All the Way

Timeline: Spring Bank Holiday Monday, 1968.

First, you hear the drumbeat of boots climbing steel stairs. Rising in volume as they march along the landing’s stone floor. The men behind the doors are never sure if it’s their turn. Today, it’s Danny King’s turn.

He watches the Judas hole levered aside. An unblinking eye scans the interior. Uneasy seconds pass before the bolt’s drawn back, and the lock released. Hinges screech as the iron door’s thrown open. Dark uniforms blur the doorway. Senior Prison Officer Reynolds, white shirtsleeves rolled up, arms folded over a bulky midriff, steps forward. He towers above Danny, who’s a fag paper shy of six feet.

‘You’ve got thirty minutes to get your kit packed and slop out.’ The words spring from the slash in a flushed face that makes Reynolds appear permanently angry. Danny smiles that smile of his, nods, and reaches under the bed for his shoes. He was being shanghaied. He wasn’t happy about it. But he’d conform. He had to. There’s too much to lose now. You don’t argue with robots under orders. That was a hard lesson to learn, but after eight years away; one he finally had to accept. Show them nothing—smile and start packing.

Two hours later, Danny waits in a rectangular, gravel-strewn area outside reception. Nearby a black Ford Transit with barred windows, engine purring, faces a pair of steel mesh security gates. The late spring sun is midway in its ascent across a clear blue sky. Bird song shrills across the treetops of the surrounding forest. Through the concertinaed barbed wire straddling the perimeter fence, and over the imposing internal walls of Her Majesty’s Prison Parkhurst.

A thickset screw that formed one of two escorts and a driver searches Danny’s kit and rubs him down.

‘Hands out.’

Danny holds out his hands, ready to be cuffed. The veins in his muscular arms stand out like blue rivers as the second officer applies the ratchets, tugging to check they’re locked. Prisoner and escort board the Transit. They exchange no words. The crucial question he needs answering: what jail did they come from? He asks. The screw turns and stares at him. That sneer on his face. The one that says, “shut your fucking mouth”, ends the conversation.

The Transit taxies through the grounds, past several low outbuildings, on towards the Gate Lodge. The heavy wooden gates that separate one world from another edges back on worn hinges. HMP Parkhurst is a decaying, dumping ground. Overflowing with the worst rebels culled from the entire British prison system. A dangerous, hostile, and unforgiving world where Danny has spent seven years behind its doors. As the Transit shifts gear and rumbles through the gate, he looks over his shoulder. He’d learnt much behind those walls. Endured even more. He’d entered as a boy. Now he’s leaving as a man.

They cruise through the Isle of Wight’s tranquil villages until arriving at Fishbourne ferry terminal. Waiting to board, Danny notices a girl around his age, her blonde hair tied in a ponytail. She’s holding the hand of a suntanned lad, who reaches down and scoops up a toddler; sitting her on the ferry’s handrail. The sea breeze ruffles her straw-coloured hair. He speaks a few words into her ear and points out to sea. She chuckles. The pony-tailed girl turns to face Danny. He shifts his gaze back into the gloom of the Transit’s interior.

All four remain locked inside the Transit in the dark belly of the hold, listening to the remorseless thud, thud, thud of the ferry’s screw, until they reach the terminal at Portsmouth Harbour. Disembarking, the driver navigates his way through Portsmouth’s bustling streets until they reach the start of the A3. The principal route to London.

Two hours later, they stop at a set of traffic lights at Roehampton. Straight ahead leads to Putney and HMP Wandsworth. A bang-up nick and one feared amongst cons for its uncompromising staff and the toughness of its regime. To the left, the route to the M1 motorway and the northern jails.

The Transit turns left. Danny’s pulse misses a beat. Ten minutes ahead lies the gateway to West London. To his manor and a myriad of memories. The good ones? Fleeting. But that scene—the recurrent one—the one he’d sworn to avenge: Amplified. The Transit trundles across Hammersmith Bridge, below it the grey flow of the Thames, until it turns into Shepherd’s Bush Road; easing down in traffic outside the Hammersmith Palais.

The billboard confirms that Joe Loss and his Orchestra are still playing. “Accompanied by his brother Dead Loss”. Danny grinned when he thought about his old mate, Johnny Boy’s threadbare joke, whenever they passed that poster. The Market Boys always gathered up on the balcony close to the bars. All Brylcreem, drapes, drainpipes, and brothel creepers. With one eye on the birds jiving below and the other on the lookout for rivals.

The Transit motored on. Past new buildings that seemed uglier than those they’d replaced. Through traffic that had never been this dense. Alongside people who hadn’t changed. Towards Shepherds Bush, which shares nothing with its wealthy neighbour Holland Park; except the road in, and the road out.

The Bush Hotel came into view as they approached Shepherds Bush Green. A notorious, rare up boozer. At weekends, drunken grievances were settled on the Green opposite—bare knuckles and a whooping crowd. Next came the Empire Theatre. A bastion of the BBC. Then, the picture house, The Essoldo; better known as The Fleapit to the locals. Within spitting distance stood the Gaumont Cinema. Every Sunday at 4 p.m. you had to be seen outside. Not in the queue. It was our ritual. And compulsory.

