promises.
‘I hope not,’ I tell him, without explanation. I then carry
out a fifteen-minute warm down and stretching as my trainer in London (Karen)
would have demanded. At the end of the session
I am first at the gate, because I’ll have to be in and out
of the shower fairly quickly if I’m to get to the library before the doors are
locked.
10.21 am
Jog to my cell, strip, shower, change, jog to the library.
Still sweating, but nothing I can do about it. Steve (conspiracy to murder) is
on duty behind the desk in his position as chief librarian. Because Steve’s the
senior Listener, he’s allowed to wear his own clothes and is often mistaken for
a member of staff. I return Famous Trials and take out Twenty-one Short Stories
by Graham Greene.
10.50 am
Once I’ve left the library I walk straight across the
corridor to the chapel and discover there are thirty worshippers in the
congregation this week. From their dress, the majority must come from the local
village. The black man sitting next to me, who was among the seven prisoners
who attended last week, tells me it’s the biggest turnout he’s ever seen. This
week a Methodist minister called Mary conducts the service, accompanied by an
Anglican vicar called Val. Mary’s sermon is topical.
She talks about the World Athletics Championships and her
feelings for those competitors who did not achieve what they had set out to do,
but for many of them there will be another chance. I have now attended four
consecutive church services, and the minister always pitches the message at
what he or she imagines will be of interest to the inmates. Each time they have
failed to treat us as if we might just be normal human beings.
People who have not been to prison tend to fall into two
categories. The majority who treat you as if you’re a ‘convict on the run’
while the minority treat you as if you are in their front room.
After the blessing, we gather in an ante-room for coffee and
biscuits with the locals. No need to describe them as they don’t differ greatly
from the kind of parishioners who attend church services up and down the
country every Sunday morning. Average age double that of the prisoners. At
twelve we are sent back to our cells. No search. Unaccompanied.
12 noon
Lunch. I haven’t had a chance to
speak to Dale or Sergio yet, so I fix appointments with Dale at 2 pm and Sergio
at 3 pm. I leave the hotplate with a portion of macaroni liberally covered in
cheese.
While we are waiting in the long queue, Darren tells me when
it used to be almost all macaroni with little sign of any cheese. Nobody
thought to comment about this, until it became clear that the allocation of
cheese was becoming smaller and smaller as each week passed. Still no one did
anything about it, until one week, when there was virtually no cheese, the officer on duty at last began to show some
interest. The first thing he discovered was that the same cook had been on for
the previous four Saturdays and Sundays, so the following weekend he kept an
eye on that particular inmate. He quickly discovered that on Saturday night the
prisoner in question was returning to his cell with a lump of cheese the size
of a pillow (5kg). It was when three loaves of bread also went missing the same
evening that the officer decided to report the incident to the governor. The
following Saturday night a team of officers raided the prisoner’s cell hoping
to find out what he was up to. They discovered that he was running a very
successful business producing Welsh rarebit, which, when toasted, was passed
from cell to cell through the bars of his little window.
‘And damn good they were,’ adds Jimmy, licking his lips.
‘How did he manage to toast them?’ I demanded.
‘On every wing there is a communal iron, which always ended
up in Mario’s cell on a Saturday evening,’ explained Darren.
‘How much did the chef charge?’
Tor two nights’ supply, a two-pound
phonecard.’
‘And how did they punish
‘I hope not,’ I tell him, without explanation. I then carry
out a fifteen-minute warm down and stretching as my trainer in London (Karen)
would have demanded. At the end of the session
I am first at the gate, because I’ll have to be in and out
of the shower fairly quickly if I’m to get to the library before the doors are
locked.
10.21 am
Jog to my cell, strip, shower, change, jog to the library.
Still sweating, but nothing I can do about it. Steve (conspiracy to murder) is
on duty behind the desk in his position as chief librarian. Because Steve’s the
senior Listener, he’s allowed to wear his own clothes and is often mistaken for
a member of staff. I return Famous Trials and take out Twenty-one Short Stories
by Graham Greene.
10.50 am
Once I’ve left the library I walk straight across the
corridor to the chapel and discover there are thirty worshippers in the
congregation this week. From their dress, the majority must come from the local
village. The black man sitting next to me, who was among the seven prisoners
who attended last week, tells me it’s the biggest turnout he’s ever seen. This
week a Methodist minister called Mary conducts the service, accompanied by an
Anglican vicar called Val. Mary’s sermon is topical.
She talks about the World Athletics Championships and her
feelings for those competitors who did not achieve what they had set out to do,
but for many of them there will be another chance. I have now attended four
consecutive church services, and the minister always pitches the message at
what he or she imagines will be of interest to the inmates. Each time they have
failed to treat us as if we might just be normal human beings.
People who have not been to prison tend to fall into two
categories. The majority who treat you as if you’re a ‘convict on the run’
while the minority treat you as if you are in their front room.
After the blessing, we gather in an ante-room for coffee and
biscuits with the locals. No need to describe them as they don’t differ greatly
from the kind of parishioners who attend church services up and down the
country every Sunday morning. Average age double that of the prisoners. At
twelve we are sent back to our cells. No search. Unaccompanied.
12 noon
Lunch. I haven’t had a chance to
speak to Dale or Sergio yet, so I fix appointments with Dale at 2 pm and Sergio
at 3 pm. I leave the hotplate with a portion of macaroni liberally covered in
cheese.
While we are waiting in the long queue, Darren tells me when
it used to be almost all macaroni with little sign of any cheese. Nobody
thought to comment about this, until it became clear that the allocation of
cheese was becoming smaller and smaller as each week passed. Still no one did
anything about it, until one week, when there was virtually no cheese, the officer on duty at last began to show some
interest. The first thing he discovered was that the same cook had been on for
the previous four Saturdays and Sundays, so the following weekend he kept an
eye on that particular inmate. He quickly discovered that on Saturday night the
prisoner in question was returning to his cell with a lump of cheese the size
of a pillow (5kg). It was when three loaves of bread also went missing the same
evening that the officer decided to report the incident to the governor. The
following Saturday night a team of officers raided the prisoner’s cell hoping
to find out what he was up to. They discovered that he was running a very
successful business producing Welsh rarebit, which, when toasted, was passed
from cell to cell through the bars of his little window.
‘And damn good they were,’ adds Jimmy, licking his lips.
‘How did he manage to toast them?’ I demanded.
‘On every wing there is a communal iron, which always ended
up in Mario’s cell on a Saturday evening,’ explained Darren.
‘How much did the chef charge?’
Tor two nights’ supply, a two-pound
phonecard.’
‘And how did they punish
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