by PR Hilton
“Hello, Parry, you news hounds just don’t quite get boundaries do you?”
Parry chuckled and he patted Royle's shoulder, as Harry was hauled away and shoved into a waiting car from Savile Row station. Turning to Halley, Parry spoke.
"We make an excellent team Nick, with your hook and click technique and my no-holds-barred investigative style we'll be unstoppable. "
The photographer grinned.
"Yes, Alan, we're quite a team."
Within twenty minutes, Harry Royle was the talk of West End Central and the latest toast of New Scotland Yard. Harry was surprised to see a beaming constable enter his cell with a full fish and chip supper, together with tea and cigarettes and matches, just ten minutes after he had been processed and locked up. Harry raised an eyebrow at the young copper.
“Well Harry, it is Christmas Eve you know."
Harry Royle, smiled.
“Thanks, I’m starving."
“Well between you, me, and door post, we all think it was grand, you know, you saving that kiddie like that, it took real guts. If it was up to me, well you know, hope you enjoy this."
Without another word, the officer left the cell and Harry heard the loud click of the lock falling into place. The food was good and the smokes’ welcome. Ironically the meal was one of the best he’d enjoyed in years, better for not having to look over his shoulder.
And better because he knew what lay ahead, cold, stark prison and there would be no fish and chips where he was going, just a good kicking.
That was to be the last good meal Harry would have for many months. He would shortly find himself inside prison walls once more. Harry Royle found himself in Wandsworth for a time and was confused by this until an order came through that he was to be transferred to Dartmoor before too long.
This was to Harry the ultimate insult. The most feared prison in England, and for eight years. He had not been having an easy time in Wandsworth because of the Ironworks violence, and so expected more of the same to follow on the moor. Johnny had sent word to Manchester and all had been well there. But Harry’s arrest this time had been so sudden, that he had no idea if things would continue with him as public enemy number one for the foreseeable future.
Things changed one afternoon when he received a visitor. A warder told him that his girl had come to visit and to make the most of it, as he didn’t expect she’d want to go all the way to Devon, once he was shipped out. Sitting down, he noticed Jean walk in. She smiled and leaning over gave him a quick and gentle kiss hello.
“Hello, Harry you look awful."
“Honey-tongue”.
They both laughed. She explained that her visit was for two things, first to let him know that he hadn’t been forgotten and secondly that Johnny had squared things with the prison grapevine. The woman told Royle that everyone would soon know that it was the Manchester thugs and not Harry behind the violence. She had brought cigarettes and chocolate with her and told him that she was being well looked after. The visit brightened things for him.
Word reached him on the prison grapevine that on ship-out day he would find a hacksaw blade in the lining of his overcoat. He took this with a pinch of salt, putting it down to the other inmates wanting to cheer him up, knowing where he was bound.
Five days later he was told to get ready for transfer. The journey to Dartmoor began on an overcast day. Seven prisoners ferried from Wandsworth prison to Waterloo station in a dark blue single decker bus. Once there the men stood on the platform, kept away from the other passengers, but sought out by every eager eye in the station. The prisoners were surrounded by police officers and this drew more attention to them than anything else. Each prisoner lowered his head into his collar in an attempt to shield his identity, in case he might be recognised by someone he knew. The men wore civilian clothes and would change to new prison uniforms at Princetown Prison, Dartmoor.
It was an hour and ten minutes of abject misery and shame and the prison warders enjoyed every minute, which ticked by on the huge station clock. A special carriage had been laid on, and the men were herded into this.
The train lurched out of the early morning chaos of the station and smoothed out into the rhythmic patter of wheels on rails. The carriage was devoid of normal passengers and consisted of just the seven convicts bound for Dartmoor prison. Harry Royle stretched his legs out and attempted to ease out some of the stiffness from his body. As he did this, something sharp came up against his left hand. He carelessly glanced down and then remembering the rumour concerning the hacksaw blade, looked away. Instead, he gently ran his fingers around the coat’s hem and could easily discern a small thin object inside. He smiled an inward smile. He made something of a pantomime of a stretch, hoping that his bigger move would cover the smaller. This was not an easy task for he wore handcuffs and had a man leaning against each shoulder. He looked straight into the eyes of one of the prison officers, who catching his movement fired him a quizzical look.
“I need a piss.”
The officer grunted an acknowledgement and rose to his feet, helping Royle to stand in the process. The two men lurched along the narrow corridor, the guard leaving Royle at the door of the toilet. Once inside the cramped space Harry forced the fingers of his right hand inside the lining of his pocket, splitting it against the sharp steel blade in the process. He could feel the cold stiffness of the hacksaw blade fragment hidden within the fabric. It took a short time to bring the blade from the lining and into the pocket itself. With a smile, he brought out his hand and pulled the chain flush, sending water cascading into the porcelain bowl beneath.
By the time the two men had resumed their seats, a meal consisting of tinned corned beef and bread was being handed around. Within minutes, the bully beef was found to be rancid and so the bread was the only item on the menu. Six long hours awaited the men confined to the special carriages. Seven prisoners, very desperate men already serving long sentences for various crimes, and many of those violent ones.
