by Linda Calvey
“You fucking bitch. How can you sing when you’ve killed people? Little children?”
She froze, holding her cheek, which was striped with red marks left by my fingers. She stared at me. She looked like a lost little girl, all innocent and frightened.
I stepped back, the anger in me burning out as quickly as it had flared up.
“Do that again and you’ll be back in Holloway,” Myra said, eventually. Her voice was a soft northern burr.
“Holloway has no fear for me.”
I turned and fled back to the library, to spend the next few hours wondering what my punishment would be. Could she have me sent back to the women’s prison in London?
Now I’d cooled down, I realised I’d done an incredibly stupid thing. Why had I hit her? By now she’d served 20 years in jail, and everyone knew she’d never get out. Something in me just snapped. Perhaps it was a reaction to my own confinement, my own disgrace? I didn’t know. I didn’t regret hitting the most evil woman in Britain, but I did wonder why I’d risked my own freedom to do it.
The next day, I was stamping a date on the inside of a book when the screw came to find me.
Oh God, this is it.
“Myra usually comes to the library to have her coffee break and read,” the screw said, “but she didn’t come yesterday.”
“Right.”
“Myra says, can she come in here and have her break today?” The screw was looking at me intently.
“Ah, well, of course she can if that’s what she usually does,” I replied.
The screw nodded as if we understood each other. The subject of Myra’s slap wasn’t going to be raised, and they wanted to know if Myra was safe with me.
I couldn’t believe my ears. I was being asked by the most hated woman in the prison – in the entire country – if she could drink her coffee. It was as bizarre as life gets.
An hour later, Myra appeared. I had more time to study her as she sat down and opened a Maeve Binchy book, which seemed incongruous to say the least.
“Alright,” she said, then ignored me as I stood mulling over the fact that I was in a prison library while Myra Hindley sipped white coffee, looking like a strange exotic creature with a flowing kaftan and her hearts-and-flowers novel.
Before she left, she came up to the counter.
“Hello, Myra,” I said.
“I want you to get me books in other peoples’ names, ones that don’t take out books from the library. Here’s what I want.” She handed me a list written in her own spindly writing.
I couldn’t help but shudder. The list contained the titles of violent, gory, horror books. She was asking me to compromise my position, risk being found out and sent back to Holloway, by helping her read books that were banned to her. She had a dark aura – it was a palpable presence, and I could see how everyone kept away from her. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like being her. How could anyone live with themselves, seeming so cold, so utterly soulless?
From then on, I kept out of her way as best I could, and was relieved when I was finally posted to East Sutton Park. From there I was released, three years after that first cell door was shut behind me.
Chapter 22
Danny
1988-90
Mum and Dad came to pick me up from prison. I remember feeling as light as a feather as I stood there, waiting to step back into society. All I cared about was seeing Neil and Melanie again. I’d had drip-fed reports while I was banged up, and I knew both of my children had suffered in my absence.
Dad drove me back to my house in Beckton in Kirkham Road, which I’d bought with the money I’d put aside for when I came out. Neil was there to greet me. He’d been 11 years old when I was put away – still a baby in my eyes. He was 14 now, on the verge of becoming a young man.
“You’ve grown, darlin’,” I said, holding out my arms to him. He submitted to my embrace, but I knew he had struggled without his mother, as had Mel.
Mel had been deeply affected by Mickey’s death, perhaps because she was older, and had been troubled before I went inside. Me going away had only made the situation worse. Mel had got into drugs, and was running wild. Mel had seen first-hand how Ron treated me, and she had lived with my mum for years. But her nan had to kick her out while I was inside, as she’d become too much to cope with. I hadn’t given Mel a secure, normal home after Mickey died, and I knew much of the blame for her problems lay on my shoulders. She was 15 when I went to prison, and was 18 now, a young woman who should have had her whole life ahead of her, but was taking illicit drugs to push her own emotional pain away.
“Neil, darlin’, tell your mum what it was like when I was away. You never said anythin’ while I was in prison, and it must’ve been tough for you,” I said to him that first night. We were sitting on the sofa, the TV blaring out in one corner. “What happened when I was arrested?”
Neil paused for a moment, as if he was unsure whether to say anything, and I smiled to encourage him.
“Well, I went to school as normal. You said ‘See ya later darlin’.’ When I walked home at the end of school, I got close to the house and saw three or four police cars. Police were runnin’ all over our house and there was a cordon that meant I couldn’t go inside.”
“Go on,” I encouraged, glad that Neil could say this to me after all the time I’d been away.
“One of the coppers said, ‘Are you Neil? One of your uncles is coming to pick you up.’ I was like, why? The copper said, ‘Your mum’s been arrested and taken to the police station’.”
“What happened then?” I said.
Neil looked younger than his years in that moment.
“Uncle Ricky turned up, and I went ‘What’s goin’ on?’ He said, ‘I don’t know, boy, we’ll sort it out when we get to my house, don’t ya worry.’ We didn’t know what was happening, then you got bailed and you came out. You looked really frightened, they must’ve grilled you for hours and hours because you looked really dishevelled.”
