None Shall Divide Us

by Michael Stone

  ‘Why the tiny pencil?’

  ‘In case you use it to escape.’

  ‘You mean, use it to dig my way out of here?’

  ‘No, Michael, in case you stick it in an officer’s eye in an attempt to scramble his brains.’

  ‘Why are the pages of the notebook numbered?’

  ‘So the authorities can account for every page and in case you try to escape with it.’

  ‘You mean make a paper plane to fly out of here?’

  ‘In case you draw escape plans or smuggle messages out.’

  ‘But I don’t have any visitors.’ ‘Don’t be smart.’

  I was allowed the pencil and paper for two hours every day, directly after lunch. Then both had to be handed back to the duty screws. They would only leave after checking every single page in the notebook was accounted for. I started by drawing the cell from every angle. I lay on the floor and sketched the ceiling corners, the brickwork and the peeling paint. I sketched the miserable furniture and my cell door. I even sketched the graffiti: ‘Budgie Rules’ and ‘Budgie is a Wanker signed Christopher Black.’ Both Budgie and Black had been held together in this very cell at the height of the supergrass trials.

  Some screws were kind. They would slip blank paper, nicked from a printer or a fax machine and ripped into envelope size, through my viewfinder in return for a sketch. It was a quid pro quo. Looking through the tiny slit, I would draw them sitting in their chair. It was awkward but I didn’t mind. Sketching kept my brain alive. Sometimes I drew the night screws while they slept. These men had an easy shift because most of the time it was just them and me down there and they got their drawings the following morning, before the change of staff. The screws were delighted. Some would even get me to autograph a sketch to prove to their mates that I did draw it. I refused to write paramilitary slogans such as ‘Milltown 1988’ or ‘No Surrender’. The art was a new phase in my life.

  The boiler room, the noisy unit that housed the Crum’s ancient heating system, was next to the PSU. The heat turned my subterranean cell into a sauna. There was no air. The cell was unbearable. I preferred to be naked because it was too warm for clothes. I took the opportunity to draw my leg and ankle muscles and the bone structure of my feet. When the Governor saw I was enjoying my new hobby he gave me permission to use proper paints and paper, and when I got my hands on the materials the passion for painting was ignited.

  My first experiments with paper and paint were, in all honesty, not very good. I have always enjoyed Salvador Dali’s work, but my experiments in his surrealist style left a lot to be desired. They were just explosions of colour – Spanish reds, oranges and yellows – which I deliberately chose to mask the greyness of my prison cell. I was unable to grasp his distinctive idiom, but I didn’t care. My painting was a means of expression and escape in my lonely and sunless prison cell. I grew as a painter, leaving behind those crude splashes of colour to develop a style of my own influenced by David Hockney, Max Ernst and Pablo Picasso. I wanted my art to be a human work in progress, a reflection of the first thirty years of my life. I now had the focus and intellectual stimulation I craved. I knew my art would help me survive the rest of my remand.

  After my trial and sentence I continued my new pursuit. In the beginning I wasn’t interested in art. I found it difficult to settle into my new life as a red-booker and I was disruptive. My plans for escape took over my life and my art equipment lay unused in a corner of my cell. Frustration and boredom made me take up my brushes. The Maze had art classes and proper equipment. It even had visiting artists and experts from Bosnia, America and London who gave masterclasses. The classes were under-attended and I more or less had the studio, the equipment and the artist to myself. There was also the Prison Arts Foundation, which helped pay for proper equipment. There was also the option of studying art to both O Level and A Level, but that would have bored me and taken me away from the practical stuff.

  There were no canvases, so I improvised. I ripped the backs out of bedside lockers and pulled wardrobe doors from their hinges. I used bed headboards. They were made of hardboard and were perfect for painting on. I tore up my coarse linen sheets and tacked them to the back of my improvised canvases. My cell furniture had to be replaced regularly, but the prison authorities never charged me with destroying prison property. If a prisoner wanted a painting, he donated his cell furniture and bedclothes. The screws turned a blind eye. I lived with my art. I even slept on some of it. Those makeshift canvases represent my life first as a paramilitary and then as a prisoner. The colourful paintings explore my personal history, the history of my community and the history of the Troubles.

