Our Story Page 15

  CELL FURNISHINGS.

  Bedspread – single size only.

  Curtains – no curtain wire or fixings allowed.

  Floor mat – up to 6 ft × 3 ft.

  Table Cover.

  TOILETRIES:

  Battery Shaver.

  HOBBIES:

  Budgerigars – 1 only and bird cages can be handed in.

  GENERAL ITEMS:

  Books – hardbacks or paperbacks in good condition. Only 12 allowed in possession. No library books allowed.

  Cassette Player – this may be allowed instead of a record player. It must be battery operated, not be fitted with a recording facility (altered sets not allowed) and have no carrying case. PLEASE NOTE: – Cassette tapes may not be handed in. Only commercially pre-recorded cassettes are allowed which must be supplied direct from established British retail suppliers or registered clubs. No home recordings or family messages allowed.

  Calendar – no padded calendars are allowed.

  Crucifix.

  Ear-piece for radio.

  Greetings Cards – these may not be padded. Only completed written cards allowed – no blanks.

  Headphones.

  Medallion.

  Musical instruments – harmonica, woodwind or small string instrument, only one instrument allowed.

  Newspapers and Magazines – these must come direct from a registered newsagent.

  Photographs and Pictures – unglassed pictures only allowed and posters must not exceed 4 ft × 3 ft.

  Prayer Mat and Prayer Caps – only allowed if they are needed for the practice of a prisoner’s registered religion.

  Radio – must not receive VHF or FM and must be battery powered. Altered and decorated sets are not allowed.

  Record Player and Accessories – this is an alternative to a cassette player and must be battery operated only. It may have up to 2 speakers.

  Records – a maximum of 25 LPs or EPs allowed in possession. Records are only allowed for prisoners with record players.

  Rosary Beads.

  Smoking Requisites – up to 3 pipes, one tobacco pouch and a tinder lighter are allowed. Prisoners may also have up to 4 packets of pipe cleaners.

  Vacuum Flask – this must have a plastic outer casing and a maximum capacity of 2 pints.

  Ring – a plain band wedding ring or signet ring may be allowed. Other wedding rings, including those containing stones, will be considered on application.

  Wrist-watch – wrist-watches with alarm facilities are allowed. Not stopwatch facilities.

  Calculators. Programmable or printout tapes not allowed.

  Bird cages. One only either metal or wood. Maximum size 28" × 18" × 16".

  NB: No batteries may be handed or sent in.

  Our lives were governed by routine. The day always began at 8 o’ clock – unlock for breakfast, morning shaves, showers, etc. Work was from 9 a.m. to 10.45. The work was menial, but kept the mind occupied. It varied from cleaning landings, working in the kitchens, to tailoring and sheet metal work. Nothing much was learned or gained from these jobs, but the British prison system is not designed for rehabilitation – retribution is the name of the game. After labour we had exercise for an hour, when we could go for a walk or run around the exercise yard. In Parkhurst that’s quite a large area. Then it’s bang up for lunch until 1.40 p.m., then unlock and maybe a quick shower. Afternoons were labour again from 1.55 to 4.15; 5 p.m. bang up for tea; 6 p.m. unlock for evening association, which is when the cons can either watch TV, play table tennis, sit around and chat or go to the gym for a one-hour session. That’s what I normally did. We banged up again at 9 p.m. for the night and either listened to the radio or records, wrote letters or just sat and thought until sleep eventually came, if it came at all.

  The basic prison wage is about £2.50, out of which the prisoners can buy extra food, chocolate or tobacco. I spend practically all my pay on writing letters. Apart from the gym, writing is my only outlet for my frustrations. I honestly have no vices.

  I get letters from all over the country, often from people I’ve never met or heard of. For instance, as I’m writing this, alongside me is a letter I received today from a prisoner at Lewes prison. I won’t name him, but I’ll quote from his letter.

  I hope you don’t mind a letter from someone you have heard nothing about. I may have been mentioned, just in conversation, by an ex-inmate called John Masterson, with whom I shared a cell in the Scrubs.

