The Black Widow

by Linda Calvey

  “You dirty slags!”

  “Whores!”

  “Oh my God, have a little decorum,” I laughed back at them.

  Ella and Martina were jogging around the perimeter of the tiny exercise yard while I soaked up the available sunshine on a bench smeared with spit and probably worse. The two IRA girls were very attractive, with slim figures. Both had long hair: Ella was blonde, while Martina was a brunette with curls. Every time they appeared they got a mixture of wolf whistles and abuse.

  Myra Hindley had arrived from Cookham Wood, where I’d first met her, causing a stir throughout the prison. It was fitting that she was incarcerated in the same place as Ian Brady. Brady had been kept here from 1966 to the 70s, when he was moved to Wormwood Scrubs.

  Myra was out in the yard with us, though by this time she was a very sick woman. She suffered from brittle bones and osteoporosis, so usually just sat on the ground, keeping herself to herself. The Rule 43 men – the nonces, child molesters, who were kept separate for their own protection – always used the yard before us girls, and they left it in a terrible state, scrawling obscenities and leaving unmentionable fluids in the areas we had to sit in. We’d complained to Mr Brown and he moved them to a different exercise yard. We often got horrible things shouted at us. Many of the women were child killers, or had done very nasty crimes, and it was an affront to the male criminals. Somehow the fact these murderers were women seemed to shock people more than if they were men. I hadn’t even realised women could be paedophiles before coming here.

  The prison itself was very old. The cells were originally slop-out, but toilets had recently been installed in the women’s wing, dividing cells into two, with a toilet either side for the neighbouring prisoner. We were allowed our own furnishings, so Shelley had brought me in my pretty pink silk and lace bedding, pink silk curtains for the window and some ornamental picture frames with photographs of my newest grandchildren. Melanie had another child by now, and so photos of their cherubic faces lit up my room, which looked like a gypsy caravan, swathed in my beautiful throws and cushions. Mr Smith allowed us to wear our own clothes and even jewellery, so I wore a necklace Mickey had bought me all those years ago. The governor was a very humane man, and stuck to his firm belief that we were still people, even though the girls in his charge had done terrible things.

  “Fuckin’ bitches!”

  I looked over at the man who had shouted the latest indecency.

  “You should wash your mouth out,” I said as I ran round the yard with Ella and Martina. I’d decided to get fit too.

  One of the guards rushed out into the yard.

  “Everyone come in now!”

  Suddenly, we heard an almighty CRACK, CRACK, and Myra let out a scream of pain.

  I stopped immediately and looked over at her. I couldn’t see what was wrong at first, as her kaftan was covering her legs. I could see she’d tried to get up when the guard called everyone in, but something had stopped her.

  “Everybody in!” the screw shouted. We sprinted over to the door, leaving Myra outside on her own.

  “It’s ok, we’ve called you an ambulance,” the guard said.

  Unbeknown to us, one of the girls who had stayed behind in her cell had taken an overdose while the rest of us were out in the yard. Myra, in her brittle condition, had broken two bones in her leg as she had tried to get up.

  When the ambulance came, they couldn’t take both prisoners to the hospital, so the overdose was given priority. Myra had to wait for most of the rest of the day, in that yard, by herself as the men spat abuse and bile at her. No-one even bothered to guard her, as they knew she couldn’t lift herself off the floor. She was clearly in agony, but no-one really had any sympathy with her. How could you?

  Meanwhile, my chats to Reggie were taking place twice a week like clockwork. Once a month I’d get a bouquet of white flowers from him too, and often he’d send his drawings for us to auction to raise money for various causes, including a young boy with a terminal illness.

  “’Allo, it’s Reggie Kray.”

  “Hello Reggie, it’s Linda Calvey.”

  “Listen, Linda.” Reggie paused, and I held the telephone receiver closer to my ear. Suddenly, he sounded a little shy. “I keep thinkin’ of ya and I think we’d do well together. I’d like to ’ave somebody in my life.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Go on, Reggie.”

