Bronson (4 page)

Dad was working as a painter and decorator and got me a job with his mate Mick Collins, a local builder and a good footballer. I carried the hod for his bricklayers and he treated me well.

I was 15 and doing a man’s job. My hands got cut and my shoulders blistered but it was good money. However, there was one worker I just could not get on with. I remember stacking up hundreds of bricks and he argued that they were the wrong ones. I’d just been doing as I was told, but he took delight in kicking the whole stack off the scaffolding. I knew I would hurt this guy, so half the time I didn’t turn up for work.

I went from job to job – the hat factory, the dye factory – and got in a fair few scrapes. One guy in a group of lads much older than me just ran at me one night in the town centre, nutted me, and broke my nose. I had my hands in my pockets and was helpless as he went for me and kicked me in the groin. There was no reason for it. He was too fast to be drunk, but he was either out of his head on drugs or just plain nuts.

I was going to pubs at the time; I could easily pass for 18 even though I was three years off it. I started going out with different girls and dabbling in pills like Purple Hearts. They cost half a crown a pill. I never did anything other than speed, but I knew guys who were dropping a lot of acid. There was a lot of it about in the late 1960s, but not as much as there is now. It really wasn’t my scene and I soon came to despise drugs.

A few of my mates had been sent to Borstal and I sure didn’t want that, so I decided to start afresh and move up to stay with my grandparents in Ellesmere
Port – Mum’s parents Martha and Gordon Parry. I got a job as a labourer with a plastering firm and then something great happened – Mum, Dad and Mark moved up, and I moved back in with them.

Me, Dad and Grandad would spend hours playing cards in the kitchen every Friday night. We’d be joined by three or four of the local painter and decorator lads. Mum would go down the market for us and we’d have a big cheese board with Stilton and a few beers on the table. Sometimes we went on until five in the morning. I became quite good at chess, too. Grandad and I used to play whenever we could. I was so keen, I even had a little pocket set I used to carry around.

My friends were older, and I didn’t realise it then but they were false. If I didn’t have money for a round they couldn’t be seen for dust. And here I was, just 16 and knocking back a lot of drink in the pubs and clubs. I wasn’t an alcoholic – I was doing it to impress. But I was drinking a hell of a lot. I’d wake up on my doorstep or someone else’s settee. I was throwing away good money on drink; I even sold my watch to go out. I was being a first-class fool and I kept on swapping jobs … window cleaning, building sites, factories. I also had a few run-ins with the police. Nothing major – until one Christmas time when I had a row with a girlfriend’s dad.

Myra was a very pretty girl, in fact she was beautiful, and I’d fallen out with her father. She meant the world to me. I released my frustration by smashing up a load of parked cars. Then like a fool I hung around until the owners appeared. They beat me senseless, which I admit I deserved.

I was glad when the police car pulled up to take me away!

I was charged with criminal damage and had my first taste of Risley Remand Centre. They kept me in
the hospital wing for a week for a psychiatric report and then moved me to the main part of the centre. I was 16, but some of the lads looked 15. They were terrified. The first guy I was doubled up with was a half-caste called Snowy. He was a hard sort, up for robbery. We became good mates and he taught me how to survive in prison. We looked after our own and we hated sex cases. During those couple of months, I learnt more about crime than I could have done in a million years on the outside. I was also put on to some good people who could help if I ever needed anything when I was out.

But I’d never felt so trapped. I hated being watched all the time and having a number for a name. The food was crap and the place stank of stale piss. I couldn’t understand why Snowy seemed so relaxed. Mum and Dad saw me several times; the visits were behind glass. I couldn’t talk to them properly like that. All I could do was smile, ask them how they were, and assure them everything was fine with me. Their voices were choked. I’d upset them again. But my court case was coming up, and the lads had said I was likely to get a fine and probation. They were right. I was well pleased.

I soon got another job, this time as a furniture remover. I was getting on well, but most of my wages were going on fines. I was working all week and seeing nothing for it. And I had to go to an office once a week to talk to a probation officer.

I started knocking about with lads of my own age and getting into petty crime again. I was always well dressed and seldom short of money – after the fines were paid off. But I was getting barred from pubs and clubs. There was always someone who’d upset me – by spilling beer on me, or insulting my friends or girlfriends – and I’d fight them. There was always a reason that sparked off a scrap.

Then I cocked-up big time. I ended up stealing a lorryload of brand-new three-piece suites with two so-called mates. It was late at night. We got to Cannock in Staffordshire no problem and were planning to drop the gear off when a set of headlights came from nowhere.

A car was bombing towards me and there was no time to stop. It went right under the cab, and my right leg smashed into the wheel. I was stunned for a few seconds, then I jumped out of the cab and hit the deck. My leg had given way, but I shouted to the others, ‘Run!’ I hopped and limped up the road. A bunch of truckers in an all-night transport café that we had just stopped at were yelling, ‘He’s getting away!’

I dived over a big hedge and lay there for what seemed like hours.

My leg was swollen badly, and I was praying like I had never prayed before – not for me, but for the driver of the car. Police searchlights scanned the fields, and then it all seemed to go quiet. I stumbled across fields, climbed over hedges and fell into ditches. It was a long time before I got home – over 90 miles away. I was cold, wet and in pain. But I’d made it.

The police were waiting. I was charged over the smash and was sent back to Risley. My ‘mates’ got bail. The driver was hurt badly and the police were waiting to see whether he died.

I saw a lot of familiar faces in Risley, lads who’d got off like me last time, but who were now back inside for something else. I learnt a lot about these guys. Some were born to hate. They had drunken fathers, no love at home. Some were dangerous boys; you could see the fire in their eyes. Others were just too young to be there. They had tears welling when the screws shouted at them. Society was surely to blame for the way they were. I could understand them being that way.

