November 29, 2019 was my first day out of prison in 14.5 years. As if to show me what I had been missing, the sky was bright blue and the sun was shining brightly over London. There was a lot of activity in the city. I owe my temporary freedom to Learning Together, an educational program run by the University of Cambridge for prisoners.
I had been invited to a conference to celebrate their fifth anniversary at the Fishmongers’ Hall on London Bridge. While my “plus one” was my escort officer Adam, it still felt incredible to be outside and in the real world.
Jack Merritt, 25, the Cambridge graduate who had become my mentor in what I hoped would be my final time in prison, greeted me with a hug. He had an elegant accent and a friendly smile: he was super smart and could have gotten a job anywhere, but he believed that significant others like me had potential and was dedicated to helping us.
The fishmonger’s hall was like a museum. I noticed a pair of narwhal tusks attached to a wall, relics of past fishing trips to the frozen north.
We took a break in the morning. In the next session I was asked to read a question to a group of guests. I was worried but excited. Almost immediately, the high-pitched screams of a woman sounded from below. A Learning Together volunteer rushed in. “It’s Usman,” she said, frantically dialing a number on her phone. I jumped up and made my way to the door.
In the next session I was asked to read a question to a group of guests. I was worried but excited. Almost immediately, the high-pitched screams of a woman sounded from below
It felt like time had slowed down. My blood was full of adrenaline. As we reached London Bridge, Usman turned around and began swinging his knives. Just grab him, I said to myself, writes STEVE GALLANT (pictured)
I knew I had to slow him down. The only weapon available was a narwhal tusk. Usman swung his knives at me. I hit him hard – but it seemed to have little effect
At the foot of the stairs a young woman lay sprawled on the floor, blood running from her neck. Another girl, who was in the fetal position, had a large pool of blood forming underneath her.
Suddenly I found myself face to face with Usman Khan, a former prisoner and fellow guest of Learning Together. He wore a razor-sharp, eight-inch-long blade strapped to each wrist and an explosives belt around his body – which was later revealed to be a fake.
I knew I had to slow him down. The only weapon available was a narwhal tusk. Usman swung his knives at me. I hit him hard – but it seemed to have little effect.
I hit again and missed him by a hair’s breadth. His knives came closer and then: crunch! I hit him hard on the shoulder, breaking the tusk. He stormed out into the street and headed for London Bridge. I went after him. There was a lot of activity on the streets. ‘Come back!’ I shouted. “That’s a terrorist!”
Usman turned to me. I hit him again with the broken tusk, but somehow he managed to grab it and rip it out of my hands. I backed away as he threw it at me.
It felt like time had slowed down. My blood was full of adrenaline. As we reached London Bridge, Usman turned around and began swinging his knives. Just grab him, I told myself. Take him to the ground. I lunged with both hands on his jacket and we fell to the ground.
Somehow Usman managed to get back to his feet. In the confusion that followed, a gap opened up, giving me a clear view of his face. I punched him hard in the jaw. Crack! And one more thing: crack!
Justice Department employee Darryn Frost took the other narwhal tusk to fight Usman. Then unmarked police cars screeched to a halt and within seconds officers were jumping over the barriers with guns drawn. Usman was shot twice, but not before fatally stabbing Jack and fellow Cambridge graduate Saskia Jones, 23. To my surprise, he tried to get up.
Usman was hit by a Taser and then shot a third time. He sank to the ground and stayed there.
As I walked away, a whirlwind of thoughts ran through my mind as my adrenaline began to lower its heady peak. Did that really just happen?
My previous act of violence had cost someone their life, shocked many others in the process, and earned me a murder conviction in 2005 and a life sentence.
Shocked and confused, yet struck by a sudden moment of clarity, I turned to the guy with the narwhal tusk and said, “That was my first act of violence in 14.5 years.” I had broken my vow.
When I arrived at HMP Frankland, a Category A prison in County Durham, to begin my sentence, it was home to some of the most dangerous men in the country. And now me. I had killed a man after he attacked my friend Jayne.
He and some friends had broken into her apartment and destroyed her loudspeaker system. When Jayne tried to stop them, they hit her in the head with a claw hammer and then threatened to come back and kill her.
I found out later that they did this because the man’s girlfriend thought Jayne was playing her music too loud. Jayne begged me not to retaliate, but I was too angry to listen. Throughout my youth as a bullied, scrawny child on a council estate in Hull, violence was ever-present. At 17, I had completed my education at a school for naughty children, with no qualifications and was convicted of fighting and petty crimes, which culminated in an eight-month prison sentence.
This affected my career prospects and prevented me from joining the army. I intended to hurt the man who hurt Jayne, not kill him, but my attack spiraled out of control and earned me a murder conviction, which carried a life sentence with a minimum sentence of 17 years. I took a long look at my life and I didn’t like what I saw.
Where had the violence taken me? It had cost me my freedom, and although she had visited me faithfully for a year, it had ultimately cost me the most important thing in my life – Jayne had told me she couldn’t go on. It was over. Something had to change. I vowed never to use violence again.
I went to the gym, quit smoking, and resisted the friendly offers of hard liquor (made from fermented fruits). I gave up these vices overnight, no withdrawal symptoms.
