The Black Widow

by Linda Calvey

  “If it was in my power, I’d give you 21 years. But that would be pointless, because you would win your appeal. So I have no choice but to give you the biggest sentence I can. I hope you serve all of your sentence of seven years in prison.”

  The court was agog. I don’t think any of us had heard an eminent judge speak that way before. Mum’s face was a picture of utter devastation. I looked over at her as the screw took my arm and led me away from the court room. No-one spoke. I tried to smile, but I was like ice. No other person in the police or legal services had ever made that assumption about me before.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” breathed the female screw as she took me down. My hand left Tony’s as he was led away, and I descended the steps leading me down towards prison life.

  Chapter 21

  Myra

  1985-88

  In the bowels of the court sat a screw, knitting as she waited for me to arrive. She looked up at me as I descended, and gave a long, slow whistle.

  “That’s the biggest sentence in Holloway, and you weren’t even on remand. How are you going to do it?”

  I looked around, taking in the municipal walls and furniture of the court cell block, as far from my spruced-up luxurious home, with its chandelier and velvet sofas, as it was possible to be.

  “I did the crime, I’ll have to do the time,” I said, though I was in a state of shock. I was numb, barely able to speak.

  I followed the screws to the exit, where I was taken in a police van to Holloway, the place that would be my home for the next seven years. As we pulled up, I stared up at the infamous red-brick walls in utter disbelief.

  “Turn yer head and pray to God,” a woman in the reception area was intoning as her female companion hit her head repeatedly against the wall. The place stank of disinfectant, and I suddenly felt conspicuous in my cream-coloured silk Harrods suit. I’d given my Cartier watch, diamond necklace and rings to my solicitor back in Southwark to pass to my family, as we were only allowed religious items such as a Cross or a Star of David. But apart from the expensive clothes I was wearing, I had nothing: no money, no proper clothing, not even a toothbrush.

  I’d expected to go free. My arrogance, my wilful ignorance, my stubborn pride in believing I’d somehow walk out of the courtroom home to my children, had left me totally ill-equipped. It was akin to culture shock. I was given a pair of jelly plastic shoes, a towel and flannel, with HMP stamped on one side, a bar of soap and a wrap of green powder which I bathed in, assuming it was bath salts. I was wrong: it was tooth powder. And so I started my life with a borrowed second-hand tube of cheap toothpaste and little else. It was undignified, as it was meant to be.

  As the metal door was shut behind me, I stared around at the tiny cell with its grey brick walls and single bed. I had a small table, a chair, a toilet in the corner and nothing else. The air was fetid with the sweat and horror of girls shrieking and crying from their cells all night long. I didn’t know it, but those cries were coming from the C1 wing. The prisoners held there should’ve been in a mental hospital, but due to overcrowding and cuts, they were here.

  Shattered, I lay on the hard bed, my scratchy woollen prison-issue blanket covering me, waiting for morning light, hoping and praying I’d get through. That sleepless night, I had plenty of time to review my life, as the sound of girls screaming, wailing, begging and laughing manically pierced through the walls. I remembered the anguish on my mother’s face in that courtroom as my sentence was handed down. She’d had no idea I was a robber, all the time assuming Brian had paid for my house and lifestyle.

  When I was arrested for robbery, it was the first anyone knew what I’d been up to. The shockwaves spread through my family like a tsunami. They’d all known Mickey was a gangster, but me? They just couldn’t believe it. They’d always seen me baking or ironing at home, helping Mum bring up the younger kids, wiping their bottoms, brushing their hair and making them rounds of sandwiches over the years. I was a motherly girl, protective of my family. I liked to keep them safe and away from trouble. But another side of me walked a path that most other people would run from. I didn’t bat an eyelid at the sight of violence, or associating with infamous criminals, or living off stolen money. I’d kept that part of my life totally secret.

