The Last English Poachers (20 page)

As well as that, I’d been pulled previously in the vehicle, just after I bought it, so, even though it wasn’t registered to me I was still linked to it. They brought me in and
questioned me and I denied everything. They couldn’t pin me to the tiles, because they only saw two men jumping out of the truck, but they still charged me.

Roger had already admitted to the charge, because they had him bang to rights. I said I gave him the truck to put a new exhaust on it for me and I wasn’t driving it that night – he
backed that story up. Cider Chris had to go to a special pre-trial hearing, to see if he was fit to plead. He claimed he was crazy, due to alcoholic dementia. He said he didn’t know where he
was most of the time and he drank a gallon of rough cider every morning and he believed it was still 1964.

It took the court twenty-two months to decide whether Cider Chris really had alcoholic dementia or if he was trying to pull a flanker and I was on bail for that length of time. In the end, they
gave him the benefit of the doubt and he was found unfit to plead and the charges against him were dropped. That left me and Roger. They panicked Roger by turning the lights off in his cell and
making sinister noises outside the door, and told him he’d get three years if he didn’t admit to sixteen other charges of stealing roofing tiles, to a total of £100,000 – so
he did. They had no hard evidence against me, just a vague description from the quarry and my link to the truck, but nothing to place me at the scene on the night in question. So they changed the
charge to one of conspiracy – conspiring to steal roofing tiles with two unnamed persons, even though Cider Chris had walked away from it scot-free.

I got myself a barrister and went along to Bristol Crown Court. The judge was another one who liked to hand out harsh sentences and who looked the sort who’d be out hunting with the Duke
of Beaufort and all the other broad-bummed buggers I was stealing tiles off. I asked the barrister what I could get if I was found guilty.

‘On a bad day, four years.’

‘Shit!’

‘On a good day, on appeal, no less than three years.’

If you get a three-year sentence or over you get banned for life from having a shotgun licence – I couldn’t risk that.

‘I want to plead guilty to something.’

‘I advise against that. You have a good chance of being found not guilty.’

‘Not good enough.’

The barrister didn’t want me to, but he agreed that the prosecution might go for a guilty plea on a lesser charge, rather than risk an expensive trial where it was fifty-fifty if
they’d get a result or not. So it was agreed that I’d plead guilty to ‘knowingly allowing my vehicle to be used for the theft of three loads of roofing tiles to the value of
£3,000 by two unnamed persons’.

The judge sentenced me to two years, reduced to twenty-one months on account of my guilty plea. Roger got three years, reduced to two because of the length of time it had taken them to decide
whether Cider Chris was demented or not. So, when you think about it, I came off worse than anyone else and I don’t know if that was because my name was Brian Tovey. Probably was. But I
didn’t get a lifetime shotgun ban, and that was more important to me than doing twenty-one months in jail.

They sent me to Gloucester Prison first, but after a few months, I got moved to Leyhill. Now Leyhill, if you remember, was the open prison where I’d run across the parade ground with the
goose over my back. It was right in the middle of my poaching territory and I knew every field and wood and stream and lane for miles in any direction. By the time I got sent there, the Nissen huts
were gone and replaced with accommodation blocks and the regime was fairly lacksadaisy. I’d been in tougher places.

The layout of Leyhill was something like this: you had fifty-five hectares of land, with the chain-link fence at the back that I climbed over with the goose, which led to a lane and then up a
bank and away to Tortworth Lake and beyond. There were gates in the fence that you could squeeze under if you were slightly built. The interior had numerous buildings, including a sports hall and a
theatre and accommodation blocks like A and B and so on.

There was farmland that the prisoners worked on, and gardens and a wooded area close to the theatre, and open fields away to the sides and an administration block at the front with a low wall
that led to a road. We were mostly unsupervised and, as long as we were back in the accommodation blocks before they locked them up at night, we could do more-or-less what we liked. They took a
head count in the morning out on the parade ground and you had to be there for that. Otherwise it was a bit of a holiday camp for me and I was able to creep out of the prison whenever I liked and
come back before lock-up.

It wasn’t long before I was sneaking things back and forth for the other inmates. They’d pay me to take out letters and the like and bring back cans of beer and bottles of spirits.
No one else knew the lie of the land like I did, and if they went out they might get lost in the dark and not be able to make their way back in time for lock-up. If that happened, they’d be
deemed to have escaped – although technically you can’t escape from an open prison, just abscond – and they’d get time added on and be transferred to a tougher nick. But I
was able to make my way up through the woods and away across the fields and streams and I knew every inch of the land in light or dark.

I arranged for this woman I knew to pick me up in her car and I’d go deliver what I had to and buy the stuff to bring back and still have time for a bit of fun, if you know what I mean.
Well, it wasn’t long before some of the others wanted to come with me. I didn’t want to get slowed down by people tagging along and falling into thorn bushes and making a load of noise,
but they offered to pay me well, so I agreed. I started taking them out for the evening – those who lived locally could arrange to see their wives and families, the others could go get a
burger or a pizza or I’d take them to The Cross Hands pub for a few beers. Nobody said anything to us because the prison clobber was decent enough, nice shirts and good quality jeans, and we
didn’t look out of place. It was alright, just as long as we got back before they locked the accommodation blocks up.

One night I planned to go out with this big bloke called Noah – he was six foot eight and built to match. There was something on in the theatre and, instead of going there, we were ready
to sneak away through the woods. But then it started snowing and that made for a change of plan and a cancellation of the excursion.

