned on
separate sheets of paper. As no money can change hands in jail, we return to thirteenthcentury England and rely on bartering.
    I can’t imagine
what five Jeffrey Archer signatures are worth: a packet of cigarettes, perhaps?
But I am grateful for this trade, because I have a feeling that being allowed
to write in this hellhole may turn out to be the one salvation that will keep
me sane.
    While I wait
for Lester to return and escort me from my cell to a shower – even a walk down
a long, drab corridor is something I am looking forward to – I continue
writing. At last I hear a key turning and look up to see the heavy door swing
open, which brings its own small sense of freedom Lester hands me a thin green
towel, a prison toothbrush and a tube of prison toothpaste before locking me back
in. I clean my teeth, and my gums bleed for the first time in years. It must be
some physical reaction to what I’ve been put through during the past
twenty-four hours. I worry a little, because during my interrupted night