Bronson (16 page)

It was clear they had no intention of taking me off Cat A. This was serious, and it ultimately denied me the chance of staying free. I was to stay Cat A until I was to be released.

No rehabilitation, no chance of learning about the outside world, the world that had long passed me by, the world that I didn’t really understand. The fuckers were going to send me out on to the streets with no lifeline.

Cat A is the highest category to be on. You are classed as being a danger to the State and public.

The other cons felt that I was being hard done by. Taking into consideration how many years I had served, surely I should be allowed to mix with people before I was set free? Surely I would not be kicked out from isolation in a top-security prison straight on to the streets? A lot of the cons were very upset over all this, as it really was a liberty. But I was still a ‘madman’ in the eyes of the system – and that was final!

The block had a small exercise yard, 20 yards by 20 yards, and every day I jogged my hour away. Rain, wind, sunshine, I didn’t care. I still ran … every day was one less! I even sang some days. I ran 20 times one way, then 20 times the other. The screws fed me well, and every afternoon I went to the gym for an hour. It was great. The gym Prison Officer was Lou. I rate him as a real gentleman. He was always decent to me, and let me get on with what I wanted to do.

In all my time at Gartree, I had no problems. But the best thing was, there were other cons in there with me and they were all great lads. Some of them bought me fruit and mags. Some I knew from the ’70s on other sentences.

When I saw Micky Ahmed, I was sick he was now
doing life. He looked so well, hardly changed. I was proud of the fact that he was facing up to it like a man. A life sentence is no fucking joke, you’ve got to be a man to get through it.

Big Billy Adams was in the same gym class as me. He can bench press 400lb. I’ve seen nothing like it. The man’s a mountain!

Weeks were flying by with no problems. Barry Rundeau came down for a spell. He’d tried to escape from a prison van and almost did. I liked Barry a lot. He was a solid man. He got life when he was 19 years old. He’d stabbed a guy at a football match. Some days, Barry trained with me in the cage. He loved it. He was 27 years old – and, boy, could he do some sit-ups!

A couple of years later, Barry cut his own throat and wrists and bled to death. It was a sad day for everyone who’d known him. I cried, as I loved the lad. I know of a lot more that wept. God bless you, Barry.

Over the months, I saw a lot of cons come and go in the block. I made it through to April with no problems. All was going well. The Governor was more than happy. I suppose it was a feather in his cap. Then my door opened early one morning. There were lots of screws. ‘Sorry,’ they said. ‘But you’re moving.’

I went mad. They told me to calm down. They said it would only be for a week or two and then I would be coming back. They said that I had to be moved because the exercise yard was having a cage put on it and it was going to be very noisy. I was gutted! I didn’t want to go. I felt betrayed.

Why should I have to go? It was a sad day. I believed that they had lied to me and set me up. I’ve been lied to and lied to and lied to. All I’ve ever asked for is the most basic level of decency – an inkling of understanding, of respect.

But it was all shit. I was bitter and angry. I left a
very unhappy man. We travelled all the way in silence, seven screws and me, all the way to Leicester Prison.

They were waiting for me, a team of them. One cocky rat said, ‘What’s he been up to?’

I said, ‘Fuck all yet. Why? Do you want a busted nose?’

He soon shut his mouth! Once in the block, the Governor came to see me. He told me that I was only there for a very short time and I would be returning to Gartree as soon as the cage was completed. This made me calm down. I was given gym class there as well. Everything carried on as it had done in Gartree.

Fred Low was here. He’s a good lad. He got life for robbery, so he said he wasn’t doing life for nothing. He stabbed a con to death and got a second life. He was now in there for cutting a con’s face in Strangeways. Fred’s a problem to the system. Many fear him, but I like Fred a lot.

Fred’s never getting out. He knows that. He spends his time building dolls’ houses, and bloody good they are, too. Fred’s now doing three life terms – he likes to stab people.

After a couple of days, I knocked out a con in the gym showers. He was a sex-case. I hit him so fucking hard I thought I’d killed him. When he came round I told him, ‘Come back and I’ll put a lace around your neck.’ We never saw him again. I was in Leicester for exactly ten days when the van came for me to take me back to Gartree. I was made up. It was one of my better journeys – a van ride I enjoyed.

