A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (24 page)

Devon nodded.

“Charley Bristol."

The man smiled and shuffled off towards the others. More bodies were coming out, but these were all dead. The boy alone survived and it was thanks to Harry’s near Olympic style dash that he was above the little boy when part of the ceiling from the floor above fell. Royle had flattened himself over the boy and taken the plaster, wood and bricks on his back, saving the boys life. Devon could see the obvious pain on his friend’s strained face. Putting his arm around Royle, Jones helped him back to the club, where Jenny and one of the singers, Martha, bathed him and cleaned up his wounds.

Harry was sore for days and had quite a few minor injuries, none of which were more than an inconvenience. The real injury was yet to come. It was the morning after in the offices of The Sunday London Reporter newspaper that found Alan Parry chasing up a lead to a small time gas metre thief, when he happened to notice one of his staffers making a blunder.

“Roy you need to change that caption. I don’t know what your story is, but that gentleman is one Harry Royle and not Bristol."

Half turning away, Parry suddenly stopped in his tracks. Leaning over the image before him, he grabbed a large handheld magnifier and stared at the image which swam into sharp focus. Within hours, Alan Parry was in conference with two senior men from Scotland Yard. It was agreed that he would break the story of Royle’s arrest in his paper. So a plan was hatched to snare Harry, and Parry kept the picture out of the newspaper, saving it for his exclusive story of the heroic action that led to the recapture of the infamous jail-breaker Harry Royle. Things had been slow of late at the paper, but now his editor would be all over him like cheap cologne. Harry and Devon didn’t go out for quite some time, allowing Harry to recover. In the end, it was on a whim that they decided to go out on Christmas Eve. They’d been on duty for a few hours and no raid had come. Deciding to go back to the club, they turned back on themselves, when a torch shone on their faces, this was followed by a shout which ripped through the silent night.

“Harold Royle stand where you are. You are under arrest."

They froze and blinked into the harsh light. The light was joined by another five torches. The men knew they were surrounded and had no place to run. They stood still and waited. Devon was pulled to one side and then shoved across the street. He glanced at Harry, who signalled with his head for his friend to get away if he could.

Jones swallowed his pride and putting his head down headed off around the corner. The torches switched off and before Harry’s eyes could accustom themselves to the night, Press photographer, Nicholas Halley pushed his way to the front, thrusting his camera in Royle's face. A flashbulb exploded blinding him momentarily. This was followed by a familiar voice.

“Sorry Harry, no hard feelings, but you really are good news to me, my friend."

Harry felt Alan Parry’s hand press his and shake his hand.

“Hello, Parry, you news hounds just don’t quite get boundaries do you?”

Parry chuckled and he patted Royle's shoulder, as Harry was hauled away and shoved into a waiting car from Savile Row station. Turning to Halley, Parry spoke.

"We make an excellent team Nick, with your hook and click technique and my no-holds-barred investigative style we'll be unstoppable. "

The photographer grinned.

"Yes, Alan, we're quite a team."

Within twenty minutes, Harry Royle was the talk of West End Central and the latest toast of New Scotland Yard. Harry was surprised to see a beaming constable enter his cell with a full fish and chip supper, together with tea and cigarettes and matches, just ten minutes after he had been processed and locked up. Harry raised an eyebrow at the young copper.

“Well Harry, it is Christmas Eve you know."

Harry Royle, smiled.

“Thanks, I’m starving."

“Well between you, me, and door post, we all think it was grand, you know, you saving that kiddie like that, it took real guts. If it was up to me, well you know, hope you enjoy this."

Without another word, the officer left the cell and Harry heard the loud click of the lock falling into place. The food was good and the smokes’ welcome. Ironically the meal was one of the best he’d enjoyed in years, better for not having to look over his shoulder.

And better because he knew what lay ahead, cold, stark prison and there would be no fish and chips where he was going, just a good kicking.

