Bronson (20 page)

Time was running out. With my hand cut up, and my other arm now ‘dead’, I had just enough strength to get down. It was a sad day, and a very embarrassing one for me. One that I would like to forget.

Soon after this incident, I really blew up.

It was a Sunday and I was reading
The News of the
World
when my spy-hole opened. A con was at my door. He asked me for a light and I told him that I didn’t smoke. He then told me that I was a tight fucker, and to give him my paper instead! This did it. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I went to the door. It was a black con.

‘Right, boy. I’ve got no matches, and this paper is my fucking paper, so fuck off.’

My head was throbbing now. He was an ignorant git. If he had asked nicely, I would have helped him out.

I was so upset. Violent urges kept coming over me. I couldn’t get to him and this made me worse. I waited until it was time to slop out. Once I was out of my cell, I found him and poured my pot under his cell door. He went mad. I told him to lick it up – after all, bastards like him give me a bad name.

They moved him later that day but for a long time afterwards I was still mad about it … so out came the boot polish. I blacked up again.

I walked out for dinner, black as the ace of spades and completely naked. Everyone just stared in disbelief; no words were spoken.

Then I lost control. I slung some tables about and smashed my way into an office only to find a screw inside. I picked up a table and slung it at him but he ran out of the other door and escaped. I barricaded both doors and began reading my file. Then I tried to phone Jack and Kelly-Anne, but I couldn’t get an outside line. Through the office door I could see there were a dozen screws, some governors, and the riot mob with their helmets and shields.

That fucker who upset me had a lot to answer for. This was all his fault.

I walked out with the phone in my hand and shouted out, ‘It’s for you-hoo!’

They all kept their distance. The Governor said, ‘Go back to your cell, Charlie.’ I walked back and closed the door.

Later they came in and injected me. I slept for a day-and-a-half. My head was becoming confused. I felt that it was time for a move.

By the time I arrived at Wandsworth block, in September 1989, I was the most moved prisoner in Britain. In fewer than 20 months I had been transferred 14 times. There seemed no end to it. Some moves were OK, others were deliberate attempts to annoy me. Visits were getting fewer and fewer and even letters were scarce. My whole world at this time was prison; I lived it, breathed it, and felt I would surely die in it.

Prison Officer Wells told me that I should start getting my head together or I’d end up going back to the asylum and never get out again. I did my training and I jogged every day. The next few weeks passed by peacefully. One good thing about that block was that there were new cons coming and going all the time. But I was always in cell 13 – it’s now known as Bronson’s quarters. Most nights I would cheer up the cons with a song. I’d get my chair
and sing through the top of my door. They loved it. Some nights I used to think to myself, is prison all that bad? It was at such times that I had to check myself. That way of thinking had only one label – institutionalisation. Jesus Christ, I had to stop thinking like that. I wanted out! I did briefly get out, as I’ll tell you later on. But more than 11 years after my first fears about institutionalisation, I am still locked away from the world.

It was still September 1989, and I was destined to have four more moves before Christmas. When I arrived at the block at Albany on the Isle of Wight, they put me in the block on good order and discipline. They told me that I would be here for two months and then I would move on. I was handed a medicine ball and a nice routine, so it was up to me. Albany screws always treated me with respect. I never had any trouble with them. They used to let my friend Sammy McCarthy down to see me from the wing. Sammy was the gym orderly for years. He used to be a brilliant boxer – he was British Flyweight Champion years ago. I love the guy. He was serving 18 years for robbery. He never complained; he just got on with it. He still weighs the same today as he did over 30 years ago when he won the title. I’d rate Sammy as one of the greatest men I’ve ever met. He would come down and see me on one of my bad days and leave me feeling happy again. A story from Sammy was like a breath of fresh air. Thanks, Sammy!

Every now and again an old injury would play me up. Some years back some screws cracked a vertebra in my neck, and every once in a while I’m in agony from it. On this occasion, I couldn’t move it at all. They took me to Parkhurst prison hospital for an
X-ray
, then brought me straight back. It seemed to be in the winter that I suffered more and the doctors seemed to think that it might be arthritis.

