Bronson (13 page)

His screams were like an animal. He fell to the ground. Staff were shouting and the other loons were screaming. One of the staff shouted into a
walkie-talkie
. I dived on Horley again and kept hitting him with the bottle. Blood was everywhere. I left him lying there on the ground. He was picked up and rushed to hospital. I heard later that the overcoat had saved his life.

The staff all circled me. It was over. I had no reason to fight with the Park Lane staff, so I dropped the bottle. They walked me to my ward, where Chris Hunter was waiting. My clothes were put in a plastic bag. I washed the blood off myself then sat down with Chris to talk.

I told him about the letter. He was amazed. Obviously the censor had made a serious blunder, but that didn’t warrant my actions. Chris was as devastated as I was. He told me straight that I was back to square one. There was no tribunal on this earth that would release me now.

I was back to being a madman! I felt terrible. I had let everyone down, including myself. I was totally destroyed. The next day I smashed a whole room up, terrifying all the staff and loonies. The day after that I attacked a fat loony (a known sex-case) and took him hostage, just so I could phone up my cousin Loraine. I was completely gone in the head. I had lost all hope.

Nobody knew what to do with me. Even Chris Hunter was at a loss. I was finally sedated and charged by the police. I was then moved from Park Lane. The special hospitals had had enough of me. I was a lost cause. Nothing more could be done for me here. I was untreatable.

Park Lane is now known as Ashworth Special Hospital. Before I move on to my next establishment, I will take this opportunity to thank all the staff and patients who helped me through the seven months I was there. A special thanks especially to doctors Chris Hunter, McCulloch and Gough, as well as my fellow inmates Steve Peterson, Big Phil Baxter, Ron Greedy, Chris Reid, Steve Roughton, Sid Earnshaw, Jimmy Handsbourgh, Andy Doughall and Lenny Doyle. Chris Reid is now out and doing well for himself, standing tall after 23 years of hell inside. He’s a loyal pal who still writes to me and visits when he can. As for the
rest of the boys – good luck and keep dreaming, ’cos when you stop it’s all over.

Life really is like a circle. Eleven years after I first entered Risley Remand Prison, I was back. It was 1985.

The Principal Medical Officer there was a Dr Lawson, a Scotsman. He ran the hospital wing. He said, ‘Behave yourself and you’ll be OK.’

I told him that I wasn’t going to stay in his hospital – I wanted to go up on the wing. He told me that it was difficult to move me at that stage as clinically I was still insane and the Home Office was unsure of where to put me or how to deal with me. If he were to put me on the wing and I killed or hurt someone, there would be a public outcry. They would ask why I was in a prison and not an asylum.

For four days I brooded in my cell. The atmosphere was tense. I was verbally abusive to all the doctors and screws; bitterness was again creeping in and hope was fading.

I was a bit of a celebrity at Risley, as everyone there was fresh in from the streets. Out of my window was a great view. I could see all the visitors coming and going. I also saw the cons going to and from court. It was really weird to be able to see all this. The people seemed to have really strange clothes on … I was obviously behind the times. I was now into my eleventh year and fashions alter.

One day I was looking out of my window when a load of cons were marching by on their way to the gym. One stood out from the rest. He remained in my head – his whole presence struck me. He was badly scarred (he looked as if he had been burnt) but it wasn’t that that struck me. He had this aura of a special person. He was a proud young man, a man I felt drawn to, a man of respect.

I didn’t see him again until Dr Lawson let me up on
the wing. He warned me that I would be on strict observation. If a screw even thought that my behaviour was strange then I would be sent straight back to the hospital wing.

I was made up to be out of that hospital. Frankly, I was sick of being a lunatic.

They moved me into B Wing but I only lasted a couple of days before I chinned a con in the showers. He was a bit of a flash fucker, mouthing it off, so I stuck one on him. They moved me to another wing – the same wing as the mysterious guy that I’d seen walking past my window weeks before.

I kept an eye on him. He interested me. I am a great believer in fate. Certain people are meant to come into your life. This guy was meant to come into mine, I was sure of it. I could feel a closeness towards him. I started to go to the same gym class as him. I’ve spent very little time in prison gyms, owing to my years of punishment in solitary, but I can go into a gym and bench-press more than anyone can work up to. I noticed that this guy had no fingers at all on one hand, and only half fingers on the other. This guy had suffered terribly, whoever he was. He wasn’t like the others. They were loud, boisterous, all trying to be something they weren’t. This guy knew how to conduct himself.