  I’m a great admirer of yours. I think you are in a class on your own. I am also an old Hoxton boy, but decided to move away from it all.

  As you may know, it’s not the same place any more. I really don’t know what to say to you at the moment, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to write to you now and then.

  If there is anything you need, you are more than welcome.

  All the best, Reg . . .

  I get many letters like that from cons in other prisons. I’m something of a folk hero to the younger cons.

  Night-time is the worst time for most prisoners. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, when everyone was locked up, I would theorize about the men in the cells next door to mine, locked up with their dreams and emotions in this human zoo.

  Some nights I have really bad dreams. Usually it is the same nightmare. I’m trapped in a small yard or tunnel and can’t get out. I get claustrophobic. I’m trying to climb over huge piles of dead fish. I’m trying and trying, to no avail. It just goes on and on until I wake up sweating and more tired than when I went to sleep. I used to have similar dreams when I was a kid. It’s as if I was always destined to be incarcerated, with no light at the end of the tunnel.

  On the nights when this happens to me I take off my sweatshirt and strip to the waist, and walk around my cell. Round and round like a bloody caged animal. I’ve taught myself to keep calm.

  Parkhurst is a little community, and like most others it’s run on its own rules and understandings. There are all sorts there: Indians, Pakistanis, French, Jews, Germans, Turks, Italians, Brazilians, Greeks, Moslems, Mormons, Catholics, etc., all under one roof. As if that wasn’t a recipe enough for problems, there’s every sort of prisoner there, from simple robbers to IRA terrorists. We were forced to get along and could only do so if we followed a rigid code of conduct.

  Grasses or informers were not tolerated. If caught, they were attacked. Child molesters and granny bashers were also treated the same way – we made their lives hell. They usually finished up on Rule 43, which means they were constantly under the protection of the prison officers.

  There were many different firms in a prison like Parkhurst, and before any trouble started one firm always tried to learn the strengths and weaknesses of a rival firm, and also which firms could be relied upon to affiliate in times of trouble and unrest. This politicking is often what stops trouble or solves a problem before it gets off the ground. You always have to consider your enemy’s allies before taking any form of action. Sometimes, of course, the whole thing can work in reverse, and the fact that some firms will back up others means that a small problem can end up in a war involving half the prison.

  Frustration is a common cause of trouble, and violence is often the only solution to a problem. I think it was the introduction of terrorists into British prisons that led to an increase in tension and violence. They were the cause of some horrendous battles in Parkhurst, battles which rarely got the attention of the media.

  I remember one night, shortly before I left Parkhurst, in January 1987, one of a group of Israeli prisoners was cut on the face early in the evening. It was his own fault – he’d made an anti-British remark which didn’t go down too well with one of the English lads. The cutting of the Israeli led to a full-scale confrontation between several Israeli prisoners and some of their foreign friends and a large gang of British cons. There was some nasty scuffling and scrapping on the landing above mine. It was obvious that weapons were being used and Pete Gillett, a close friend of mine, wanted to get involved when he saw o
ne of our mates getting into a bit of bother. He started to climb the stairs to the landing above, but I pulled him back by a chain that he wore round his neck. I pulled him so hard I broke the chain. He was not best pleased, but realized later that I’d done him a big favour. Several cons – both Israeli and English – got very badly cut about in the scrap, and early the next morning fourteen prisoners were shifted to other prisons as a result of the trouble, even though some were only trying to stop the fighting.

  I’ve seen this sort of thing many times over the years. In fact, when I was younger and wilder I would always get involved. Hit first and ask questions later. But as the years go by, and you’ve had a few private beatings by the screws when you’ve done something wrong, you learn your lesson and keep out of trouble whenever possible. In prison you can’t win if you step out of line – if other cons don’t get you the screws will, or you end up spending time in the punishment block.

