Bronson (28 page)

‘No you’re not,’ one of them said.

No. I was shunted from pillar to post. In fewer than five months, I was moved from seg unit to seg unit seven times – Wandsworth; Winson Green; Lincoln; Bullingdon; then to Luton Crown Court where I got another seven years for the Hull and Woodhill sieges; back to Bullingdon; to Full Sutton; to Strangeways; and, in February 1995, to Frankland, way up in County Durham.

I went on hunger-strike in Frankland soon after I arrived. I was sick of life, sick of their lies; sick of the constant moves, and of being banged up like some beast in solitary. I lasted 18 days without food. I was weak, tired, and I was a problem they didn’t want. In mid-May they moved me back to High Down in Surrey.

I was exhausted and depressed. Then the Governor came into my cell with all his boys. This Governor became a nuisance, always popping in over the next week. I couldn’t stand it. I’d been wasting away on hunger-strike and now I wanted some peace and quiet to recuperate. I told the senior officer I was sick of this guy coming around, and if he wanted to see me, he should just look through my spy-hole.

I’d just eaten a huge Sunday dinner – lovely after
starving for so long – when I heard footsteps coming closer. They stopped outside my door and I heard the key in my lock. I thought this was strange. One set of footsteps, but it was always a mob that came to open my door. It was the Governor, on his own, obviously calling my bluff.

Smack! You c--t! Smack! I jumped on him and then tried to stab him in the eye with my toothbrush. I heard bells, screws running, and I was soon slung in the strong box. It wasn’t long before a screw came to my spy-hole and explained they had told the Governor to stay away from me. ‘We told him,’ he said. ‘But he said, “I know Charlie, he’s okay with me!”’

Well, he mugged himself off, didn’t he? I’ve never seen him since, but if I do I’ll chin him again, just for the fun of it.

I was on the road again – Winson Green; Lincoln; Frankland; Winson Green; Belmarsh; Full Sutton; Walton; Bullingdon; and, on 4 April 1996, back to Belmarsh. It was a bloody merry-go-round and it was making me dizzy.

But Lincoln had shown me another side to life, a side that I loved. I was given some trust, and I helped disadvantaged, backward kids. It happened after I was told in no uncertain terms to behave, and in return I’d get a bit of gym. I was also allowed out of the seg. I went straight into the gym for my first hour’s exercise on equipment for over a year. I
bench-pressed
150 kilos, ten times. Not bad for a guy who’d been surviving on stodge and porridge!

Then the physical training instructor asked if I’d like to help out with the special needs kids. Yeah, I’d go for that! I love kids. They’re so innocent. When I’ve won prizes for my poetry and art, the money has gone straight to a hospice for kids up north. I’ve raised hundreds of pounds for them. Now I was being given another chance to help.

Hand-picked cons looked after these special needs youngsters once a week when they came into the prison. I was so pleased; I almost felt human again. It was brilliant!

These lovely people, Downs Syndrome and the like, were like little children … laughing, happy! We played ball games and they all loved me. I put one lad on my shoulders and ran around the gym. He enjoyed it so much, and so did I. Some were kids, some were adults with kids’ minds. But they were all lovely, and I had them laughing! There were about 30 of them, and eight cons. At the start of the second session some ran up to me and hugged me. I devised games for them. Just simple stuff, but it kept them entertained. In one I’d get them to sling footballs at me and I’d head them back. Whoever caught the most was the champion.

It was great, and I did so well that I went up on the wing. I lasted just a day – then I fucked it up. Nothing ever lasts with me.

I met a good guy there called ‘Mozz’. We went out for our hour’s walk, but after 30 minutes we were called in. Fuck that! I get an hour. It’s the only hour of fresh air I get in the day. I turned to my pal and said, ‘Go in, son.’ All went in apart from me. I wanted my hour, and I got my hour. But when I went in, there were 20 of them waiting for me. I was on my way to Frankland the next day, and, within a month, back to Winson Green.

Within weeks I was buzzing. It was my second stay in Winson Green in less than four months. I arrived in September 1995 and by December I was getting my head sorted. They were even letting me out on the yard with the other Cat A cons. There were two Asian brothers up for murder and robbery, only young and never been in jail before. I was doing press-ups with them both on my back. We had lots of laughs during
our hour a day. I’d pick them up and run with them on my back. I was as high as a kite on adrenalin. Full of madness.

