Bronson (22 page)

I pulled myself together. Kelly-Anne came to see me; she had taken it badly, too. She loved Jack as much as I did. We were both lost. My head was in pieces.

The next day I decided to smash the place apart. I’d get on the roof and wreck it. I’d do it for Jack.

Then I would jump off the roof and join him.

Once I got into the exercise yard, I jumped up on a window and pulled myself up to a pipe. From the pipe I climbed up until I got to a piece of tin which was like an umbrella bolted to the wall to try and stop people getting on the roof. I was convinced that I could smash it off. I hit it with my fists, my head and my shoulders for a good half-hour. It drained all my strength until I had none left. It was useless. I came down to scores of waiting screws. It was a roof that I had dreamt of pulling apart, but it wasn’t to be. I was never the same after losing Jack and the screws knew it.

Fuck the rats in the Home Office. They are more ruthless than any criminal I have ever met.

Eleven days after Jack’s death, I was ghosted off to Albany on the Isle of Wight, where I was put in a cell next to Micky Reilly. He’d just had a bashing in
Frankland Jail and was sporting a lovely black eye. But thanks to Micky I lifted out of my depression and got back into training. I was still very bitter, but when Charlie Magee arrived we all had sing-songs through our windows. We basically all kept each other going – that’s how it is in the punishment blocks.

Kelly-Anne had booked up to see me but didn’t turn up. This didn’t help me at all. I started to think things, like she’d had a smash or some other bad accident. My head was starting to get fucked again. The screws knew it and next thing the van arrived. It was to be a long journey. They told me I was off to Hull – it was 16 years since I’d been there, watching the Humber Bridge being built and the seagulls swooping by. But on the M1 the van exhaust fell off, so we ended up at Leicester for the night. We set off again the following morning and eventually drove over the bridge that I’d watched being constructed all that time ago from my prison cell. Memories came flooding back – some good, some bad.

I was told I would be staying for a couple of months. I asked for a medicine ball, which I got. I was soon into my training. The screws were good as gold. Lord Longford came to visit me along with Julian Broadhead, a probation officer and a good friend. Lord Longford is a man I respect. He condemns no one – that’s just his way. He’s visited me all over England and I’ve always liked him. He once wrote a book called
Prisoner or Patient
and did a section about my life. God bless you, Frank.

Just after this, Michael Showers arrived. He’d just got 20 years. It was 16 years ago that I swapped with Michael in this very jail. Life is a circle. You always meet up again. Vince Donnley arrived from Full Sutton and he cheered us all up as usual. At nights he used to play his rebel songs on his harmonica. We all loved Vince.

Kelly-Anne visited me a few times … nice visits. But now it seemed that she couldn’t visit me unless she’d downed a few vodkas first. I saw the last of her on Christmas Eve, our final visit. She’d come into a lot of money from her grandfather’s death. I told her straight, ‘You’ve fucked my head up once too often.’

All in all, I was plodding on and sorting out my life. The Board of Visitors gave me 100 days’ remission back and everything was starting to go my way.

Next door to the block was the special unit, where some of my pals were: Paul Ross, Jacko, Fred Low. But unfortunately I never made it over there.

The van was waiting and they told me that I was going to Winson Green block, Birmingham. Fuck this! I was sick of the constant moves. I stripped off and put a white sheet around myself. I then put a cross around my neck and picked up my Bible. Yeah, sure I was going – but I was going as the Pope!

It must have worked because I never got to kiss the concrete outside Winson Green block. My Pope-mobile never arrived and I never got to wave to the crowds! Instead, I spent my Christmas in Hull block, which suited me. I couldn’t wait for 1992. I was sure that it was going to be lucky for me.

On 24 January, the van arrived once again. I knew it was coming, as I’d overheard something. I blacked up from head to toe and when my door opened I ran out and smashed the block to bits. I was swinging about like a monkey, smashing lights, pulling pipes out. They came in mob-handed and I ended up in the box. I didn’t want to leave. Why should I? I was happy in this nick. The screws were decent and I had my medicine ball. Fuck it, I was staying!

On 14 February, Valentine’s Day, I got a big hug – from the heavy mob. The van had turned up. I refused to go even though the Governor said I had to.

