Our Story Page 17

  There was no more talk about a move to a soft prison at Maidstone or Nottingham. Nothing. I began to get suspicious. I should have known I couldn’t trust them.

  Suddenly one morning my cell door banged open and the screw said, ‘Come on, Reg, get your stuff together, you’re off again – back to Parkhurst.’ Yes, back to Parkhurst – and back to my mate, Pete, but I knew that time was running out and Pete would soon be a free man. What I didn’t know was that before Pete was released I would be moved again – this time permanently.

  10

  RON: LIFE IN BROADMOOR … ‘WITHOUT MY DRUGS I GO MAD’

  In my darker moments I believe I will never get out of Broadmoor. I base this belief on two things. First, a strong gut feeling. Second, information I have received about a conversation between one of the doctors here and one of the administrators. In that conversation it was definitely said, ‘Kray will never leave Broadmoor.’ I have spoken about this to Dr Tidmarsh, the consultant psychiatrist here who is in charge of me, and he has told me this conversation did not take place. So I don’t know. But when I ask Dr Tidmarsh if they will ever release me, he won’t give me a definite answer. It’s always, ‘We’ll have to wait and see how things go on.’

  I am not criticizing Dr Tidmarsh. He has been very good to me. Sometimes I think I could not have got through the past few years without him. But I believe that if there was any real hope of getting out he would have told me.

  They say I am insane. I don’t think that I am. Dr Tidmarsh has told my solicitor that my mind is sound enough for me to write this book and he has given me his blessing. I ask you, is he likely to do that to a bloke who’s crazy?

  I think they could let me out. With the right person to look after me and give me my drugs, I’m sure I would be OK outside. I’d even pay the authorities to supply someone to supervise me at home. I know I wouldn’t want to kill again – and I wouldn’t want to go back to crime. I’m all right as long as I have my drugs. I take Stemetol capsules four times a day to quieten my nerves. I take Disipal, which is for the side effects caused by the Stemetol, which makes my limbs shake and go out of control. Every fortnight I have an injection of Modicate, which is for schizophrenia. It stops me getting bad dreams and depressions. You see, I know about my drugs. I know what I’ve got to take and why. I know how to take them. As long as I’ve got my drugs, I could even look after myself.

  I will always take them. I know I must. Without my drugs I go mad. I start to imagine that people are plotting against me. I see two people talking and I start to believe that they are planning how they are going to get me. Then I get angry, I feel I have to retaliate, to hurt them for what they are doing. It’s a terrible feeling and it’s the only time that I feel out of control, like some devil has got inside my brain and is pulling it apart with his bare hands. But the drugs make everything fine. I am calm, I am at peace with the world. I don’t bother other people and they don’t bother me.

  I would just like the authorities to give me a chance of freedom – even if they kept a close watch on me for a time to make sure I was OK. I would like to get out and buy a house in the country with Reg. Somewhere in Suffolk would be ideal. We’ve always loved Suffolk since we went there as kids. I would just like us to live quietly, and I know that’s what Reg wants as well.

  Somehow, though, I don’t think it would be possible. I think the newspapers and television people and sightseers would probably make our lives hell. I think we’d have to go and live abroad somewhere. I wouldn’t mind living in Morocco. Reg and I had one or two lovely visits to North Africa in the old days and we both love the sunshine.

  Before I settle down, though, I’d love to travel. I’d love to go to India and China. I’ve done a lot of reading since I’ve been here, particularly travel and exploring books, and those two countries really do fascinate me.

  Reg and I often talk about going there, particularly when he comes to visit me here. Mind you, it’s all we can talk about really. They never give us any privacy. There’s always a nurse sitting just a few yards away, and a couple of screws from Parkhurst. For Christ’s sake, what the hell could we be plotting? Why do they have to act like Big Brother all the time? It makes me sick.

  I’ll be very sad if I never get to see India and China. I’d also like to go to Russia, but I’d make that the last place I visited – just in case the KGB have heard of the Krays.

