Bronson (23 page)

Eventually, off I went to M Wing. There were loads of cons I knew were up there: Kevin Brown, Tony and Pete Coulson, Micky Reilly, Dennis Campbell, Vic Dark, Gerry Parker, Rupert Tibbs, Keith Richie and ‘Big H’.

I ate well, trained well and slept well. Time was flying by and I was winning. Most nights I trained alone on the wing for a couple of hours. I was feeling good. Mr Marriott, the Governor, was obviously terrified in case I went off my head again, so he often came to see me and I assured him I was OK. Big H was a good pal to me, but then they moved him to Whitemoor. I missed him a lot but I was still allowed to see Gi Gi. Don Swinton, a psychologist, helped me a lot. He’s a good man who I respect. My head was better than it had been for years. Then I had a brainwave! Years ago, in the 1960s, big Frank
Mitchell built a fish pond on some waste land down by our football pitch. I decided I was going to build one as well! At first they all saw it as a big joke, but a meeting was held and permission was given. My reason for wanting to do this was simple – in all my years away, I’d never done anything in prison but smash it up. A fish pond represented peace and tranquillity and a change in my ways. I was going to do my own design, a figure eight with a bridge. It was all in my head and was about to come to life.

They gave me a pick-axe, a shovel and a fork, and I went to work. The first day I dug deep, about eight feet. Some screws were looking worried. No, I hadn’t knocked up a wooden horse in the workshop! They were just concerned that I was fit enough for the job. I assured them I was. I just wanted this pond to be the best fucking pond ever! I wanted to leave it for my fellow cons. It would live on and people would see that I had finally got my act together. It certainly wasn’t for parole, as I never got fuck-all off these people. This pond was my own idea – and I felt great!

On the second day, Cliffy Moody arrived, so I let him help me. By the third day my dream had been shattered by a cowardly act.

I ended up in an outside hospital, St Mary’s, with multiple stab wounds. They were all in my back, which says a lot. I won’t name any names, but everyone there knew what happened. One con claimed he’d done it himself, telling everyone that he had stabbed Charles Bronson. But, as the surgeon said, there were two knives with different-sized blades. It happened by the half-dug pond. I was having words with a con and some others joined in. Some were men that I knew and respected and some were genuinely trying to stop a fight, but it was when I was being pulled away that I was stabbed in the back.

They all left me, blood pouring out of my wounds. I knew I was hurt badly. My breathing was painful but I still managed to walk back to M Wing. Poor Cliffy was devastated. I felt sure I was dying; I saw the faces of all my family passing by me as I collapsed in my cell.

Big ‘Bill the Bomb’ came running in. He stuffed up all the holes that the bastards had put in me. Bill saved me that day, as he once saved me outside. They put me on a stretcher and as I was being carried off M Wing, the face that I will always remember is big Dennis Campbell’s. He was looking down at me from landing two. I shouted up to him, ‘I stabbed myself, Dennis!’

Later, I fucked the police off. Ninety-nine per cent of cons would have tried to get compensation, or use it to get out faster. Not me. When I was brought back into Parkhurst I couldn’t even walk. They put me in the hospital wing. Gi Gi was allowed to come over and see me; he was mad over it and so were a lot of others. He told me that a lot of cons feared me and that’s why they’d done it. In my back was the only way.

After Gi Gi left, I had words with a screw. I smashed the hatch of my door and slung everything out on to the landing. As I destroyed my cell, all my wounds opened up. Blood was everywhere; the pain shot through my body.

They sent the heavy mob in to me – a man with holes in his body. I was bent up and put in the box. This was the same box in which I had been certified mad, back in 1978. It was still rotten and dirty – it hadn’t altered in 14 years. I fucked all the doctors off; I wouldn’t let them in the box. They spoke to me through the hatch and I just spat at them.

Mick Connell, a screw, came to see me. He told me that they were worried in case the wounds became infected. I told Mick that I was shitting blood. Then
Don Swinton came to see me. Through Don and Mick I took some anti-inflammatory tablets and put some antiseptic on my wounds. I was in a lot of pain.

Don did a deal with the doctors so I could be put on the high-risk landing. Once I was up there, I showered and let a doctor examine me. He prescribed some drugs and changed my bandages twice a day.

Colin Robinson was on this landing, so was Bob Maudsley. Bob had killed three cons – one in Broadmoor and two in Wakefield. It was good to see Colin again, but most of the others were a pain in the neck. One in particular was heading for a clump as he was upsetting me.