I soon got back into my old routine. Another couple of months passed by and I was then allowed to go to the playing fields for an hour every weekend with the other cons. This was magic. I saw Reggie Kray, Rooky Lee, and all my old pals. Reg looked in great shape, fit and well. The move here had done him good. I saw my old mate Sid Draper, who I hadn’t seen since 1975 in
Hull Jail. I ran a lot to build up my stamina. I was in superb shape. My pal outside, Paul Edmonds, was given a discretionary visit to see me. He told me that he had a prize-fight for me when I got out, if I wanted it. Fucking right I did!

It would put some money in my pocket – plus I reckoned it would rid me of years of frustrated madness. I promised Paul that I would keep on training and would be ready for the big day! The Board of Prison Visitors gave me 180 days remission back, which took my release date forward to 30 October 1987.

I had just a few months left to do. The end was in sight; my fight was almost over. I just had to keep my head together. My parents were a strong influence on me getting through those last few months. They visited me as often as they could to support me. My Uncle Jack was another great strength to me at this time, as were many cons. Even the Gartree block screws were as good as gold. Some days when I lost my head, they could have nicked me – but they kept me going forward.

I knew how close I was getting when they came and measured me up for a suit. The Governor allowed me up to an art class, twice a week. I was almost home and dry.

Then it happened … something that I didn’t need at this time! A mysterious letter arrived from a woman called Kelly-Anne. She was a friend of my Uncle Jack. She had been in his flat when one of my letters arrived. She asked who I was, and it began from there. She asked Jack if she could write to me, so I got this letter. I wrote back to her, and the relationship began, a relationship that would cost me dear. I learned a lot about her just through her letters. Her life was tragedy after tragedy. It seemed that the men in her life had abused her and beaten her. Her four children
had been taken away from her and put into council care. On top of all this, her latest boyfriend was now beating her up and she was pregnant again. It was everyone’s fault but Kelly-Anne’s. She was the sweet and innocent and the world was bad to her. But her letters touched me like no others had before. My problems felt so little compared to hers. But I should have asked myself, ‘Why did she write to me, a man who has served 13 years in prison?’

Some of her letters made me depressed. She was telling me how her boyfriend was pulling her hair out and smashing up her flat. Yet here I was in a prison cell; I couldn’t help myself, let alone her! I felt trapped in a situation I had no answers to. A pal in the block told me to dump her. He said I needed to sort out my own life, not hers.

I thought about this, but I felt strangely committed to her. She was like a magnet. I tried to keep a level head, but I kept having visions of her being beaten up … Poor, sweet Kelly-Anne …

The time flew by. It was now a month to go. My parents wanted to collect me on the big day. So did some of my mates, but it was only right that my parents did. This was their dream as well as mine. A dream that they thought would never come true. We had all survived it together.

My last week was dominated by my reflecting on the past. I felt a strange feeling of loss. Thirteen-
and-a
-half years is a lot of time to lose. I was now a
35-year
-old man. It was as if time had stopped in 1974. I was going out into a world that had left me behind. I had hardly any money, no roots, no trade. It was like leaving school to enter the real world. I was still a Category A prisoner and still isolated. Yet, within a week, I would be mixing with millions of people. This was one of the most difficult weeks of my entire life. Now was the time to face reality. The nonsense had to
stop; I had to start my life all over again. I was obviously buzzing, but I was confused at the same time. The days felt like weeks; hours seemed to drag on and on.

I made it to the last couple of days. Big Billy Adams sent me down a farewell meal, a nice fry-up. Then on my last night, Rooky Lee sent me a roast chicken meal down. They are two solid men who I will never forget. That last night must have been the strangest in my life, as it was the night I thought I would never see. It was here at last!

My years had been spent living out of a cardboard box, in which I kept letters and photographs, toiletries, a Bible, some pens, my address book and bits and pieces that I had accumulated during my time inside. I went through it all that night. I re-read some of the letters, I studied the photographs. To anyone else this was a box of useless junk, but to me it represented my life for almost 14 years. Normal men of my age needed a house, a garage or a shed to store their treasures. I needed my cardboard box.

