Out of the Darkness: The transformation of one of Scotland's most violent prisoners

By Anthony Gielty

When still young, someone said of Anthony Gielty 'He's gonnae end up in the nick.' And he did - at the age of 17, he was convicted of attempted murder and sentenced to ten years, some of which was spent in solitary confinement. At 19, he was placed in the most violent prison in Scotland. Anthony Gielty was viewed as too difficult a prisoner for the Scottish prison system. A vicious thug, he terrorised his fellow inmates - until he met Christ. Through a variety of forms of Christian spirituality, he became a changed man. Equally at home in a Bible study, an Evangelical service or a Catholic Mass, Anthony has worked tirelessly to bring Catholics and Protestants together across the sectarian divide in his native Scotland. As he says, he is now driven by 'a passion for the lost and a passion for unity in the Church.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monarch Books
• Release date: Jul 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9780857217721

Book preview

Prologue

HMP Glenochil

The atmosphere was charged on the wing that night, as we opened up for recreation.

Tony, give me a blade, said Matt.

Come with me, I replied, beckoning him to follow me to my cell.

Matt knew I would have a tool for him. I’d promised him a long, sharpened screwdriver – more of a spike. Yet as he followed me to my stash, my thoughts still harassed me, reminding me of the other path in life I had recently been considering. This path demanded non-violence. I quickly dismissed these thoughts and called for Matt to come to the back of my cell. It’s in here.

I set about breaking open my stereo. In no time I had freed the awful-looking tool and gave it to him. Instantly, a sly smirk flashed across his face. I knew he was picturing the terrible injuries he would be able to inflict.

We knew the drill. Often in Scottish prisons it’s expected that if one of your mates is fighting, it is your duty, as one belonging to the same camp, to back him up. Both our camp and theirs had agreed that the scrap would kick off at recreation. We were all ready for it. As soon as the screws let us out of the cells, every prisoner was on full alert. Everything and everyone was studied closely: facial expressions, conversations, nuances in expression, tone, and especially body language – all were examined. As expected, one of the other camp members came toward me, a man called John MacDonagh. He approached cautiously and seemed anxious, but not hostile.

Tony, this is mental. There’s no point in all of us getting involved in this.

You know we’re up for it, John.

So are we, but what’s the point in all of us getting diggered up and sent to every corner of Scotland?

His appeal was unusual but not entirely unheard of. Men serving long sentences are all too familiar with what happens when trouble kicks off. Everyone thought to have had the slightest involvement in stabbings or slashings is dragged off to solitary, then they are scattered across the country’s jails. Even when the investigation has been completed, those exonerated can still be left for months in the digger.

Speak to your troops and see what you all want to do, John said, turning to go back to his camp.

Fine.

After walking back to Matt and my men I informed them of the details of the conversation. They’re keen to keep damage to a minimum. They want to know if it can stay a square go. I looked up at Matt, It’s your call, bro.

I’m easy he replied, oozing confidence.

Right then, I said, and gave the other camp the nod.

Brad indicated to Matt which cell they should go into to settle it. Matt followed him until they reached the cell, situated halfway along the wing. From the outside nothing could be seen. There were no cameras and, behind the doors, nowhere to run. As they both went in, the steel cell door was slammed shut behind them. Prisoners on the wing continued their pool games and conversations as if nothing was happening.

Groans could be heard that were at first barely audible, then they grew louder and louder. Suddenly, the cell door flew open and another prisoner, a lifer called Dane, ran out. He was injured and clutching his hand in pain. As soon as I spied Dane running out of the cell, I knew Matt had been set up. Dane was part of Brad’s camp. I ran into the cell and found Matt staggering, with Brad backing off.

When Matt had walked into the cell, he had been grabbed from behind by Dane, who had been waiting unseen. Wrapping one arm around Matt’s neck in a chokehold, he had him trapped. Brad then started to stab Matt with his blade. Matt tried to defend himself but could do little while struggling to breathe, and thus was stabbed again and again. In his attempts to shield himself from the oncoming blade, he was stabbed through his hands, while another blow slashed the top of his head when Brad tried to stab his skull. In the midst of this set-up, Matt had somehow managed to manoeuvre his arm and wound Dane with his screwdriver. This had sent him running out the door.

I hastily dragged Matt into the cell next door to see what the damage was. The head injury was severe, causing him to bleed so badly and so fast that I immediately made a bandage for him by ripping the sheets of the bedding in the cell. I tied it around his forehead in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, which was pouring out.

I’ve just been done a beauty, Matt said.

I tried to reassure him, and again turned my attention to stemming the bleeding from his head. Already it had soaked through the makeshift bandage. Blood was now running down his forehead into his eyes and mouth.

Man, I’m done, he kept repeating. Look at me! I’ve been done a cracker!

