Bronson (9 page)

Then there was ‘John Boy’. John’s case was unique. He really was the only one of his kind in Rampton. This is an incredible story and to me it is tragic. John’s IQ must have been an all-time low. He was subnormal and mentally ill. He couldn’t talk or do anything for himself. His life consisted of sitting in a specially-designed chair, into which he was strapped. When I first saw him strapped in, I thought, what the fuck is going on here? I soon found out why he was restrained – he was lethal!

Every morning, John used to run out of his cell, covered in his own mess. He would run to the bath and jump in. One of us had to scrub him and dress him, then walk him back to the day-room to be strapped into his chair. At times he was so violent he had to be put to sleep.

He had no teeth and wasn’t allowed to eat with us. He ate alone for years and years.

John had been sent to Rampton in the ’60s – tied between two mattresses – from a county mental hospital where he couldn’t be controlled.

All I can comment on is what I actually saw
myself – and it wasn’t very nice! He’d sit in his chair making animal sounds. I’d pat him on the head to calm him down. I’d never felt more sorry for a human being in my life. Sometimes they let him outside the ward on to a patch of grass with a little fence around it. God knows what was going through his mind as he sat there. I spent my days looking after John and scrubbing the floors on the ward. I wasn’t allowed outside for fresh air or a walk, unlike all the other inmates.

John Boy later died in Rampton. He attacked me several times but I never once retaliated. I felt so sad for him. I used to buy a bag of chocolates every week, just to give him the soft ones. He was crazy, but he didn’t deserve to die in a stinking hole like that.

I didn’t feel so charitable towards Mad Taffy. This fucker was bang on target for a right hook. He was completely off his rocker! He kept telling me about his Rolls-Royces, jet planes and boats – so for a joke I asked him to lend me half a million. The bastard went and told the white coats that I was demanding money off him!

Later, I pulled him to see what his game was, but he went to the white coats again and told them I was now going to kill him if he didn’t pay up. I busted his jaw.

Some nights I couldn’t wait for 7.00pm so I could escape the madness. It was a life of emptiness for me. I was losing my mind.

My family visited me there and none of them liked what they saw. My visits were not allowed in the central hall. I had mine in a cell on Drake with white coats standing by the door. Out of the 11 months I spent on Drake, half of it was in seclusion. I was even denied a pen to write a letter. It was all set to destroy me – so it was time I destroyed them!

I got out of seclusion to set my plan in action. I was
going to smash a nurse’s head in with a lump of concrete. This twat had to have some of his own treatment. I knew that I would be doing every loony in Rampton justice if I did this rat in.

Outside the unit was a concrete shop that made paving stones and kerbs. I made a deal with a loony. I’d give him five packets of fags for a good piece of concrete. He agreed, we made a meet, I gave him the fags … and the little bastard ran off! I couldn’t believe the loony had ripped me off.

That wasn’t the end of it, though. I was called to the office and asked why I wanted some concrete. Obviously I denied it. Then they produced the fags. I still denied it but they put me back in seclusion. They never did find out why I wanted the concrete, but all the windows were screwed down after this.

One of the best guys I met in Rampton was Stevie Booth. Steve came into Drake from another ward where he’d broken some loon’s nose. Steve’s an old pal, one of the old school, good solid principles. He had done the rounds, prison to prison, then finally the asylums. The system has had Stevie a long time, but I’m pleased to say they’ve never broken him and never will.

He helped me so much, even though one day we had a punch-up. It was more of a brotherly clash. We both got carried away and injected, but later we hugged each other. Steve is just Steve. He won’t ever back down, but I love the guy. He kept me in order, kept me sane. Without him I was doomed.

I was called into the office one day to see the doc. He told me that Rampton could do no more for me. I was to be moved to Broadmoor very soon.

I went back to tell Stevie. His eyes filled up with tears. He was pleased for me but he would miss me. I knew that I would miss Steve and a few others, but it was a godsend to me. I gave him my suit – the one I’d
got married in. He was made up with it. I also gave him some chocolates to give to John Boy every now and again.

The morning I left I took a last look through the hatch at John Boy. He was sitting up, shit all over him, poor sod. I thought to myself, Who’s the lucky guy who is going to bath him today?