Obviously, at moments like those, it gets to a man. I looked at my son’s photo and he was still three years old. That hit me so fucking hard. I knew what I’d done in the past, but I’m only human. I can get as emotional as the next man. I was so eaten up inside that night. I couldn’t sleep. I paced my cell thinking of Mum’s face and how Dad would feel tomorrow. I thought of all the cons I would be leaving behind. Then I sat there and tore up all my possessions. Even now I can’t tell you why I did it, but I ripped up photos, letters and everything that meant so much to me. I was walking out of that jail a lost soul.

CHAPTER EIGHT

My cell door opened and I raced out like a greyhound. My mind was racing, too – at 100mph. I washed and shaved – fuck the porridge! I’d had enough of that shit! I was ready to go!

The block screws walked me over to reception. I had to walk past B Wing and H Wing – and then it started up! The cons were all there at their cell windows, banging, shouting and singing. What a send-off! I spotted some faces. There was Rooky Lee, Roy Walsh, Ron McCartney, Ron Brown. I gave them something to remember. I stuffed an old towel down
my back and I started to run up and down shouting, ‘Esmerelda!’

I thought it was a fucking laugh, but with me I always go too far! The dogs started to get excited and almost went for me!

Bear in mind that Gartree is a top-security prison and high-risk cons, such as Category A prisoners like me, don’t usually get released from there. Ninety-nine per cent have to be de-categorised and are then released from less secure jails. I made it to reception. I put my black suit on, a white shirt, black tie, black shoes. I looked like I was going to a funeral! But I looked smart. Black is my colour, I love black. I put my rings on (which I hadn’t been able to do for thirteen-and-a-half years). They gave me about £50. Fifty fucking quid! What could you do with £50?

Fuck it! I had £200 of my own, but that’s not the point. How far would I be able to go on £50? What start is that? What would have happened if my parents hadn’t been meeting me?

There was a block screw called Steve. I shook his hand. He was a real gentleman, he always treated me decent, and he wished me good luck. I was then walked to the gate by four screws. I looked through the hatch in the gate and saw my old dad, pacing up and down. Mum was sitting in the car with my Auntie Eileen. Both looked nervous.

I shouted, ‘Oi! Dad!’ He looked over. ‘They won’t let me out for another six months!’

Dad looked stunned, then the gate opened and I ran into his arms. My old dad had tears in his eyes. We had a big hug. Mum took a photo, and I had tears in my eyes as well. Dad and I just couldn’t stop crying. All the pain was coming out. Happiness was entering our world again. Mum started to cry, so did Auntie Eileen. We’d made it! I was reborn.

As we drove away, I turned back to see the gates I had just come through. What a sensation!

They say in jail that you should never look back – or you’ll come back.

We drove to Aspley Guise, which is in Bedfordshire and where Auntie Eileen lived. My Uncle John lived there, too, running the village pub. As we drove on, I realised that I wasn’t in handcuffs. It was a strange feeling. I had really made it! After a nice meal at Eileen’s, we all went for a drink in Uncle John and Auntie Julie’s pub, which I really enjoyed. Then me, Dad and Mum set off for home.

My parents had moved to Wales, ten years earlier, to run a pub in Aberystwyth. Then they took on a club, and now they were retired. Everyone knew them there and they loved the place, but it wasn’t my home. They had done well; everyone respected them in the town, but I knew I would not find my roots there. I loved my parents very much, but the town was strange to me. I stayed three days. They wanted me to stay longer, so I could adjust, but I felt I had to move on and make my own way. There was nothing for me there: no work, no future. I didn’t want to sponge off my family, so I had no choice but to move. Those three days will remain in my head for all time. I couldn’t have wished for better parents.

That’s probably why I had to leave. I just didn’t know how to cope. I was confused; I felt the danger signs coming on. I felt embarrassed – money had changed, there were new coins that I didn’t know. I couldn’t even use a phone. I was a fucked-up man! I was too proud to own up to all this, so I kept it bottled up.

I did do one thing that I had dreamt about so many times. I ran along the sea-front the first morning that I woke up a free man. It was sheer bliss, the wind and the sea spray in my face. That one moment spelt it all out for me –
freedom
!