‘They’ll see our footprints, Noah. Only ours will be leading to the woods, the rest’ll be going into the theatre.’

‘I don’t care, I want to go!’

You didn’t argue with Noah when he said he wanted to do something. So we went – up through the trees and out towards Tortworth Lake and the road where the woman with the car was
waiting. On the way, we were nearly come upon by a keeper on a quad bike with his lights off. He was looking for poachers, not prisoners, but I didn’t want us to get too shitted up by having
to make a run for it, so we hid down until he drove off. As luck would have it, I saw him before he saw us and we continued on and had a nice evening out.

When we’re coming back, I see two screws as we’re approaching the wood – this time we’re not so lucky and they see us as well. We can’t come back the conventional
way, so we has to run round the back of the prison and squeeze under the gates, but Noah’s so big he gets stuck. The alarm’s sounding now and it won’t be long before they lock the
whole place up. I can hear the screws coming and calling,

‘They ran round this way!’

I’m pulling at Noah and, just before the screws come in sight of us, he manages to get through and I’m thinking it might have been easier to go over the fence rather than under the
gates. We make our way quickly up to A Block, but the place is locked and we can’t get in. There’s a window into the kitchen but that’s locked too, so Noah head-butts it and
smashes the glass. Well, I’m through the smashed window like a ferret down a rabbit burrow, but big Noah gets stuck again. I pick up a metal tray and hit him on the head and knock him back
out into the yard. The next thing, he grabs hold of the window frame and rips the whole thing out of the wall and gets himself through. Nobody hears the bashing and crashing over the noise of the
alarm siren and we make our way swiftly and stealthily to our rooms without anyone seeing us.

Next morning they did a head count and noticed the cuts and bruises on Noah’s forehead. He got shipped out, along with another bloke who had nothing to do with that night and was crying
like a baby at the thought of being transferred to a tough closed prison for the rest of his sentence. I said nothing.

Then Cider Chris decided to get a torch and my crossbow from Bob and meet me one dark evening in November. Maybe he felt guilty about getting off scot-free and me and Roger doing the time, or
maybe he just wanted to make a bit of cider money. Anyway, he brought the bow and we went lamping up along Tortworth Lake, all the way to the boat house. I got twenty-six pheasants over a period of
three nights and Chris took them back with him to sell. But, on the third night, he was drunk-driving home and he hit a nine-year-old girl who ran out from between some parked cars. He was
arrested, but refused to blow into a breathalyser. He tried his old trick of alcohol dementia, but it didn’t work this time and he got five months in a category C prison.

Another night, I’m taking out two kitbags of jeans and prison shirts to sell, which I nicked from the laundry. The shirts are decent, like I said, and I can get £20 a pair for the
jeans. I intend to sell one of the kitbags as well and fill the other with booze to bring back. I’ve arranged for the woman in the car to meet me and everything’s set up. Then this
bloke comes over to me.

‘I hear you’re going out tonight.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you take out some packages for me?’

‘Risky, with the kitbags.’

I explain to him that if I’m come upon I’ll be dropping the kitbags and making a run for it. His name will be on the packages and they’ll find them and he’ll be shipped
out. He says he’ll take the chance and he pays me £10. Well, as sod’s law would have it, when I get up by the sports hall and start going across the fields, I hear a shout behind
me.

‘Stop!’

I turn and see two screws coming after me fast. I drop the kitbags and run through the prison houses to a barn where I’ve arranged to meet the woman with the car. I know the alarm will go
off soon and they’ll lock the place up and I have to get back in before that happens.

‘Quick, get me round to the back of the prison.’

She drives me past the main entrance and round to the lane at the back and I squeeze under the gates again. But the accommodation blocks are already locked. Then I notice a group of blokes
outside the library, which is also locked. They knock on the door and a screw emerges.

‘Can’t you people hear the alarm? Get back to your block, there’s been a breakout.’

They start traipsing back to the accommodation blocks and I file in behind them, hands in pockets. The screws unlock the door and let us in. Next morning there’s a head count and the bloke
who sent the packages gets shipped out – and another innocent bloke as well.

It was like ‘Carry On Up The Clink’.

But it couldn’t last forever and one night I’m in town to get some tobacco when I’m come upon by a group of screws from Leyhill who’re out on a stag night or something.
They recognise the prison clobber and I’m off down the street like a bitch on heat being chased by seven sheepdogs. Shouts of ‘Stop where you are!’ come from behind me, as I duck
down this alleyway where a crowd of weird-looking winos are loitering – up to no good for sure. I zig-zag through them, with a bump in the solar plexus for an old woman with a moustache,
sending her sprawling.

‘Stop that man!’

‘He tried to molest me!’

Now the down-and-outs are after me as well as the screws. Maniac on the loose, mugging methylated spirit drinkers! I round the corner and see a church across the way.

‘There he goes!’

‘Where?’

‘Into the church. I saw him run into the church!’

The hunt’s in full cry now, with all the hounds slobbering and me as the fugitive fox. The screws are out in front, being of fitter frame than the winos. There’s a late service for
all the faithful in progress as the chase bursts into the place of holy worship – all howling and baying for blood. But they’re instantly subdued by the menacing voice of the vicar, as
he bellows out over our sacrilegious heads, ‘This is a house of God!’ – in no uncertain terms. There is some religion left in the world, for those who know where to find it.

I duck out a side door in the confusion, but the screws have telephoned the prison and it’s locked up by the time I get back. So, next day, I’m shipped out to a category C prison on
Dartmoor called Channings Wood.

But I only had a few months left to serve and then I was free as a bird again.