Bronson (8 page)

I had little choice. I said, ‘OK. I’ll go back.’

It only took a day before I was in the van and on my way back to the Island. But something told me a big fall was imminent. I was a more dangerous man than I had ever been in my life. I was now desperate.

This trip is like no other prison trip, as it’s across the sea. It feels like you’re being sent so far away, and that you may never come back. One day I’d like to make the trip ‘unchained’ and free.

Parkhurst’s gates opened and in we went. I was back on C Unit in no time – but it was all different. New faces … a lot of cons had moved on. It would never be the same for me because, on top of it all, the Twins had moved. Ron and Reg had taken the atmosphere away with them. It was now so dull. That’s why they were special – they actually threw off a personality that would hit a place as soon as they walked in.

The Twins were now on the hospital wing, for some peace and quiet. This C Unit was the most violent in the country. Big George Wilkinson grabbed a hostage, so did Mad Jacko and Wally Lee. There were cons
killing cons, cons cutting up cons. The Psycho Wing; the Nutters’ Wing. The reputation was deserved – and it stuck. Obviously, Ron and Reg had seen enough and had had enough of it.

Years of C Unit could drive any man insane. Colin Robinson was on here, my best pal. We trained together and both got super fit. Life passed by fast. Obviously, there were days which went wrong. Like the day when I came out of a recess and dived on a screw. A mob of screws dived on me and the cons began a row. A riot was on the cards, but a senior screw had the sense to defuse it.

They let me go and walked me over to the block, only to be jumped again and slung into a cell. The next morning I slung my piss-pot all over a screw, only to be jumped on again. Life was becoming a battle! There was contempt in the air. Hate had set in and bitterness was eating me away.

Doctors came to see me. So did Governors, the Board of Prison Visitors, chaplains, Home Office officials. I told them all to ‘Fuck off’.

They were all the ‘system’. Let me tell you now, bitterness is an illness. It affects everything: diet, sleep, bowels, anxiety. It causes stress. I always felt a heaviness in my heart, a dull ache in my head. I hated myself for being so hateful. It’s just not nice. I started to suffer terrible tension. I would get so highly excitable and at times lose control.

The ultimate had to happen – and it did. I seized up and had a breakdown.

A neurologist was brought in to see me. It was thought that I had brain damage. Tests were done. Epilepsy was diagnosed. Hysteria was also believed to be part of the problem. A Dr Faulk, a consultant forensic psychiatrist, did a report on me at the time. He said I was psychopathic, with very sensitive ways that caused paranoia.

I was let back up on C Unit. I had visits – Mum and Dad would come, so would my brothers. My cousin Loraine used to visit me as well. So did my Auntie Pam and Uncle Ian.

1978 rolled in. I should have been going out, but I had years left. I’d lost remission, plus I had time added on. But I consoled myself with the thought that I was still lucky, as all of the other cons on C Unit were lifers.

Poor old Nobby Clark was in his late fifties. He’d got life in the ’60s and then he killed a con in Broadmoor. Now here he was with us. I liked Nobby a lot and I learned a lot from him. He was an intelligent and dangerous man. He said something to me once, which I will never forget. He said, ‘If you’re not prepared to die fighting the system, then don’t fight.’ Words of wisdom and truth, sadly.

Nobby passed away in Parkhurst Prison, but I still think of those words. God bless you, Nobby.

Colin Robinson was by this time causing me more fucking headaches than any other human being. I love Colin like a brother, but he sometimes became disturbed and dangerous. You have to bear in mind that he was only four years into a life sentence, plus he had another one added. Some days he stayed banged up in his cell, others he would march up and down the landing like a storm trooper. I would like to think that I helped him over this period. I always went into his cell to see if he was OK. Others, including screws, never dared. I used to sit with Colin for hours, trying to convince him that there would be a tomorrow.

Colin was famous for swallowing objects … bed springs, tobacco tins, razor blades, nails. He’s been rushed to hospital for more stomach operations than any man I know. In a black mood, he just used to do these silly things. I understand why he does it – it’s a
way to fuck up not just himself but the system. He almost died on some of those swallowing bouts, but I’m glad to say he’s still alive. Alive, but caged up.

