None Shall Divide Us

by Michael Stone

  Then the nonsense started. Republicans wanted to give their evidence but refused to take the stand. My solicitor told me that he had the names of three women who did not want to go to court and would I mind if their evidence was read out instead? I bloody well did mind. If these woman had important evidence to give to the court, then they should give that evidence in person. My brief explained that one was old and frail. I laughed and said, ‘Not too old and frail to stand in Milltown for hours.’ Obviously the old woman didn’t want to be seen in court. Obviously she was frightened. A large Loyalist crowd had gathered in the public area. The woman was terrified of being fingered. I allowed her statement to be read to the court.

  The next day there was a flood of similar requests to give evidence in written form, some from old ladies but many from young men. I refused. These people were taking the piss out of me and were the same young men who gave chase and beat me senseless on the motorway. They would give their evidence in person. They would stand in the witness box and tell their version of events. Sometimes a familiar face would give evidence. I held back from shouting, ‘I know who you are, where you live, what you do, what you drive. I’ve seen your file, pal, and know everything about you.’ I didn’t say a word.

  A man called Paddy Flood took the stand. Under oath, he swore to tell the truth. He was an IRA volunteer from Londonderry who was injured at Milltown. He had shrapnel wounds in his back and buttocks. He told the judge that he gave chase at Milltown. He didn’t give chase. The fact he had injuries to his back meant he had been running the other way. Flood was assassinated and dumped on the border by his own organisation. They accused him of being a tout.

  At the very start of my trial, my solicitor told me the CPS was thinking of adding a further charge to my sheet: conspiracy to kill ten thousand people. I laughed at him. I really thought it was his sick sense of humour trying to break the ice on the first day of my trial. I was wrong. The CPS did want the charge. I asked him, if the IRA blow up Cornmarket in Belfast city centre on a busy shopping day and the authorities catch the bomber, is he going to be charged with conspiracy to kill a hundred thousand people? I threatened to give evidence if I was charged with conspiracy to kill ten thousand people. The charge never materialised.

  I made a decision on day one to not show any emotion during the trial. I wanted to play it straight. I didn’t want to smile. Not that I could. Only a monster could laugh as the grisly events of 16 March 1988 were recalled in graphic detail. I didn’t want to sit hanging my head in shame, because I didn’t feel shame. So I decided to fix my eyes on a spot, and I focused on that spot for the entire two weeks. It was the back of the Prosecuting QC Ronnie Appleton’s wig.

  Then the television was switched on and I looked up. It was Milltown. I could see the gravestones and see the crowds. I could hear the voices as clear as a bell, the thuds and cracks as grenades went off and shots were fired. I looked at the press out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t turn my head to look at them because I knew they were watching me. They were much more interested in my reaction to those pictures than watching the images themselves. They would have seen the footage a thousand times. I too had seen it all before – as rerun after rerun in my own head – but now it was on a real screen and it was strange to relive it again. I found it unnerving to be back among the headstones of the ancient cemetery. The press never took their eyes off me and I knew as the images of Milltown were played, rewound and fast-forwarded, they were conjuring half-truths and exaggerations for tomorrow’s papers.

  The next morning one of my screw guards showed me the local papers. Words such as ‘he sat impassively’, ‘he gulped once’ and ‘was unmoved during the showing of the Milltown tape’ were plastered all over the pages. Did they think I was a sadistic monster? Did they think I was going to break down, laugh or cry? I was reliving the deaths I was responsible for on that day. I was also reliving my own close escape from torture and death. Of course it was difficult to remain composed. It was hard to not show any emotion. I kept focusing on the back of Appleton’s head, but inside I felt emotional.

  I listened to every word and studied every piece of evidence. Statements were embellished and exaggerated and people told lies. To my disgust, Republican witnesses took the stand and swore on the Bible to tell the truth. The truth never saw the light of day. On several occasions the judge reprimanded witnesses and ordered them to stick to their original statements. I wanted to stand up and shout to the court, ‘This man is a Provo, I have seen his file’, but I didn’t say a word.

