Bronson (21 page)

Prison Officer Wells was waiting for me once again. Cell 13 at Wandsworth was ready. Sometimes it felt like I’d never been away. It’s a wonder that there isn’t a groove in the floor of cell 13. I’ve walked thousands of miles in that cell. Sometimes I would pace that cell for eight hours a day just waiting for time to pass me by, wishing my days away. The only excitement was the prison scandal – who’d pulled the big job, who was in and who’d gone out. It’s almost all there is to keep you going.

I was well pleased eight weeks later when I arrived at Full Sutton and they said I was going up on the wing. It was the week before Christmas 1990 and I could see some of my old pals again. Freddie Foreman was now there, a lovely man and so genuine it’s unreal. God bless you, Fred. Eddie Richardson was also there. Poor Eddie had just got 25 years but he never moaned, just got on with it.

It was there that I met Peter Hale. Peter must be the best artist in prison. He’s also very heavily into Buddhism. I learnt more from Pete than I’ve learnt from any other single human being. We became like brothers; we trained together, ate together and painted together. I was privileged enough to see him create some of his best paintings there.

Charlie Magee arrived, as did Kevin Brown, Andy Dunford, Ray Johnson, Squeak, Billy Adams, Dennis Wheeler, Elle, Roy Ivers, Alec Sears, Vince Donnley and Roy Walsh … a right good bunch of guys. The jail was getting better. Big Albert Baker was on my wing, so we always had a bucket of hooch for weekends.

The first one to upset me was a con who pulled the plug off our iron just for the fun of it. I gave him a pull and told him to grow up. The next day he pulled the
TV aerial out and hid it. I hit him so hard his ancestors must have felt it!

Then I was walking around the yard with Harry Duggan when a pile of visitors, all official people, walked out to see our yard. They stood there staring at us walking around.

I said to Harry, ‘I’m not having this. I’m not a bleeding monkey in a poxy zoo.’

So I ran over and grabbed a geezer by his neck … and I had myself another hostage! I dragged him across the yard, out of view.

The rest of them ran in squealing, ‘Rupert’s been grabbed! Somebody help!’

I had this Rupert in a Japanese strangle-hold. I whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t stare at me and Harry again, it’s not nice.’

I let him go after five minutes, and he promised never to gawp again. It turned out that Rupert was a trainee probation officer. I was put in the block and lost 120 days’ remission. Governor Smith then sent me back on the wing as it was Christmas. I was being given another chance. Unfortunately, it was a phone call from Kelly-Anne that ruined my Christmas. She told me about some guy and I slammed the phone down. I went to my cell and banged up. I felt dangerous.

After Christmas, it was a crazy time. Full Sutton was like a madhouse; there was always something happening – fights, suicide, cell fires. There were some right old characters. It was quite exciting, and I actually saved a couple of lives. One was a con who’d slashed his wrists, the other was old Olly.

Olly was in his sixties, a good footballer in his day, but he had terribly bad feet. We’d sit down with a pot of tea and a slice of apple pie and swap stories, but one day his feet were so bad he was almost in tears. ‘Chaz,’ he said. ‘I can’t handle it any more.’

Fuck me! He showed me his feet – they were virtually deformed, big bunions and toes like sausages, all swollen. Poor old Olly, I thought. If that’s what football does to you, I’ll stick to boxing!

Anyway, I shot up to the office lively and asked them, ‘Oi! Have you seen Olly’s feet? Help the poor man!’ They said he was down to see the chiropodist.

‘Well, make fucking sure he is,’ I said.

A few days later, I was playing snooker on D Wing when every fucker seemed to be shouting, ‘Fire!’

I shot around and smoke was pouring out of Olly’s cell. He’d been desperate and had set fire to it. No one had had the sense to kick the door in – so I did. It was wedged up, not locked. I ran in. Olly was coughing his guts up; I grabbed him, put him over my shoulder and ran around to a pal’s cell, away from the smoke. The screws came and I told them, ‘Don’t worry! All’s safe now.’

They said he needed to go to hospital.

‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘He will – when he’s had a nice cup of tea!’

A week later I got an award from the Number 1 Governor, Mr Staples. But then I chinned a couple of screws and got moved again, back to Parkhurst, and was banged up in solitary.

I pulled one of the bosses there and pointed out that I’d recently saved a life.

He said, ‘Yes, Bronson, I did hear. But it was probably you who set fire to the cell.’

