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 halfounce 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
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 halfounce 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
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