Bronson (17 page)

Now I was ready for the prize-fight! It was to be held above a pub – obviously I can’t say where, because it was illegal. I won. It was so easy it was untrue! I hit him with 14 fucking years of hell inside me. I got paid £500, a lot of money when you’ve got fuck-all.

It was all down to Reggie Kray that I took up the fight game. A few months before I was released from Gartree, Reg asked me what I was going to do when I got out. ‘Fuck knows, Reg,’ I said. ‘Probably rob a bank or wrap somebody up.’

I was going out into the unknown, but Reg offered me words of advice. ‘Look, don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘You’ll just end up back inside. Go out and win! Why not take up prize fighting?’

The Number 1 Governor gave me a discretionary visit. I was still Cat A, and all my normal visitors had to be passed by the Old Bill and security. Paul Edmonds came up to see me; he was a top promoter for the unlicensed fight scene, and is now sadly dead. I’d last seen him in Parkhurst when he was doing ten for a bank. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Fancy it, do you?’ And that was it! Paul became my boss!

I was 14 stone, solid, fast, fit, 35-years-old … in the prime of my life. I didn’t smoke, booze, or take drugs – and I had 14 years of madness inside me that I needed to release. Everyone knew I was lethal and very much insane.

Unlicensed fights in the ’80s were a big thing, especially around East London. The two best known were Roy Shaw and big Lenny McLean. But there were so many others who, like me, were only known by their fighting names. We chose to fight under aliases, mainly for tax reasons.

My gaffer Paul Edmonds chose my name … Charles Bronson. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Charles Bronson film – contrary to popular belief, I certainly don’t hero-worship him!

I actually wanted to be called Jack Palance after the great actor, who in his early years won prize money boxing. But Bronson it was – and Bronson stuck.

Professional boxers take weeks to prepare for a fight, but I took hours. That room above the East End pub was rocking, full of ex-cons laying a few bets. My opponent was the ‘Bermondsey Bear’, an awesome sight – black body hair, shaven skull, toothless and covered in tattoos. But he was nowhere near my level of fitness. Just looking at him, I knew it was money for nothing! He was all show – growls, eyeballing, swearing. I had to hurt him badly. As I looked at him, I pictured every stinking screw that ever stuck the boot in my head, every bad prison doctor, every slag governor. I fucking hated him!

I said to my corner men, ‘I’m gonna kill this fat c--t. But first I’m gonna make him scream.’

The crowd wanted a good fight, and they got it. Ding, ding! I ran out and smashed a right into his ugly face. He slung a few punches, but they all missed. I caught him a peach in the ribs and heard him wince. Then he kneed me in the bollocks and pain
shot through me like a red-hot poker! I felt sick, dizzy. The c--t had kneed me in the bollocks! He nutted me, and dug a thumb in my eye. Ding, ding! The bell saved me because I was dazed, confused.

He had done all the damage he would ever do to me.

Crack! I nutted him so hard his nose split open. Then I opened up on him: 20 or 30 shots to the head. Ten would have done! As he fell over I fell on top of him. I had lost it completely. I was actually putting my whole weight on his windpipe. Guys jumped in, pulling me, hitting me – trying to get me off him. Luckily for him, they did.

I arrived back in Luton and it wasn’t long before I met Alison. She was 18 years old. I was twice her age! She was my angel and I admit I went overboard. I’m no oil painting and here I was with a girl so pretty, so lovely. I was in love, but I couldn’t leave her alone. I was suffocating her; I was too much for her. I probably frightened her to death with my obsession for her. I used to let her sit on my back while I was doing
sit-ups
every day. I made her laugh and every day she made me laugh. Then the bombshell dropped; she was seeing someone else, a bloke on a motorbike. I told Jack that I was going to shoot the fucker’s legs off, but he talked me out of it. He told me to grow up and not to be so silly. Jack told me that she was too young, and that she had to decide for herself.

I was so depressed I stayed in the bedroom for days. Only one person saved me – Kelly-Anne. She talked to me, made me feel better. She was like a sister to me. Then out of the blue Alison came back. She was drunk and drugged up. She broke my heart. Jack was also hurt to see her like that. I wanted to go and kill the bastard for getting her in that state. I hate drugs. I stripped her off, bathed her, combed her hair, put one of my shirts on her and put her to bed. She was sick everywhere. I was so upset I smashed
my fist into the wall and cracked all my knuckles. I had another fight coming up in a few weeks. I didn’t need all this shit!