You just can’t fucking win, can you?

There were good times and bad times at Full Sutton in the months before I went back to the island. A con called Micky Jamieson hanged himself, which saddened me. It was at this time that I met Bob Mapplebeck who was a pastor. He was a lovely man and has since become a life-long friend. Bob was an outside pastor who came into Full Sutton to see
anyone who wished to see him. I went to see him with Albert Baker and I must say that Bob is one of the greatest men I have ever met.

It was now 1991 and the years were rolling by. I was super-fit but I was really very much alone. I hadn’t seen my parents since 1987. It was my own decision; I’d told them that I was fed up of seeing them inside, I wanted to see them next as a free man. I explained all this to Bob Mapplebeck, who really helped me with meaningful words of wisdom. I saw Jesus in a new light. I’d always believed in something, but I didn’t know what.

All too soon I was back in the block, where my problems escalated. I’m not a defeatist, but I know I’m a born loser. I just won’t learn. This time a recorded letter of mine went astray and I got very upset over it. I ran out of my cell completely naked. I’d been
half-way
through a shave when a screw opened my door and I just flipped. I shoved him on his arse and ran into the office. I slung another screw out and then barricaded myself up with the Senior Officer still inside. It was actually only then that I realised I was naked. The bells went and the screws arrived, but they couldn’t get in. The SO let me make a call to Kelly-Anne, and she cooled me down.

The next time I blew up was when I was being unlocked for a shower. I walked out and – bang – I hit the screw. The heavy mob put me in the box. I later ended back up on the wing but I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be for long.

I got back to my training and I hung around with Peter Hale a lot. We both started meditating. Pete taught me how to breathe, relax and be a better man. I felt that I was winning. I amazed everyone, even myself. Then … crash! It was all over. I was finished.

It happened on a Saturday night. Some cons were shouting and singing and I just wasn’t in the mood.
I was trying to switch off from it all when somebody shouted my name. I still wasn’t interested, so I ignored them. Then someone shouted, ‘Bronson’s a mug.’ I shot out of bed and told them to say it to my face in the morning. Words were exchanged. I vowed that I would be ready in the morning – and ready I was!

There were three other cons involved. I told them to meet me in the dining hall and be ready for action. I shut my window and everything went silent. The whole wing heard this going on – and they all knew that I would be waiting for these prats. I slept very little that night. I was preparing for battle.

At about 5.00am I got up. Out came the boot polish, and on it went. I was black from head to toe. I then put on a pair of overall bottoms and tucked them into my boots. I tore up a sheet and made a bandana and a bicep wrap. I was ready, and I was looking forward to a real tear-up!

It was soon 6.00am. One-and-a-half hours to go. I started limbering up, stretching and doing press-ups and sit-ups. My heart was pumping. I felt better, fresh, alert and ready. I was ready to die! It wasn’t long before it was 7.20am. I was like a greyhound waiting to sprint away. Then 7.25am. Come on, come on. My adrenalin was pumping … 7.30am … I could hear the screws unlocking and coming closer to my door.

As soon as my door opened, I ran out and punched the screw. He fell against the wall. I ran to the dining hall and pushed a big table against the door. The three cons always arrived from the other end of the dining hall – but they hadn’t arrived yet!

I was ready to explode. The cons hadn’t come. The screws came in. I picked up a broom and smashed one over the head. I hit another one in the stomach. My head was pounding. It wasn’t the screws I wanted
to fight, it was the three bad-mouthed scumbags who’d upset me.

Roy Ivers and Alec Sears calmed me down. It was obvious by then that the cowards were not coming and I was bang in trouble again. They took me to the block and put me in the box. I was a sick man again. I was sure that I was now going to be sent to the madhouse. As it was, the screws that I’d hit were decent ones. They’d always been good to me and now I’d repaid them by doing this. I felt bad over my actions. I was sure that they would now put me in the biggest hole possible; no fucker would give me a break after all this. I lost more time and got more punishment. Lots were upset that it had happened, especially Bob Mapplebeck and Albert Baker. But I was pleased when the van turned up for me. I needed to move away. I didn’t care where to – a box, a cage – who gave a fuck any more?