One day in the recess I was washing and I spilt water on him. He was cool. He said, ‘Easy, pal.’

Many wouldn’t have dared say a word, but he said it with confidence. I’ve chinned a guy for less – but he was special, a man I respected. That was our first real encounter. Soon after, we were like brothers. I learnt all about him. He’d actually got burnt as a kid. His name was Mark Lilliot. He has proved his loyalty to me ever since. He’s a man that I love and respect. God bless you, Mark!

I met a lot of cons in Risley who helped me along.
Andy Vassell was a diamond to me, one of the best Manchester lads I ever met. Andy was a friend of another great friend of mine, Jimmy Hayes. There was also Sonny Carroll, Austie McCormack, John Dillon, Big John Carter, Billy Symes, Ticker, Dominic Gallagher … all good lads. But Mark Lilliot was my special pal, a soul brother.

Violence exploded within me as usual. There was one guy whose name I could never forget – it was John Lennon! He was a Taffy who later got a life sentence. I smashed him over the head with his Roberts rambler radio and stabbed him in the neck with a knife. I lost 120 days for that and served a few weeks in the block. Then there was a lanky Scouser who owed me a bottle of pop for weeks. I opened up on him with a cluster of left hooks, uppers and crosses. He never knew what hit him. It turned out that he was a filthy sex-case, so I’m not a bad judge!

I trained hard in Risley and prepared myself for what lay ahead. I was charged with GBH with intent on Mervin Horley. A Miss Walker visited me from the Liverpool Probation Service. She was only a small woman and she’d been asked to do a report on me. I liked this woman from the first time I met her. She was fearless, spoke her mind and called me a ‘bloody idiot’ (but in a nice way).

She wrote me an excellent report and stayed in touch. I got quite fond of Miss Walker, in a respectful way. I love fearless people! Ted Saxton was my solicitor. I couldn’t have had a better man at the time. He did a brilliant job. He got two independent psychiatrists to do reports on me. Both agreed that I was not suffering from any mental illness and could not understand why I had spent so long in the asylums. Even Dr Lawson’s report found against any insanity. He actually said that I was a psychopath who refused to accept I had a personality disorder,
and therefore there could be no suitable treatment.

So it was looking like I was going to get another prison sentence. The question was – how long? Ted explained that it was necessary for me to go through with the tribunal, as I still had the life section hanging over my head. The only trouble with this was that I was appearing in Liverpool Crown Court on a charge of violence – and this was before my Mental Health Tribunal. To me, this was crazy. How could a judge sentence me if I was supposed to be a madman?

I could smell a rat ahead! What would stop them sending me back to the asylums when I had completed my fresh sentence?

My court day arrived, I said my farewells to the lads, and off I went.

I pleaded guilty at Liverpool Crown Court in May 1985. My mitigation was all the stress I was under – and the blunder by the censor. I’d simply lost my senses.

Judge Temple, I was told, was the fairest judge on Merseyside. As it turned out, I could not have had better. I was expecting five to eight years at least. He sentenced me to three – a good result in anyone’s eyes.

I was soon being escorted into Walton Jail, Liverpool. They were waiting in force – a dozen or so hospital screws. It had started once more.

They told me immediately that I was going over to the hospital wing. I didn’t want to, so I started to argue with them. A senior screw stepped in and stopped an incident. He told me that I was going to that wing just for a few days, to see how I behaved. He told me not to make it hard on myself. If I did what I was told, it would only work out in my favour. It made sense to me.

A dozen screws escorted me over to the hospital. Trouble was in the air. I could smell it, taste it. Once inside the hospital, they marched me in silence to the strong box. One of them told me to strip.

I asked why I was being put in the box, then they all piled on to me. They cut off my clothes with scissors and carried me inside. I felt bad, hateful and, quite honestly, mentally ill.

I remembered that ten years ago, in this very place, I had sworn to get my revenge on them. I knew now that revenge would come very, very soon.

I lay on the floor for the days and nights I was in there. All I had were two blankets. I rubbed my own excrement all over the walls in protest. The doctor told me through the closed door that I must behave myself or I’d never come out. It was a very bad time for me. I felt trapped.

A little later, one of the night screws came to my door. He explained that the governors and doctors didn’t know what to do with me. This screw was a decent man. He was telling me the truth. I asked him why it had come to this. He told me it was my reputation. He told me to stay cool, to play along with them and I would be out of there very soon. He wanted to pass me a sandwich, but there was no hatch in the door. I said, ‘Cheers, mate, it’s good to know that you’re not all scum.’ He asked me if I was all right, said goodnight and went.