He ripped off his top. LOOK AT ME, MAN. I’M DONE! he yelled, as he revealed the horrors of his injuries.

Flaps of skin were opening and closing as his chest heaved short, sharp breaths. These puncture wounds were allowing blood to freely ooze out and cascade down his body. Some of the wounds resembled small incisions; others were like cuts and scratches. They all leaked blood which was flowing down his body and onto the floor.

We need to get you out of here, mate, I said, still in shock at seeing him in such a state.

Tony, make sure you get them for this.

Look at me. Give me the tool, I said, taking the screwdriver off him. We need to get this place cleaned up before you go. Matt had to get medical attention immediately, yet the old rules meant I would take the weapon off him and clean the cell first, thus ensuring there would be minimal evidence for the police. Only after that could he go to the hospital. Such was the darkness of our criminal mentality – we didn’t even want our worst enemies to be caught by the police.

I had no doubt in my mind that if Matt didn’t get to a hospital soon, he would die. I sprinted to the mop cupboard and grabbed a mop and bucket and some cleaning materials. Making my way back to the cell, I tried to be as discreet as possible. The atmosphere on the wing was still extremely tense. Every one of the cons knew what had happened, yet all were united in their determination not to let the screws know.

As I re-entered the cell, John was there, the man who had set the whole thing up. He had his back to me and was gloating over Matt. Fury began to master me, and John had no idea of the danger he was in now that I had returned.

Who do you think you are, coming up from the YOs, trying to get smart? John mocked.

Matt was by now considerably weaker, and each moment was taking its toll on him. But John wasn’t going to stop his triumphant abuse. Look at you now…

His words were drowned out by the thoughts that flew at me: Who does he think he is? He set this whole thing up and now he’s adding insult to injury. There are no cameras in here. I’ve got him now. This is the perfect opportunity! I’ll say he tried to kill Matt, then went for me. Self-defence!

As John continued his insults, I quietly closed the steel door behind me. Rage coursed through my body with every pulse. Unrestricted hatred consumed me.

HIS NECK! STICK THE SCREWDRIVER THROUGH HIS NECK! my thoughts screamed at me.

The screwdriver was held by my waistband under my T-shirt. I slowly grabbed hold of it. Now the tables have turned. You have nowhere to run, and nobody can see what I am going to do to you.

As I gently took the screwdriver from within my waistband, the flood of hatred and rage grew stronger with every breath. I sharpened my focus on the point where I would plunge the tool. Then, right before I made the strike, I looked over at Matt to signal my intentions. I wanted him to witness this payback first-hand.

1

Meaningless, Meaningless

HURRY UP AND GET HERE! Dad shouted down the phone to the emergency services. My baby brother was turning blue. Mum kept screaming his name, JAMES! JAMES! By throwing cold water on his face she eventually managed to bring him back to consciousness, but he had gone too long without oxygen and would be left permanently brain-damaged.

I grew up as part of a loving family, with two older sisters, Noreen and Sinéad, along with my twin brother Michael and my little brother James. Dad was an agricultural contractor to farms and, thanks to his work, we lacked nothing. Mum was kept extremely busy looking after us, especially James, who needed a lot of care. However, he was the happiest out of us all. Although psychologically impaired, he was as physically strong and fit as the rest of us. Even today he still shines with so much joy and contentment.

For the first seven years of my life, our family lived in a small mining village called Rosewell in Midlothian, about ten miles outside Edinburgh. Almost all of our extended family lived here. It was awesome. We were surrounded by lots of cousins, aunts, and uncles. Bored wasn’t a word we understood. We spent our time playing football or exploring the surrounding countryside, and we were always there for each other. There was such a strong sense of community. As kids, the village was the centre of the world. Everything and everyone was there.

Apart from James, we all went to the local primary school, St Matthews. My very first day at school was eventful. The teachers allowed Michael and me to play in the sandpit situated just outside the classroom, in the arts and crafts hall. Unfortunately, they left us alone. In their absence Michael and I, along with the other proud new primary pupil Gareth, decided to redecorate the entire room, ceilings and all, with the most amazing sand-bombs! It was great. We plastered the place from top to bottom. My two older sisters looked so ashamed of us when they were commanded to take us home.

Ma… the twins are back early!

I found things difficult at school, and I was slow at reading and writing. Yet I loved to learn. I was diagnosed with dyslexia later, but I was always frustrated with myself and convinced I was stupid. My twin Michael, on the other hand, took a lot of satisfaction from this. He was great with numbers, reading, and spelling, and often displayed a smarmy face in class. But Mum tried to encourage me from home by pointing out that I wasn’t stupid since I strangely loved the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I pestered her to read things to me from them, particularly anything to do with animals, and I seemed to absorb and remember that information.

