Bronson (18 page)

I went out on exercise and dived on to a gate. I pulled myself up. This was tricky stuff as it had razor wire on it. I got on to a ledge but I tore my right arm and left leg. Half the leg of my jeans was left behind on that wire. From the ledge I scaled a building and made it to a drainpipe. I was on my way up – 60 feet up!

This was where all my training paid off. I shot up that drainpipe like a squirrel with its nuts on fire! I got to the top, but now I was in trouble. It was impossible to reach the gutter as the pipe shot into the wall at least 6ft below it. I was trapped. I looked below; there were scores of screws and dogs, the usual riff-raff, looking up at me. I shouted down, ‘You lot better move as I’m jumping!’ The silly bastards moved out of the way. They really had pea-brains; they believed me.

I knew what I was going to do. The roof was going to come off. I was only feet away; I couldn’t let it beat me now. I climbed back down to the ledge, which was only about 10ft from the ground. I found an air extractor and smashed it up, so I’d soon got myself a
piece of curved metal. Then I tore out the TV aerial wire. I tied the wire around the metal and made my way back up the pipe. Once at the top, I tried to hook the metal on to the guttering, like a grappling hook. Some would say it was a suicide mission, but what was the big deal? I could only fall and die! The plan worked. I tested my weight and had my last look down. Then, to my horror, I saw a fucking screw above me! He was looking down at me. I couldn’t believe it! He kicked my piece of metal off the guttering. Then I saw another screw. The slippery fuckers had gone up through the skylight to stop my plan. I was now well and truly trapped. This was as bad as robbing a security van full of forged notes – I was sick!

I had no choice but to climb down – but not yet. The bastards would have to wait until I was ready. I made it to the ledge and stayed there all day. It was pouring with rain. I was cold, wet and hungry, and covered in cuts and bruises. I felt at a total loss. I eventually climbed down later that night.

The next day I was so depressed. I stripped stark bollock naked and blacked myself from head to toe with boot polish. Then I started to smash the granny out of my steel door. They moved me early the next morning. I left Leicester Jail as a black man.

On the way to wherever we were going, which was via the southbound M1, I was bursting for a slash. In the Cat A vans there was supposed to be a bucket for emergencies as we were not allowed to stop. There wasn’t in this van; I was convinced that they had done it on purpose. I had no choice. I flooded the floor of the van. I will never forget the looks on their faces. The van pulled up outside the gates of Brixton Prison, and in we went.

I swear to God they just didn’t know what to do with me or where to put me, so they locked me up in a holding cell until the Governor could come down to
sort it out. It seemed the choice was down to a hospital padded cell, the block or a top-secure special unit.

Personally, I didn’t give a toss.

The Governor came down and told me that I would be going to the special unit. At that time – March 1988 – it was the number-one secure-unit in the country. It held 16 inmates, all for serious crimes. My crime was absolutely nothing to what these guys were facing. Just to give you some idea of what this unit was all about, there were four IRA terrorists, a cop killer, a drug baron (who was also an American Mafia man), a spy, several killers and, not forgetting the most remarkable villain I ever met, Valerio Viccei, master thief. He raided the Knightsbridge safety deposit boxes, taking them for £60 million.

And then there was little old me, in for doing a poxy jeweller’s. And I was the one in the cage.

There were three cells on the bottom floor at Brixton. One cell, mine, had a ‘cage door’, an iron, meshed barrier inside the normal steel cell door. The reason for this is simple – they can open the outer door to feed you, but the inner cage remains locked. Your food is simply passed through a restricted hatch at the bottom of the cage. Human contact when you’re caged up is out of bounds.

Micky Reilly was next door to me. He was facing a trial for robbing a bank. Mick is made of good stuff; he always cheers everyone up. On my other side was Valerio, known by some of his friends as ‘Gi Gi’. The rest of the inmates were above us. Everyone on this unit was allowed to mix, to watch TV, play cards and so on. When I walked on to this wing, a lot of the cons thought I was a black geezer or a fucking lunatic!

Ronnie Easterbrook was on here. I knew Ron in Parkhurst back in the 1970s. He was now in a lot of trouble. He’d been on a bit of work when Tony Ash got shot dead by the police. Ron copped a bullet in the
shoulder. A cop also caught a bullet. Ron’s a good, loyal man and I was gutted to see him in trouble. He later got life.

