For the rest of your 'LIFE'

On 16th May 1969, after being sentenced, I was taken to the special unit in Brixton Prison to await my transfer to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight. On the morning of the transfer I was handcuffed and escorted to a waiting car in the prison yard.

Just as I was getting into the car, one of the detectives wanted to put a blanket over my head. He said this was to protect me from the photographers and the pressmen. Right away I objected and said to the copper, I'm not a fucking rapist. I sat bolt upright in the back of the car in view of all.

The car was only one of a convoy which was to take me on my journey to Parkhurst. We sped along the roads, sirens going all the time. I am sure the driver of the car I was in was trying to worry me with the speed he was doing. As we travelled along, I thought of my late wife who died at the early age of twenty-three. And here I was at thirty-five, so I didn't care a fuck if the car crashed or not. So far I had had a good life, and I wasn't going to let my sentence get me down.

I also noticed along the way that in the police car behind me, a plain-clothes detective was using a cine camera to film me on my journey. Though I resented this intrusion I made no comment and we carried on towards the ferry that would take me to my new home on the Isle of Wight.

Ron had gone to Durham Prison along with Ron Bender, Chris and Tony Lambrianou, and Scotch Ian Barrie. Charlie, our brother, was taken to Chelmsford and Freddie Foreman went to Leicester.

I arrived at the massive gates of Parkhurst, and the driver of the car I was in drove up the long path to the block that was to become my home for the best part of the next seventeen years.

We got out of the car, went through a little corridor that was partitioned off with bullet-proof glass, and ended up in a small office with a table, three chairs and a filing cabinet. A senior screw, who was with two others, signed a form to accept me from the Brixton screw I was handcuffed to, and I heard one of the screws say in a quiet voice to the other, did Richardson get his visiting form? The other one answered, yes, he did. I knew that this was meant for my ears, as I knew that Eddie Richardson was at Parkhurst. Eddie and his brother Charlie were the leaders of the Richardson firm from south of the river. The screws had wanted to watch my reaction to the name Richardson because they believed we were still enemies over the death of George Cornell, who was on their firm, and because of all the newspaper talk. But I was prepared for this sort of thing; I had learned that it was best not to react to psychology, so my features remained impassive.

I accepted my sentence from the day I started it, and so did Ron. The trial had lasted almost 13 weeks, and it finished more than a year after our arrests. We each received a 30-year sentence for the murders of Cornell on 9 March 1966, and McVitie on 29 October 1967. We were cleared of murdering Frank Mitchell, although I was found guilty of plotting his escape. Charlie, our brother, got ten years after being found guilty of getting rid of McVitie's body, along with Freddie Foreman who wasn't even on the firm but was a close friend of Charlie.

Many of our former friends gave evidence against us. In the East End we call these sort of people weddings men. They like the weddings but they want no part of the funerals in life. Some people had at least fifteen years of weddings with Ron and me, but when it came to the funeral they fell by the wayside. Another Cockney word for their type is screamers. They're OK when all is well but they scream their heads off when things go badly.

When I saw the array of traitors at the Old Bailey it did not affect me too much emotionally. Ron and I both took it in our stride, in that human nature is unpredictable. We also both accepted that we were the captains of the ship, so even though some of the crew had turned traitor we would just have to take the responsibility for, and consequences of, choosing the wrong crew. We accepted their lying as a fact of life.

When we heard the sentence, with a recommendation of 30 years minimum, Ron and I were again not too emotional. We had been told while on remand at Brixton Prison that we were going to get this recommendation so the sentence came as no great surprise. We went back down to the cells below, Ron and I, and started to shadow box to get rid of some of our pent-up tension and frustration, Ron in one corner of the cell and me in the other.

I bear no malice or grudge against any of the police who arrested me or the judge who sentenced me. It was all part of their job. I do feel though that our sentences were too severe.

BORN FIGHTER is published by Arrow Books. ISBN 0-09-987810-0