But one day I just didn’t feel right. I felt a bit disturbed, a bit dangerous. We did our work-out in the yard and then I saw the security door unlock. In walked Dr Wilson. I grabbed him in a neck-hold. ‘You’re coming with me, c--t!’ Then I whispered slowly in his ear, ‘Your lucky day, Doc. You’ve won the raffle. You’ve won me.’

I walked backwards with him towards my cell. The bells were ringing, there were shouts and boots running. But when I got to my door, I discovered I was locked out. You’d have thought I’d have my own key by now!

All hell broke loose and they steamed us. Fair play to them, they were pros. They saved him. But I could smell a whiff of something unpleasant in the air.

I was off on my travels … again!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sure, I said I’d eat one of the Iraqis, but in my heart of hearts I never really meant it. I’ve got a rule of thumb that says I should never attempt to eat anything that disagrees with me. Plus, I’d had a big breakfast that morning.

I’d been shipped out of Belmarsh after taking Dr Wilson hostage. I was ghosted to Full Sutton, to Walton and then to Bullingdon. By April 1996, I was back at Belmarsh.

I was in mental turmoil, confused by all the moves. There had been well over 100 since I first came inside.
I was unsettled and, let’s face it, a bit paranoid. I needed my solitary. They had helped create me, now they had to deal with me. My vision was going after years of darkness and artificial light. Eyes troubled me – other people’s eyes. People staring, people invading my space. People breathing near me. They had kept me alone for so long, and alone was all that I really knew – my routine; my solitary. I was plugging my ears and blocking out the noise, blocking out the world.

Belmarsh had been good to me. But my dangerous spells were returning and one day in September 1996 I snapped big style. The day before, an Iraqi on remand had bumped into me while I was collecting my meal. He stared at me.

No ‘Sorry, pal.’ No respect. He probably didn’t know the lingo. But it just wound me up. Jabber, jabber, jabber. Fucking Iraqi. I brooded all day and all night. I should have just slapped him there and then. But the next day, a Saturday, I flipped.

This guy was one of the six Iraqis who’d hijacked a Sudanese Airways plane and forced it to land at Stansted a few weeks before. It turns out they were trying to get asylum here. But I was getting angrier and angrier about this ignorant fucker who’d bumped into me.

I despise ignorance. Plus, I’d torn a muscle in my back weight-lifting. I was in agony, and my mind and my routine were in pieces. I need my routine to keep me sane. I was also sick of most of the other cons whingeing about their lot. When I started off, it was one hot meal a day if you were lucky, a shower a week and a bit of exercise. I was fed up with this new breed of cons. Three square meals a day, satellite telly, pool tables and they still fucking moaned and groaned.

I was sweeping the corridor when I spotted two of the Iraqis. Their eyes were boring into me, and my
eyes turned black with pure hatred and rage. The Iraqi siege was starting!

I belted another con called Jason Greasley over the head with my metal bucket and dragged him into the Iraqis’ cell. Within seconds, I had not two but three hostages on the floor. There was soapy water all over the place. I smashed off the toilet door and barricaded the cell with broken furniture – a table, chair, mattress and bed.

‘Don’t fucking move! Keep still you c--ts!’

I ripped out the laces from my trainers and tied the Iraqis’ hands. One of them was jabbering on in his own language, so I slung him under a bed. He might have been out of the way, but I could smell him soon enough when he messed his pants.

Screws started towards the cell. I was ranting and raving. My head had completely gone.

‘If my demands are not met within an hour, you’ll bring in four body bags! I’ve got a blade; I’ll cut them up.’

A Welsh screw by the name of Emyr Lewis, who I knew quite well, came to the door.

‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘Talk to me. What do you want?’

‘Is that Taff?’

I didn’t have my glasses on and could hardly see through the gap in the door.

‘Taff … I want political asylum. If these Iraqis can have it, I want it. I want a helicopter to Cuba. It’s got to land on the sports field. I’m taking Greasley with me.’

