Читать книгу Ultimate Hard Bastards - The Truth About the Toughest Men in the World - Kate Kray - Страница 28
ОглавлениеHARD BASTARD
CHARLIE BRONSON
I visited Charlie Bronson – the most dangerous prisoner in the penal system – at Woodhill Prison, Milton Keynes. Woodhill is a top security prison and hasa specially designed unit for men with no release date and nothing to lose. It’s a prison within a prison, known as Britain’s Alcatraz.
Charlie has spent 26 years out of the last 30 in solitary confinement in prisons like Woodhill. He has been locked in dungeons, in iron boxes concreted into the middle of cells and, famously, in a cage like the fictional Hannibal Lecter. He has endured more periods of isolation than any other living British prisoner, spending months at a time with nothing more than cockroaches for company. He is always held under maximum security, in a spartan cell with little more than a fire-proof bed and a table and chair made from compressed cardboard. When he’s unlocked, up to 12 prison officers – sometimes in riot gear and with dogs – are standing by.
I arrived for my visit half-an-hour early. I parked my car and went to the reception desk, told them my name and gave them my passport for identification.
I wasn’t told to sit with other prison visitors but was shown into a small, secure room. An officer handed me a piece of paper with a number on and motioned his head towards a large tray. I was then told to remove my jacket, shoes and watch ready to be searched. I passed through an X-ray machine identical to the ones you find at airports. I was then asked to move to another area and stand on a special box with both my arms out in order to be searched.
I was asked to open my mouth and lift my tongue. An officer looked in my ears and up my nose, then felt under my arms, around my chest and down my body. I had to lift my feet so that they could examine in between my toes. I was then told to lean back and throw my hair forward. I asked what they were looking for – concealed drugs and weapons. Eventually, I was given back the tray containing my possessions and permission was granted for me to continue to the next gate accompanied by three officers.
‘Lima two six, lima two six, permission to walk?’ whispered one of the officers into a small radio. Each step of the way was the same; at each gate, permission had to be granted before we could move on. I was led into the final reception area where I was thoroughly searched for the second time.
The only thing I was allowed to take into the inner sanctums of the prison was a bag of loose change for the vending machines. Charlie had left a list for me; he wanted six chocolate bars and four bottles of Buxton spring water. I had awful trouble with the vending machines, it was taking such a long time. An officer came in and said that Charlie was getting agitated and they would sort his shopping list out for me later.
I continued my journey through the prison; surveillance cameras followed my every move. I was spooked by the eerie silence. Two huge male officers opened a small room containing two long tables. One table had one chair on one side and three chairs on the other. Sitting at the other table were four officers.
They stood up as Charlie was brought in. He was wearing a chequered pea-green and canary yellow boiler suit. He had a shaven head and a beard down to his naval – oh, and little round sunglasses like John Lennon used to wear. Charlie smiled; so did I. A puzzled look came across his face and he asked in a gruff voice, ‘Are they your real teef?’
I put on my best smile and replied, ‘Yeah.’
Charlie walked towards me, and suddenly the officers were on alert,
‘Can I tap ’em?’ he asked.
I exposed all my pearly gates for him to tap. Gently with his finger, he proceeded to tap my teeth one by one.
‘Ooh lovely,’ he cooed. ‘Sit down, let’s have a chat.’
We settled down in the small, cramped room. Six officers, Charlie Bronson and me. This is what he said.
BACKGROUND
I have two brothers – John and Mark. My childhood was like any other – ‘mad’!
LIFE OF CRIME
I’ve been in prison for 26 years. I’m still Category A. I hold the record for the longest-serving prisoner in solitary confinement – 22 years. I’m currently kept in a cage naked and fed through a cat flap.
WEAPONRY
My most dangerous weapon is my madness and unpredictability. I have a problem where I just change in a spin and become something that’s not human. I’m not really a wicked man but put an axe in my hand and I’ll show you an abattoir.
TOUGHEST MOMENT
Holding a guy by his feet from a balcony 18 floors up and deciding whether to let go. I pulled him in. I regret it because the man’s a rat. Maybe next time!
IS THERE ANYONE YOU ADMIRE?
My medicine ball – Bertha.
DO YOU BELIEVE IN HANGING?
Yes, all paedophiles should hang. There is no cure for them. Kids are innocent and scum who kill them should be hung.
IS PRISON A DETERRENT?
No, prison is not a deterrent. How can it be? Prison breeds tougher villains.
WHAT WOULD HAVE DETERRED YOU FROM A LIFE OF CRIME?
Love, understanding and apple pies!
WHAT MAKES A TOUGH GUY?
Feelings and fairness. A man’s got to have them, or he’s not a man. Without feelings you’re a mutant.
CHARLIE’S FINAL THOUGHT
I was in Broadmoor for the criminally insane in a dormitory and Gordon Robinson was in the next bed. He was bugging me. I’d hit the fucking idiot once before, but I knew our paths would cross again, and there he was in the next bed.
My mother and father had just been to see me. I was feeling happy. After the visit I went back to the ward and found Robinson with his key in my locker. The toe-rag was trying to open it. A locker thief! Prison rule by cons, number one – do not steal from other cons. I pushed him away, then I chinned him. But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to kill him, he deserved to die. He was going to die.
I’ve got a silver tie that my dad had given me some years ago. My favourite tie. I locked myself in the toilet and tested its strength on the toilet cistern. To my surprise, it held my weight. I decided to strangle Gordon Robinson that very night. I was excited. It was the same buzz I got from doing armed robberies. I walked into the dormitory in my pyjamas with the tie round my waist, out of sight. I climbed into bed and waited.
Robinson’s left eye was almost closed from where I punched him earlier. His other eye was alert. I smiled my best smile.
The night patrol nurse looked in every half-an-hour through the observation slit in the door. I only needed a couple of minutes. Fuck the night watchman! There was no saving the thief. I lay still, deep in thought, the tie wrapped around my wrist under the blankets, just waiting. Like a spider waits for the fly. Time was plentiful, I had all night long. This was my night, my fly – I was buzzing. Twelve o’clock, one o’clock, I waited patiently watching every bed, watching every movement. Then it happened, as if I’d sent the thief a telepathic message. He moved. He sat up. He bent over to put his slippers on. He was probably going for a piss.
I leapt out of bed. In a second, the tie was wrapped around his ugly neck. I was strangling the locker thief. It felt magic, it felt right. Surprisingly, there was very little noise – a sigh, a groan at first, but then nothing. I pulled tighter, and leant over to watch. His eyes bulged, his face went grey, his tongue protruded. Dribble ran from the corner of his mouth. He pissed himself, I smelt shit. He was on his way out of planet earth. Then it happened, the tie snapped. I had half the tie in one hand and half in the other. He began making noises, loud animal grunts, deep chesty moans. Other patients began to stir. Now I was in trouble. I acted fast. I punched him in the face and straddled over his bed. I shouted to the loons that he was having a nightmare but the purple welts around his neck told their story.
The next four years I spent in Broadmoor’s hellhole – the punishment blocks – and I never got the opportunity to strangle Gordon Robinson again!
