A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (25 page)

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.

"There's a mattress over in the corner, but don't get too used to it, cos we'll be taking it off you each morning. Don't bother asking for blankets, you'll have to make do. Keep your nose clean and your mouth shut and you'll do all right."

With this last word the warder slammed the hatch shut and was gone.

Harry Royle slumped onto the mattress that he'd quickly thrown onto the wooden plank. The cell was cold, not the cold of an unheated room, but the very deep insidious cold of the outdoors. A chill hung in the air, catching each breath. Water ran down the walls in thin steady streams.

Harry awoke with a start as noise surrounded him. Then he remembered where he was and began to pull himself out of the healing sleep, sleep which he had needed so much the previous night. The cell didn't feel as cold now and he realised the bitter cold he'd at first experienced had been the aftermath of his exposure to the elements on the brutal moor the day before. His body still hurt, though hurt was too mild a word for his aches and pains, for he felt as though he'd come back from the other side of death and perhaps he had. Pain, sharp stabbing pain racked every inch of his body. Royle knew there'd be no use asking to see the doctor and he'd just have to put up with things as best he could.

He could hear shouts and the crashing steel of doors opening and men marching. The noise was increasing and seemed to be all around. The cell door opened and a warder stood there. The man was big and heavy set with a cap pulled down over his eyes. He had a long wooden baton in his right hand and was letting it skim across the bars, this made a rattling grating noise and was intended to strike fear into the hearts of all who crossed his path. The man opened his mouth in a snarl.

"On your feet Royle, Move or you'll feel my friend here."

The rattling continued in its repetitive symphony of implied violence. Harry slowly got to his feet and stood to face the man. Blue grey met peak shadowed eyes in mutual contempt. Harry smiled a deliberate mocking smile.

"Don't push me screw, it'd take more than you!"

In a heartbeat, the cell was filled with three more prison warders. The three fit, strong officers, seized Harry and pushed him into the far corner. The man with the baton stopped rattling and laid his weapon on the table. Picking up the mattress he shoved it up against Royle's, body so only his head appeared above. Two of the men took hold of the coarse stained mattress, and standing one on each side, held it firmly against their victim. The internal scream of pain filled Harry's head in an instant, as the first blow was struck. A size twelve boot connected with his upper left thigh. Even through the mattress the pain seared. This was followed again and again as the two other warders rained blow after blow down on him through the thin grey mattress. After two, or three minutes the men stopped their cowardly assault and stepped back, leaving their prey to slide down the wall coughing and fighting for breath. The men were breathing hard themselves. They turned and left locking the door behind them.

Harry lay with his back to the cold stone for what seemed like hours, then another click told him to open his eyes, to see who was coming to call this time. It was the same warder, the one who carried the long baton. Once again he began the pantomime. Royle blinked and tried to clear his head as he heard the same well-rehearsed speech.

"On your feet Royle, Move or you'll feel my friend here. Have you fallen over here let me help you up."

The man strode over and pulled Harry roughly by the shirt collar to his feet. He glanced into the far corner and pointed at the pot, which was made of rough papier-mâché.

"Slop out now."

Harry followed the other man's eyes, which were still shrouded by the caps peak. Harry shook his head.

"I didn't use it last night, I was a bit far gone."

The man stiffened and growled half under his breath.

"I said slop out now."

Harry shook his head and crossed to where the empty pot stood. Picking it up, he followed the warder out of the door and down the hall. Once the empty pot had been made empty by means of a petty-minded mime, he was marched back to the cell once more and locked in. After an indeterminate amount of time, the door opened once more, this time revealing a new face. This face belonged to an older man of a more stocky build. He had rough ruddy cheeks and had the look of a farmer. He had easy and not ungentle eyes and a kind attitude. The man smiled, a smile that did not appear to contain any hidden message or hint of sarcasm.

"Royle, it's time for your exercise, step lively if you please."

The man stepped to one side, letting Harry exit the cell and move along the hall. Exercise could mean many things, a little hint of freedom outside, or other men to speak to. But no this exercise was very different. Harry was led to a metal cage, and the exercise was to be expended by walking the length and breadth of the steel container. This lasted for half an hour and then he was taken back to his cell.

That night it became apparent that the cell would not be much warmer and he'd have to do something to stay warm, but what? The next day an overheard snatch of conversation between two warders gave him an idea. He walked up to the cell door and called out to them in a very respectful voice.

"Excuse me, sir, could I have a word, please?"

This got an immediate response from the officer standing closest, who smiling walked across the little space between them.

"Yes lad, what is it?"

Harry pulled on his humble mask and lowered his head in an obvious attitude of quiet submission.

"Could I sew mailbags, please? Just to keep me busy you know."

The officer beamed, and responded with a broad smile.

"Now that's more like it Royle. I'll see what can be done."

Harry nodded and went over to his bed to sit down. Mailbags would, he hoped, keep him a bit warmer if he wrapped them around his body at night. It was worth a try anyway. Still his mind was far from happy. Sucking up to screws was not in the cons rule book, but trouble was the last thing he needed at that moment.