That was to be the last good meal Harry would have for many months. He would shortly find himself inside prison walls once more. Harry Royle found himself in Wandsworth for a time and was confused by this until an order came through that he was to be transferred to Dartmoor before too long.

This was to Harry the ultimate insult. The most feared prison in England, and for eight years. He had not been having an easy time in Wandsworth because of the Ironworks violence, and so expected more of the same to follow on the moor. Johnny had sent word to Manchester and all had been well there. But Harry’s arrest this time had been so sudden, that he had no idea if things would continue with him as public enemy number one for the foreseeable future.

Things changed one afternoon when he received a visitor. A warder told him that his girl had come to visit and to make the most of it, as he didn’t expect she’d want to go all the way to Devon, once he was shipped out. Sitting down, he noticed Jean walk in. She smiled and leaning over gave him a quick and gentle kiss hello.

“Hello, Harry you look awful."

“Honey-tongue”.

They both laughed. She explained that her visit was for two things, first to let him know that he hadn’t been forgotten and secondly that Johnny had squared things with the prison grapevine. The woman told Royle that everyone would soon know that it was the Manchester thugs and not Harry behind the violence. She had brought cigarettes and chocolate with her and told him that she was being well looked after. The visit brightened things for him.

Word reached him on the prison grapevine that on ship-out day he would find a hacksaw blade in the lining of his overcoat. He took this with a pinch of salt, putting it down to the other inmates wanting to cheer him up, knowing where he was bound.

Five days later he was told to get ready for transfer. The journey to Dartmoor began on an overcast day. Seven prisoners ferried from Wandsworth prison to Waterloo station in a dark blue single decker bus. Once there the men stood on the platform, kept away from the other passengers, but sought out by every eager eye in the station. The prisoners were surrounded by police officers and this drew more attention to them than anything else. Each prisoner lowered his head into his collar in an attempt to shield his identity, in case he might be recognised by someone he knew. The men wore civilian clothes and would change to new prison uniforms at Princetown Prison, Dartmoor.

It was an hour and ten minutes of abject misery and shame and the prison warders enjoyed every minute, which ticked by on the huge station clock. A special carriage had been laid on, and the men were herded into this.

The train lurched out of the early morning chaos of the station and smoothed out into the rhythmic patter of wheels on rails. The carriage was devoid of normal passengers and consisted of just the seven convicts bound for Dartmoor prison. Harry Royle stretched his legs out and attempted to ease out some of the stiffness from his body. As he did this, something sharp came up against his left hand. He carelessly glanced down and then remembering the rumour concerning the hacksaw blade, looked away. Instead, he gently ran his fingers around the coat’s hem and could easily discern a small thin object inside. He smiled an inward smile. He made something of a pantomime of a stretch, hoping that his bigger move would cover the smaller. This was not an easy task for he wore handcuffs and had a man leaning against each shoulder. He looked straight into the eyes of one of the prison officers, who catching his movement fired him a quizzical look.

“I need a piss.”

The officer grunted an acknowledgement and rose to his feet, helping Royle to stand in the process. The two men lurched along the narrow corridor, the guard leaving Royle at the door of the toilet. Once inside the cramped space Harry forced the fingers of his right hand inside the lining of his pocket, splitting it against the sharp steel blade in the process. He could feel the cold stiffness of the hacksaw blade fragment hidden within the fabric. It took a short time to bring the blade from the lining and into the pocket itself. With a smile, he brought out his hand and pulled the chain flush, sending water cascading into the porcelain bowl beneath.

By the time the two men had resumed their seats, a meal consisting of tinned corned beef and bread was being handed around. Within minutes, the bully beef was found to be rancid and so the bread was the only item on the menu. Six long hours awaited the men confined to the special carriages. Seven prisoners, very desperate men already serving long sentences for various crimes, and many of those violent ones.