But me? I had no excuse. I hadn’t had the hell kicked out of me as a kid. I’d had good parents. I had no reason to fight my way through life.

It was strange how, after a few months, my cell became like a home … photos on the wall, a few bits and pieces, and a radio. I began looking forward to simple things like a pint mug of tea, a bowl of porridge, and an hour’s walk a day in the exercise yard.

The good news was that the driver pulled through. And I got away without going to Borstal. I got more fines, more probation. I was banned from driving for life and was ordered to pay ten shillings a week for the rest of my life for the damage and injuries to the driver and his car. Naturally, it was my fault, and I was deeply sorry it had happened.

I was soon back on the buildings, carrying the hod. Then I bumped into my two ‘mates’ in a late-night restaurant. They had got probation.

I grabbed one outside and steamed into him. A guy called Johnny, who I’d only met that night, did the other one. Johnny and I were best mates after that – like brothers. We hung out at Rhyl, Chester, sometimes Liverpool and Manchester. They were good times, but nothing ever lasts.

We got nicked in Chester at a police road-block. Our motor was stacked with clothes, leathers, sheepskins, all sorts. They had us sewn up. It was back to Risley, but this time it was worse for me because I had a nice girl on the outside – Irene, who I would later marry – and this time I knew I was going away.

I kept thinking about Irene. Would she finish with me? Had she met somebody else? When would I next see her? My head was spinning. I’d never had pressure like that. I kept thinking about escape. I needed a break. I tried to pick a lock, I
tried to pick a set of handcuffs. Nothing worked. Then our day in court finally came. We both got three months’ detention – a ‘short, sharp’ sentence. We couldn’t complain.

It was great to get home, and even better to see Irene again. She seemed prettier than ever. I’d met her at the Bull’s Head, Ellesmere Port, and she seemed the most perfect girl on the planet. I used to love her near me, to smell her near me … to touch her hair.

I applied for a provisional driving licence, just for a laugh and, to my amazement, I got one. Someone slipped up there!

I ended up getting a car. I always drove carefully when I was with Irene, but I had some close escapes at other times and I never learnt by them. My luck with cars was terrible – I was always smashing them up or blowing the engine. I was never insured, and hardly ever taxed or MOT’d.

I started to earn good money – self-employed, with two plasterers – but I was still at the stealing. Irene never knew what I was up to. She was a trained typist and had a steady job at Littlewoods Pools in Birkenhead. I loved her, but I couldn’t seem to go straight, even though I tried. We moved into a flat, and Johnny and his girlfriend moved in. It was cramped, but it was a reasonable set-up. Even so, I was out more nights than I care to remember, either nicking, or going with other girls. Then Irene fell pregnant. I felt knocked sideways. We were so young. My mum said we should only marry if we loved each other, and should only have kids if we wanted them.

We married in 1970, but her parents didn’t come – what an insult. Her dad didn’t like me.

We lived with my parents for a while and I got a job with my dad’s firm, painting bridges, steel works and petrol tanks. There was nothing I wouldn’t climb to
paint. It was exciting work – lots of heights. And I was excited to get home to see my Irene, too. Soon we would have our own home; we were already on the council list.

She was about six months gone when we got an invitation to a party. I didn’t know anyone there, and I’m glad I didn’t. The guys seemed posh, giggling and chuckling like schoolgirls. I wanted to leave but Irene didn’t.

There was plenty of going up and down stairs, so I had a look in some of the bedrooms. They were just freaked out; some were naked. It was like some scene from a hippie film.

Someone passed me a joint and before long I had dropped a few pills and sunk some beers. My head was gone. Their faces seemed all twisted and everything was floating around me. Then it went black. I was flat on my back, with people crowding around me, looking down. What a state! I was helped home in a van to my parents’ place and dumped on the doorstep. Irene never forgave me for that. Mum wasn’t too pleased either. I’d let her down again.

I was only 19 when our son Michael was born, but it was a great feeling. I’d had a row at work and got the sack, but I was good at the painting lark and soon got another job. I felt I was beginning to settle. Wife, son, and now a council house as well as a car. It wasn’t on a very good estate, but we were doing well for a couple of teenagers. I felt proud pushing the pram down the street. The problem was that Irene and I were drifting slowly apart. We loved each other but we seemed to have so little in common. And here we were facing the next 50 years together. We started rowing; I started going out and working away. And all too soon I was back to Risley, back in a stinking cell. I pleaded guilty at Chester Crown Court to a
smash-and
-grab – and the judge gave me the biggest chance
of my life. I listened to every word he said. I was free, it was time to sort myself out. I had a suspended sentence over my head when I could easily have been sent down.

Irene was crying on the way back home and that night I lay awake beside her, thinking. I still felt trapped; I imagined bars on the windows and the door locked and bolted.

Grandad – my mum’s dad – died soon after. He was liked and loved by so many. We were all so upset. I’d just been given my big break by a judge and now I was about to blow it. Don’t ask me why, but I went out and got a shotgun and sawed the barrel off. Then I got a replica pistol.

Here I was, good at my self-employed painting work, and with a reasonable amount of money coming in, and I was about to throw it all away. I felt unsettled, unhappy at home. I was going out clubbing, meeting villains. But there was no real excuse. I was 21 now. It should have been time to put childish ways behind me.

Instead, I went on the week-long mission of madness that earned me seven years at Chester Crown Court in 1974.

I didn’t know it then, but my time inside would almost double before I finally – and all too briefly – tasted freedom.

The gates of my personal hell were opening.