So for three days we enjoyed each other’s company. It was strange for us all. Mum and Dad were 14 years older so obviously they had changed a lot. So had I. We had to get to understand each other again. I watched Mum use her microwave (I had never seen one). I watched Dad use the video. I was lost. I still can’t use a video, even to this day. I couldn’t even begin to believe how my life had changed. I slept on a mattress with a continental quilt, I ate with real cutlery on real china plates, and I went for a pint and held a real glass.

This was crazy. One day my life was plastic – the next it was real. I believe that no man should be released the way that I was after so many years. I needed rehabilitation, a half-way house, where I could learn about life outside. This is why I feel so bitter against the system. They didn’t give me a chance to survive in the outside world.

They kept me isolated and then slung me out to get on with it. Maybe they just wanted me to explode, then they could lock me away for good. We will never know. Still, fuck the system. I was out and I was on my way to face the world – alone!

Four days after I walked out of Gartree, I was on the train to London. As I waved goodbye to Mum and Dad, I could see the concern on their faces. But it was too late now. I was on my way. I had about £250 and a suitcase to my name, but I felt prepared for anything. I just hoped that I wouldn’t lose control and do something stupid.

I started off the journey in a compartment all to myself. I felt it was best that way – no hassle, no aggravation. But after several stops it was full up. The world was now upon me. This was to be my test.

I felt like I was in a small room completely full of people – and all looking at me. I ended up by a table with an old boy opposite me. A woman in her early
40s sat next to me, and a young girl opposite her. It turned out that they were mother and daughter. The mum was taking the daughter for a job interview. I got into a conversation with grandpop, who was going to London to see his grandchildren (he was on his own, like me). We discussed boxing. He was telling me about all the old time greats: Louis, Marciano, Dempsey, Robinson. We compared them with today’s boxers … we had a great conversation going. I bought them all tea and biscuits and the young girl had a Coke. I got chatting to the mother and daughter.

Then I fucked up. I unintentionally upset everyone.

The young girl asked where I was going. I replied, ‘I’m off to London to kill the Queen!’ (Obviously it was a joke.) I only said it for a laugh, as lots of people say, ‘I’m off to London to see the Queen.’ You have to bear in mind that I was dressed all in black, plus I was wearing sunglasses. They took it seriously. I’d probably frightened them so I took off my shades, smiled, and said, ‘I’m only joking!’ But it was just making matters worse. It was now embarrassing. The danger signs were obvious. Sweat dripped down my back. This was the first sign that my head was starting to fuck up.

I said, ‘Excuse me,’ and went to the nearest toilet. I had a strip wash to cool myself down, then I went to stand by the carriage door, with the window open, taking deep gulps of air. I knew that I had to clear my head – fast!

I was now dealing with real people in the outside world. Nice, decent, law-abiding people. I had to watch myself. After all, I was an ex-loony and saying things like this could send me back into the asylum.

I went back to my seat. They had all gone. They had obviously moved away from the nutter to a different compartment. What if they had told the guards and they had phoned through to London? The
cops could be there, waiting for me. Fucking hell. I felt terrible. I was worried and confused, and also upset with myself, for the rest of the journey. I was in a state of anxiety. (If you are one of those three people I upset on the train, I apologise. I hope you understand and can see the funny side of it now.)

I do actually like our Queen! I’ve been lodging in Her Majesty’s establishments for over a quarter of a century, although some of the hospitality hasn’t been very good, I have to say. Stodgy food, plenty of rats and cockroaches. It’s got to be better at Windsor Castle or Balmoral!

When I arrived at King’s Cross Station, I legged it so fast London never knew what hit it! I went to St Pancras Station next door and put my case in the left luggage. Now I was free, no bulk to hold me down. I felt ready for anything or anyone. London is an insane city, so one more loon wouldn’t make any difference!

Back at King’s Cross, I clocked the pimps with their little white hookers. I watched them for a while. It’s for all to see how they exploit those girls – they treat them like dog shit. I got a headache just watching them. They parade about like snakes in the grass. They’re not villains, they are just leeches. I had to move on as I was getting upset.

