Bronson (15 page)

I started to get myself into a nice routine. I kept myself pretty much to myself.

Reg Kray had moved to Gartree in Leicestershire, so, for me, Parkhurst would never be the same again. I plodded on for a few weeks – then I snapped!

Ray Baron upset me. It didn’t take a lot, but it cost me a lot. He came out of the TV room. I spoke to him and he totally blanked me! I shot into his cell after him. He got cheeky so I gave him a slap and walked out and left him on his arse. A pal of mine saw me come out of his cell. He asked me what was up, so I told him the mug had upset me. He told me, ‘Don’t be silly, go and see if he’s all right.’ Like a fool, I did.

Baron was lying on his bed, pretending to read. His mouth was swollen and I noticed his foot was moving up and down (a sure sign of nerves). I sat down on the chair.

‘All right?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he answered. Then the rat pushed his table over and started shouting. He was doing it to create attention to get the screws in. I grabbed him and gave him another slap. I told him, ‘Shut up!’

It was too late. Screws were all over the place! I told them that we were only playing, but Baron told them different, so they took me back to the block. This was to be my last time on a wing until my release. The slap on Baron cost me loads. It kept me as a high-risk Cat A prisoner – and it also kept me in solitary until the very day I was released. The block was now my life.

The van arrived and away I went. Ray Baron had fucked me up all over a silly slap!

I was now getting sick of this game. I was all too often waking up not knowing where I was. I was
coming to Wandsworth far too often lately. I told Prison Officer Wells that I was not happy. He told me to calm down as I wouldn’t be there that long. The Governor wanted me moved as soon as possible.

My moves were dictated by head office. All Cat A inmates come under the jurisdiction of the Home Office. I had become a pawn. They picked me up and moved me when they wanted to. They had taken the Ray Baron slap seriously. A silly fucking slap and they were turning it into a serious incident. They must have been convinced my head had gone again. PO Wells told me to cool it and give it a few weeks, which I did. I trained in the exercise cage every day. I trained in my cell. I was basically ticking over nicely – until some arsehole upset me!

It happened in the caged yard by D Wing. I was jogging around happily when – Bang! – a stick hit me on my skull. I looked up and saw mops raining down on me from the top recess landing. Three or four actually got me in the face. My head was cut, so was my eye. This rat aimed each one, and I must give him ten out of ten for accuracy. I grabbed some concrete and started throwing it at the windows, but it was useless. The screws took me in. A doctor was there but I fucked him off. I was banged up in my cell and I was fuming. Whoever had done it either had a vendetta against me or was just an evil toe-rag.

I sent word up to some faces up on D Wing. Within a day, I had the con’s name. This con knows that I know who he is – end of story. I believe he did it for his mate Baron. I’ll catch up with him later – in or out. My head and face soon healed up and I carried on training. On a good day I was doing 2,500 press-ups. I would do 30 or 40, write them down, and at the end of each day I would count them all up. Fitness is how I buzz.

There’s no excuse in prison – you can’t but keep fit. It’s the perfect set-up. A regular diet, no late nights,
plenty of rest, no sex – and take it from me, forget smoking and drugs. It’s just not worth it.

I’m the king of the press-ups and sit-ups. I’ve already said I once did 25 press-ups with two men on my back, and I’ve squatted with three men on my shoulders! I’ve been making prison fitness records for as long as I can remember. Show me another man – a man half my age – who can pick up a full-size snooker table. I can. Show me another guy who can rip out 1,727 press-ups in an hour. I can. And I do it even though I have to eat stodgy prison shit. People outside eat steaks, but I have to eat porridge and a lot of bread – I’ve no choice. I drink loads of water to cleanse my system. If I can do it, others can.

I once went eight years without using weights, then I went into a gym and bench pressed 300lb ten times. I’m 5ft 11in, I weigh 220lb and I feel as strong as I did when I was 21. I’ve been through hell in the prison system – but I must be doing something right! There’s something deep inside me that pushes me on. I’m a solitary fitness survivor.

Sometimes my strength has been my downfall. I was getting restless after that rat lobbed those mops at me. The prison chaplain came to my cell door and I dived at him. I was depressed; I wanted a hostage. But he was fast, he slammed my door and ran. The screws piled in to see what I was up to. The van arrived. I was on the move again.