  After the fight I’ve just mentioned they strip-searched and then used a new metal-detecting bodyscanner on all the cons involved. It’s amazing just how many weapons, some of them really deadly knives, are smuggled into prisons like Parkhurst. The officers are supposed to search all visitors before they come in, but, like drugs, weapons are an accepted part of everyday life at Parkhurst.

  I didn’t live by violence in Parkhurst, though I let it be known that anyone who picked on me would get it back, and get it back bloody hard. Some cons, though, when they come inside, try to live their lives as they did outside. For instance, Charlie Mitchell, a con I had known for many years, died as he had lived – violently. He was murdered by another con who couldn’t take any more of his bullying ways. In days gone by Charlie had done some work for our firm. He went with our accountant, Les Payne, and our brother Charlie to Montreal to talk business with the Canadian Mafia. The three of them were hauled off the plane at Montreal airport after the Canadian authorities had had a tip-off they were arriving. Their passports were confiscated, they were bunged in a local prison and eventually slung out of Canada as ‘undesirables’. Some might say, ‘Fair comment!’

  Charlie Mitchell died in a moment of madness and one man who won’t miss him will be Danny La Rue. Some years ago Charlie hit Danny on the jaw at Winston’s Club in London, where Danny used to sing. Quite what sparked Charlie into one his rages, I don’t know, but it’s said Danny still has a scar on his jaw. Ron and I decided eventually that Mitchell was a luxury even we couldn’t afford – he was actually far more violent than we were!

  I mentioned Harry Roberts, the cop killer, at the start of this chapter. Funnily enough, he’s now with me again, at Gartree prison, in Leicestershire. Hate ’Em All Harry they used to call him, and I believe he killed three coppers without a moment’s hesitation or remorse. Yet I saw him scream and nearly faint one day at Parkhurst when he cut his finger on a knife he was using to cut up his meat. When I asked him what the matter was he told me he couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

  Another character was Bonnie Paul, who was alleged to have killed his own brother, Andy, who used to work on the door of several of our clubs. Andy was a smashing bloke but he was blasted in the stomach with a shotgun. As he lay on his deathbed, breathing his last, a police sergeant leaned over his bed and whispered in his ear, ‘Quick, give me the name of the man who killed you.’

  Andy looked at him, smiled sweetly, and said, ‘Fuck off!’ Then he died.

  Christopher Craig was in Parkhurst in my early days. He was inside for killing a copper with a mate of his called Bentley, who was hanged. Craig used to walk about staring at the ground, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. In those days of hanging, he was a lifer. Then, lifers were regarded as a novelty, a curiosity. Now they are ten a penny.

  I never got to know Craig – he was a sad, lonely, isolated figure. You tend to stick with your own kind in prison and Craig wasn’t really like us, he wasn’t a professional. He was an amateur who’d bungled it and, as far as he was concerned, it had proved a costly mistake.

  Mind you, even some of our own kind could make me sick with their perverted ways. Dennis Stafford was a classic example. He used to show other cons photos of his victim on the morgue slab, with two bullet holes quite visible. God knows where he got them from, but he would hand them around as others might show wedding photographs. When he tried to show them to me once, I told him fairly clearly where he could stick them. That sort of thing isn’t my scene. I have known of several other cases of gruesome photos being shown around.

  You meet all sorts inside. There was another con who used to swallow bed springs. He had three operations on his stomach to get rid of them all. After he’d swallowed a few of his bed springs, I told him that he ought to try sit-ups to strengthen his stomach. A bit sick, I know, but if you didn’t laugh sometimes in prison you’d definitely finish up crying. I tell you, it’s a mad, mad world in here.

  I met Peter Kroger, the spy, too. I was not that keen on him, even though after he was released he sent me a card from Poland. Traitors aren’t my favourite people, they do so much damage. Yet they always seem to get away fairly lightly. It bloody amazes me that someone like Kroger has actually damaged the whole country, yet walks away a free man – admittedly in another country – but Ron and I, who only damaged other villains, are still banged up.

