Read The Fiend in Human Online
Authors: John MacLachlan Gray
The Fiend in Human (14 page)
‘The treadwheel be the pride and joy of our establishment. By tradition, every inmate spends its first three months on the machine. Nobody leaves The Steel without the full benefit.’
‘Through labour they see the error of their ways.’
‘Well put, Mr Whitty, true for you there.’
‘And choking on one’s own filth – that also will straighten a man out.’
‘Might you be referring to the odour hereabouts?’
‘I should be insensible not to, Mr Hook. We are in the midst of one gigantic cess-pool.’
‘The odours is a professional drawback, to be certain, Squire. It is not uncommon for the warder coming in of a morning to become sick. Many is the time I have hurled me breakfast, bought at me own expense not an hour earlier.’
‘And it must surely be a torture for the women,’ observes Owler, pained by his habitual worry for the two girls in his care. ‘To allow girls into such a place as this is.’
‘Not at all, Mr Owler. These is not women as you’d call women in polite society, Squire. These women is the toughest nuts and therefore slow to crack. You wouldn’t credit the inconceivable wickedness of these girls, the impudence of them. Simply to maintain respect, a girl’s head must be shaved and blistered at the slightest sign of rebellion, otherwise you have the very Devil on your hands.’
‘Sweet are the uses of adversity, which find sermons in stones and good in everything.’
‘That was of a pretty composure, Mr Whitty,’ says the turnkey.
‘It was Shakespeare, actually. Are you gentlemen acquainted with Shakespeare?’
‘I have heard some speeches,’ replies Owler.
Adds Mr Hook: ‘I’ve heard of an eye-gouging that is most shocking.’
‘That would be
King Lear
. There is also a hot poker up a bugger’s arse in
Edward II.’
King Lear
. There is also a hot poker up a bugger’s arse in
Edward II.’
Turnkey and patterer wince at the thought.
The prison bell sounds the quarter-hour, on precisely the same note heard in Newgate, Pentonville and Holloway; prison bells are all cast by the same hands, in the same mould, tuned to the same pitch – a harsh, strident voice expressing callousness and hopelessness in one dispiriting note.
Hearing the bell, Owler grows once again anxious. Urged on by the patterer, the three proceed down a set of iron steps, then immediately back up to ground level, to what appears to be a small outbuilding attached to the rear, like a garden shed equipped with a heavy iron door.
‘Now that we are outside the condemned cell, might I impart a caution?’
‘Mr Owler, I eagerly await your counsel.’
‘There must be no mention of a Sorrowful Lamentation until such time as our man actually confesses. ’T’would be a fatal blunder if you get my drift, Sir.’
‘I agree. An innocent man might find it unnerving to hear his confession read to him in verse.’
‘Nobody said he were innocent. Or might you be apprised beyond the horizon of my knowledge?’
‘Nothing of the kind, Mr Owler, I was only theorizing about the case.’
‘There is no theory to be had about the case. There is nothing theoretical about it.’
‘They always confess,’ says Mr Hook, producing a large brass key from the ring attached to his belt. ‘Some confess when I’d of sworn they don’t remember they done it.’
‘In this case,’ says Owler gravely, ‘the worry is who will hear the confession. Competition is keen.’
The turnkey having opened the heavy iron door, they enter a surprisingly large room with a ceiling at about three times the height of a man. There is one rectangular window just beneath the ceiling, topped with a rounded cornice and covered with a grid of flat iron bars, allowing a chequered view of the sky.
The wall opposite contains a second door which opens onto a tiny, enclosed exercise yard, bounded on three sides by the building itself and two exterior walls. The fourth wall verges on the prison yard and is lower in height, its purpose being not so much to contain the condemned as to protect him from other prisoners, who, having wives and daughters of their own, and tending to a conservative line on crime and punishment, would cheerfully serve out Chokee Bill for the primitive satisfaction of it, thereby saving Mr Calcraft the time and trouble.
The walls are made of square stones, cluttered with the names, dates and last messages of former occupants, etched in its surface with pieces of rock or metal. In the centre is a deal table containing the remainder of a meal consisting of a mutton chop, a fish and what looks to be preserved tongue, as well as a pudding. Remarkably, the table also contains two bouquets of fresh flowers, newly delivered.
