officer knocks on the door and lets himself
in. He tells me that they know who it is, as several prisoners saw the culprit
departing. So everyone will know it was by this time tomorrow; yet another
inmate who has been bribed by the press. The last three have been caught, lost
their D-cat status, been shipped back to a B-cat and had time added to their
sentence. I’m told the going rate for a photograph is £500. If they catch him,
I’ll let you know. If they don’t, you’ll have seen it in one of the national
papers, captioned:
‘EXCLUSIVE:
Archer undressing in his cell’.
DAY 119 - WEDNESDAY 14 NOVEMBER 2001
8.15 am
As I walk over
to breakfast from the south block, I pick up snippets of information about last
night’s incident. It turns out that the photographer was not a prisoner, but
Wilkins, a former inmate who was released last Friday. He was recognized by
several inmates, all of whom were puzzled as to what he was doing back inside
the prison four days after he’d been released.
But here is the
tragic aspect of the whole episode. Wilkins was in prison for driving without a
licence, and served only twelve weeks of a six-month sentence. The penalty for
entering a prison for illegal purposes carries a maximum sentence of ten years,
or that’s what it proclaims on the board in black and white as you enter NSC.
And worse, you spend the entire term locked up in a B-cat, as you would be
considered a high-escape risk.
The last such
charge at NSC was when a father brought in drugs for his son. He ended up with
a three-year sentence.
I look forward
to discovering which paper considers this behaviour a service to the public.
I’m told that when they catch Wilkins, part of the bargaining over sentence
will be if he is willing to inform the police who put him up to it.
2.30 pm
There’s a call
over the intercom for all officers to report to the gatehouse immediately.
Matthew and I watch through the kitchen window as a dozen officers arrive at
different speeds from every direction. They surround a television crew who, I
later learn, are bizarrely trying to film a look-alike Jeffrey Archer holding
up one of my books and claiming he’s trying to escape. Mr New tells me he
warned them that they were on government property and must leave immediately,
to which the producer replied, ‘You can’t treat me like that, I’m with the BBC.’
Can the BBC
really have sunk to this level?
DAY 120 - THURSDAY 15 NOVEMBER 2001
5.21 am
I’m up early
because I have to report to the hospital by 7.30 am to take over my new
responsibilities as Doug’s stand-in, while he goes off on a three-day forklift
truck-driving course. How this will help a man of fiftythree who runs his own
haulage company with a two million pound turnover is beyond me. He doesn’t seem
to care about the irrelevance of it all, as long as he gets out of prison for three
days.
I write for two
hours.
7.30 am
I report to
Linda at the hospital, and witness the morning sick parade. A score of
prisoners are lined up to collect their medication, or to see if they can get
off work for the day.
If it’s raining
or freezing cold, the length of the queue doubles. Most farm workers would
rather spend the day in the warm watching TV than picking Brussels sprouts or
cleaning out the pigsties. Linda describes them as malingerers, and claims she
can spot them at thirty paces. If I worked on the farm I might well join them.
Bill (fraud,
farm worker) has had every disease, affliction and germ that’s known to man.
Today he’s got diarrhoea and asks Linda for the day off work. He feels sure
he’ll be fine by tomorrow.
‘Certainly,’
says Linda, giving him her warmest smile. Bill smiles back in response.
‘But,’ she
adds, ‘I’m going to have to put you in the san [sanatorium] for the day.’
‘Why?’ asks
Bill, looking surprised.
‘I’ll need to
take a sample every thirty minutes,’ she explains, ‘before I can decide what
medication to prescribe.’
in. He tells me that they know who it is, as several prisoners saw the culprit
departing. So everyone will know it was by this time tomorrow; yet another
inmate who has been bribed by the press. The last three have been caught, lost
their D-cat status, been shipped back to a B-cat and had time added to their
sentence. I’m told the going rate for a photograph is £500. If they catch him,
I’ll let you know. If they don’t, you’ll have seen it in one of the national
papers, captioned:
‘EXCLUSIVE:
Archer undressing in his cell’.
DAY 119 - WEDNESDAY 14 NOVEMBER 2001
8.15 am
As I walk over
to breakfast from the south block, I pick up snippets of information about last
night’s incident. It turns out that the photographer was not a prisoner, but
Wilkins, a former inmate who was released last Friday. He was recognized by
several inmates, all of whom were puzzled as to what he was doing back inside
the prison four days after he’d been released.
But here is the
tragic aspect of the whole episode. Wilkins was in prison for driving without a
licence, and served only twelve weeks of a six-month sentence. The penalty for
entering a prison for illegal purposes carries a maximum sentence of ten years,
or that’s what it proclaims on the board in black and white as you enter NSC.
And worse, you spend the entire term locked up in a B-cat, as you would be
considered a high-escape risk.
The last such
charge at NSC was when a father brought in drugs for his son. He ended up with
a three-year sentence.
I look forward
to discovering which paper considers this behaviour a service to the public.
I’m told that when they catch Wilkins, part of the bargaining over sentence
will be if he is willing to inform the police who put him up to it.
2.30 pm
There’s a call
over the intercom for all officers to report to the gatehouse immediately.
Matthew and I watch through the kitchen window as a dozen officers arrive at
different speeds from every direction. They surround a television crew who, I
later learn, are bizarrely trying to film a look-alike Jeffrey Archer holding
up one of my books and claiming he’s trying to escape. Mr New tells me he
warned them that they were on government property and must leave immediately,
to which the producer replied, ‘You can’t treat me like that, I’m with the BBC.’
Can the BBC
really have sunk to this level?
DAY 120 - THURSDAY 15 NOVEMBER 2001
5.21 am
I’m up early
because I have to report to the hospital by 7.30 am to take over my new
responsibilities as Doug’s stand-in, while he goes off on a three-day forklift
truck-driving course. How this will help a man of fiftythree who runs his own
haulage company with a two million pound turnover is beyond me. He doesn’t seem
to care about the irrelevance of it all, as long as he gets out of prison for three
days.
I write for two
hours.
7.30 am
I report to
Linda at the hospital, and witness the morning sick parade. A score of
prisoners are lined up to collect their medication, or to see if they can get
off work for the day.
If it’s raining
or freezing cold, the length of the queue doubles. Most farm workers would
rather spend the day in the warm watching TV than picking Brussels sprouts or
cleaning out the pigsties. Linda describes them as malingerers, and claims she
can spot them at thirty paces. If I worked on the farm I might well join them.
Bill (fraud,
farm worker) has had every disease, affliction and germ that’s known to man.
Today he’s got diarrhoea and asks Linda for the day off work. He feels sure
he’ll be fine by tomorrow.
‘Certainly,’
says Linda, giving him her warmest smile. Bill smiles back in response.
‘But,’ she
adds, ‘I’m going to have to put you in the san [sanatorium] for the day.’
‘Why?’ asks
Bill, looking surprised.
‘I’ll need to
take a sample every thirty minutes,’ she explains, ‘before I can decide what
medication to prescribe.’
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