  Shock and fear rolled into one. My kids’ lives were in ruins – again. I’d betrayed their trust, and goodness knows what would happen to them during my long stretch. I knew they would be cared for by my family, but it wasn’t the same as being home with me. They’d had so much disruption in their lives, they’d struggled with my relationship with Ron, they’d moved from place to place as I spent money, lavished them with toys and clothes, and walked straight into a trap of my own making.

  One good thing – the only good thing – about my jail sentence was that it kept me safe from Ron. I had no idea how he’d react when he found out I had been with Brian. And I knew he would.

  Each morning, a screw would pass my breakfast through the hatch in my door. For the first three days I would be confined to my individual cell, until they worked out what sort of prisoner I was going to be: a troublemaker, violent, or hell-bent on suicide. The first morning, I was given a single slice of cheap white bread scraped with margarine and two slices of oily streaky bacon.

  “I’ll die of starvation before my sentence is finished!” I joked, staring down at the meagre contents of my blue plastic plate. Later, I was given a green scouring pad, a bucket and some yellow carbolic soap.

  “Your job is to clean the corridor floors,” the screw, a woman in her mid-forties, said – not unkindly.

  So there I was, scrubbing floors on my hands and knees, wearing my designer suit, because I was waiting for family to bring in some suitable prison garb. I was allowed three sets of clothes: one smart set with flat heels for visits, two tracksuits, and a pair of slippers. Wearing casual clothing almost killed me. I liked to look good, wear nice clothes and make myself up. I wasn’t allowed face cream or make-up, and so I had to wait until the end of my first week of scrubbing floors to take my wages – all of 75 pence – to the prison shop. The only thing I could afford was a pot of Nivea and a bar of nicer soap. I was allowed to have 10 photographs in my cell, so if anyone posted me any, I had to decide which to keep and which to hand back. It was a hell of a reality check. My life, once lived entirely by my own rules, became completely regimented.

  I didn’t rail against it, though. I knew I had to pay for my crimes, and I was guilty. I didn’t lash out or get upset, like many of the other inmates, because there wasn’t any point. I accepted it, and got on with it – and discovered, to my surprise, I was much more resilient than I’d realised. My life had been addictive with its fast thrills and high risk. I’d become like a junkie, wanting more and more excitement every week. It had been like a huge high, and now I was coming crashing down.

  After those three hellish days and nights in my cell, I was moved to a dorm of four. I formed a good bond with the other girls sharing the room with me, and we came up with all sorts of tricks to make our life in Holloway more bearable. We knew that the remand wing was just across the yard from us, and that prisoners on remand were allowed to have supplies sent in to them from outside – food, sweets, sometimes even wine. So we started sending out one of the girls in my dorm to ask for treats. Her name was called Bobble (she always wore a bobble hat) and she’d go out into the yard holding a bin bag, telling the guards she was just going out to pick up litter. The officers would let her out, thinking she was doing them a favour, and she’d go and walk up and down beneath the windows of the remand wing, calling out, “Anything for the convicted?” It gave us all a good laugh, along with the occasional treat from prisoners who had more privileges than us.

  Over the weeks, I received letters from Tony in Maidstone prison. The letters were always opened and read by prison staff before I got them. Tony graciously forgave me for landing him in trouble for something he didn’t d
o. He wrote that he’d met my old friend Billy Blundell in Maidstone, and talked about me a lot. Billy wasn’t the most notorious name in Maidstone, though. Reggie Kray was banged up there too, and Tony wrote that he and Billy had told Reg all about me.

  I was taken out every so often to see Brian and Ronnie separately. When I first made it to Brixton to see Brian, he had a stern look on his face as he took his seat in the visiting room.

  “It’s serious, Linda. Ron knows about us being together. It’s been in all the papers, and there’s no way he’ll have missed it. I had to go and see the guv’nor when they convicted me.”

  My head spun. As long as either Ron or I were behind bars, I hoped I’d be safe, but what would I do once we were both out? “What did you say to the guv’nor?” I asked.

