Mayhem: One of Australia’s weirdest criminals and notorious robber Christopher ‘Badness’ Binse details his remarkable escape plot in new book

CHRISTOPHER “Badness” Binse is a notorious robber and master escape artist who has attempted to flee custody eight times. And now he reveals it all in a new book.

Christopher ‘Badness’ Binse has detailed his remarkable escape plot from jail in a new book.

HE is one of Australia’s weirdest criminals. Christopher “Badness” Binse is a notorious robber and master escape artist — he has attempted to flee custody eight times.

His most daring escape came in 1992 from Parramatta jail.

On the run and looking to fund a new life in Queensland, Binse staged a daring solo armed bank robbery, but was recaptured with his girlfriend Roxy when her friend Bill ratted the pair out.

He tells the story of his remarkable escape to author Matthew Thompson.

MAYHEM: THE STRANGE AND SAVAGE SAGA OF CHRISTOPHER ‘BADNESS’ BINSE

AS big a headache as life on the run can be, it’s never a relief getting captured. The whole point is: I escape to be out of custody. Getting captured crushes you. It depletes you. It takes all the air out of you.

Mayhem by Matthew Thompson

And on top of this, on top of f---ing everything, I know that it will be affecting my sick father. He’s in poor health. I don’t want to dwell on it so I don’t.

The only way forward is to escape. This is the thought that lifts me out of despair.

Within days I’m scanning the terrain for weak spots. I’m getting out. I know I can.

I meet a few good blokes and say to one of ’em, “Mate, can we get out of here?”

He points out the reception, which we’re overlooking from up here in 5 Wing. If we can get out through one of the windows here, drop to the roof of the old store that stretches along below us, and jump the gap between that roof and the roof of the reception area, then we’re past everything except for the main gate, which is left open.

Problem is there’s a watchtower above us. But in studying the angles, I can tell that if the screw sits in the tower then he has a blind spot: when we’re right below him, he can’t see us.

It’s very audacious — a very audacious plan.

Roxy is bailed and visits, feeling bad that her f---ing great mate, Bill, got me arrested.

She can help sort it out, I tell her. We’re gonna crack this place pronto. “Be ready for the move.”

I need hacksaw blades and the price of getting them in is negotiated down to a strip of Serepax and a hypodermic syringe.

Roxy has a nurse girlfriend who takes care of that side. The meds are taped to the blades and we’re all good to go. There’s a park next to the jail; Roxy takes some dogs for a walk, strolling by, letting them sniff about like dogs do. When the screws aren’t looking, bang: she throws four hacksaw blades and some zombie meds into the oval.

I had considered getting a gun but thought, “Nah, don’t need to do that.” Plus, the people doing the oval pick-up would be s---ting themselves.

For this escape, I am going to have to hide in the wing and get access to the top landing’s windows and grilled bars overlooking the newly built reception area and gate entry.

A few inmates are vouched for by someone who’d know. “They’re sweet,” he says. “All on remand, and if there’s a chance: all keen to go.”

“‘I’m good for cutting the bars,” I tell this small group. “What I need is cover.”

We hang a towel over a rail to strategically block me as I cut the landing bar, and they’re watching my back. However, there’s a lot of movement in this area and the window is a favourite point for many to wave goodbye to visitors. I’m having to stop all the time.

A walk through the old Parramatta jail which could possibly open again after some light renovations due to a lack of beds in the jail system. The overall facade looks in pretty good condition. Picture: Adam Taylor

In order to avoid the constant activity, I decide to hide inside the wing when all the inmates are supposed to be in the compound yard. It’s a big risk not having someone to watch my back, but at least I’ll get more done.

It’s going well now that I’m getting in half-hour blocks of cutting. At the end of each session, I patch up the gap with soap and paint.

I’m getting a nice smooth flow happening this time but f--- there’s keys rattling; someone’s coming up the stairs. I patch the cut and run into the nearest cell, tucking the hacksaw blades into the top pocket of overalls hanging on the door hook.

The screw’s boots come to a stop out the front of this cell. Maybe he’s seen me — the towel on the rail is only good for certain angles.

My heart’s f---ing racing; I’m holding my breath.

And he walks in. “Not your cell, is it?” he says. “You’re the peda thief (prison slang for cell robber),” meaning he thinks I’m the putrid thief that’s been active on the top landing.

This offends me, I’m totally against that s---.

He starts searching me. Nothing. “What are you doing here?”

“The bloke said I could, um.” At last my brain’s starting to outpace my heart. “Said I could lend some of his stick mags. Not a lot of privacy other times, you know.”

I’m frogmarched out to the yard with a stern warning that if anything is reported missing from the top landing, I am to blame.

The officer also tells the wing sweepers and the inmates with cleaning jobs to keep a close eye on me because I am the No. 1 suspect for being the peda thief.

Wasting no time, I find the bloke whose cell it is. “Listen, mate,” I say. “I’m not a peda thief. I was in there for a reason. I don’t really want to tell ya but I will … because I’m up to no good and it’s not stealing. Check your overalls. There’s something there that belongs to me. I had to hide it, you know. I’m doing something. I had to duck in ’cos the screw was coming. I hear him and ran to the first cell, you know.”

He is rapt. “Anytime I can help,” he says. “Don’t worry. If you want to use my cell or whatever — fine.”

This bloke will get bail in a week and then die in a car crash a fortnight after.

I stop work for a few days to let the heat die down. The fellas are now realising just how close this is getting; I’ve cut completely through one end of the bar and I’m halfway through the other. Another third of the way and we should be able to bend it up.

The big question is, what then? There are some variables and some challenges.

First the tower and catwalk above us. The screw’s blind spot only exists when he’s sitting.

