January 2013
The first time was horrific. It was almost too hard to bear that I had taken the life of an innocent man. To preserve my sanity I clung on to that fleeting moment that hinted otherwise, but even now I am not completely convinced.
The cell was small: not three paces in each direction and scarcely as high. By the guttering flame of my lantern the only furniture visible in this bare space was a rough wooden bench with a grimy horsehair mattress . . . and a bucket. The man sat on the edge of his bed, his body hunched in defeat, his head, too weary to support, hanging between his knees.
Into this cramped space the Warden and the priest insinuated themselves – the Warden to detail the official procedures and the priest to make one last attempt to extract a confession and allow the man to make his peace with his God.
I stood in the doorway, securing the exit, dressed in the rough uniform of a guard, but I was not a guard – they stood a few feet back along the corridor out of sight, their heavy wooden 'persuaders' concealed beneath their uniforms lest the unfortunate should choose his final moments to launch an attack upon his keepers. My only purpose was to assess the man, to enable the success of the procedure that was to follow, for the length of the drop and the number of loops within the knot were critical factors.
The man was barely five feet tall and emaciated and I guessed that he weighed eight stones at the outside, although, with the limited view I had, even this rough estimate was vague. This rough, and clearly inaccurate, guess on the very first of such gruesome duties proved to be both disastrous and unpardonable.
I watched in silence as the ministrations of the two officials drew nothing more than a vague shake of the head from the man – no verbal response, no other indication that he had even heard what they had said to him. His body convulsed in silent sobs as he contemplated his demise and it was only when they turned to leave that he at last mumbled his innocence, imploring them to spare his life. But his moment had gone, they had devoted to him all the time that they were prepared to commit and there was no response, no backward glance as they fled the cell towards air less pervasive. But I, alone in the doorway, ignored by all three, caught the briefest flash of defiance in the man's eyes, the briefest hint of a sneer cross his lips before his head dropped once more into his lap.
It was to this transient moment that I clung in desperation whenever the enormity of the injustice, in which I had participated fully, came back, brutal and remorseless, to torment me.
When the time came the guards led the man to the scaffold where I stood, tall, authoritative, eldritch – and quaking – my identity and my horror concealed beneath a deep cowl. The man whose head I covered with the black hood remained silent and unresponsive, in a state of deep shock; there was no remnant of the deceitful glint in his eye. I slipped the rope around his neck and eased the thick coil beneath the line of his jaw and stepped back. The man stood immobile, rigid with fear, while the priest read him his last rites, then the Warden nodded almost imperceptibly and I pulled on the lever. The trapdoor opened beneath his feet and he disappeared from my view.
The deed should have been complete, but the gasp of pure horror from the assembled crowd chilled me to the bone. The man's body was struggling, writhing in a macabre dance of death. I was unable to think, to react, to recover the last vestiges of the moment . . . it was down to my assistant to perform the unpleasant duty; he rushed across the rough ground and hurled himself at the thrashing legs, leaping, grasping, wrenching until the body finally fell silent.
I vomited over the rail onto the grey flags beneath.
The Warden had the temerity to congratulate me, patronise me, telling me that the first time was often less than perfect, but that he was confident that the next time I would surely gauge the length of the drop more accurately and he made an attempt, most ineffectually, to reassure me that the evil man deserved no less a fate than he had received.
But I knew otherwise; when the courtyard had emptied and I was alone with my instrument of death I could allow myself none of those platitudes. I had taken the life of an innocent man.
The cold wood pressed against my back through the thin cotton of my shirt. The rough boards chaffed my legs. The rope still hung before me as a grim reminder of my crime. I slid a hand across to grasp my only friend, a bottle of London's finest gin; a splinter gouged its way into the palm of my hand. My cry of surprise was cut short as I reasoned that this was but punishment for my evil deed. As I gnawed at the sliver with trembling teeth I drew what little comfort I could from that deceitful glance, that wisp of a sneer . . .
The second time was no easier to endure, no more easy on the conscience, but this time at least there could have been no doubt of his guilt. A self professed 'gentleman' – though gentle man he was not, nor ever had been – had beaten a cabbie for refusing to whip his horse through the snarl of the traffic. But it was not the blow from the ebony headed cane which had killed the unfortunate driver, it was the striking of his head upon the hard cobbles after the fall from his high perch. The man had tried to make good his escape, but enraged drivers from the other hackney cabs had restrained him, struggling and cursing, until the constable had arrived. It was only later that a careless touch had discovered the concealed button in the cane which released the deadly thin blade from within and further investigation led to the widespread belief that he was the perpetrator of several foul murders in the fog ridden streets and dark alleyways around his mansion, though he would admit to nothing which would provide comfort and closure to those left behind.
When I slipped the rope around his neck he was screaming his defiance at me, and at the priest, but more specifically at the Warden, the symbol of the civic authority which was to take his life.