  “I told him that Ron and me can never, ever be in the same prison. If they ever put us in together, one of us will end up dead. I know it. The guv’nor took me seriously, thank God. He says he’ll make sure we’re always kept apart.”

  I was full of trepidation the next time I was let out to visit Ron. I knew I couldn’t just stop going to see him, or that would simply confirm the rumours.

  Ron walked in to the visiting room with a pile of newspapers under one arm and a box of chocolates under the other.

  “Look at this, that scumbag has really mugged me off,” he said, throwing the newspaper down on the table. My chest tightened. “I swear I’ll bury him if I can get it done. And there’s every chance I can, Linda.”

  “What do you mean, Ron? What are you talking about?”

  “I am a wealthy man and have a lot of friends in prison,” he sneered. “I can send messages to everyone I know, and I will make sure Brian’s a dead man.”

  I was terrified. Was he angry at Brian just because of our going out on the pavement together, or did he know we’d been living together?

  Thankfully, his face softened, and he looked at me sympathetically. “How will you manage?” he asked. Ronnie thought life in a women’s prison would be a lot harder and rougher for me than it was for him in a men’s prison. “Listen, Linda, I love ya and I can’t wait till we can be together again. I just want you to be alright in there. I can’t forgive Brian for gettin’ ya banged up.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Ronnie was still besotted with me. He hated Brian with a passion, and blamed him for everything, but I’d got away with it. I had to let Brian know that Ron would be trying to get him hurt through his contacts in Brixton, but I knew Brian was a careful man and would be able to look after himself.

  “So, ’ave ya been true to me?” Ron suddenly asked.

  His eyes bored into mine, though his expression was tender now. His time away had aged him. He had grey hairs amongst the brown, and his face was more lined than I remembered. But he still had that cold, hard stare.

  I faced him up, stared right back, and said, “Of course I have, Ron.” It was the only way to deal with him. One whiff of fear and he’d have crushed me.

  “That bastard Brian has a lot to answer for. There hasn’t been anything going on with him, then?”

  My heart began to thump. Did he know? I looked him dead in the eye. “No Ron, of course there’s nothing going on.”

  “You know what would ’appen if ya hadn’t been true to me, Linda?” His face didn’t betray a single emotion.

  “No, I don’t know, Ron.”

  “I would ’ave added ya to my list.”

  Ron sat back, crossing his arms, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He liked taunting me. He meant his list of people to kill, of course – the one he’d boasted of when he threatened my brother, and my son.

  “Don’t say things like that, Ron, there’s no need.”

  “See what you’ve done to me. There’s another one goin’ on my list.” He paused.

  “Who’s that then, Ron?”

  “Your brother Tony.”

  Ron paused again to see the effect on me. I stared at him, speechless.

  “When I was in Maidstone,” Ron went on, “he wouldn’t talk to me. Your Tony thought he was protected because he was mates with Billy Blundell. Billy thought he was bein’ clever, tellin’ Tony there was no need to talk to Ron Cook.”

  “Tony hasn’t done anythin’ to you,” I felt compelled to say, cautiously.

  “Yes, he has. Every time I wanted to know what was goin’ on with you, his guard dog Blundell would come over.” He paused, holding my gaze. “Brian’s on my list now too.”

  “That’s a big list, Ron,” I said, knowing my poor Neil was at the top.

  “I won’t do anythin’ in ’ere. I want to get out as quickly as possible,” Ron finished.

  It was clear our meeting was over. I felt shaken up. I’d contrived to forget Ron during my time with Brian, seeing my visits to him as a necessary evil, but now I was right back in the mess. Ron still had enormous power. Menace radiated from him. I’d gone all that way to prove my innocence to him, and yet again, I’d told a pack of lies designed to keep myself and my family safe.

  I exhaled as he was led out, smiling up at him, trying to look like the faithful girlfriend I was pretending to be. How long would my lie convince him? I had no answer to that.

