Amazing
how the British people do not reflect the views of the press –
I’ve kept every
letter just in case my lawyers want to inspect them: three Members of
Parliament, David Faber, John Gummer and Peter Lilley, and two members of the
Lords, Bertie Denham and Robin Ferrers , are among
those early writers. One former minister not only says how sorry he is to learn
that I’m in jail, but adds that Mr Justice Potts’s
summing-up was a travesty of justice, and the sentence inexplicable.
I begin to make
a mental list of my real friends.
Day 6 - Tuesday 24 July 2001
5.44 am
I seem to have
settled back into my usual sleep pattern. I wake around 5.30 am, rise at six,
and begin my first two-hour writing session just as I would if I were in the tranquillity of my own home. I continue to write
uninterrupted until eight.
I make
extensive notes on what has taken place during the day, and then the following
morning I pen the full script, which usually comes to about three thousand
words. I also scribble a note whenever I overhear a casual remark, or a piece
of information that might be forgotten only moments later.
I am just about
to shave – a process I now take some considerable time over, not just because I
have time, but also because I don’t want to be cut to ribbons by my prison
razor – when there is a bang on the cell door. My tiny window is flicked open
and Ms Newsome shouts, ‘Archer, you’re being moved to
House Block One, get your things ready.’
I should have
realized by now that such a warning would be followed by at least a twohour wait, but inexperience causes me to abandon any
attempt to shave and quickly gather together my belongings. My only concern is
that my children may be visiting me this afternoon and I wouldn’t want them to
see me unshaven.
I gather
everything together and, as if I were returning home at the end of a holiday, I
find I have far more possessions than I started out with. By the time I have
stuffed everything into my large HM Prisons plastic bag, I begin to feel
apprehensive about moving off Beirut to the lifers’ wing.
10.07 am
My cell door is
thrown open again, and I join a dozen or so prisoners who are also being
transferred to Block One. I recognize one or two of them from the exercise
yard. They can’t resist a chorus of ‘Good morning, Jeff’,
‘How was your
breakfast, my Lord?’, and ‘We must be off to the posh
block if you’re coming with us.’
Kevin slips
into the back of the line to tell me that my white shirt has been washed and
pressed by Peter, and he’ll have it sent over to Block One this afternoon, but
I’ll have to make out a new provisions list, as each house block has its own
canteen.
The walk across
to my new cell via several long corridors is accompanied by the usual opening
and closing ceremony of doublebarred gates every few
yards, and when we finally arrive, we are herded into the inevitable waiting
room. I’ve never been much good at waiting. We’ve only been standing around for
a few minutes when a young officer, Mr Aveling , opens the door and says, ‘Archer, Mr Loughnane wants to see you
about reallocation.’ I’ve only just arrived.
‘They’re
letting you out,’ shouts one of the prisoners.
‘Ask if I can
share a cell with you, darling,’ shouts another.
‘Don’t pay more
than the going rate,’ offers a third. Prison humour .
Mr Aveling escorts me across the
corridor to a large, more comfortable room by the standards I’ve become used to
during the past few days, and introduces me to Mr Loughnane and Mr Gates. I take a
seat opposite them on the other side of the desk.
‘More
form-filling, I’m afraid,’ says Mr Loughnane almost apologetically. ‘How are you settling in?’
he asks. I now accept this as the standard opening to any conversation with an
officer I haven’t met before.
‘I’m fine,
except for having to be locked up in such a confined space for so many hours.’
‘Were you at
public school?’ Mr
how the British people do not reflect the views of the press –
I’ve kept every
letter just in case my lawyers want to inspect them: three Members of
Parliament, David Faber, John Gummer and Peter Lilley, and two members of the
Lords, Bertie Denham and Robin Ferrers , are among
those early writers. One former minister not only says how sorry he is to learn
that I’m in jail, but adds that Mr Justice Potts’s
summing-up was a travesty of justice, and the sentence inexplicable.
I begin to make
a mental list of my real friends.
Day 6 - Tuesday 24 July 2001
5.44 am
I seem to have
settled back into my usual sleep pattern. I wake around 5.30 am, rise at six,
and begin my first two-hour writing session just as I would if I were in the tranquillity of my own home. I continue to write
uninterrupted until eight.
I make
extensive notes on what has taken place during the day, and then the following
morning I pen the full script, which usually comes to about three thousand
words. I also scribble a note whenever I overhear a casual remark, or a piece
of information that might be forgotten only moments later.
I am just about
to shave – a process I now take some considerable time over, not just because I
have time, but also because I don’t want to be cut to ribbons by my prison
razor – when there is a bang on the cell door. My tiny window is flicked open
and Ms Newsome shouts, ‘Archer, you’re being moved to
House Block One, get your things ready.’
I should have
realized by now that such a warning would be followed by at least a twohour wait, but inexperience causes me to abandon any
attempt to shave and quickly gather together my belongings. My only concern is
that my children may be visiting me this afternoon and I wouldn’t want them to
see me unshaven.
I gather
everything together and, as if I were returning home at the end of a holiday, I
find I have far more possessions than I started out with. By the time I have
stuffed everything into my large HM Prisons plastic bag, I begin to feel
apprehensive about moving off Beirut to the lifers’ wing.
10.07 am
My cell door is
thrown open again, and I join a dozen or so prisoners who are also being
transferred to Block One. I recognize one or two of them from the exercise
yard. They can’t resist a chorus of ‘Good morning, Jeff’,
‘How was your
breakfast, my Lord?’, and ‘We must be off to the posh
block if you’re coming with us.’
Kevin slips
into the back of the line to tell me that my white shirt has been washed and
pressed by Peter, and he’ll have it sent over to Block One this afternoon, but
I’ll have to make out a new provisions list, as each house block has its own
canteen.
The walk across
to my new cell via several long corridors is accompanied by the usual opening
and closing ceremony of doublebarred gates every few
yards, and when we finally arrive, we are herded into the inevitable waiting
room. I’ve never been much good at waiting. We’ve only been standing around for
a few minutes when a young officer, Mr Aveling , opens the door and says, ‘Archer, Mr Loughnane wants to see you
about reallocation.’ I’ve only just arrived.
‘They’re
letting you out,’ shouts one of the prisoners.
‘Ask if I can
share a cell with you, darling,’ shouts another.
‘Don’t pay more
than the going rate,’ offers a third. Prison humour .
Mr Aveling escorts me across the
corridor to a large, more comfortable room by the standards I’ve become used to
during the past few days, and introduces me to Mr Loughnane and Mr Gates. I take a
seat opposite them on the other side of the desk.
‘More
form-filling, I’m afraid,’ says Mr Loughnane almost apologetically. ‘How are you settling in?’
he asks. I now accept this as the standard opening to any conversation with an
officer I haven’t met before.
‘I’m fine,
except for having to be locked up in such a confined space for so many hours.’
‘Were you at
public school?’ Mr
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