The next day, the doctor came to my door to ask how I was.

‘Lovely, doctor,’ I said.

I was out of the box later that day. After some food, I was called to the doctor’s office. He explained why the staff had been so difficult towards me; I was a danger to the system and was not to be trusted. He asked me what I would like and I told him that I just wanted to get rid of my ‘loony’ label and be treated like an ordinary con.

I learned that my tribunal was to be held in Walton. He agreed it didn’t make sense to sentence a man who was already on a mental health section. And
he said that if my tribunal was not successful, then I could be transferred back to the asylums after my three years was up!

This was all I needed to know. Now I was 100 per cent sure it was time to fuck this system once and for all!

He agreed to put me on a wing and he chose H Wing, the long-term wing.

I lasted days before a bust-up. It happened in the bath-house. I was naked apart from a towel around my waist and I was collecting my clean underwear from the hatch. A flash con told me to ‘fuck off ’. I chinned him through the hatch – only to have my arm grabbed by another con. I was pulled through this hatch and half-a-dozen Scousers started laying into me. I fought back for all I was worth, but six against one is bad odds. One lunatic had my thumb in his mouth, biting me.

I kicked out, punched and butted. For a while, I was actually getting somewhere, but they had me down. The bells were going. The joke of it all is the fact that I was the only one to be taken to the block for this incident. My thumb was bitten down to the bone, one of my eyes was closed, my mouth was ripped and my body was a mass of cuts and bruises. The doctor came down to see me to give me a tetanus injection and patched me up. He asked me what happened. I told him that I had attacked myself!

A week later I was back up, but not allowed to go to the bath-house. I had to have my bath in the block.

Then, when I awoke one June morning with the sun shining through my cell bars, I knew that this would be
my
day. It was to be a very special day.

I had sworn revenge ten years ago in this very jail. My time had come.

CHAPTER SEVEN

My word was my bond. Today was the day!

I jumped up on my table to look out through the bars. It was a bright day and I was ready for my walk out on the yard. The only difference was that today I had no intention of coming back! Two hundred of us would be going out to walk around in a circle, but only 199 would return. Fuck ’em all!

At 10.00am we all marched out on to the yard. I was smiling as I went over to Andy Vassell to say goodbye. He thought that I had flipped. I shook Dominic Gallagher’s hand and wished him well. He
looked at me as if I had lost my head. Off I ran. I dived on to a sentry box. The screw inside started blowing his whistle; the cons were cheering. I then dived on to a pipe and swung over on to a cell ledge and went up another two storeys. Soon, I was five floors up. The gutter was old … would it hold my weight? I reached out and grabbed it. It felt a bit dodgy. I looked down at the cons being taken back in. There were screws everywhere; they all looked up, wishing and hoping that I would fall. I could see it in their faces. By now all the cell windows opposite me were full of faces.

‘Go on, get up!’ they shouted. They were all banging their cups on the bars, singing, ‘There’s only one Micky Peterson, only one Micky Peterson!’ A good hundred of them were watching, singing. I reached up again, grabbed the gutter and pulled myself up. I’d made it!

I’d fucking made it to the top of the world, and the cons in Walton Jail loved me for it! The screws hated me for it. I’d made fools out of all of them. For three days I demolished the place – slates, timber, windows, skylights – on four wings. It was great!

Lots of cons were moved out to other jails, so I’d done them a favour. The Scousers passed me up food, drink, blankets. Some even got nicked for it. That’s the sort of men they are – solid! They’re a very warm breed of people. When they take to you, they love you. Despite my kicking, I have always liked them.

The ‘Mufti’ came up with their shields and helmets but I made it clear – come near me and I’ll jump and take one of you with me! I’ll grab the first one of you and jump off! The crazy thing was – I meant it. I was double-fit and strong at this time. My press-ups had paid off. If I had to turn this into a death mission, I would.

Over the wall, I could see a school playground. They were all jumping up and down shouting at me,
young girls of 14 and 15. They really made me happy as they were shouting for me! At night, I found a spot where I could just lie down peacefully. I thought about my whole life, past, present and future. It was a total disaster. Was I born to be mad? Would I ever live a normal life? It’s weird but I feel very emotional when I am on these roofs. It’s certainly a place to sit and think. It’s the next best thing to freedom: air, stars, sky … much better than being in a stuffy cell. I thought about the cowards down below in the hospital wing who’d beaten me up, and I thought about the treatment facing me. I couldn’t escape what I now was. I was a victim of my own notoriety. The system had my life sewn up.

