When Wagstaff and Perkins searched the house, I felt I was a goner. They found the rolls of winceyette but not me. They left convinced I was not home. When I extracted myself, I forgot about the cheek of Perkins and started fuming about Diana instead. Apart from Peggy and some of my gang, Diana was the only other person who knew where the stolen cloth was. I had the terrible feeling that my own blood had dobbed me in.
15 Violation
I have heard say the executioner is very good, and I have a little neck.
Anne Boleyn, contemplating her beheading
A strong arm around my neck pulled tight against my windpipe. My heartbeat raced. My neck muscles tightened. I screamed but my voice echoed across the silent misty parklands. My scream sounded odd; it was haunting like an animal in the teeth of a predator. How unusual: I, of all people, wanting to attract attention to myself. Not that it did me good on that lonely pathway.
Working as a team, they dragged me to the side of the path, doubled me over, pulled my backpack off. When they threw it carelessly into the bushes, I knew their motive was not theft. I felt the back of my jumper and shirt being yanked up, revealing my naked back. My bare skin tingled in the chill of the still night air. My leather belt split in two; they must have had a very sharp knife. In the next 10 seconds, I was held in a bent-over position, exposed and vulnerable. I wondered what it would feel like to be stabbed. I wanted to cry but I steeled myself to be brave and accept my fate with maturity. I was sad that my parents would need to be told they’d lost a second child. I savoured my last precious breaths. I’d let everybody down.
Six months before, I’d turned 18 and was midway through my final year at Queenwood. Dad’s company wanted to send him to England for a few months to establish an electronics facility at a Bedford factory that made automotive control equipment for the European market. As a world-first, Dad had developed a magnetic interface that enabled integrated circuitry to function in heavy industrial situations. It was sold worldwide. His wife and one of his children could travel free. Geoffrey ended up staying behind to take care of the house. He was doing a science degree at university and my parents felt he could fend for himself better than I could.
My excitement at going on my first overseas trip was soured by the thought that I would be leaving John behind. Our romance was then in full swing after almost a year together. This trip would give me some new experiences I could write about, talk to him about. John was well travelled: singing in a duo on board ocean liners for a free fare, and holding down responsible film and TV positions in London and Johannesburg. He’d been engaged, had love affairs and many adventures. My life had been tame. Hopefully I too would enliven dinner-party conversation with my foreign experiences.
My parents and I ended up living in a little seventeenth-century stone cottage in the village of Stevington, not far from Bedford in England’s Midlands. The cottage had stone walls, small dark rooms with low archways you had to stoop to get through, windows overlooking the rose garden and rolling green pastures beyond. This perfect little village had a pub, a general store and a village idiot. The community was tightly knit. We kept to ourselves most of the time, just as we had done back in Sydney.
As I walked through Bedford parklands on my way to and from study at the library, the strong aroma of a nearby brewery hung in the air. Today when I smell beer, I am reminded of tense, lonely months leading up to my final schoolyear exams in England.
During my stay I rarely spoke to anyone outside the family. I shunned the attentions of young men who gave me a second look. This was a very insecure period of my life. I carried a photo of John in my purse and wrote frequent, long affectionate letters to him. I missed him a lot.
My HSC exams were marked by traffic problems and lateness, but fuelled by adrenaline I ripped through them. Then my studies were over. I felt as free as a wandering albatross after a lifetime as a homing pigeon. It was an incredible release. I decided that I wanted to see more of the world, so I asked my parents if I could travel Europe by myself. They were wonderfully supportive, though they had little cash. That didn’t worry me; I was used to roughing it. I was sensible. I was confident. So—everything would be OK.