  “If you’d like to get married, I’d be quite happy to do so.” Reggie had such a polite way of talking.

  I giggled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, do you, Reg? If I went and said I was goin’ to marry Reggie Kray, my chances of comin’ home would be considerably reduced.”

  Reggie coughed. He sounded a bit embarrassed, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “If you were home, and I was home,” I continued, “I’d probably say yes. But we’re both in prison, and this isn’t the real world.” I hoped I hadn’t upset him.

  “You’re right, Linda, forget what I said,” replied Reggie.

  We began to talk about other things, and Reggie began to sound strained. “Listen, Linda. I’m worried about Ron. People think he’s havin’ a cushy ride at Rampton, but it’s ’orrible in there. There’s nothin’ I can do to help. I keep puttin’ in to go and see him, but they keep refusin’ me. I’ve got to get home so I can fight to free my poor Ron.”

  By then, Reggie had served 27 years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. It seemed obvious to me that he’d never get out, but I didn’t say that.

  “If I thought of all the people who’ve done horrendous crimes and ’ave come in, done time then gone home, I’d go mad. I’ve got to keep my focus on getting out of ’ere. Ron’s really ill, ya know.”

  “I hope you do get to see him, Reg, I really do.”

  Only weeks later, Reggie’s prison governor refused to let him see Ronnie, as they said he wasn’t ill enough to warrant a visit. Very soon afterwards, on 17 March 1995, an inmate broke the news that Ronnie’s death had been announced on the radio. Reggie was beside himself with grief and anger at the system that had denied him a last chance to see his twin before he died. I felt for him. I wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.

  The big news in the prison was that mass murderer Rose West would be joining us. She’d just been convicted of murder and sexual abuse, though she’d denied her part in her husband Fred’s sickening killing spree, saying he’d put her up to it. We were all curious to see what this serial killer was like.

  When I first saw her, I was shocked at how frumpy she looked – like an ageing maiden aunt, not the salacious, sex-driven bitch the papers had painted her as. Her large glasses made her eyes boggle out of her head, and she wore old-fashioned cardigans and tweed skirts. She and Myra became friends immediately, as most people kept away from them both.

  One day they were sitting on the landing at a little table with a red-and-white checked cloth, when a screw sidled up to me, saying, “I bet you’d like a camera to take a picture of that.”

  I nodded. Rose and Myra were eating together, chatting away as if they’d known each other for ages. Myra was wearing a brightly coloured kaftan, flowing around her, and had violently dyed red hair, while Rose looked like a small, oversized librarian opposite her. Myra smoked and so she always smelled of ciggies, and her voice, once a soft northern burr, was now gruff and throaty.

  Only a few weeks after Rose arrived, their bizarre friendship ended as quickly as it began. One day they didn’t sit together, and I never saw them speak after that. Former prostitute Rose had become a target for the resident arsonists. Her cell was set on fire. Rose’s budgie ended up covered in black soot and was expected to die. The poor creature was given to a screw to wash and try to revive, but Rose was hysterical. She raged and wept, thrashing her arms against her cell walls, then took to her bed for two days. I couldn’t help but wonder where her perspective was, how s
he could feel all that for a simple bird when she’d killed humans, murdered 10 people in cold blood, including her eight-year-old stepdaughter Charmaine, and torturing the rest.

  I felt utter disgust for her, as did most of the girls, but their spite took an evil turn. It was visiting day, and I’d popped to the workrooms to say hello. This was the place where the girls made cushions to sell, or painted pictures to help themselves cope with life inside. Rose had asked for two stuffed elephants to be made, as her visitor had young twin babies. The guard had asked me to fetch them and bring them up for Rose to hand out. When I picked up one of the toys, I almost dropped it in shock.

  “Oh God, there are pins in this!”

  “Yes, Linda, don’t hold them too tightly, some pins may have fallen in there…” The girl who had made them winked at me.