Mr Marriott came in to see me. I genuinely believe that he was a sad man over what had happened to me. For the first time ever, we were getting somewhere. He’d stuck his neck out for me and given me trust. I’d like to think that I wasn’t responsible for letting him down this time. He told me that I would be moving on soon. They had no choice, no one knew who it was who’d plunged the knives into me. I wasn’t very pleased about all this. I’d got stabbed in the back and I’d lost my pond – and it was me that had to be moved.

Bronson’s quarters were ready! Again – amazingly – I was back in cell 13 in Wandsworth’s punishment block. And Prison Officer Wells was there to greet me. I could barely walk and I was still in a lot of pain, but Mr Wells told me he knew what had gone on and assured me that I would not be here long. He urged me to keep calm as something was being planned for me in my favour. Two weeks later, the van arrived and I was on my way to the Scrubs. What awaited me?

I was put in the block on 23 September 1992 and was told as soon as I’d arrived to settle down as I would be seeing the Board of Visitors very soon. I was told I would be getting lost remission back and
would be staying in this block until my release. I got 120 days back, which put me out on the street on 9 November that year! I had just a month-and-a-half to survive.

Lord Longford visited me and made arrangements for us to meet on the day I got out. We were to have a meal at the Grosvenor Hotel in London. My friend Mark Lilliot and his lady were picking me up on the day, so they were invited to lunch, too. James Nicholson, Number 1 crime reporter at the Old Bailey, came to see me to discuss some plans. James is a seasoned old hack and a good pal. He’s also a good pal of Gi Gi’s. Julian Broadhead came to wish me well, as did Sammy McCarthy and his daughter Jackie.

The weeks slipped by. I went out on exercise with a guy called Charlie. He was a lifer who kept me really cheerful. I was getting stronger every day. I did a few gentle exercises – nothing heavy. I needed my strength for when I got out and I certainly didn’t want to tear my wounds open again. I bathed in salt water and every night I put salt on to my wounds. A couple of screws were also good to me. They helped me get by with no nonsense. I felt that they were pleased for me that I was finally getting out.

I now had only days left.

The night of 8 November was a long one. I paced my cell for most of it. I was really tense.

I felt an odd twinge of despair and doubt. Was I really going out into the big wide world tomorrow?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When my door unlocked, I was out of my cell like a rabbit with a rocket up its arse! I was buzzing!

I had survived a long, hard battle. I’d bled for this day; I’d shed tears for it. And now it was finally going to happen.

They soon got me over to reception. It was great to put on my black suit. It felt lovely! They gave me £60, which is what I was entitled to. I shook the hands of a few cons in reception. They all wished me well. There were hundreds more hands I would have liked to shake throughout the prison system – mostly cons,
some screws and a couple of decent governors. Prison was my whole life. Nearly 20 years inside now, apart from those 69 days in 1987. And none of it an easy ride. Sure, sometimes I’d made it bloody difficult. But I’d taken the medicine – and the fucking punishment.

I was ready.

The gate opened. It was a really dull, wet, rainy day, but I didn’t care. Today was ‘my’ day. I’d made it!

Kelly-Anne had always promised that she would be there to meet me, but what the hell. Mark Lilliot was there and Jackie, as well as James Nicholson and a cameraman from one of the newspapers. It was a great feeling. Mark looked powerful – two stone heavier than when I last saw him.

We had a hug and off we went. We found a café first and caught up on everything, then James took us to the Grosvenor in Park Lane for a nice meal with Lord Longford. Old Frank Longford never turned up and it wasn’t until later that we found out why. A terrible mistake had been made. Lord Longford was at the Grosvenor in Victoria! I got the wrong one; it was my fault and a total fuck-up – one that could only happen to me!

I felt terrible at the time because Mark and Jackie had driven 200 miles to be there. But it couldn’t spoil the day. Nothing could do that. The sight of real life was heavenly on its own. Real cups and glasses, fresh, clean air, real people.

We drove to New Brighton, where I was going to try to settle down and make a fresh start, meet new people, shake the old lifestyle away and live like normal people do. I phoned Mum and Dad to tell them I was free. They were so pleased. I promised them that I would be home for Christmas. Mark and Jackie got me a place to live; I had my own kitchen, my own bathroom. I was made up. They had put loads of ‘Welcome Home’ signs up all over the place. They’d
really done me proud. That first day out had really touched me. I now had a new life.

New Brighton. What a lovely place it was, such great people. Even the air felt magic. I couldn’t get enough of it! I got a little job as a doorman in a club, only two nights a week, but it suited me just fine. Every day Mark and I would work out in the gym. I must have put on a stone of muscle in three weeks. I had good food, fresh air and exercise. All this was pure heaven. Bear in mind, it was only three months since I’d been stabbed. Now I was getting stronger by the day.

