Once Upon a Crime

by Jimmy Cryans

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Bryn was the first to be shipped out after the beasts were damaged. I was sorry at being split up as I had grown very fond of him. He had certainly shown how staunch he was and he was a really smashing fella.

  Then it was my turn to go and half a dozen screws supervised as I was cuffed and escorted to a prison van. There were no windows in the back of the ‘ghost train’ but I wasn’t sorry to be leaving as I had been there for more than 18 months and they say a change is as good as a rest. I had met some great guys and I had also managed to do a fair bit of studying and passed the examination for English literature. My love of reading had never left me and I had devoured books on the Roman and Greek civilisations as well as the ancient Egyptians. I has also developed an interest in archaeology and astronomy which continues to this day.

  The journey came to an end much sooner than I had anticipated and the only prison that would be suitable to hold me nearby was Cardiff. Sure enough, as soon as we had been checked through the gates of the prison I heard the Welsh accent that I had became so familiar with in talking to Bryn. I was told that I was to be kept in Cardiff for a six-week cooling-off period.

  I was placed in a small cubicle before being escorted onto A wing and was approached by the reception orderly, a guy of about 30 and quite a big lump. I had noticed him talking to the screws just before he made his entrance. I sensed trouble in the air and I wasn’t wrong. ‘So you are the hard man from Bristol, eh?’ he said. ‘You fucking jocks are all the same: no use.’

  He had obviously been put up to this by the screws and I wasn’t about to disappoint them. I flew up from the chair and laid right into him. The speed, surprise and aggression caught him off guard and in a second he was lying flat on his back. I looked over at the screws who had been standing watching all this and I said to them with real contempt in my voice, ‘Show over. You need to get a new boy.’

  All they could muster in reply was the usual ‘You are on report, Cryans.’

  At slopping-out time later on I nipped along to the other cells and introduced myself. A couple of doors along from me was a guy doing 12 years who had been ghosted out of Long Lartin. Further along the landing was a really smashing fella doing 18 years for shooting two guys in a club in London. His real occupation was a bank robber and it turned out that we had many mutual friends. He wasn’t much older than me yet he had a maturity about him and I was full of admiration for the way he conducted himself.

  Although I had some trouble over the fight I’d had at admission, I found that the governor was fairly straight in his dealings with me. He told me that after careful consideration he had decided to give me the opportunity to prove to him that I could turn a corner in terms of my anti-authority attitude. I would be assigned to a place on the painters’ party. This was a really good work assignment as it entailed working alongside a screw who was a qualified painter and whose job was to go around the prison carrying out any jobs that were required. I would be his assistant. I knew that the governor was taking a bit of a chance with me but I thanked him and assured him he wouldn’t regret giving me this opportunity, and I meant it.

  I was introduced to the screw I would be working with, who immediately set the tone by saying, ‘Hi, my name is Alan.’ This was a whole new experience for me, coming from a screw and I felt at ease straight away. I knew that we were going to hit it off. I was truly happy and was able to relax for the first time since I had started this sentence. We got on like the proverbial house on fire but if you had told me a few short weeks earlier that I would be having this type of relationship with a prison officer, I would have laughed and told you to fuck off.

  One other thing happened that made a vast difference to my quality of life was when I went down to the gym and spoke to the instructor. As soon as I mentioned Bryn’s name he couldn’t do enough for me and it was arranged that I could come down to the gym as often as I liked. I had also told him that I was a keen footballer and he arranged for me to have a game with one of the teams in a forthcoming prison tournament. After that one game he put me straight into the prison team that played in a local league. I was made captain and I was very proud.

  My life had been completely turned around from a few short weeks before when I had been regarded as a bit of a pariah and a hopeless case by those in authority. I got on really well with everyone and I got to know Welsh people other than the brilliant Bryn Jones. I was completely won over by them and found them to be warm-hearted, generous and passionate about life in general and football and rugby in particular. And of course they do like a good sing-song. I loved them. I would have quite happily finished the rest of my sentence in Cardiff.

  My ma made the long and difficult journey from Newbury one Saturday and we had a great visit. It was so good to see her again and I knew that she was relieved to see me looking so well and more importantly that I was doing so well and at last seemed to have settled down. I told her that I would probably be on the move again as the six-week cooling-off period was almost over. I had no idea where my next port of call would be but I assured her that I would let her know. It was always difficult saying goodbye to my wee ma. I owed her so much and God knows how I would have coped without the love and support she gave me.

  One Friday afternoon my boss had me carrying a pair of 20ft ladders with him. I was still a long-term prisoner who was categorised as dangerous and high risk, so for me to be walking through the jail carrying a ladder was a wee bit surreal. Things got even stranger because as we approached the perimeter wall Alan then stopped and placing the ladder against the wall, told me that the top of the wall needed to be weeded! It was one of the few prison walls that was not topped with razor wire and there were no cameras. I was starting to get a wee bit paranoid thinking that this was a set-up and they were going to do me for attempted escape. Alan saw my discomfort and said, ‘It’s all right, Jimmy. I trust you, so just relax.’

