Free Hell by Jeffrey Archer Page B

apologizes for not having read any of my novels,
assuring me that his wife has enjoyed all of them, but he only finds time to
read whenever he’s in jail. I resist asking the obvious question.
    ‘What are you
reading at the moment?’ I enquire.
    ‘ Ackroyd’s Life of
Dickens ,’ he replies.
    And, as if he senses my incredulity, adds, ‘ Mr Micawber , what a character, bit like my father to be
honest, always in debt. Now remind me, what was his Christian name?’
    ‘Wilkins,’ I
reply.
    ‘Just testing, Jeffrey, just testing. Actually I tried to
get one of your books out of the library the other day, but they’ve removed
them all from the shelves. A diabolical liberty, that’s what I’d call it. I
told them I wanted to read it, not steal the bloody thing.’ I begin to notice
how few prisoners use bad language in front of me. One of the other inmates,
who has been watching the TV, leans across and asks me
if the story’s true. I can just about recall Tennyson’s poem of the gallant six
hundred, and I’m fairly certain Errol Flynn didn’t ride through the enemy lines,
and thrust a sword into the heart of their leader.
    ‘Of course he
did,’ says David, ‘it was in his contract.’
    On this
occasion we do get to see the closing titles, because the duty officer has
checked what time the film finishes. He prefers not to have thirty or forty
disenchanted lifers on his hands.
    At five we’re
invited to return to our cells for lock-up. This invitation takes the form of
an officer bellowing at the top of his voice.
    On arrival, I
find another 200 letters waiting for me on the bottom bunk. All of them have
been opened, as per prison regulations, to check they do not contain any drugs,
razor blades or money. Reading every one of them kills another couple of hours
while you’re ‘banged up’. I’m beginning to think in prison jargon.
    The public
seems genuinely concerned about my plight. Many of them comment on the judge’s
summing-up and the harshness of the sentence, while others point out that bank
robbers, paedophiles and even those charged with
manslaughter often get off with a two- or three-year sentence. The recurring
theme is ‘What does Mr Justice Potts have against
you?’ I confess I don’t know the answer to that question, but what cannot be
denied is that I asked my barrister, Nick Purnell , on
the third, fourth and seventh days of the trial to speak to the judge privately
in chambers about his obvious prejudice, and request a retrial. However, my
silk advised against this approach, on the grounds that it would only turn the
whole trial into an allout battle between the two of
us. Lest you might think I am making this all up conveniently after the event,
I also confided my fears to the Honourable Michael Beloff QC, Gilbert Gray QC and Johnnie Nutting QC during
the trial.
    It wasn’t until
the second hour that I came across a letter demanding that I should apologize
to all those I had let down. The next letter in the pile is from Mary. I read
it again and again. She begins by remarking that she couldn’t remember when she
had last written to me. She reminds me that she is off to Strathclyde University this morning to chair the summer school on solar energy, accompanied
by the world’s press and my son Will.
    Thank God for
Will. He’s been a tower of strength. At the end of the week, she flies to
Dresden to attend another conference, and is hoping to be back in time to visit
me at Belmarsh on Sunday morning. I miss her and the
children, of course I do, but above anything I hope it won’t be too long before
the press become bored with me and allow Mary to carry on with her life.
    When I come to
the end of the letters, Terry helps me put them into four large brown envelopes
so they can be sent on to Alison, my PA, in order that everyone who has taken
the trouble to write receives a reply. While Terry is helping me, he begins to
tell me his life story and how he ended up being in jail. He’s not a