The Guv'nor (28 page)

The next morning I got the story. The IRA bloke from A Section and another con were being brought back from church when he pulled a gun, took a hostage, and both of them have got to the main gate. On the way through B Wing, he let a couple of shots go and afterwards we could see these two big holes in the wall. Once they were let out of the gate, two screws got shot, a car was hijacked and they got away. One of the screws told me the gun had been brought in by a visitor and the reason he wasn't spotted was that the gun was hidden in a built-up shoe. When he came to the metal detector he just walked round it instead of through it. After that, it was like Christmas for all us cons. We were all happy and joking because one of us was out of this piss-hole and pulled a stroke on the system.

Most of the time, days slipped by without any agg, but what made me flare up most were the screws who bullied weaker prisoners. It's bad enough being inside without being shoved around, insulted and given a hard time by no-account mugs who wouldn't have an ounce of bottle if you got them outside.

The bravest little fucker I came across in Brixton was a young kid by the name of Mark Thomburrow. When I first saw him I thought, ‘What they doing putting little kids in Brixton?' He was about eight stone, skinny, and looked 12 years old. It turned out he was 18, but to me he was still a baby. They brought him in from another young offenders' prison because he was due for his trial at the Bailey. When
I asked him what he was up for he told me that he and a few mates were walking along the road one night when they got into an argument with a couple of black kids. One thing led to another and Mark pulled a knife, went to stick it in this boy's arm, he swung too hard, missed the arm and plunged him in the neck. The black kid died right there on the pavement.

‘Len,' he said, ‘I didn't mean to do it, I swear I never. It was an accident.'

I said, ‘Look, I can't make you right for what you've done. You was carrying a knife and then you was prepared to use it.'

He had tears in his eyes and he was frightened because he was facing No.1 Court first thing. He told me he was being defended by Mansfield, the top QC, and he was going for a manslaughter with mitigation.

‘Now, Mark, when you come up at the Bailey and all your family's watching how you shape yourself, be very strong. Whatever they give you, don't waste your time screaming and shouting because it won't change nothing. Don't let them see you cry. Your family can't be proud of what you've done, but they can be proud if you take your punishment like a man.'

‘Len, I'm going into court on my own. It's going to be packed with coloureds all full of hate and abuse, and I told my mum and dad to stay away because I can't bear to see them get a load of stick.'

I thought, ‘How about that. This little kid's took a liberty but he's still thinking about other people.'

As they took him out in the morning, I shouted, ‘Don't forget, be brave. I'll be here for you when you come back.'

I hung about all day waiting for him to be brought back. Don't forget, I'm on the ones, so I can move about without being locked up. At half-three I was down by the glass partition watching the reception area and in he came, covered by two muggy screws. They were going over the top the way they bawled at him, ‘Give us your tie, give us your laces.' The kid was ash-white and he was trembling all over, and those fucking screws didn't know what to do next to stop that boy coming through. In the end, I couldn't take it any more. I smashed on the glass and screamed at them, ‘You pair of bastards, stop fucking about and let that baby through – look at the state he's in.' They looked at each other, shrugged, and unlocked the door.

As he came through, his eyes were glassy and he was saying, ‘I got life, Len. They give me life for murder.'

‘Fucking hell, son. Don't cry … don't let them mugs see you cry.' I took him in the ablutions, gave him a cuddle and said, ‘Go on, son, you can cry now.'

He was breaking his heart but at the same time he said, ‘I didn't cry until I saw you, Len, I didn't cry in court.'

I cuddled him and said, ‘You was a man about it, now you can let it out.'

I sat up with him all night and eventually he fell asleep with his head on my lap, still sobbing. Before they took him away to Aylesbury the next morning, I gave him Reg Kray's book
Born Fighter
. I signed it and said, ‘You know I'm mentioned in that book, don't you? Well, every time you look at the book you'll know Lenny's thinking of you, and if I don't get lifed off myself, I'll visit you and keep in touch – don't matter where they send you.' He went off as happy as anybody could be when they're looking at ten to fifteen.

