My Story

by Ronald Kray

  I know as much as anyone about this place. But then, I suppose, I ought to! I started to learn about the hospital from a book in the library here. It is called Broadmoor: A History of Criminal Lunacy and Its Problems, and it was written in the early 1950s by a man called Ralph Partridge. A lot of the book has become out of date in the past forty years, of course, and Partridge sounds like a bit of a goody-goody, trying to paint the sort of picture of Broadmoor that he knew the authorities would like. But it was a starting point, with government and health service documents (some of which I shouldn’t have seen), newspapers, photographs and conversations with older patients and staff at the hospital, in my search for the real Broadmoor.

  One thing you have to come to terms with very early here is this: you no longer have any rights or powers. You are a surname and a number. You live by rules and regulations - other people’s. And you have to get along with the patients around you. All of them. Even those you hate.

  Normally, in prison, grasses, ponces, sex offenders and people like that are avoided. If they cause any problems at all they are beaten or cut. Here in Broadmoor it doesn’t happen like that. You have to accept that, no matter how bad a person may be, and no matter how horrendous the crime they have committed, if they are here it is because they suffer from some sort of psychological disorder. In other words, what they have done is beyond their control. I don’t like mixing with such people but I have to put up with it. I try and avoid them. I have never liked sex offenders or men who have hurt old people or children. So I let it be known that these men should stay away from me. They get the message.

  Everyone here thinks about freedom, though it doesn’t worry me too much. But I still go through the same process as everyone else. Every year you are entitled to a tribunal, every three years you have a compulsory tribunal. The process is very simple. You get your own medical officer’s report, your own independent doctor’s report and your social worker’s report. You can be represented by a solicitor, but I don’t bother. I know they won’t let me out. Not yet.

  The tribunal is made up of a judge, a doctor and what they call a lay person, a member of the public. But you learn early on in your time here that very few people are discharged by a tribunal. The only real way out for a Section 65 patient, a convicted murderer, is if your psychiatrist here is convinced you are fit to be discharged, and if he can then persuade the Home Secretary. Only then will a patient like me be released.

  You think about it a lot when you first come here. But as the months and the years go by, you come to terms with it all. And, if you’ve got any sense, you just get on with it and make the most of your life at the Funny Farm. Life here has got a lot better for me and the other patients who have been moved into new blocks. For many years my home was Somerset House, one of the oldest buildings here. It was a tiny room with bars on the window, bleak and depressing. It was small and claustrophobic. Dark and cold. The only nice thing about it was the view through the narrow window. I could see trees and fields. The room was kept locked. Along the corridor were the wash basins and toilets which we all shared. The majority of patients in Broadmoor still live like that. It’s like something out of another age.

  I get angry when I read how some of the newspapers have described my life. For example, the Star wrote in June 1983: ‘Ronnie Kray will have smoked salmon for his supper tonight, with thinly sliced brown bread and Normandy butter - all delivered specially from Harrods, the top people’s store.’ Stories like this are lies. So are stories that I ‘rule’ Broadmoor, that I live in luxury here, even stories that rent boys have been shipped into the hospital to keep me company in a private room. Complete lies. The trouble is, some people believe them, including some Members of Parliament who ought to know better. I am treated no differently from any other patient here. My life is as harsh as theirs.

  In 1993 the Star ran a story that Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, was upset because I have more visitors than him and that my visitors do not have to be vetted. Again, lies. I have the same number of visitors as every other patient and, just like them, all my visitors have to go through a security check before they are allowed to come and see me. Some are refused. These newspaper stories cause me problems here. I have never been treated any differently from anyone else. It took years, for example, before I was allowed to have a small record player in my room. I argued my case with the chief medical officer here at the time. I asked him what the difference was between music played on a record player and music played on the radio. I told him, ‘You should let me have a record player, you should let all patients who want one. It will make your job easier, because music soothes a troubled mind.’ Eventually he relented and he let me have one on trial, so long as I didn’t play it too loud. The experiment worked and I was the first patient allowed to keep a record player. Now lots of patients have them, and far more sophisticated machinery, too.

  But it was a real battle to win one small privilege. There is little luxury for the patient here. One of our real perks is the hospital shop where each patient is allowed to have an account which we have to pay off monthly. No one is allowed to handle real money. Patients use social security money, plus hospital wages and gifts from family and friends to buy sweets, toothpaste, soap, tea, coffee, cigarettes, newspapers and magazines. All the newspapers are censored by the hospital and any article which could upset patients is cut out. We still see them eventually, of course. I use a lot of my money to buy writing paper, envelopes and stamps. I get hundreds of letters and I try to reply to some of them. But I wish people didn’t write to me. I am grateful for their support and their messages, but it’s too much for me to try and reply to them all.

  For many years after I came here I didn’t do any work at all, apart from cleaning my own room. Now I work in the kitchen gardens four mornings a week growing vegetables and flowers. It passes the time and I enjoy it. Boredom is the biggest enemy here. There is just so much time to kill. An official Government Study Project a few years ago highlighted the monotony of everyday life in Broadmoor. The project’s account of an average day in the life of a patient is still relevant today. It makes for gloomy reading. It says:

  A TYPICAL PATIENT’S DAY (SUMMER)

  6.55 a.m. The staff unlock the patients’ side rooms and/or dormitories.

