I woke with a start; an eye watering stench was catching in the back of my throat! My brother was sitting on the end of his bunk looking quite sullen, before I said anything, he pointed his finger at me and said, “Don’t say a bloody word!”
I lay still, my body aching from another night on the hard mattress, I glanced towards the doorway, the grey cold steel door was firmly shut. It wasn’t a dream, I’m still here, locked up at the pleasure of Her Majesty.
On Monday January 22, 1973, at the Old Bailey, my brother and I were found guilty of conspiring to effect a public mischief and sentenced to twelve months imprisonment. I was still in shock, the Met Police had always had it in for us, this was the most absurd charge and that we had been found us guilty was implausible. Our lawyers appealed against our conviction, but to our shock bail had been denied pending the transcription of our trial becoming available.
Our lawyers appealed against our conviction, but to our shock bail had been denied pending the transcription of our trial becoming available.
The denial of bail tanked our high-flying private investigation business, instead running around London in our top-of-the-range cars, dining with our high-profile clients and travelling around the globe, we had to accept the confines of HMP Brixton.
My eyes darted to the bucket in the corner, pinpointing this as the source of the biting smell in our cell, I didn’t need to say anything. Prison can take away your dignity, but at least I was sharing with my brother. It wasn’t long until the cell door swung open, and we had freedom to move about the block, and more importantly my brother could get rid of the contents of the foul bucket.
We had been assigned to work in the prison tuck-shop, we found ourselves busy each day selling and providing ‘corner-shop’ services to the prison’s general population, most of whom were on remand, held pending their trial, plus a few convicted such as us, to help run the system.
After a frustrating month we heard that the papers would soon be ready for dispatch from the transcription room of the Old Bailey, bound for an appeal judge’s desk. A hearing had been lined up for March 8, 1973, at long last a taste of freedom was in the air.
After a frustrating month we heard that the papers would soon be ready for dispatch from the transcription room of the Old Bailey, bound for an appeal judge’s desk.
As we waited in anticipation, it quickly circulated around the prison that bombs had been detonated around London. We were shocked and at the time didn’t appreciate the brutal and bloody consequences and misery that the ‘troubles’ would heap for many years to come.
The news soon came that the Old Bailey had been bombed, I had an immediate sinking feeling that we wouldn’t be leaving the confines of prison any time soon.
This was confirmed by our lawyers, one blast went off outside the Old Bailey right outside the Transcription Room. The entire office had been totalled. Our transcription, the one that had been ready for delivery that very day – destroyed. It would take weeks to get it re-transcribed.
Our transcription, the one that had been ready for delivery that very day – destroyed. It would take weeks to get it re-transcribed.
We were just going to have to stew.
The days that followed brought news of the arrests of the perpetrators, and a buzz circulated round the prison as screws converted ‘A’ Wing into a ‘high security’ unit.
The IRA bombers were moving in.
Having been nabbed at Heathrow they were remanded to Brixton Prison pending trial.
A few days later a heavily armed convoy arrived at the Prison Gates, police and military entering the jail.
The new arrivals, male and female, looking rather forlorn, as the population of ‘C’ wing shouted and booed as the contingent were slowly walked through towards their new home. The females bought whistles and catcalls, the girls seemed so young, but all kept their heads high as they were marched in handcuffs through to ‘A’ Wing, the doors were slammed.
After a while and under constant watch, they were allowed to mingle in their wing and their names were passed to us in the canteen to allow them to make purchases. Our new customers could not leave ‘A’ Wing, we had to wheel the trollies, laden with the goodies, to their doors twice a day.
Gerry Kelly who was only 19 at the time, was perhaps the friendliest of the bunch, at least towards the us.
Of the three female prisoners, Dolours and Marian Price both so young and not unattractive were a different kettle of fish. They were curt, angry and unsettled, whist they interacted with us on the canteen run, they cursed the screws when they tried to speak with them.
Their mood didn’t exactly make it easy for any of us, least of all themselves, as we all tried to get on with our respective incarcerations. They would spit on the floor when approached by a screw and couldn’t seem to find it in their hearts to show much grace at all to anyone.
Thankfully, just a few weeks later, our own transcriptions having been redone, my brother and I were released on bail pending the Appeal processes. Our case eventually ended up with the House of Lords who declared that there is no such offence known to the English law!
We received a token handout for having been confined in HM Prison Brixton, it took a large portion of grit and determination to rebuild our PI business. My run-ins continued with the Met Police over many years, eventually forcing me to decide to move out of London and finding my permanent home in Northern Ireland.
On November 16, 1973 – Dolores (Dolours) Price, the 22-year-old girl said to have led the bombing operation, and her sister Marion (19) were given life for causing blasts at the ‘Old Bailey’ and ‘Great Scotland Yard’ and an additional 20 years for conspiracy to cause explosions.