  I was horrified. “You can’t do that to two babies! It’s bad enough that they’ll carry the name ‘West’, let alone get hurt like that. I won’t say who did it, but I’m goin’ to tell the screw that I think they need re-stuffing.”

  I showed the guard what the girls had done. The stuffing was filled with sharp pins.

  “They need to be taken out carefully, and the toys re-stuffed,” I said.

  I was so happy I did that. Later, I caught a glimpse of the two babies sucking on the ears of the animals, and gave a sigh of relief. The girl who had made the elephants came to find me that evening.

  “I’m so sorry, Linda, thanks for stoppin’ me hurtin’ those babies.”

  Danny’s visits continued every three months, as they had done for years now. We’d grown close, but not in an intimate sense. Despite this, Danny proposed.

  I think we both felt we were in the same situation, and it was his way of making things up to me, but really, the whole idea of getting married was crazy.

  Crazy or not, Danny and I put in to the governor asking to get wed, and he agreed. The girls in my wing were beside themselves, lining up to be bridesmaids, planning the big day with more glee than me or the groom. Danny was at top security Whitemoor Prison in Cambridgeshire, and so he would stay in the male cells during the times he came over. Martina offered me her wedding dress, as did Ronnie Kray’s widow, Kate, who I was in contact with by now, and the date was set: 1 December 1995.

  Charles Bronson, or Charlie as I called him, had been brought to Durham. He was kept in continual solitary, which meant he used the yard alone during his short time at Durham, and had to be kept inside a kind of lion’s cage. He’d be in his cage doing press-ups for an hour, jogging on the spot, waving over to people looking at him from their cells. He had a bald head, a moustache and was very muscly. They couldn’t keep Charlie anywhere long because he was such a dangerous man. A serial hostage-taker, we’d been writing to each other for a while.

  He’d noticed me from the yard as I looked out of my window. He recognised me, and called out, “It’s the Black Widow! I love you, Black Widow, and I’m going to call you the Black Rose! Black Rose! I love you!”

  I had to laugh at that. Charlie proposed to me every three months, but this time, I told him I was marrying Danny.

  He wrote back, saying, “You can have two husbands as long as you don’t have sex with them.”

  He was truly, properly insane.

  Mum visited me in Durham ahead of the wedding. She looked pale and older, probably from the stress of having me as a daughter, and she had grave concerns about my plans.

  “Linda, darlin’, please don’t get married to him. It’ll be bad for you. You don’t know this man, and if you walk down the aisle with him they’ll think you were in cahoots all along.”

  I saw my mum’s logic instantly.

  “Ok, Mum, I won’t. You’re right.”

  When I told the girls what Mum had said, they went bananas. I could see it was the most exciting thing that had happened to my unit for quite a long time, and so, against all the good advice, I decided to go along with it after all. I was wrapped up in that tiny world of prison, and I couldn’t see past having a lovely wedding day, and the connection I thought I had with Ron’s killer. Rashly, my thought process was, “They bloody found me guilty, so I might as well look it.”

  In the end, I wore my daughter Mel’s dress, and both my bridesmaids, Bernie and Maria from the wing, wore black. They were both in for murder. It was a fitting gangster’s wedding, my second in a prison, held in the small chapel at the centre of HMP Durham. Confetti was thrown. We ate cake, then the whole thing was over. Danny and I were allowed a visit, sitting across from each other at a table in Durham’s visitor room, looking incongruous in our wedding garb.

  Danny and I had made a huge mistake.

  I’d mistaken our relationship for something more than it was, and so had Danny. More significantly, though, it made us look guilty. Our wedding made it seem like we’d planned to get rid of Ron and be together after all.

  My mother had been right. I’d made the world believe I was guilty, just as the court said I was.

  Chapter 27

  Doing Time

  1995-99

  I’m told the five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance. I’d been through two of those at the start of my sentence, and until my appeal, I had been trying to bargain my way out. When my hopes of early release were crushed by the Appeal Court judge, I could’ve sunk into deep depression, but something stopped me. Something made me dig in, put my head down and stay determined not to let the system break me. I don’t know if it was the strength of character I inherited from my mother. I don’t know if it was sheer bloody-mindedness, but I wouldn’t let go of the fact that one day I would walk free.