  The authorities allowed me to keep an easel in my cell and there was always a work in progress on it. Initially it was a novelty to the prisoners I shared the wing with, and there was a constant stream of critics and admirers to my cell. In the early days the men would sneak into my cell for a look when I was on a visit or elsewhere. They were too embarrassed to voice their opinions to my face. Much later they would just stride in, have a look, criticise or praise the piece and then leave. The art became a focus of their lives as much as my own. The canvases were a talking point.

  I helped with the prison’s cottage industry, painting hankies with UDA insignia. They were sold for a fiver each and sold all over the world. The money raised went to Prisoners’ Aid.

  In the early days I did a lot of still life. I would borrow food from the canteen and position it on the table in my cell or the windowsill and paint it. Fruit and jugs of water weren’t the most exciting of subjects, so I went one step further. I started painting from my imagination and my own figurative style was born. The guys especially liked my paintings of a woman reclining on a bed or lazing by a poolside, and they would, without fail, ask for a customised version for themselves. They would say, ‘Go on, Stone, give us a couple of girlie paintings.’

  ‘No. I don’t do nudes, and anyway my memory isn’t that good.’

  ‘This should give you a bit of inspiration,’ they would say, pushing a top-shelf magazine into my hand. I asked them what they wanted me to do with the magazine and they would point out a photograph and say, ‘Stick my wife’s head on that.’

  I didn’t paint nudes and I made that very clear to my wing mates. I would paint a wife or girlfriend, but she wouldn’t be naked. Arms would cover her modesty. The men liked their paintings and so did their wives. At one stage every man on the wing had a picture of his girl. The screws also liked the figurative women. I had an unspoken deal with the screws: I did them a painting, they gave me a drop address, the painting was sent out and they brought me a couple of five-glass bottles of spirits. I don’t drink. The spirits were for the lads’ weekend wing parties. The authorities noticed I was sending out a lot of big parcels. Everything leaving the Maze had to be scanned through a device similar to the ones used at airports. They banned me from painting anything bigger than two by two feet because it wouldn’t fit in the X-ray machine.

  I had an individual sign-off. It used to be my signature but that stopped when young lads in the UVF forged it and passed off their artistic creations as mine. All Loyalist prisoners, UDA/UFF, UVF and Red Hand Commando, came to me for hand-painted cards. They would send them to their kids, girlfriends or wives at birthdays, Christmas and anniversaries. When I changed my sign-off to a thumbprint they copied me, but I didn’t mind. They were earning a few quid on the cards. There was no harm in it.

  When I was released from prison in 2000 I refused to apply for a prisoner resettlement grant. I didn’t want to be dependent on Social Services handouts. I continued to paint and took up residency in a little studio in Ballybeen in East Belfast. The studio was in an old shop owned by the former UDA Supreme Commander, Andy Tyrie. Locals called it ‘out of date Andy’s’.

  Then I started to teach art to troubled kids. I taught twenty local children aged between eight and sixteen and ended up learning more about myself. The kids always wanted to know about my past. They want
ed to know about the Battle of Milltown. I told them I regret I had to fight a war and I regret taking a human life. I told them exactly how it was. I didn’t glamorise or dramatise the events of my life. I deliberately talked to them like they were adults. These kids injected a much-needed shot of realism and humour into my new life as a free man. For the first few minutes they would call me Mr Stone, then it was Rambo, then Flinty and finally Stoner.

  They would be very direct in their questioning and the boys especially wanted to know what it was like to kill a man. I told them it’s not like James Bond or Bruce Willis and there are no actors with fake blood and a director shouting ‘cut’. In films people don’t really bleed, lose limbs or fall down dead, but they do in real life. I told them when you shoot a person they bleed and they die.

  Teaching art to youngsters has opened up a new world to me. The kids start off wanting to do paramilitary and street art, the flags and the gunmen. I coax them into political art and mythology, Harland & Wolff shipyard and the legends of Cuchulain. Some are problem kids and are so disruptive Social Services won’t touch them. They are aggressive, territorial, tough little street fighters – just like me when I was sixteen years old and thought I was the king of the Braniel. Some have been brought to the attention of the paramilitaries for anti-social behaviour and have either been beaten or shot. These are the kids I enjoy spending time with because I know what motivates them. I know what makes them tick.