One thing I really loved about St Matthews school was my first teacher, Mrs Peterson. She was great. She took particular care in telling us about Jesus. I loved hearing about God, Jesus, Mary, and the apostles. She even took time to tell us dramatic stories about the early church martyrs who loved Jesus so much that they died for him. Through stories like these, she kindled such a love of God in my heart that I used to go home and find a place to pray, sometimes climbing trees to be alone and chat to God. I would then demand that God make me a saint! I used to get angry and disappointed when angels, like the ones I had noticed in our little prayer books, didn’t show up on ethereal clouds to speak with me about God and commend me for my pious dedication.

During one of my prayer sessions, this time in the house, I looked out a crucifix. It had two large candle holders welded onto each side of it. Then, after rummaging in some of the kitchen drawers, I found two little birthday candles and some matches. When I put the candles into the oversized holders, they slid down, as they were far too small. I promptly lit them, and regrettably set my sisters’ room on fire!

Unfortunately, my little pious life did not extend to the Mass. My brother and I hated going and thought it cold and boring. Every week, though, our paternal grandpa would faithfully come to pick us up and we would hide behind the couch, complaining, We don’t want to go, Ma!

To this would always come the same response: If you don’t go, I’ll have to take you to the Proddy church!

Mum was from a Church of Scotland background, and although we had never been to a Protestant church, it was the other side, and we were certain it must be much worse than Mass. After all, it was Protestant. This threat always prevailed, and Grandpa wouldn’t have to beep the horn for too long before Michael and I would be sprinting toward the van. No way were we going to a Proddy Church!

When I was seven, my family moved into a large, detached, semi-rural house in Lasswade, about eight miles outside of Edinburgh. My dad seemed to have limitless entrepreneurial energy and endeavours. He had property and businesses all over the place, including several flats in Midlothian, along with a range of businesses from pubs to hair salons, as well as a director’s box at Celtic’s Parkhead. He had racehorses and greyhounds, and he paid for Mum to take flying lessons. As a family we would spend some summers in Florida at his house in Lakeland, and others in Ireland at the family’s mountain cabin or village cottage.

Dad had come to Scotland from Ireland with his father at the age of eleven as a migrant worker to pick potatoes on the east coast of Scotland. Thankfully he never lost his earthiness, so amid his wide social network of friends and acquaintances there always remained the happy-go-lucky Irish man. Dad’s business success created many exciting and privileged experiences as we grew up that gave us kids confidence in whatever setting we found ourselves. It was strangely normal for me to play football in a housing estate one day, then go shooting grouse on one of the finest moors in Scotland the next. At the weekends, when I wasn’t hanging around the streets with mates, I was in Dunkeld in Perthshire receiving shooting lessons at the Stakis estate. Class distinctions just didn’t exist for me back then. I happily enjoyed falconry with friends from Edinburgh’s affluent Morningside as much as playing pitch and toss against the bookie’s wall with my mates from the estate.

My dad, although strongly business-minded, never forgot to help others, and through him I was given my first practical examples of charity. Many times when travelling down the A1 to his contractor’s base he would pick up men of the road, take them for a meal, and help them to the next stage of their journey.

Living in Midlothian could be pretty brutal. On one occasion, when I was about ten years old, I was heading to the shops on my rollerblades when two lads set about me. Ken and Iain, two older guys from one of the estates down the road, were drunk in the middle of the day and looking for trouble. As the blows kept coming at me, the first lad, Ken, salivating and screaming at me, took a brick and smashed it over my head. It caused a gash to open up and left a permanent scar on my skull. I never forgot this beating. With warm blood running down my face, I swore that one day I would get them back for this.

My brother also experienced similar violence in our area. Although definitely not a fighter, he was bright, confident, and extremely cheeky. He was usually able to keep other lads away with his ability to reduce most people to nothing with his acid tongue. He could humiliate and devastate other lads with just a few sentences. However, one day, while we were walking home from school, some lads grabbed him. It transpired that they had become sick of his talent for verbal deconstruction, and so these four lanky teenagers began to take turns attacking him. I just stood there, frozen with terror as these boys, who looked more like men in comparison to us, beat him. I was helpless, watching them as they laughed and asked each other, Who wants another shot? and repeatedly kicked him in the face. Michael kept looking at me with a confused and hurt expression, as I had not come to his aid.

Please, I’m sorry, leave me, he repeated, but to no avail. They kept laying into him. I just stood there, shocked at their brutality. His whimpering cries were drowned out by the mockery and thuds of the older lads. Just when I thought they were going to leave him alone, they picked him up and kneed him repeatedly in the face. Then they let him fall to the pavement before they started all over again. Then one of the lads turned to me and sneered, Do you want some too?

No, I stuttered in a feeble response.

Michael was now lying on the tarmac pavement, trembling. He had given up pleading with them to stop. That’s what you get for being cheeky, they jeered, concluding their assault by spitting on him.

I could not look my brother in the eye as I helped him home.