Bronson (14 page)

‘Right,’ they said. ‘You’re away.’

They told me not to argue. The van was waiting.

I shouted to Albert, ‘They’re taking me.’

I went peacefully, double-cuffed, and without an inkling as to where we were going. I actually didn’t care. I knew I was a marked man all over again.

The van backed up to the doors of the block at Wormwood Scrubs. The screws were all waiting. They took me to a cell, made me strip, then left me. Later, the Governor arrived to tell me I would only be there for a few weeks. He didn’t know where I would go next – it was up to the Home Office.

I was feeling depressed, with dangerous thoughts in my head. But Harry Batt was also in the block and I’m pleased to say he lifted my spirits. Harry got nicked with my old friend Sammy McArthy. Harry sorted me out some fruit and got me some sweets. We went on to the exercise yard together and the hour a day there passed really quickly.

Harry’s about 20 years my senior and he told me all the old stories of how the East End used to be. Believe me, the East End people are the salt of the earth. I love them to bits! They’re a warm breed. Harry and people like him remember the old days when people were safe to leave their doors open and when men were men. Respect was earned, not bought. God bless you, Harry! I survived two weeks with no problems, then the van arrived and I was off!

Wandsworth block never seems to alter. If you toe the line, there’s no problem. Basically, they leave me alone – they know what I’m like by now. I’ve been there often enough. I play along with the rules (to a limit) but I’ve always been given respect at Wandsworth. Prison Officer Wells is an old screw who’s known me for years. There’s no better screw than Mr Wells. He’s straight, he tells you the facts, he puts it on your chin. He can be as tough as the next
man but I’ve only had good deals from him, and I’ve known him over 20 years now.

Christmas was on us again, but it was my worst one for a long time. My good friend Tony Cunningham hanged himself on 15 December. It upset me so much. For a while I even thought about what it would be like to hang myself, and whether or not there really was another, better world beyond. For days I had a vision of myself swinging from the bars. Those next few weeks were terribly morbid. I was on exercise with Noel Travis and Tony the day before he did it. It was a terrible blow for Noel and me. One minute Tony was laughing and telling jokes, the next thing we knew, he was dead. A young man, with all his life ahead of him. He was only serving six fucking years! It still upsets me to think about it. But prison life carries on as normal. I got over Christmas and started 1986 with a new move.

Going back to Parkhurst gave me mixed feelings. This was the jail where I’d been certified insane. I was back on C Unit.

I soon heard that Taffy Jones (the screw I’d cut) had died of cancer. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. I was really quite shocked. And another screw who I well respected, Arthur Pyke, had died. He was a lovely old boy who treated us all well. Old Tom Cotton was still there. I liked Tom. He always gave me a newspaper, and was a happy-go-lucky sort of screw. Kenny Pugh was also still there. I liked Ken. For a man in his late 40s he was super-fit. Every day he worked out on a punch-bag – he’d been a good boxer in his day. He always conducted himself properly with me.

C Unit had altered a lot – it was now double-secure – but I knew a lot of welcome faces there: Eddie Wilkinson, Andy Dougall, Phil Cartwright, Jim Donnley, Neil Adamson and Ian Doram. I got into a nice routine. I mostly hung around with Eddie, as we
go back years. We came through a lot together, and we’re still coming through it. Eddie had had a bad accident at Maidstone. It happened in the gym. He was rushed to Guy’s Hospital with a blood clot but he still suffered severe paralysis. Eddie limps to this day and suffers a lot of pain.

I tried to make his life that little bit better for him, which is difficult in a place like C Unit as most of the cons on there are ‘Broadmoor material’ – paranoid, psychotic.

Eddie could look after himself, but I made sure I cooked him an extra bowl of everything. I also made sure that no fucker upset him. A week or two passed and life wasn’t too bad, but I was very stand-offish with the screws as a lot of them were a little bit too friendly for my liking. They were false. They tried to push themselves on me – and I wasn’t having any of that. Sue Evershed was the psychologist on our unit. I liked Sue from the start; I could see that she was sincere, she really cared about us. Anyway, I only lasted a month. One evening, after we were all banged up for the night, I heard this commotion coming up the stairs. It stopped right at my cell door. The door flew open. ‘Right! Pack up. You’re away.’