In the youth hostel in Strasbourg, France, I met a scruffy Frenchman with no English and a large well-dressed middle-aged one who did. He showed me photos of his family, told me of his business interests; a respectable man with respectable intentions I decided. He offered to show us the local sights. We travelled the town, ate garlic snails and lots of red wine; risky, as I was the lightest of drinkers. As soon as the cold night air hit me, I realised my mistake. I was dizzy and walked crookedly. Warning bells went off in my head. I explained it was 10.30 and the hostel wouldn’t let you in once the doors were locked at 11 pm. The Volkswagen sped off, the driver promised to get me back in time. Then he pulled up in a suburban street. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, ‘I just want to get permission from my wife to have you as my mistress.’ He was gone. And the younger man in the back was getting amorous. My mind was foggy, my hands busy fending off the passenger, my watch telling me we’d never make the hostel in 10 minutes. Then the family man returned telling me his wife was agreeable and asking how I felt about it. Stalling, I said it sounded OK, we’d discuss it tomorrow if he got me back in time. The VW screeched to a halt as the hostel proprietor was turning out the lights. The momentum continued inside the young Frenchman’s stomach and his vomit sprayed a wide arc across the interior of the car. While the businessman cursed his friend, I dashed inside.
Terrible stomach pains, diarrhoea and vomiting ensured I didn’t sleep. At first light, sick, weak and hungover, I dressed for flight. And who was in the lobby? Monsieur Vomissement. He hadn’t changed and must have been keeping guard all night. ‘Be assertive for once,’ I growled to myself without acknowledgement to him. He ran after me, trying to pull me back by my clothing, babbling. Je suis malade,’ I repeated. He didn’t give up until I boarded the train. An hour later, I realised his vomit was still on the back of my coat. No wonder everyone had vacated my compartment.
In the beautiful Austrian city of Salzburg I met a blue-eyed American. When Mark accidentally touched me, I felt a bolt of electricity shoot right through me. I was overwhelmed by this young man and the effect he had on me, so when he suggested I accompany him and one of his army mates on a short skiing trip to Berchtesgaden, all expenses paid, I leapt at the opportunity.
Berchtesgaden—Hitler lived there during World War 2—was a white wonderland at the foot of high, jutting mountains. We trod knee deep in powdery snow while crystal-shaped snowflakes swirled and danced around us. For accommodation I shared a room with three others at the army base. I skied—a new experience. It was such a magical place I began to long for some romance and excitement. So when Mark and I travelled on to Vienna together, it wasn’t long before I fell for his amorous attentions. I felt desperately guilty after this and wrote to John, telling him what I’d done. I never thought for one moment that my fling would put a chism between us. Strange how my 18-year-old mind worked. Had not John, being older and well travelled, had a decade of relationships before I met him? I had a bit of catching up to do!
Needless to say, John was not impressed with my first letter from Europe.
Mark and I travelled to Prague to experience a communist country. It was there that I realised what a moody and unpleasant young man he could be. Mark was a spoilt only-child from a wealthy family in Denver and felt the world owed him a favour.
Our journeys then split as we had different commitments. We agreed to meet up again a few days later in Austria. I was there at the agreed time but he never turned up. I waited for hours. I had been stood up.
My biggest lesson was yet to come. I had decided to head south to Italy, but needed to break the journey. I embarked in Villach in southern Austria. It was late afternoon and I needed to find a hostel for the night. •
I had a map of the town and the only hostel was on its outskirts. This necessitated walk
ing down a long cobbled street which led right out of town. There were patches of ice on the ground and remnants of snow on the trees and rooftops. It was freezing cold. Night fell as I walked past the few remaining dilapidated stone cottages with broken fences and found myself surrounded by vast parks. In the dim foggy light I could just make out the muddy grasslands, scattered trees and shrubs. Further down one side of the park was a huge lake separating the park from the lights and bustle of Villach way beyond.
The only sounds were my feet upon the footpath. I felt isolated and unsafe. I was walking into blackness and there was no guiding, friendly light ahead to welcome me. Perhaps I was going the wrong way? With great relief I noticed a couple of young men walking in my direction some distance behind. I stopped so they could catch up. They greeted me in German. I showed them my map and asked them in dog-German if I was going in the right direction. They nodded and I sighed with relief. We all took off again towards the hostel, me leading the way.
I suddenly felt extremely ill at ease. A tingle went down my spine when I realised that one of these men was walking directly behind me, not at the normal distance, the distance that preserves personal space. At the precise moment of that thought they attacked.