Before I left, I shouted to Steve, ‘Don’t forget to wash behind John Boy’s ears!’

The time I spent in Rampton will remain in my head for ever. I’m told Rampton has changed, but I’ll always remember it how it was.

On 20 November 1979, as I was passing through the Nottinghamshire countryside in the van, I reflected on this so-called hospital. My final opinion is that it was a hell-hole on earth, a god-forsaken pit of human misery. I still carry the scars.

Still, I was glad that I was finally getting out of the place. I left Rampton a very sick and disturbed inmate, thinking that Broadmoor couldn’t be any worse.

Little did I know.

CHAPTER FIVE

Broadmoor is known as ‘the end of the road’.

It is perhaps the most infamous mental institution in Great Britain. Broadmoor is legendary.

All the top-security mental hospitals – Rampton, Broadmoor and Ashworth – have been trying to shake off their terrible image in the last few years. They now call their inmates ‘patients’, ‘clients’ and ‘service users’. But they still fuck up.

Reality stops at the gates of these institutions. Broadmoor, to me, is simply an institution for the criminally insane. Behind these Victorian walls lie
stories that would turn your hair white overnight – stories of madness, pain, anguish, torture, murder, suicides, escapes, sieges, protests, drug abuse, force feedings, electric shock treatments, brutality, sex crimes.

The place is riddled with horror. It is a monster’s paradise and a psychiatrist’s dream. This was to be my home for the next five years.

Broadmoor is situated on top of a small hill in the Berkshire countryside, in a village called Crowthorne. It houses both male and female inmates. Some have been locked up since the Second World War. Thirty years is not an unusual stay in Broadmoor.

From the second the gates opened and let us in, I felt a strange sensation. I could smell the madness. The place was full of despair, full of souls that were lost. I could sense the broken hearts, the dreams that never were.

For the first time in my life I felt fear, a fear that I would never be free again. This was reality. I was now a Broadmoor patient.

I was taken to reception, which was the opposite of Rampton. The staff seemed decent; they didn’t intimidate me. It all seemed relaxed. I was led to ‘Somerset House’ and given a plastic mug of tea and some sandwiches. They told me about the place and what they expected of me. They said I could do it any way I wanted – easy or hard. Either way, I would do it! Broadmoor could be heaven or hell, they said. If I behaved, I would have an easy ride – TV, snooker, social events. On the other hand, if I messed about I would have a bare cell for a very long time.

As they told me all this, I thought one thing: Fuck Broadmoor!

They started asking me questions … name, date of birth and so on. No way was I going to accept all this
shit – no way. I told them to read my file if they wanted to know anything. After all, it was as big as a tea chest!

After my bath and something to eat, they locked me in my cell. It was bare except for a bolted-down bed and a piss-pot, but at least it was warm. I lay in bed, nice and relaxed, thinking. I thought about how many lunatics had slept in this cell. I also thought about my past and my present. There was no future that I could see for myself.

All I felt was a big black hole. There was no light. Just a big, black, bottomless pit. A lot of inmates die in asylums. They will never be released so they are the ideal guinea pigs. Even if they complained, who would listen? Who would believe them? Who really gives a fuck? After all, they’re mad, aren’t they?

I counted the bricks and recounted them so many times, but it was never the same number. I tried to picture in my mind everything that I saw as I arrived: walls, gates, doors, drainpipes. I thought of a way to escape. I didn’t like this place and I didn’t like the stigma that went with it.

I was on Ward One of Somerset House. All the new inmates went on this ward to be put through psychological tests. An assessment lasts for anything from three to six months.

As I lay in my cell, I heard a tannoy announcement: ‘Will Ronnie Kray please go to the office.’

I knew Ronnie had come to Broadmoor from Parkhurst only a short time before, but obviously I never knew he was going to be on my ward!

This put a smile on my face. Half-an-hour later, another message came over the tannoy: ‘Will Colin Robinson please go to the office.’

Robbo was sent to Broadmoor for his ‘unusual ways’. I couldn’t wait to see them both again.