Leaning into his neighbour Royle whispered that he had the means to escape. The other man agreed quietly to cover him. And so he ignored Harry as he slowly and very carefully worked with the thin piece of file. It took 45 minutes to free himself from his restraints. He then slipped the other man the file. This carried on until four of the closest prisoners had severed the link chains on their Hiatt handcuffs. Harry passed the word that once he’d unscrewed the table top he would send it through the window and they would follow it. This news was met with looks of nervousness and fear. Word came back from one of the others that it would be better to wait until they reached Tavistock station, their destination. Scenic views pushed hurriedly past the train windows. The simple beauty of the landscape was lost on the men, who had other things on their minds.
It was after two when the train came to a halt at Tavistock. The command came down from the prison officers to stand and await further orders. Harry stood, glad of the opportunity to straighten out the kinks in his back. One of the prison officers, a big man known for his skill as an athlete looked him in the eye with a stare of authority. Royle lowered his shoulders and dropped his head into his collar. This got a smile and nod from the warder who was happy to see the look of defeat on the convicts face.
The prisoners were herded off the train like tame cattle shuffling along the platform towards the station’s inner sanctum. The men were in line each handcuffed together with Royle bringing up the rear. Two officers stood, one in front, one in the back, and the third one floating ready to deal with any trouble. As they made their slow turtle parade into the station, Harry made his move. With lightening speed he separated his hands and threw a quickly snatched coat over the nearest warder’s head, and bolted, giving the floating guard a rugby hand-off in the chest, as he passed.
“Come on lads”
He shouted as he raced whippet-like through the station, leaving the others far behind. Any thoughts of making it a mass escape were halted by a bellow of ‘Stand where you are,’ issued by
an officer. The men all used to prison life and obeying orders, stood rooted to the spot, unable to join their swift companion. Running faster than ever before, Harry Royle rushed past a waiting police car, and the prison transport bus, and disappeared in a moment, leaving confusion in his wake and the shrill of whistles echoing in the crisp afternoon air. The police car, which had its engine running swung round and raced forward, only to lurch to a halt as the engine died, stalled by a moment of over-enthusiasm. The stationary car was passed at high speed by the athletic warder, who had won medals for his running prowess on the track and was now catching up to Royle with every stride. Turning his head, Harry could see the man gaining on him and threw himself down a narrow passage, knowing that at least the car wouldn’t be able to follow.
There were houses ahead standing quietly in the afternoon sunlight. Behind the houses was a rubbish dump and a long trench filled with household waste. Harry threw himself into the trench, diving under the filth. He quickly disappeared under the rotting mess. Breathing heavily, the officer rounded the corner of the houses and stood surveying the area. The search continued and troops were called in to assist in the manhunt. For six long hours, he lay there in the trench concealed by the putrid waste.
A soldier stood guard just feet away. Harry had pushed his nose and mouth just above the surface and could breathe the air filtered by the filth as it entered his hungry lungs. During this time, shouts and the sound of whistles floated in the still air.
He waited until it was dark, before making his move. Harry eased his stiff, aching body slowly along the trench. He froze, as his eyes caught the unmistakeable shape of a soldier’s boot not more than a few feet away. The man must have been posted to stand guard all night. It took an hour of slow snake-like movements to pass the sentry and to slither through a hedge beyond. Finding himself in a seemingly empty field, Royle pulled himself to his feet.
There it was, hot breath, wet and pungent on his face. Fear sent a chill up his spine. Then he saw, as his eyes became accustomed to the light. It was a bull and not a small one. The beast was now lowering its head and pawing the ground in front of him. Throwing his head back in sheer relief, a loud laugh escaped him.
Hearing the noise, the soldier entered the field, rifle held at chest height. Harry, seeing the soldier, laughed again, this time with a feeling of defeat. The other man looked at Royle for a long moment and then shook his head, as we all do when confronted by those on their way home, having had too much ale. It only took a second for the penny to drop, and Harry Royle lowered his head and putting his hands in his pockets, staggered out of the field and down the hill beyond.
Harry was free and on the moors. All he had to do now was find a way to get back to London and then he’d be safe. Dartmoor is a dangerously inhospitable place. Freezing fogs come down from nowhere and rob a person’s senses, as they struggle, groping, desperately searching for a way off the endless barren landscape. Bogs are to be found here too and coupled with driving rain, the elements add up all too easily to a cocktail of death. None of this makes a difference to a hunted man. Freedom is what counts and certainly that was on Harry’s mind, as he staggered on in search of a road.
Prisons breed three types of prisoner, as a rule. You either get on with your sentence, fit in and behave. You can go under and allow yourself to be destroyed. Or you can fight back and buck the system, with its rigid rules and petty regulations. Harry Royle had been bucking and fighting the system since 1937. He was strong and determined to survive, no matter what the odds against him were.
