Charlie Bronson - Broadmoor--My Journey Into Hell

LORRAINE ETHERINGTON

I first heard about Charlie Bronson when I stumbled on a website supporting his release. As I learned more of the facts of his case and his history, I felt a burning and overwhelming sense of injustice. I proceeded to spend a large part of my time writing letters to various government ministerial departments to complain about Charlies continued imprisonment, which I believed to be totally unnecessary. How could the British government justify caging a man for over four decades, a man whod never killed? I also couldnt understand why he was serving life for false imprisonment, or why he had to be kept behind a double-doored cage in what was dubbed Monster Mansion, a place supposedly designed to hold murderers and sexual offenders. Charlie was neither. How utterly futile and inhumane it was. Was he really as dangerous as the media had spent years convincing us he was?

It didnt occur to me until some months later that I could write to the man himself. But what does one say? What can be written that hasnt been written a hundred times before? I confined my correspondence to light reading of a cheerful nature, in the hope that it would briefly take him outside of the cell he occupied for twenty-three hours a day. After some months he wrote to say that he would like to add me to his telephone list. If I were to write this foreword without divulging the following it would, quite simply, be a travesty. Our first call went something like this:

Charles Bronson: Allo? Is that Lorraine?

Lorraine: Yes.

CB: This is Charlie.

This man didnt sound anything like the Charlie Bronson I had come to imagine. I dont know what I imagined exactly, perhaps the growling, low baritone voice that would accompany a massive bearded creature that lived in a cage. The voice on the end of the phone was cheery, light and happy he sounded just like a little cockney sparra singing in my ear. I decided that this wasnt Charlie Bronson.

LE: Who?

CB: Its Charrrrleeee.

I figured someone was winding me up and my brain ticked over furiously, trying to think who it could be. Youd have to get up earlier than this to catch me out.

LE: No youre not.

CB: What?

LE: Who is this?

CB: Its Char-lee!

I then ploughed on for a good minute or two, accusing him of being several people I suspected were behind this ruse, while his precious phone units flew by in front of his eyes. He seemed quite sure he was Charlie, so I thought Id play along with it.

LE: OK, yes, alright, youre Charlie Bronson. Course you are. Crack on then mate.

CB: What?

LE: Go on, carry on.

CB: Well, what do you want me to say? I AM Charlie.

LE: Course you are sunshine.

CB: Fucking hell, Im getting fed up of this. Listen I got your postcards.

I can honestly say it was one of those moments in life when a crater opening beneath you would be a welcome event. Luckily for me, Charlies patience held. Meeting him would come as a natural progression from our letters and calls and this happened in December 2010, at the Close Supervision Centre of Wakefield Prison, Yorkshire.

Travel chaos abounded as heavy snow fell across the UK, threatening to cancel our first visit, but I made it. As the Yorkshire sleet fell and icy winds whipped at my face, I was escorted over to the unit by a lovely prison officer called Mr Chapman, a real old-school gentleman. By the time we reached the unit, I had to pay a visit to the little girls room. The cold had gotten the better of my bladder.

Sat on the throne, I could hear this cockney voice shouting out, Oi, come on Lorraine, where are ya? Whats going on? Come on. Oi? My God, thats him shouting. What was I expecting when I walked into that small room divided in two by a wall with a small opening in it, just a set of bars through which we would have to converse? I knew it would certainly not be the bearded monster the newspapers were so keen to portray. But similarly, I didnt expect to be faced with such a bubbly, alert and cheery man. Hello! he chirped. His famous handlebar moustache bristled, almost in defiance and we shook hands through the bars. THAT is an epic tache! I said.

As we settled down and chatted, I felt a strange sense that I had known this man before. I felt instantly at ease and found him to be very engaging and warm. But there was one thing I was determined to ask: Would you take your glasses off please? Whatever my fears about this mans sanity, I knew I would find the answer if I could just see his eyes. Someone once said that the eyes are the windows to the soul and I believe strongly that you can tell a lot about a person by their eyes. Be they vacant and empty or alert and wild, it is a good indicator to a persons state of mind. Charlie removed the iconic dark round specs that hid his eyes and I knew at that moment that this man was definitely of sane mind. His eyes were deep and questioning, and had an intensity to them that I was to witness many times over the course of time. My overriding feeling was that here was a man who possessed remarkable mental strength and courage, to survive everything he had, to endure the years of systematic abuse and the special hospitals. More remarkably, he had no bitterness about his experiences. I sensed a vulnerability that one simply would not associate with Britains most violent prisoner. He was candidly honest and had a genuine interest in people, an appetite to learn. When he spoke about himself, he was self-effacing and yet animated and vibrant. Above all, he was caring and even a fool could see he was in need of some in return. He just wasnt Charles Bronson to me. He was Michael Peterson.

Some four years on, in helping to compile this book, I am left truly humbled on an almost daily basis by the man. Like many, I have read previous books and may have felt I knew a great deal about him. Having read through his account of his time in Broadmoor, I was left shocked, distressed and with a profound sense of anger for what he has endured. Only now has Charlie really divulged what happened at Broadmoor in his five-year tenure there. Before my involvement with this book, I would say I respected him for his indomitable spirit and his sense of humour. Having completed this remarkable account, I am privileged and honoured to be a small part of it. I can also say with complete candour that I can understand why, to some people, Charlie Bronson is an inspiration, an anti-hero. Perhaps after reading this, you will feel the same way. However, this is not about glorifying crime or a notorious criminal. This is about the journey of one man, Michael Peterson, and how he survived in impossible conditions. And once it is revealed to you exactly what those conditions were, perhaps, like me, you will agree, that this man is one remarkable human being. That he can still find it in his heart to have love, warmth and hope is a miracle. The injustice he suffered endures to this day with his continued imprisonment and total absence of rehabilitation. But like Mr Peterson, some of us have equal levels of determination and endurance, and will fight on, until justice is served. It is time to free Michael Peterson (aka Charlie Bronson).

P.S. Micky P, I love you.