I'm still in touch with Mark today, because if I make a promise I never break it. He's turned 20 now, so he's in the adult prison system, Wormwood Scrubs, and he's been given his release date – 2006.

In case you think my sympathy's misplaced, let me tell you that my heart bleeds for the young kid who died and for his family, because I know how I would feel if it was my son. I didn't take Mark under my wing because he killed somebody, but because of the way he handled himself afterwards. He was sorry for what he had done and took his punishment like a man.

I bumped into my pal Ritchie Anderson who was doing a six. We had a cuddle and I said, ‘Fuck me, Ritchie, I was just talking about visiting you when I got lifted. I never expected to be banged up with you permanent.'

As we chatted, this screw shouted over, ‘Oy, Jock, get a move on, get back to work.'

Now Ritchie's a lovely placid man until he gets wild, as those drunks found out when he plunged them. He said, ‘If that screw calls me Jock again, I'm going to throw him off the landing.' He meant it, too.

The screw came over so I put my arm across Ritchie's chest to hold him back. He had a nice little job and if he started a ruck he'd lose that and some of his remission. Before the screw could open his mouth, I got him under the arms and lifted him clean off the floor –
his head was about nine foot off the deck. He struggled, but I wasn't hurting him.

‘Now listen, listen, don't complain. I've told your mates and now I'm telling you. If I get out of here, I'm going to buy one of those flats opposite the prison. Then, every morning when you're coming to work, I'll be sitting on the wall with the raving hump. Now you wouldn't want that, would you? So behave yourself.' I've put him down and planted a big kiss on his forehead. What Ritchie and I didn't know at the time was that one of the cons was a very tasty cartoonist. He'd seen what had happened, quickly did a drawing, and then had it photocopied about a hundred times. Everybody had one. Even the Governor had a copy pinned up in his office. The screw never lived it down.

That little incident was comical, but I wasn't always so good humoured and neither were the screws. I had the hump one day. I hadn't slept all night thinking about how I was going to get through the next 25 years. Val had been in the day before and she'd got a bit upset, so all in all, my nut was going round in circles.

A screw shouted over to me, ‘McLain. Cup of tea … now.' I looked at him and said, ‘My name's McLean, like in the toothpaste, not McLain, you ignorant mug. And just because I'm in this hole, don't talk to me like you think I'm some sort of c**t.' He came towards me and put his hand out, and I said, ‘Go on, then, lay hands on me and I'll belt shit out of you.' He stepped back quickly.

‘OK, M
C
LEAN, you want to play that game, I'll see you later.'

At five o'clock the next morning, they came for me
mob-handed
with shields, sticks and wearing crash helmets, all the riot gear, the whole nine yards. Ten of the bastards just for me. I fought like a maniac. I was nearly bollock naked because I was asleep when they came in, but I gave it to them, sticks or no sticks. As quick as I put them down, somebody was shoving another lot in the cell. Eventually, with sheer weight of numbers I was pinned in the corner. With a riot shield holding me down, one of the doctors slipped in and everything went black. He'd done me with a drug in a hypodermic.

I came to in the hospital and I felt like a zombie. I didn't question how I felt, it didn't occur to me that I was doped up, I just felt heavy and mellow, and very tired. The crafty bastards must have eased up on the strength when they knew I was to have visitors, so my Val or some of my other pals who came in didn't realise what state I was in.

This went on for something like three weeks, and the screws
must have thought it was their birthday because I was like a little kitten. When I kept falling asleep on Val's visits she sussed out that I was on something. She knew I wouldn't take anything like that by choice so she got in touch with Martin, my brief, and he had a word with the Governor of the nick. They argued about prisoners' rights and all that cobblers, but the Governor had the last word because he said that I kept flaring up. Apparently, I was a danger to the screws and had to be kept under control, so I had to stay on medication.

Once Martin had marked my card it made all the difference. Instead of thinking I was just a bit tired, I now knew that I was drugged, so when they gave me my pills I stuck them under my tongue, and then got rid of them. Now I had to control myself. If I flared up, the doctor would know what I was doing, and then I'd get the drug by injection.