What gutted me most was that I had just ordered a chicken to cook for Eddie and me. I went to Eddie’s cell, looked through the hole, and shouted, ‘I’m away, Eddie.’ He was so upset he started kicking his door. ‘Bastards,’ he shouted.

Eddie is such a good mate, he takes it all to heart. Weeks later, I heard that he’d gone into the office the next day and attacked a screw over my move. That’s how much of a mate he is. He loved me as a brother, and he knew that I had done absolutely nothing wrong to warrant a move. I was gutted.

It was the first ride that I’d had on the ferry at night-time. The screws in the van weren’t a bad bunch
– they gave me sweets and orange juice. I asked them, ‘Where to now?’

‘Winchester.’

The van pulled up right outside the block. I wasn’t even allowed to see the other cons. This punishment block was only small. Even the exercise yard was covered over with a steel net, so it was very claustrophobic. But the block screws gave me no trouble. I pulled the Governor to ask if I could have a medicine ball and a gym mat for when I went out on my exercise. This was the beginning of my legendary medicine ball! Most block jails now supply me with a ball – I’m the only con in the country allowed one. If you don’t know, these balls are stuffed leather, bigger than a football and quite heavy – they’re designed to be thrown and caught as part of an exercise routine. I devised some great exercises with those balls and it helped me through a lot of soul-destroying months. The bigger and heavier the ball was, the more I liked it. They come in various sizes, from 8lb to 18lb.

Winchester was a good block to get my thoughts sorted out, as it was quiet. The only problem was the cockroaches. They came under my door in armies every night. My bed was only four inches from the floor so I found them in my blankets, in my clothes – the fuckers were everywhere! Still, this is prison life. I guessed I wouldn’t be there too long.

Sure enough, four weeks later I was cuffed up and on my way. The van headed towards London but I never bothered asking where we were going. Personally, I didn’t give a fuck. I saw each move as a way of trying to break me down. There were to be a total of eight moves for me in 1986 alone. All these moves were unnecessary, unjust and totally frustrating.

I was back in the Scrubs. Again, the van pulled up to the block door, same old routine as before. They put me in a cell and – lo and behold! – Reg Kray was in
the very next cell. They took him back to Parkhurst in the same van that I’d just arrived in! Reg had only been at Wormwood Scrubs 28 days, but being the man Reg is, he took it all in his stride. This was, in fact, his first time back in a London jail since 1969. Reg actually held the record of being the longest-serving con in Parkhurst – 17 years. He came to my door to wish me all the best, and he was off!

On the other side of me was ‘Joe the Greek’. Joe is just 5ft 2in and weighs 10 stone, yet he is one of the most dangerous men in the penal system. He was always up to something. Violence was his speciality. He put 60 stitches in a screw’s face at Bristol. Joe has since been extradited back to Greece. The system could never beat Joe, he never gave an inch. To me he was a giant – his heart was strong. God bless you, Joe!

Up above me was Roy Walsh. Roy got life back in 1973 for bombing the Old Bailey and Scotland Yard. He is another man who would never back down. I’d met him years back and he hadn’t changed a lot. He was always good company and never moaned. I, however,
had
changed. The years I’d endured in the asylums had rubbed off on me. I was still trying to come to terms with myself.

I requested to see the Number 1 Governor. As I was marched into his office by the screws I could see him sitting behind a desk. I felt strange, unwell, confused and dangerous. I leapt over the desk and began to strangle him. My brain just went. Screws were on top of me, the bells were ringing and more screws came. I started shouting. They put me in a body-belt and carted me away to the box.

My head was in pieces. For two days, I was in a state of severe depression but a screw called Mr Patterson, who I have a lot of respect for, got me thinking straight again. I was let out of the box but days later I tore the recess to bits. Sinks were flying,
urinals, doors, the lot! I punched my right fist through the ‘unbreakable’ glass. It slashed my wrist and my arm. Blood was pissing everywhere, shooting out like a fountain. I ran about shouting things that I can’t even remember – I was once again on the edge of insanity. If I’d had a gun I would have shot the whole block up.

