Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  After a couple of days Heaton branched out on his own, despite his ankle. He was arrested. Security demanded Maltese Tony move. We took him to my mother’s house for a while. I didn’t tell mum he was an escaped prisoner for a couple of days until she had grown to like him. Mum was a rough old diamond by this stage and was so accustomed to visits by the police she didn’t raise any objections. Tony stayed at her place for weeks, during which time he had a passionate affair with Sylvia. Sylvia was not promiscuous but no longer had a close and caring relationship with Buller. She must have melted at the touch of an affectionate man. The affair was simply a case of two ships not being able to pass in the night without refuelling. It added sparkle to her eyes.

  At home, Doreen was open to trying new things and on regular occasions would invite men back for a threesome. One day she said, `You know, I fancy the other.’ I asked what she meant. ‘I fancy a bird in bed.’ I was dumbfounded. ‘You’re kidding me?’ She was perfectly serious. But who was going to select the woman? I preferred her to do it the first time. ‘OK.’ One night soon after she returned with a redhead with green, staring eyes. At first I thought she was a bit of a maniac because of the vacant stare. However, she was a real performer. She frenched Doreen, Doreen frenched her, then the three of us performed together. I didn’t find it as electrifying as our experiences with Pedro, which is rather strange, but it was very interesting and certainly turned me on. When Green Eyes frenched Doreen to orgasm, and then I went into Doreen while she was still wet, it was sheer bliss.

  Relaxing after a good workout at the gym one afternoon, I was disturbed by a knock. The sad-looking woman turned out to be Teddy Devlin’s mother. Teddy had apparently admired me from the old gang days, cut my progress from the newspapers and filed them, and had been distressed when he read how the police had beaten me after the jewellery heist. She showed me a photograph of him and I recalled the handsome backstreet operator a good few years younger than me, full of bravado and charm, romantic and eager to prove himself as a man. The old woman carried a request: would I visit him in Walton Prison, where he was soon to be hanged? Teddy and Alfie Burns were accused of robbing a Liverpool house in August 1951 and murdering a Mrs Rimmer, the 52-year-old mother of a policeman who unexpectedly came home while they were still in the house.

  Mrs Devlin and I—trilby-hatted, bespectacled, moustachioed, as people with form aren’t allowed visiting rights—visited the 22 year old, facing death in a few days. I felt guilty because of his hero worship of me, and knew myself to be a part in his downfall. He forced a smile and tried to be brave and strong, but his stress and tiredness showed. Across the corridor from his cell he heard the hammering of the erection of the scaffold. But he rallied and became full of small talk and light-hearted bravado. In the end he was comforting his mother, who couldn’t cope.

  Sylvia and I linked up with Teddy’s brother to petition our area to support the condemned men’s solicitors’ request for a reprieve, and their mothers’ letters to the Queen requesting intervention. Doors slammed in our faces.

  On Friday, 25 April, the assistant hangman, Ted Durnley, collected Teddy Devlin from his cell. He later wrote that when he looked at Teddy he saw a ‘white-faced nervous young boy’. The hangman was England’s finest, Albert Pierrepoint, who owned the Help the Poor Struggler pub in Manchester.

  Most hangings were at 8 am, but this double execution was to be at 9 o’clock. The scaffold was feet away from the condemned cells. The whole process from leaving their cell to the execution was designed to only last a matter of seconds.

  Alfie and Teddy had been weighed every day for Pierrepoint to determine exactly how much drop was needed. Double hangings were always more difficult because the calculations had to involve different heights and weights. Teddy and Alfie were made to stand back to back, their feet positioned precisely on either side of the chalk line that defined the meeting of the two flaps. Hands and feet were tied. Black hoods were lowered over their heads. The nooses were then positioned around their necks with the pear-shaped metal ring of each noose behind their left ear. The ring was designed to assist the sliding action that would snap their necks. When the signal was given, the flaps crashed downwards with Teddy and Alfie simultaneously plummeting towards a sudden, wrenching halt. The idea was to break the second or third vertebra of their necks so they would die instantaneously, rather than being choked to death.