Tommy Hole Sr was also on here. He was facing a couple of trials for robberies. I loved old Tom. I know his people from the East End, and I knew Tom very well. He was a man of honour. It was sad to see him facing so much, but Tom was one of the old breed – he got through it. He later got 23 years. Sadly, a couple of years later, Tommy walked into his son’s cell at Parkhurst to find him hanging. It was one of the saddest, most upsetting days I can ever remember. I was in Parkhurst myself at that time. Tommy was only out a few years when, just before Christmas 1999, he was shot dead by some toe-rag in a London pub. God bless you, Tom.

After I scrubbed all the black boot polish off myself, I looked normal again … well, as normal as a ‘madman’ can!

The lads used to come to my cage door and have a chat. We all got on very well. I couldn’t see why Brixton wouldn’t let me out to mix – neither could my mates. They all got together and asked if I could come out on the exercise yard with them. The rule was only eight at a time. Eventually, I was allowed out with the others. I mostly went out with Gi Gi, Micky Ridley, Perry Wharrie, Tommy Hole, Ronnie Easterbrook, Dennis Wheeler and John McCann. But we swapped about from time to time, so I ended up with them all. It was a giant cage with cameras set up on it. It was absolutely secure – it even had a steel net on top.

John Boyle, the American drugs man, got 20 years, but he walked on his appeal. John McCann and Finbar McCullen both got 20 years, and both walked out on their appeal. Perry Wharrie got life, along with Charlie Magee. Gi Gi got 22 years. Those were the type of sentences facing these men, but they were
all gentlemen and a lot helped me along, for which I was grateful. Dennis Wheeler used to get a chair and come and sit outside my cage gate to have a chat. He gave me tins of salmon and chocolates. He really spoilt me. He was a lovely man and the slags gave him 14 years for a bit of cannabis – a fucking liberty. We all thought that it was a bad deal; after all, there was only 12 tons of it!

Gi Gi was another one who really kept me sane. Every day he would surprise me. He’s one of those guys who’s got a gift to be special. He’s funny – and he’s as strong as a bull. A smashing bloke. He used to wind up the screws with his Rolex watch. It was solid gold with a jewelled strap. That watch meant a couple of years’ wages to a screw. Gi Gi once threw it in the bin for a laugh, just to tease them.

And he didn’t stand for any shit from them. He always argued for his rights. That’s why I liked and respected him. We used to play chess through the cage gate. I would sometimes nick a piece when he wasn’t looking. He wouldn’t notice for a while, but when he did he went mad! I’d swear black was blue and that I hadn’t touched it.

Things were going fine for me at this time. Then, one morning, I lost my head. I ran out and picked up the scalding-hot tea urn and hit one of the Irish cons. The tea went all over him. Then I did him with a bucket. It was all over nothing but it caused a lot of tension. Violence in a unit as small as that one cannot be overlooked. One incident can lead to a dozen. The con that I hit was IRA, on a charge for something very serious. He later got 25 years. It turned out that I had built up the problem in my imagination. It really was fuck-all. I had been brooding over something that was totally unnecessary.

Time passed by. My Uncle Jack visited me with Kelly-Anne. He was so sad to see me back inside
again. Kelly-Anne seemed very upset over it all. She had given birth to a little daughter who had been taken away from her. She’d also had all her other kids taken away as well, long before I met her. Her life of men and booze obviously went back a long way. She confused me so much; I could never work her out. One side of her was so sweet, the other so mysterious.

Alison was by now only just a memory. I blamed myself for giving her that poxy ring. It was a mistake that I would have to suffer for. I don’t hate Alison for what she did – and if she ever reads this, I hope she has no reason to fear me over it. But, personally, I would go down for 30 years before I grassed on anyone.

I decided to plead ‘guilty’ to the robbery charge. There were two very good reasons for this. The first was to keep my Uncle Jack out of court – some slag had implicated him, which was totally untrue, but I didn’t want him to have to go through all that shit. The second reason was Alison. I knew that she would go to pieces in court, and although she’d grassed me I didn’t want to see her go through the ordeal of the witness box.

To plead ‘not guilty’ and be found ‘guilty’ carried 15 years. A ‘guilty’ plea would be half that. So I really had no choice. The only regret I have now is that I should have broken the motorbike boy’s legs.

I was double-cuffed with screws all around me. I faced Judge Hickman at St Albans Crown Court. He was a small man with a large grey beard and in his gown he resembled Santa Claus. In court was Uncle Jack, Kelly-Anne and Jimmy Brookes, the landlord at our local pub. Jimmy, a fine boxer in his day, had been good to me. Most days he’d cook me up a nice big steak when I went down The Moakes pub.