I had to smile at that. “I’m sure I did, darlin’.”
“You still came out and put a big smile on your face, and said ‘Hello boy’ to me, and you told me loads of lies. ‘Don’t worry Neil, I won’t go to prison, I promise you’.”
At that, Neil paused and looked down at his hands. “I thought you knew what you were talkin’ about. And Brian as well, he was like havin’ a dad around, then suddenly he was gone too…”
I let Neil’s words fill the room. We were both silent for a moment as we digested what he’d said, only the television providing background noise. It wasn’t just me he and Mel had missed. In one fell swoop they’d lost their father figure as well. Their whole family life had been destroyed – for the second time.
“Go on,” I encouraged him, squeezing his hand, feeling choked up.
“Well, we just went from pillar to post, stayin’ with relatives for a while, movin’ to another uncle or aunt. The worst was in Cornwall though.”
I’d sent Mel and Neil to stay with my sister Hazel in Cornwall for the week of my trial, not telling them why they were going there. Yet another mistake.
“We were runnin’ about outside, then Hazel told us to come in as she had bad news. There’d been a phone call from London, then she said we shouldn’t get too upset because it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. That’s when she said you were goin’ to prison, but she said you’d got six months and you’d only serve three months. That was a lie too. Mel and I just looked at each other and burst out laughing like a pair of hyenas. I don’t know what we were expectin’ to hear but it didn’t sound so bad. Then the phone went again. ‘She got two to three years,’ Hazel said. The phone went again. ‘No, she got seven years.’ That’s when we found out. We lost our big house, Brian who was like another dad, and you.”
“Darlin’, you must’ve been so angry at me,” I said, stroking his
handsome face. Neil had been sent to a boarding school in Billericay, and I knew how hard it must have been for him.
“I wasn’t angry, Mum, I was just really upset.”
Neil’s words cut through me, and for a short moment we sat in silence.
I knew I’d struggle to have a conversation like this with my daughter right now. Mel was a different fish to Neil entirely. She had been drinking and hanging out with older friends since before I was sent away. I still hadn’t spoken to Mel, and I guessed I would find it harder to make my peace with her after what I’d put her through.
I wanted to get us back on our feet quickly, though. Soon after I came out, I visited my sister Shelley at her place, a Victorian terrace she’d bought in King George Avenue, Canning Town. It backed onto a park, and was right next to the local school, within spitting distance of the rest of our family. Shelley was about to move out, and as she’d done such a lovely job of doing the place up, I offered to buy it off her straight away.
Shelley agreed. Because she was moving out, she said that I could move straight in to King George Avenue while my house in Kirkham Road was being sold. Neil came to live in King George Avenue with me, while Mel stayed in Kirkham Road for the time being.
I carried on visiting Danny and Brian, as well as Ron. I became quite good friends with Danny in particular. I knew he was a hardened criminal, but he didn’t frighten me. I never once felt threatened or nervous with him, though there were always screws in the room with us. We bonded over our loved ones having their graves in the same cemetery.
Most Saturdays Ron was given day release, as he was nearing the end of his time behind bars. I’d pick him up, we’d come back to the house, make love for an hour, and then I’d cook for him before driving him back to Maidstone nick.
I thought I was doing Danny a good turn by seeing him, and I had to see Ron whether I liked it or not. Things felt steady, if not great, and as the winter of 1990 approached, I was concentrating on building my relationship with Mel again. My eye had gone a bit off the ball with everything else.
It was a freezing cold November day. I’d promised Danny I’d pick him up from prison in Dorset and bring him back to London to see his family, as he had been allowed out for the weekend.
Driving along the motorway, my car heater on full blast, I thought nothing of the favour I was doing him. I’d been behind bars, and I knew what it meant to have a taste of freedom, so I was happy to collect Danny and drive him back.
“Do you still want to go to the cemetery?” I asked, as Danny lumbered his physical bulk into the car. He worked out a lot and, as a result, was thuggish-looking and intimidating. But I’d only ever seen the soft side of him.
“Yes, Linda, I want to see where my son is buried, and pay my last respects to him. Is that alright, Linda?”
I assured him it was.
After a few hours we arrived in Canning Town, where his son and my Mickey had been laid to rest.
I went into the cemetery with Danny. I walked him towards his son’s resting place and showed him the gravestone. When he saw it, he started – and his shoulders seemed to droop. I saw his whole body shaking with emotion.
Danny stayed there for an hour. The bitter wind made me pull my fur around me. The trees were stark and bare against the grey sky, the gravestones jutting up, some with flowers and trinkets, some overgrown with grass and weeds. When we eventually returned to the car, his face was red and puffy, his eyes swollen from crying.
We didn’t say a word until we drew up outside my house.
“Come inside, I’ll drive you to your mum’s later. I’ll make you somethin’ to eat, Danny, and you can freshen up.”
“Thanks Linda, I appreciate it. You’ve been so kind to me.”
Danny seemed to pause as he spoke. I wasn’t sure why. We got out, went in, and while Danny went upstairs to wash his face, I nipped to the local butcher and bought him a steak. It was the least I could do the state he was in.
