Free Hell by Jeffrey Archer Page A

on the top floor – I think
this must be for security reasons. Cell 40 is a little larger than Cell 29,
where I last resided, but far from double the size, remembering that it has to
accommodate two prisoners. It measures seven paces by four, rather than five by
three, and up against the far wall, directly in front of the lavatory, is a
small bunk bed, which one would more normally associate with a nursery.
    My room-mate
turns out to be Terry. Terry the writer. He is the one
who approached me in the yard and asked if I would read his manuscript. He’s
been selected to join me because he doesn’t smoke, a rarity amongst inmates,
and it’s a prison regulation that if you don’t smoke, they can’t make you share
a cell with someone who does. The authorities assumed I would be aware of this
rule. I wasn’t.
    Terry, as I
have already mentioned, is halfway through writing a novel and seems pleased to
discover who his cell-mate will be.
    I find out
later why, and it’s not because he wants me to help him with his syntax.
    Terry is
outwardly courteous and friendly, and despite my continually asking him to call
me Jeffrey, he goes on addressing me as Mr Archer. We
agree that he will have the top bunk and I the bottom, on account of my
advanced years. I quickly discover that he’s very tidy, happy to make both
beds, sweep the floor and regularly empty our little plastic bucket.
    I begin to
unpack my cellophane bag and store my possessions in the tiny cupboard above my
bed. Once we’ve both finished unpacking, I explain to Terry that I write for
six hours a day, and hope he will understand if I don’t speak to him during
those set two-hour periods. He seems delighted with this arrangement,
explaining that he wants to get on with his own novel. I’m about to ask how
it’s progressing, when the door is opened and we’re joined by a prison officer
who has intercepted my freshly ironed white shirt. The officer begins by
apologizing, before explaining that he will have to confiscate my white shirt,
because if I were to wear it, I might be mistaken for a member of the prison
staff.
    This is the
white shirt that I’d had washed and ironed by Peter the press so that I could
look smart for Will and James’s visit. I’m now down to one blue shirt, and one
T-shirt (borrowed). He places my white shirt in yet another plastic bag for
which I have to sign yet another form. He assures me that it will be returned
as soon as I have completed my sentence.
    12 noon After a second session of writing, the cell door is opened and we are let out for
Association. I join the lifers on the ground floor, which has an identical
layout to House Block Three. The lifers (23 murderers plus a handful of ABH and GBH* to make up the numbers) range in age from nineteen to fifty, and
view me with considerable suspicion. Not only because I’m a Conservative
millionaire, but far worse, I will only be with them for a few days before I’m
dispatched to an open prison. Something they won’t experience for at least
another ten years. It will take a far greater effort to break down the barriers
with this particular group than the young fledgeling criminals of House Block Three.
    As I stroll around,
I stop to glance at the TV. A man of about my age is watching Errol Flynn and
David Niven in the black- andwhite version of The Charge of the Light
Brigade . I take a seat next to him.
    ‘I’m David,’ he
says. ‘You haven’t shaved today.’
    I confess my sin,
and explain that I was in the process of doing so when an officer told me I
would be moving.
    ‘Understood,’
said David. ‘But I have to tell you, Jeffrey, you’re too old for designer
stubble. All the lifers shave,’ he tells me.
    ‘You’ve got to
cling on to whatever dignity you can in a hellhole like this,’ he adds, ‘and a
warm shower and a good shave are probably the best way to start the day.’ David
goes on chatting during the film as if it was nothing more than background muzak . He