Johnny O’Rooke came on the unit soon after that stabbing. O’Rooke’s a rat! He was a big, strapping six-footer with a shaven head. He not only upset me, he upset all of us. He wanted it all his own way – but he wasn’t going to get it! This was a unit where you had to give and take. After all, we were all in the same boat.

This rat had either to stop his nonsense or he would be obliged.

One day, he borrowed my broom and mop and never returned it. I went to his cell and pulled him. This might sound silly to anyone on the outside, but little things like that get to you in prison. Anyone can borrow something, but they have to return it. This arsehole didn’t – but he apologised so I left it.

This didn’t stop him doing it again and again. Eventually, he’d finally done it once too often. It was time to put an end to it. I told Colin I was going to do him. He told me not to, but my mind was set. I steamed into O’Rooke’s cell with a jam jar and smashed it into his ugly face. He fell to the floor and crawled under the bed.

Then I really lost my senses. He was already cut badly facially and I should have left it at that – but I went crazy. I kept lashing out at his arms and legs. He was now screaming, like all rats do. I just wanted to shut him up.

I don’t know how many screws turned up. The whole unit was swarming with them. They took me to the block, stripped me off and left me.

That night a big, black hole sucked me in. It was the depression of all depressions. I’d lost everything now.

I didn’t actually care. I felt empty; I was nothing.
My life had spun out of control and I now felt completely hollow. A young man, a fit man. But I was in absolute turmoil. Four years had turned me, mentally, into an old man. I was utterly lost; nothing to gain from life, nothing to lose. Tomorrow simply didn’t matter.

During those four years, I’d had the lot: punishment blocks, beatings, units and violence like I would never have believed was in me.

There was no love in my heart as I sliced the razor through my own wrists and arms. I truly didn’t care.

For once, the Judas hole saved me. A screw looked in and saw blood everywhere. I was moved to F2 and treated. My head was now in bits. I was charged with GBH and kept on F2.

Weeks later, I
really
fucked up.

It was a day I’ll always remember, a day the system will never let me forget – the day I lost my sanity and gave up the thought of ever getting out.

It was a Sunday. I had a visit booked for that very day. Loraine, Ian and Pam were coming to see me. All week I was looking forward to it. I woke up early and stuck my head in a bowl of cold water and just kept it there for as long as I could. I felt fresh, alive, and I was ready for a new day.

A hospital screw called Taffy Jones opened up the hatch in my cell door. I told him to ‘fuck off’ and with that he slammed my hatch. This set me off.

I was so upset my head started throbbing. I thought about Loraine coming to see me that very afternoon. I thought about how it would hurt them if I was in more trouble. But Taffy Jones was in my head.

Someone unlocked my cell door and brought my breakfast in. I leapt out and cut him. All hell broke
loose. Bells were ringing, I could hear running, and there was shouting. It was like a film – but this was for real. A fight broke out.

Taffy jumped in. His blood was dripping all over my face and I was screaming blue murder. They dragged me off to the strong box. I thought it was all over. They left me naked, beaten, aching and totally demoralised. I covered myself with a dirty, bloody blanket and lay motionless on the wooden boards. I cried. It was the worst time of my life.

My life was a senseless existence, violent and loveless. Never mind all the talk about tough men, hard men. I cried like never before.

I was crying for all the pain I had caused my family. Loraine, Ian and Pam would travel down today, only to be turned away. They were told by Dr Cooper that I was too ill for a visit. He told them what had happened and they left broken-hearted.

All my life I’ve hurt the ones I love. If I’d had a gun, a knife or poison, I’d have ended my life that day.

I stayed in the box for some time.

My life was four walls. I went deeper and deeper into a hole. Every thought I had was violent. A Dr Tidmarsh came to see me from Broadmoor asylum and Dr Cooper gave me drugs.

I went to court in a haze of gloom. I can’t remember much about it.

The courtroom appeared like a dream … faces were blurred, speech sounded slurred. The doctors read out their reports while I sat there half-asleep.

It was over so quickly. I had been certified insane – unfit to plead! The judge sectioned me under the Mental Health Act. He said I would be sent to Rampton Secure Hospital, Nottinghamshire, for an indefinite period.