Having removed my backpack and thankfully not chosen to end my life right then, they pulled me to the ground and dragged me by my ankles deep into the park. The younger man kept putting his boot on my face to stop me screaming, though I purposefully wasn’t making any sound. He kept treading on my long hair, pulling it out by the handful. Behind some shrubs, they tore off the rest of my clothing and discovered my traveller’s cheques and passport in a wallet, which I kept secure next to my body.
I was raped by the older one while the other kept watch. The watcher held my passport. I still remember the ugly face of my attacker, with bulging wild eyes and teeth jutting forward. He had a madness in his eyes that consumed me with cold terror. I did not scream or struggle as perhaps ,silence would save my life; I was desperate to survive. I turned my face from my attacker and looked out over the black expanse of the adjacent lake, reflecting the glowing lights of Villach beyond in long fingers of rich colour. Drifting across the still water was the sound of an orchestra playing beautiful dance music. It was such a pretty scene, yet I was lying in mud and melted snow, being violated by a man with a manic glint in his eye. How incongruous.
Afterwards, they threw my passport at me and ran off. I slowly put on my muddy clothes and trudged along the path. The hostel was surprisingly close. The woman at the reception desk looked at me curiously. The shocked look on my face? My muddy, messy clothes? Hair encrusted with dirt and leaves? She couldn’t speak English and didn’t seem to care.
First thing: I went to the bathroom, stripped naked and examined the external damage. There were only a few bruises. I was lucky. I turned on the shower, freezing cold. But I had to cleanse myself. I scrubbed myself and my woollen clothing until I was blue with cold and my fingers stiff and aching. I dressed in clean clothes. Who should I meet when I came out of the bathroom? A young Australian male. He was the only other person staying at the hostel. I told my countryman what had happened. He just looked embarrassed and quickly found an excuse to leave.
I never reported this incident to the police, though I knew I should have. I didn’t want my parents to hear about it. Perhaps other young women experienced the same terror and assault on that lonely road to the hostel. My selfishness certainly didn’t help their plight. I needed to talk to someone about what had happened but I couldn’t find a willing pair of ears. So, instead, I wrote a long detailed letter to John.
Writing that second letter was a mighty release for me. John was shocked by it. He later told me it triggered a furious revenge. He wanted to get on a jet to Villach, dress up as a young woman with a long black wig and patrol that lonely road to lure the attacker, then kill him. He was also angry that I explored Europe by myself. It was hard for me to explain to him it was something I needed to do.
The survival switch had been turned on, long overdue. My senses were heightened, my perceptions expanded, my instincts sharpened. I could no longer trust my own shadow all the way back to Bedford. I wasn’t going to be compromised like that ever again. Life was too precious.
16 Doing Bird
Fork Swallower
A Dartmoor prisoner was sent back to the prison last night from hospital at Plymouth after his second operation within three weeks for the removal of a fork from his stomach. He left hospital on March 22 after a fork had been removed and had nearly recovered when he swallowed a second fork.
The Times, 1949
Ces told me a great deal about his incarcerations in various institutions of correction, hardly surprising as he had been in many and his sojourns grew increasingly long. His theft from the co-operative store in Scotland saw his debut in borstal in the winter of 1944. His second stemmed from the raid on the Roberts Street warehouse theft and being in possession of stolen bolts of cloth. When the police caught up with him, he was on the run, sleeping at friends’ houses. The police had Ces’s fingerprint inside the warehouse. He successfully argued in court that the print could have been impressed while he was there on legitimate business. His mother mounted the witness box to tell the judge ‘If you give him another chance, I promise you faithfully that he will not get into any more lumber.’ But the bolts of suiting ensured he wore possession of stolen goods, and there were other, unassociated charges to answer. Ces got six months’ hard labour in Strangeways Prison, and then compounded his problem with an assault on a Detective Holcombe while in police cells. Ces rammed the policeman’s pipe into the back of Holcombe’s throat.
I knew from Tony and Bill what to expect on my first long stay in Strangeways in March 1945, the shower, lice-and-crabs examination, prison greys, pillow slip, toothbrush and soap. Short sentences were always harsh.