Now they were taking the piss! This was a fucking liberty. I told the Governor at Parkhurst to either move me from the block or take the consequences. He told me I would only be there for a short spell, until the Home Office decided a move.

George Leedum was in the block. George is one of Britain’s longest-serving lifers. We all love George. Sadly, I upset him one day. The night before, I sat up all night and caught a dozen or more cockroaches,
stuffed them in a sock and tied a knot in it. The next day I went to George’s cell and said that I’d got a present for him and I would leave it behind the recess door in a sock. Poor old George went fucking berserk. He slagged me, banged my door … he got so upset. I felt terrible. I later got him some sweets and tea bags and said sorry. Fortunately, he forgave me. God bless you, George!

Parkhurst is always full of colourful characters. The greatest oddball I ever met in Parkhurst was Ronnie Abrahams, also known as the Screaming Skull. Ron got life back in 1966, and as I tell you this story he’s still inside. He is what you might call a little strange, but I love old Ron. He weighs seven-and-a-half stone, wet-shaves his skull, and spends his time in and out of the blocks. Some say he’s a fucking nuisance, but I’ll say this about Ron: he once took a terrible beating off some Cockney mobsters. He got his jaw broken and his ribs busted, and he just took it – kept his mouth shut. I’ve known ‘faces’ get a slap and then cry about it, so Ron’s 100 per cent in my book. He’s always good for a laugh and all jails need their characters.

Ron’s one of my heroes – a born fighter! Incidentally, he got his name, the Screaming Skull, through me. I would pick him up on to my shoulders and run around. He used to scream at the top of his voice and because he had a shaven head he got the nickname. I pray that he’ll be out some day. Ron killed somebody a long time ago in a domestic family tragedy that I won’t go into. But the reason Ron’s done so long is simple – he’s a loony, and I love a loon!

Anyway, getting back to the cockroaches. I collected a shoe-box full of them and put some cellophane over the top. There must have been a good hundred of them. I put some breadcrumbs in to feed them. It took me a fortnight to catch the fuckers – all night long! I could see and hear them scratching about in the box.
Eventually, I pulled the Governor about the vermin in the block. He said it couldn’t be that bad. Little did he know what was about to happen next!

I threw the box all over him. It was a blinder! I’ve never seen a Governor move so fast. I was on my way after that, who knows where.

Yep, back to Wandsworth block. Prison Officer Wells was as disgusted as I was. It was now obvious that somebody in the Home Office was taking the piss! The Governor in Wandsworth was also fed up with it. I was moved in less than a week, back to Albany on the Isle of Wight.

As soon as I arrived in the block, they told me that I would be there for two months and then I would be moving on. Two months suited me. It’s not a bad block. At least it’s clean and the food’s half-decent. Plus, I got the medicine ball. I looked upon this as a training period, to prepare for my next test.

There are always good guys in the block at Albany. We have chats out of the cell windows, a bit of a
sing-song
. We keep each other happy. It’s what life is all about in jail – helping each other along.

I used to have my explosions. But I can’t blame the Albany screws. They did nothing to upset me. They fed me well and gave me my medicine ball and mat, so I had no complaints. John Flowers, the prison chaplain, was also a good man who I respected. He often phoned my mother up to let her know that I was OK.

One day, in the cage, I was on one of my work-outs when I had a seizure. At first, it was thought to be a stroke. The right-hand side of my body was paralysed, my face screwed up in pain. I was terrified. I crept back to my cell, with some help, and then they helped me on to the mattress. I could hardly move by this time. The doctor was rushed in. He said it was an anxiety attack caused by built-up tension. My whole
system had collapsed. It frightened the life out of me.

Apart from that, my two months soon flew by with few problems. My mind was now racing. Where would I be going next?

Before I left, a con hanged himself. He was only cells away from me and it upset me badly. I could actually smell the death for days afterwards. I started again to imagine what it would feel like to actually do it. My two pals, Ronnie Johnson and Johnny Heibner, were either side of me, both on punishment. They got me over this period. Days later, I was on my way again.

