Free Me and My Brothers by Charlie Kray

he wanted to see Aunt Rose. But she had died while he was in Winchester and Mum had decided not to tell him until he was better. When she did break the news, Ronnie got up and went into the yard. He stood there, looking up at the railway arch. The death of his Aunt Rose was the biggest blow of his life then. He stood out there, looking up, trying to take it in.
    Ronnie didn’t want to be on the trot for the rest of his life. But he didn’t want to go back to a mental hospital either. While he had been in Wandsworth, he had heard about people who had been in and out of mental institutions for years and was terrified of ending up like them. One had actually been certified insane and was being detained without a firm date for release. Ronnie dreaded the same thing happening to him.
    To solve the problem, we had to prove that Ronnie was, in fact, sane. So we booked an appointment with a Harley Street psychiatrist under an assumed name and asked him to give an opinion on Ronnie’s mental state. Ronnie made it sound plausible with a cock-and-bull story about getting married and being worried about insanity way back in the family. The psychiatrist was highly amused and, after asking a few questions, sent Ronnie on his way with a document stating that he was, indeed, in possession of all his marbles.
    The effect on Ronnie was startling, and very worrying.Relieved that the dark shadow of madness was lifted, he started taking even more risks. He would have a few drinks here, a few drinks there, and once he strolled all the way along Bethnal Green Road, cheerfully returning the greetings of people who thought he was Reggie.
    But after five months the strain of being on the trot began to take its toll. He’d put on a lot of weight through heavy drinking, his face was drawn and haggard, and he’d become morose and anti-social, preferring to stay in and read or sleep. None of us knew what to do for the best. I was told Ronnie was suffering from the after-effects of the drugs pumped into him. He needed medical treatment very quickly, but to get it would mean revealing his identity and recent history.
    In the end, the problem was solved for us. Ronnie took one risk too many and was recaptured. He suspected police would be waiting for him to turn up at Vallance Road to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday, so he waited until the day after and arrived after dark. But the police were still waiting and let themselves in quietly at three in the morning as one of the party guests left.
    A few days before, Ronnie had been acting very strangely; sometimes he didn’t even recognize Reggie or myself. But when those two uniformed policemen and two male nurses walked into the house that night Ronnie was perfectly normal. He said he knew they had to take him back, and went to get his coat. I think he was relieved it was all over.
    The police said they would take Ronnie to Long Grove for a formal discharge, then return him to Wandsworth where he would finish his sentence. But first he would stay overnight in Bethnal Green nick. Alarm bells rang loudly in my mind and Reggie’s: we had not forgotten the PC Baynton affair. And although it was now nearly fourin the morning, we rang our solicitor, a doctor and a national newspaper reporter.
    Two hours later, Reggie and I walked into the police station with the lawyer and the doctor. We were not welcome. A high-ranking officer refused to let us see Ronnie and, in spite of the lawyer’s protests, ordered us out of the building.
    If someone had talked to us civilly, assuring us that Ronnie was all right and would get the proper treatment, I’m sure that would have been the end of it. But when Ronnie eventually came out, the police laid on a security pantomime that got everyone’s back up. He was in a taxi – with a police escort – and they roared past us as though Scotland Yard was on fire. Angry now, as well as concerned, Reggie and I gave chase in our car, with the doctor and lawyer behind in theirs