  Occasionally I come across a youngster who is talented. One girl was fifteen years old and from the day she walked into the studio she was painting abstract and post-modern work. She came from a problem home. She is now studying fine art at the University of Ulster. I am very proud of her.

  My painting has turned things around for me in more ways than one. It has given me an income and a purpose. Five years ago, when I was a UDA prisoner doing life for murder, if someone had said my paintings had commercial value and would sell, I would have laughed in their face. I never thought anyone would be interested in owning something painted by Michael Stone. These are, after all, the hands that ripped pins out of grenades and pulled the trigger of a gun. I know that some look at and buy my work for ghoulish reasons, but there is nothing I can do about that. I have since been signed up by the Blockart company, which markets and distributes my work globally. This allows my work to be viewed and purchased by a worldwide audience.

  24

  LOYALIST CEASEFIRE

  BY THE TIME OF THE FIRST IRA CEASEFIRE IN 1994, I HELD THE RANK OF OFFICER COMMANDING OF THE EAST BELFAST UDA IN THE MAZE. There had been rumblings about an end to Provo violence, but the UDA/UFF and the UVF needed more than rumour to be convinced. The UDA would not contemplate calling a ceasefire without making sure the Provos were genuine. The first stage was to sound out prisoners’ feelings on a Loyalist ceasefire through a vote. In the wing canteen, a show of hands was taken and just three prisoners thought Loyalists should lay down their arms. I wasn’t one of the three. There was hostility to the idea of a Loyalist ceasefire. The general feeling was that Loyalists had the IRA on the run, so why should we let them off the hook?

  The second ballot came soon after. I pushed for a secret ballot. When it came to the vote, I abstained. I needed more time to look at the bigger picture and I wasn’t completely satisfied with what the IRA were saying. Johnny Adair was now OC of West Belfast. Many prisoners came to me asking how they should vote. I told every single one of them the same thing: that they had to make up their own mind, that I couldn’t tell them what to think and feel, that it was their voice and their choice. In truth, I was undecided. My head was alert for danger signs but my heart wanted to support a ceasefire. I wanted my family to grow up without the fear of indiscriminate bombs and bullets, but I was still suspicious of the Republican movement and decided not to use my vote.

  However, after much manoeuvring and politicking the ballot was passed. Loyalists would lay down their arms. In the historic setting of Fernhill House, the Combined Loyalist Military Command declared its ceasefire. The CLMC represented the UDA/UFF, the UVF and the Red Hand Commando. The ceasefire was announced by UVF figurehead Gusty Spence, who read a prepared announcement to the world’s media which said sorry for the hurt caused to victims of Loyalist violence and pledged to resolve political and cultural differences.

  The next big hurdle was the referendum on the Good Friday Agreement, signed in 1998, four years after the ceasefires and after the IRA’s first ceasefire had broken down. I could live with the Good Friday Agreement so long as the message got across that Loyalists were genuine and were behind the principal of it. Loyalist prisoners weren’t ignorant apes selling our souls from our cells and taking the lead from Republicans. We had opinions and our own agenda. If the Good Friday Agreement wasn’t accepted by Loyalist prisoners, then we would go back to war.

  I set political wheels in motion. I organised visits from political figures, across all parties and all persuasions, to come and talk to us and see. My prison talks team consisted of Johnny Adair, Bobby Philpot and Glen Cunningham.

  Letters, drafted by me and signed by the talks team, were sent out to people in all walks of political and civic life. The only parties who did not get an invite were Sinn Fein and the Democratic Unionist Party – Sinn Fein because they were the political wing of our enemy and the DUP because they had repeatedly called for the death penalty. Loyalist prisoners never referred to the DUP’s leader, Ian Paisley, by name. They called him ‘cow head’. Politicians and leaders from all walks of life wanted to talk to us and included the then Secretary of State, Mo Mowlam. Mowlam had previously met me in prison in early 1997 in her capacity as Shadow Secretary of State, and she promised that if Labour were elected to government, and she was Secretary of State, she would come back in her formal capacity. She kept her promise. I distinctly remember her taking off her shoes, putting her feet on my leg, and asking me to rub her sore toes. Our meetings were amicable and constructive, and I like her because she dispensed with formalities and there was no bullshit.