Meanwhile, the video man had been round, and Neil had bought a couple of new films, so the boys watched Full Metal Jacket while I made dinner. The sound of guns and bombs blasted through from the living room.
“I’m sorry Danny,” I called from the kitchen, “but I won’t be able to drive you back on Monday, as Ron’s gettin’ out for the day.”
“Oh, is he? What will ya do with him?” Danny called back.
“We’ll probably just come straight back here,” I said, carrying in two large plates with steak, chips and peas for Danny and Neil.
“There you go, darlin’,” I said to the prisoner sitting on my sofa. “You enjoy that. When you’re done, I’ll drive you to your mum’s.”
“You’re a really good friend to me,” said Danny as I dropped him off. I thought nothing of it, assuming I wouldn’t see him for a while.
Chapter 23
Rocking Skull
November 1990
Monday came.
I got dressed with extra care, hoping Ron would approve of my outfit. It felt strange to think he had just a month left before he’d be back out, living with me, and it would be like the last nine years hadn’t happened.
I was nervous, as I always was with him these days. Perhaps I realised just what I had to lose through my liaison with him – my family and liberty being uppermost in my mind. I was tired of being a blagger’s possession. I’d been toying with the idea of going straight, setting up a shop of some kind and making my own way in the world. I was still young, only 42 years old, and I had my whole life ahead of me. There was only one person standing in my way, that person was Ron Cook.
Ron was standing outside Maidstone Prison when I pulled up. He was working in a hostel attached to the prison to reintegrate him into society. I laughed privately at that idea.
“What d’you want to do, Ron?” I said after he’d kissed me, sized up my clothes and given a small nod of the head to show he was pleased.
“Take me home, I’m only out for seven hours.”
We drove back to my new house in King George Avenue. I took out my keys and opened up, asking Ron to pick up the milk on the doorstep as we stepped inside.
Ron was only just inside my kitchen when the street door crashed open with an enormous bang.
I had barely a second to turn in shock as a man dressed in black forced his way in. He had a flat cap on and his jumper was pulled up over his nose, but I could see his eyes. They were staring wildly at Ron.
I screamed. The man had a gun, and my 14-year-old son was probably in the house right now. “No!” I shrieked. “Neil!”
“GET. DOWN.”
Ron turned. In a voice that was strangely calm, he said, “What’s up, mate?”
The man fired.
Ron looked down at his torso in silence, an expression of mild surprise on his face. I watched in horror as blood spread slowly across his jacket. It looked like he’d taken a bullet in the chest, but he was holding his arm. He’d only been hit in the elbow, but the blood was seeping through. The smell of cordite filled the small space. I backed into the corner of the room.
Then the gunman did something surprising. He pulled his jumper down to reveal his face.
He turned to look at me.
It was Danny.
I didn’t have time to shout. I gaped at Danny, who had turned back to stare intently at Ron.
My heart raced. My mouth was dry, my senses on high alert.
Danny was standing stock still, his sawn-off shotgun still pointing at Ron, who was staring back at him. Then he did the strangest thing. He smiled at me. I looked up at Danny from where I was half crouching, half standing in the corner. Danny took a deep breath.
“This one’s for Mickey Calvey.”
He pulled the trigger.
Instinctively, I turned my back, shielding myself as best I could from the impact. Blood splattered over my back. When I
looked round, Ron’s blood was decorating the wooden cupboard doors, coating the newly painted walls, the curtains I’d hung myself. The glass milk bottle had splintered into a million pieces, and shards glistened in the unholy mess Ron’s body had made. The man who’d controlled me for so long had been blasted backwards onto my kitchen floor, dark red blood creeping across the tiles, bits of bone, brain and flesh clinging to the walls. A piece of Ron’s skull rocked gently where it lay, upside down on the floor. His brain was exposed, and one of his eyes hung out of its socket.
He was a gruesome sight, but the worst part was the sound. As Ron’s blood ran out of his butchered corpse, it hissed. It was a monstrous scene, and yet I felt nothing but relief amid the horror.
Danny turned to me.
“You’ll be alright.” Then he ran back out the way he came.
I didn’t register the fact that Danny never knew Mickey, was nothing to do with anything Ron or Mickey were involved in. The only common denominator was me, and my stunned brain just couldn’t piece anything together at that point. I was in shock.
Time seemed to slow down. I screamed again. I ran to the hallway, picked up my phone. Who was I going to ring? I dropped the receiver, reaching for the walls to steady me. I couldn’t take my eyes off the carnage. I backed off, down the short corridor leading to the street door. When I reached it, I threw myself outside. My limbs felt heavy, I wanted to vomit and scream all at the same time. Ron Cook, my 56-year-old lover, a violent and cruel villain, had been murdered in my kitchen – I had to call the police.
Ever since Mickey was killed, I had hated the Old Bill. Every time I saw a cop car driving along the road, or an officer out patrolling the streets, I felt a knot in my stomach. Seeing them felt like an insult to Mickey’s memory. Running for help from the police was anathema to me, but I had to do it. My brain whirred. I had to get help.
I made it onto my street, and started yelling and yelling, gripping hold of the fence to keep me upright.