Mark’s dog was a Bull Mastiff, pure muscle and power. Her name was Della and Mark used to let her stay with me every other day. I’d make pots of stew, with big lumps of beef in it. Della used to love my cooking – it often turned into a dog’s dinner! I’d run along the sea-front with her, then give her half my meal. When people saw her they would freeze, but she was as gentle as a lamb. Dog’s can sense real trust. Della knew I was the boss, but she also knew I’d kill for her. I loved that dog like a baby.

Mark and Jackie’s daughter was a little angel called Chantelle. I had a lot of laughs with her. She loved my stews as well! All was going well until one night, when I was alone in my flat, I noticed that I was being watched. Outside my window across the street were two guys in a car. They were obviously cops. They looked it; I could smell them. I was under surveillance and I was overcome with depression.

It started my mind racing. I packed a few things and sneaked out the back way. I left Mark a note. I was going on one of my missions to find myself. You see, I felt totally empty now. A new life beckoned, and yet cops were across the street. To top it all, only days before, my mother’s sister, Auntie Pam, had passed away. She was only a few years older than me and she
was a lovely human being. Everyone idolised Pam. I made it my business to go to the funeral, which was to be held in Luton.

I arrived and made my way to Kelly-Anne’s place – God knows why. It was like a magnet drawing me to her. But I’m glad that I went as she took me to Uncle Jack’s grave and then left me there alone.

It was peaceful, tranquil, almost dream-like. Jack was buried in a lovely little graveyard out in the country, a couple of miles from Luton. His grave is by a tree and there are horses in a field nearby. It felt so right for me to be there. This was reality. It really hit me hard to be standing over his grave. This was the man who I had promised to see next when I was free, who I had planned to buy a pint, to thank him for his love and to celebrate my homecoming. I’d let him down. I’d failed dear old Jack. I felt really sad about that.

I went silent for days after. My mind was very disturbed. Kelly-Anne always found time to go to Jack’s grave a couple of times a week. She was, in fact, tending five graves at that time – her mum’s, Jack’s, a bloke called Barney’s, her grandad’s and her uncle’s. They had all died within months of each other.

I turned up at Auntie Pam’s funeral and saw all my family. It was lovely to be with them again, but so sad to be drawn together in such a terrible loss. My mum took it really badly. We all went to a pub after but I felt terrible. I was not only upset for Pam, I was still grieving over Jack. We all said our farewells and went our own ways.

I promised Mum and Dad that I would see them soon, at Christmas. I then went to London for a few days. I was trying to find myself, but in reality I was lost in a crowd. I was walking about stunned, in terrible mental anguish. I was fighting myself. I started to get crazy urges to attack or rob. I decided to go back to Luton.

I walked slowly towards Jack’s grave. I had to decide now – go back to New Brighton, or stay here, stuck in the past. I went back to see Kelly-Anne to try to express how I felt, but she clearly had her own problems. She couldn’t even help herself get off the booze, so how could she help me sort my mind out? I told her that if she stopped drinking I would stay with her. But really we had nothing between us.

I left Luton a very sad and lonely man. This was my town, my past, and all it ever gave me back was grief. I headed back to New Brighton. Mark had been worried about me but I told him that I had got it all out of my system and I was here to stay.

Christmas arrived and I went home to my parents in Wales. Mark, my younger brother, was there. We felt like strangers; we knew nothing about each other. We even had our first pint together, as Mark was only a child when I left. But this Christmas was the best I’d ever had. Mum, Dad and Mark really made it good for me and I met some lovely people. It really was a nice Christmas. Even Ronnie and Barbara, who ran the Crystal Palace Public House, spoilt us all … so thanks to everyone for that magical time.

After Christmas I went back to New Brighton. Then I decided to go on another mission. I made my way back to Luton, found a man in Kelly-Anne’s flat, and broke his nose.

Days later, on 2 January, Kelly-Anne left the flat with her friend Carol. About half-an-hour went by, then there was a knock at the door. It wasn’t the postman.

All hell let loose. Cops came tearing in with guns and bullet-proof vests. They piled on top of me. I was chained by my ankles and wrists and carried out to a waiting van. Once they got me down to the station, they questioned me about the guy’s busted nose.

Later, they asked me about a wig, a gun and a
bank. Then they charged me with: (1) conspiracy to rob a bank; (2) possession of a firearm; and (3) grievous bodily harm.

On 4 January 1993, I appeared at Luton Magistrates’ Court and was remanded in custody.