  Both mothers were outside the prison, kneeling in prayer. Mrs Burns said that as the clock struck nine in the prison tower, two white doves flew out of it. She must have seen symbolism in this.

  I was at home, listening to the radio. When I heard the news, my stomach churned and my limbs turned to lead. I switched off the radio and sat there, full of remorse. I knew he would dangle lifelessly from the scaffold, the custom of the day. It was a very strange, sobering experience to feel partly responsible for a man’s death. Something had begun to change within my psyche, albeit slowly; I began to feel ashamed of the type of person I’d become. I resolved to myself that if I had children, I’d bring them up as good citizens because I didn’t want them to end up like me. Or Teddy Devlin.

  The day was haunted by visions of Teddy’s corpse being subjected to the customary rituals. An hour after hanging, both bodies would be supported by another rope around the armpits while the nooses were removed from their necks. The straps binding their arms and legs would be undone, their clothing and finally their hoods would be removed. Their naked bodies would then be lowered straight into waiting coffins positioned underneath the scaffold. Sometimes, for the sake of decency, Pierrepoint would tie the deceased’s shirt around his naked loins. The medical staff would take the corpses to the mortuary to perform post mortems to confirm the cause of death. Pierrepoint would go to court for a short trial with a standard verdict of justifiable homicide according to an execution. He also had to be answerable for the taking of another human’s life. Later that day I read about the execution in the Manchester Evening News. The governor used the words, ‘Everything went without a hitch.’ An odd statement to make about the taking of two human lives. The article also said that Teddy and Alfie confessed on the scaffold, but the assistant hangman later denied they did.

  That evening, Teddy’s distraught mother went round to the Jackson Street Police Station near where she lived and smashed in all the windows with a heavy iron bar. The police didn’t charge her for that and were very understanding.

  When Doreen announced she was pregnant, I was thrilled! For her own reasons, Doreen could not share my enthusiasm. She more fully realised the responsibilities and hardships involved in raising a child in poor surroundings without a stable income and a father who seemed to be in and out of prison like a yo-yo.

  The owner of the house we rented was an Indian and some of his tenants were too. One, Bushmere Ali, fancied The Blonde in Red. His eyes burned into her when they met and his sexual innuendos escalated to the point where even she needed to tell him where to get off. He’d asked her to live with him, said he was better than me in every way. She told him she’d tell me if he didn’t pull up, and he laughed.

  I boiled to find him and caught him at a bus stop about 2 pm. I glimpsed him going for the knife he called ‘the tiger’s tooth’ and hit out with a right. His head bounced off the bus stop pole. Another. Down he went. Then I gave him a bit of toe pie. Several witnesses saw me put the boot in.

  Two weeks later Detective Wright, dying to arrest me again after I was acquitted of the Roberts Street B & E years ago, charged me with assault and robbery with violence. ‘Robbery?’ He said he had a witness who’d nail me in court and he did, a prostitute who said she saw me sprinting off with Bushmere’s suitcase, although the big suitcases full of merchandise Indians carried were far too heavy to even trot with. The court didn’t hear she was a friend of Bushmere’s.

  During the trial I was full of trepidation. With my pedigree, having already served two years’ penal servitude at Dartmoor, I faced a tougher sentence like a prevent
ative detention. I’d come out of Dartmoor on a Ticket of Leave, and was an ‘Old Lag’ or an ‘Old Ticket of Leave Man’. If I did anything wrong, I’d have to serve out the whole of my original sentence and my new one. All up, maybe 14 years. I was only 25; this was a depressing and terrifying thought.

  I got lucky. At summing up the charge of robbery was dropped. I was then charged with grievous bodily harm and maliciously wounding with intent to murder. All I did was give Bushmere a couple of blows and kicks when he was down. The judge said: ‘You are an incorrigible rogue, you’re treading the pathway to destruction [the gallows] and I sentence you to four years in prison.’ I’d only been out for a few months so this came as a terrible shock to me, my family and of course Doreen.