The staff came to my cell for a chat. They said that
Ronnie and Robbo were both settled and doing well and were soon to be allocated their new wards.

Strangely, I was excited on my first morning inside Britain’s most notorious madhouse. Sure, I had to face facts. I was criminally insane. I was only 26 and I was desperate. I had been caged for almost five years and I had lost everything. I truly felt that I had nothing else to lose. Maybe I was mad and deserved to be in a cage but there was no way I would go along with their mental games.

I knew from day one that I would be a lion. They knew they would have to tame me. It was going to be a long battle and, admittedly, a battle I could never win.

That first night’s sleep was a strange one. I woke several times. On one occasion, I could hear screams; some poor sod was having a nightmare. It was a restless night.

I was too excited to sleep. Tomorrow I was going to be allowed up to see Ron and Robbo!

In the morning they gave me a mug of tea, porridge and a bacon sandwich. They told me that I’d be slopping out later, after all the others, and then I had to collect my new clothes from the stores. I was excited; I told them not to keep me waiting! After breakfast, I walked up and down my cell. I soon got fed up so I lay down on the cold floor and started to bang the door with my feet. They arrived with my clothes.

They led me to the recess where I was allowed to empty my pot. I was given a clean towel, soap, toothbrush and, to my amazement, a safety razor. I shaved myself for the first time in a year. It felt great! And it felt really good to be trusted with a razor.

After my wash and shave, I got dressed in my new clothes. I felt human again. The time had arrived … I was led to the day-room. There, facing me, were 24
pairs of eyes. It only took me a split-second to find the two pairs I wanted to see. Ronnie came straight over and gave me one of his firm handshakes and a friendly hug. Then Robbo did the same. At that moment I felt elated – on top of the world!

Ron had lost weight. He had been through a bad spell at Parkhurst. It is no secret that Ron was a paranoid schizophrenic. He could become violent, but Parkhurst had never helped him. I know about Ron’s final few months in Parkhurst. After nine years there, they certified him mad. He suffered. He’d been in the same evil room as me – the silent box. The same evil room that drove me mad.

Robbo looked his usual self. He had recently recovered from his latest swallowing bout.

They both gave me tea bags, biscuits and chocolate. Ron’s locker was jam packed with tins of salmon and tuna. He knew how to eat well, even inside. And when Ron ate, his pals ate! He looked after his own – a good-hearted man.

We all had a good chat; we had lots to talk over. I hardly noticed the other patients, I was too engrossed in our conversation. I was too excited. But it couldn’t last – nothing ever did with me!

In that room there were 25 of us. All of us had our own problems, but I can honestly say that
three-quarters
of those guys were so mad it was impossible to relate to them. They were the craziest fuckers I’d ever met! There were all sorts in the room, all dangerously disturbed men and all on observation.

Dr Pat McGrath was in charge of Somerset. He’d also been the Superintendent of Broadmoor for over 30 years. I personally respected the man. We had several discussions and I found him very interesting. He’d seen it all.

I was put on an anti-psychotic drug called Modicate which was injected into my buttocks every two weeks.
Other drugs I had were taken orally – Stelazine, Chloral Hydrate and Largactil. I hated them. I despised having to take them, but I had no choice.

If I was asked what I believed my problem to be, I would say that I was suffering with anxiety and stress caused by five years’ mental and physical abuse. Stress is a very touchy subject. Unless you’ve really suffered it, you’ll have little or no idea. Some doctors don’t even understand it – and many don’t want to.

It is not about being under too much pressure, having too much grief. Anxiety is the same – it’s not about panic attacks. Anxiety and stress can cut you to the core. Your body is not your own; you shake uncontrollably, you have to piss when you don’t want to, you forget things, you cry, you shamble around like a man three times your age. It affects a lot of people and it’s not nice!

I truly believed by then that I was a very messed up and dangerously disturbed man. Maybe I was a psychopath. Who knows? I honestly don’t.

But I did know one thing – once Ron and Robbo moved on, I would flip my lid!

After a few weeks, Ron and Robbo left. Ron went to Somerset Ward Three and Robbo went to Cornwall House. And me? I went to fucking pieces! My mind began to wander. Then Gordon Robinson arrived.