White City dog track and the sprawling council estate that defines it looms in the distance. Five hundred yards on a set of traffic lights; the red of its stoplight reflected in the escorts’ eyes. A crossroads. Danny balled his fists. Ahead, the route to the northern nicks. To the left, two minutes up the Du Cane Road stands HMP Wormwood Scrubs.

The lights turn green. They turn left. Danny was pleased to be back on his manor. But, prior to being shanghaied to Parkhurst, the Scrubs had been a dangerous jail for him. He had good reason to believe it would be again.

Chapter 2

Emma’s hand seized the door handle of the Dover Marine to London train as it shuddered to a halt beside platform two at Victoria station. The air was dense with the acrid, hostile smell of a big city. Whistles shrilled and doors banged shut as she joined the impatience of the rush-hour crowd nudging its way towards the ticket collector.

Finally, she made it through the ticket barrier and onto the concourse with just one thought. One goal in mind. She weaved her way through the crush of people eager to make their tube connections until she spotted the newsagents next to the booking office.

With trembling hands, she combed through an array of newspapers, halting abruptly when she reached a copy of Le Parisien. The headline read: “Four bodies discovered in the Marais district”. She took a deep breath before reading the subheading: “A gendarme and three students slain. The Sûreté found their bodies bound and gagged, lying face down in a deserted factory. Daubed across the factory wall, in blood was the message—”

Emma gulped. Her throat constricted. She wasn’t sure. She gave the newsagent two shillings, walked away without her change, and stopped in front of a poster depicting a euphoric family boarding a train. Below, the legend: “Visit Sunny Brighton”. She leant against it, opening up the newspaper. A tingling coursed up and down her arms like electric currents. It was true. Berndt Wolfhausen was named as one of the murdered students.

It wasn’t her fault. But if he hadn’t helped her—she slid down the wall—if he hadn’t given her time? The time to run. Would he be dead now?

She tried taking deep breaths. Needed time to think. Interminable, jagged seconds passed as she struggled to calm herself. Overhead, the Tannoy blared out its instructions to the transient herd. Suddenly, she felt thirsty. She licked her lips. They were dry and cracked. A cigarette? She needed a cigarette. She rummaged through the pockets of her anorak until she found a packet of Gauloises and a book of matches. Sparking the match, she inhaled deeply. Finally, blowing out a broad plume of blue smoke.

Crucifying herself like this was futile and foolish. If she didn’t pull herself together, the next death would be hers. She had to act positively. Be strong. It was the only way. Come on; you’ve got this far. Get up. Now!

Picking up her haversack, she lit another cigarette, when an uninvited thought surfaced: Why hadn’t she shed a tear over Berndt’s murder?

Once she’d changed her francs into sterling, she had eight pounds and ninepence and no idea what to do next. Somewhere to sleep; that was the priority. She bought a copy of the Evening News and looked through the classified section for bed-and-breakfast accommodation. She found one on Vauxhall Bridge Road, just around the corner from the station. It was shabby, and the landlady was nosy, but it was cheap. She gave her three days’ rent in advance. Emma calculated she could last a week before she was destitute. With that thought, she lay down exhausted on the bed, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Much later, she awoke from the incessant banging on the door by her landlady.

‘You alright in there. You’ve missed yer breakfast, you know? Miss . . . Miss?’

‘Yes, I’m alright, thank you. I was exhausted. . . A long journey.’

‘Oh, alright. No breakfast until tomorrow, though!’ Having clarified that, Mrs Ambrose retreated down the stairs.

The clock on the wall ticked, gratingly slow, like the click, click, click of knitting needles; forcing Emma to sit up in bed and think through her limited options. She needed money. And quickly. But how? And somewhere to hide. Somewhere that wouldn’t attract attention. But where? Unfortunately, planning had never been her strength.

She went out, walking aimlessly through Victoria. Passing a phone box, she hesitated a few paces further on. It had to be done. Who else is there? There’s no alternative. She lit up a Gauloise, building up the courage to make the call she detested having to make.

She dialled the number, her finger poised over button A, anticipating her connection to Esher; barely 30 minutes away. She pictured the house that she hadn’t seen in almost a year. The long, white gravel drive leading to the portico of the twelve-bedroom Tudor residence that Gerald had inherited from his stockbroker father. Parked outside would be Gerald’s “little baby”, as her mother called it. A canary yellow Lamborghini that he’d acquired after his partnership had profited from a few tips from some well-placed, old school chums. “A nice little tickle”, was how he referred to it.

‘Esher 796.’ Emma winced as she heard her mother’s strident voice. It was one a coach had schooled so that all traces of its origins were erased and replaced with an accent mimicking her public school educated circle of acquaintances.

‘Hello. . . Hello.

‘Mother, it’s me.’

‘Oh. It’s you. One moment, Gerald has just called me. “Your cufflinks are where they should be, darling; on top of the dresser”. Emma heard her cough to clear her throat before she said. ‘Well, I certainly didn’t expect to hear from you again after your last little outburst. Or should I say tantrum? Your father was—’

‘He’s not my father.’

