Bronson (30 page)

It was a bad result – I got a full seven years added on. I felt shafted.

I was back to the Wakefield Cage. Where was my life going? I had no answers. I simply knew that I needed to block out the bad and concentrate on the good. I still had my pencils, my ruler and rubber and my art card, and I focused on creating some of my best drawings. I saw no particular future. Then they came to my door and said a new unit was opening at Woodhill in Milton Keynes. The Close Supervision Centre would house the worst of the worst. At the very least I’d be back with some of my pals once more! I left for Woodhill on 18 February 1998.

That particular unit is max secure, a jail within a jail. It would be incomprehensible to most cons, let alone ordinary people. It’s a totally structured life. For
instance, I was told I could have only eight photos. Why eight? Why not nine … why not seven or – fuck me –
ten
! I couldn’t have cassette tapes, and I could only have so many pens. Silly things like that.

There were four wings – A, B, C and D. You go on to B at first, then C and, if you behave … up to the Hull unit. It’s meant to be a progressive system. If you fuck up on B you are put on A. This is real punishment; no radio, no window to open in your cell, and only two half-hour visits.

D wing is the seg unit – make it there, and you’re back to ‘normal’ life going from punishment block to punishment block. All the cons in the special unit are fed through the cell door.

So I went up on B. I was the fourth to arrive, and there was my old pal Fred Low. Tony McCulloch, a double-lifer, was also there (he’s now doing triple-life after a prison siege). Tony’s a big con with a big heart who I last saw in Hull.

And then there was old peg-leg himself, Michael Sams. None of us spoke to Sams. He’d earlier grabbed a woman probation officer in Monster Mansion – Wakefield Prison. Sams was jailed for life for murdering an 18-year-old Leeds girl and imprisoning another young woman, an estate agent from Birmingham, in a makeshift coffin for eight days. He’s got one leg, but he managed to get away with the ransom money for the kidnap of the estate agent, Stephanie Slater. He was on a little moped, dodging down an old railway track with the loot. But he left so many clues.

Fred and I would play chess. He’s bloody good, but sometimes I won. (Sorry, Fred, I nicked a few pieces!) He’d help me train. Sometimes I got him on my back and we’d run in the yard. There was no gym in this unit, so I used Fred as my ‘human gym’. I’d get him on my back and do push-ups. And then others arrived.
One was Joe Purkiss, a lifer who’d just held a con hostage and cut his throat. I used Joe as a weight. He’s thirteen-and-a-half stone. One day I got Joe on my feet and pushed him up in the air! I blew a muscle in my back. It took months to heal and I still get bad pain from it – but life is pain.

I joined many of the others on C wing about a month after them. Fred was there, so was Tony, and Sams. I was progressing – me of all people. Sure, I had bad days. But overall I felt in control of my life, and I felt good. I’d also got two years off my seven stretch for the Iraqi business. I’d wanted more off, of course. I told the three judges at the Appeal Court to enjoy their Christmas lunch … and choke on their chicken. I don’t have to bow down to them. What do I fucking care?

Sadly, about this time I fell out with my soul-sister Loraine. I wrote to her to try to patch it up, but maybe she didn’t like my sense of humour on this occasion. 

Loraine and I are now in touch again. And, to everybody’s amazement, Charles Bronson made it to the Hull special unit on 6 August 1998. The last time I was there I left in a body-belt with a smashed jaw after taking the Deputy Governor hostage. He was lucky he had so many screws surrounding me. Because once you’ve got me angry, I just don’t stop. I can’t be beaten while I’m conscious. I keep coming and coming; the more I’m hit, the more violent I become. That’s why I’m a good fighter.

It’s almost a challenge to see how much pain I can take. I get a buzz off it. It’s not a sexual thing, it’s a test of endurance. In the Hull special unit, big Freddy Low used to whip me across the back with a skipping rope while I held on to the punch bag.

I once hit that bag so hard it came off the chain. I’d wrap my arms around it and Fred would lash out. Six hard strokes! Then he would go on to the
weight-lifting
belt, a six-inch-wide leather strap! Fred would enjoy it, because he’s a raving psycho.

Fred’s got little or no feelings – Fred’s just Fred. You could play chess with him one moment and he’d stab you the next. He’s 19 stone, shoulders like a bear and hands like shovels. He’s not the brightest of guys, but he’s my all-time best buddy. I’ve trained with Fred as my ‘human gym’ – he gets on my back and I do
press-ups
. At times, we had to mop the landing at Hull. I’d grab a rag in my fists and lie down. Fred would lift up my legs and hold me in a ‘wheel-barrow’ position. Then we’d race around, cleaning the floor as we went. But Fred would never pass his driving test! He smashed me into concrete walls and pillars a few too many times!

When we were in Woodhill, I used to lift Fred up in the yard and run with him on my shoulders. Once I tripped and 34 stone smashed into the wall. I hurt my back and head and Fred caught his leg, but we were
back on our feet in no time. At other times I’d get Fred to punch my body about to see how much I could take.

That’s what madness does to a man. At times, I’ve wanted to be beaten to punish me for my life.

