Hell Read Free Page A

I’d
promised myself that I must remain physically and mentally fit. This, according
to the prison handbook left in every cell, is nothing less than the management
requires. *
    After a night
on the medical wing, one of my first impressions is how many of the staff, dressed
in their smart, clean black uniforms, seem able to keep a smile on their face.
I’m sitting on my bed wondering what to expect next, when my thoughts are
interrupted by someone shouting from the other side of the block.
    ‘ Mornin ’, Jeff, bet you didn’t expect to find yourself in
‘ere.’
    I look through
my tiny window and across the yard to see a face staring at me from behind his own bars. Another grin. ‘I’m
Gordon,’ he shouts. ‘See you in the exercise yard in about an hour.’
9.00 am
    I’m let out of
the cell and walk slowly down the corridor, to enjoy my new-found freedom, as
Lester escorts me to the shower room. I feel I should let you know that in my
apartment on the Albert Embankment, perhaps the
facility of which I am most proud is the shower room. When I step out of it
each morning, I feel a new man, ready to face the world. Belmarsh doesn’t offer quite the same facilities or leave you with the same warm
feeling. The large stone-floored room has three small press-button showers that
issue a trickle of water which is at best lukewarm.
    The pressure
lasts for about thirty seconds before you have to push the button again.
    This means a
shower takes twice as long as usual but, as I am becoming aware, in prison time
is the one commodity that is in abundance. Lester escorts me back to my cell,
while I cling on to my small soaking towel. He tells me not to lose sight of
it, because a towel has to last for seven days.
    He slams the
door closed.
10.00 am
    I lie on my
bed, staring up at the white ceiling, until my thoughts are once again
interrupted by a key turning in the lock. I have no idea who it will be this
time. It turns out to be a plump lady dressed in a prison uniform who has
something in common with the West Indian barterer – a warm smile. She sits down
on the end of my bed and hands me a form for the prison canteen. She explains
that, if I can afford it, I am allowed to spend twelve pounds fifty pence a
week. I must fill in the little boxes showing what I would like, and then she
will see that the order is left in my cell sometime later today. I don’t bother
to enquire what ‘sometime later’ means. When she leaves, I study the canteen
list meticulously, trying to identify what might be described as necessities.
    I am horrified
to discover that the first column on the list is dominated by several different
types of tobacco, and the second column by batteries – think about it. I study
the form for some considerable time, and even enjoy deciding how I will spend
my twelve pounds fifty.
11.00 am
    A bell rings,
as if announcing the end of class. The cell door is opened to allow me to join
the other inmates and spend forty-five minutes in the exercise yard. I’m sure
you’ve seen this activity portrayed in many films – it’s not quite the same
experience when you have to participate yourself. Before going down to the
yard, we all have to undergo another body search, not unlike one you might go
through at an airport. We are then led down three flights of iron steps to an
exercise yard at ground level.
    I pace around the furlong square that is enclosed by a high
red-brick wall, with a closely mown threadbare lawn in the centre .
    After a couple
of rounds, I’m joined by Gordon, the voice who greeted me this morning from the
window on the other side of the block. He turns out to be tall and slim, with
the build of an athlete. He tells me without any prompting that he has already
served eleven years of a fourteen-year sentence for murder. This is the fifth
prison they’ve sent him to. Can’t be for good behaviour ,
is my first reaction.* The author in me is
curious to find out more about him, but I don’t have to ask