The signpost
announces North Sea Camp, one mile. As we approach the entrance to the prison,
the first thing that strikes me is that there are no electric gates, no high
walls and no razor wire.
I am released from
my sweat box and walk into reception, where I am greeted by an officer. Mr Daff
has a jolly smile and a military air. He promises that after Wayland, this will
be more like Butlins. ‘In fact,’ he adds, ‘there’s a Butlins just up the road
in Skegness. The only difference is, they’ve got a
wall around them.’
Here, Mr Daff
explains, the walls are replaced by roll-calls – 7.30 am, 11.45 am, 3.30 pm,
8.15 pm and 10.00 pm, when I must present myself to the spur office: a whole
new regime to become accustomed to.
While Mr Daff
completes the paperwork, I unpack my HMP plastic bags. He barks that I will
only be allowed to wear prison garb, so all my T-shirts are taken away and
placed in a possessions box marked ARCHER FF8282.
Dean, a prison
orderly helps me. Once all my belongings have been checked, he escorts me to my
room – please note, room, not cell.
At NSC,
prisoners have their own key, and there are no bars on the windows. So far so good.
However, I’m
back to sharing with another prisoner. My room-mate is David. He doesn’t turn
the music down when I walk in, and a rolled-up cigarette doesn’t leave his
mouth.