  Cardiff jail sits almost in the centre of the town and I had a perfect view of everything. Just a few feet below me people were walking about and doing the everyday normal things that I had taken for granted when I was a free man. It was a beautiful sunny September day and I can still feel the wonder and excitement I experienced as I sat astride that prison wall all those years ago. Alan walked away to do another job and left me totally alone.

  I have to admit that the thought of dropping over the wall did cross my mind but only for a second. For one thing, I wasn’t prepared and for another I was not going to betray the trust that Alan had placed in me. Now, that may sound strange. I mean, I was a prisoner and I am talking about betraying a prison officer, but he had treated me with respect and had always talked to me as an equal and he was a decent man.

  I remained in Cardiff largely because I was an integral part of both the prison football team and because Alan had said that he could totally rely on me. This really was a first for me. In every other prison they could not get rid of me quick enough and here I was in Cardiff with two prison officers fighting my corner so I would not be shipped out. The governor of Cardiff has to take a lot of the credit for this turnaround in my behaviour because, without a doubt, it was his treatment of me that proved to be the catalyst. It really wasn’t rocket science – he just used some common sense and he obviously had excellent man-management skills. Crucially he treated me as a person and not just a number. Now, here I was, just a few short weeks after arriving in Cardiff under a very dark cloud, being looked upon as a valued member of two separate groups, the works painters and the prison football team. It was nice to feel wanted and for the first time not by the old bill.

  But in the first week of November I was told I was to be moved back over the border into England and up the M6 to Birmingham, where I would be lodged in one of Britain’s oldest, dirtiest and most overcrowded prisons: the insalubrious Winson Green.

  I arrived on a cold, wet and miserable Wednesday afternoon and the difference between the Green, as it was known, and Cardiff jail was like night
and day. It was a complete and utter shithole and I knew right from the off that I was back among the old routine and that I would have to revert to the old me to keep ahead of the game in this toilet.

  I was led over onto B wing and shown into a cell which was occupied by two large Rastafarian West Indians. The cell was without any doubt the dirtiest fucking khazi I had ever seen. I said, ‘Now look, guys, no disrespect to the pair of you but I have no intention of staying in this fucking toilet so I am going to have to perform. And before you say anything, it has got fuck all to do with you being black. I am getting on the bell, and when the screw comes I am going to tell him that if I am not moved then I will start stabbing people.’

  This was one of those occasions when the Glasgow reputation can be very useful, as most of the English thought we always carried blades and were forever stabbing and slashing people. The screw did not open the door but instead looked through the Judas hole and growled, ‘What is it?’

  I roared back, ‘Fucking move me out of this shithole or I will fucking stab the first one of you I see when this door is unlocked. Now fuck off, ya arsehole.’

  After about 15 minutes a prison officer turned up with half a dozen screws in tow. ‘Right, Cryans, what is all this nonsense about stabbing my officers?’

  I looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘You can put me down the block, I really don’t give a fuck, but if you do not move me out of this fucking tip now, then I will fucking do one of you.’

  He shut the door in my face but I could hear that they did not move away and there was obviously some kind of discussion going on. What I had just done was not to be taken lightly – and I mean by me – because at this time Winson Green had a reputation of treating prisoners in a brutal fashion. The papers had been full of the treatment meted out to the so-called Birmingham pub bombers during the past couple of years.

  The cell door was once again unlocked and opened and the prison officer said, ‘Right, Cryans, get your kit. You are going down the block and if you start any of your nonsense then my officers will deal with it and they have plenty of experience dealing with your type.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard all about how you deal with guys in this pitch – team-handed. So fucking what? Just get me down the block then you can all have a nice cup of tea.’ I was escorted down to the solitary cells where I was more than happy to go. Spartan they may have been but they suited me just fine.

  Two days later the governor personally ensured I was shipped out to Long Lartin. As jails go, this was one of the better ones as the cons were pretty much left alone. It was home to some of Britain’s most notorious and dangerous prisoners and I had quite a few friends who were already there. No matter what awaited me I knew that it would be an improvement on my present conditions, so let the games begin.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I will never forget my first impression of Long Lartin as we approached it along a quiet country road in almost total darkness. From about a mile distant all I could make out was a series of bright circular lights hovering about 60 feet in the air and they looked for all the world like a group of flying saucers. It wasn’t until the coach drew up to the gates that I was able to see that the lights were secured to the tops of metal poles and lit up a vast area.

  The prison stood totally alone and was surrounded on all sides by fields. It had a very modern look about it, light years removed from the old Victorian prisons. A host of cameras were on the main gate and on the walls surrounding the prison. All the doors we passed through were opened electronically and none of the screws who were escorting us seemed to have any keys. They simply spoke into an intercom positioned beside each doorway.

