Read Online The Wicked Mr Hall by Roy Archibald Hall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roy Archibald Hall
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currency. For me one trade led to another, it gave me an interest, something to do.
It was no secret that I smoked, but no one but me knew of the young warder’s sexual inclinations. Gradually the dynamics of our relationship changed. I knew his secret, it was in his interests to keep me happy. Hanging still took place in British prisons and at that time there was a man in Barlinie awaiting execution. For reasons I didn’t really understand, I wanted to see the death cell. No con ever saw this and if you did you never got a chance to tell the tale. I pestered the warder for days and eventually, when no other cons or warders were around, he unlocked the door and I stepped inside. I realised immediately that if we could get a photograph, the tabloid press would pay thousands for it. I pressed the idea, tried to persuade him that if we used a third party, no one need ever know wehad instigated it. He baulked at this, because if found out, he would lose his job and be prosecuted under the Official Secrets Act. I stopped pestering him about the photo and satisfied my curiosity by walking around the cell. To call it a cell was not an adequate description. It consisted of three levels – the top of the gallows where the rope and pulley system were, the trap door where the prisoner stands with a bag on his head and rope around his neck, and the sandpit below where, with his neck stretched, he would dangle. Standing on the trap door and looking through the hatch in the ceiling to the top of the gallows, I said: ‘Who’d be a murderer and risk finding himself standing here?’ I didn’t know then that if it hadn’t been for the Abolitionists that is exactly where I would have later stood. Maybe subconsciously, we know things about ourselves that we’d rather not.
As I approached the end of my sentence, I was transferred to Duke Street women’s prison. This was where, years ago, my mother had lived for a month. Now it had all but been closed down and most of the inmates had been moved to a modern new jail in Greenock. There was now just a skeleton staff and a few prisoners, whose duties were to pack up all stores and sundries before the old prison was consigned to the pages of history. I was assigned to work under the Steward. My duties were to parcel up and label remaining stores and to clean the Steward’s office every morning. The Governor’s office was next to the office I cleaned. It was cleaned by one of the female prisoners. The bolts that locked it were on her side. We became friendly. If we were caught fraternising itwould mean the punishment block and time added onto our sentences so we had to exercise the utmost care. Once the offices had been cleaned, any rubbish or ashes had to be emptied at the rubbish tip. Before she would make this walk, my friend would tap on the door. She would start her walk to the huge dustbins and a minute later I would follow. There, among the piles of garbage and industrial-sized bins, we would grab each other. Using the bins as cover, we would lean against the cold metal and fuck. For both of us, those few minutes would be the only happiness that the day contained. We would walk back to prison life separately one minute apart. Such is the life of convicts.
* * *
It was 6.00am on a cold winter morning in 1955 when I stepped free, back on to the Glasgow streets of my childhood. I visited a few friends, and picked up some initial moving about money. Then, after buying a dozen red roses, I caught the train to Edinburgh. When I walked through the front door of Esther’s shop, the cleaning lady started giving me verbal abuse: ‘How dare you show your face here? How could you betray your friendship with Esther?’ I just smiled and, walking over to Esther, gave her the roses. The lady from whom I’d robbed a fortune smiled back. Esther had class. She still wanted to buy back her jewels. She asked me whether that was possible and I said: ‘Esther, you are an immensely wealthy woman.
It was no secret that I smoked, but no one but me knew of the young warder’s sexual inclinations. Gradually the dynamics of our relationship changed. I knew his secret, it was in his interests to keep me happy. Hanging still took place in British prisons and at that time there was a man in Barlinie awaiting execution. For reasons I didn’t really understand, I wanted to see the death cell. No con ever saw this and if you did you never got a chance to tell the tale. I pestered the warder for days and eventually, when no other cons or warders were around, he unlocked the door and I stepped inside. I realised immediately that if we could get a photograph, the tabloid press would pay thousands for it. I pressed the idea, tried to persuade him that if we used a third party, no one need ever know wehad instigated it. He baulked at this, because if found out, he would lose his job and be prosecuted under the Official Secrets Act. I stopped pestering him about the photo and satisfied my curiosity by walking around the cell. To call it a cell was not an adequate description. It consisted of three levels – the top of the gallows where the rope and pulley system were, the trap door where the prisoner stands with a bag on his head and rope around his neck, and the sandpit below where, with his neck stretched, he would dangle. Standing on the trap door and looking through the hatch in the ceiling to the top of the gallows, I said: ‘Who’d be a murderer and risk finding himself standing here?’ I didn’t know then that if it hadn’t been for the Abolitionists that is exactly where I would have later stood. Maybe subconsciously, we know things about ourselves that we’d rather not.
As I approached the end of my sentence, I was transferred to Duke Street women’s prison. This was where, years ago, my mother had lived for a month. Now it had all but been closed down and most of the inmates had been moved to a modern new jail in Greenock. There was now just a skeleton staff and a few prisoners, whose duties were to pack up all stores and sundries before the old prison was consigned to the pages of history. I was assigned to work under the Steward. My duties were to parcel up and label remaining stores and to clean the Steward’s office every morning. The Governor’s office was next to the office I cleaned. It was cleaned by one of the female prisoners. The bolts that locked it were on her side. We became friendly. If we were caught fraternising itwould mean the punishment block and time added onto our sentences so we had to exercise the utmost care. Once the offices had been cleaned, any rubbish or ashes had to be emptied at the rubbish tip. Before she would make this walk, my friend would tap on the door. She would start her walk to the huge dustbins and a minute later I would follow. There, among the piles of garbage and industrial-sized bins, we would grab each other. Using the bins as cover, we would lean against the cold metal and fuck. For both of us, those few minutes would be the only happiness that the day contained. We would walk back to prison life separately one minute apart. Such is the life of convicts.
* * *
It was 6.00am on a cold winter morning in 1955 when I stepped free, back on to the Glasgow streets of my childhood. I visited a few friends, and picked up some initial moving about money. Then, after buying a dozen red roses, I caught the train to Edinburgh. When I walked through the front door of Esther’s shop, the cleaning lady started giving me verbal abuse: ‘How dare you show your face here? How could you betray your friendship with Esther?’ I just smiled and, walking over to Esther, gave her the roses. The lady from whom I’d robbed a fortune smiled back. Esther had class. She still wanted to buy back her jewels. She asked me whether that was possible and I said: ‘Esther, you are an immensely wealthy woman.
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