I was taken direct to solitary for three days for assaulting Holcombe. He wasn’t too badly hurt and some years later he was convicted of homosexual offences at Cascall’s Turkish Baths. He went into special protection as he wouldn’t have lasted long among the men he’d tortured and humiliated. The first night was hardest. I was sleepless and scared. Locked up for 23 hours a day with bread and water—no longer than 23, as the yeast would have distended my stomach—in an empty cell. It was difficult to occupy my mind.
Back in the general prison population, I wasn’t allowed a mattress for three weeks. The day started with the dreadful clang, clang, clang of an old ship’s bell at 6 am, getting up, slop-out—where we emptied our effluent in a large communal recess—and breakfast. From 9 to 11.30 am we sewed mailbags, coalbags or uniforms. After the main meal, a rest and another slop-out, we’d pair off in the yard and walk the perimeter for exercise, then return to work till 4 pm, go back to our cells and eat the evening meal. Lights out at 10 pm.
Slop-outs saw news passed on at the drains.
Johnny Walker looked like the Duke of Edinburgh. Educated in art, music and literature, gentle, polite and sickly, he was ill equipped to survive, a perfect victim. When inmates stood over him for tobacco or called him a `poofter’ he’d gamely have a go and I backed him. He became a good friend.
Quite a few men had red-brown hair and beards, obviously had lived a rough life and many were brain damaged by drink. These tramps and winos lived by begging and petty larceny on the streets. When the air chilled of a night they’d warm up with cheap wine or methylated spirits to numb their depression and pain, climb over the wall of a brick kiln and lie in the warm brick dust which permeated their clothes and hair permanently, earning them the name Brickcroft Wallers. One lost his toes. A rat chewed them off. Another Waller had stolen his shoes while he slept. Never felt a thing.
A friend of my dad’s, Regie Ward, was in the next wing doing four months for some first-offence misdemeanour—non-payment of fines probably. Dad visited him twice, me never. It peeved me, but it was just what I expected and confirmed my bitterness. I met Regie in the yard one day
, withdrawn, shivery and unwell. The following morning he left in a coffin. His cell neighbour told me Regie rang the bell and pleaded for an extra blanket; Regie was feverish and could barely stand. The screw was cranky and truncheoned him. Nothing was done about it—warders and police got away with murder. Dad showed little emotion over it; he knew how inhumane prison could be.
Dennis The Brick Murtagh was there and we often joined Charlie Barlow and Johnny Coward in the yard. They were fascinated by my tale of the perfect crime when I contemplated. running Wagstaff down in a stolen car; I suggested it’d be a good way to cull rival gangs. Dennis was intrigued. When Johnny asked what I’d do if my bird had an affair while I was inside, I should have kept my mouth shut. I told him I’d cut all her hair off—that’d curtail her for a while.
When Johnny was released that’s exactly what he did, and he got another 18 months.
Ten years later, Dennis and a friend Kenneth were drinking with Billy Jackson—a local ruffian noted for head-butting and bashing while his vicious black dog joined in—and his wife. A fight developed, which the police broke up. Dennis and Kenneth joined Dennis’s brother Derek at another pub and drove off to the Jackson’s. Billy and his wife were on the steps and Dennis threw a brick, hitting Mrs Jackson, who promptly threw it back, smashing Dennis’s back window. After making a complaint to the police Dennis drove back again. Billy saw them and threw a coal cellar lid, smashing the front windscreen, cause for Dennis to make another complaint. But he drove back yet again. Moments later Mrs Jackson was screaming and her husband lay crushed to death by Dennis’s car. In court Dennis and Kenneth said Billy had flung the lid at them again and Dennis had ducked, lost control and ran into him. The Crown alleged Britain’s first murder by car. The case attracted a lot of media attention. I was in Strangeways (again) when Dennis was remanded for psychiatric evaluation, like all suspected murderers were, in theory to find physical or psychological clues that might point to sanity or insanity. In practice, however, these doctors rarely found suspects insane as they missed out on the money they got for pre-execution tests and the 5 shillings in the chopping shed after it.
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 14