Kelly-Anne came to visit. She looked well, but then it was rumoured that she had been visiting another con in another prison. If it’s true it’s always worse to be told by an outsider. Secrets are usually kept well hidden from the people nearest and dearest to you, but not from those who mean less. Anyone in a failed relationship will tell you that; the girl abandons the boy, he tries to work out why, but her girlfriends knew months before. I’ve often tried to keep the truth from my family. It would be hard for them to know what it is really like for me inside. I used to tell my mum that I spent my days watching TV and plays, that I was a great gardener and all the governors vied for my services, which is why I was moved so often.

With Kelly-Anne, I started to lose my trust in her. She was now more of a mystery than she ever was. I didn’t need her lies. I’d had enough lies in these places; I didn’t need them from outside as well.

I knew that I was coming to the end of my time there and it wouldn’t be long before they moved me – I just didn’t know when. The big day came on 22 November. The ferry ride was a bit choppy but I felt good. The New Year was only weeks away and things were looking up.

When I got to reception at Gartree, they told me that I was going up on the wing. I was made up! Christmas was coming up, a New Year was ahead, and I was out of solitary. What more can a con ask for?

Once I was up on A Wing, I met some old mates of mine. There was Ron Brown, Dale Roberts, Joe O’Connor, Dennis Campbell, Harry Roberts, Charlie Magee and Paddy Hill. I soon settled in. I went to a gym class, I ran at the weekends, I did my own cooking and had my pint of hooch.

The first incident occurred in the bath-house. I was having a bath and some loon came in and upset me by shaking his mat and covering me in dust. I pulled him
about it, but he just laughed. I put a right hook on his jaw. A few days later, I heard that he was out to stab me, so I pulled him again. He denied it, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and told him to move wings or I would stab him!

Then it happened. It was canteen day, the big day that we all looked forward to. It was my turn to go. I was going to buy sweets, stamps, toiletries and eggs, but as I walked over a screw grabbed my arm. I spun round and hit him in the jaw. Another screw pushed the bell. I was in trouble. Dozens of screws were running towards me like fucking lunatics. I turned and walked towards them … and they all ran past me! Obviously they didn’t realise at this time that it was me. But as soon as they found out they came running back. They took me to the block; I was gutted. The screw got sick leave, and I got the block. My remission was taken and I was fined. It just wasn’t worth the effort of smacking him. I should have learnt this years ago, but it seems I never will. Maybe I don’t want to.

I spent my Christmas in the block with Steve Waterman who had just come down from the Leicester unit. It was good to be with Steve. Afterwards, I was put back on A Wing but it was never the same. The screws were now edgy. I could see it in their eyes – they were very tense.

Harry ‘Hate ’Em All’ Johnson arrived. Harry had cut George Ince in the 1970s for playing around with Dolly Kray whilst Charlie Kray was inside. He also stuck a mug into John McVicar’s face. Harry was nicknamed ‘Hate ’Em All’ years ago … he hated every fucker! I met Harry in 1974 and I loved the guy. He was fearless; he would fight anyone. He was only 5ft 6in, but very stocky. Ron and Reg loved him, too, as Harry is a character. Unfortunately, the years inside caught up with Harry and sent him a bit crazy. I personally could relate to his strange ways, but a lot
couldn’t. In his later years, he lost more fights than he won, but for me ‘Hate ’Em All’ was a legend. He died soon after.

The inevitable had to happen; 1990 didn’t last too long before I blew up. It started before breakfast when some fat, useless screw ‘forgot’ to open my cell. How can anybody forget a Cat A prisoner? I banged on my door. The fat twat opened it and I chinned him. He went down on the floor. Another screw pressed the bell and I hit him, too.

I was in trouble again … big trouble! I then kicked the fat twat down the stairs and started to smash the wing up. Most of the cons were still in bed, others banged themselves up. I knew that I was going to blow up, but I went over the top as usual. I’m not sorry that I chinned the screws, but I shouldn’t have smashed up the wing. My time was over at Gartree, maybe for good. I felt this time I would be certified insane again.