  The screws seemed to be much more relaxed and I was to learn that this attitude was in some way generated by the knowledge of how secure their place of work was. This is in no way meant to imply that the officers of Long Lartin were anything other than highly professional. They were all very competent and I would surmise that they had been handpicked for their professionalism and their ability to interact with some of the most dangerous men in the British penal system. And it worked, because I immediately felt at ease and relaxed.

  The first culture shock happened as I was being processed in the reception area. The screw in charge said, ‘We work on a first-name basis here, so hello Jimmy. My name’s John and if you have any problems either myself or any of my officers will be more than happy to help you out.’ I was then escorted over onto A wing and the first face I saw was an old friend. ‘Hello, wee man, you’re just in time for the party.’ It was the bold Jimmy McGoldrick.

  It was great to see Jimmy again. It had been almost two years and he hadn’t changed a bit – he was still as mad as a March hare. He led me into his cell and handed me a pint plastic mug that was filled with what appeared to be orange juice. I took a good long swallow and almost choked – it was hooch and the best I had ever tasted, very, very strong. Jimmy said, ‘Go easy, wee man. That stuff is lethal and for fuck’s sake don’t light a smoke anywhere near it.’ Jimmy went on to tell me that there was a party organised and that he would introduce me to the guys. His eyes lit up as he said, ‘We will be having a bevvie wi’ the boys from the IRA. Fucking excellent!’

  Their head man was Martin Brady, a small, dark-haired Irishman from Belfast aged about 30. He had blown up the Old Bailey in London and was doing life plus 30 years. One of the alleged Birmingham Bombers, whose sentence was subsequently quashed, was a really lovely man called Johnny Walker, aged about 45. He was doing 17 life sentences and 35 years. Then there was Seamus, an Irishman who wasn’t political but just an old-fashioned robber who specialised in banks and post offices. They made up the Irish contingent and the rest of our group included Scotsman Jim Blythe, an ex-paratrooper turned armed robber. Quite a tasty little bunch and later that night we all gathered together in Martin’s cell and the party began.

  Martin was the man who made the hooch and we had three gallons of the stuff that night. Martin had the brewing technique down to a fine art. The party was soon in full swing and we had a right good sing-song with me giving it my best Rod Stewart. This was quite an introduction to Long Lartin and all the guys made me feel really at home with their kindness and generosity. Jimmy McGoldrick was in his element and absolutely loved being in the company of the IRA boys. The screws left us pretty much to our own devices: as long as we were not rolling about tearing lumps out of each other then we were left alone.

  I spent the rest of that weekend doing the rounds and catching up with old friends. I was also introduced to some new ones and guys who were friends of friends of mine, such as some of the Wembley mob who had worked with and were close pals of John Dalliston. Jimmy Jeffries and Brian Turner were two very well respected London faces. Jimmy was a smashing fella, one of the old-school bank robbers and was liked and respected by everyone. I told him of my meeting with Dalliston in Bristol jail and let him know how John was doing and he was grateful to hear that he was all right. He also told me that I should let him know if I had any problems or needed anything sorted.

  On Monday morning I was taken to see the governor, who said, ‘Now, James, I have looked at your prison file and it does not make very good reading. You have arrived under a bit of a cloud but I am prepared to give you the chance to make a fresh start. What I propose is this: if you can keep your nose clean, with no disciplinary reports for a period of six months, then I will restore all the remission you have lost and it amounts to just over one year. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?’ At first I thought he was winding me up but I soon realised that he was being perfectly serious.

  ‘Yes we do have a deal and thank you, governor.’ This really was a big carrot that was being offered for me to behave myself, so now it was up to me.

  I was assigned a job as a wing cleaner and that suited me just fine. Finally, I made my way over to the wing and decided to make myself some soup. Each wing had a small cooking area with a couple of cookers, a fridge and some worktops a
nd I made my way there with a tin of Heinz lentil soup in hand. As I stood there lost in my thoughts I was brought rudely back to reality by the roaring voice of a huge black guy who had entered the small kitchen. ‘What the fuck are you doing boy, using my cooker!’

  I said, ‘What do you mean, your cooker?’

  As he moved towards me he shouted, ‘A’m gonna smash you up, white boy.’

  I thought, ‘Fuck me, he looks like George Foreman on angel dust’ and in that second I just went on autopilot and did what came naturally. I lifted the hot saucepan of soup from the cooker and I fucked him right over the nut with it. He screamed like the pig he was as I skipped around him and made my exit. The cooking area was enclosed on all sides by plexiglass panels and the whole thing had been witnessed by quite a few of the guys and it did my reputation no harm at all. It was also seen by a couple of screws, who were all doubled up laughing and this added to the bullyboy’s humiliation.

  Next morning I appeared before the governor as the slag ‘soup man’ had stuck me in for doing him. I was in for a nice wee surprise though, as the governor informed me that he had been told by his officers on duty at the time that it was all an unfortunate accident. They had seen me slip on the wet floor with the result that Mr Black Hulk became a walking advert for Heinz soups! Result! The guy was hated and despised by cons and screws alike. He had been so humiliated by what I had done to him that he very seldom ventured from his cell and shortly after he was shipped out.