  The cries from the psychiatric patients in the C1 wing continued every night. C1 was notorious. It was the secure unit with all the vulnerable girls prone to self-mutilation and suicide attempts. Many of the women incarcerated there were mentally ill, and in my opinion, should never have been in the prison system at all.

  A girl in my dorm called Linda came back from work with horrific stories about C1. There was an unstable girl in there who had cut off her nipples. Another time, one of the new arrivals broke one of the china sinks in the toilets and tried to saw off her leg.

  But the worst thing was that the inmates would copy each other, due to their extremely delicate mental state. When one of the girls decided to throw her cup of tea out of the cell into the corridor, she’d shout out, “I’m going to throw my cup of tea out!” at which point there would be copycat calls of “So am I!” “So am I!” from all along the row. Soon enough, one cup of boiling tea after another would come crashing out of the cells into the corridor, leaving shards of broken china and a slippery mess all the way up past the cells.

  Each time, these copycat actions became more severe. Soon, the girls in C1 were throwing their dinner out of their cells – “I’m going to throw my dinner plate out!” “So am I!” – and once again there was a horrible mess to clean up afterwards.

  And one day, Linda came back from work in an absolute state.

  “Oh my God, Linda, oh my God,” she wailed to me, “It was worse than ever today! It was awful!”

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

  “One of the girls on C1,” she stammered. “She shouted out that she was going to pull her eye out. Then the rest of them started shouting that they were going to pull their eyes out too!”

  Linda had rushed from cell to cell, frantically trying to reassure each and every patient on the wing that the girl who’d shouted out first hadn’t actually pulled her eye out, and that none of the others were doing it either.

  But when she came to the cell belonging to the girl who had shouted out first, her stomach turned somersaults. There, lying on the ground outside her cell, was a lone eyeball, torn messily straight out of its socket.

  The girl was lying unconscious on the floor of her cell. Distraught, Linda screamed for help. When the nurse came, she picked up the eyeball in a tissue, to stop any of the other girls seeing it and getting ideas again.

  Linda put her arm out to stop her. “That tissue’s dirty! You can’t pick her eye up in that!”

  The nurse looked at her sadly. “Oh, love. It’s not like it’s any good to her now, is it?”

  Holloway was a bizarre place, so I was relieved when I got moved to Cookham W
ood in Kent. It was there that I met Moors Murderess Myra Hindley for the first time.

  “What’s that for?” I asked the screw showing me round, pointing to a black and yellow strip shutting off part of the laundry.

  “That’s to stop people crossing into Myra’s area. No-one’s allowed near her. You cross that, they’ll add time to your sentence.”

  It was one thing being in prison, another being in the same place as the sadistic child killer. She was universally hated, by inmates and screws alike. Just knowing she was there sent shivers down my spine.

  I’d followed the story, her and Ian Brady’s arrests in October 1965 sending shockwaves through the country. I couldn’t believe I was serving time in the same place as a woman who had assisted in the murder of five children, four of whom had been sexually assaulted. They were sickening crimes, and inconceivable that a woman could have been involved in them. It was uncanny to be walking the same corridors as her, although our paths hadn’t crossed – yet.

  “You can work in the library,” the screw said, grinning.

  “But, I don’t read books,” I said.

  “I’ve decided you’re the best person for the library,” the screw chuckled. “You start today.”

  The library was next to the laundry. I hadn’t been working in there for more than an hour when the screw came back and told me to go and pick up my washing before the queues formed at evening break.

  “Of course I will, darlin’,” I said. I walked over, then stopped dead.

  Someone was singing.

  I peered in. There was a solitary figure bent over, scooping up clothes, singing to herself, carefree as anything.

  It was Myra.

  Something in me rose up. I lost my cool. Without thinking, I marched across the forbidden tape. Myra looked up to see who was coming. She had that familiar, creepy face, but with brown hair, and she looked older and smaller than her photos in the papers. My hand itched.

  I slapped her hard around the face.