Again the van pulled up by the block at Winchester Prison. I felt OK to be arriving there as it gave me solitude, peace and time to think. A lot of cons there either knew me or had heard of me, so many of them used to make up little parcels of magazines and books and give them to a block screw to give to me. Those little parcels used to make my whole day go right. It would make me feel wanted, not forgotten.

It’s the same when I get a letter. It can make a bad day turn good. I still look forward to letters now. When they arrive, just after 11.00am, I read them. Then I read them at night again, poring over every word, imagining exactly what my friends who’ve written are doing and going through. I suck up and savour every ounce of freedom, every mention of the outside world. It’s like enjoying a bowl of fresh strawberries. When my friends on the outside send me photos, it makes a big difference. I can picture them in my mind’s eye, laughing and having fun. I feel I know them better. Bear in mind, they can go out any time of the day or night and see and do things I haven’t done in years. They can see the real world; they can have sex; they can have a pint of beer; they can stroke a dog. They can experience the wind and the rain on their faces.

I don’t even have a fucking window to open.

I’ve told you, but it’s worth saying again – my philosophy has always been ‘It’s nice to be nice.’ Basically, I’m a nice guy, but sometimes I lose all my senses and become nasty. That doesn’t make me evil, just confused.

I’m a strange person, very complex. It’s largely what prison has turned me into.

Winchester treated me decently. My only problem was that a scumbag called Rogers was in the block. Rogers stabbed to death Rocky Harty in Parkhurst’s kitchen. This fat slag Rogers was already doing life for killing his wife, and then he killed Rocky over a measly pork chop!

This murder almost caused a riot, so they slung Rogers down there out of the way. I hated the fucker. He later got another life – fat twat.

My van arrived. It was a week away from Christmas, my thirteenth inside. I thought the Home Office might have sorted me out a decent move seeing as it was now the time of goodwill. But the evil rats picked the worst block again. I was now truly pissed off!

Prison Officer Wells was there once again to meet me at Wandsworth, so was the Governor and a dozen screws. Cell 13 was ready and waiting for me. I was told that I would be held there over Christmas, and that I would be moving in the new year to a good jail – but I had to behave myself.

Christmas in Wandsworth block is no fun. There’s no TV, no films, no mixing, crap food. I couldn’t have been in a worse block over that period. The only guy who made it for me was my good friend Alan Byrne.

For our Christmas treat they let us in the same cage together for a walk. We had a good chat. I sang a few carols through my bars that night. We had a laugh. Alan got nicked in 1985 for an armed robbery
where a guard got killed. Alan and Dick Trump got life. I believe that they are both innocent men. It’s a really tragic case, but Alan fights his way through. It’s one of those cases that will eventually come to light. Good luck, Alan.

That Christmas was a bad one. We had nothing – just 23 hours locked in a cell, every day. They say that behind every door is a dream. My dream was to get out for the next Christmas. I knew that I couldn’t keep sane for much longer. I
had
to get out!

Three days into 1987 and I was off again, this time to Gartree top-security prison, Leicestershire. A Governor was waiting for me in reception. He told me that I was going into the block so they could decide what to do with me. I went peacefully. The very next day, the bastards told me that I would remain in the block until my release – which wasn’t until February 1988!

What the fuck was going on?

They told me the score. The Home Office had decided that I would remain in isolation indefinitely. So Gartree gave me a deal. If I behaved myself, they would give me some lost remission back … so I could be out in 1987! Also, I would be allowed to go to a gym class. And, as time passed by and if I behaved myself, they would consider other privileges. They asked me to think about it. I did and I agreed to try it. I had to, for my own sanity. I could, after all, be out very soon. This block was only small and not used much. Cons used to come down for the odd day or two, then would go straight back up on the wing.

There were a lot of cons that I knew in this jail: Reg Kray, Rooky Lee, Ron Brown, Biffo, Paddy Hill, Charlie Tozer, Dave Bale, Billy Adams, Patsy Flannigan, Micky Ahmed, Paul Sumat, Ron Mcarthy, Steve Nordane. Lots of good guys. And all of them pulled the Governor to get me up on the wing, but the
Governor told them the same as he told me – it was down to the Home Office. Some were not too pleased.