Once Upon a Crime

by Jimmy Cryans

  Jimmy also told me that he had managed to get word to two hospital orderlies to make sure that the guy kept his mouth shut. As Jimmy put it, ‘He’s been told that if he talks then he will leave the hospital in a body bag.’ I was reassured and I could see that Jimmy was absolutely loving every minute. This was right up his street and he was as happy as a sand boy. No doubt – in a situation like this it is always an advantage to have guys like Jimmy in your corner.

  In the end the guy was transferred to an outside hospital for surgery. His face was stitched back together but he did lose the sight in his right eye. He kept his mouth shut though and nothing ever came of it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Christmas 1977 passed quietly in A hall and I was left pretty much alone. I spent most of my time in the company of Jimmy McGoldrick and it would be fair to say that we were given a pretty wide berth by most of the other prisoners and even the screws.

  There had been no follow up to the damage I had done to the drug dealer but it had become common knowledge and from then on I was a bit of a marked man as far as those in authority were concerned. This did not bother me at all even though it meant that I was watched very closely and the screws delighted in putting me on report for the smallest infringement of prison rules. Before very long I had lost nearly six months remission and had spent quite a bit of time in the block.

  I was allocated to the long-term hall in Horfield. A few of the guys I had gotten to know in A wing had already been moved over, but from experience I had learned that it was best to wait and see and make my own judgement. To give you an idea of the mindset of those in authority, I was placed right next door to the now one-eyed Mr Drug-Dealer I had damaged. This had obviously been done to provoke some kind of reaction from one of us. Once I had unpacked my kit I went straight through into Mr Drug-Dealer’s cell and confronted him.

  ‘Right, let’s get this straight,’ I said. ‘If you have any ideas about staging a comeback then we better get it sorted right now. And if I hear any whispers that you are plotting up against me I will fucking do you. I’ll take your other eye out, OK?’

  I could tell from his body language that he didn’t want to know and that our last encounter had quite literally knocked any fight out of him. ‘Honest, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any more trouble. I was out of order and I’m sorry.’

  ‘OK, fair enough, but I think it would be better if you moved off this landing, so go and see the screws and get a move.’ That is what he did and it was the right thing to do. I would never have been comfortable with him next door to me and would have ended up doing him again.

  About half-a-dozen of us in the hall formed a poker school that played every night and all during the weekends. We were a tight-knit group and we pretty much cut ourselves off from the rest of the guys in the wing. Among our wee group was a very close pal of mine, a Londoner called Chrissie Davis who was doing six years for robbery; a Glasgow guy and a lovely fella named John D who was doing a lifer for a double murder in Liverpool; and a guy who joined our group later on and who I became very close to, a body builder who had won the Mr Wales title. He had competed at the Mr Universe competitions, was from Cardiff and the word was that he and his five brothers practically ran the town. His name was Bryn Jones and you couldn’t wish to meet a nicer or more genuine guy.

  Bryn was one of the toughest guys I have ever met and could really look after himself, but he was very unassuming. He stood about 5ft 8in and had a pair of shoulders you could have built an extension on. He had thick, black hair and wore a pair of black-rimmed specs and I immediately gave him the nickname Clark Kent. I would continually tease him when we played poker about removing his shirt so that we could all see his muscles but he never would. When I asked why he wouldn’t take his shirt off he said that he didn’t want people to think he was being flash. Yet he was smart as a whip and had a brain that was as well developed as his body.

  Bryn was serving an 11 stretch for importing cannabis worth over a million pounds from Pakistan. I was sat in his cell one afternoon, waiting for him to return from the showers and I will never forget the sight of him as he walked through the door wearing just a towel around his waist. My jaw literally fell open and for a few seconds I was speechless. His body seemed carved from the finest marble and was like a bigger, better developed version of Michelangelo’s statue of David. I had never seen anything quite like it and all I could gasp was, ‘Fuck me, Bryn, you look like Hercules.’