  After I was convicted and sentenced, I was taken downstairs under the courtroom into a cell. Doreen came down with a jug of tea, some sandwiches and cakes. She cried and promised to visit and send parcels when she could. She was in the full bloom of pregnancy, about to be separated from her man for years. Still, Doreen was a survivor. I knew she’d cope.

  A month after I was incarcerated the police visited to say that Bushmere had died and there was a possibility I could be charged with a more serious offence. They offered to help me if I could assist them in clearing up a few unsolved break-ins. I told them I wouldn’t admit to anything. Fortunately, their threats petered out and nothing more was heard of it..

  Within two months Doreen gave birth to our son, Arnold. I was excited, yet distressed that I couldn’t be at home to see him growing up. I only briefly glimpsed him when Doreen came along on visiting days once a month. She was 19 and caring for a young baby singlehanded was an enormous responsibility for this fun-loving independent girl. I could tell that she missed the spontaneity and freedom she’d enjoyed. Doreen was as tough and courageous as ever, and said she could handle the pressure. Whenever she visited, she smuggled in items such as tobacco which I smoked or used as currency.

  Doreen had many smuggling techniques. Tying things to a spoon on the end of a string lowered out a prison window was one. Another method involved goods being thrown over the wall at a specific time and place, to be collected by a prisoner gardener. Doreen would pay local lads, as the wall was too high for her. I was proud of Doreen and the support she gave me. She was everything I desired in a woman: a clever accomplice and a warm sexy girlfriend.

  Doreen did indulge in quite a bit of shoplifting as well. When she suddenly stopped visiting, I made enquiries and found she’d been arrested and was in the women’s area of the prison for a few months. Arnold was being cared for by West Indian friends, Eva and Nicky.

  When Doreen next visited me, she looked uncomfortable. I asked what was wrong. Eva and Nicky had offered to look after Arnold on a permanent basis. Doreen had said yes, provided Arnold was not officially adopted. She wanted her independence back, to be free from all the daily responsibility and drudgery motherhood entailed. I was disappointed I hadn’t been consulted. My first son was being taken away from me and there was nothing I could do. Behind bars, I couldn’t give Doreen the financial and emotional support that she obviously needed.

  When I was released from prison in 1956, Doreen and I became engaged and made plans to marry and live together in our own home. I wanted Arnold to be my son legally and become a part of the Waters lineage, giving him a sense of belonging, though I had my doubts about how long Doreen and I would last. We were a fantastic Bonnie and Clyde combination but when it came to family responsibilities and forward planning, both of us had shown a certain inadequacy.

  While we were househunting, I stayed with mum, who was looking after Diana’s children, Beverley and Lee, seven and eight. Diana would regularly take off leaving her children with mum—once for two years while Dids did bird. This time it was six months while she and Dids toured the countryside. She gave mum £5 for her trouble.

  Doreen stayed with her grandmother. I persuaded her to ‘borrow’ Arnold so I could bond with him and join me for a couple of days. I secretly hoped to show her how we might raise him ourselves. But two days living in mum’s overcrowded house with the active demanding toddler convinced me Doreen had been right. We weren’t ready for such limitations.

  We found a house. But one of Doreen’s friends reported overhearing two girls in a cafe discussing me, one explaining my skills in cunnilingus. Doreen was livid. She ripped up my clothing and left to stay at her grandmother’s. When I saw the damage I could barely contain my rage. I got a cool reception at her grandmother’s door which the old woman barricaded while Doreen lurked in the background, refusing to come out. My smile reflected relaxed charm and I stressed ‘I just want to talk’ as I lured her away. I drove Doreen back to the house. She had no idea what was in store. Inside the door I laid into her. I had this uneasy feeling I was acting like my dad, but in heat felt justified. I shredded her clothes while she abused me. When we calmed down the place looked like a bomb site. She made tea and we sat drinking in silence for few moments, surveying the chaos. To my surprise, Doreen burst into laughter until she cried. I joined in too.

  I began feeling remorseful about striking Doreen. I tried to analyse the situation and realised that when I got angry I just wanted to strike out, regardless of consequences. I had very little self control. What I had to do was walk away or even count to 10, anything to defuse that molten core of fury within me.

