‘On the day you come, bring ID, a passport or photo, or you won’t get in. When they walk you through, go to visit the canteen. GET ME 2 BANANA MILKSHAKES AND SOME CHOC BARS (and what you want).”
Armed with his favourite milkshakes and a selection of confectionery, I was led though the 17 steel doors and metal detectors that lie between the outside world and the man dubbed Britain’s most dangerous inmate. In the time it takes to reach the specially designed maximum security unit housing prisoner BT1314, there is ample time to reflect that Charles Bronson has done much to earn his reputation.
During 34 years behind bars, the 55-year-old former bare-knuckle fighter has taken 11 hostages, fought with 20 prison warders and savaged many more fellow inmates, one of whom he says he left covered in blood and “squealing like a pig”.
For three months, I have been corresponding with Charles Bronso! n , or Charlie as he prefers to be called. His letters are polite but slightly obsessive: (“Not a week goes by that they don’t release a dangerous rapist or paedophile. I’m just a hostage of my past,” he writes in February).
When I suggest that I would like to visit him inside Wakefield, the place he refers to as his “cage”, he couldn’t be more welcoming. “I’ll sort ‘security’ to send you a Cat A form,” his letter says the following month.
So it goes that, as the final door opens into the grey, steel compound, a voice from one of the cells calls out: “Have you come to see Charles Bronson?” it asks. “Well, he’s not here, they’ve just moved him to Parkhurst. All right, Robert. Nice to see you.” The guard, laughing at Bronson’s joke, opens the final door and ushers me inside. Then he leaves us alone.
Bronson fills the room. Standing behind fi! ve green, metal bars, he is wearing his signature blue-tinted ! John Lennon glasses and sporting a shaven head with a trimmed ZZ Top beard. He appears only about 5ft 9in tall, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in bulging muscle.
I’ve heard a lot about his strict exercise regime and seen pictures of his bulging physique in the newspapers. In the flesh, his biceps are actually as wide as his thighs. Bronson extends one of his massive arms through the bars. Hesitantly, I take it, knowing that if I am going to be hostage No 12 then this is probably the moment.
“Thanks for coming; make yourself at home. Let’s see what you’ve got me.” Bronson takes the milkshakes for himself and pours a cup of coffee for his visitor from his own flask. “Not many people can say Charles Bronson was their teaboy,” he quips, probably not for the first time. Time spent carefully choosing the chocolate bars has paid dividends. “Double Deckers, I love these. They’re my favourite,” he s! ays.
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