A Coin for the Hangman

by Spurrier, Ralph

  Jim Lees was becoming accustomed to the routine. This time, however, there was something about Reg’s pursed lips that told him that this wasn’t going to be so straight forward. He leaned his eye to the peep-hole. It took a few seconds to adjust to the different level of light inside the cell, the fading sun shining bleakly through the window high up on the opposite wall. Jim involuntarily started back. “Bloody hell, Reg, the bugger’s a right porker.”

  Reg Manley grabbed Jim by the lapels and propelled him along the corridor away from the cell door. There was a touch of anger in Reg’s voice that Jim hadn’t heard before.

  “Keep your bloody voice down, Jim. We don’t want him to hear us outside discussing the nuts and bolts. It’s got to be bad enough in there without some arse standing outside giving his thrupenny worth.”

  Jim, suitably chastened, had lowered his voice to a whisper. “But did you see the size of his neck? Has to be a 20 or 21 at least. Like a fucking bull!”

  Reg released his grip on Jim’s lapels and patted them smooth. “All part and parcel of the job, Jim. Big bastards or lean and mean – it’s all part and parcel. We just have to make the necessary adjustments to the noose and make sure we get the drop perfect. Going to be a tough one getting the knot in the right position but we don’t want our fat friend losing his head or spilling his guts all over the floor, eh?” Reg winked. “When they take him out for his final airing in the yard later this evening we’ll get in next door, check over the equipment and make sure everything’s in perfect working order.”

  But as Jim followed the hangman back down to their own quarters he could sense a definite unease in Reg’s light-hearted demeanour. Jim had heard of botched hangings and he desperately hoped this wasn’t going to be one of them.

  Tuseday 26th May 1953

  Reg Manley slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and took out the watch that hung on a silver chain across his waistcoat. Pressing the small catch on the side with his thumb, the silver lid flipped open. “Twenty to nine.” Reg pressed shut the lid with a click and slid the watch back into his pocket. “Give it a few more minutes and then we’ll head on round to the guvnor’s office.”

  Jim was seated on the edge of his bed, leafing idly through a Bible that he’d found in a drawer. Their overnight quarters consisted of one smallish room with two single beds pressed up against the walls at right angles to each other. One sink and a single cupboard with a couple of drawers completed the furniture. The window, if it hadn’t been frosted glass, would have looked out over the inner quadrangle of the administration block. Thin, unlined curtains failed to stifle the glare from the security lights. They blazed day and night. Rain pattered against the window blown by a gusty wind.

  “Piss! Gnat’s piss! You’d think they’d know how to make proper fucking tea in prison, wouldn’t you? Three tea leaves and half-boiled water. And what the fuck is this?”

  Reg pointed to a brown, knitted tea cosy that just failed to cover the pot standing next to two china tea cups and saucers. “Do they think we’re some fucking Women’s Institute prison visitors come to play cards with the inmates?”

  He lobbed two sugar cubes into one of the cups. Digging into his pocket he pulled out a bunch of keys and began to stir the thin brown liquid with the largest. Wiping the key on the tea cosy, he slipped the bunch back into his pocket.

  Jim could sense an extra tension in Reg’s demeanour. When he had first joined as an assistant hangman he had been surprised, and a little shocked, by Reg’s irreverence to the authorities, but after a while he had come to realize that it was just one way for Reg to control his nervousness. Jim kept his head down, waiting for the inevitable storm to roll through. The litany of invective was familiar and needed no prompting or comment from him. Opening the Bible at Revelation, Jim idly read the opening lines:

  I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come.

  “Bastards. Bloody fucking bastards. Should leave them to do their own dirty work.”

  I know thy works, and thy labour, and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil.

  “Fucking civil servants. I hate ’em.”

  Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days: be thou faithful unto death…

  “We should let them string the fuckers up. See how they get on. It’d be a right carnival.”

  Repent; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will fight against them with the sword of my mouth.