  In that beautiful Welsh voice he replied, ‘I’ve lost two stone since I came in the nick, Jim. I’m fading away.’ This was said in such a modest way that you knew that Bryn was being totally genuine and not fishing for compliments. He was a really smashing guy and the two of us were to become very close and we knew that we could rely on each other a hundred per cent.

  I was also particularly close to Londoner Chrissie Davis. I called him ‘the cockney rebel’. We had a lot in common, both being footballers and lovers of dance music, women, a good drink – and robbing! Chris was also one of the most stylish guys I had ever met and could even make the prison uniform look good. The guy just had style and he was also an excellent card player. His wife at the time was a lovely girl named Carol. She had moved down to Bournemouth, which is where Chrissie went on his release. Sadly, they are no longer together but I believe he is still living in the area and doing well for himself.

  I started work on a painting and decorating course but it lasted for only a few weeks as I was once again in trouble for fighting and got carted down to the block by half-a-dozen screws. So now I had no job and I knew that they would make it difficult for me. I wasn’t wrong. Welcome to sewing mailbags, Jim. Only I refused to do it.

  Another way that those in authority decided to get back at me was regular cell-searches and strip-searches. These were carried out by a team of screws known as ‘the burglars’. It was designed to cause me grief, but I refused to play their little game and took it all in my stride. I would be escorted back to the wing by three of these bully boys and made to strip naked while they sniggered and made snide comments, told to bend over and part the arse cheeks. I never uttered a word and I knew that my attitude was infuriating them as the whole idea behind this was to provoke a reaction.

  When they had finished my cell looked like a fragmentation grenade had exploded inside it. I would not give them the satisfaction of reacting, except when one of the burglars was looking up my arse and I would sometimes comment, ‘Say “hello” to the governor. I’m sure he’s stuck up there.’ This went on for more than six months and became the norm – if a few days went by without any visit from the burglars I would be a wee bit disappointed. I think it was because of this very attitude that I had adopted that a halt was called. When I finally left the mailbag shop, I handed back the original mailbag without a single stitch and I was put on report. With that I was led away back to the wing, where I had been given a job as a cleaner.

  In May 1978 I was escorted to the chaplain’s office where I was informed of the death of my da, Hughie Cryans. Ma had warned me that Hughie was at death’s door and that he didn’t have very long to live, so I was prepared for it. I was granted permission to attend the funeral in Glasgow. For the 400-odd mile journey I was double-cuffed between two screws and placed in the back of a motor with another two screws in the front. We lodged in Barlinnie overnight. The funeral took place in Our Lady of Fatima church at the bottom of Springfield Road, where I had been an altar boy. Even though I had been prepared for Hughie’s death it still came as a blow. For all his faults he had been good to me and had always been there for me. I was going to miss him so much.

  As we drove along London Road and came to my da’s house the pall bearers were bringing the coffin out and that was when it hit me that Hughie really was dead. I managed to hold it together and we made our way to the church. As we entered I could see that there was a really big turnout, among them Peter Millar, a face among Glasgow’s hard men. When he spotted me still cuffed to the two sc
rews he stepped forward and said, ‘Get the fucking cuffs off the boy or there will be more than one funeral here today.’

  Peter Millar had the type of presence that exuded menace and was not a man to be taken lightly. In his heyday he had run much of the east end and in particular the famous Barrowlands dancehall. I had known him for a few years, having been introduced to him by Hughie. He had a scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth which had been inflicted on him with a razor by Arthur Thompson. The screws immediately removed the cuffs, saying ‘Now we are trusting you, Jimmy. Don’t do a runner, eh?’ I just looked at them and shook my head. Of course I wasn’t going to do a runner, not at my da’s funeral.

  All of the family was there and the coffin was in the middle of the central aisle resting on two plinths. But it wasn’t until I was standing beside it and read the inscription on the brass plate with Hughie’s date of birth and death that it fully hit me and I broke down. The tears and the pain just came flowing out of me. It was as if a dam had burst and everything that I had held at bay for years came flowing out. No one in the family had ever seen me like this and it was a real shock to all of them. It took me a wee while to compose myself and I sat holding hands with my wee mammy.