I let Taff speak to the hostages, then other screws came to negotiate and I started belting out ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. I was losing it badly, saying I wanted to join my dead dad. I was quite prepared to die that day.

‘Don’t treat me like a muppet! This is not a game. If I hear any funny business on the landing I’ll start
snapping necks! There could be a fucking blood-bath up here today if you don’t take me seriously.’

Greasley had told me his missus was about to have a baby. I told the screws I was thinking of letting him go – I’d swap him for someone in the Home Office who’d been shunting me round the system all my life. I was getting wilder, madder.

‘I haven’t had a cup of tea! Get me a cup of tea or else I’m going to eat one of the Iraqis!’

I started pacing up and down, brooding, and then I burst into song! ‘He’s got the whole world in his hands …’ I was laughing out loud, crazily. I took my trainers off and shouted at the Iraqis.

‘Right you c--ts. Tickle my feet. I haven’t had my feet tickled in years!’ They did what they were told, because by this stage they’d learnt to address me as General. They were the Lieutenants. They tickled me for a minute or so. I laughed my head off! Then I was fed up.

‘Stop!’

They didn’t.

‘Fucking stop! When I say stop I mean stop straight away, or I’ll snap your scrawny fucking necks.’

I told the screws, ‘There’s been a change of plan. We’re not going to Cuba any more. Listen to me. This is what I want.

‘I want a van at the end of the unit, a helicopter on the sports field and a jet at Heathrow ready to fly to Libya. I want political asylum and I want two Uzis, 5,000 rounds and an axe. There are four other Iraqis and they’re coming with us. We need seven medium-sized, black suits – and one large,
double-breasted
, for me. I want white shirts and smart hats for the lot of us. These three will be cuffed to me with ropes around their necks. The other Iraqis will be in the van.

‘The van will take us to the helicopter and the
helicopter to Heathrow. Arrange us safe passage through Libyan airspace.’

A screw negotiator said he couldn’t agree to my demands, but he’d pass them on.

‘No, I know mate,’ I told him. ‘But it has to go all the way to the top. You’re doing all right actually – not a bad job.’

I calmed down a bit and let Greasley go out of compassion, and untied the Iraqis. But the rest of my demands still stood. By this time I was a bit peckish. I began chanting loudly, ‘I want ice-cream! I want ice-cream!’

I told the two Iraqis, ‘When we get to Libya you two can fuck off. I’m going to go and live in the mountains. I just need a motorbike and an axe.’

Another screw was looking at me through the hatch and spotted a bent metal food tray on the floor of the cell. He asked the Iraqi who wasn’t under the bed – the one who could speak a bit of English – what had happened. He said I’d smacked him over the nut with the tray, which I had. The screw asked me why.

Why? Why? I don’t know why. It’s just fucking madness. I sat down and thought long and hard. Then I gave the tray to the English-speaking Iraqi.

‘Hit me over the fucking head!’

He did – four times. Then I smacked myself over the crust another four times. Right! Quits! I told the screws to fuck off and demanded an hour’s silence to think some more. I did some squat thrusts and star jumps.

Then I started to talk to this screw Colin Pollard. I knew Col. He’d helped do the time-keeping on one of my world-record attempts for sit-ups. He pointed out that the Iraqis would not be wanted in Libya. I was pissed off, but I still had my blade, which I’d taken out of a safety razor. I said I was still going to Libya – and I wouldn’t be getting hurt because I didn’t feel pain.

I showed them; I slashed deep into my left shoulder half-a-dozen times. Blood began pissing out.

Col urged me to wash my wounds, which I did. Then he promised me he would personally walk me out and down to the seg unit if I stepped out of the cell.

I pushed back the barricade and found that he was a man of his word. But I felt a huge black cloud enveloping me once more.

The aftermath of a siege is actually as disturbing to me as it is to my hostages.

These guys went through seven hours of uncertainty; I got a seven-year sentence, reduced to five on appeal. I’m not asking for sympathy over this – I don’t deserve it. But let’s face it, in a situation like the Belmarsh siege,
all of us
were locked in that cell, and all tried to find a solution to what started out as a moment of madness on my part, and escalated into sheer insanity.