  We also had meetings with the leader of the Ulster Unionist Party, David Trimble, the leader of the Social Democratic and Labour Party, John Hume, and Archbishop Robin Eames. Trimble was a genuine, intelligent and streetwise man. I still think he is a good Unionist, but sadly he doesn’t have a thing in common with people like me. He is what I would call a UK Unionist rather than an Ulster Unionist. He should join Robert McCartney’s one-man party. I knew Loyalist prisoners wouldn’t be able to do business with him. He spoke at us rather than to us.

  John Hume was an impressive politician. To me he is the ultimate pan-nationalist bogeyman, but I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, as he was prepared to give me. He agreed to talk to us and that was a positive move. John Hume was a surprise. He was smart and articulate and he was enthusiastic, intelligent and diplomatic. I liked him. I can still remember what he said. ‘Michael, you can’t eat a flag. You can fight for it and you can die for it. You can’t eat it.’ His words have stayed with me. I asked him if Sinn Fein were genuine and he said he believed they were.

  Johnny Adair was the wrong man to have on the prison talks team. He had to be there because he held rank, but he did not have a political thought in his head. I had rules. I insisted the men wear a shirt and jeans. There would be no lycra shorts and posing vests, which Johnny liked to wear, and no gold jewellery. But at the meeting with John Hume, Adair turned up in a posing vest, then shamed the Loyalist cause with his only comment to Hume. He rubbed his hands together and laughed his manic laugh, saying, ‘Hey, John, I bet you don’t like those pipe bombs being thrown up your drives.’ It was a reference to the device left outside the home of Dr Joe Hendron, a prominent SDLP politician. The entire team wilted. Adair’s sectarian comments were undoing our good work. Hume never acknowledged the remark. The expression on his face never changed.

  After Adair’s embarrassing words, we resumed business. I put various scenarios to Hume and he said, ‘We live in the United St
ates of Europe. We are all Europeans.’ He made an impression on me. I remember thinking, You are a good politician – it’s just a pity you are a nationalist and not a Unionist. Hume told me he really believed the IRA’s war was over and I trusted him. The night before, I had telephoned the Belfast Telegraph with the mobile I kept in my cell and journalists had gathered at the gates of the Maze to quiz Hume when he left. We both agreed that the meeting was ‘informative and constructive’.

  After Hume left and Adair cleared off to his wing, the three of us talked about the Adair comments. We all agreed he was the wrong man for the public face of Loyalist prisoners. Philpot asked if he’d been hearing things about pipe bombs and nationalists. I said no. He locked himself in his cell for two whole days in disgust.

  Eric Smyth, a Shankill Road DUP councillor, did meet us, although a meeting wasn’t planned. The prison talks team had deliberately ignored the DUP because of their stance on capital punishment, but while Smyth waited to see a UVF prisoner, we exchanged ideas. Smyth’s son had been kneecapped by Loyalist paramilitaries for dealing drugs. Johnny Adair played a blinder in embarrassing us all by saying, ‘What about your son and his knees? Are they better yet?’

  ‘My son broke the law and the Lord’s law and I have to live with that, but, Mr Adair, he is not as big a drug dealer as you.’

  Johnny just gave one of his manic laughs and called him a ‘raker’, a bit of a chancer. After a few minutes he piped up, ‘John White is after your seat in the elections.’

  ‘My seat is safe. Everyone in the Shankill knows White won’t win that seat, for obvious reasons,’ Smyth replied, winking at Johnny. White had been dubbed ‘Co-Co’ by Loyalist prisoners, and the meaning is obvious. He then turned to me and said, ‘Michael, I am a Christian man and you are a Loyalist. You are not like those scum drug dealers and we could have done business’, and with that he was gone. A few months later he greeted the US President Bill Clinton in Belfast.