I left Hull Jail in a wheelchair like Hannibal
fucking Hector, naked and strapped in a body-belt. They wheeled me out, picked me up and put me in the back of the van.

The Governor and screws were waiting for me at Lincoln. I was carried out of the van, still in the wheelchair, and pushed to the block.

Once we were in the block, I just said, ‘Box.’

They put me in the box and took me out of the body-belt. I excreted on the floor and spread it all over the walls. I wrote in it, ‘This is your life’.

I lived like this for a week or so until finally the Governor said that if I came out and behaved myself he would put me in the special unit. Tony Steel was up there and Fat Joe, two good lads. There were only five cons on the special unit and I reckoned that I could handle it so I came out of the box. I had a shower, got fresh clothes and breathed fresh air again. For a few days I was in the block with Cliffy Moody. It was great to see him again and I caught up on all the news.

A couple of unit screws came down to see me in the block to tell me what the score was. I was up there the next day. It was only a small place; it had a workshop, TV room, a multi-gym and its own caged exercise area. It was good to see Tony Steel again. He’s one of the most violent men in the system but he’s a diamond. A few weeks passed by with no problems. I trained with Tony and we both got fit. I got back into my art work and painted 18 paintings in one weekend.

I had a visit booked with Julian Broadhead. It had been agreed by Governor Pratt that he could come on the unit, but on the actual day of the visit I was told that he wouldn’t be allowed up. They were testing my patience. I snapped, told them all to ‘Fuck off ’, and went to my cell and banged myself up. Governor Pratt arrived, my door opened up, and I smashed him in the
face, then banged myself up again. I was in trouble!

The heavy mob were called in. Tony Steel shouted to me, ‘They’re coming into the unit with shields and sticks.’ They had banged up the whole jail, just to come and get me! Brave fuckers!

My door sprung open. I saw the shields coming at me … I never had a fucking chance. It must have taken them ten minutes to get my arms bent. Pressure points were secured – wrists, arms and neck – then they lifted me up and carried me out. To get me to the block they had to carry me right through the jail. I screamed out, ‘Happy Christmas everybody!’ I didn’t care that it was February.

I could hear the cons banging their doors and shouting back, ‘Happy Christmas!’

Once in the block, I was put in the box. They held me down tightly and struggled for another ten minutes before they got me into a body-belt. The reason for this was simple: the belt was far too small. Body-belts come in three sizes – small, medium and large – and these evil bastards put me in a small one. I’m nearly 6ft tall and over 14 stone. In no time at all my wrists started swelling and my fingers went numb. The belt was so tight it started to dig into my midriff. I crawled over to the door, just like a worm, rolled on to my back and kept smashing my bare feet into the steel door. I was raging mad and I wanted to make as much noise as I could.

People don’t realise that prison is 99 per cent a law unto itself. I was pleased to leave this piss-hole. I knew that if I didn’t, I’d do something nasty to one or more of the screws responsible.

Three long years had passed since I was at Long Lartin, but this time I was going to try harder as I had been told by an official that I was very close to being certified again. They put me on C Wing where I knew a lot of the cons. The first few days were great,
but nine days after my arrival, and on a Saturday afternoon, I received a body blow like no other.

We had all banged up for lunch when my door was unlocked. A prison officer and a senior officer came into my cell. They said, ‘Charlie, you’ve got to go down the block. A very serious allegation has been made about you.’ I told them to fuck off; I wasn’t going anywhere. I was fuming. What allegation? I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was so upset, I spat at them. I told them to leave me alone and they left. It wasn’t long before the heavy mob arrived with their helmets and shields. All hell broke loose.

All this time, the cons were banging and shouting, ‘Leave him alone!’ I put one screw out of my cell and the rest went out. The Governor now arrived.

‘Come on, Chaz,’ he said, ‘you must go down to the block until we investigate.’

I asked them, ‘Investigate what?’

So he told me that some con had made a very serious allegation concerning me.