It was 17 June 1988, my day in court. I spoke up:
‘Today is the last day of my criminal ways.’ That’s all I said.

My QC, a Mr Major, spoke for me, too.

I sat watching Judge Hickman carefully. He seemed to be a man of great intensity. I tried to send him a telepathic message: ‘
Give me a break
.’

He said solemnly, ‘We must remember that no gun was ever found and only one ring, but this crime was obviously premeditated. I have no choice but to send you back to prison.’

My mind was racing. How long? Just fucking tell me how long.

Seven years!

I went back down to the cells a very disappointed man. My QC came down to see me. He told me that seven years was a good result. If I was good, I could be out in four years and eight months.

I felt empty. Seven years for armed robbery is a result in anyone’s eyes. I could have got 15 years, but I just felt that I shouldn’t even be in prison at all. I needed help.

I was a fucked-up man. I was lost – and another seven years might finish me off.

Jack, Jimmy and Kelly-Anne were allowed down to see me. We were separated by a glass screen. Jack had tears, Jimmy looked gutted and Kelly-Anne looked oddly different. I saw something in her eyes that I’d never seen before. It spelt out faith.

‘Be strong,’ she said. I knew at that moment that I was going to make it, but I also knew that it was going to be some battle.

I told Jack to be strong and we both put our hands up to the glass and said our goodbyes. My head was throbbing. Now it was back to the cages of Lucifer. Plenty of porridge and plenty of cockroaches.

Jesus God Almighty, here we go again.

CHAPTER NINE

I swept into Wandsworth Prison to a hail of sirens – I’m sure they must have mixed me up with someone else! But for the first time in years they decided to put me up on the wing with the rest of the Cat A cons. Most had double or even treble the sentence I was facing.

There was Wayne Hurran, 20 years; Kevin Brown, 17; Micky Reilly, 14; Steve Davies, 12; Jimmy Saunders, 17; Dennis Campbell, 16; and Jimmy Hampton, 15. However, they all kept their spirits up. ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser was also back in. I used to see
him in the yard most days. Frank is a legend. He had once been very ruthless, but he stood out as the most polite man in any jail. Fortunately, he was only doing a three-stretch, so he soon got out. Not so long back he got shot through the face on the outside and survived. He was 66 years old and pulled through. He’s the mean machine! Frank always calls me Genghis Khan – I can’t think why, but if Frank wants to call me by the name of a famous warrior then he can. He’s got a big place in my heart.

After two days, I got the arsehole. I picked up a screw and slung him out of the way. The silly bastard was standing in my way, trying to make himself look special and make me look silly. It didn’t work. Here we are, a screw, 21 years old, called an officer, with a set of keys and a truncheon – it’s power! But it doesn’t mean anything to me. He only gets respect from me if he deserves it. Lots do get my respect, but pricks like this never will. They are basically idiots and they wind me up.

So after this I hit the block – what’s new? They put me in a smelly cell with no windows. I slung all my clothes out the door, so they then put me in my old cell, number 13. The next day they put me back up on D Wing, where I had started. But violence was bubbling up inside me. I smashed my cell up, so I was back down in cell 13 again. The next day I found myself in a prison van. I believe now that my old friend Prison Officer Wells asked to get me moved. He’s not a silly man. He knew I was unsettled and unhappy. I just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that I was inside again.

On 24 June 1988 I arrived at Full Sutton, the newest top-secure jail in the country at the time. It was built on a marsh up near York, but for me it might as well have been on the moon. It was too far up north for me. How the fuck could my Uncle Jack
get up there to see me? The jail itself was spotless. Every cell had a toilet and sink and it had the best prison gym in the country. The only thing was, it also had a lot of silly screws. Many were only used to working in local jails, and now they were in a
long-term
jail. They didn’t have a clue how to run it. The cons that were in there were doing far too long to put up with their silly games, so obviously there were confrontations. A lot of cons (including myself) were not happy. I already knew many of them – Noel Gibson, Alan Byrne, Frank Cook, Albert Baker, Steve Waterman, and even Colin Robinson were all here.

I attempted to keep my head down but – guess what? – it didn’t work out. My first explosion happened in the canteen. I wanted serving, but some screw told me to come back later so I punched his fat face in. Bells went off, dozens of screws came running … I was bang in trouble!