‘You’re so ungrateful,’ she snapped. ‘Gerald has bent over backwards to help you. You’ve never shown the slightest bit of appreciation. Remember who paid for you to go to that University. And who also sends you an allowance.’

‘He only spent the money to get rid of me.’ It wasn’t going as she’d planned, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘And, by the way, he stopped paying the allowance four months ago. Did you know that?’ There was a long pause. Emma bit her lip, knowing that she’d just made a stupid mistake.

‘Look, Emma,’ her mother said with undisguised irritation in her voice, ‘we have got guests coming for an important luncheon in . . .one and a half hours. Gerald wants everything to be just so. Say what you have to say and let me get on. The bloody caterers haven’t arrived yet and—’

‘I need some money. Urgently.’ There it was. She’d said it. After rehearsing what she would say five times, she’d blurted that out. She meant her words to be an appeal. Instead, it was a demand.

‘Oh, do you, Emma? In trouble, are you?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Well, Gerald told me to put my foot down the next time that you bothered to speak to us. If you’re in trouble—again—you had better get yourself out of it without our help. What’s that saying? Oh, yes. You’ve made your bed now you must lie on it.’

‘But, mother. . .’ The line went dead. The snub employed; a seasoned tool in her mother’s cultural jewel box.

Standing outside the kiosk, she lit up another Gauloise. Her other self had made the phone call. It disgusted her real self for making it. She blew out a cloud of smoke. And her real self wondered what the hell should she do next?

Chapter 3

Prison doors are never closed—they’re always slammed shut. HMP Wormwood Scrubs was no exception. Like an artillery barrage, the crash from three security doors followed Danny from the outer courtyard into reception, where he was uncuffed from his escort. They handed him his kit box containing 27 books, soap, flannel, toothpaste and brush, a group photo with the Market Boys on a jolly up to Southend, and a few tattered envelopes wrapped in an elastic band. All that Danny possessed.

Reception spanned a high-ceilinged room, painted the regulation HMP shiny cream. Along one wall stood nine windowless holding cells with just enough room for a prisoner to touch all four walls when standing in the centre. Against the far wall was a solid block of dexicon shelving that held hundreds of cardboard boxes containing the new arrivals’ belongings.

‘Stand in front of the line.’ His escort bellowed. Danny walked towards a bolted-down table in the centre of the room. In front of it, a white painted line exactly three feet from the table. Danny placed his shoes an inch over the line.

‘One on.’ The second escort placed a sheaf of papers on the table in front of the Reception PO, hunched over a clipboard, biro busily at work. Danny instantly recognised him from seven years ago: Tubby Thompson. Once a fat snide, always a fat snide.

‘Name?’

‘Daniel Peter King.’

‘Number?’

‘568896.’

Thompson looked up from his clipboard. A practised grimace pushed his bulbous cheeks outwards as if he was preparing to inflate a balloon. His gaze took in every fibre of Danny.

Thompson didn’t need to read the VBT 100 Transfer Form. Danny stood tall and upright in front of his desk. Proud, some might say. Defiant Thompson would have said. Danny was well-muscled from hour upon hour of solitary exercise. His nut-brown hair cut short to negate any edge in a barney. Grey eyes, set in sharp features, focused on the ceiling. Thompson had seen scores like Danny before. But what alerted Thompson, and others, that Danny was different was his prison uniform. A broad yellow stripe was stitched to the outside of each leg. Danny was an ‘E’ man. An escaper.

‘D Wing.’ Thompson pointed towards a security gate at the end of reception. Danny shot him a quizzical look, curbed what he was about to say, deciding it was a waste of breath. D Wing it was. But he knew it shouldn’t have been. The escorts marched Danny to a tall mesh security door. Two PO’s stood behind it. They unlocked it, and Danny walked through into the main prison; hearing the gate slammed shut behind him. Danny’s shanghaiing was complete.

D Wing didn’t differ from all the prison wings Danny had previously faced. The blare of competing transistor radios against a background of boots crunching on steel gratings. The jingle jangle of screws’ keys and slamming doors, playing out like some coarse symphony; merging with the stench of urine and faeces that no amount of diluted disinfectant could mask. The scathing clamour of cons interacting. The banter, wind-ups, shrill shouts, singing, whistling, cursing and name-calling of three hundred prisoners confined within an unforgiving arena. Danny walked the gauntlet; escorted up to the Twos. Four cells along the door was unlocked and booted wide open.

‘In you go.’ Danny entered his cell, barely half a yard longer than his bed. A narrow table flanked it. A small barred window allowed a half-light to illuminate a chair. In the corner, the plastic pot that was Danny’s night-time toilet. He placed his kit on the mattress, sat down, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

‘Out of the frying pan into the fucking fire, eh Danny.’ Tommy Cairns pulled Danny to one side on the Two’s landing. He offered his hand. Danny shook it warmly. Tommy spoke in a half-whisper as if the vocal cords had evolved for conspiring. His face revealed the strain and pain of fifteen years behind the door.