Hell by Jeffrey Archer Read Free Book Online Page A

and fourteen-year-old son. And he was certainly
going to pay dearly for a foolish mistake; one that he would regret for the
rest of his life. *
    ‘Archer,
Collins, Davies, Edwards,’ booms the voice of Mr King, an officer not given to subtlety as he continues to bellow out names until
he comes to Watts, before adding, ‘C of E, now.’
    ‘I think we’ll
have to continue this conversation at some other time,’ I suggest. ‘Our Lord
calls and if he doesn’t, Mr King certainly does.’ I
then join the other prisoners who are waiting on the middle landing to be
escorted to the morning service.
11.00 am
    A crocodile of
prisoners proceeds slowly along the polished linoleum floor until we’re stopped
for another body search before entering the chapel. Why would they search us
before going into a place of worship? We file into a large hall where each
worshipper is handed a Bible. I take my place in the second row next to a young
black man who has his head bowed. I glance around at what appears to be a full
house.
    The Chaplain,
David (his name is written in bold letters on a label attached to his wellworn jacket), takes his place at the front of the
chapel and calls for silence. He is a man of about forty-five, stockily built, with a pronounced limp and a stern smile.
He stares down at his congregation of murderers, rapists, burglars and
wife-beaters. Not surprisingly, it takes him a couple of minutes to bring such
a flock to order.
    While he goes
about his task, I continue to look around the room. It’s square in shape, and I
would guess measures about twenty paces by twenty. The outer walls are red
brick and the room holds about two hundred plastic chairs, in rows of twenty.
On the four walls there are paintings of Christ and his Disciples, Christ being
carried to the tomb after being taken down from the Cross, the Virgin Mother
with an angel, the Raising of Lazarus, and Christ calming the storm.
    Directly behind
the Chaplain is a rock band – their leader is a pretty, dark-haired girl who
has a guitar slung over her shoulder.
    She is accompanied
by five Gospel singers, all of whom have tiny microphones pinned to their
lapels. In front of the group is a man seated with his back to the
congregation. He is working a slide projector that flashes up on a white sheet
hung in front of him the words of the first hymn.
    When the
Chaplain finally gains silence – achieved only after a threat that anyone
caught talking would immediately be escorted back to their cell – he begins the
service by delivering three prayers, all unsubtly spelling out the simple message
of doing good by your neighbour . He then turns to the
girl with the guitar and gives her a slight bow. Her gentle voice rings out the
melody of the first hymn, more of a Gospel message, which is accompanied
heartily by the black prisoners who make up well over half the congregation,
while the rest of us are a little more reserved. The group’s backing singers
are all white, and give as good as they get, even when the clapping begins.
After the last verse has rung out, we are all ready for the sermon, and what a
sermon it turns out to be.
    The Chaplain’s
chosen theme is murder.
    He then invites
us to pick up our Bibles – which he describes as the biggest bestseller of all
time – and turn to the book of Genesis.
    He glances in
my direction and winks.
    ‘And it all
began with Cain and Abel,’ he tells us, ‘because Cain was the first murderer.
    Envious of his
brother’s success, he gained revenge by killing him. But God saw him do it and
punished him for the rest of his life.’
    His next chosen
example of a murderer was Moses, who, he told us, killed an Egyptian and also
thought he’d got away with it, but he hadn’t because God had seen him, so he
too was punished for the rest of his life. I don’t remember that bit, because I
thought Moses died peacefully in his bed aged 130.
    ‘Now I want you
to turn to the Second Book of Samuel,’ declares the