Leaning into his neighbour Royle whispered that he had the means to escape. The other man agreed quietly to cover him. And so he ignored Harry as he slowly and very carefully worked with the thin piece of file. It took 45 minutes to free himself from his restraints. He then slipped the other man the file. This carried on until four of the closest prisoners had severed the link chains on their Hiatt handcuffs. Harry passed the word that once he’d unscrewed the table top he would send it through the window and they would follow it. This news was met with looks of nervousness and fear. Word came back from one of the others that it would be better to wait until they reached Tavistock station, their destination. Scenic views pushed hurriedly past the train windows. The simple beauty of the landscape was lost on the men, who had other things on their minds.

It was after two when the train came to a halt at Tavistock. The command came down from the prison officers to stand and await further orders. Harry stood, glad of the opportunity to straighten out the kinks in his back. One of the prison officers, a big man known for his skill as an athlete looked him in the eye with a stare of authority. Royle lowered his shoulders and dropped his head into his collar. This got a smile and nod from the warder who was happy to see the look of defeat on the convicts face.

The prisoners were herded off the train like tame cattle shuffling along the platform towards the station’s inner sanctum. The men were in line each handcuffed together with Royle bringing up the rear. Two officers stood, one in front, one in the back, and the third one floating ready to deal with any trouble. As they made their slow turtle parade into the station, Harry made his move. With lightening speed he separated his hands and threw a quickly snatched coat over the nearest warder’s head, and bolted, giving the floating guard a rugby hand-off in the chest, as he passed.

“Come on lads”

He shouted as he raced whippet-like through the station, leaving the others far behind. Any thoughts of making it a mass escape were halted by a bellow of ‘Stand where you are,’ issued by an officer. The men all used to prison life and obeying orders, stood rooted to the spot, unable to join their swift companion. Running faster than ever before, Harry Royle rushed past a waiting police car, and the prison transport bus, and disappeared in a moment, leaving confusion in his wake and the shrill of whistles echoing in the crisp afternoon air. The police car, which had its engine running swung round and raced forward, only to lurch to a halt as the engine died, stalled by a moment of over-enthusiasm. The stationary car was passed at high speed by the athletic warder, who had won medals for his running prowess on the track and was now catching up to Royle with every stride. Turning his head, Harry could see the man gaining on him and threw himself down a narrow passage, knowing that at least the car wouldn’t be able to follow.

There were houses ahead standing quietly in the afternoon sunlight. Behind the houses was a rubbish dump and a long trench filled with household waste. Harry threw himself into the trench, diving under the filth. He quickly disappeared under the rotting mess. Breathing heavily, the officer rounded the corner of the houses and stood surveying the area. The search continued and troops were called in to assist in the manhunt. For six long hours, he lay there in the trench concealed by the putrid waste.

A soldier stood guard just feet away. Harry had pushed his nose and mouth just above the surface and could breathe the air filtered by the filth as it entered his hungry lungs. During this time, shouts and the sound of whistles floated in the still air.

He waited until it was dark, before making his move. Harry eased his stiff, aching body slowly along the trench. He froze, as his eyes caught the unmistakeable shape of a soldier’s boot not more than a few feet away. The man must have been posted to stand guard all night. It took an hour of slow snake-like movements to pass the sentry and to slither through a hedge beyond. Finding himself in a seemingly empty field, Royle pulled himself to his feet.

There it was, hot breath, wet and pungent on his face. Fear sent a chill up his spine. Then he saw, as his eyes became accustomed to the light. It was a bull and not a small one. The beast was now lowering its head and pawing the ground in front of him. Throwing his head back in sheer relief, a loud laugh escaped him.

Hearing the noise, the soldier entered the field, rifle held at chest height. Harry, seeing the soldier, laughed again, this time with a feeling of defeat. The other man looked at Royle for a long moment and then shook his head, as we all do when confronted by those on their way home, having had too much ale. It only took a second for the penny to drop, and Harry Royle lowered his head and putting his hands in his pockets, staggered out of the field and down the hill beyond.