Heaven
Heaven
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<p>The final volume of Jeffrey Archer’s prison diaries, <i>A Prison Diary Volume III: Heaven</i>, covers the period of his transfer from Wayland to his eventual release on parole in July 2003. It includes a shocking account of the traumatic time he spent in the notorious Lincoln jail and the events that led to his incarceration there – it also throws light on a system that is close to breaking point.<br><br>Told with humour, compassion and honesty, it closes with a thought-provoking manifesto that should be applauded by the Establishment and prison population alike.<br><br><b>Day 115</b><br><b>Saturday 10th November 2001</b><br><b>6.38am</b><br><br><i>It’s all an act. I am hopelessly unhappy, dejected and broken. I smile when I am at my lowest, I laugh when I see no humour, I help others when I need help myself. I am alone. If I were to show any sign, even for a moment, of what I’m going through, I would have to read the details in some tabloid the following day. Everything I do is only a phone call away from a friendly journalist with an open cheque book. I don’t know where I have found the strength to maintain this facade and never break down in anyone’s presence.</i></p>
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<p>The final volume of Jeffrey Archer’s prison diaries, <i>A Prison Diary Volume III: Heaven</i>, covers the period of his transfer from Wayland to his eventual release on parole in July 2003. It includes a shocking account of the traumatic time he spent in the notorious Lincoln jail and the events that led to his incarceration there – it also throws light on a system that is close to breaking point.<br><br>Told with humour, compassion and honesty, it closes with a thought-provoking manifesto that should be applauded by the Establishment and prison population alike.<br><br><b>Day 115</b><br><b>Saturday 10th November 2001</b><br><b>6.38am</b><br><br><i>It’s all an act. I am hopelessly unhappy, dejected and broken. I smile when I am at my lowest, I laugh when I see no humour, I help others when I need help myself. I am alone. If I were to show any sign, even for a moment, of what I’m going through, I would have to read the details in some tabloid the following day. Everything I do is only a phone call away from a friendly journalist with an open cheque book. I don’t know where I have found the strength to maintain this facade and never break down in anyone’s presence.</i></p>