Gordon Robinson was a black guy. From the start we didn’t hit it off as he was just a big-mouth. We had a few words and I managed to slip into the toilets unseen. I hit him so hard with a right hook I thought I’d killed him. It was a perfect punch. I didn’t need to follow it up, but I did. As I left the lunatic in a pile on the floor, I knew our paths would cross again.

Then young George Shipley arrived from Feltham Borstal in Middlesex. The second he strolled into the room I took to him. I called him over. I sorted him out, told him what’s what.

He was a breath of fresh air for me. He lifted me out of a low period. George was a violent, aggressive lad but conducted himself well. He frightened a lot of the loons but I loved the guy. He represented ‘prison’; prison was all over him – he was a ‘time man’. I could relate to him. I could trust him and that, to me, was marvellous.

We played chess and Scrabble and I knew we would end up good pals for a long time. I was beginning to realise that in these asylums good friends are so few. They were riddled with grasses. The lunatics never even saw it as grassing. It used to make me and George sick to witness it.

‘Please, sir – he’s just taken two cakes’; ‘Please, sir – he’s just torn a page out of the
TV Times
’; ‘Please, sir – he’s smoking in the recess.’ All silly bollocks like that.

George and I tried to switch off and play our games. We wanted no part. But, sadly, it was impossible being in the same room as them.

It caused us a lot of problems but there were ways of dealing with the persistent loons who kept upsetting us. Even though the wardens were in the same room as us, I stabbed one rat in the eye with a lighted fag. I got another one with a kick to his bollocks as he was going out of the room.

One fat bastard who had killed his wife and kids arrived on the ward. Within a week, he was the staff’s tea-boy. It made me sick to watch the fat slob grovelling. I said to George I fancied taking him hostage. But the snivelling shit was lucky, as it was my turn to move on. I had to leave poor George on his own … but I knew that we would get back together.

Another nice lad that I left on Somerset One was young Michael Martin. He was fearless, strong as a bull, and he’d fight anyone. Five years later he was to die in the hospital’s Norfolk House – a sad, sad
ending. I witnessed Michael arrive and I witnessed his deterioration. He was ten-and-a-half stone on arrival and fourteen-and-a-half stone at death. A tragic waste of life.

As soon as I entered Broadmoor’s Gloucester House, the whole atmosphere hit me in the face like a pick-axe handle. It was the lunatic eyes staring at me … mad eyes, dead, zombie eyes. They were all lost souls. Some were old men who had been there 40 years.

My heart felt heavy for them. I felt a sense of doom. The sight of them convinced me I’d never accept being a lunatic.

They put me in a dormitory with seven others. Jesus, it was bad enough even to be in the same building as them, but now I had to sleep with them! It was here that I learned about real insanity. They would get upset over crazy things; it was paranoia at its worst. Some would laugh out loud, some would talk to themselves and some would accuse others of being spies. They heard voices in their heads.

I soon learnt the danger signs. It was a case of being alert at all times. A madman is a dangerous and unpredictable person, believe me.

Here I was, Prison Enemy Number 1, in a fucking dormitory. It just didn’t make sense. The first night was crazy. A loony was keeping me awake with his persistent snoring. I’d had enough, so I walked over to his bed, picked it up, and started shaking it. He woke up and got very abusive, so I punched him in the mouth and went back to my own bed. He didn’t snore again. I’d cured him!

The funny thing is, my friend Neil Adamson, who was sentenced to two life terms back in 1970, had been in Broadmoor a couple of years before I arrived and had slept in the same dormitory. He chinned the same bloke on his first night! If that isn’t fate, what
is? I often smile over this. Luckily, Neil has moved on, out of Broadmoor.

I survived on the ward less than a week – a week of sheer madness for me. I saw things that disgusted me and I was sick to the teeth. On the second night, I got out of bed to go to the toilet only to walk in on a lovers’ session. They didn’t even stop when I walked in. I went mad. I told them to ‘Fuck off’ and kicked one up the arse as they ran out. I don’t give a toss what anyone gets up to but I do care when it’s in front of me. They stayed clear of me after that. I lay in bed that night, brooding. I felt the danger signs.