They put me straight in the block at Parkhurst. Mr Marriott was the Governor and I rated him as a
one-off
. He’d done more for Parkhurst than any Governor has done in 20 years. I personally liked him as a fellow human being. I’ve met all the governors, the good, the bad and the ugly. Mr Marriott was definitely ugly, but a good man. Sadly, he later got sacked over the infamous escape of two IRA suspects in the
mid-’90s
and has now died. He and the Deputy Governor, Ken Rogers, were working on me going on to M Wing, as long as I behaved. I did control myself and made it up to the wing, where I met up with a load of my pals. There was Pete Pesato, Tommy Hole, Vic Dark, Keith Richie, Big H, Noel Gibson, Mickie Mo and Dave Andrews. I was also allowed to see Gi Gi for a visit every week.

Kelly-Anne visited and we had a photo taken. We seemed to be getting back together. I was also starting to get my head back together once more. The
lads all helped me along and I really did well for a week or two. I really felt that I could make it. Then I just went strange.

Something crept inside me. My mind went from sparkling to being just sort of dull. I felt fed up with prison: it was beginning to eat away inside me again. I felt that the system was fucking me up. I’d get terrible feelings of bitterness and an overpowering urge to explode.

One night I sat alone in my cell, thinking. I was thinking about Kelly-Anne, Jack, Mum, Dad, my son and Loraine. I felt trapped. I had to get out of the cell. I couldn’t breathe. I knew I was about to flip my lid.

I got on the bell and a screw came. It was big Dan Shepherd, a screw I’d known for years. He asked me what was up and I told him that I had to empty my pot, but he said he couldn’t let me out as he had no keys. I went mental. I told him that I needed to get out desperately as I needed to go to the toilet. He went off and within half-an-hour he came back with a load of other screws. The key went in the lock and my door opened.

I ran out, smashed a bottle, and told them I’d kill any fucker who came near me. They all ran.

I had M Wing all to myself. Every con on the island was banged up – except me. I was unlocked and I was staying unlocked! Fuck Parkhurst, fuck the lot of them! I was the Governor again!

I made my way up the stairs to the top landing and I began to destroy it. I smashed all the lights, tore out the recess and smashed up the screws’ office. All the cons were by now awake, shouting, screaming and banging on their doors. I could also hear other wings shouting and banging. This went on all night. I was having a riot on my own and it was great!

The heavy mob came in accompanied by Mr Marriott. I was sitting on top of a demolished office
roof. We must have spoken for hours and it must have done some good as I came down. They handcuffed me and then took me to the block and put me in the box.

I stayed in the box for weeks and it was while I was in there that the saddest thing ever to occur in Parkhurst happened. Tommy Hole was on M Wing and his son had arrived in Parkhurst from Full Sutton while I was in the box. Tommy went into his cell only to find his own son hanging. It wasn’t until I came out of the box that I found out about it. I was shattered, devastated. I had actually been in Full Sutton with the boy. I cried my eyes out that day. I sent Tommy a cross that Kelly-Anne had given me – it was all I had. I still can’t get it out of my head, and I never will. They held a church service for Tommy and his friends, but it was the day my van arrived. I was on my way, sad and empty.

Was it all a dream? Had I imagined it all? The boot polish, Olly’s cell fire, the death of Tommy Hole’s son, and my explosion in Parkhurst? Maybe I’d been in cell 13 all the time. The same old, familiar cell. The same deal. Back in purgatory, back in Wandsworth.

The weeks flew by, and then I was hit by what seemed like a sledgehammer blow. It was something I knew, deep down, would come sooner or later. Perhaps I’d just escaped facing up to it until now. On 6 September 1991 my Uncle Jack Cronin died. I idolised the man. I’d promised him that I would one day be out to buy him a pint. I couldn’t even do that, let alone say goodbye.

I didn’t find out until the next day. Prison Officer Wells came in to tell me. It cut me up bad. I felt hurt and empty. Life would never be the same again. I asked the Governor to let me go to the funeral and my family bombarded the Home Office with requests to let me go. The answer came the day before Jack was buried. The answer was no. The reason they gave – I
was too dangerous. This was a man who I had idolised all my life, and I couldn’t even go to his funeral.

For days I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to do anything.

Something strange did happen, though. Hours after Jack died, I was lying in my cell when I felt something move. I focused my eyes. It was a bird, a starling, sitting on a shelf by my window. Now, outside my window was a cage with a small hole in it, so that is obviously how it had got in. I’d never seen one before in all the time I had been in prison. Was this an omen, sent to let me know that there was life after death? Was it Jack sending me a last message? God bless you, Jack. Please God, love him.