Once in the block, I learnt that Kelly-Anne had arrived to see me, but I was so depressed I refused to see her. I knew I was ill again. I knew that if I went on that visit I would lose control. It wasn’t worth it.

The van arrived.

CHAPTER TEN

The cage at Durham hadn’t changed since the last time I was there. These type of jails just don’t change – they’re brutal, dirty, smelly and medieval. I was getting a lot of unnecessary hassle from a small minority of screws and I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I decked one of them.

After a couple of weeks there, they allowed me into a proper block cell. It was better than being locked away in a fucking cage.

Being caged is no joke, but it is funny-peculiar. Whenever I’d used violence against the system they
moved me to the worst places – and I just got worse. So I found myself, in January 1990, in the Durham Cage, with the threat of what I’d have coming if I messed about. Didn’t they realise? There was nothing more that they could do to me that hadn’t already been done over the years – except kill me. I needed help … and what I got was threats and incarceration.

Cliff Moody was in the block. He got life when he was 19 – he shot and killed a man. Cliff looked upon me as a father, and I used to spoil him like a son. I often bumped into him on my travels, as he was always being moved from block to block, forever on the move the same as me. Frankie Wilkinson arrived from the Hull Unit. His case was remarkable. He is an innocent man, yet he got life. Another man had confessed to the murder. It’s a case that will never be buried, because Frank will never accept it. How can he?

One day, just as I was expecting, a screw went too far, so I punched his face in. The bell went. I was out in the caged exercise yard at the time, so they locked me in to wait for reinforcements. Frank Wilkinson was in the next cage, and he refused to go in until I went in. He’s a loyal friend. We carried on with our exercise and when it was time to go in, there was a gauntlet of screws from the yard to my cell. I got back to my cell safely, only to find the Governor waiting for me. My door slammed shut.

Days later, the atmosphere was still tense. There was a screw who told me later that his idiot colleague deserved a slap. It turned out that the screw I’d hit wasn’t too popular with the rest of his fellow screws, but it didn’t do me any favours.

I went into myself for a spell after this because a young con called Hogan hanged himself. Jail deaths always affect me like that. What a waste of a young life. They just zip him up in a body bag and half-
an-hour
later the place is back to normal. Who gives a
fuck? I do! I could smell death all around me. I knew I had to move or my head would go. When the Governor did his daily rounds, I told him, ‘Move me, I’m sick of your jail.’ I was gone in days.

I was glad to arrive at Parkhurst, but sad to hear that they were putting me in the block for two months. It now seemed that no place was prepared to accept me for more than a month or two. It looked grim, but I started to believe that it was all fate, that it was all meant to be. Mad Jacko was there then; it was always good to see him – he’s always good for a laugh. The ‘Screaming Skull’ was also there. Nothing changes. Even the block screws seemed to stay the same. Tom Cotton was still there. He was a good screw who I respected a lot. It’s sad that they can’t all be like Tom – it would be a happier life for me as all these moves and all the violence is no way to live.

I worked out a routine and stuck by it for two months. I coped OK, but I had something planned, something that had never been done before!

On 30 May 1990, my door opened early. ‘Come on, Charlie, you’re away!’

I came out of my cell to slop out and clocked all the screws. It was going to be difficult but I had to take a chance. I gathered my stuff together and we left the block at about 7.30am. As we left, a dog-handler joined us. Shit! This could ruin my plans!

I made the break and ran as fast as I could. I leapt up on to a wall and straight on to a roof about 12ft high. I’d made it! It was now 7.45am and the cons were still locked up. I was directly under B Wing, landing three, so I gave them a wake-up call!

I started singing at the top of my voice, ‘Please release me …’ Yeah! Set me free!