You take a hostage and you think you’re suddenly in a position of power. In a way you are – but right from the start you’re on a loser. You just can’t fucking win. Free them or eat them, you’re facing more years in jail, more years in solitary, more years in the concrete womb.

A lot of physical and mental pain accompanies a siege. It rips you apart; it drains you. You’re building your own gallows and bringing your own noose. People want to see you die; you actually become a victim.

When the siege is over, the pain begins. The hostages get pampered in a hospital bed, but you’re the beast, the madman, the rabid dog. You become friendless, feared and de-humanised. Stuck in isolation, in a cage, and fed under the door just like a dog.

Belmarsh had been good to me, especially Governor Outram. This man had allowed me some space and had given me a break from solitary. He let me use the gym and allowed me to smash a world record with my medicine ball sit-ups. He treated me like a human, and I felt bad after the siege. I felt I’d let him down, abused his trust. I’d actually signed a contract with him, promising to behave. I felt low and depressed about all the good screws who had also given me a break. Now it was back to emptiness once more.

As the Cat A van sped up the M1, I was locked in a steel ‘sweat box’, cuffed and confused. I stared out of the window at the passing countryside; I knew it would be a long time before I was ever allowed to walk on grass or stroke an animal.

The Cage at Wakefield was ready. It was time to reflect. Was there any future for me at all? Was I mad, or just bad? I didn’t know the answers, but I knew that I was as sorry as hell for the whole incident. No man is as sorry as me when these things blow up. I can’t really say why it happened, but I know I seriously lost the plot that day.

The shit goes on; the hole I’m in just seems to get bigger. My problems escalate and my mind deteriorates. It is as if I am nomadic – jail to jail, asylum to asylum. Nobody seems to want me anywhere, so my frustration and anger grows. My only real contact with people is yelling through the cell door. I rarely see fellow cons; most only hear of me arriving and leaving. Some I shout to. A solitary voice, a voice in the wilderness.

Even when I see the opticians I am surrounded by screws. Not one, two, three or four, but as many as a dozen. I remember going when I was at Bullingdon. The lights went out and the letters lit up for me to read. The poor man must have thought I was
Hannibal the Cannibal and about to rush him. I actually felt really sorry for him.

My eyes are bad due to the years of unnatural light I have had. My vision is terrible; I have to wear shaded glasses even to read. Years of solitary have left me unable to face the light for more than a few minutes. It gives me terrible headaches if I do.

My life is illuminated by one dim 40-Watt bulb during the daytime. A red bulb in the ceiling casts a strange, eerie light during the night. Because I have to shout to be heard by the other cons, ordinary people are often, apparently, alarmed by the loud way I sometimes talk. Years of silence, and intermittent shouting, distorts your hearing, your perception of normality. You are about as in control of your speech as those unfortunate people who are partially deaf.

Occasionally, at night, you hear a grown man crying – or screaming. You learn to recognise people not just by their voices, but by their screams. It is truly haunting.

Solitary eats away at a man’s soul.

Solitary means you cannot reach out and touch your fellow human beings. Years of loneliness in small cells have left me paranoid about people invading my space. I now can’t stand people getting too close, crowding me. I hate people breathing on me and I hate smelly bodies coming near me. Mouths to me are simply for eating – never for kissing.

Prison time is dead time, and being in isolation is like being in a coffin. Twenty-three hours a day of nothing but loneliness, fading memories and vague dreams. Then one hour’s exercise – again in solitary.

A man needs a routine to cope with such an extreme situation. For me it is my push-ups and
sit-ups
. I also pace the room and count each step. Some I know lie down on their beds for three hours on their left side, three hours on their right, and three on their
back. Anything to break the day, to make time pass. Sometimes breaking the monotony by counting the stains on the ceiling, turning them into patterns by joining them with imaginary lines. Sometimes by counting the metal strips in the air vent above the door … in ones, twos and threes. Taking each minute, each hour, each day as it comes.

I personally sleep in the foetal position. It is pure solitude, peace and protection. I try to blank my mind, but often I see the faces of those I love. I see their caring, loving eyes. It’s as if they were real.

A routine means survival in solitary. But, in a way, routine can break a man as well. How can you ever mix properly … even in prison? How can you accept the unexpected?