This man was heavy and I was careful to present a shorter rope for him – a shorter drop for a heavier man – but once more my judgement proved defective. As the door opened, the man fell with such force that I was afraid his body would part from his head, but by some miracle the toughness of his bull-neck withstood the force and I was spared a further lecture on my inadequacies. However, this was more by good fortune than by judgement and I resolved to take a great deal more care in my future assessments.
When the crowd dispersed I was left alone with my two friends, the bottle and the scaffold – my scaffold – my new friend. The rough boards felt warm and inviting; I drew a large draught from the bottle, grimacing as the rough spirit seared its way down my throat. I coughed, then chuckled to myself . . . I had made it; I knew now that I had the resolve to survive this detestable profession.
For an hour or more I rested against the unyielding boards, the pain easing as the alcohol diminished in the bottle. I could feel a raw elemental power surging through my body, as if the device of death itself had absorbed the evil power from the man at the moment of his extinction and was now feeding it into me, empowering me, strengthening me – the iniquitous life force of those who had gone before flowing through my veins, desensitising me, enabling me.
In as many months fourteen more men followed – London was a grim city if you were foolhardy enough to step away from the fashionable hub into the hinterland – and my skill at assessing and dispatching increased with each successive accomplishment. And with every pull of the lever, with each terminal drop, the grim power within me increased yet further. I was no longer troubled by night terrors induced by the horrors of the day. I was the avenging angel of society, the scaffold my gleaming sword with which I cleansed the streets of vermin, creating a safer existence for the more respectable members of its society.
But that was then . . .
Now I stand alone on the platform, my feet planted wide, to all outward appearance a confident, efficient tower of strength . . . but the heavy cloak and deep cowl conceal the trembling in my knees, the inner conflict which is urging me to run and not to stop until I have put a world between myself and this dreadful place.
On the steps the familiar pounding of two pairs of boots, but between these two the other footfalls come: almost silent, like the whisper of a soft breeze through the orchard, but I hear them like church bells ringing in my ears. Now that she finally stands before me I am forced to raise my head, to confront her, but her eyes are hollow, empty, lifeless; there is no hint of accusation in them, nothing at all, it is as if the light within has been extinguished. I know that she can neither see me, nor be aware of my presence, she is so far removed from this place of dread.
Word spreads fast in a busy city, but Rebecca's tale had spread before her like a plague of rats. She was a waif of a woman, short of height and slight of build. Throughout her short marriage she had suffered the extremes of mental and physical violence. He had beaten the will from her soul and the beauty from her face, but one fateful night she had finally snapped and while he slept she broke the chamber pot across his head and stabbed the jagged sliver of porcelain that remained in her hand through his neck time after time after time. She was discovered stumbling aimlessly through the dark streets, the bloody shard still clenched in her fist, her nightdress smothered with gore. When she was seized she had offered no resistance, but it had taken two strong men to wrest the offending item from her hand.
She did not say one single word throughout the investigation or the trial, and, despite the entreaties of neighbours and friends there was only one possible outcome the court was prepared to consider.
My hands tremble and my eyes mist with tears as I carefully set the hood around her head and the rope around her neck. In a trance I stand back. Finally the sound of the Warden's cough brings me back to my senses and I realise that I have failed to perceive his usual nod of assent.
I pull on the lever.
A tight constriction around my heart threatens to overwhelm me. Concealed within the confines of my cloak my body convulses violently and it is only by a supreme effort that I am able to retain my stance.
There is a hushed murmur from the prison staff and from the gawpers below, and then they disperse with obscene haste. Now I am left alone with my two staunch friends who have supported me throughout the good and the bad times: my scaffold and my bottle of London Gin. I sink down in my usual position, but the wooden boards today feel cold and heartless. I am no longer an avenging angel, I am merely an instrument of an unfeeling society, as a truncheon is merely an instrument of the constable, but just as deadly in use. The raw spirit no longer mitigates the pain; it dulls my senses, but it cannot turn back the clock, cannot resurrect the poor soul I have callously dispatched, cannot redeem my soul for the wicked deed I have done.
Whether she has truly gone to meet her maker I cannot conceive, for I neither believe in God and heaven or in the eternal damnation of that other place.
I am lost. I no longer feel the power that the cold timbers once fed to me, buoying me up through each unpleasant episode; all I feel now is the ruthless efficiency of the machine which the gin can no longer alleviate. As I pull myself up to my feet a splinter pierces my finger, but I wave it away, once more accepting the pain as retribution. The empty bottle makes a hollow sound as it drops to the boards.
My fingers caress the unusual texture of the hemp, the loose strands prickle my skin; my tired eyes wonder at the intricate pattern of the weave, at the precision of the rough coils. The noose feels comforting around my neck and as I tug the knot down to my jaw it feels familiar, inviting, as if I am coming home, wherever home might be for one such as me. The thin soles of my shoes are hovering on the brink of the abyss and I am rocking gently, my eyes closed in rapture. I am the avenging angel and I have to cleanse society of the vermin.
I take a step forwards into the unkno. . . .