He stumbled on aimlessly, blinded by the now continuous downpour. A rainstorm had erupted from the heart of the mist and Royle was staggering blindly, just putting one sodden foot in front of another. This continued for twelve long hours. A storm raged and thunder crashed overhead, as lightning illuminated the sheets of rain. Harry had no idea of time and was almost on his knees when he found a shed, which appeared to be part of an allotment. Inside were various tools, pots and sacks, as well as some turnips and carrots. He tore into the raw vegetables with his teeth. His soaking wet clothes weighed heavy, as they clung to his shivering body. The cold was almost beyond endurance, as he huddled beneath vegetable sacks. He hoped for sleep and instead fainted. He lay there in the corner of the little hut for hours, his body unable to function, as the storm raged all around.
Men from the prison, local police, as well as volunteers, had all turned out in pursuit of the fugitive. All had braved the violent storm and all had quietly cursed the man, who kept them from their warm beds. The search continued all through that night and for another twenty-four hours. No dogs were kept at the prison or even with local police in those days, and so a local breeder had brought up two bloodhounds. The dogs had been given Royle’s little parcel of belongings and had sniffed at the air, before dragging their owner almost off her feet, in their eagerness for the chase.
Harry had awoken and felt more pain than he could ever remember feeling in his life. It had taken him over an hour, just to get to his feet and stumble out through the old hut door. He had been stumbling blindly in a thick mist, the storm having long since passed. He shivered and could no longer feel his hands or feet. Another few hours and he heard it. Dogs barking in the distance. He’d seen them used in the films but hadn’t expected them. He set off at a running stumble, the best his legs could manage, knowing that anything was better than walking, now that dogs were after him. Then the rain started again. Thick sheets of ice cold water struck him, almost washing him completely off his feet. Harry shivered as the skies opened and his body felt the impact of the sheer frontal assault of driving torrential rain.
He felt small and alone. A few hours before he’d been the hero, the man of the moment, he’d shown them all, never let the reputation slip. But now it was different. It was like being dropped from one world, bang, straight into another one and none of the other stuff mattered anymore. His mind began to drift and he longed for the safety of the prison bus. Even Dartmoor didn’t seem so bad.
Royle continued, in spite of the weather and the pain that racked his body, on and on he pushed himself, pushing against the rain, it was like going uphill, always uphill but never down. On and on he stumbled fighting to stay upright, struggling against the heavy weight of his sodden clothes. On until staggering, he fell headlong into a ditch at the side of the road. How many hours had gone by while he lay there, he’d never know. He began to drift in and out of consciousness. Each time he came to he’d move his aching, tired limbs hoping the small effort would keep him alive. He lay in the ditch for many hours. Long hours which folded in on themselves, until they became something new, a cross between waking and sleeping.
Dreaming, he thought the journey itself wasn’t too bad and Harry took a little pleasure from the unfolding countryside as it passed by the window. He was enjoying a meal of tinned corned beef and bread and cheese and was deep in conversation with Ruth Marker about some stupid woman in the Daily Mirror when he felt someone shake him awake.
Blinking slowly, he opened his eyes and remembered where he was. He heard something in the distance and somehow managed to make it to his knees. There it was something moving and shimmering through the driving rain. Movement, colours and sound. Was it thunder? No, it was a car. Harry fought against every sense and pulled his shattered body past the pain and stood on two unsteady wrecked and bleeding feet. He saw uniforms and heard a trembling laugh escape from his lips.
Could he front them out? Tell them some cock and bull story. No, of course, he couldn’t and, to be honest, he just hadn’t the heart anymore. There would always be a next time. He looked up at the sodden Mackintosh that was reaching out toward him and opened his mouth.
“I’m the man you’re looking for.”
Chapter 15
November 1941
Royle collapsed into the waiting arms of the police search team. He was lucky in two ways, firstly because they had found him, and in that weather it was no easy task. Secondly his good luck
was that it was the police and not the warders who now had him. Feeling sorry for the defeated man, they drove him back to Tavistock police station and got him dried off. He came to and was handed a cigarette and a steaming hot cup of strong sweet tea. An officer knelt down and removing his tattered shoes and blood-soaked socks, carefully washed his feet in warm water. Harry felt beyond grateful for the kindness shown to him after his recapture.
This ended abruptly, as he heard a car breaking sharply outside. Harry's stomach churned, for here he knew his moment of peace was about to end. The door opened and two burly prison officers filled the frame
"Let's have him."
The steel bracelets were snapped onto his sore wrists and he was dragged to his feet and shoved violently through the door and out toward the waiting prison transport.
"Good luck mate, you'll need it where you're going."
A police officer called after him. The sound was to be very quickly replaced by the snap of the car's door locks and the low cursing of the warders as they issued threats. Harry Royle said nothing to them, just slunk into the corner of the back seat.
The rain was still lashing hard against the car windows when they drove through the gates of Dartmoor prison. Harry had spent the journey from Tavistock to Princetown huddled in his corner of the back seat, feeling chilled through to the very marrow of his aching bones. He had at last arrived, and was led out of the car, and escorted to what would be his new home for the next three weeks. New prisoners went through processing and cell assignment. However, as an escapee, Royle was strip-searched and thrown into one of the punishment cells in the basement, in just his shirt.
Harry looked around his new home and noticed a block of wood that served as a table and the plank, which would stand in for a bed. A strong hand shoved him over the threshold and the steel door slammed shut behind him. The metal hatch on the door opened and the officer called to Royle through it.