  Really, I am quite happy here at Broadmoor. The staff are kind to me and the other patients don’t bother me. It’s not a prison, it’s a hospital. It comes under the Department of Health.

  Life here is much easier than in prison, you get a lot more privileges. I’ve had a much better time than Reg – he’s really suffered. Some people have said that I deliberately got myself sent here, that I acted violent and mad on purpose because I knew that Broadmoor would be much softer. It’s not true.

  When we went down in 1969 I was sent to Durham gaol and Reg was sent to Parkhurst. We missed each other a lot, we’ve always been very close. My mother and other people campaigned to get us back together and in 1972 I was transferred to Parkhurst. Life was OK until we got a new governor who took a dislike to me.

  I was very friendly with another con called Peter Gattrell. He was terribly upset one day because his mother had died of cancer. I wanted to show my respect to my friend’s mother, so I put in an application to send a wreath to her funeral. When you’re a Category A con you’ve got to put in an application for just about everything except a crap, and even for that they give you an escort.

  This governor called me up to his office. I could see from the look on his face that there was going to be trouble. ‘Who are these flowers for?’ he said.

  ‘They’re for Pete Gattrell’s mother,’ I said. ‘I want your permission to send them.’

  ‘Well, Mr Kray’, he said, ‘permission is refused.’ Just like that, the bastard.

  I swore at him and that cost me seven days in chokey (solitary confinement). I would have killed him if I could have got to him, but the warders stopped me.

  After that it was all trouble and fights. I just didn’t care any more. All I could see was years and years in front of me as a Category A con, and when you’re an ‘A’ prisoner life is very hard. You’re under constant supervision, your visitors are restricted, there are very few perks, and you’re under threat all the time – from the warders and from the other cons. It’s worse than living in the jungle. I just don’t know how Reg stood it all those years.

  There was one really bad fight with another con – I can’t even remember what it was about, probably nothing important, but in prison just one silly remark can spark off a full-scale brawl. I remember I beat him up badly, and after that they certified me insane and said I was being moved to Broadmoor.

  Another con at Parkhurst, Nobby Clark, who’d done a spell in Broadmoor, said to me that I’d like it here. ‘It can be heaven or hell in Broadmoor,’ he said. ‘If you get into trouble there, it’s hell. But if you stay out of trouble, it’s heaven.’ Well, I’ve stayed out of trouble and if it hasn’t exactly been heaven, it could have been a lot worse.

  I never get any trouble. The other patients know who I am, and unless I invite them to be a friend, they keep clear of me and only pass the time of day.

  You have to have one or two close friends, even in a place like this. My best friend here at the moment is called Charlie Smith. I call him Fearless Charlie ’cause he ain’t frightened of anything. He’s twenty-seven and a cockney. He’s serving two life sentences, one for murder and one for manslaughter. He’s been here now for nearly seven years. Like a lot of murderers, you can’t really believe he’s done what they say. He’s a lovely, gentle bloke. He’s also a brilliant guitar player and singer – he often sings and plays for me. A record company is hoping to bring their gear into Broadmoor to record him singing some of his songs. They would like to put them out and I’m sure if they did he would become a big star.

  He is visited regularly by a youn
g female student from Sussex. She is a lovely, quiet, intelligent girl. She takes a genuine interest in Charlie. We all need someone to care about us.

  I have one regular female visitor – my wife, Elaine. Yes, I have a wife and a legal one at that. She began by being a penfriend to Reg, but then she started writing to me. She started to visit me and we got on really well. There’s no sex or anything like that. It’s not allowed. But we just built up a good relationship. She was lonely and needed a friend to talk to, and so was I.

  Two years ago we got married here in Broadmoor and the Sun paid Elaine several thousand pounds for the exclusive story and pictures. I was amazed that they let a newspaper photographer inside Broadmoor to take pictures of the ceremony, but they did. I would have thought they wouldn’t have done that if I was the complete looney some people say I am. It also goes to prove what I was saying about life being much easier here than in prison.