  I also hate sex offenders and people who hurt old people. I don’t even like most cop killers, though Harry Roberts is an exception. Towards the end of my stay at Parkhurst we had several cop killers there: Harry Roberts, Bill Skingle, who is doing natural life for shooting a policeman nine times, Fred Searle and – until he died of a stroke – John Duddy. We also had Stuart Blackstock, the guy who shot PC Olds.

  Many of the so-called Great Train Robbers have passed through Parkhurst as well – but Ron and I were never particularly impressed with what they did, all except Ronnie Biggs, who’s given the law more than a run for their money.

  I’ve even met the second wife of Jack McVitie there – visiting her present husband, who was serving fourteen years. I had met her outside a few times, so we would meet and talk to each other, and I was also on friendly terms with her new husband. As I’ve said before, all of our business was business – it was never personal, and that’s why we can remain on good terms with people like McVitie’s ex-wife and the Richardson brothers and Mad Frankie Fraser, even though, at one time, we might have been deadly enemies.

  We have our own code of conduct and live by it – that’s what the authorities don’t seem to realize. Part of my philosophy, for example, has taught me never to think about those who gave evidence against me in their role of Judas, because then I would be a bitter man, a loser. As it is, because I don’t ever think about them, I am a winner.

  I was guilty of one moment of weakness in Parkhurst, though. Some years ago I tried to commit suicide. It had nothing to do with the length of my sentence, though that, naturally, has often depressed me. No, I became the victim of paranoia. I began to believe that my family would be in danger if I remained alive. Someone – I was convinced – wanted me out of the way, dead. And that someone – that person in my mind – would kill my family if he couldn’t kill me, because he knew that if he killed my family he would, in effect, kill me at the same time. That would be his revenge.

  I became convinced that the only way to save my family – my mother, and father and brothers – was to kill myself, to take my own life. That way the person who was after me would be satisfied. So one night I smoked what I thought would be a last cigarette, said my prayers and broke the glass from the spectacles I used for watching television. I took a sharp piece of glass and, hiding under my blankets in my cell, began to saw away at my wrist. Soon I was soaking in sweat and blood, but still I continued to saw away. Eventually I fell into a sort of fitful sleep.

  Then I heard a clanging and a banging – I thought I was in Hell. Instead, it was the bolt being drawn across my door. A warder had become worried after calling my name and getting no reply, and had peered into m
y cell. He probably saved my life, for what it was worth. I was rushed to the prison hospital, where my life was saved by Dr Cooper and his staff. I cannot speak too highly of them.

  Dr Cooper explained to me that I had done what I had done because I was suffering from paranoia, an illness of the mind. I was in hospital for quite some time, not only because of my injuries but also because of my mental state. I did a lot of self-analysis as I slowly recovered, even to the extent of making up a riddle about myself:

  I thought I was him

  I thought I was he

  But I am neither

  I am the one in between.

  My experience led me to do some research into paranoia. I was determined it would never attack and weaken me again. So, for the benefit of others who may suffer from it, this is what it is.

  Paranoia is a mental disorder in which the personality gradually deteriorates, and the sufferer often experiences delusions and hallucinations, becomes suspicious and imagines people are persecuting him. I have seen people become paranoid in prison. The length of the prison sentence is not always the deciding factor as some prisoners who suffer from this illness are serving relatively short sentences. But it’s fair to say that the longer a person is in prison the greater the likelihood that he will get symptoms of paranoia. Prison life is a strange and abnormal existence, so the possibility of becoming paranoid is far greater in prison than it is in the outside world.

  Psychiatrists have told me that a long time spent in prison makes a man’s boundaries of interest smaller. This results in his becoming more introvert, which increases the risk of paranoia. One psychiatrist told me that in prison the best safeguard against undue suspicion is to have only one close friend or to keep your number of friends as small as possible. When I think about it, this is good advice, and I would pass it on to any new entries into the world of prison. When a person can confide in another and be confident that his conversation will go no farther, it decreases undue suspicion. Working on the law of averages, the greater the number of people who take part in a conversation, the more chance of a breach of confidence.