I was put in the block where I remained for 56 days with no bed. I also lost 120 days’ remission – not a good start. After I’d done my 56 days, they let me back up on the wing. The next one to get it was one of the Governors. I let him have a bucket of water all over his nice new suit. It was back to the block for me! When I was eventually allowed back up on the wing, the next to get it was a black con. I was talking to two friends of mine in a room when this con strolled in. It was his attitude that set me off, so I gave him a right hook! I was in trouble again. This whole Bronson reputation was now causing me a lot of problems.

I just couldn’t settle, couldn’t relax, even though I trained hard. Frank Cook asked me to move cells so I could be on his landing. Well, anyone would have thought that I’d asked to be moved to the Hilton Hotel the way that they acted. I told them to stick the move up their arse. They actually did move me that day …
100 miles up the road to Durham. This was a big joke to them. It never made me laugh.

As soon as we hit Durham I saw the reception committee waiting. They took me to the punishment block and put me in a cage cell. It was filthy. A mattress was on the floor, it was freezing cold and the piss-pot stank like a sewer. I asked them to get the Governor and when he came down I demanded to know what the hell was going on. He said that I had been moved there for a month because of my violence. I told him that was a load of old bollocks – I’d only asked to move from my cell and instead I was moved 100 miles away. All he would say was that if I behaved myself then I could be moved from that cage. It was a fucking liberty to keep me in that cage. After all, I hadn’t really been violent – yet!

My head was pounding. I had absolutely nothing, not even a bar of soap, to my name. I buried myself in the smelly blanket and tried to sleep. This was often difficult, because, being Cat A, a red light in my cell was supposed to be left on. (If a good screw is on, he turns it off.) On this first night it was off. I was in total darkness and I drifted in and out of sleep. I was hungry, cold and very depressed. All of a sudden, something woke me up.

It was a strange noise. At first I thought that I had imagined it, but then I heard it again. My fucking piss-pot moved – I could hear it scraping along the floor! Then I felt something brush past me. I leapt up in the air. There was no way these could be cockroaches. These were much bigger! I stuck my leg through the iron gate of the cage so I could kick the outer cell door. I shouted out, ‘Put my fucking light on, quick!’ The screw came running and, as the light went on, I could see them running about all over my cell – mice! A dozen or more of them. They must have come in to keep themselves warm. Those little rodents kept
me company for the next two weeks. They were lovely little creatures; I became quite attached to them. I fed them bread and other bits of food. They were fast fuckers as well.

After two weeks, I was moved to a proper cell in the block. My old pal Fred Mills was there and he sorted me out some sweets and fruit. Paul Sykes was also in the block. The last time I had seen Paul was in Walton Jail in 1974. Fred and Paul are both right old characters. We all need people like them to cheer us up. Paul’s a big Yorkshireman, hands like shovels. A man who clearly loved his beer, birds and fights. He once reputedly killed the prison cat, skinned it, and made a Davey Crockett hat out of it. The next two weeks flew by with no problems at all. Then the van arrived and off I went, seven screws and me. It was my thirty-ninth move in 14 years.

There was real tension in the block at Full Sutton. I was on ‘good order and discipline’ indefinitely but, despite my efforts, little things got to me. There was too much noise and certain screws kept trying to wind me up. In one day alone, I spat into three screws’ faces. I did it to provoke a fight, as I felt that a good tear-up would clear the air. They were all watching me too closely. I couldn’t relax or train and my sleep was being affected. The fuckers were getting under my skin! Christmas was days away. It’s always a lousy time inside, but little did I know then that it was going to be worse for me than most. On 23 December my cell door opened.

‘You’re away, mate – you’re moving right now. Come on, the van’s waiting.’

I couldn’t believe it. The day before Christmas Eve and I’m away! This was a deliberate move to upset me. I wasn’t amused.

Two days later, my Christmas dinner ended up all over the wall. I tell you what – I don’t recommend
spending Christmas Day in a fucking dungeon with only cockroaches for company. I was the only con in the block at Armley over the Christmas period. The food was disgusting and I didn’t even have a radio – evil bastards! I slung my dinner, as the dogs didn’t give me half of what I was entitled to. I slept most of Christmas away in a state of depression.

Armley at that time had a lot of youngsters hanging themselves. There was a big inquiry going on.

1989 crept in, a new year. I was glad; 1988 had been a right stinker. I thought to myself that a move would be nice, just to get out of that hell-hole. My prayers must have been answered for once. I was off on my travels again mid-way through January – back to the block at Full Sutton.