  Elaine is a lovely girl, both to look at and in personality. She has two kids, teenagers, a boy called Andrew and a girl called Debbie. They both call me Dad when they come to see me at Broadmoor occasionally, and when they write to me. I am very fond of them and their mother. I have told Elaine, though, that if I do get out of Broadmoor, I won’t be going to live with her and the kids. I shall go and live with Reg. We’ll end our lives as we started, together.

  I shall have so much to see and do in my remaining years, I won’t have the time to devote to looking after a family. They will always be looked after financially and I will visit them regularly, but I won’t be able to live with them. I’ve got to spend the rest of my life with Reg and doing my travelling – though they can come and stay with Reg and me whenever they like. This may be a bit hard for other people to understand, but Elaine and the kids understand, and that’s all that really bothers me. I couldn’t really give a toss what anyone else thinks.

  People like Elaine keep people like me alive. Penfriends and visitors are often the only things that keep some prisoners going. Reg has dozens of penfriends all over the world – some of them very famous – and he loves to write letters. Last Christmas he got something like three hundred cards. I bet that’s more than the Prime Minister. I got about two hundred and fifty. Of course, you also get a lot of letters from complete nutters, but you just ignore them.

  Visitors are very important, particularly here where you can have visitors for four hours a day. Visitors really kill the time for you, give you some contact with the outside world. I’m lucky. Apart from Elaine and the kids, and Reg, I get visits from some of the old firm, from my brother Charlie, and also from some very famous people in other fields. One of my most loyal friends has been Wilf Pine, who owns a record company.

  Living conditions here aren’t too bad. The place itself is bloody grim. It was built in about 1870 in bloody awful red-coloured bricks. I’ll never forget the day I arrived. The roads leading here are really pretty and lined with big trees. I remember driving up a hill called Chaplains Hill, and then suddenly seeing this terrible-looking building in front of me. I felt really depressed.

  Inside it’s just as bad. Everything is old-fashioned, everything needs a bloody good paint. But the people who work here are kind, and that’s the main thing. There are one or two who try to wind up some of the patients, really get them going and starting fights. But you always get cruel bastards wherever you go. They don’t try it on me. I am quite happy here – as happy as it’s possible to be when you’re in a lunatic asylum and don’t really think you are a looney.

  They’ve given me a nice room here. It’s not very big, about the size of a prison cell. It’s painted blue. I have a bed, of course, a writing table, a colour television and a cassette player and radio. The cassette player is very important to me. I listen to a lot of music. My favourite is Madam Butterfly. I also like to listen to the radio – especially at night when all the lights have been turned out. I love to listen to music on the radio and sometimes talks and plays. I don’t watch the television much. It’s all violence – violence on the news and violence in films. Christ knows what today’s kids are going to grow up like, with all this violence.

  I read a lot, mainly travel books, though I have read the life stories of people like Winston Churchill, Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun. I never read fiction, and I never read books about Reg and myself because they are full of so many lies that they make me depressed and angry.

  I get up every morning at seven and clean my room out. It’s the only real work I do – I have never believed in work, particularly manual work. They pay me £10 a week to keep my room clean. It helps to pay for cigarettes and the non-alcoholic lager which I like. I smoke too much, I know, but that’s because I get very bored. The days here are long and when the weather is bad they pass slowly. Reg used to be a chainsmoker but he has now given it up completely. I admire him for that, but I don’t think I have got the willpower to do it myself.

  Before breakfast I also do some exercises in the corridor. I try to keep myself as fit as possible but it’s difficult here because there is no gymnasium.

  We have visitors between 10 a.m. and 12 p.m. and someone comes to see me most days. I am grateful for that because visitors make the morning pass more quickly. If I don’t have visitors I go for walks along the corridors of Broadmoor. Sometimes I go out into the grounds, though I am restricted where I can go. After all this time I still don’t have full ground leave – I still can’t go walking wherever I want. I find that annoying.

