Bronson (24 page)

I spent my time training hard in the block as I waited for my trial. I was now as fit as I was 20 years ago. As jails go, this was one of the better ones, but they still wouldn’t allow me to be a normal con. I was still classed as Cat A. I plodded on with life. The screws there were a decent bunch; they let me go to the gym and I got plenty of food and a shower every day. I was also getting plenty of visits from Loraine and Andy – they are both priceless to me. But the thought of spending another two decades fighting the system brought me out in a cold sweat. I really felt by that time I had become a hostage to my own past. Every day I had to keep myself in check and fight myself to stay in control.

It was while I was on remand at Woodhill that I was refused a visit from a very good friend of mine, James Nicholson. James had been to see me on numerous occasions before, but for some reason the Home Office was being awkward and they refused it. This made me really mad. I was only on remand – I should have been allowed all the visits I wanted. And here I was banged up in the block, with the spectre of more and more years of isolation hanging over me. I was determined now to make a protest; I was pissed off, to say the least.

Before I really knew what was happening, the cell door was shut – bosh! I had myself another hostage! My adrenalin was already pumping; I’d just polished off 600 press-ups in the exercise yard. I was buzzing. And Andy Love was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Andy was the library screw and actually a really lovely fella. But he got me on a bad day. Bang! I blew up and carried Andy, who just happened to be on the seg unit, off to my ‘flowery dell’. They brought in negotiators and a marksman; I threw a blanket over the window to stop him popping me one in the nut.

Andy was a model hostage. Sure, I threatened to snap his neck, but hostage situations are like that. It’s like a game of chess; I make a move, they make a move. When I told Andy to be good, he said, ‘No problem, Charlie.’ We had some nice chats during the siege – all 14 hours of it.

Looking back, I was really craving company, craving humanity. I just wanted to chat to someone in my cell, to have a cup of tea with them. Maybe play a bit of Scrabble.

Isolation gets to a man after 20 years. I wanted to be with people, or at least have a little pet. I didn’t want a budgie – they just eat and shit all over your cell. I wanted proper company.

That was my main demand – and, yeah, it was a crazy enough demand as it turned out. I asked for a blow-up doll! That’s what I told the negotiators.

‘Get me a doll!’

Just to talk to; to have a cup of tea with.

‘Get me a fucking blow-up doll.’

‘But you’re worth more than that, Charlie. You need a real woman, a real human …’

‘Yeah,’ I shouted back to the female negotiator. ‘But I’m not allowed to have a fucking human, am I? I’m not allowed fuck-all, no one in my cell … not a woman, a man, or a child. Just get me the doll.’

It was fucking crazy; madness at its best.

The negotiator said if I got a doll, every other con would want one.

‘I don’t give a fuck about them! I’m telling you what
I
want. It’s not too much to ask. I’m not asking for a
machine-gun, I’m not asking for a helicopter. I just want a blow-up doll. I want to marry her in Broadmoor asylum!’

‘But what if you fall out of love with her?’

I thought seriously about this. My head was clearly flipped. ‘Come that day, and I hope to God it don’t happen, I’ll sling her out of my cell and I’ll never speak to her again!’

The negotiator laughed. I have to say it sounds funny now. But I was obviously seriously fucked in the head through years of isolation.

I was getting frustrated. These negotiators were upsetting me: they couldn’t negotiate a bag of boiled sweets. And Andy, with all due respect, was starting to piss me off. He was boring me. Time was ticking by and I was pacing up and down. It was like being stuck in a lift with a stranger.

Andy asked for a piss. ‘Yeah, go for it,’ I said. ‘But don’t flick it more than twice or I’ll kill you. And wash your fucking hands. I don’t want germs in my home!’ I told the negotiators to get a cup of tea for Andy. I wanted a T-bone steak, French fries, and Andy would have a fillet. (I reckoned I’d eat his!) ‘And I want a fucking axe, a machine-gun, 10,000 rounds and a helicopter out of here!’

Then it happened.

‘Andy, did you just fart? You fucking farted in my cell! You broke wind and polluted my atmosphere, you bastard.’