My next fight was, in fact, a charity one at a big theatre. It was unlicensed, but it was for a young leukaemia victim. There were six fights on that night and I was on fifth. I won again. Jack came to see it and he loved it. I made £500 but I donated £200 to the kid. He died a year later, but that night raised enough money to send him on a trip to Disneyworld in Florida. There was a lot of art work sold that night, donated by prisoners from all over the country. Reg Kray sent a painting, so did Ron. Harry Roberts sent a jewel box and I donated a painting myself. The Yorkshire Ripper sent a painting but the organiser Paul Edmonds smashed it up.

Paul put a deal to Lenny McLean – winner takes all – but Lenny didn’t want to know. Others tried to get him to accept. I even said I’d put five grand on the table myself. But Lenny was settled at this time, doing well on the doors and choosing his opponents carefully. I was hungry for a fight, but he didn’t need Charles Bronson. I can’t blame him – nor would I put him down, because Lenny was a man of respect, a man I admired. But I’m gutted he didn’t take up the challenge. It would have put me on the road to victory. Ronnie Kray once called me the ‘un-crowned champion’.

My third fight lasted one poxy round. I got a measly £800. I fought a gypsy guy called Romany Ron, but I didn’t even get into top gear. I was frustrated. I could have got thousands from a fight with Lenny McLean. I wasn’t a fucking circus clown.

My next fight is not something I’m proud of, because I love animals. But at the time I had little choice – fight or go back to robbing. Looking back, the whole thing was pure madness.

It was in a warehouse – and I was up against a
massive, snarling Rottweiler. I can close my eyes now and see that beast coming towards me. It was a giant of a dog. The head on it was huge. It was snarling, ripping. I managed to punch it in the mouth and as my hand was in its jaws – as it was about to try and rip my arm off – I just kept smashing my fist as far down its throat as possible. As it was going down there was froth coming out its mouth. It was a terrible sight. But I knocked it right down and in one mighty swoop I ripped out half its lungs.

I killed it. Not a nice thing, but when you’re getting paid ten grand cash, it’s a lot of money when you haven’t got anything.

Christmas came and went and I decided it was time to surprise Alison. I decided to get her a ring – and while I was at it, I’d rob the jeweller’s shop! Well, I am a criminal, what else would you expect me to do? Alison was worth more than the Crown Jewels to me and I wanted to give her something precious. I ran into James Tobin, a jeweller’s in Luton. There were three people in the shop, two men and one woman. I got them all on the floor, pointed the gun at them and filled the bag. I grabbed the cash, too, and off I shot. Tally-ho! Happy New Year! It was a piece of cake. I parcelled it all up, except one ring, and delivered the parcel to a fence. My job was done. I went to see Alison and put the ring on her finger. Sweet as honey.

On 7 January 1988, my sixty-ninth day of freedom, I went for my morning jog. It was a lousy morning, foggy, wet and cold, but to me it was heaven. I had just completed a five-miler, almost home, when –
bang
– my life fell apart!

This big geezer in labourer’s clothes was directly in front of me. I went to pass him and –
crack
– he hit my jaw. The next thing I was in a strangle-hold. Other people were running about. It happened so fast. At
first I thought it was a little firm of gangsters, then the cuffs went on – these were cops!

‘You’re under arrest, Bronson, for suspicion of armed robbery.’

I was slung in a van and taken to Luton police station. ‘Charles Bronson’ was born. They had charged me under my fighting name, not under the name I was born with, Michael Gordon Peterson.

Fourteen years now I’ve lived as Bronson. I no longer respond to ‘Micky Peterson’. I’m Charlie – and I quite like it. The cops did me a favour.

I was questioned for a day-and-a-half about the jewellery. They put me on an identity parade. Only one person picked me out. There was no jewellery found and no gun. There was nothing substantial to convict me – not yet! Someone unknown to me had phoned the police to say that Bronson had a gun. Now the police aren’t silly. They knew that I was in town. They probably had a spy at my fights; they knew I was training.