  I watched the circus that was my trial from the sidelines.

  It was also a court of sorrow. There were the two women I had made young widows and there were injured people and children and all of them hurt by my hand. When I saw the young girls, the mothers and the old ladies, I realised I was dealing with real people. They weren’t anonymous targets. They were human beings. Initial anger at them, at why they were at Milltown that day, disappeared when I saw them. They weren’t my targets.

  The legal process that was my trial was academic. It was a sequence of staged events over a fourteen-day period. I knew I was getting thirty years before I stepped into the dock for the final time to hear Justice Higgins make his speech and pass sentence. The night before I was to be sentenced my legal team came to me with a tape recorder and said the media wanted ‘a few words’ from me. My words, if I decided to say anything, would be synchronised with the television footage of my sentencing. It was a great opportunity to explain my actions but I declined. I was going to say a few words, but not to the media. I would save them for the court.

  I was brought back to Court Number One and took my seat in the dock. The courtroom was packed with the press, with Loyalist supporters and with Republicans who wanted to watch and gloat as sentence was passed. They wanted to see me go down for a very long time.

  The court rose as Justice Higgins entered the room and took his seat. He then opened his mouth to speak. My brain switched off. I heard every single word of his speech but they didn’t connect with my brain. I knew what was coming. The words were irrelevant.

  ‘Michael Anthony Stone, you have prevented your counsel from speaking on your behalf in mitigation of sentence. My knowledge of your history, my assessment of your motivation and your present attitude to these appalling offences must be derived from the evidence which I have heard in the course of the trial, including what you told the police and information given to me by prosecuting counsel.

  ‘You have a past record of minor offences, which I shall ignore. Portions of your statements to the police are exculpatory and I have reservations about their accuracy.

  ‘You have prevented your counsel from giving me any assistance in coming to conclusions about your motivation and attitudes. You told the police you wanted to kill main Republicans, not the women and children. When charged with the murders of Patrick Brady, Kevin McPolin and Dermot Hackett you responded in each case, “I read his file, he was a legitimate target.”

  ‘In justification for your crimes you claimed your targets were members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, its helpers or members of Provisional Sinn Fein. Even if your victims or intended victims were active members of the PIRA, and I have no evidence about this, that would not have justified your acts.

  ‘At no time did you express regret for those crimes. You have had ample time to reflect on the savagery and enormity of your wrongdoing but I detected no sign of remorse in your features in the course of this trial. To crown it all, you have gagged your counsel and have prevented them from speaking on your behalf.

  ‘I conclude you do not regret your actions and you are not repentant. It is my opinion that you are pleased with yourself for having committed those crimes. You have shown yourself to be a dangerous and ruthless criminal willing to offer your services as a killer to Loyalist groups throughout Northern Ireland. The crimes which you have committed since 1984 have added to the fear and turmoil in Northern Ireland.’

  I he
ard his words but they didn’t connect on an intellectual level. They were just words floating around a packed courtroom. His words mingled with another set of words: Tommy Herron’s ‘It’s death or imprisonment, kid.’ I was facing the rest of my life behind bars. I would be an old man, two years away from my pension, before I would see freedom again.

  Looking back on that day, I now see how I must have appeared to the world as Justice Higgins spoke his words. Hindsight is a wonderful gift, something I didn’t have when I sat in the dock in March 1989. I handled the day as best I could.

  Justice Higgins continued outlining my sentence for each of the counts on my charge sheet. I forced my brain into gear, concentrating on his words. I knew the total of my sentence but I needed to hear him speak those words.