I was surprised to see Dr Gough and Nigel Hughes, the charge nurse, both from Park Lane. They were standing on the top landing, directly below me. I could see them through the hole in the roof. They shouted up to me about my coming tribunal, and that I shouldn’t make things worse. Dr Gough was an Asian psychiatrist, a lovely human being who I respected. I had a couple of dealings with her at Park Lane when Dr Chris Hunter was on leave and she was good to me. And Nigel Hughes was one of the best staff I’ve ever met. Both were concerned about me and had come to try to help. As we spoke through the hole in the roof, the cons started shouting abuse at them. I told them to shut up, which they did out of respect for me. After several discussions, I decided to come down subject to the following conditions: one, that I would be allowed to see my brief, Ted Saxton; two, I would not be beaten up; three, a tribunal date would be fixed, and four, I would be given fish and chips and tea – and lots of it!

Once all these conditions had been agreed, I came down. They put a ladder up to a skylight and I climbed down to Landing 5. If looks could kill I’d be dead now! Dozens of screws escorted me to the
punishment block. I was given a hot bath and treated for cuts and splinters. I was then put into the strong box and given my fish and chips and hot sugary tea. It was lovely. I saw Ted Saxton and a date was fixed for the tribunal. I was charged by the police over the damage to the roof – it totalled £100,000.

Days later, my lovely mother came to see me. It was a great visit. Then Dad and my brother John visited.

I lost my head soon after. I pulled a sink off the wall in the recess and then started to smash up the block. I just seemed to lose control. I’m certain that I was having fits. The screws restrained me, put me in a body-belt, and slung me in a van. What waited was a human gauntlet.

I’d never had a reception committee like it. From the van to the strong box at Armley Prison there was a long line of screws, all eyeing me up and down. Even the Walton screws with me looked tense. There was no need for this show of force. After all, I’m only one man! Once inside the box, the cuffs came off. Then came the body-belt. A struggle began, but I was a beaten man. They left me wrapped up like a Christmas turkey. Blood was all over my chest, coming from an eye wound and my bleeding nose. My whole body felt bad internally. I was strapped in a body-belt and had ankle straps on. I couldn’t fucking move.

The sad thing was, some of the cons actually slung batteries at me from their cell windows. I had done them no harm. It should have been the screws they were throwing them at. Obviously, I slagged them off. A couple came to their windows and asked why I was cuffed up. When I told them, they said that they would be seeing the maggots who had been throwing the batteries at me. Soon, I was given some respect.

Ted Saxton visited me. For him it was an experience he would never forget, for me it was an everyday event. They took Ted’s pens off him – they
told him that I might use them to harm him or take him hostage. He told them that he was a friend of mine and that I would never hurt him, but they said I was very disturbed. They cuffed me up, led me through the jail, and let me see Ted in the hospital wing. I was in a cell behind a cage door; he was outside. I couldn’t even shake his hand. Ted told me that he had never seen anything like it.

For 28 days I was refused library books. I couldn’t even slop out or collect my own water. It was a bad month, one of my worst ever.

I lost a lot of weight. I lay awake, hungry, every night. Every day when the Governor came to see me I would complain about my treatment but he’d just say, ‘You shouldn’t climb on the prison roof then.’

At times like this, the only thing that keeps you going is knowing that sooner or later they have got to move you. Another thing that kept me alive was the thought of the past years – if I’d survived all that, then I could survive this. That’s how I coped. Sadly, some can’t. They end up hanging themselves. I see it as murder. The system has pushed them too far. They just can’t take another day, another beating, so they lose faith. It’s tragic, such a waste of life, but it happens all the time. Brutality is rife in prison.

If I’m ever found in jail, hanging by my neck, you can be sure it won’t be my own doing. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. The only way I will die in jail is either old age, or I’ll be murdered. End of story.

The day they opened up to say I was being moved was a victory for me. This box had been a tomb for a month. My head felt heavy and fuzzy and I was weak. Once I was out by the van I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. It was like the food of life to me. I turned and spat on the prison in full view of the Armley screws. They were filthy scum.

I was soon back at Walton Jail, Liverpool. The van
pulled up outside the block. I was taken in and immediately locked up in another strong box. This time I was fed through a hatch in the bottom of the door. Again, I could not slop out. It was an empty, soulless way of living. Nothing to wake up for; no nice thoughts, no sweet smells, no sense of touch from a fellow human being. Life was shit! I had finally got myself into a trap and there seemed to be no escape.