  “They treat us like filth but they don’t mind us doing their dirty work.” Reg put down the cup and put-putted between his lips with his tongue, trying to release a way ward tea-leaf. “Bastards.”

  Sensing that Reg had probably blown off most of his steam, Jim closed the Bible and put it back in the drawer.

  “Did you want to hand out the gear, Reg? Just to make sure all’s present, correct and working?”

  “Good idea, son. Best do it, time’s marching on.”

  Reg reached under his bed and pulled out the small overnight suitcase he used for his prison duties. Opening the battered lid he picked out a shoe-box and placed it on the bed. Flipping off the lid, he brought out the contents. Two buckled leather straps, one for the arms and one for the legs, and a neatly folded, small, cream-coloured bag that had a drawstring at the opening. After passing the straps to his assistant, he ensured the drawstring was loose and free and the opening at its maximum. He first halved the bag with the string covered by the first fold, pulling in the sides to make a perfect triangle. Holding it in the palm of his hand he carefully slipped it into his breast pocket and ensured that the tip of the triangle stuck out over the rim as if it were a dress handkerchief. Holding the tip of the cloth between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand he flicked the cloth from the pocket in one single movement and grunted with satisfaction when the bag unfolded with no snags and the drawstring free. He repeated the exercise twice more and each time was satisfied with the result. For the last time he folded the bag and left it in his breast pocket. Looking over at his assistant, Reg asked, “Straps OK?”

  “Fine, no problems. I see you’ve been dubbing the leather. Looks almost as new.”

  “Stood me in good stead, them straps. Can’t beat good quality.”

  Jim rubbed his fingers admiringly over the shiny surface before placing each strap separately in his left and right jacket pockets. Left for the arms and right for the legs. First the left, then the right. First left, second right. It was a mantra he knew by heart. Once he had got them tangled in the same pocket, delaying an execution by a few seconds and although Reg had said nothing at the time, he had rollicked him something rotten when they got back to their quarters.

  Reg pulled out his watch once more. “Quarter to. Let’s head off and meet the monkeys, eh?”

  Checking in the mirror and running the brush a couple of times over his Brylcreemed hair, Reg turned and headed for the open door where his assistant was already waiting. A prison warder, hovering by their quarters, had been assigned to escort them through the corridors to the governor.

  The distance from their overnight room to the governor’s office was just two hundred feet but it meant passing through two locked gates. The warder unlocked each gate as they came to it with a practiced twist of the key hanging from a chain attached to his belt. As Reg stepped through the second gate he turned to his assistant: “Looks as if the prison has gone silent a bit earlier than usual for this one, Jim. Some prisons have a near riot on their hands on execution days. Not a peep from anyone today, though. Bit unusual isn’t it, Warder?”

  “Yes, Mr Manley. We’ve all noticed that. I think a lot in here believe he didn’t do it.”

  Reg raised an eyebrow, knowing they always thought that. He liked the “Mr” though. At least some of them appreciated him. And now the prison was quiet in anticipation of his presenc
e, his work. He was now in control; everything that happened in the next fifteen minutes was down to him alone. It made him feel good and put a smile on his face. Jim always felt unnerved by the silence that fell over the prison at the time of an execution. Normally it would be a place that echoed with the voices, shouts and curses of the men, the continuous opening and locking of doors, the metallic stamp of warder’s boots along the corridors and up and down the iron staircases. Now it had become a silent and ghostly ship, eerily menacing.

  “Hello, this is new. Must be nearing the governor’s office, Jim, we’ve got a fucking carpet on the corridor.” Reg made a show of standing on the carpet and wiping his feet. “Danger – tradesmen approaching!” he announced. He gave a small chuckle and muttered under his breath, “The fucking bastards.”