In other words, I had effectively been sentenced to life with no date of release. I would remain in a
top-secure
hospital until the doctors agreed I was safe to be freed.

I was to be taken back to Parkhurst Hospital Wing until there was a bed available for me at Rampton.

I mumbled to the judge that I wasn’t mad, but I was taken away. I hobbled off like a man twice my age, drugged and destroyed. Fortunately, none of my family were in court to see it.

I went back to Parkhurst a broken man. Dr Cooper told me that I would be going to Rampton in a few days. He allowed me to see Ron and Reg, Colin Robinson and a few of the other guys.

I was going to smash a con over the skull with a lump of concrete so I could stay in jail, but a mate stopped me. I just didn’t want to go to a nut-house.

I wasn’t mad – or was I? Was I really insane?

It’s a frightening thing when you don’t know your own mind. Obviously, I had my problems, and I was violent … but was I mad?

Looking back on it now, I must admit, I was.

CHAPTER FOUR

On 8 December 1978 I left Parkhurst for the asylum. The Boomtown Rats had a hit with ‘Rat Trap’. I was like a rat … caught in a trap. I was now officially a madman, a label that never goes away.

Both Ron and Reg saw me go. So did my pals Colin Robinson and Johnny Heibner. Johnny was a great boxer in his day – he had it all, hooks, crosses, speed, footwork, and one hell of a punch. But he’d got life and 25 years over a contract killing. I’ve always respected Johnny. I knew in my heart that it’s never goodbye. I’d see them again. I wished them good luck.

Before I take you on my journey through the asylums, I’d like to mention a few of the other lads who remain in my thoughts, who saw me through those four-and-a-half years in prison. There was Rooky Lee, Billy Armstrong, Roy Walsh, Bertie Costa, Paddy Hill and Johnny Bond, who I’ve deliberately left until last. Johnny got life for killing his girlfriend in the 1970s and was on C Unit with me. A super-fit man, but he suffered terrible depression over what he’d done. We all tried to help him. Everyone liked him and you could tell that he still loved his girl. But it was too late to help him come to terms with what he did.

He hanged himself. He could never forgive himself so he ended it all. Years later, he still flashes through my mind. It’s a sad, sad, life.

C Unit remained what it always was – a very unpredictable place. Dougie Wakefield strangled Brian Peak. Brian was our hairdresser. Dougie got another life sentence.

The day I left, seven screws went with me. It was a journey into the unknown, a journey I did not want. All the way to that madhouse in Nottinghamshire I prayed we would not get there, but my prayers were not answered.

As we trundled up the driveway, there was a big Christmas tree, all lit up. It looked lovely. Once in admission, I noticed another tree, also lit up. This one was tiny but it still looked lovely.

The six guys in white coats looked the exact opposite. Big, ugly bruisers, all of them with boots on.

These were psychiatric nurses and they would have done any rugby team proud. One of them came up to my face, just inches away. This was bound to be the start of something. A scuffle broke out within seconds. I was carried to one of the wards where I had my clothes cut off with scissors, and was put in a bath of cold water.

Then they used wet towels on me, dragged me out of the bath and put me, naked, in a cell. This was my entry to the mad house.

They soon came back and told me the ‘rules’. I was to do as I was told, when I was told.

One of the nurses held out his hand with loads of pills in it and told me to swallow them. I looked at him and said I wasn’t taking any fucking pills. Why should I? Doctors prescribe pills, and I’d seen no doctor. He asked me if I was refusing to take them and I answered, ‘Yes’. He just smiled at me and left. The next minute the door swung open. In seconds they had me down. I felt the hypodermic syringe pierce my right buttock. A burning sensation coursed through me. I screamed, ‘You dirty bastards.’ I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I was dazed, drifting into a deep sleep.

Why was this happening to me? I’d done nothing in the hour I’d been there to deserve this treatment. What would they have done if I’d actually done something wrong?

As I drifted off, I could hear Irene’s words in my head … ‘You’ll end up in a nut-house the way you’re going.’