  After the interment I was allowed about 15 minutes with the family and on the way back the screws were very civil to me. I think they were just so relieved that I had behaved myself. We all knew that if I had decided to do a runner then there would have been nothing they could have done about it.

  In January 1979 we lost one of our group when John Ward was shanghaied out after threatening a screw. He said he was going to cut his throat before his shift was over and they had to take his threat very seriously. I mean, he had after all killed two guys in Liverpool, nailing them to the floorboards and cutting their throats. He wasn’t the type of guy who should be underestimated. But I knew that I was really going to miss John as we had grown very close. He was a lovely fella who bore more than a passing resemblance to the movie actor Steve McQueen.

  Later in the year I had a very unexpected and nice surprise in the form of a letter from Alison. It had been almost two years since I had last seen her and she enclosed some recent photos. She looked terrific, even better than she looked before if that was possible. Her letter gave me a new lease of life and I wrote back immediately and arranged a visit for the following week. It was the slowest week of my sentence but at last the day arrived and I waited in the visit room for Alison to make her entrance. When she did she looked absolutely gorgeous. Every head in the room turned towards her. She was wearing a pair of skin-tight, black jeans tucked into a pair of knee-length, black leather, high-heeled boots with a white silk shirt unbuttoned to just below her breast line, topped off with her shoulder-length, golden blonde hair that seemed to dazzle. Fuck me, she looked good.

  ‘Hi James,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you so much. You look really well – I could eat you all up.’ And with those words ringing in my ears we threw our arms around each other. Brilliant! I was on a high for weeks afterwards even though we had agreed to leave our romance on a kind of open-ended basis. What was even more surprising was that she told me her mum had agreed to drive her to Bristol to visit me. Although I didn’t know it then, it would be another five years before I saw Alison again.

  One evening in early August as we sat playing poker a screw motioned that he wanted a word. He said, ‘I just thought you should know, Jimmy, that the three new guys who came onto the wing today are sex cases and each of them is in for raping kids.’

  I said, ‘You had better be absolutely sure about this.’

  ‘I can show you an extract from their files – they are beasts.’

  ‘Right. OK then. We never had this conversation. Where are they now?’

  ‘The three of them are in a cell upstairs on the second landing, but for fuck’s sake, Jimmy, don’t kill them.’

  I said, ‘Look, just you fuck off and disappear and forget we ever spoke.’

  I quickly put all the poker guys in the picture and told them I was going to get a tool and do the sex cases straight away. I had no intention of waiting. All of the guys wanted to come with me but I would only need one to watch point. Bryn Jones insisted that he was coming with me and there would be no discussion about it. I pointed out that this could be serious if there was a comeback from the screws and that the old bill would be involved. I intended to do these fucking scumbag lowlifes some really serious damage. Bryn said, ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, boyo.’

  After I had retrieved a blade I kept hidden in the shower room and with the other guys making their way to various points to make sure we were not disturbed, Bryn and me went upstairs. We approached the cell where the three beasts were. I told Bryn to throw the door open and then I would rush inside and do the three of them. He should stand at the door watching points. ‘Right, Jim, no bother,’ he said.

  But as we came to the door Bryn threw it open and immediately rushed inside. Two of the slags were sitting on the bed with the other one on a chair, and before I could do anything, Bryn grabbed the nearest one by the throat and threw him with such force against a wall that blood spurted from his nose and mouth and trickled from his ears. Bryn punched the other guy on the bed with such force that his face just seemed to explode and teeth shot out from his mouth. The slag sitting on the chair was frozen rigid with terror and I turned my attention on him.

  With the blade in my hand I started to stab and slash at him in a frenzy. I was aware that Bryn was at the same time kicking and punching the shit out of the other two. When I had finished with the guy I was dealing with I called a halt. Bryn quickly composed himself and prepared to leave but I wasn’t quite finished yet. I went over to the two Bryn had sorted out and slashed the pair of them across their faces. The cell looked like a bad day in a butcher’s shop as we quietly made our exit.