  A little further down the corridor a warder was standing outside the governor’s office. He gave the two men a nod of recognition and knocked on the door before opening it inwards and standing back to let them through. Reg stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb and the other tucked into a waistcoat pocket, surveying the room. It looked packed. He presumed it was the governor standing behind a desk and to his right were five other people, one recognizably a priest. Standing a little way apart was the head warder he had met the previous evening.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Mr Reg Manley at your service. I’m the hangman.” He patted his breast pocket, passing his finger over the white hood that stood proud in a peak. He stepped into the room. “And this is my esteemed assistant, Mr Lees.”

  Jim, following Reg, stood a little to one side and behind. He nodded to the assembled group, watching carefully to see what the reaction would be to Reg’s effusive greeting. It always seemed to catch them off guard and today was no different. The governor definitely looked shaken and the priest already had a pasty gleam to his face. He wondered if they were going to get through this without at least one of the party going over.

  “Manley, ah yes.” The governor failed to move from behind his desk. “Good morning. And, er, Mr Lees too.”

  Jim, standing behind him, could see Reg’s shoulders pull back a fraction. He guessed that Reg was none too impressed.

  The governor pointed to the others. “Let me introduce the other witnesses. This is the Under-Sheriff, Mr Lorne; our prison vicar, the Reverend Ripley; Dr Monson; and I think you have probably already met the prison engineer, Mr Vine and our head warder, Mr Cummings.”

  Reg followed the introductions round the room recognizing the engineer and head warder with a smile. He turned to the priest. “Not in with the prisoner, Padre?”

  The priest looked a little sheepish and gripped his Bible closer to his chest. “I’m afraid Eastman refused my presence in these last hours. His prerogative of course – but a shame nonetheless.”

  “I heard he told you to fuck off in no uncertain terms, Padre. In fact I heard he tried to clock you one?”

  Jim Lees could feel the tension in the room rising. He wished Reg wouldn’t do this.

  “Some of them just don’t appreciate it, do they?” Reg turned to the governor, not waiting for a reply from the priest. “Mr Wallace, good morning. Just the day for it, eh?” Reg indicated the window which looked out onto the courtyard just behind the main gates. Rain-spattered puddles dotted the grey concrete and the sound of the wind rattling at the window lock echoed around the sparse governor’s office. He took the silence as a cue to stamp his authority on the group.

  “Gentlemen, we have a job to do, courtesy of Her Majesty’s government, and it is my task to ensure everything goes straight forward. I think we have all probably attended a hanging before so we know the procedure.”

  He paused for a fraction, wondering if the governor would say anything. The head warder had tipped him off the night before, as they were testing the trap-door and putting the rope in place, that this was the governor’s first execution.

  “However, apart from Mr Cummings and Mr Vine here,” he indicated the head warder and prison engineer, “we haven’t worked together and I have a very specific drill.” Reg’s voice took on a steely tone. “From this moment on I need everyone here – everyone – to know exactly what’s going to happen, and when and how.”

  He slipped out his pocket-watch and flipped open the lid.

  “The time, gentlemen, is now 8.48 – please check your watches are coordinated with mine – and we leave this office at 8.55 to be outside the cell at 8.58. Can you confirm that it will take three minutes to get to the cell Mr Cummings?” Reg turned to the head warder.

  “More like two minutes, Mr Manley.”

  “Very good. Let’s leave here at 8.56 then. There is no point in standing outside the cells for longer than is necessary. People can get a little anxious while waiting.” Reg gave the priest a quick glance. If anyone was going to keel over, he thought, it was going to be the buggering God-botherer.

  “Mr Cummings will be in charge of what I like to call the standing arrangements in the execution cell. We have worked together before and he knows exactly what I do. I would ask you all to follow his instructions to the letter. Please. I want you to stand against the wall to the left of the entrance door with your back to the prisoner’s cell. When the door opens between that cell and the execution chamber I want a clear line of sight and a straight passage between me and the drop. I don’t want to see any of you.” He paused, looking around the room. “I don’t want to be doing a turkey tango with spectators as I try to get to the trap.”