This was a blatant fit-up but I knew that one way or the other I would end up down the block, so I went to the cells of a few other cons who I knew and told them that I had done nothing wrong to anyone. I walked to the block to clear my name. I was still not told what it was that I was supposed to have done, just that the police would be called in. I was even more baffled now. Something was seriously wrong. I wasn’t a happy man. I started smashing the granny out of my door, demanding to know what the hell was going on. The Governor came back and told me that I would have to see the police. I told them that I would not see the police without a solicitor, so one was arranged.

I went up to the wing the next day, still not knowing what I was meant to have done. Most of the lads were out on exercise but the ones that were left
were giving me funny looks. I’d had enough of this so I pulled one of them to see what was up. He told me the story – I was supposed to have raped a con! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It just wasn’t in my nature to do that sort of thing. All the cons knew that it was a load of rubbish, and it turned out that it wasn’t the first time this con had pulled this shit. He’d done it twice before to other cons. This guy was a nut, a loony.

I pulled out a blade, sliced open my hand and I let the blood drip into a cup. I gave my solicitor my blood. He went pale. I said that if this con had been examined by the police doctor, then they would have samples, and my blood would prove that I had not been near him! I told them to fuck off and leave me alone. I later got a letter from my solicitor saying no charges would be pressed. The allegation was ridiculous.

I hope that one day I will meet this nutter. He should be in an asylum. I couldn’t believe that the police were brought in when the toe-rag had done it twice before. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that it was a load of nonsense.

This all unsettled my mind, but the cons were great – they all supported me. They even had a petition and more than 300 signed on my behalf. I did get an official apology from the Governor, but it wasn’t enough for me. Two decades I’d fought against this system and look what I get, a filthy con slagging my name! I spoke to several cons very deeply about it. I wanted to get something sorted out; it was not going to end here.

A week later, there was another incident. This time a screw said that I’d strangled him. Again, I ended up in the block; this was a serious charge. The screw had been outside my door. I went outside to have a word with the screw and he fell over. I went to
pick him up and I took hold of his neck. I got him to his feet and he ran to the landing shouting, ‘Bronson’s strangled me.’ There were no screw witnesses but a dozen con witnesses.

I was on the verge of killing, so I’ll take this opportunity to thank all the cons in Long Lartin who stood by me and supported me over that bad patch. Yes, it was a bad time which left a bitter taste.

They sent me to the biggest piss-hole in the country, the Armley block, but in this case they did me a big favour as my old pal was here – Brian (The Bear) Ismond. He was a block man like me. He never cried about it, just got on with it. Brian and I exercised together in the caged yard. It was good to see the old rascal! Brian’s well-known in Leeds; we had a good chat and picked up on all the gossip. Lord Longford came up to see me and I asked him to see Brian as well, which he did. I could have happily stayed a month or two, but when the van comes, you’re off. It arrived on 21 July 1992, less than a month after I’d arrived here. I shook Brian’s hand and wished him well, as he had a court case coming up. The van sped off. I was on my way to another ferry ride. This was becoming ridiculous.

I was put straight in the block at Parkhurst, but I was told there might be a chance that I could go up on M Wing if I behaved. Danny Reece was there.

Many didn’t like Danny. In fact, I’ve never met a more hated con. He was by then doing life for the murder of Ronnie Cook, a respected armed robber. Danny had a reputation as a bully and a grass (he’d turned Queen’s evidence against a sex killer and the man got life). But I couldn’t help warming to him. I’d first met Danny in Wandsworth and now he was the block cleaner, so I asked if I could go out on the exercise yard with him. We worked out together. Danny’s as strong as a bull.

One day, Keith Ritchie came down on the block with a bag of goodies for me and the lads. He had sweets and biscuits but the screws wouldn’t let him give them to us, so I stripped off and pressed the bell. I was going to run out, get in their office, and shit on the carpet. They must have known that I was up to something because they brought in the heavy mob. My door was flung open and in they waded. We had a rough and tumble for about ten minutes.

They love it … well, so do I! But I can never win. They overpowered me and in the box I went.

I stayed in the box a week – not something I’d recommend for the faint-hearted. Danny Reece would put cheese rolls and milk through the flap in the bottom of the door. In all the prisons and all the blocks that I have been in, no block cleaner has ever done this before. Every day, Danny came to the hatch to shake my hand. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s got feelings. He’s a tough fucker, but he loves me to bits!