Free Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 by Jeffrey Archer Page A

serving an
eleven-year sentence for drug dealing. He’s called Minnie, and out-runs them,
out-jumps them, out-lifts them, out-presses them, and isn’t even breathing
heavily at the end. He puts me to shame; I can only hope that the youngsters
feel equally humiliated.
4.20 pm
    I’m back in time for a shower. David (whisky bootlegger) is
standing by my door. He tells me that he’s written the outline for a novel and
wants to know how to get in contact with a ghostwriter. This is usually a
surrogate for are you available? I tell him exactly what I tell anyone else who
writes to me on this subject (three or four letters a week): go to your local
library, take out a copy of The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and you’ll find
a section listing agents who handle ghostwriters. I assume that will keep him
quiet for a few days.
4.41 pm
    David returns clutching a copy of The Writers’ and Artists’
Yearbook and shows me a page of names. I glance down the list but none is
familiar. I have come across only a handful of agents over the years – Debbie
Owen, George Greenfield, Deborah Rodgers, Jonathan Lloyd and Ed Victor – but
there must be at least another thousand I’ve never heard of. I suggest that as
my agent is visiting me tomorrow, if he selects some names, I’ll ask Jonathan
if he knows any of them.
4.56 pm
    David returns with the list of names written out on a single
sheet of paper. He hands over a Diet Coke. He’s what Simon Heffer would
describe as ‘a proper gent’.
6.00 pm
    Supper. Vegetable pie, two boiled
potatoes and a lump of petits pois, making un seul
pois.
    I switch on the TV. Australia are 241 for 3, and Ponting is
144 not out. Together with Waugh, they’ve put on 170.1 switch off. Why did I ever switch on?
    After supper, I go down to the Association room to find Dale
(wounding with intent) and Jimmy (transporting Ecstasy tablets) playing snooker
for a Mars bar. It’s the first time I’ve seen Jimmy beaten at anything, and
what’s more, he’s being thrashed by a far superior player. It’s a subject I
know a little about as I was President of the World Snooker Association before
I was convicted. Jimmy whispers in my ear, ‘Dale beats everyone, but like any
hungry animal, he has to be fed at least twice a day. We take it in turns to
hand over a Mars bar. It’s a cheap way of keeping him under control.’ In case
you’ve forgotten, Dale is six foot three and weighs twenty-seven stone.
    After the game is over, the three of us join Darren in the
exercise yard. Dale manages only one circuit before heading back in, exhausted, while the three of us carry on for the full
forty-five minutes. During the second circuit, I tell them about Derek, who did
the drawing of my cell (Belmarsh), and ask if they know of any artists in
Wayland. Jimmy tells me that there is a brilliant (his word) artist on C block.
I ask if he will introduce me.
    ‘Be warned, he’s weird,’ says Jimmy, ‘and can be very rude
if he takes against you.’
    I tell Jimmy that I’ve been dealing with artists for the past
thirty-five years and I’ve never met one who could be described as normal. It’s
all part of their appeal.
    ‘I feel like a drink,’ says Darren as the evening sun
continues to beat down on us. ‘Know anyone who’s got some hooch?’ he asks
Jimmy.
    ‘Hooch?’ I say. ‘What’s that?’
    They both laugh, a laugh that suggests I still have much to
learn. ‘Every block,’ says Darren, ‘has a hotplate
man, a cleaner, a tea-boy and a painter. They’re all appointed by the screws
and are paid around twelve pounds a week. Every block also has a drug dealer, a
haircutter, a clothes-washer and a brewer. C block has the best brewer – for a
two-pound phonecard, you can get half a litre of hooch.’
    ‘But what’s it made of?’
    The ingredients are normally yeast, sugar, water and orange
juice. It’s harder to produce during the summer months because you need the hot
pipes that run through your cell to be