Free Hell by Jeffrey Archer

Gates asks.
    ‘Yes,’ I reply,
wondering why he asked this non sequitur.
    ‘It’s just that
we find public school boys settle in far more quickly than your average
prisoner.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘To be honest,’ he continues,
‘I’ve already filled in most of the boxes about whether you can read or write,
if you’re on any drugs and how often you’ve been to jail. I can also confirm
that you have been allocated Category D status, and will therefore be moved to
an open prison in the near future.’ Like ‘immediately’, ‘near future’ has a
different meaning in prison. Mr Loughnane explains that first they have to locate a prison that has a vacancy, and once
that has been confirmed, there will be the added problem of transport.
    I raise an
eyebrow.
    ‘That’s always
one of our biggest headaches,’ Mr Loughnane explains. ‘Group 4 organize all the transport between
prisons, and we have to fit in with their timetable.’ He then asks, ‘Do you
know any Category D prisons you would like to be considered for?’
    ‘The only open
prison I’ve ever heard of is Ford,’ I tell him, ‘and the one piece of
information I’ve picked up from a former prisoner is that they have a good
library.’
    ‘Yes, they do,’
confirms Mr Gates checking the prisons handbook on
the table in front of him, as if it were a Relais Chateaux guide.
    ‘We’ll give
them a call later this morning and check if they have any spaces available.’
    I thank them
both before being escorted back to the waiting room.
    ‘Have they
fixed you up with the riverside suite?’ asks one prisoner.
    ‘No,’ I reply,
‘but they did promise I wouldn’t have to share a cell with you.’
    This feeble
effort is greeted by clapping and cheers, which I later learn was because I’d
stood up to a man who had blown his brother’s head off. I’m glad I was told
this later because, let me assure you, if I’d known at the time I would have
kept my mouth shut.
    The door is
opened again, and this time Mr Aveling tells me that the senior officer on the block wants to see me. This is greeted
by more jeers and applause. ‘Be careful, Jeff, he thinks you’re after his job.’
    I’m led to an
even more comfortable room, with chairs, a desk and even pictures on the walls,
to be greeted by four officers, three men and one woman. Mr Marsland , the most senior officer present, two pips
on his epaul ettes,* confirms the rumour that
as I won’t be staying long he has put me on the lifers’ spur. I was obviously
unable to mask my horror at the very idea, because he quickly reassures me.
    ‘You’ll find
it’s the most settled wing in the prison, as most of the inmates have sentences
ranging between twelve and twentyfive years, and all they
want is an easy life.
    Otherwise
they’ll never be considered for transfer to a B- or C-cat, let alone parole.’
Yet again, exactly the opposite of what one might imagine. ‘And we also have a
request,’ says Mr Marsland looking down at a sheet of paper. ‘ Mrs Williamson is
running a creativewriting course, and wonders if you
would be willing to address her class?’
    ‘Of course I
will,’ I said. ‘How many normally attend?’
    ‘Because it’s
you, we think they’ll be record numbers,’ says Mrs Williamson, ‘so it could be as many as twelve.’ I haven’t addressed an audience
of twelve since I was the GLC candidate for Romford thirty years ago.
    ‘One problem
has arisen,’ continues Mr Marsland ,
‘I’m afraid there are no single cells available on the lifers’ spur at the
moment, so you’ll have to share.’ My heart sinks. Will I end up with a
murderer, a rapist or a drug addict, or a combination of all three? ‘But we’ll
try to find you a sensible cell-mate,’ he concludes before standing to signal
that the interview is over.
    I return to the
waiting room and only have to hang around for a few more minutes before we are
taken off to our new cells. Once again I’ve been put