Woodhill Prison was brand-new, a sprawling mass of red brick and razor wire. No jail, not even Alcatraz, is escape proof. But if you got out of this one you wouldn’t stand much of a chance without a pigeon’s homing-sense, or a damn good map.

Woodhill is on the outskirts of Milton Keynes in Buckinghamshire, a ‘new town’ criss-crossed by a perplexing array of anonymous roads, each monotonously dotted with dozens of roundabouts. They told me as soon as I arrived that I would be going to the block – and once I was in the block, they said that I was on good order and discipline. Don’t forget, I was only a remand prisoner. Something was desperately wrong here.

I wasn’t going to rob any bank and I didn’t own a gun or a wig! I admitted to the broken nose – big deal – but I wasn’t about to let anyone fit me up on anything else.

So here I was, back in the block, back on Cat A, and again the ‘danger man’. For the first few days, I was in shock. It was obvious that I had been set up and only Kelly-Anne could have done it – but why? She had made a statement to say that it was my gun and that I had shot it out of her window. Her friend Carol had also made a statement to say that I asked her if she would drive a car, as I was going to rob a bank in Harpenden. It was all pathetic nonsense. The
broken-nose
guy made a statement to say that I punched him. They were three filthy rats together.

Kelly-Anne retracted her statement a week later, but why did she set me up in the first place? For the life of me, I had no answers.

After only days of being there, I lost my senses and jumped a screw. I tried to turn him around so I could get him in a neck-hold … I wanted a hostage. But the screw I chose was too big and somehow he got free – so I just hit him. My madness had started again; I was losing control. I knew that I could never survive in jail as an innocent man. My only crime was breaking a nose; I should have been out on bail, and yet here I was, back to all this again! I was gutted.

I lay awake every night thinking of guns, banks, GBH … and more lost years. I was sure the judge would take one look at my past and give me 15 years.

I’d had 55 days of freedom and now all this. My lawyers, Maggie Morrissey and Tim Green, seemed confident that I would get a result, but I just felt so depressed. I couldn’t get my head around why
Kelly-Anne
had done this to me. Was it police pressure?

On 9 February I was to go back to court. To protest my innocence I had decided to go there naked but Maggie phoned me to tell me to stop messing about. She told me to make sure I was dressed as two of the charges were being slung out. All that I had left was the GBH. The anxiety just fell from me. I felt relief. Even if I got two years I’d be happy. I’d just take it on the chin. As the Cat A van sped off towards Luton, I was buzzing. Once I was there, I met Tim Green, one of the best briefs in London. He told me not to worry, I shouldn’t even get a sentence. The magistrates slung the two charges out of court and gave me a £600 fine for the nose. I walked out of court a free man! On 9 February 1993, somebody up there loved me.

I can’t begin to describe how I felt. One day I was looking at 15 years for something that I hadn’t done, the next I was a free man.

Now that I was free, I wanted to know why I’d been set up. I had told my family not to attend court, simply because I thought I would get another remand,
so no one was there to meet me. I phoned Loraine and her husband Andy and asked them to come and collect me. They were elated. For five fucking weeks I had sweated and now I had to know why.

Someone had also set me up back in 1988 … was that Kelly-Anne as well? If it turned out to be a man that had done this to me, I would pull his teeth out, but it’s not my game hurting women. However, I still had to know the truth. It was driving me mad. Either someone had paid her to get me out of the way or she was an evil bitch.

That night I went to her flat; she was gone. She had left Luton. I found out later that she had phoned the court to see how I had got on, and as soon as she knew I was free, she left town. I didn’t know where Carol lived, and Broken Nose had gone missing, too. I phoned Kelly-Anne’s flat at least three times a day but there was no reply. I also went around there every night to see if there was a light on – but nothing.

She had to come back sooner or later. I had to know.

Loraine and Andy were a tower of strength to me, two of the loveliest people I know. They sorted me out a room in a friend’s house. It was just right for me. Nobody knew my whereabouts – just how I wanted it to be. I kept my training up, I even got a little job, but at the end of each day I slept alone. I had no one to share it all with.

Sixteen days after I’d walked out of court, my world collapsed.

On 25 February 1993, I had so many guns pointed at my face I felt like screaming, ‘For God’s sake, just kill me!’ If it wasn’t for the guy sitting next to me, I reckon that I would be dead meat now.

I was in a car with another man, when out of nowhere armed cops were all over us. The car was a potential death-trap. There were guns pointing at our faces with cops at the other end of them.

I ended up back in Woodhill Prison in Milton Keynes and my charges were practically the same as before: conspiracy to rob a bank and possession of a sawn-off shotgun. I couldn’t believe that this had happened again. I would either walk free or face more years of porridge.