  ‘For each of the six offences of murder I impose the mandatory sentence of life imprisonment. You deserve severe punishment and the public is entitled to be protected from the actions of such a dangerous man. For each of the five offences of attempted murder I sentence you to twenty-seven years’ imprisonment. For each of the three offences of conspiracy to murder, I sentence you to twenty-five years’ imprisonment. For each of the six offences of wounding with intent I sentence you to twenty-two years’ imprisonment. For each offence of causing an explosion likely to endanger life I sentence you to twenty-two years’ imprisonment. For the offence of doing an act with intent to cause an explosion likely to endanger life I sentence you to twenty-two years’ imprisonment. For each of the three offences of possessing explosives with intent I sentence you to twenty years’ imprisonment. For each of the nine offences of possessing firearms with intent I sentence you to twenty years’ imprisonment.

  ‘I recommend to the Secretary of State that thirty years is the minimum period which should elapse before you are released on licence.’

  So there I had it. I had my thirty years predicted four weeks before I went to trial. If I were to add up all my charges it would come to nearly 850 years in prison. When I was sixteen I didn’t think I would see my twentieth birthday. When I reached twenty I thought I would be dead by the time I was thirty. But here I was, just weeks away from my thirty-fourth birthday, married with two children and I knew I would never be a proper, full-time father to them. I would never spend time doing normal things with them. The best they could hope for would be the occasional prison visit.

  I had warned my legal team that I would say something after Justice Higgins had passed sentence. I was in the care of three prison officers and one principal officer. On the morning of my sentence, the principal officer said to me, ‘I hope you are not thinking of doing or saying anything stupid.’

  ‘I intend saying something to the court.’

  ‘I hope you won’t jump the dock, abuse the judge or be disruptive.’

  I told him I would be dignified and I wouldn’t insult anyone. Now it was my time to speak. I had kept quiet for the entire length of my trial. I had not given any evidence and had not opened my mouth at any stage. I took my cue from the judge’s words. I heard him say, ‘… you took the law into your own hands …’, and waited until he finished. As soon as he stopped speaking, I stood up. The judge looked at me, then sat down again. I gave a clenched-fist salute, shouting the words I promised to say: ‘Long Live Ulster, No Surrender.’ I was led away by the three prison officers and as I left the court I said a silent goodbye to my two children.

  At my words, the courtroom erupted. Republicans were on their feet, fists joyfully punching the air and hurling abuse. Loyalist supporters also jumped to their feet and were clapping and cheering. I remember a young guy clapping enthusiastically and calling out, ‘Rambo, Rambo.’ I didn’t know who he was, but he was staring straight at me, smiling broadly. It was a young UFF private called Johnny Adair.

  Pebbles, For Lucy, xxx

  You are a twinkling star on a moonlit night,

  Soft petal on a summer’s breeze.

  A pure white pearl in an ocean blue

  My sweetheart you’ll always be.

  You are a magical crystal most cherished

  Sweet nectar for humming bee

  Your hair is the colour of gold

  My Cherub you will always be.

  You are a rose found in a mystical glen

  Small pebble from exotic sea

  Your eyes with laughter sparkle

  My princess you will always be.

  You are my source of strength and happiness

  Precious key that fits my heart.

  You are my darling daughter

  I weep that we must part.

  Solace of time in rain

  Looking out this winter’s night

  From the window in my cell.

  The amber light pierced raindrops

  Each have a tale to tell.

  Even when in prison, seasons change

  A phenomenon they cannot rearrange.

  And razor wire and chain and lock

  Can’t stop the ticking of the clock.

  Amid my thoughts of loss and pain

  There’s solace in the amber rain.

  20

  H-BLOCK 7

  AFTER I WAS SENTENCED THE RUC BROUGHT ME BACK TO MY SUBTERRANEAN CELL IN CRUMLIN ROAD JAIL. I was told I would spend one final night there before being transferred to my new home in the morning. I believed I would serve my time in the Maze. I had no reason at all to think otherwise. All non-conforming political prisoners go the Maze and I was a non-conforming political prisoner. The principal officer, accompanied by three screws, locked me in my cell for the last time. He said, ‘Michael, the word is they are taking you to England to do your time. A helicopter has been chartered to transport you and it will arrive early tomorrow.’

