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

to a private room, just a couple of doors away
from Mr Tinkler’s office on the first-floor landing. I shake hands with a young
lady who introduces herself as Lisa Dada. She is a blonde of about thirty and
wearing a V-neck sweater that reveals she has just returned from holiday or
spent a long weekend sitting in the sun. Like everyone else, she asks me how I
am settling in. I tell her that I have no complaints other than the state of my
cell, my rude introduction to rap music and window warriors. Lisa begins by
explaining that she has to see every prisoner, but there isn’t much point in my
case because her role doesn’t kick in until six months before my parole. ‘And
as I’m moving to Surrey in about two months’ time,’ she continues, ‘to be
nearer my husband who is a prison officer, you may well have moved to another
establishment long before then, so I can’t do much more than answer any
questions you might have.’
    ‘How did you meet your husband?’ I ask.
    That’s not the sort of question I meant,’ she replies with a
grin.
    ‘He must be Nigerian.’
    ‘What makes you think that?’
    ‘Dada. It’s an Igbo tribe name, the
tribe of the leaders and warriors.’
    She nods, and says, We met in
prison in circumstances that sound as if they might have come from the pages of
one of your novels.’ I don’t interrupt. ‘I had a prisoner who was due to be
released in the morning. The evening before, he was phoning his wife to arrange
what time she should pick him up, but couldn’t hear what she was saying because
of the noise coming from a TV in a nearby cell. He popped his head round the
door and asked if the inmate could turn the volume down, and was told to ‘Fuck
off’. In a moment of anger he dropped the phone, walked into the cell and took
a swing at the man. The inmate fell backwards onto the stone floor, cracked
open his head and was dead before they could get him to a hospital. The first
prison officer on the scene called for the assailant’s probation officer, who
happened to be me. We were married a year later.’
    ‘What happened to the prisoner?’ I ask.
    ‘He was charged with manslaughter, pleaded guilty and was
sentenced to three years. He served eighteen months. There was clearly no
intent to murder. I know it sounds silly,’ she adds, ‘but until that moment,
his record was unblemished.’
    ‘So your husband is black. That can’t have been easy for
you, especially in prison.’
    ‘No, it hasn’t, but it helps me find a common thread with
the dreadlocks.’
    ‘So what’s it like being a thirty-something blonde probation
officer?’ I ask
    It’s not always easy,’ she admits. ‘Sixty per cent of the
prisoners shout at me and tell me that I’m useless, while the other forty per
cent burst into tears.’
    ‘Burst into tears? That lot?’ I
say, thumbing towards the door.
    ‘Oh, yes. I realize it’s not a problem for you, but most of
them spend their lives having to prove how macho they are, so when they come to
see me it’s the one chance they have to reveal their true feelings. Once they
begin to talk about their families, their partners, children and friends, they
often break down, suddenly aware that others might well be going through an
even more difficult time outside than they are locked up in here.’
    ‘And the shouters, what do they imagine they’re achieving?’
    ‘Getting the rage out of their system. Such a disciplined regime creates pent-up emotions, and I’m often on the
receiving end. I’ve experienced everything, including obscene language and
explicit descriptions of what they’d like to do to me, while all the time
staring at my breasts. One prisoner even unzipped his jeans and started
masturbating. All that for twenty-one thousand a year.’
    ‘So why do you do it?’
    ‘I have the occasional success, perhaps one in ten, which
makes it all seem worthwhile when you go home at night.’
    ‘What’s the worst part of your job?’
    She pauses and