Hell Read online

  By now I was six foot one and weighed 190 pounds, so didn’t find it difficult to get a job in security, which is so often on the fringes of crime.

  In 1980, at the age of eighteen, I met my future wife, who had no idea what my real job was, or that for twelve years I had been sexually abused. During the next five years, we had two sons, and twelve years later in 1997, we decided to get married.

  I was already earning a good living as a criminal, and everything went well until I was arrested in 1997 for DSS fraud. I had been making false claims in several names for several years, to the tune of £2.8 million, for which I received a three year sentence, which caused my marriage to be put off.

  During my time in jail, I began by letter and telephone, to let my wife know that I had for sometime been involved in a life of crime. But it wasn’t until I was released that I revealed to her any details of the sexual abuse I had been put through. Her reaction was immediate and hostile. She was disgusted, and reviled, and said she couldn’t understand why I hadn’t reported these men to the authorities. What authorities were there for me to report to? ‘I was only nine years old when it all began. After all it was the authorities who were buggering me,’ I told her, ‘and by the age of eighteen, when I was no longer of any use to them, they threw me out onto the streets’

  She couldn’t come to terms with it So I was rejected once again, and this time it was by someone I cared for, which made it far worse. She described me as a filthy person, who allowed dirty old men to rape me, because I wanted love and affection. There was no way I could begin to make her understand.

  By being open and honest, I had lost the one person I truly loved. My life had been ruined by these evil men, and now they had even robbed me of my wife and two children.

  All I now wanted was to kill the five monsters who were responsible, and then die in the hands of the police.

  There were five paedophiles who had taken away my life, so I planned to take away theirs. I quickly discovered that two of them had already died, so there were only three left for me to deal with. Their names were ***, **** and *****

  I carefully planned how I would kill them, and then later die in the hands of the police

  I drove down to—and kidnapped *** and brought him back to—, leaving him at my flat with three friends, who agreed to guard him while I returned to the coast to pick up *****. I then planned to go onto—and collect **** and bring them both back to—.

  I arrived back in—at one-thirty in the afternoon, when *****’s next door neighbour told me that I had just missed him. I phoned—to warn them that I would be late, because I couldn’t risk grabbing him in broad daylight. It was then that they told me the news. They had already killed ***.

  I was enraged. I’ve always been a cold person emotionally, but I cried on the journey back to London, because I had wanted to kill *** myself. I had needed to cleanse myself of these three evil men, and all I had now was a dead body on my hands and three terrified associates.

  I drove back to—, breaking the speed limit most of the way. On arrival, I cleaned all the finger-prints from my flat and told the others that I would deal with ***** and **** in my own way. That was when the police burst in; twenty-four armed officers pinned the three of us to the ground, handcuffed and arrested me.

  I discovered later that ***** had already phoned the police and told them he feared for his life. I gave my solicitor all the details, and he said that because I was in Hastings at the time of ***’s death, they wouldn’t charge me with murder, but they could charge me with conspiracy to murder. They charged me with murder, and I was sentenced to a minimum of twenty-two years.

  Yes, I am doing a twenty-two year sentence for a crime I didn’t commit. I only wish I had, and I also wish I had killed **** and ***** at the same time.

  I am now a Listener at Belmarsh and feel useful for the first time in my life. I know I’ve saved one life, and hopefully helped many others.

  My demons still haunt me, of course they do, but I somehow keep them at bay. I won’t complete my twenty-two year sentence, but I will choose the time and manner of my death*

  It’s only shame that prevents me from contacting anyone I know. A feeling of worthlessness, a dirty little rent boy that allowed older men to use, beat and abuse him, because he needed to be loved, and no longer cared what happened to him. How can I ever expect my wife, my children, or my family to understand?

  I hope by telling this story, I may save someone else from the horror I’ve been put through, so that that person will never be visited by the same demons, and worse, will not end up in jail on a charge of murder.

  11.23 pm

  I go to bed asking myself should the man known as Fletch have to spend the rest of his life in jail? If the answer is yes, don’t we perhaps have some responsibility to the next generation, to ensure that there aren’t other children whose lives will end by the age of nine?

  Day 20

  Tuesday 7 August 2001

  6.16 am

  I have a better night’s sleep. Perhaps Fletch’s allowing his story to be committed to paper has helped. I write for two hours.

  8.00 am

  Breakfast. Frosties and the last dribble from the second carton of long-life milk. Not quite enough left to soak my cereal. Canteen provisions due in today, and as I’m leaving on Thursday I will be able to repay all my bubbles: Del Boy (water and biscuits), Tony (Mars Bar), and Colin (stamps, twelve first-class).

  10.00 am

  Association. I am strolling around the ground floor, when I notice that one of the prisoners, Joseph (murder), is playing pool. He’s by far the best player on the spur and occasionally clears the table. This morning he’s missing simple shots that even I would sink. I lean against the wall and watch him more carefully. He has that distant look on his face, so common among lifers.

  When the match is over and the cues have been passed on to waiting inmates, I comment on his standard of play. I think the word I select is rubbish.

  ‘I’ve got something on my mind, Jeff,’ he says, still distant.

  ‘Anything I can help with?’ I ask.

  ‘No thanks, it’s a family matter.’

  11.00 am

  I see that my name is chalked up on the board for a legal visit from my solicitor, Tony Morton-Hooper.

  Over the years I have found that professional relationships fall into two categories. The ones that remain professional, and the ones when you become friends. Tony falls firmly into the second category. We have a mutual love of athletics – he has represented many track stars over the years – and despite a considerable age difference, we relax in each other’s company.

  We meet up in one of those small rooms where I come in from one side and am locked in, and moments later he enters by a door on the opposite side, and is also locked in. The first thing I notice is that Tony is wearing a thick yellow rubber band around his wrist; it will allow him to eventually escape, but for the next hour he is also incarcerated.

  Tony begins by telling me that Wayland Prison is certain to be a far more relaxed regime than Belmarsh, and as good a place as any to be until I am reinstated as a Category D prisoner. I ask Tony what the latest is on that subject.

  ‘It’s all good news,’ he tells me. ‘The media have worked out that you have nothing to answer, and we’ve been through your files and they show the matter was raised in Parliament in 1991 when Lynda Chalker was Overseas Development Minister and she gave a robust reply. She also wrote you a long letter on the subject at the time.’ He slides both the letter and the Parliamentary reply across the table.

  ‘Was Ms Nicholson an MP then?’ I ask.

  ‘She most certainly was,’ says Tony, ‘and more importantly, a full investigation was carried out by the Foreign Office, so we’re sending all the relevant papers to the police and pointing out that a second inquiry would be an irresponsible waste of public money.’

  ‘So can I sue her for libel?’ I ask.

  ‘Not yet,’ he replies. ‘I t