Read Hell for Free Online Page B

on volume two of her book, Molecular
to Global Photosynthesis , and around seven I would
drive across to Saffron Walden to visit my mother, and discuss with her who
should lead the Tory Party.
    My mother is
dead. James is in London with his girlfriend. William is on his way back to New
York. Mary is at the Old Vicarage alone, and I’m locked up in jail.
10.00 pm
    It’s dark outside – no curtains to cover my little cell
window. I’m exhausted. I pick up one of my new towels, fold it, and place it
across my pillow. I lower my head onto the towel and sleep for ten hours.

Day 4 - Sunday 22 July 2001
5.43 am
    I wake to find
my tiny cell filled with sunlight. I place my feet on the floor and can smell
my own body. I decide that the first thing I must do is have a long shave
before even thinking about a writing session. As soon as they unlock the door,
I’ll make a dash for the showers.
    There’s no plug
in the basin so I decide to improvise, and fill my plastic soup bowl with warm
water and turn it into a shaving bowl. *
    The prison have
supplied a stick of shaving soap, an old-fashioned shaving brush – I don’t
think it’s badger hair – and a plastic Bic razor, not
unlike the one you’re given when travelling on British Airways (economy). It
takes me some time to build up any lather. Above the basin is a steelplated mirror measuring four inches square which
reflects a blurred image of a tired, bristly man. After my shave in lukewarm
water, I feel a lot better, even though I’ve cut myself several times.
    I return to my
chair behind the little square table, and with my back to the window begin
writing. The sun is shining through the four panes of glass, reproducing a
shadow of the bars on the wall in front of me – just in case I should forget
where I am.
9.01 am
    The key turns
in the lock and my cell door is pushed open. I look up at an officer who has a
puzzled expression on his face.
    ‘What’s
happened to your cell card?’ he asks. He’s referring to a white card* attached
to my cell door stating my name – Archer, D-cat, release date July 19th, 2005.
    ‘It’s been
removed,’ I explain. ‘I’ve had six of them in the past two days. I think you’ll
find they’ve become something of a collector’s item.’
    Despite the
absence of my card, the officer allows me to go off to the shower room, where I
join a group of noisy prisoners who are looking forward to an afternoon visit
from their families. One of them, a black guy called Pat, carries a clean,
freshly-ironed white shirt on a hanger. I’m full of admiration and ask how he
managed it, explaining that my children are coming to see me in a couple of
days and I’d like to look my best.
    ‘I’ll send
round my man to see you, your Lordship,’ Pat says with a grin. ‘He’ll take care
of you.’
    I thank Pat,
not quite sure if he’s teasing me. Once I’ve completed another press-button
shower – I’ve almost mastered it – and dried myself, I return to my cell to
have breakfast. Breakfast was handed to me last night in a plastic bag, only moments after I’d rejected the evening meal. I
extract a very hard-boiled egg from the bag, before disposing of the rest of
its contents in the plastic bucket under the sink. While eating the egg – white
only, avoiding the yolk – I stare out of my window and watch the planes as they
descend at regular, sixty-second intervals into City Airport. A pigeon joins me
on the ledge, but he’s on the outside. I retrieve a piece of stale bread from
the bucket under the washbasin, break it into small crumbs and drop them on the
sill. He rejects my offering, coos and flies away.
9.30 am
    The cell is
unlocked again, this time for Association, and the duty officer asks me if I
want to attend a church service. Not being utterly convinced there is a God I
rarely go to church in Grantchester , despite the fact
that my wife was for many years the choir-mistress. However, on this occasion
it will mean a long walk and