Sadly, most mental patients are helpless. They’ve got no family, no support, and unfortunately have no way of expressing themselves or defending themselves against these brutal people. Some can’t read or write. Some can’t even blow their own noses, let alone control their speech or their bowels. They are really sad, pathetic cases, largely forgotten by society – perhaps because of the terrible stigma still attached to mental illness. I say all of this out of compassion, not contempt. And I have to say that around the time I was in Rampton it was the worst place.

My doctor was always immaculately dressed, a man of good taste. But I hated drugs. I despise drugs.
There was no need to force them on me. They are used for mental illness, either to control or sedate.
Long-term
drug therapy is basically for illnesses like schizophrenia. It doesn’t cure it, but it helps the schizophrenic accept reality better.

I didn’t want any of it. But at this time, I didn’t have any choice. I had to take drugs either orally or by injections. One way or the other, we all took them.

So my world was now an asylum, and I saw it through a permanent haze. I was a zombie. I slept a lot, my hands trembled like a drunk, I dribbled like a baby. My memory was affected. I was a 26-
year-old
wreck.

I’ll always remember the first clothes they gave me. My trousers were three inches past my ankles. The jacket sleeves were so short that when I bent my arm they almost touched my elbows. It was a fucking joke. Most of us had badly fitting clothes. It was obvious to me that it was done deliberately to make us look stupid.

I tore mine up in front of them. I said, ‘Get me clothes that fit or I’ll wear nothing. I’m not walking around like a fucking lunatic!’

On this ward there were 30 loonies, all fresh from the courts. We were being observed and monitored to see where we should be allocated within the hospital. In the system’s eyes, we were all potential madmen, not to be trusted, so we were treated like naughty kids.

I soon found out that a good three-quarters of these loons were monsters, sex killers, rapists and child slayers. I started to despise being in the same room as them. Eating with them made me puke!

One in particular, John White, was a slimy rat. He had killed a little girl after he had had his evil way with her. This monster had evil all over his face.

I had to sit in the dayroom with these animals for a
week. I listened to their madness, I smelt their madness. I knew that either I had to go or I’d end up completely mad myself. Out of the patients on my ward, I could only relate to a couple. The rest were either sex-cases or nutters who thought they were somebody famous. The Pope, Adolf Hitler, Jesus – they were all there.

I met one who actually thought that he was the Elephant Man. I gave him my supper buns, as elephants love a bun!

These people were not just crazy, they were dangerous fuckers. If you told them that you didn’t believe who they said they were, they would get upset and violent. So you had to pacify them.

The one who thought he was the Pope kept blessing us all. In the end, I grabbed his throat and
head-butted
him in the face. Not a nice thing to do to the Pope – but there you have it, I nutted the Pope.

The time had come. A week was my lot. I decided to kill White.

My plan was simple. I thought it all over very carefully. If I murdered the monster, I’d go back to court and be sent back to prison for life. I believed I would never be freed so I might as well kill someone to justify my wasted life.

I thought that I would be doing society a big favour by topping him. I thought about the parents of the little girl that he had killed. I thought they would be pleased. She had died, so he was going to die. Simple. And as for myself – well, I was locking myself up for the rest of my days.

For a couple of days, I plotted the monster’s departure … how would I do it? Strangulation was the only way. But it was difficult for me as I was being watched more than anyone else. I almost always had two white coats with me. There was only one real chance – to grab him in the dayroom.

I sat right behind him while we were watching TV. Some were just looking into space, some were reading, others playing cards. The white coats were reading and were watching us. I waited for the right time … it was now or never. I whipped off my tie and wrapped it round the pervert’s neck. I pulled it as tight as I could. Strangely, there was no sound. Obviously, there were other loons watching. Some were laughing, some staring, but none of them said a word. It really was insanity at its best! I was killing a man before their very eyes and getting away with it.

I bent over to see the monster’s face. It had turned blue, his eyes were bulging and his tongue hung down on his chin. His whole body was shaking like he was having a fit. I heard the death rattle. This monster was on his way out, and I felt so happy. He was getting off lightly after what he done to that little girl.

Then it happened so fast. A white coat shouted and they were on my back, punching and trying to prise my hands free of the tie. I was shouting, screaming and laughing. I was now completely mad! I was biting and kicking as I was being dragged away. I heard shouts for oxygen, and people running, but most of all I could hear my own laughter as they dragged me away.

