A Lone Journey by a Lone Man
Such a man has but a single purpose to travel from Bradford to London.
The steam train thundered through the dark, its smoke sensed in discernible whiffs of grey seen through the window, down which rivulets of rain streamed. He occupied himself reading the headlines in last evening’s newspaper, holding it wide as if hiding from the woman sitting opposite.
Were he to concern himself with such headlines, he would be unable to carry out his duty.
The railway carriage smelled of Brylcream and other overpowering decoctions of old perfumes, mingling with stale tobacco ash vestige. The man woke at an ungodly hour of the morning to make this journey from Bradford to London with one purpose in mind, a journey made shorter by the game he played, trying to guess what his fellow passengers were travelling for. Take the man across the aisle; he liked the look of fellow passenger’s fine brogues; a serious man, perhaps a doctor on his way to perform a complex surgery, he wondered.
Another passenger was humming to the clickety-clack of the train’s steel wheels over the rails, causing our friend to rasp his newspaper, seemingly irritated. He offered a discourteous glance in the stranger’s direction before hiding his disgruntledness behind its headlines: a musician, the man is a musician, he convinced himself.
The morning darkness is subsiding fast, but even so, heavy clouds hang low over these unattractive suburbs. Rain continues to fall like stair-rods; the rivulets of rain on the window are now the focus of our friend’s attention, betting in his mind which will be first to cross the window. The train was making good time, and, having left Bradford on time, he fully expected to arrive in Euston at 7.16 A.M. He checked his watch. Seven exactly. One large, florid-faced man, sitting in a black overcoat, had strangely colourless eyes. He could be a detective, his continual mutterings undecipherable.
Just something about him makes me uneasy. The train is slowing.
Stepping down from the carriage, our friend’s nose and throat are immediately filled with the smell of coal burning, and his ears filled with the hissing of steam. He was suddenly absorbed into a mass of people, being jostled along amid a wave of peevish impatience. It just seems to him every time he makes this trip, more and more people are doing the same.
A rotund, red-faced man wearing a red and black uniform and a peaked hat looks uninterested, even annoyed, as he snatches the man’s ticket. The huge station precinct is already a hive of activity. I’m pleased the bench under the station clock is vacant, somewhere to set my briefcase down, opening the brass latches with the key. As a force of habit and routine, the man sits on the bench and removes a yellow cloth, a brush, and a tin of black cherry blossom from his briefcase. He’s very precise about his shoes and their cleanliness. He again checks his watch. He’s in good time.
He likes the smell of Cherry Blossom and takes a whiff before closing the lid and putting it back into his briefcase, wrapped tightly in the yellow cloth. With his shoes cleaned of scuff marks, he has time to satisfy his hunger and makes his way to the charcoal grill, tempted by the aroma of sausages cooking. Having satisfied that need, he makes his way out of the great station hall and enters the wintry streets of London. It is 7.40 A.M. It is his habit to arrive at 8.00 A.M.
The rain is fast turning to sleet; people are moving cautiously, leaning forward, hats held fast with gloved hands, scarves covering misting mouths. Stray dogs shelter under barrows that are yet to be filled with produce. It’s 7.45 as he buys another morning paper from a ruddy-cheeked, cloth-capped vendor. He neatly folds the newspaper, which he pushed under his arm and signalled a cab. The vendor offered a cheerfully voiced opinion. “Do a good job,” he yells.
The driver honked, and our friend got in. The cab pulled away from the curbside. The man opened his briefcase and removed a small flask of whisky. The sensation of taste on his tongue teased the need for more, but he resisted. It is something he’s always done, worthy of being called tradition. He does it out of respect to his father, remembering his once-a-day morning ritual, always just before eight, clear of his breath by nine.
The warmth slides into his belly. He screwed the lid back on and placed it reverently back into the briefcase.
As the cab came to a halt, crowds cheered; some jeered, others were simply cajoled. The crowd was persuaded to move away by police with batons. He gives the driver sixpence, touches his cap, and stands for a moment beneath the gate, straightening his coat. The notice reads: ‘H.M.P. Wandsworth.’
At 8:45 A.M., the cell door was opened. Our friend stood behind a burly guard, two more at his rear.
“Good morning, my name is Albert.”
The prisoner was lying on his bed, breakfast untouched.
“I’m Derek,” the prisoner said, clearly nervous and quiet, blank eyes staring.
The guard, not unkindly, asked Derek to stand, which he did without hesitation. Albert placed the pinioning loop upon his wrists and tightened it.
Quietly but reassuringly, Albert whispered to Derek. “Follow me, lad. Everything will be alright.”
Albert looked his watch.. It was 8.58 A.M.
As Albert’s train rattled back to Bradford, snow was falling heavily. He once again absorbed his mind in the game of wondering what people were thinking until disturbed by the clattering of a train passing in the opposite direction; stirred from these thoughts, Albert opened his briefcase, removed the chrome and leather-bound whisky flask, and drank the remnants.
A white cotton hood, some government papers, and fifteen guinea pieces were lying flat among the shoe-cleaning materials next to the calf leather strap. Albert returned the whiskey flask and snapped the clasps of the briefcase shut, wondering how business was back at the shop.
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End note:
Nearly 46 years after he was hanged for murder, Derek Bentley had his conviction quashed at the Court of Appeal. Albert Pierrepoint, the hangman, died in 1992, never having commented on the injustice.
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