He once caught me a blinder in the ribs. I buckled up and thought the end had come! He’s caught me on the head, the chin … all over. I guess he likes it. Helps him to release a bit of madness.

Funny thing is, Fred could serve up any human being no problem – but he loves animals and creepy crawlies! You wouldn’t believe it, but when we were in the Hull special unit he had a little pet spider. Normally with Fred it’s mice he finds running about his cell. But here he was, doting on this hairy little spider he called Harry the Hornet. He taught it to do tricks, like jumping over match-sticks. One day it died and Fred was really low. We actually had a funeral for Harry in the prison yard! We put the little bugger in a big match-box with hundreds of match heads, then cremated him as we all sang hymns. At least it cheered Fred up a bit.

The majority of folk will never understand Fred – I doubt he even understands himself. Fred’s mad on
Star Trek
and all those funny little creatures from outer space. He’s really on another planet himself sometimes, but I love him like a brother!

He’s not that good with words, but he was so upset over his spider dying that he wrote about it to a pal of mine:

That’s our Fred!

More joined us, making seven in total. We were all men with short fuses, all with psychological problems. All were violent. Two had killed in jail before, and probably all of us had nearly killed. It was a powder keg, a potential war zone, so it was important to make an effort to get on.

Some screws were brainless, so I spoke to those I liked and blanked the rest. I just got on with my ‘bird’ like a normal con. I did my cleaning job, went to the gym, cooked meals and did my art. Fred and I played a lot of chess. It was generally peaceful, but some people are never happy. They have to play their little games, like nicking our chess pieces. Ha, ha. Very funny. But it’s not very funny when I lose my head, is it? The only problem was, we never found out who it was.

Soon enough there was a rift between the cons. I won’t say why, but it happens on units like this. I blanked three of them, walking past them without seeing them just as I do with some screws.

Tension was building. All the others could have a photo taken with their visitors, but I couldn’t because I was ‘high profile’. They could all record cassette
tapes for family and friends. Again, I couldn’t. Then they came to me for a piss test. Everyone knows I despise drugs. I told them, ‘Suck my dick. I’m not fucking doing it. Do all of us, or none of us.’

One day, shortly before Christmas 1998, I was told I would be on the Hull unit for the next five years up to my release date, and would never come off Cat A.

Fair enough, sweet. I accepted it.

Then in January, just a few weeks later, I was called into the office again. They told me the Hull unit was closing down! I’d be moved to a seg unit until a new special unit was opened at Durham in April or May. I was in shock. To say I was upset is an understatement. I was being told one thing one moment, and another the next. I felt cheated. Next, my granny – my mum’s mum, Martha, up in Ellesmere Port – died. I loved her. She’d had a good long life – she was 89 – but I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to her funeral, just like I couldn’t go to my dad’s. To top it all a teacher who came into the prison upset me by criticising one of my cartoons. I was a bomb about to explode. Everyone and everything was in danger.

I hated the planet. All my hard work was fucked – why should I go back to isolation? I felt betrayed. They were playing games with a madman. They know how I am; they know how I get. Were they deliberately trying to set me off to shut the Hull unit down?

I’d wanted words with Phil Danielson, the teacher who I thought had insulted one of my cartoons, since December. Everyone else had praised it. Who was he to slag it off? I’ve won awards for my art. It was a big health and safety poster. I’d spent hours on it. It basically pointed out the risks of smoking, drugs, being over-weight, and having unprotected gay sex. I’m not homophobic. But it’s a fact: if you’re gay and sleep around without using a condom you’re more
likely to get AIDS. It’s just common sense. Smoke and you’re likely to get cancer; eat too many pies and you’re going to get fat and risk a heart-attack; take drugs and you’re a mug who’s going to an early grave. I wasn’t fucking happy.

So, Hull special unit was to close? Well, let’s close it in style. Let’s destroy the godforsaken hole once and for all.

What you see is what you get with me. When I’m good, I’m the best. When I’m bad, I’m the baddest, meanest motherfucker on this planet. My art is my one joy in life, and this teacher slagged it off. It was time to show them who was who.

I’d been on the rowing machine and my adrenalin was pumping. I was bare-chested like a warrior. My leather weight-lifting belt was tight around my waist. I was in my jogging bottoms and lace-up training boots. I was ready for action.

Then Danielson stuck his head round the door. He was on the unit – and he was mine. I rushed him by the classroom door. Smack! One slap to the side of his face and he was down. His glasses went flying. I stood over him with a knife I’d got out of the unit kitchen. I told him quite simply that it was his day to die.

The computer equipment went flying. Ray Gilbert and Freddy Low wisely left the classroom. I yanked the cables out and, with the blade between my teeth, wrapped up Danielson’s wrists and ankles. A huge volcano of rage was exploding within me.

I shouted to the screws, ‘I’ve started!’

The unit was evacuated, the cons were banged up, and I was scaring the hell out of my hostage. He went over my shoulders as easy as a shepherd carries a sick lamb … and then – bang – down on the snooker table. His belt and loop of keys came off in a flash.