God's up there looking after me. I was taken to a different doctor and straight off he told the screws to leave us alone. Now that's a bit unusual. He'd checked that there was no one outside the door and then he slipped me a note: ‘
Dear Len, this doctor's OK and he's got some trouble. Help him out if you can
.' The note was signed ‘
Old Connie
'. Good stuff – he'd been inside for 20 years,

The quack was watching for my reaction as I read it. The letter was good enough for me, so I asked him what the problem was. He told me that a young relative of his was being sexually rumped by a big television star. He was well known and respected by millions, and at the same time he was a nonce case.

I said, ‘The dirty bastard, have him smashed to pieces.' But he didn't want to do that because it could be all over the papers and the boy's name might come out. ‘So what do you want me to do? Don't forget, I'm in here on a murder charge.'

‘Lenny, you know people. Can you get your friends to plant heroin in his house then inform the police?'

‘Sorry, Doc. Fitting people up's not my game. I can get him belted and warned off, but I can hardly write to my pals giving them the work, can I?' What he really wants is this actor nicked on drugs, then when he's pulled into A Section, which is guaranteed, the doc can do what he likes – castrate him if he wants. Still, he accepts my offer of getting the slag a seeing to and lets me use the phone.

I did the business right there and then from his office, and he said, ‘I don't know how to thank you.'

So I said, ‘Well, I can think of a couple of favours straight away. First get me off these poxy drugs. You've got the pull – just tell the
PO that I'm not medically fit to have any more. Second, I want a phone in my cell.'

He went white. ‘Out of the question. I couldn't do it … more than my job's worth.'

‘Suit yourself then. Gimme the phone again and we'll forget your problem.'

That did the trick and he agreed double quick. I got him to meet Val in a burger bar in Bethnal Green. She handed over a tiny little mobile phone that a pal of mine got hold of, and the doctor smuggled it in easily and slipped it to me when I went for an examination he'd dreamed up. Lovely. Suddenly, I'm a yuppie con. That night, I phoned Val up and we had a talk for a couple of hours. If I get lifed off, somebody's going to have a phone bill like the national debt.

What a difference that phone made. If I got depressed, I just had to dial home and I was cheered up. I could do plenty of business as well. I'd ring up John Nash, Alex Steen, Kenny Mac, even Arthur in Scotland, and they couldn't believe it because I was ringing late at night when they knew I should have been locked in.

A guy came up to me in the kitchens and introduced himself as Danny, the brother-in-law of a family out of the Angel. Nice people, business people. He said, ‘I'm a bit worried. This is my first time in prison and I've heard stories. You know what I mean?'

I said, ‘Your family are 100 per cent so I'm going to look after you. Anybody digs you out, put my name up or come and see me.' So on the strength of his relations, I looked after him. That first day I kitted him out with a parcel of food, chocolate, crisps, biscuits and a few other bits to help him settle in. We became good pals and I put him right about the little fiddles we had going.

A couple of months later, he came to see me and he had tears in his eyes. He said he'd had a row with his wife, said some terrible things, and couldn't wait until the next day to sort it out and apologise. I said, ‘Danny, I can do you a bit of good. I'll go and make a cup of tea then I've a surprise for you.'

It was getting a bit late, and while I was brewing up a cup of tea, a new Scotch screw on the wing poked his head in the door and wanted to know what I was doing. ‘Making a cup of tea, governor, any problem?'

‘Yes, get back to your cell on the double. I don't want you making tea at this time of night.'

I flare up. ‘You Scotch c**t, don't talk to me like that or I'll get
myself on a double murder charge and it'll be over you.' He threatened to put me on a charge and this and that, so I went back to my cell.

Danny was still sitting there so I said, ‘Dan, go and chat up that Scotch bastard and find out where he comes from and where his family's living. I'll get in touch with a friend of mine and when that mug finds out that his family have had a visit from a few likely lads, he'll change his tune about giving me grief.'