They slung me in the cell and cut off my clothes with scissors. Then they injected me. I was still laughing and shouting.

‘I’ve killed the monster. I’ve killed him!’

I was now starting to feel a bit groggy. They grabbed me and led me down the landing towards Drake intensive care unit.

White coats were waiting. It was like a dream turning into a nightmare. I was left in a cell with a mattress on the floor and a blanket. It was cold. I drifted off into a sea of misery.

For the next three weeks I was kept in total
seclusion. My letters were read to me through the hatch in the door. I wasn’t allowed to read papers, books – nothing. I had to wear a canvas suit, a bit like a boiler-suit, and every morning I was shaved outside my door while I sat on a chair. If I wanted water, a cardboard cup would be passed through the hatch. If I needed to go to the toilet, I had to ask for a chamber pot.

Drake housed 15 loons. We were all down as highly dangerous, disturbed and unpredictable. This for me was the pits – and this unit was to be my life for the next 11 months.

White survived my attack. They started his heart with an electric current and gave him oxygen. So if he ever gets out and kills another child, you know who to blame. I asked for the police to be brought in to charge me with attempted murder, but my doctor said that I was too disturbed to stand trial. I was Rampton’s Public Enemy Number 1. They now knew I was prepared to kill. I wasn’t allowed to go out on exercise; I was denied fresh air for 11 months. My life was total humiliation.

I’ll always remember one night when I couldn’t sleep because I was so restless. I got out of bed and stuck my mattress up against the wall so I could use it as a punch bag. I hadn’t had a work-out for ages, mainly because I was too tied on drugs, but this night I just fancied a session. My door was suddenly flung open and in they piled.

The routine on Drake Ward was crazy, and so demoralising. We got up at 7.30am and went to bed at 7.00pm. That’s if we were good boys – otherwise we stayed in seclusion. We all had to stand in a line for our tablets. They put them in our mouths on a spoon and we then had to show them our tongues to prove we’d swallowed them. We then had to march to the dining room in a line. It was to belittle us. If
official visitors were due, we were warned not to speak. The place was run on fear. A prison could not be run in this way or there would be a riot. Most of the inmates in Rampton were looking at 20 years, and some would eventually die there. Lunatics are basically forgotten faces.

Right now, my life was not good. I hated it and I had to escape it before I ended up a forgotten face, too. This was my one fear, becoming a madman true and proper.

Out of the 15 of these lunatics, I guess I spoke to about three. The others messed up my head so badly I couldn’t think straight.

One of them, ‘Hutchy’, really took the biscuit. In a strange sense, I felt a lot of compassion for him. His neck was all twisted – it hung down on to his right shoulder and he was forever staring at the ceiling. It was weird to watch him.

Hutchy had his violent bouts so he was kept on Drake for years. I saw him lose his marbles many times. It was so sad to witness him being dragged away to be injected. The saddest day was when Hutchy’s mother was coming to see him. She only came once a year so this particular day he was so excited. He went funny and smashed both his arms through a window and tore them open. His mother had to see him in the infirmary. This, to me, was so bloody tragic.

Jip Carter was the legend on Drake. His life was the most tragic case I had known up to that point. He was an old man and had been in Rampton since the Second World War. The poor old sod had been on Drake Ward for 20 years. He had actually refused to move. Mostly they left him alone because of his age, but Jip told me stories that made me cringe. He knew Frank Mitchell and he told me how Frank had escaped from there in the 1950s. They were all great
stories from an old man who had survived so much. I’ll always remember Jip’s little brown case, one that he kept locked. This case was Jip’s whole life and every once in a while he would sit alone and open the case up and look through it.

I often wondered what was in it that made him go so quiet. Then, one day, he called me over to show me. I was one of very few people to have had this privilege. He showed me some old faded black-and-white photographs of his family who had long since died. There were photos of himself in the ’40s and ’50s in Rampton. There were also some old letters. I really liked old Jip. I often wonder what has happened to that old brown case. Jip sadly died in Rampton, a lonely, sad old man.