‘I say, Mr Hook, the accommodations and victuals seem to be of an unusually high order. Wouldn’t mind a stay here myself.’ (Whitty watches the turnkey sharply.) ‘I understand – theoretically speaking of course – that for the payment of a certain sum by an outside party, it is not unknown for a convict to obtain certain supplementaries.’
Hook’s eye grows shifty, aware of its delicate situation and the correspondent’s ready pencil. ‘True for you, Squire, though we would never countenance it here.’
‘No doubt, Mr Hook. I appeal purely to your professional
imagination. Were such a thing to occur, how might it be done?’
imagination. Were such a thing to occur, how might it be done?’
‘I wouldn’t hear of such a thing meself, but it would stand to reason that any such gammy transaction would take place outside the premises – let us say, by means of a package left with the barkeeper of a certain pub.’
‘Thereby protecting both the enterprising turnkey and the prisoner’s anonymous benefactor.’
‘Exactly, Squire. Of course, we be talking of a purely theoretical matter.’
Whitty becomes aware of a sound in a far corner of the room, in whose shadow he can make out the back of a man, who is turning a handle, attached to what appears to be a large grinder-organ – without music – to which he is attached by means of chain and ankle-iron. It is as though our man were playing the roles of grinder and monkey, simultaneously.
‘Am I finally in the presence of Mr Ryan?’
‘You are indeed,’ replies the turnkey. ‘The condemned man has asked for the benefit of a machine to himself.’
‘Most industrious of him.’ Now that the correspondent’s eyes have adjusted to the perpetual dusk he can make out more clearly the contraption in the corner, as well the muscular form of its operator, working away.
Owler, meanwhile, crosses to the prisoner’s bunk, where the floor has been piled high with evangelist tracts, as well as a number of newspapers and sensational weeklies. ‘Observe the leavings of our competition,’ he whispers to Whitty.
Having crossed the room, Mr Hook proceeds to unlock the prisoner’s ankle-iron. None the less, the convict continues to turn the crank in a regular rhythm, still with his back to his visitors as though they did not exist, although he can surely hear their conversation.
‘Gentlemen,’ announces the turnkey, ‘this be the most modern device in The Steel. Like the other cranks you seen, this one makes use of a drum filled with sand, with a cupped spindle running through it, which the convict turns by a crank-handle. A standard device, but with a modern innovation: the revolutions is counted by clockwork. Thus, a calculation of the total is maintained, with no need for supervision whatever.’
‘What, if I may ask, is the intended benefit of the crank to a man who stands condemned to death?’
‘Like the Governor says, “While there is breath, there is correction.” ’
‘The gentleman appears to be in excellent health. Unlike the villains we observed on the treadwheel. I should have expected his state to be somewhat enfeebled.’
‘That would be the nourishment, Squire. Your condemned party is on hospital rations, unlike the forger or burglar.’
As well as certain supplementaries, thinks the correspondent. ‘So the crank does him good,’ notes the turnkey approvingly. ‘There be no benefit in hanging a man what is already half-dead.’
Whitty observes the regular grind of the crank and the patch of sweat on the man’s shirt, indicating genuine effort.
‘On what basis does our man claim innocence, Mr Owler?’
‘Mulishness, Mr Whitty,’ snaps the patterer. ‘And a surfeit of cheek.’
Upon hearing the word
innocence
, our man ceases to turn the crank, pauses to work a cramp from one heavily muscled shoulder, then straightens to his full height: clearly a performance for our benefit, thinks Whitty.
innocence
, our man ceases to turn the crank, pauses to work a cramp from one heavily muscled shoulder, then straightens to his full height: clearly a performance for our benefit, thinks Whitty.
The turnkey addresses the condemned man: ‘Mr Ryan, you have permission to take a rest, on condition that you give these gentlemen your full co-operation. Satisfy them and you will have a tot of rum for your next meal. Less than full co-operation, and the count you achieve will be halved. Is that clear?’
‘Lucid as always, Mr Hook.’ The calm, amused voice of the convict indicates a remarkable degree of self-control – perhaps the assumption of an ability to control others as well.
The turnkey turns to the visitors. ‘Gentlemen, feel free.’