In no time at all, they started appearing at the windows. It was a classic! The Governor, security, they all turned up to hear my demands. I told them that I
wanted to see my friend ‘Gi Gi’ (Valerio Viccei). I told them either they let me see him or I wasn’t coming down – and if they didn’t hurry up about it, I would strip the roof of all its tiles. It was agreed that if I came down, I could see him before I was moved to my next prison. But I would have to have the cuffs on. I agreed but I made it clear that if it was all a trap, then the screws would have a rocky journey in the van. They gave me their word, so I shouted at the cons, ‘I’m going to see Gi Gi!’

I came down from the roof and I was allowed to see my pal. He looked well, fit, strong and healthy. We spoke about the future and I left feeling better for it. I probably gave Gi Gi a memory for life; who else gets on a roof to see a pal? With this I was put in the van and away we went. This ferry ride was becoming a recurring theme in my life. One day I have got to make this trip unchained and free.

We stopped off at Leicester Jail for lunch; this was another long journey. I think that I went as far as they could possibly send me, all the way up north to Frankland top-security prison, County Durham. By the time we got there, my legs were stiff. They were all waiting for me, but I also got a big surprise – they told me I was going on to the wing. That made me feel a lot better. They put me on B Wing. I knew loads of cons in this jail but, sadly, as I stepped on to B Wing, I knew that it wasn’t for me. It was too intense, too closed in and claustrophobic. I wasn’t used to these modern jails. The whole design fucks my head up.

They gave me a cell a door away from Micky Reilly. He was hundreds of miles away from his wife and kids, but he still found time to cheer me up. I started going to the gym with him, but nothing ever lasts with me. Some soppy screw upset me, so I told him to stay clear of me. John Dunford also told him to fuck off away from me before I got upset. But then the
screw did a stupid thing. He started taking down names! He fucking knew who I was but he still asked me my name! There is always one, and he was it. I had to stop going to the gym because I was getting visions of me killing him with a big weight. So I started training on the wing. I did press-ups, sit-ups, squats and some running. I ended up with half-
a-dozen
young cons training with me.

Unfortunately it didn’t last. We got a bit out of hand and we all ended up over in the block. We’d been upsetting the other cons by running all over the wing, plus I pushed three screws out of our way.

Eventually, we were all let back on the wing, but I knew that I was heading for a brainstorm. Micky Reilly could see the signs, too. I missed Jack and Kelly-Anne, and I was too far away from home to have a visit. I was pissed off. For days I was on edge.

Brian Thorogood asked me what was up. I told him, ‘Today’s the day, Brian. I’ve fucking had my lot!’ We all went out on the yard. There were about 200 of us, but I walked alone. I told the lads that I didn’t want any company. Then I saw my target! It was a man with a beard, wearing a suit. He was walking towards me. I didn’t know who the fuck he was – I had never set eyes on him before – but I knew he was for me!

I ran – faster and faster. Seconds before I grabbed him, he spotted he was in trouble. I slung him over my shoulder and legged it like hell. All 200 cons were cheering. It was total insanity at its best. I ran towards my wing, but I lost my hold on him and he fell and banged his head. The bells were ringing, screws were running … I was trapped. I grabbed him in a strangle-hold and shouted out, ‘Anyone comes near me and I’ll snap his spinal cord!’ They all knew that I meant it, and I knew I was fucked up – trapped beyond return. But whether it lasted one minute, one hour or one day, I was King again!

I dragged him into B Wing. There were screws everywhere. I kicked open the office door and dragged him in. Still holding his neck from behind, I sat him in a chair. This was my day all right; it definitely wasn’t his! My mind was racing at 100mph. I couldn’t think straight. I had no demands, not yet anyway.

Andy Russell and John Dunford came in. They told me that the man that I had hostage was the Deputy Governor. I’d get more years and it just wasn’t worth it, they reasoned. This was all going around my head and I decided that they were right. I had definitely flipped my lid. I let him go and walked out with Andy and Johnny.

The screws never came near us. We finished our exercise as if nothing had happened. After exercise I went back to my wing. After everyone was banged up, they came for me mob-handed and took me to the block. A few of my old pals were down there: Dave Andrews, Dave Taylor, and big Woody the biker.