I felt myself getting weaker. Mr Patterson calmed me down and I was taken over to the prison hospital and sedated. They stitched me up but I would need proper surgery. The rest was like a dream. I was in agony as I was put in the van. My arm was burning up – it felt like a million toothaches all at once. The screws in the van were very tense. I suppose they thought that I was going to lose control again. I was drowsy when the van pulled up at the Portsmouth ferry. I couldn’t believe it. I was on my way back to Parkhurst where I was told a surgeon was waiting for me. I felt bad.

Micky Connell, a hospital screw, was the first person I saw as the van pulled up outside the hospital wing. Micky is the only screw I really talk to in Parkhurst. He’s a real man who’s had a lot of bad times but he always jumps back up. That’s why I respect him. Micky’s not a bully or a liberty taker, he’s straight to your face.

I got cleaned up for the operation and put my dear mother’s cross and chain on my ankle. As they wheeled me down to the operating theatre, one of the screws said to the surgeon, ‘He’s got a cross and chain on his ankle!’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and it’s fucking staying on!’ The surgeon said that if I felt better with it on then I could keep it. He then explained what he was going to do, including a skin graft. There was a piece of skin missing from my thumb and this was what was giving me the most pain. As the drug hit me and I was on my way out of this world, I smiled knowing
that my mother’s cross and chain was with me. God bless you, Mum!

I woke up later in a cell in the hospital wing. I had plaster of Paris on my fist and arm. I was in pure agony. Pain-killers were written up for me and then a doctor came to see me. I told him that I was not staying in this hospital because of all the bad memories it carried. He said if I didn’t stay there, I would have to go in the block.

So my next month was spent in the block, a very depressing month. My mind was forever racing, looking for ways to fuck them up. Twelve years had now passed me by, and had obviously taken their toll. Maybe, subconsciously, I never wanted to get out. Then the van arrived once again, and I was on my way!

I was always put in cell number 13 at Wandsworth. It was the same old routine as I entered the block – even Prison Officer Wells was there to meet the van. He always seemed to be on duty every time I arrived.

Cell 13 looks out on to the caged exercise yard. I must have paced up and down 1,000 miles in that cell over the years. Some days I would pace from breakfast until supper, non-stop, wondering about where they would send me next. But that just caused me a lot of anxiety and stress, so nowadays I try not to think about tomorrow – just take each day as it comes.

Whenever I’m back in cell 13, I mostly stand by the window in the evenings, watching the planes fly over, their red lights flashing on and off. I’ve never been on a plane, but I imagine all the people flying off to distant places. Families with ‘normal’ lives. Actually, I’ve never been abroad. The furthest I ever got was the Isle of Wight on the ferry! At night, from cell 13, you can see the prison yard illuminated by floodlights.
Rats scurry about looking for food. I’ve seen these rats, standing feet away from me, just staring.

Some nights I’d have a chat with some of the boys above the block. They would tell me all the latest. Some nights I just used to sink within myself. Why was I Britain’s most complex con? Why me all the time? There was really no answer. It’s just a vicious circle I’d got caught up in. I was stuck in the centre of this machine and it was impossible to work my way out. I truly believed at that time that I would never get out. I thought I would die in jail.

The crazy thing was, I didn’t give a fuck if I did!

Wandsworth Jail is always full up, and there is always someone in a similar situation to yourself. I’ve met real characters in this block: Alan Byrne, Chris Haig, Winston Silcott, Tony Steel, Alec Bray, Dominic Noonan and Frankie Fraser. So many. If you don’t hit Wandsworth block, then you ain’t done any block. Wandsworth is the block of all blocks!

Some people, of course, never go into a punishment block at all. These are model prisoners and I say good luck to them. We all have to get through our time one way or another, and I’ve spent a fair amount of my time on the road in prison vans! Guess what? The van turned up … I was on the move once more!

The move back to Parkhurst block was a bad one for me. I saw it purely as taking the piss. But Tom Cotton, the block screw, kept me cool. He’d apparently been told to tell me that it wouldn’t be for long, but I still wasn’t too happy. This was a blatant piece of psychological crap to upset me. They eventually put me up on M Wing, which pleased me a lot.

M Wing – for those of you who haven’t been there – is like a little unit with only 25 cons. Everyone was settled, so I went on there hoping to get some serious time done. The Terrett Brothers, Charlie and Martin, were on there, as well as my pal Micky Hallett.
Freddie Sewell was also there. I’d known Fred for years. He’d been in longer than I had; he shot a cop dead in Blackpool in 1972.