As Whitty approaches the machine, its operator turns dramatically into the chequered light, providing the correspondent with a first glimpse of his Fiend in Human Form: tall and lean, with a straight nose and intelligent forehead, distinctly unfiendish in aspect (hence, the gift of flowers from appreciative ladies). Whitty notes an overhang to Ryan’s brow near the locality of Eventuality – a feature indicating, to the skilled eye of a phrenologist, a trove of hidden animal appetites awaiting satisfaction. As well, he recognizes from experience the habitually composed expression common to men who are prone to watchfulness, for whom potential danger is a given.
‘Mr Ryan, may I presume?’
‘Presume away, Sir. For that is the name by which I prefer to be called.’
In contrast to his show of good breeding, Whitty adjudges his complexion to be that of a man with hot blood in his veins – a passionate,
unbridled, un-British character. Drawing closer, he notes the mane of dark hair as well as the man’s level of physical fitness – especially of the upper body. No doubt about it, the party has taken to the crank with relish. What could be his purpose in such a regimen? What does he hope to achieve?
unbridled, un-British character. Drawing closer, he notes the mane of dark hair as well as the man’s level of physical fitness – especially of the upper body. No doubt about it, the party has taken to the crank with relish. What could be his purpose in such a regimen? What does he hope to achieve?
‘Please forgive the shortage of seating arrangements in my modest establishment. Feel free to make use of the bed as though it were a couch.’ So saying, Mr Ryan seats himself on a stool beside the eating table, takes a long inhalation of the flowers and smiles wryly. ‘There is nothing more stimulating to a Christian woman than a condemned murderer.’
‘I have heard that you claim innocence, Mr Ryan.’
Ryan returns the correspondent’s stare, evenly. ‘That is because I am innocent. At the same time, one hates to disappoint a lady.’
Again, the prison bell sounds the quarter-hour. Three-quarters of an hour left, thinks Owler to himself; may God grant him a loose tongue.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, Sir. Edmund Whitty, correspondent with
The Falcon
, at your service.’
The Falcon
, at your service.’
‘I’ve read your work. If I remember correctly, you’re the correspondent who first brought forth the name “Chokee Bill”. My congratulations to you.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ Like any writer, Whitty is childishly pleased by the prospect of being read by a stranger. ‘May I hope that you find your situation reasonable?’
‘You flatter me with your concern, Sir. I presume that you, like Mr Owler, have come in search of the elusive Last Confession from the man you journalists are pleased to flatter as the Fiend in Human Form. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the truth is, I am not your man.’
‘So I’m given to understand. However, neither judge nor jury agreed with you.’
‘The proof of my innocence will become evident soon enough, though I fear that I shall not be present to witness it. Chokee Bill will strike again, of that I am absolutely certain – if he has not done so already. Until then I can only reiterate my story, not because it will profit me, but because it is the simple truth.’
In Whitty’s experience, it is unwise to believe any man who uses the word
truth
more than once in a single conversation.
truth
more than once in a single conversation.
Owler gloomily relights his pipe.
The turnkey having left the cell to attend to other business, correspondent, patterer and convict pass through the door to the condemned man’s private exercise yard, if only to escape the oppressive emission of Owler’s pipe.
Owler produces a small, tattered notebook and a grimy stub of a pencil: ‘Mr Ryan, let us set aside for the moment the question of guilt or otherwise, since you deem me unworthy of that confidence. So as to provide me with some reason to continue our association, might there be any feelings of general regret or remorse to be shared with the reading public, by way of a caution like?’
Reasoning that if a loosened tongue is required then a little something will do no harm, the correspondent produces a flask of brandy. ‘Some refreshment, Mr Ryan?’
‘Your generosity is appreciated, Sir.’
‘Would you care for a cigaret?’
‘Thank you, yes. Though I regret that I cannot return the hospitality.’ Whitty chooses one of his special cigarets, prepared by his chemist. Ryan accepts a light from the proffered lucifer, drawing the delicious smoke deep into his lungs, nodding with appreciation (the nod of a connoisseur) and smiling to himself in a secret way, as if thinking,
I know exactly what you are up to, my friend
.
I know exactly what you are up to, my friend
.
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