  Jim watched, mesmerized as he had been on occasions before, as Reg turned to the head warder. “Are we expecting any trouble from this one, Mr Cummings? He’s a big lad and could cause havoc if he took it in his head.”

  “He’s been quiet as a mouse all the time he’s been here, Mr Manley.” He hesitated before lowering his voice. “Apart from the padre incident.” Cummings shot a quick look at the priest but he was intent on the book in his hands. “Just been writing in a book most of the time. I don’t expect any trouble from this one. We’ve got two warders in with him now and there will be two more outside on the landing who could be called in if necessary. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Reg admired the head warder’s calm competence. As an ex-RSM, Cummings had more about him than most of the other jokers in the room.

  “Fine. Thank you, Mr Cummings. Oh, by the way, before I forget. Could you organize a decent mug of tea for my friend and me when we get back? Something that’s come out of an urn and been brewing for at least half an hour would be best. Three sugars in mine. Mr Lees takes his without.”

  Cummings smiled. “Yes, of course.”

  Reg pulled out his watch once more. “8.50.” He announced. “Mr Wallace, do you have the documents I need to sign?”

  Without a word, the governor opened a file on his desk and turned it round to face Reg, who had pulled out a pair of glasses from an inside pocket. Placing the wires over his ears, Reg purposely took a second to look at the governor who was standing with his arms folded. Their eyes met. Reg noticed, with quiet satisfaction, that there was a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. He turned his attention to the file in front of him. Leaning over the desk, he checked all the relevant details: trial date, judgment of the court, notice of execution, name of prisoner and execution date. He read out the name: ‘“Henry Charles Eastman.’ Can you confirm that is the name of the prisoner to be hanged today, Mr Wallace?”

  The governor nodded.

  “Just for the record, Mr Wallace, so that the witnesses here will confirm, could you verbally state ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. It’s very important.”

  “Yes.”

  Reg noted the hint of suppressed anger in the governor’s voice.

  “Thank you.”

  He ran his finger over the next lines, reading them out loud as he went: “No reason why the judgment of the court should not be carried out. Signed. The Home Secretary, David Maxwell Fyfe.” He looked up at the governor. “Bless him. Always easier to do these things in Whitehall
from the comfort of his desk, eh? I guess we all wish he was here and not us?” He chuckled. “Was it ever thus. Was it ever thus.” He tapped the execution papers with the palm of his hand. “Well, that seems all in order.”

  Reg picked out the ink pen from the well on the governor’s desk and added his signature. He replaced the pen and stood up. “Now I need to tell you all one more thing and this is very important.”

  He removed his glasses, folded them up and carefully returned them to an inside pocket. The delay, Jim knew, was deliberate.

  “Our friend upstairs is heavy and large. I shall be using the shortest drop possible of five feet. Anything longer and we’d rip his head off.” He paused, pulling out his watch, purposely and studiously checking the time. “And we don’t want that, do we?”

  He smiled around the group, noting the look of horror on the priest’s face. “8.53 – three more minutes, gentlemen. What you need to know is that the prisoner may not disappear completely into the trap as most of them do. My guess is that he will still be partly visible. Like the Grand Old Duke of York, neither up nor down.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I don’t want you to be surprised, that’s all. He will be dead. Any questions before we start?”

  The governor, Reg noted, had removed a handkerchief from a pocket and after blowing his nose had quickly wiped his forehead. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.

  8.54

  The Reverend Ripley hesitantly asked. “How long might we er… expect the execution to take?”

  “Blink and you’ll miss it, Padre,” Reg replied. “The quickest I’ve ever been involved with is eight seconds. Door to drop. But that was Mr Pierrepoint on top form and it was helped by having the felon run to the trap!” He laughed. “People couldn’t believe their eyes when this fellow came steaming through the door. Treading on Albert’s heels he was. I was the assistant and had to run to keep up. What a scene! Straight out of a pantomime. You were there weren’t you, Mr Cummings?”