The Idler

FIRST AMONG INMATES

The Idler is very excited to receive Jeffrey Archer’s brand new manuscript…a novel based on his time in a minimum security prison….

As imagined by GRAHAM LINEHAN

CHAPTER 1

‘Brrrrrrrring’ went the bell for brunch.
Geoffrey Racher awoke to find himself staring into the cold dark eyes of his cellmate, Sir Peter Awnsley. Awnsely, who this morning had found that there was no parsley in his scrambled eggs, was already in a foul humour, and Racher had no desire to turn victim to that vicious wit. Yesterday, in the showers, a helpless Racher had watched in horror as Awnsely, for no apparent reason and with supreme malice, subjected a new inmate to a vicious mimicking.
“Racher, you’re wanted.”
“What for?”
“How the devil should I know?” said Awnsely, resorting to foul language to make his point. Racher rubbed his eyes and sat up, looking around his tiny cell. Overcrowding meant that an inmate had to press up against the wall to get past the snooker table, and not for the first time, Racher found himself running through the events of the last few years, trying desperately to find where it had all gone wrong….

But enough about that! If he pondered too much the events leading up to this point, he might start blaming himself, and that way laid (sic) madness. Time to get up, wash his face, have a quick steam and meet the head warden.

The head warden was a good man, on the whole. He treated the prisoners like prisoners, but also never lost sight of the fact that they were human beings. This day, however, he seemed distracted. Racher knew something was up when he failed to return a very weak serve on set point.

“Something’s bothering you,” said Racher, towelling off his racket handle.
“Upstairs wants to make you category D again.”
“No! Why, for God’s sake? What did I do?”
“Nothing, nothing. You’re an exemplary prisoner. All those activities you involve yourself in….Head of the chess club…I didn’t even know we had a chess club. How have you been faring?”

Some weeks ago. Racher had had to tell the warden he had joined the chess club in order to make the warden think that thing. It was a little white fib, or ‘fibette’, as he sometimes called them (or ‘fi’, or ‘liette’, or ’sidetruth’…a friend once joked “you have more words for a lie than the eskimos have for snow”.). However, he had actually never played the game, and had not yet perfected his knowledge on the terminology.
“Very well. My horse captured the captain and his wife in three moves.”
“I don’t know the exact details, but it seems someone has made certain…accusations against you.

“What sort of accusations?”
“This is not easy for me, but…I understand you were made a bitch recently.”
“That’s right.” It was common practise for weak, cowardly prisoners to be made bitches by other, stronger inmates. A bitches duties involved making tea, greeting guests to the cell and making polite conversation with the other bitches.

“Well…someone is claiming that….”
“Yes?” Although he knew what was coming. He could feel it like an icy wallet in his stomach. “…that you had already been made a bitch by another prisoner.”
Racher said nothing. He sat in silence and met the warden’s stare.
“That is a lie.” He said finally.
The warden stared a moment longer, then nodded.
“What are you going to do?”
Racher sat back in his chair and exhaled deeply.
“I’ll sue.”

TO BE CONTINUED