  I heard the words coming out of my mouth: ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘No, Michael. I am telling you this so you can prepare yourself. I didn’t want you to get a shock in the morning.’

  ‘You are going to have to hurt me to get me out of this cell. You are going to have to drug me or beat me senseless. I’m not going to England.’

  I spent my last night in the PSU barricading myself in. I made a shield from the tabletop, which I’d ripped from the wall. I punched two holes into it. It would double as a shield to protect my body. I would put socks on my hands and use them as basic boxing gloves. I put the metal bed frame against the cell door, ripped up my sheets and made them into makeshift ropes. I searched my cell for something that could be used as a baton, but there wasn’t anything. I never closed my eyes all night. I needed to be awake and aware. The prison authorities would have to strap me on to a stretcher, like Hannibal Lecter, to get me out of this cell alive. I intended giving them a good fight. I was in good physical shape. If I had to attack prison officers I would. I wasn’t going to England without a showdown.

  I asked for the prison barber. My request was granted and he was brought down with four screws in tow. I told him I wanted a ‘number one’, I wanted my head shaved right down to the wood. He looked at me and I repeated my request. I always kept my hair long and wore it in a ponytail. The barber cut the bulk of the hair with scissors and took a razor to my skull. He also shaved off my moustache. I was now virtually bald. I looked menacing. I looked like a POW. The four screws that accompanied him asked if they could have my hair as a keepsake. I told them to do what they liked. I was in no mood for an argument. I really couldn’t care less if they wanted my hair. I was now ready to do battle with the Crum authorities. I would rather leave in a box than be transported to England.

  Very early the following morning the duty Governor and six screws came to my cell. I waited for the words ‘England’ and ‘helicopter’, but they never came. Instead the Governor said, ‘Mr Stone, you have been sentenced to life imprisonment. You will serve your sentence in HMP the Maze. They are integrated blocks. You will slop out. You will be transported to begin your sentence in two hours and you will go straight to the Loyalist wings.’ He said goodbye and wished me ‘all the best’ before turning
on his heels and leaving. I was relieved. I sat on the bed and rubbed my bald head, thinking, Great, just fucking great. I don’t know whether the principal officer was winding me up about going to an English prison or if it was something the authorities discussed, but now it didn’t matter. I was going to the Maze and to my fellow Loyalists.

  A Black Maria took me to the prison on the outskirts of Belfast. I couldn’t see very much from the transport affectionately called the ‘horsebox’, but I knew we were travelling through the city centre. I peered out of one of the viewfinders and could see shoppers and school children, life going on as normal. I actually spied a relative on Royal Avenue. I wanted to shout her name, but even if I had she wouldn’t have heard me. This was my last glimpse of the outside world. I would be sixty-four before I would see or walk Royal Avenue again. I could hear a helicopter buzzing overhead and I knew it was shadowing my convoy until I was delivered to my new home. The prison officers who accompanied me on my final journey were panicking. They kept saying, ‘I hope they don’t hit us.’

  The Maze is a prison like no other, a place of political protests and death. It is one of the most notorious jails in the world and, for me, one of the most potent symbols of the Troubles. The Maze began life in 1971 as emergency accommodation for men held under the Special Powers Act and was known then as Long Kesh. I was just a young man of sixteen when I first did time in the Kesh after being caught stealing guns. Eighteen years later I was to discover things hadn’t changed a bit. The authorities keep every scrap of information on former prisoners. I was shocked when they produced a photograph of the sixteen-year-old Michael Stone. Although I was relieved to be going to the Maze and to the Loyalist wings, part of me was dreading it. The blocks were mixed, so Loyalist and Republicans shared space, which was bad news for me. I would have been very naive to think that any Republican who got within striking distance of me wouldn’t have a go at killing me.