I felt I couldn’t breathe with this man so close.

I told them, ‘Fuck the axe, stick the steak up your arses. I’ve had enough. It’s over. Open up and take him!’

I never got my doll.

They later charged me with two offences – the first, false imprisonment. Charge two read:

The next day I was off to Winson Green and more solitary. And then, within the month, I was shunted to Belmarsh. There was a mob of screws waiting for me when I arrived at Belmarsh special unit on 24 June 1993. This is the max-secure London jail where they hold IRA and other high-risk cons.

Six screws took the van ride with me, even though I was strapped up in a body-belt, unable to scratch my own arse. In reception, I recognised one prison officer from way back in Armley. We’d had words many years ago, but apart from that I’d always found him fair. He told me the second I walked into Belmarsh that I was heading for the block.

This was part of their special Cat A wing. There were 48 Cat A prisoners on there, and they could all watch television, play football, tennis and pool. But there was one person who wasn’t allowed – me.

I always give it time before I kick up about something. The block screws treated me fairly, but I fell out with the unit governor. We had words and I fucked him off. One day, he upset me so I started to break down my cell door. Fortunately, nothing came of it.

I got a bit of gym, plenty of exercise and more than enough food. One particular screw, Mick Reagan, was one of the best I’ve come across. He was only in his late 20s, but a solid guy. He didn’t stab you in the back, but told it like it was – and to your face. If all screws acted like him, prison would be a better place
and there would be half the trouble. He and several others went out of their way to make my stay comfortable. Mick slung the medicine ball at me. They even got a tennis net for me to play in the exercise cage. Basically, I was happy and contented.

They gave me a lot of trust. Bear in mind that I was Cat A and usually had at least six screws just watching me.

Right outside my cell was a surveillance camera. This was the most up-to-date and secure unit in Britain. Some doors even the screws could not open. It was like something out of a science fiction movie. Security was the Number 1 priority for cons and screws alike. We were all being monitored.

My only problem was not being allowed to go on the wings with the other Cat A cons. There were two that I had told to stay away from me if I ever got up there. One was a filthy rapist. He was a fucking disgrace to the human race. The other one was 18 stone and 6ft 6in of shit. He was up on trial for the murder and disembowelment of a prostitute. He had a history for rape but walked free from court.

I was getting my life back to normal there. I felt good. So, I couldn’t go up on the wings – hell, that’s show business. By now it was only weeks away from the trial. Loraine and Andy visited and brought me a nice suit to wear. I gave Loraine my wooden cross; she loved it. Days later, on my twenty-eighth day there, Ben, who was a senior officer, came into the block with some other screws. I knew by their faces that it was time for me to go.

‘OK, Charlie, you’re away.’

I was gutted, fed up and depressed. Why fucking move me again? I was convinced that this was the Home Office playing games. I stripped off and they put me in the body-belt – and that’s how I left Belmarsh, trussed up like a fucking Christmas turkey.

A lot of the screws said that it was a wrong decision; they were genuinely concerned for me. Two in particular shouted out to me as I got into the van, ‘Behave yourself, Charlie, and good luck.’ It wasn’t the screws’ fault, but as the van pulled away from Belmarsh I felt betrayed. It certainly didn’t help things to be tied up like that and have to travel 200 miles to a place I didn’t want to go to. But nothing lasts, does it?

The last time I’d been in Bristol nick was four years earlier. I’d arrived trussed up that time, too. The only difference was a new gate-lodge at the jail. Again, they put me in the strong box.

An official came to see me and I explained that I wouldn’t come out of the box until the van came for me. I would not wear any clothes, I would not slop out, wash or shave. Neither would I see anyone, including my solicitor. I asked him to phone Loraine and Andy to express my belief that I was being victimised by the Home Office. My trial was only six weeks away and they had moved me so far away from everyone. Bad thoughts were entering my head; I was feeling dangerous. But my mind was set: I would remain boxed up in what I can only describe as a concrete coffin.

