by Martin Howe
“Go quietly, say nothing and there’ll be no trouble,” hissed one of the policemen as they hauled him through the door and along the corridor to the stairs.
“Nobody gives a damn about you and they won’t believe a word you say. So don’t waste your breath.”
Waiting on the ground floor was a group of prison officers drinking mugs of tea, they looked round wearily as Tony appeared.
“This is the fifth one today, when will it end, eh?” said one of the men.
“I dunno, I think they’ve arrested most of them, so I heard from a mate in the Met,” replied the desk sergeant, “What happened to him?”
“Slipped on the stairs.”
“Never learn, do they?”
Tony stood impassively before them, the pain dominant.
“Where are you taking me?”
The senior prison officer looked at the sergeant, who shrugged.
“It’ll be home from home for you, Walton Prison. Seems you know it well. If I’ve heard right you could have been our MP. Come and visited us, seen what conditions were like, asked questions in the House.”
“If pigs could fly.”
“Now you’re going to get that experience firsthand.”
“What about a lawyer? My appeal?”
“Appeal all you like, we’re listening, aren’t we boys? I’m only too happy to hear what you have to say. Let me make one thing crystal clear, you won’t be getting a lawyer. The likes of you aren’t entitled to one. We’re at war remember. Take it up with the powers that be when it’s all over, you bastard.”
Tony was thrust against the wall, and held roughly as one set of handcuffs was exchanged for another. He began struggling when they shackled his feet.
“Forget that, we’re taking no chances with you.”
“I’ve done nothing, I tell you I’ve done nothing wrong, let me go.”
“Shut up.”
The officer smirked at his colleagues.
“Ask us nicely and we might let you off.”
Tony was silent, head shaking from side to side, his eyes closed.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
There was a deep sigh of resignation. But the officers didn’t care, they were focused on humiliation.
“Please, don’t shackle my legs. I’ll not try to escape, I give you my word.”
The men looked at each other.
“No.”
“You bastards.”
“Did you hear that?“
“Ay.”
“Sticks and stones Cox, remember that, sticks and stones. We’ve all the sticks and stones…try this one for size.”
Withdrawing a truncheon from his belt he held it in front of Tony’s face.
“I call this my little bastard.”
He stepped back and swung the club hard against Tony’s right knee. There was a sound like a whip cracking and Tony’s leg bowed outwards as his body buckled under the blow. The men let him fall and a thin high-pitched squeal issued from between his clenched teeth, like steam escaping a kettle. Hands restrained, he lay at the feet of the officers, and sobbed quietly. They were in no hurry to leave and watched him impassively.
Tony Cox had been the British Union’s prospective parliamentary candidate for Walton, in Liverpool, for just over three years before the war. He had worked diligently, canvassing, addressing meetings, selling the Party’s newspapers, “Action” and “Blackshirt”, on street corners. He would often spend days away from Blackpool, sleeping at the homes of supporters, rarely changing his clothes. He had been both surprised and honoured when he was selected for the seat, the constituency committee citing his work in setting up and running the Blackpool branch, the record level of recruitment he had achieved, and their approval of the efforts made by his wife, Emily. Together, they were a perfect couple.
Walton had not been his first choice as he’d expected to stand in his home town of Blackpool, but the Party only planned to contest around a hundred seats across the country in the upcoming election and had to be selective. Walton – poor, working class with large numbers of military veterans and high unemployment – was seen as a winnable seat and he was determined the leadership wouldn’t be proved wrong. It was a hard violent place and he faced opposition. Many of his meetings ended in clashes with political opponents and people getting hurt. He had been arrested twice for brawling, ending up with a caution on both occasions. But his campaigning efforts didn’t go unnoticed. Senior figures in the Party visited the constituency and made speeches – Mick Clarke, William Joyce, even Sir Oswald had been due to come, during his next tour of the north. The war had put paid to that, the elections had been postponed and for the time being at least it looked like the British Union was in retreat.
Tony knew Walton Prison, an oppressive Victorian building that cast a pall over the surrounding terraced streets. He had once held a rally on a corner beneath its walls, it had begun to rain and the sparse audience had deserted him, people scattering, running home, leaving him standing alone on an orange box in the dank, glistening road. He had sheltered beneath the prison’s imposing twin-towered entrance, shivering as the biting rain lashed his face. A passing prison officer had joked that it was “no warmer or drier on the inside, so he wouldn’t be inviting him in.” He’d given Tony a cigarette before disappearing through a small door that opened slightly off-centre in one of the large wooden gates that dominated the prison approach.
The streets were depressingly familiar to Tony as the Black Maria drove through the neighbourhood. It was raining again, but this time the sun kept breaking through gaps in the thinning murk. The cobbles glistened in the opaque sunlight, puddles reflecting the washed-out grey and off-white pallor of the cloud-dappled sky. He yearned to smell the rain-drenched streets, the muggy smoke of damp coal fires, the wet fragrance of sodden earth, but he was a prisoner, trapped.