  As we walked along the landing we heard a scream coming from the cell and as I looked back I saw that one of the slags had dragged himself out of the cell and was shouting for help. I immediately about-turned, ran back and kicked him full force in the face and left him in an unconscious, bloody heap.

  Moving rapidly down the stairs we were met by Chrissie Davis and I told him to get some towels and meet us in the shower room, where me and Bryn stripped naked and got under the showers. Once we had dressed in fresh clothes we made our way to my cell and I called a meeting with all the guys from our poker school. I pointed out to Bryn that this was too serious to be ignored by the screws and that at the very least the heavy team would come for us and we would shanghaied out on the ‘ghost train’. I told him to go back to his cell and pack all his belongings and to wedge up – wedge his door from the inside to prevent the screws from sneaking in to grab him when he was asleep.

  I said my goodbyes to Chrissie Davis. It was quite emotional as I had grown very close to him and we were almost like brothers. But the die was cast and there was no going back. I had no regrets. Even if one or more of those fucking beasts had snuffed I couldn’t have given a fuck.

  The following morning I spotted the heavy team coming for us from my cell window. They were over a dozen-handed and made up of the biggest screws in the jail. I called out to Bryn along the landing and he came to my cell. We had a few words and with one final hug we wished each other all the best. I had told Bryn that we would be split up and that my best guess was that I would be taken to Cardiff jail with Bryn heading eastwards, possibly Winchester or London. The heavy team came into the wing and were a little taken aback to see me and Bryn all packed and ready to go. One of them even remarked that this could be taken as an admission of guilt but I said, ‘Not at all. We were simply forewarned that we were to be “ghosted” out by one of your own who owed me a favour.’

  It was with regret that I wasn’t able to say goodbye to a friend named John Dalliston, who I’d met only a few weeks earlier. He was another Londoner, from Hackney in the East End, 35 years old and serving 15 years for bank robbery.
John had come to my attention when I spotted that he was ‘on the book’ – this meant any A category, high-risk prisoner who was escorted everywhere by two screws and whose every movement was noted in a book carried by one of the screws.

  I knew that being on the book could make life very difficult so I went over to John and introduced myself and asked if there was anything he needed or wanted. There was a rapport between us right from the start. John had recently had a visit and had managed to smuggle in a tenner and asked if I would be able to get him tobacco. I had a screw in hand who would do the business for me and I was also able to get any messages or ‘stiffs’ out for him. What John gave me in return was invaluable – the benefit of years of experience as a professional bank robber and inside knowledge on how to go about being successful in the art of robbery. I soaked up everything he told me and we became firm friends.

  John was a fund of hilarious stories and such a smashing fella – a typical London villain, generous, warm-hearted and totally reliable. John confided in me that he was finding his sentence hard to deal with because he was missing his wife and daughters so much. But he always kept his chin up and his self-respect and dignity in place. He was a very impressive man and he taught me that it is how you conduct yourself during the hard times that defines who you are as a person.

  While never denying he was a bank robber, John always claimed he had been fitted up for the 15 stretch he was serving. Along with a group called the Wembley mob, he had been grassed up by one of their own and the first supergrass, the infamous Bertie Smalls. The Wembley mob were generally acknowledged to have been the best and most proficient team of bank robbers Britain has ever seen and apart I was to get to know a few of them quite well.

  There is one small curious incident worth recounting regarding John. He had been ghosted out of Long Lartin top security jail in Worcestershire after he had flattened an enormous black guy, a bully boy who had pushed his luck once too often. John had knocked the guy spark out with a right-hander, dragged him into his peter and waited for him to regain consciousness. He then told him that he would fucking cripple him if he had any more of his nonsense. The slag had gone straight to the screws with the result that John found himself shanghaied to Horfield. The curious thing is that a similar confrontation with the same huge, black guy lay ahead for me in Long Lartin, but for now I didn’t know where I was going. I looked on all of this as a wee bit of an adventure and at the very least, it did break up the day.