A doctor called Brown, an old boy, kept coming to see me. It’s no secret that I despise the fuckers. I shouted at him every day, ‘I want some chocolate! Fuck off if you haven’t got any!’ Obviously no prison doctor gives cons chocolates, but lo and behold, he came one day with a big bar of fruit and nut! I nearly fell off the concrete floor! It just goes to show they’re not all vets.

On the fourth or fifth day I started to hallucinate and my mouth was very dry. I was convinced that my food had been spiked. On the sixth day I got a bad cramp in my gut. I was sick and had the shits really
badly. Messages were starting to come in for me from my solicitor. I had nothing; no books, no radio, no bed, nothing. This was like the bad old days all over again.

My thoughts were all bad. I thought of taking a hostage, but I knew it wasn’t the screws’ fault. My mail was being redirected from Belmarsh and I got letters from my brother Mark, who was out in Italy, one from the Mayor of Luton, and one from Andy and Loraine who sent me £20 so I could buy some sweets.

I started to sleep all day and walk up and down my cell each night. I also sang a lot – loudly! I found that it eased my tension. On the ninth day they came in with smiling faces. ‘You’re away, Charlie.’ This was the breath of fresh air that I had been waiting for.

I refused clothes. They strapped me up in the
body-belt
and off we went. As we got to the van, which was parked outside the block, I noticed there were screws, dogs and even a governor, waiting and watching.

I stopped and gulped in some of that beautiful air. It was like food. Believe me when I say this: I really love the world … to see flowers, animals and trees. Even the sky is heaven. Anyway, I felt bloody good to be out in the daylight, even though I must have looked a right mess with over a week of not washing or shaving. Two screws jumped in the front of the van, four in the back – and me, the madman.

We drove through Wandsworth’s gates at about one o’clock and the van pulled up outside the block. Bristol Prison had phoned through to this lot to tell them what to expect. I honestly can’t remember the last time I actually passed through reception here. It seems that I am destined to always arrive at the punishment block and leave from it.

I jumped out of the van naked and in the belt to face a score or more screws. Prison Officer Wells was no longer there, he’d retired. I walked straight into the strong box and told them that I was staying in
there until somebody told me what the fuck was going on. They uncuffed my wrists from the belt and left me alone. I was still naked and in total isolation. They brought me some food and a jug of water and told me that the Governor would be coming to see me soon.

Later, the Governor arrived to tell me that I had been sent there for my legal visits and then I was going to be moved on again. I asked them if they knew where I would be going, and he said that he thought it would be Woodhill as screws from there were taking me to the trial. This suited me fine, so I came out of the box and went back into my old home – cell 13. I showered, shaved and I felt like a new man again. I saw my face for the first time in over a week. I looked older, pale and drawn. My eyes were sunken. In nine days the system can destroy a man.

My next few days passed peacefully. On 5 August, Maggie and my barrister, Issy, were due to visit. Issy – Isabella Forshall – is a diamond. The visit was booked for the afternoon, but in the morning I was told that it had been cancelled because of a mix-up. All legal visits were supposed to be in the morning there. I saw the Governor and I told him that if I didn’t get my visit, then ‘FUCK EVERYTHING’. I would be going to my trial bollock naked, and I would tell the judge what he and his filthy scum screws had done to push me to this.

I got my visit. It now seemed that there was additional evidence. The police were now saying that I was waiting to hit a security van delivering to a bank. What were those police – fucking mind-readers? They were living in Disneyworld. My visit was held in the block, something that had never been known before. It was the first time that I had met Issy and she certainly made me feel a lot better. I gave Maggie a cross which I had promised her. It was made out of matches by my pal Kirk who was with me in Woodhill.

It was now four weeks from my trial. It couldn’t be soon enough – neither could my next move. Maggie had been informed why I had been moved so much. They said it was because six screws were needed to unlock me and the prisons hadn’t got the manpower to keep me more than a month. Don’t they come up with some bullshit?

I just wished that the van would hurry up and come for me. I was looking forward to going back to Woodhill. It was as I was sitting in my cell thinking about all this that my mate Stevie Gillen came back from the Old Bailey. His trial had been going on for two weeks and that day he got 14 years. I shouted out to him, ‘Be strong!’ There is an end to everything – even if it’s Hell.