  6.55—7.20 a.m. The patients wash and dress and make their beds.

  7.20-8.00 a.m.Patients go to day room and have a cup of tea.

  8.0 a.m. Assemble in the dining room for breakfast.

  8.30 a.m. Return to day room. Receive medication and make any preparation (if any) to go to the occupation room.

  9.00—11.45 a.m. Patients go to the occupation areas (weekdays only) escorted by nursing staff. When there, they receive instruction from the occupation officers. Some mornings they may go to the school, dentist, optician, group therapy or the shop.

  11.45 a.m. Return to wards, wash and assemble for lunch.

  12 noon Lunch, as for breakfast.

  12.30p.m. Return under escort to the ward, have medication, use the day and rest rooms for recreation; such things as having a cup of tea, chatting to friends, listening to the radio or watching television, or reading library or private books, or writing letters. The choice of activity at this time rests solely with the patient since this hour is an official break from required activities.

  1.30 p.m.

  3.45 p.m.

  4.00 p.m.

  4.30 p.m.

  6.30 p.m.

  7.20 p.m.

  7.30 p.m.

  Assemble and return to occupation area, the procedure to be followed (as mentioned above at 9.00 a.m.) until 3.40, when the patients stop work and wait for the checking of tools and materials in the occupation area, by the occupation officers.

  Return from work departments.

  Tea, as for breakfast. Patients counted.

  Return to ward, have medication. Bathrooms, side rooms, dormitories, washrooms and tearoom doors are opened by staff. The patients may have a bath and may use
the rest room or recreation area of their choice on the ward, or they may wish to do their domestic work, such as washing their clothes or other private linen. Washing machine, tumble dryer and drying room are provided in some wards.

  Assemble for a visit to the house garden or airing courts for fresh air and sunshine. Proceed, under nursing staff escort, to the garden where they may indulge in tennis, badminton, football practice, gardening, or they may wish to have a purposeful walk with one or more of their friends and fellow patients, or they might just wish to sit or he in the garden and relax.

  Return to the ward and answer the day roll- call.

  Have supper on the ward, served by nursing staff. Continue indoor recreational activities or personal domestic chores. This, patients may do with or without staff participation, although staff observation is maintained throughout the day. Available to the patient at this time are: card playing, record playing, cassette tape replay, table tennis, snooker, watching TV or listening to the radio. All activities are observed by staff and supervised where necessary, so that individual patients may derive maximum benefit when they participate.

  8.30p.m. Change from house clothes to bed clothes

  and dressing gowns.

  8.45 p.m. Report to the clinical room for night sedation.

  9.0p.m.Go to bed and be locked in rooms.

  The Study Project concludes: ‘Some telling facts emerge from this official “average” schedule. Apart from medication and the periods devoted to occupational therapy, the bulk of the day is not spent in any kind of therapeutic activity. It is left to the environment to improve the patient.’ The authorities would probably say that this report is now out of date and that things have improved in the ‘new’ Broadmoor. Well, so they have. But the patients here will still tell you that there is an awful lot of time left to kill, especially for those who can’t or won’t work.

  The general manager, Alan Franey, has done his best to improve the facilities and conditions, and he has succeeded, but there is still not enough equipment or staff - and there never will be, because there’s never enough money. It’s like the buildings here. The new buildings are good, but the old buildings still stand because, again, the money has run out. A lot of patients still live in the old part of the hospital. It’s a depressing place. Because the institution is built in such drab colours, dark red bricks and grey roof slates, when it’s raining its gloomy colours reflect the mood of the weather, and the mood of those locked up. Even the birds seem to be institutionalized. You don’t see them until mealtimes when suddenly hundreds appear, and all of them tame and friendly. Like us, it seems, they live by the clock.

  The birds are lucky. When they get tired of this place they can simply move on. For the patients it’s not that easy, although one or two have managed to get away - even in these days when security is very tight - and even though the authorities had started to boast, foolishly, that Broadmoor was ‘escape-proof’. In 1991, a patient called James Saunders escaped. Saunders, known as the Wolfman, was a child rapist, and he used a hacksaw blade to saw through the bars of a window. He never said if he got the blade from someone who came in to visit him, or if he stole it from builders who were working at the hospital at the time.

  A year later, a nurse found a hacksaw blade among the belongings of Peter Sutcliffe, the Ripper. The authorities assumed that had been brought in and security checks on visitors were really stepped up. At one time visitors were bringing all sorts into the hospital, drugs, booze, everything, but they’ve really tightened up on that sort of thing. Nowadays all your visitors have to be strictly vetted before they are allowed to visit you. Security is paramount, it comes before everything else in the hospital. The staff have been doing it for so long that they have more or less perfected it.