  Doreen wasn’t one to hold a grudge and soon after we married at the local registrar. I was dressed smartly in a suit with my black hair slicked back, and Doreen looked lovely in a shapely red outfit. The guests were a motley bunch of prostitute friends and family. Bill turned up in an unregistered, uninsured car to chauffeur Doreen and me back to our place; he didn’t even have a driver’s licence. It was a fun wedding which I don’t suppose either of us took too seriously.

  Several months into our marriage, Doreen took up drinking heavily at all times of the day. She didn’t consider her drinking to be a problem and refused to give it up to placate me. In a way, it was Doreen making a stance as an individual. A pathetic stance, as far as I was concerned, for in her drunken stupor she was as useless as a rag doll, withdrawn into a private cocoon of self pity. Doreen was fast losing the humour, spirit and vitality which I’d loved in her. One night I came home and found Doreen on the bottle in an emotional state, full of remorse and hostility. I told her I wouldn’t tolerate her drinking any more. We argued. She shouted that our relationship was over, then started packing her belongings. I grabbed her gear out of the suitcase and flung it out in the street. Then I roughly pushed her out the front door. She landed on the pavement among the clothing strewn around. Doreen lay sprawled for a moment to collect her thoughts, then rose and picked up what she could carry. She hailed the first passing cab and within minutes was gone.

  I missed Doreen after she left, but I knew our relationship would never have worked while she drank. Years later I saw her again. She was standing at a bus stop with a coloured child in her arms. I heard that she’d been living with a West Indian. Over the years Doreen kept in regular touch with Arnold and made sure he wanted for nothing. Doreen may have been self-abusive and irresponsible, but she proved to be a very loving mother.

  The most wonderful thing to come out of our relationship was Arnold McCarthy. He grew into a massive lad. I’m glad to say that Arnold and I have always kept in touch and have a good relationship.

  I formed a partnership with a villain called Tony to purchase a battered old Cadillac at a motor auction for 172 guineas. It was bottle green with white stripes, had rusty steel-spoked wheels, a steel tank, batteries on the running boards, a wooden steering wheel, immaculate grey studded upholstery, bulletproof glass and a back window that could be raised. The previous owner told us it’d been designed specifically for Al Capone in the 1920s for over US$20,000. Capone was of course the notorious Chicago gangster with the city in his pocket, the biggest fish of them all. The car had been on show but US servicemen complained it glorified a corrupt American
killer, so the owner wanted rid of it. We thought it’d become valuable over time, so I was furious when Tony sold it without consulting me two years later.

  And my prostate trouble was getting worse the older I got. As I neared 30 I sometimes felt pain with erections, which interfered with my sex life.

  I lived alone for months and missed a woman’s warm embrace, so when I met Marie, an Italian beauty with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes, as much in need of affection as me, I took her and her spoilt four year old in for a few months. Her husband, housebreaker Tony Tatler, was doing 12 months in Strangeways. I undertook the father role and gave Tony and Marie’s boy some much-needed discipline. He became more respectful and considerate. But I knew I wasn’t doing the right thing by Tony, so I accompanied Marie on a prison visit, to get things out in the open. Marie was indifferent; she moved from man to man as it suited her, a dangerous game. Tony greeted me coolly. The grapevine had been busy. He was tense and fidgety, and his complexion darkened, hinting at a rise in blood temperature, during the awkward conversation in the open seating of the room. Then he jumped at me, punching. I ducked and blocked until the authorities quelled him and led him back to his cell. I felt magnanimous about not hitting him. Marie didn’t care either way, and moved back in with him when he got out.

  Another good deed brought me undone. A villain with kids and a record of driving offences longer than the Trans-Atlantic Cable, side-swiped a car. He’d go to jail; with my good driving record I’d cop a fine. So I took the rap at the station, inventing an emergency to cover the delay in reporting. Then the idiot spilled the beans when he was booked for causing a disturbance. I got 12 months for perverting the course of justice, back in Strangeways for the fifth time in 12 years.