They passed the street corner he had campaigned on and turned into the rutted access road to the prison. His heart was beating fast and he was short of breath. The van slowed, its horn blared, a face appeared, the large black gates swung slowly open and they drove in, passing out of sodden daylight into a dry shadow-less gloom.
Ahead in the small inner courtyard was another prison van, engine idling, its rear doors open. The air was thick with petrol fumes. Three men dressed in working clothes, one of them wearing a cloth cap, were awkwardly climbing out of the back. The guards were watching, offering no assistance. The prisoners’ hands were in cuffs and their feet shackled with rusty chains. Tony recognized two of the men – Ray Ainsley, BUF District Leader in Halifax, he’d shared a train carriage with him once coming back from a rally in London, and Basil Greatrix from Leeds, who was one of the best speakers in the Party. Tony had always enjoyed listening to him working a crowd, a true rabble-rouser, he’d caused a near riot the night he spoke at the Central Library in Blackpool. Two members of the local Communist party had heckled him for attacking the Jews and he had finally lost patience and jumped down into the audience and threatened to throw them out himself. The Communists left before the national anthem and Basil made great play of that. His exploits got a mention in “Action”, one of the few occasions Blackpool had made it into the headlines.
“What a place to meet again,” Tony thought, “the police seem to have done a bloody good job rounding everybody up.”
The three fascist prisoners, heads bowed, shuffled from the van to the bottom of a small flight of stairs that led up to a stone landing. As they passed, Tony noticed they were unshaven, their hair dishevelled and clothes heavily soiled. The man he didn’t recognize had two black eyes and a heavily swollen jaw, his white shirt front was spattered with dried blood. A guard standing above them on the walkway, a pistol in a holster on his belt and a Lee Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder, barked out a curt order.
“Right, come on you bastar
ds, let’s have you up here and no trouble.”
Ray Ainsley moved forward, shackled he was unable to raise his foot high enough to reach the first step, he strained, slipped and overbalanced, falling back onto Basil Greatrix, who was following close behind. The two of them concertinaed into the third man, who bore their full weight as they collapsed in a tangled heap on to the stone flags. There was no sound. Tony smiled grimly, he couldn’t contain himself, it was like watching a silent film featuring the Keystone Cops.
“Cox, get out. You lot need to stick together. Help ’em up, but not a word mind, no talking.”
“My hands. I can’t help with my hands tied, can I?”
“Shut up and get out.”
Moving in chains, unaided, was tortuous and by the time Tony alighted from the van, the men were sitting on the ground, groaning. Blood trickled from the mouth of the unknown man as, winded, he gasped for breath. The other two, shocked and demoralized, nodded in recognition when they caught sight of Tony approaching, then looked away. Basil was in pain, his right leg lying awkwardly beneath his body. Tony stood helplessly in front of them, before looking questioningly at the guards on the walkway above.
“Take his cuffs off.”
The relief was intense as his wrists were freed. He wanted to wave his aching arms in the air, let the blood flow again, drive away the numbness in his fingers. But instead, as ordered, he reached down with unfeeling hands to drag his fellow detainees to their feet. The rankness of their unwashed bodies was distasteful, their breath stale, dull glazed expressions barely registered his presence. The companionable feelings that had swept over Tony at the sight of familiar faces ebbed away with the realization that these men were severely damaged and defeated. With great effort Tony pushed each in turn up the steps and then followed them onto the walkway. His hands were sticky with blood. At the end of the landing a pale yellow light glimmered through an opaque window in a green door. It opened, an order was given and another armed guard, who had been standing in the shadows, beckoned to them.
Basil found it difficult to walk, so Tony grabbed one of his arms and supported him as they staggered forward. The glare was blinding after the gloom of the transport bay – it was impossible to see the dimensions of the room or how many people were present, but Tony sensed there were a good number – and there was the faint smell of disinfectant. For the first time since his arrest he felt completely helpless, temporarily unsighted it became obvious he was losing control, his weakness evident in the stabbing pain in his abdomen and a loosening of the bowels. It was as if his companions were dragging him down to their level of incapacity, crippling him. The door slammed and was locked.
Faculties awry the four men stood swaying, raggedly bracing each other, in front of a trestle table that had been set up at one end of the long narrow room beneath a barred window high in the wall. Sitting behind it were two men, one dressed in a black suit with a blue tie, the other in a white laboratory coat. Prison guards, some armed, were posted at intervals along the walls. In the centre of the room stood an empty battered tin bath. The prisoners were led up to the table and their restraints unlocked. The shackles fell noisily to the floor and were dragged into a corner. The release was invigorating and there was a reorientation – sight clarified and base instincts asserted themselves.
“Leave your arms alone, stand up straight. Come on, you’re not on some fascist parade ground now. Right, get undressed, fold up your clothes and pile them in front of you.”