One day, my spy-hole opened and a con shouted, ‘All right, Charlie?’

It was Eddie Browning. A lot of cons didn’t like Eddie because of his case. Eddie got life for the Marie Wilkes murder on the motorway. But I like to make up my own mind about these things. I read his case notes and became 100 per cent convinced of his innocence. I couldn’t believe for the life of me why he was convicted. As it turned out, he was later cleared at the Appeal Court after a
seven-year
battle.

Colin Robinson was still there – and still at his swallowing game. This time he swallowed a blade. He was sent to hospital for another operation and then they sent him to Grendon in Buckinghamshire. Just after that, a young lad hanged himself in the block. It was all depressing stuff.

I pulled the Governor and told him he had better move me as I was getting very edgy. I was sick of the screws and they were sick of me. The time had come to move me on. Full Sutton and me had had just about enough of each other. The van arrived and I was off
once more, this time to Long Lartin top-security prison in Worcestershire.

I have to say I wasn’t happy about being put straight in the block. It was too intense. The screws were too close to you in this block. Cameras were watching us all the time and the cells and the exercise yard were claustrophobic. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I exploded down there.

Joe Whitty, the Governor, came down to see me. He was a Governor who I respected; he’d helped a lot of cons. If you fucked with him then he would come down hard on you, but he believed in giving every con a fair chance. He decided to give me a break and he put me up on the wing. He told me that it was all down to me to make a go of it. Joe Whitty was no fool. He knew what pressures I would be under; the screws would see me as a threat and some of the cons would not want me up on the wing, so I would be getting it from both sides. He told me to plod on and he would look into my progress as often as he could.

There were a lot of cons who I knew in this jail: Dave and John Anslow, Stan Thompson, Cyril Berket, Charles Knight, Alec Sears, Dave Bale, Albert Baker, Johnny Walker, Danny Foy, Steve Love, Eddie Watkins and Bubba Turner. They put me on A Wing and gave me a cleaning job. Long Lartin was a very laid-back jail, but it was also unique in that it had no ‘Rule 43’ protection wing. We all mixed together in here. Even rapists mixed with everyone else. I don’t know why or how, but it seemed to work. At first I found it a bit weird, but I said to myself that as long as they didn’t cross over on to my patch, then we would get on fine.

I kept my head down and trained twice as hard. I ate plenty and basically just did my porridge. I’d had no visits since court, but now I was nearer home. I sent Uncle Jack and Kelly-Anne a visiting order and
they both came up to see me. Kelly-Anne looked good; she was dressed all in black. She wrote to me a lot after that visit. She told me she loved me and that there was no other man for her. It felt great to be close to someone again. It made me feel wanted, something I hadn’t felt for a long time. She had put feeling into my life again. I called her my lady in black, and she swore that she had cut down on her drinking.

But after a few visits, I became confused. She always seemed to have plenty of money, yet she was supposed to be on Social Security. Where was she getting it all from? I think I knew in my heart that she had another man. She remained a mystery to me for a long time, but she did give me some nice thoughts and touching moments. I began to feel closer to her. It made me feel nice and, to some extent, contented, so I brushed aside the doubts that I was beginning to have.

At weekends I drank a lot of ‘hooch’. It’s what we called our secretly brewed prison beer. It was made with fruit, spuds, yeast, sugar and malt. It’s rough stuff but it does the trick. We would all pile into one cell and drink buckets of the smelly stuff. Of course, you’re not meant to brew-up, but all prisons do, and you can bet that a lot of Governors know full well it goes on. That hooch kept us happy – we’d all have a sing-song and the screws left us alone as long as it didn’t get out of hand. So, at weekends, I’d have a few pints and then through the week I would train really hard to work it off. I have to say, though, prison hooch isn’t without its hazards. It may be OK for cons, but not for connoisseurs! A few prisoners have actually gone blind through it and many get the shits. The problem is, it may have all sorts of dodgy ingredients – and if it is not ready to drink, it will ferment in your stomach. On balance, I’d say now to give it a miss. The odds are that the bad brews will outweigh the good ones.

Kelly-Anne had her own brand of poison. She soon came up to see me on her own and she was so pissed she walked straight into a table and almost fell over. It really hurt me to see her like that. In fact, it upset me so much that I just kept to myself for a week afterwards. I finally went over the edge. I was fed up with prison, fed up with myself, and fed up with life.