Sixty-nine fucking days and I find myself back in prison, back on Cat A and back in the same stinking cell that I was in only months ago in Leicester Jail. The only difference was the name ‘BRONSON’ on a card outside my cell door. I was gutted!

I was double-cuffed in the van to Leicester punishment block. There were seven screws, plus a police car escort. It must cost the tax-payer a fortune to move me about. I was supposed to go to my local jail, Bedford, but they won’t accept high-risk prisoners. Once at Leicester Jail, I went through reception. They hadn’t decided yet what to do with me, but it wasn’t long before they realised Charlie Bronson and Micky Peterson were the same person. They were gob-smacked! The Governor came over and decided to put me in the block.

So here I was, back in the block, with nothing but
69 glorious days of memories. Every single one of those days was like Christmas for me. If they had come into my cell at that moment and killed me, I couldn’t complain. I had had the break – and fucked it all up.

I wasn’t beaten yet, though. I felt I could walk this charge. The Governor came back to see me later to tell me that I was to remain in the block on good order and discipline for as long as I remained in Leicester. I was not amused. I told him he was breaking the law by doing this. I was innocent until proven guilty. Plus, I had just arrived here from outside so how could he justify keeping me in isolation? Surely I should be given the same chance as any other prisoner? He told me that it was because of my past. I told him that I was Charlie Bronson now, not Peterson. I was a new man! He went away smiling.

I wasn’t smiling though. This was a very serious issue. I was back to being known as Danger Man, stuck in the block, and I’d done fuck all in jail to get there. How could this be just? I told the screws that if they didn’t let me have some gym, then I would tear their block to bits. They did. Some of the screws said it was a liberty keeping me in the block for no reason. Everyone knew my past had been a bit crazy, but lots of guys have pasts that are not too clever – so why me?

A month flew by with no problems. I went to the gym with the other Cat As who were up on the wing. There were about six of them. Then Andy Russell arrived! Andy got nicked for hijacking a helicopter and helping my pal Sid Draper, and also John Kendall, escape from Gartree Prison. This was the first ever escape in England using a helicopter and it happened only weeks after my release from the same prison. Everyone was buzzing over it. Andy Russell is a great guy; he’s got so much bottle it’s untrue. He
even asked me if I wanted him to join me in the block! He was prepared to come into the block just to keep me company. This is the sort of man he is – loyal. I told him that he had enough on his plate, and just to concentrate on his forthcoming case.

The police dug up another two witnesses who reckoned they saw me over the jewellery blag. I told them, ‘What a load of old bollocks!’ I said if they wanted another ID parade, they would have to do it in the jail. They agreed. They picked out eight cons who supposedly ‘resembled’ me. How they could do this, I don’t know. There isn’t one con who looks like me. But I went through with it anyway.

I must say that some of the cons they picked were vicious-looking buggers! This was to be the first ever police line-up in Leicester Prison. (I always set the records!) The first witness walked past the line. He looked terrified. Imagine it – the poor sod had probably never been in a prison before, and here he was, in the block (which looks like a dungeon), faced with us lot glaring at him. These were all hardened cons. The guy shook his head.

No identification.

The cops were gutted – I could see it in their faces. The next one walked down the line. He stopped to look at me and I glared into his eyes. He was only young, about 25. I smiled at him and he carried on walking. He even came back to look at me again. I looked hard into his eyes again.

No identification.

The police were sick! My case was looking stronger. Then the bombshell dropped, and I still don’t know why. Maybe she felt under pressure, but it turned out that Alison, who was my number-one witness, had retracted her statement and was making another one. She was originally giving me an alibi; now she was going to be the main prosecution
witness. She told them that I’d done the job, that I’d given her the ring, and she even told them what I was wearing on the day of the blag. She completely fucked up my case – and my head. OK, she was young, but I don’t think she realised what she had done to me. I wasn’t her motorbike boy going to Borstal with a slapped wrist, I was Charlie Bronson the fucking madman, an armed robber facing 20 fucking years.

Andy Russell was having a spot of hassle over some nonsense on his wing. He went on hunger-strike, him and three other cons. Andy’s a pal so I sent a message up to him. I told him that I wouldn’t go on
hunger-strike
– I’d sooner tie someone else up and make them do it. My plan was set. Fuck Leicester!