  We have lunch and then more visitors between 2 and 4 p.m. Then we have tea. Lights go out at 9.

  My visitors are made welcome. The visitors’ room here is not very comfortable, it’s like a waiting room at a railway station, but my visitors can have tea or coffee and biscuits. They don’t have to pay – I have an account with one of the nurses which I settle up every week. I don’t expect gifts, there is nothing I need, but if anyone brings in a hundred fags – John Player Specials – then I am pleased.

  If people are wondering where I get the money from to pay for my luxuries, like my fags and lager and my suits, let me kill another lie they tell about Reg and me – we do not have any illegal business interests still operating. In fact, we don’t have any real business interests at all.

  But there’s still a bit of money in the pot – we lost a lot when we were in business, we were cheated out of a lot, but we managed to keep a bit. Charlie keeps an eye on that. We also get a share of the royalties from one or two books which we have written about ourselves, newspapers and magazines pay us well for occasional articles they write about us, and we’ve been negotiating one or two deals with film companies who want to make films about our lives.

  We also get a bit of revenue from people who sell T-shirts with our names on, and calendars and things like that. It’s not a lot, and it’s not a big racket like some national newspapers claimed.

  Once again, a pack of lies has been written about us. The mud sticks and it makes it harder for Reg and me – especially for Reg. But if people are making money using our names, why shouldn’t we get a bit? We’ve still got family and friends to look after. We’ve still got expenses. We do not make a fortune, but it’s amazing that we make anything at all. After all, it’s now twenty years since we were put away. Who’d have thought the Krays would still be famous after all this time? When we do get out we won’t be rich men, but we won’t be paupers either. Reg and I will never starve and we’ll never need to go the wrong side of the law again, either.

  I keep myself clean, my hair is always washed and cut, and I am the smartest man in the whole of Broadmoor. I believe that if you start to let yourself go, if your standards drop, then you’ve had it. You’ve got to keep up appearances, keep up your morale. That’s why I still get my suits handmade and sent in from outside. That’s why I wear a clean shirt every day. I was the top man once. They used to call me the Colonel. And I still feel I am the top man, even though I am not a gangster any more.

  I think I have adapted to life here well, althoug
h it’s a different life from Reg’s. Broadmoor may not be like an ordinary hospital, but we are still treated more like hospital patients here than like criminals. I’m proud of the way I have come to terms with my life. Only today I received a letter from dear Hugh Searle, now a vicar but for fourteen years the chaplain at Parkhurst prison. I know Hugh won’t mind my quoting from it. He wrote: ‘It was good to see you the Saturday before last. I was so pleased you manage to keep your spirits up against all the odds. That is a great tribute to your strength and determination to let nothing finally get you down, and never to lose heart.’

  I, in my turn, am proud that a man like him should give up his time to come to visit me.

  I was quite touched, too, to receive a copy of his sermon for that coming Sunday. In it he said: ‘In prison I learnt two valuable and illuminating lessons. One was that it was not much use if I just shouted at people, telling them how to get right with God. The other was that one can stumble across courage, generosity and deep faith in God in the most unlikely places – finding diamonds in the dirt is one of life’s greatest and most glorious discoveries.’ Were Reggie and I among his diamonds? I guess not, but it’s a nice thought.

  One of the things I do here to pass the time is write poetry. Here’s a poem I wrote which just about sums up the way I feel. It’s called ‘The Lifer’.

  The years roll by.

  You can see winter turn

  To summer by the sky.

  Home seems far away.

  How much longer behind these walls must we stay?

  I say a prayer for my fellow men behind bars

  Who gaze up at freedom and the stars.

  We think things are bad for us,

  But there are crippled children who make no fuss.

  Let us waken from our sleep

  And be as free as sheep.