  There’s an old saying in the hospital that if three patients were planning to escape, two of them would tell their favourite nurse about it! Observation by nursing staff is a key factor in the security, and the nurses know almost everything that goes on among the staff and the patients. Certain patients, of course, ‘feed’ the staff with information because they think it will make their own lives easier. Such patients are not encouraged. You could say they are discouraged. They are warned and perhaps pushed around a bit if they continue. Any patient who thinks he or she can get round the incredible security here is usually heavily mistaken. Some have discovered this to their cost. All movement throughout the hospital, by patients and staff, is closely watched, via television and video cameras, in the central control room. This is the heart of the hospital and the staff always know where every patient is, at any time of the day or night. If they want to check, they use the cameras to hunt out the patient, wherever he may be. Big Brother is always watching, whether you are waking, sleeping, or simply having a crap.

  Some members of the nursing staff have walkie-talkie radios and it is their job to let the central control room know how many patients are leaving a given area, and where they are going to. At the other end of the transit another nurse with a radio lets control know that he has safely received the correct number of patients. It’s a constant numbers game. If ever there is a miscount and the total doesn’t tally, the control room instantly calls for a spot check. At that moment all movement within the hospital stops. And a total re-count of patients then takes place. Nothing and no one moves until everyone has been checked and rechecked. Only when control is satisfied that every patient has been accounted for, do things return to normal and the hospital continues its everyday routine.

  The wall around Broadmoor is the highest I have ever seen. It is higher than the Berlin wall and has probably broken nearly as many hearts and minds. The wall has two psychological effects on the patients, most of whom - especially in the early days - think about escaping. Firstly, how do you scale such an enormous obstacle, thirty feet high at its lowest point? Secondly, the bigness, thickness and solidness of the wall is designed to make patients feel ‘comfortable’ and secure within it. It is like a big red blanket all around you. It smothers any desire to escape, except in the most determined of people. An infra-red beam goes around the wall as a further security measure. The beam is so sensitive it can be broken even by a small bird or bat flying through it. Nursing staff patrol the wall and if the infra-red beam is broken it immediately alerts control, and another spot check is called for. Once again the whole hospital grinds to a halt. It happens often. No patient ever does go over that wall, though. If and when anyone does get out, it’s through the bars, and the spot check will quickly reveal who the missing person is. Then the staff have to carry out a complete search of the hospital and its grounds. Not easy, and it takes time because the hospital is big and there are many hiding places. The grounds are bigger still - 416 acres in all, including 53 acres within the security perimeter.

  While the search is going on the police are alerted and a photograph of the missing patient is sent by fax to all the police stations in the area. Sirens are sounded to warn local people that a Broadmoor patient is on the run. Several of these sirens are scattered around the countryside within a 15-mile radius of Broadmoor. Police roadblocks are also set up. Like I say, it is not an easy place to escape from, though it has been done. Security on the wards is a big part of our everyday routine. During the day patients are counted when they are unlocked in the mornings and at every mealtime, after work periods and when they are locked up at night. We are also counted before and after visits. All wards have walkie-talkies for staff and alarm bells in case of a fight or a patient becoming disturbed. When the alarm bells go off on a ward, staff on that ward all move in to bring the trouble under control. And staff from other wards are on stand-by to help them if necessary. Help is not normally required. The staff tend to be big fellers, they are usually armed with clubs, and they are trained in the techniques of ‘restraint’. They try not to hurt patients but, if a good kicking is the way to bring a situation under control, then so be it. Sometimes you will get a nurse who likes to hurt patients, who will us
e physical violence whenever possible, but then, to be fair, some of the patients like a scrap as well. It’s all part of the tensions and frustrations you get in a place like this, particularly during a very hot summer when tempers easily boil over.

  Fire is another risk, especially in a place full of arsonists! If the fire alarm goes off, all the staff and patients on the affected ward are counted up and then moved to a safe area. The fire brigade always sends round three fire engines within minutes. All the security and alarm systems are tested every week. Even when you are asleep you are checked by staff every fifteen minutes throughout the night. They look through the spyhole in your door or even open your room up, if they want to. It’s all what they want. As I said, if you are a patient you have no rights.

  But even the security here was put to the test during the massive changes in the autumn of 1990. That was when I, my friend Charlie Smith and other patients from Somerset House were moved into a brand-new block called Oxford House. Charlie and I were told we would be on Henley Ward, on the first floor. The move took four days. Everything had to be packed in boxes and then moved by lorry to the new building. But it was worth all the aggravation because the change it made to our living conditions was incredible. In Somerset House we all had to slop out every morning, we never had our own toilet. All the washing and toilet facilities were down the end of the corridor. Four sinks for thirty patients and not even the toilets had any privacy. Our rooms had no facilities at all. The place was always cold. Our new rooms have toilets and washbasins. There is no more slopping out, which I believe should be banned from every hospital and prison. It is a degrading thing, it takes away a man’s dignity. The new rooms are like a large plastic mould, they are easy to clean and we even have a built-in wardrobe. In the old rooms you had to hang all your clothes on a hook on the door. You can have the curtains and bedcovers you want, as long as you pay for them, and ornaments and photographs.