Archer's hard cell; Jeffrey's Conrad curtains and Harrods hamper had

Sunday Herald, The, Oct 6, 2002 by James Cusick

It was not a good night's sleep. The rough prison blanket had felt scratchy through his regulation pyjamas. He lay staring at the ceiling of his cell and thinking - whatever happened to that promise of a silk dressing gown and the soft down quilt from Harrods? Still, he would get them. He always got what he wanted.

There was a knock on the cell door. In his half-awake state, he thought it might be the breakfast hamper he'd ordered last week from Fortnum's. The prison porridge and ghastly rolls, God he hated them. What a lark. He laughed at his audacity. Instead of his name, Jeffrey Archer, he told the girl on the phone at Fortnum's to just put FF8282. She must have believed it was a special code for his Master- Ex card.

The knock on the door was followed by someone throwing in a pristine copy of the Daily Mail and his usual Fortune magazine. The headline in the Mail blared "Archer's Prison Diaries Sensation".

He pushed his hands through his cropped, greying hair. A smile, the one he'd used to win so many influential friends in such high places, gradually broadened across his face.

He thought back to May last year when he'd been sent down for four years. Then further back to those trying days in 1986. He'd been deputy chairman of the Conservative Party then. And then that business with the Daily Star and the prostitute got in the way. He couldn't just sit there, could he, and admit he'd made a mistake. No, he couldn't, that was not how he'd ever done things. So a bit of a lie here and a bit of lie there, nobody would notice. He sniggered again - nobody ever seemed to notice much until it was too late.

He kissed the tip of his hand and placed it on the photograph of Mary on the front of Mail. It said she thought he was a fool "but I still love him". Ah, bless, he thought.

Mary. Fragrant, elegant, radiant. Loyal Mary. He was so sorry he'd got her in terrible hot water over the Anglia shares business. She was on the board after all when he'd made those quick bucks - 70,000 of them. He'd told her he was sorry. And of course he'd told those friends in high places he was sorry, too. He could've gone to jail back in 1994 if they'd taken matters further. But they didn't. After all, he had been a lord for two years. And lords didn't do that sort of thing, did they? He smiled again and nodded.

Yes, John Major was on the verge of making him chairman of the party. Honest John, or rather dishonest John. Who would have thought, eh? A takeaway Currie after a long night in the House! The mere thought of it cheered him up. He'd need to snap out of it.

He returned to the Mail and sat up in his bed. The bolster and the curtains from the Conran Shop hadn't arrived yet, so he propped up the prison pillow and put on his glasses. He scanned the page. Exclusive! How did shamed peer get away with writing memoirs in his cell? Easy, he thought, there he was writing away with his usual pencil and A4 paper, answering his correspondence. How were they to know he was getting it all down for his latest bestseller, A Prison Diary, Belmarsh: Hell.

And all that stuff about smuggling it out. He thought: "I drove out of the hotel, I mean the prison, on my own. Nobody did any checking, other than the mechanic who made sure my BMW was serviced to perfection."

But that was the North Sea Camp open prison. And if you had to describe it, he thought, it was like a Travelodge - kind of tough, especially if you're used to the Ritz. Belmarsh - and as he thought back, he shivered - that was different. Ever since his friend, and he'd tried to stop using that word, admitted he'd lied about the alibi for the libel trial, he knew prison was a possibility. Two charges of perjury, two of perverting the course of justice, having to listen to those accounts of his false diaries. He shivered again.

Here in Lincoln, he knew it was tough. Well it had to be, hadn't it? But he'd find a way round it, he always found a way round things.

Belmarsh was different, though. It was a shock. There he was, the man who'd shared a glass of Krug and his famous shepherd's pie with the most powerful in the land. Even his enemies loved those glittering parties in his Thames penthouse overlooking the Palace of Westminster.

God, he'd stare down for ages at that gothic building with its bell tower and think: I really should've been prime minister - and it's their loss. I should've been mayor of London too. OK, a few skeletons in the cupboard, but who hasn't, eh? Who hasn't?

Then instead of Lord this and Lord that, it was the company of Ronnie Biggs or slasher Bob or Harry the hitman. Killers. What crime had I committed, he thought. Made a few politicians look bad? Made William Hague look bad? I mean, how was that possible, how could you make that little oik look any worse? He remembered how he'd told friends in the party of plans to get rid of William. Funny how things turn out. He'd been sent to prison and William had escaped from Central Office.

The noises from the jail were something he was now getting used to. But in Belmarsh during those few awful first weeks, there was the one ultimate escape he'd considered. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek and recalled the Bic razor and the fleeting, flashing idea that he should end it all, not a lie more, not a lie less. Just the end. He knew he was made of stronger stuff. So instead of suicide, he would do what he did best. Did it not say on all of his 10 best- selling novels that he was a master storyteller?