  So, what did I do to get through years of prison life? I adjusted my focus, got on with my cleaning jobs, my work serving breakfast or dinner, and was friendly and chatty to the girls I was banged up with. I listened to plays on Radio 4, I wrote to Danny, Reggie and Charlie, and I got on with it. I won’t say there weren’t days when I railed against my fate, but I was stubborn in my determination not to let that take over.

  It takes strength to survive prison, especially high security jails where the rules are stricter, where inmates can be locked up for 22 of every 24 hours, where the size of our cells measured no more than 11ft by 5ft. Living alongside truly evil people such as Myra and Rose was the worst part of it. They had some indefinable darkness about them, which is why they were avoided by most of the girls. Neither Myra nor Rose showed any remorse or warmth in their personalities. Both were as cold-hearted as they were twisted, and neither ever spoke of their crimes – a fact that used to make me shudder. I witnessed so much that sickened me, and yet I got through it. I’m a survivor. I wouldn’t just give up and go under, even when things took a very nasty turn.

  “Bye Mum, bye Dad. I love you,” I said, finishing my phone call.

  I always felt a bit teary after speaking to them. I knew it can’t have been easy for them, keeping an eye on Mel and Neil, keeping the family together while I was in prison. They had suffered as much as I had from the miscarriage of justice that saw their daughter incarcerated for a crime she didn’t do. They must’ve battled feelings of unfairness, though they never said anything to me. That was their way of protecting me, carrying part of the burden themselves.

  It was a Sunday morning in Durham and the wing was very short-staffed, but a screw was waiting to take me back, as we had to be locked in when there weren’t enough guards to let us out.

  Walking back, a buzzer sounded. It was loud and urgent.

  “Keep walking, Linda, that’s one of the self-harmers. I’ll have to go and see her, but I can’t get back up to put you back in your cell.”

  “It’s ok, you go and help her,” I said, “I’ll pace up and down for a bit. Go.”

  “Ok, let me see what she wants.” The screw grimaced, though in a friendly way.

  None of the guards bothered m
e much. They knew I wasn’t a trouble-maker, and so they didn’t worry about me causing havoc at a time like this. I was enjoying being able to stretch my legs. Some of the girls would go crazy when they were allowed out to use the phone – they’d refuse to go back in their cells, kick up a stink of screaming and shouting. I couldn’t blame them. It was hard being locked in a tiny space with little to occupy yourself, and many of the younger girls got very angry, even violent, as a result. I was never like that. I didn’t see the point. Besides, it always annoyed everyone else on the wing because it ruined their peace, so kicking up a fuss wouldn’t have made me very popular.

  I watched the screw leg it up to the cells that lined the overhanging balcony area.

  “Oh my God, Linda, LINDA!” the screw shouted.

  “What is it?” I followed her up those steps as fast as I could in my pink fluffy slippers, which looked out of place against the polished floor and metal steps.

  The screw turned to me and grabbed my shoulders. She was shaking.

  My stomach flipped. If a guard was upset, then there was something nasty afoot.

  “Linda, please go in there with her, while I call for an ambulance.”

  “Ok, of course I will,” I said, and immediately regretted my decision.

  Walking inside that girl’s cell, I saw immediately that half her face was hanging off, revealing her cheek and jaw bones. There was blood pouring down her neck, spreading across her clothes and the floor.

  “Oh darlin’, what ’ave you done?” I said as calmly as I could.

  My first impulse was to vomit, then run, but I couldn’t leave that poor girl alone. My instincts were screaming at me to leave that cell, but I saw she needed help and so I stayed.

  Sitting beside her as gently as I could, I said, “What’s happened?”

  “They told me to do it.” The girl’s voice was small. She didn’t appear to feel any pain, but kept her eyes on the floor. She looked twitchy, unpredictable, and I realised that I was alone with her.