My first call was south London (a friend). He let me down. Second call was east London. I did well there. A fight was fixed. I was going to have a prize-fight and I was going to enjoy it! I saw a few faces, had a few beers and, before I knew it, two days had gone – so I hit the road.

I happened to walk past a big toy shop and something told me to enter it. I bought a water pistol. It was as big as a Python Magnum. It even resembled one, although close up you could obviously see it was a toy. I shot into a toilet and pulled the muzzle out of the end. I swear now it could be passed as a real gun.

Now was the time to test it. Madness came over me. I don’t know what possessed me even to buy the fucking thing, but I was buzzing with the fight coming up. I felt starved of excitement. I needed to venture out – I needed some danger. I thought that as long as I didn’t hurt anyone, so what?

I stuffed the gun into my waistband, did my jacket up, and started my walk through London. There were millions of faces all over me. They were coming from every direction like ants – human ants. I decided that I needed wheels. I wanted a drive, I needed to get out of London. I’d collect my case later. Right now I had plans!

I hung around a multi-storey car park until I clocked this suited guy walking towards a Mercedes. I followed. I had the fake gun in his back before he knew what was happening.

‘Don’t fuck about, just get in and open my door.’

Once we were in, I gave it to him straight.

‘You do as you’re told and you’ll be all right. Now drive!’ I told him to head north, for the M1.

He had some tapes in the car. I told him to put on U2. ‘In the Name of Love’ came on, and I had the greatest buzz that I’d had in years. This was living!

He got to the M1 and then he started to ask questions. I told him to shut up and drive. When we got to the Luton turn-off, I told him that this was where I wanted to go. We drove into Luton. It looked so strange. It was a long, long time since I had been here. I saw a road I recognised so I told him to stop. This was when he started to panic. I told him to shut up and listen. I told him that he was safe – just drive off and forget me. I never saw a car move so fast in my life!

I made my way to my Uncle Jack’s flat in Marsh Farm, an estate in Luton. He was one man in my life who understood me. Jack had been a loyal friend to me. Just like my dad, he was made of solid stuff.

Jack was born in the East End of London in the 1920s, but he came to Luton after the Second World War. He was a respected man all his life, had lots of friends in various walks of life, and he loved his drink! Uncle Jack was always immaculately dressed and had the greatest self-respect of any man I knew. Since he and my Auntie Eileen had split up in the ’70s, he’d lived alone on the twelfth floor of a block of flats.

When I knocked on his door that day, it was as if I’d lit up his whole life. ‘Come in, son,’ he said.

There were tears of happiness all round. I had a nice hot bath and a shave. I felt great. Then she walked in … Kelly-Anne, seven months pregnant. It was the first time that we had met. She had a nice face, not pretty, but I would say attractive. It was her eyes that hit me. Strange eyes. She could look directly at a man without so much as blinking.

There was a lot of anguish and pain in that young face of hers. I had already been affected by her letters. But I knew by the end of that day that we were not going to make it together. She was a chain-smoker (I hate smoking) and she drank like a fish. Unless she cut down on the fags and booze it was a no-go situation. I weighed it all up very quickly. She was one of many who went for a drink with Jack; it was good company for him. But for a man just out of jail, it was pathetic. So I kept a fair distance.

Kelly-Anne did help me a lot. She sorted out my dole money, helped me choose some clothes, cooked me some lovely meals, and she was good company for me – when she was sober. But her lifestyle was not mine. I needed excitement, not a fucking drunk to take care of.

I trained hard in all the gyms that I went to. I sparred, did weights, swam, did some running. I felt great! I cooked great big pots of stew that would last
me three days. Oh yeah – at last I was living! I got rid of all my madness and aggression when I worked out.

Then I met Hilary. She was a divorcée with three children. She trusted me and really helped me a lot. I rate Hilary as an all-time friend. We laughed a lot during our few weeks together. I loved her kids, and they loved me, but I started to drift away. I became confused. This was a commitment that was just too heavy. I had to escape the pressure. It was a magic time for me, but we both knew it couldn’t last. It was short and sweet with lovely memories. Hilary and I remained good friends and her kids still love and respect me. They took me into their hearts and loved me as I had never been loved for so long.