Days later, the van was ready and I was on another long journey. I’m only glad that I didn’t have to pay for the petrol or the ferry ticket! As soon as I arrived at Albany, they told me that I would be staying for about two months. They gave me a medicine ball and I got on with it. My routine was good here, so time just passed me by.

I got my first piece of bad news. Terry Jeffries had died. He had just completed a ten-year sentence, went outside and died a week later. It just doesn’t make sense to me. Then Tony Steel and Paul Ross arrived from Parkhurst. They had both been up on the roof and got a good kicking for it. I made a statement to their solicitors to say that I saw their injuries when they arrived. I lost my head that day and smashed up the block. I demanded that they get a photo done of their injuries – they got it. Soon after that, I heard of two more deaths – Alex Kessen and Graham Young
both died within a day of each other in Parkhurst. Alex had killed another con in the ’70s in Maidstone and got life for it. He had been caged pretty much all his life. He was a lost soul like me.

Everyone I knew hated Graham Young – and they had good reason to – but I felt sorry for him. I’ll explain why. I’ve lived amongst the insane for years. I can smell insanity, and Graham Young was one of the insane. He was sent to Broadmoor when he was 14 years old for poisoning his family, killing two of them. He spent 14 years in Broadmoor, then was released – only to poison his workmates. He was given life imprisonment. It was obvious to any rational man that Graham Young was mad. All that prison did was keep him drugged out of his head. His life was a constant daze. He was a very dangerous man but he should have been in an asylum, not a prison. I always felt sorry for him as I know the long-term effects of isolation. It’s as painful as any form of torture. Years of emptiness killed Graham Young.

My time at Albany flew by with few problems, then nothing short of a miracle happened! I was called into the office and they told me to forget what had happened with me taking the Deputy Governor hostage at Frankland. I knew that I had to be careful from now on. This was a warning to me to slow up … or else. I took note.

I was on the move right after that, but only a few hundred yards up the road. The psycho wing at Parkhurst was like a magnet to me. A lot of my old pals had moved on from C Unit, but others had taken their places. George Heath was now there, into his twelfth year and still on Cat A. A bloke called Cheeseman was still there. We didn’t get on; he’d killed a young patient by the name of Alan Francis in Broadmoor. It was a senseless killing. In fact, most of the cons on this unit were ex-Broadmoor. This place
was for the untreatable and the unpredictable. For me, it was like a trip back into the world of madness. Not a day went by when something didn’t go on in this unit. You needed eyes in the back of your skull. Most of these guys were very dangerous. I stuck with George and another pal, Fat Joe. I made stews and curries. We lived well. I worked out hard; I was getting my act together and I felt a tiny bit of hope returning. I even watched a bit of TV, which is almost unheard of for me.

Big Chris Moody, all 21 stone of him, nearly landed me in trouble one day. He’d got upset over something and tore up a poster of Elvis Presley that I had given him. When I asked him why, he threw a punch at me. I ducked and punched him back. I watched him closely after that.

The screws there wrote out reports about us every day and most of them were crap. There were few screws that I spoke to. I didn’t trust them and they didn’t trust me. I wished that Mick Connell was there – he was one of the best screws that I had met. I pulled one or two screws on their own and told them that I despised their guts. I could see it in their faces that they wanted me off C Unit as they were afraid. I told them not to talk to me and I wouldn’t talk to them.

On the exercise yard, George would help me with my work-outs. I’d run with him on my shoulders and squat with him on my back. He loved helping me keep fit. We were out there one day, when I had a run in with a con who told me he was going to grass someone up. I told him to fuck off away from me – I can’t stand grasses. Later, he pushed little George Heath away from the water boiler as he was trying to fill his flask. I saw George was upset and asked him why. I steamed into this con’s cell, ‘Right you bastard! Try pushing me!’ He went white. I smashed
him in the mouth and walked out. That was it for me – another ferry trip awaited.