A second factor to deal with is the roof below us, which is going to serve as our runway. To get airborne we’ll have to run down the 45-degree slope of the f---ing rickety old slate roof, clear a half metre barrel of razor wire that extends along the gutter, and leap about four metres on to the reception roof, itself steep. Between the two buildings is a six-metre drop on to concrete.

Christopher "Badness" Binse in his younger days.

Luckily, the reception roof is lower than the old store roof, so we can afford to lose a bit of height in the leap over. But then there’s the razor wire to clear before takeoff. And anything we take with us will weigh us down; for me, that’s sheets for the abseiling and a bag of civilian court clothes tied to my back.

There is also a tower further away that has a line of sight which, in turn, means a direct line of fire: tower guards have rifles.

A further headache is that when we’ve crossed the reception roof, we no longer have to pass through the internal gate — only over the inner perimeter barbed wire fence — but that gate is in constant use by transport vans and visitors and the guards there have handguns.

Audacious, I admit, but doable.

The other blokes, however, seem to be under the impression that we are going to fashion a ladder out of landing rails and use that to bridge the gap.

“It’s a jump,” I tell ’em. “Too much time working it; and too much exposure to the towers when we’re on the bridge.” I don’t want to waste one more moment than I have to or I’m going to get shot.

The general urgency to get out diminishes. “Oh no, I’m going to get bail” or “I’m gonna beat the charge.” They all pull the pin.

The next step is to practise the jumps, so I go into training in the yard, doing countless leapfrogs and a stack of hop, skip and jumps. There are a lot of funny looks from both inmates and screws wondering what the f--- I am up to. “Good to stay in shape,” I say, and “I’ve always liked athletics.”

The supervisor’s office summons me to inform me that Dad has died.

My arrest killed him. He was dying, I know, but that crushed him.

Surveillance tape of Christopher Dean Binse aka "Badness" mounting counter during an armed hold-up at a Chatswood bank in 1992

I’m guilty. He’s died of a broken heart knowing that he helped his son escape and now I’m pinched on all this other stuff. Would have crushed him.

I’m conscious of this. I have regret. I’m responsible for contributing to his condition and now’s he just lost the will.

“Dad,” I’m saying to myself. “I wish you had just held out for two weeks.” I’m lost. “Dad, don’t worry, I’ll be out.” But he’s dead. He died not knowing this. “Dad, I’ll be out in no time.”

Well, if I don’t make it, then I’ll be with him. And if I do make the jump and don’t catch a bullet, then he’ll be watching over me. He’ll know.

I don’t really care either way.

Now I have to make a rope for lassoing the ventilation pipe on the reception roof and swinging over the inner perimeter razor wire fence in no man’s land, landing near the entrance of the open gate, hoping that no screws are out at the time.

D-Day: Saturday October 24, 1992.

It’s two weeks since my 24th birthday and it’s 2.10pm.

I wave to Roxy, who has parked a stolen Ford ute on the nature strip. It’s facing me and the gate entrance because I calculated that it would take me 10 seconds to reach the gate and if the ute also reaches the gate right at that instant, I’ll just jump in the back and then we’ll peel away and be gone. That’s if I survive the jump and the guards and all goes well.

The car starts rolling and so do I.

Bar’s out of the way and I abseil from the window, leaving the knotted sheets behind, basically waving a look-at-me flag to the towers. I land on the old slatted roof, walk the length once to size it up, then run and leap.

I’m on reception, momentum driving me forward instead of teetering back.

Binse being driven out of St.Kilda Road Police Headquarters after one of his many arrests.

Crack. A shot, he’s f---ing shooting from the oval tower but I surge to the other side of the roof and out of his vision, loop the pipe, and launch out and over the inner fence. Except I don’t — the f---ing rope snaps and I crash inside no man’s land. What the f---? This is not working how it’s supposed to. My adrenaline is just going off.

F--- me, the other tower’s got a clear shot from nine metres away and I’m scrambling over the razor wire fence, slicing myself stupid but it’s go, go, go before bullets punch through me.

I land hard on the other side, sprint out the front gate and bump into a visitor, but Roxy has crawled the ute to the gate with perfect f---ing timing and I vault into the rear, haul canvas over in case the towers are scoping me, and we’re the f--- gone.

There’s a gun waiting in case I have to return fire but I can’t even pick it up, my hand and wrist are so f---ed up from the fall; wouldn’t be surprised if something’s fractured. I have to go left-handed. Luckily on my commando ranch, I practise target shooting left and right-handed, just in case. I’m ambidextrous.

A short distance down the road Edward James “Jockey” Smith (aka Jimmy Smith) is at the rendezvous point. We dump the ute and jump in with him, Roxy up front and me in the back. It’s awkward getting changed with this wrist and some f---ing nasty cuts, but all things are possible.

Yes, all things are possible. All f---ing things are possible. Anything is. Everything is.

Years later the guard who opened fire on me leaves the job in Sydney and comes to work as a prison officer in Victoria. I actually meet him in Banksia [a unit at Barwon prison].

I remember his name ’cos I’d read his police statement. He says to me, “I’ve worked in Sydney.”

“Yeah, really? Where?”

“Parramatta.”

“F--- off! Now I know. F---, you made a statement. Were you in Parra when I escaped?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you in 5 Tower?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a f---ing bodgy shot.”

“I wasn’t a bodgy shot. The rifle was crooked.”

*Binse is serving at least 18 years and two months at Barwon jail for armed robbery and shooting at police and was classified a “high security risk” prisoner when sentenced in 2014.

This is an edited extract from Mayhem: The strange and savage saga of Christopher ‘Badness’ Binse by Matthew Thompson, Macmillan Australia, rrp $34.90. Buy for $29.95 inc delivery at heraldsun.com.au/shop or post a cheque OR money order to PO Box 14730, Melbourne VIC 8001