I had heard voices shouting to me but I was just too depressed to shout back. I didn’t know it then, but Kenny Goodhall and Tommy Curliss were in this block. They were both telling the Governor to let me out of the box and give me a break or they would start performing. The Governor soon let me out and I was put in a proper cell.

Life started to look up. There was a screw in this block called Lee. He was an absolute diamond. When he was on he always gave me extra food and sometimes a newspaper. He was a good man. Even in piss-holes like this there are decent screws. Kenny and Tommy were good to me, too. We all went out in the cage together for our exercise. They are two good lads – plenty of bottle.

My pal Fred (The Head) Mills came down to see me. Fred’s a Geordie, ex-Broadmoor, some say a
nut-case
but I say a gentleman. Fred’s one of the old school, a true survivor. Why is he called ‘The Head’? Well, he’s got a head-butt on him like a donkey! It’s lethal! Fred’s been around a long time – couple of years here, couple of years there. Last I heard he was out, which pleases me. He’s totally fearless – one guy I’d like to have beside me in a war!

I was soon taken back to court and given another year for the roof … added to my three years. This was a good result. Then my Mental Health Review Tribunal was ready. This was to be the first tribunal held inside Walton. There was a proper judge, Home
Office doctors, and also doctors that my brief Ted Saxton had got me. Miss Walker attended. It went on for four-and-a-half hours, and still they couldn’t decide whether I was a psychopath or schizophrenic. They couldn’t even agree why I was ever in a hospital for the criminally insane. I gave seven years of my life to the asylums – and here I was, listening to faceless people mumbling on about what I was supposed to have been.

Let’s be sensible about this. I’d been certified mad because of my violence. I was still violent – and they were now certifying me sane. Where’s the sanity in that? Isn’t the system just as crazy?

I was given an absolute discharge and obviously I was made up. I now had a four-year sentence with a date of release. It still felt endless but I was elated! I thanked Ted Saxton, Dr Clarke, Chris Hunter and, of course, Miss Walker. The rest were faceless people who meant nothing to me.

Lee, the block screw, was made up for me. In fact, several Walton screws told me it was about time they took away my ‘mad’ label. I asked the Governor if I could now be trusted up on the wing, but he looked at me as if I
was
mad!

‘No way,’ he said. He told me I would be moving shortly but wouldn’t say where. However, it was still a great day, a victorious day. My sanity had now been handed back.

What I didn’t realise then was that I would be forever regarded as ex-Broadmoor. It’s like a scar, a cross you have to carry for the rest of your life.

The day I left Walton, so did Kenny and Tommy. They went in a van together; I went on my own, cuffed to two screws. I slept like a baby all the way to the Island. I couldn’t believe it when I realised I was on the Isle of Wight. The slippery fuckers will stop at nothing. They had spiked my tea.

In reception at Albany top-security prison, they told me that I was going up on B Wing. I was well pleased. This was the break I needed.

Albany was used at this time to house a lot of disruptive cons. Most didn’t like the thought of serving their time on the island – it was too much hassle for their wives and kids to visit. But it suited me! I couldn’t wait to fry an egg, to play Scrabble with someone, to get in the gym. Just fresh air on my body would be nice. Fuck the blocks.

So I arrived on B Wing. I was determined to try, but I suppose I’d been on my own too long. I found it hard to mix. Years of isolation affects a man.

The first day I punched a con in the table-tennis room. He knows why I hit him. All I will say is, he’s a fucking rat. I can’t say any more because it involves a good friend of mine. I went into the telly room after I hit him. Jennifer Rush was on – ‘Power of Love’ – I’ll always remember it. She had the voice of an angel. The song has always been a favourite of mine, but I could hardly hear it. There were a dozen or so cons in the room all shouting about something. I slung a chair against the wall. I was upset. My head went funny.

We were all banged up in single cells. Big Albert Baker was directly above my cell. Albert’s an Irish prisoner. A lot didn’t like him because of his political views, but I respected him because of the way he conducted himself in prison. He was solid, a big strong man. We were close buddies. The next day I went out on the field for my exercise. I had a run and it was lovely but I was knackered – I hadn’t run for so long. Albert gave me some eggs and tomatoes to have a
fry-up
later – but later never arrived.

At lunchtime we were all banged up for an hour. While I was lying on my bed, my door sprang open. I was more amazed than anyone.