I realized it wasn’t the substances I was addicted to, but the lifestyle. Learning to write became an obsession. During my years in prison I studied a GCSE, then A-levels in philosophy and a degree in business studies.
Usman Khan (pictured) had planned attacks on the Stock Exchange, Parliament and the US Embassy and was one of numerous Islamic terrorists who entered the prison system while I was there
Usman Khan had planned attacks on the Stock Exchange, Parliament and the US Embassy and was one of numerous Islamic terrorists who entered the prison system while I was there. There was concern that extremism would lead to people being radicalized in prison. I can tell you that the fear was justified. My idea of Islamic terrorists at the time was that of disenfranchised, low-IQ street children who were easily led and manipulated.
Dhiren Barot has put an end to this cliché. He served 40 years in prison for plotting terrorist attacks in Britain and the United States. Although he appeared arrogant, he was calm, well-groomed and highly intelligent. He became an agent of Al-Qaeda. and his conviction was considered one of the most significant since 9/11. Many of his “brothers” who entered the system worshiped him. When he was allegedly attacked by Gary Moody and an associate and had a pan of boiling cooking oil poured over his head, it caught the attention of the 20 al-Qaeda sympathizers being held in Frankland.
One of them was Omar Khyam, who was serving a 20-year prison sentence for conspiring to explode a fertilizer bomb in London. At just over five feet tall, he was scrawny and silent, blending into the background. So no one noticed at first when he walked out of the kitchen with a pan of hot oil in his hand towards a group of white prisoners chatting at a table.
One of them was Malcolm Cruddas, an armed robber who was about to be released. He didn’t notice Khyam come up behind him and pour the entire contents over his head.
There was now a battle for wing control. Those who had stoked the fire had created deadly enemies for themselves. It didn’t matter to the terrorists because they were committed to a violent cause and some only lived because their bombs didn’t explode. The hardened gang members and individuals (on both sides) who made their lives based on reputational violence didn’t care either.
When you spend years under the same roof with terrorists, you chat in line at dinner or at the gym and learn all sorts of things.
Some are incredibly good communicators and charismatic. They know their subject very well, which typically involves resentment towards the British state.
I often saw a newly arrived prisoner fall under the wing of an extremist or gang member. Groomers, often formidable alpha males, know that a newcomer entering Frankland is likely to be frightened, disoriented, impressionable and possibly resentful of the justice system.
The target is treated kindly, offered good food, and welcomed into a welcoming circle of friends. In a moment of loneliness and despair, this is comforting.
Next, they are exposed to a set of values that differentiate them from the prison population. At a time when you’re confused about your life, this is fascinating and insightful.
They are then offered a reason for their existence, backed up by literature and an ideology. Now that’s a purpose with meaning. And everyone who converts to Islam is given an Arabic name – a new identity that separates them from their culture, their past and possibly their family.
As soon as this change in behavior is noticed by prisoners who do not share the same views, the newcomer is perceived as a threat. Even if only subtly at first, the others behave differently than the convert, which reinforces his carers’ instructions: trust no one but us.
Enlightened extremists know that the right to practice religion makes it difficult for authorities to intervene when they harass other prisoners and spread their ideology, behavior they can easily pass off as spreading faith.
Just before the shouting at Fishmongers’ Hall began, I had taken a photo with Jack Merritt, who came into my life when I moved to Warren Hill Prison in Suffolk in 2016
If terrorists and extremists are allowed to come into contact with other prisoners, it is very difficult to prevent grooming. But it’s not nearly as hard to spot. A possible sign is that you go from being clean-shaven and wearing a Nike tracksuit to suddenly wearing a kameez and sporting a long beard.
Just before the shouting at Fishmongers’ Hall began, I had taken a photo with Jack Merritt, who came into my life when I moved to Warren Hill Prison in Suffolk in 2016. Being in a progressive prison and learning with Jack and his colleagues was a special, great education. It wasn’t just about the academic work: their values of community and kindness were passed on to us, even in the smallest forms.
Jack always turned up to lectures with a bag full of M&S food. We hadn’t eaten something like this for years: it was like enjoying freedom.
When I ran back into the fishmonger’s hall I didn’t see Jack. I asked Simon, one of Learning Together’s PhD students, if Jack was OK.
He shook his head. “What are you saying? You haven’t seen him, have you? He is hurt?’ He continued to shake his head, unable to speak.
A few feet away, the woman who had been stabbed stood motionless as paramedics removed the defibrillator pads and shook her head. Her name was Saskia Jones, a kind-hearted young woman with a bright future.
The next day I stayed in my cell. I learned that the other woman, who had been stabbed multiple times, had barely survived.
But tragically, Jack – the young man who had helped me believe that a good life could lie beyond prison and who cared more about Usman’s future than any of his so-called brothers – was dead.
Steve Gallant was released from prison in August 2021 on the Royal Prerogative of Mercy. He was awarded the Queen’s Medal for Gallantry for his actions during the attack on Fishmongers’ Hall.
lAdaptation of The Road To London Bridge by Steve Gallant (Seven Dials, £8.99), out October 26th. © 2023 Steve Gallant. To order a copy (free delivery on orders over £25), go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.