The four men glanced at each other and hesitated before Basil slumped across the table. A guard instantly approached, placing an outstretched hand on his shoulder.
“Step back in line.”
“You’ve no right to make us strip. I’ve been hurt.” He slurred. “This is blatant discrimination. I demand to see a person in authority.”
The man in the suit raised his hand as Basil was pulled back into line.
“I am Deputy Governor Briggs. Let me assure you we have every right. Prison Regulations clearly state that every inmate on arrival at the prison must be given a medical inspection by a qualified doctor, and then must be offered the opportunity to take a bath or shower. As should be only too obvious you need to undress for both, so please proceed.”
His quiet acerbic tone expressed an authority that tolerated no objections and he was surprised when Basil spoke again.
“But in front of all these guards, that cannot be in the regulations.”
The Deputy Governor’s reply when it came was barely audible, but it was clear he was losing patience.
“Look, you are considered to be some of the most dangerous prisoners we have in Walton. I deem it necessary that each of you should be accompanied by at least four guards, whenever you are out of your cells. So you can see all these people are, as you put it, perfectly within regulations. Enough, now carry on.”
Basil was about to respond when Tony nudged him. “It’s not worth it,” he mouthed and began to unbutton his shirt. The others grudgingly followed suit. When they were naked a guard picked up their clothes and shoved them into a dirty hessian sack. He tossed the bundle into a corner and then circled the men eyeing them critically. It was cold and the four of them began to shiver. Basil covered his genitals with his hands. When he had finished his inspection the guard nodded at the Deputy Governor, who ordered the prisoners to stand to attention.
“Seeing as you are great ones for regulations, you will be pleased to hear that I am obliged to give you some indication of why you are being held here.”
Clearing his throat he picked up a sheet of paper from the table. A second after glancing at it, he put it down, reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. Carefully placing them on the bridge of his nose, he deliberately coaxed the flexible textile temple tips of the glasses behind each ear in turn and then looked up at the prisoners over the top of the circular lenses.
“You have been detained under section 18B, subsection 1a. of the wartime defence regulations.”
He stared at Tony and the others.
“This was promulgated under the Emergency Powers Act of 24th August 1939, and amended on the 23rd of November in the same year. It states that the Home Secretary has reasonable, please note the word, reasonable cause to believe that the organization, of which you are members, that is the British Union of Fascists, has hostile origins or has recently been involved in actions seen as compromising national security.”
He paused for breath and looked down at the document lying on the table.
“Or you yourselves are seen as capable of carrying out acts prejudicial to the public safety or the defence of the realm or to put it into language we can all understand, you are seen as traitors.”
He removed his glasses and peered myopically round the room, seeking approbation from his men. A number nodded in his direction. He replaced his glasses and continued reading.
“All detainees have the right of appeal to an Advisory Committee. All appellants will have to appear in person and will be allowed no legal representation from counsel or solicitor. All very clear, I think, self-explanatory. Now this is Doctor…”
Tony interrupted him.
“Can you tell us more about this right of appeal, how do we…”
“Quiet,” roared the Deputy Governor, “I said nothing about questions. I have told you everything you are entitled to know. Count yourselves lucky you have that much information.”
He stood up, his chair scraping across the stone floor, and glared at Tony.
“Your name?”
“Tony Cox.”
He shuffled the papers on the table, identifying a paragraph with his finger.
“Ah yes. Wife a fascist too I see, what a pair. Sired a couple of young fascists as well, they must have been proud of you. Right, you can be processed first.”
Sitting down he almost missed his chair, pull
ing it under him awkwardly. His pale watery blue eyes fixed Tony over the rim of his glasses.
“As I was saying,” he tried unsuccessfully to clear his throat, then raised his fist to his mouth and coughed loudly, “before I was interrupted. This is Doctor Ryan, he will carry out the medical examinations.”
Standing the doctor was thinner and taller than he had looked sitting at the table, his white coat was several sizes too large for him and he had rolled up the sleeves to make them fit more comfortably. There was dried blood smeared down the right side of the garment above the pocket. He smiled weakly at Tony and came round the table to face him. He was holding pale translucent surgical gloves, which he pulled on as he spoke.
“Any history of serious illness?”
Tony shook his head.
“Answer the doctor,” interjected the Deputy Governor, “clearly. We all want to hear what you have to say.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, I’ve no history of serious ill…”
“Stop this. You really are trying my patience.”
The Deputy Governor was on his feet and scowling at Tony. His hands, pressing hard on the table, whitened at the knuckles.
“No SIR,” he blared.
Tony felt warm spittle spatter against his face and closed his eyes.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you. Christ, I’m so tired of you people.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed deeply. Retrieving his chair he sat down and anger contained, stared at Tony. He was again barely audible when he spoke, “It’s always sir to you, whoever you are speaking to in this prison, is that clear?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Louder, I want everyone to hear.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good. Doctor, please continue with your medical examination.”
“Open your mouth …wider.”
