by V E Rooney
If the government can deal drugs for its own benefit and bank balance, so can I. I was a working class girl, a self-starting entrepreneur, I was running a small business, and as the government is always telling us, small businesses are the lifeblood of the country’s economy. The proceeds from my business may not have been taxed at source, but they were reinvested and also used to buy consumer goods, clothes, utilities, transport and all that, all of which fed back into the economy. I funded other businesses, businesses which were and are perfectly legitimate and which pay their taxes and pay their workers and pay the taxes out of those workers’ pay packets. I may not have been fully kosher tax-wise, but my money was and is used to pay other taxes, direct and indirect, all of it feeding back into the country’s economy.
If I sound like I’m making excuses or trying to justify what I do, or you think I’m trying to get all morally equivalent on your arse, I’m not. I’m just trying to show you the bigger picture. I’m just trying to show you the reality of what I did. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?
***
“What I find interesting about you, Alison, is how you’re able to keep a sense of detachment from everything that’s happened to you and everything you were involved in. I have to be honest with you…listening to you at times is like listening to someone describe something that happened to someone else. Your memory recall, as detailed and as vivid as it is, seems devoid of emotion when you speak about these memories. Particularly when it comes to some of the more traumatic things you’ve told me. Why do you think that is?”
The exaggerated roll of her eyes tells me that Reynolds isn’t keen on this line of questioning but she appears willing to humour me. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, is this amateur psychology hour now?” she says wearily, shifting about in her seat with the beginning of a wry smile on her face. “Listen, love, I’ve never been much of a drama queen and I’m not about to start now, alright? I don’t go in for weeping and wailing or for self-pity.”
“That much is evident,” I say, nodding. I pause as I try to compose what I am about to say next. “I could be completely way off the mark with this, but it’s something I have been wondering about ever since our first meeting.” Reynolds looks at me with an open expression on her face.
“Is it possible,” I begin, leaning closer to her across the table, “that with the violence you were exposed to as a young child…your dog…the rape…the casual violence in the area that you grew up in and the violence that you witnessed as part of Sean’s crew…is it possible that you’ve become desensitised to violence? To traumatic events and their subsequent memories?”
Reynolds lets out a snort of derisory laughter. “Am I desensitised? Who the fuck are you? Claire Rayner? What kind of bloody question is that, love? Fuck’s sake, we’re not in America, you know,” she says in mock outrage but she’s still smiling. “Desensitised! Jesus, love.”
“I know, I know,” I say, holding my hands up in front of me in a placatory gesture. “Is it possible that you became so used to violence around you…and happening to you…that it made it easier for you to become part of this criminal underworld?”
Reynolds leans her head back and looks up at the ceiling, exhaling loudly.
“It’s possible. It’s more than likely, given my background, my circumstances and all that. But we’re getting into the whole what-if thingy again, aren’t we? Do I think I’m predisposed to violence? No, I don’t. I think that probably some of the early childhood stuff…made me more defensive, a bit quicker to react with violence if I felt threatened by it. Did it make me more violent as a person? No. I will always try to find a peaceful solution to any problem. Doesn’t matter whether it’s a drug deal, a court case, someone who hasn’t paid their bills on time. It’s always much better to do business with a handshake than with a gun to someone’s guts. But if my life is under threat? Then any and all methods of self-defence are acceptable. No one else is gonna look out for number one. And I have a very strong instinct for survival, put it that way,” she says.
“Looking back over your life, over everything you’ve told me…do you have any regrets?”
Reynolds’ gaze is fixed past me, over my shoulder towards the entrance to the room. For I moment I think that she’s miles away in thought but just as quickly, she returns. “About your cousin? About the innocent people who got swept up and tossed around along the way? About the friends I saw cut down because of their links to me? Of course I regret that,” she says, nodding. “I could sit here and give you a load of sincere-sounding platitudes about your cousin, about the people who got hooked on the stuff I shipped into the country, about the battles and turf wars that took place, but I know you wouldn’t believe me. You wouldn’t, would you?” she says, challenging me to respond.
“I would struggle to understand how you could have the self-awareness to know that innocent people were suffering because of your decisions and yet you would still carry on with it,” I say truthfully. Reynolds nods slowly.
“You think I’m some heartless sociopath who doesn’t even give a thought to the misery I cause,” she says in a rhetorical fashion once more.
“I don’t think that. I think that…I think that with everything you’ve been through, you’ve found a way to justify what you do. And that justification requires you to push away any thoughts of the end users. Because you’re not a robot, and I actually think you have more empathy than you realise, although you hide it under a mask of rationality and facts before feelings.”
“Don’t make excuses for me, love,” she says in a chiding tone.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, sitting back and folding my arms. “I think with you, it’s a case of, don’t think about the morals. Don’t think about the stuff that upsets me. Just put my big girl pants on and get to work.” It’s not until I finish speaking that I realise I was mimicking her voice.
Reynolds stares at me for a few moments, unblinking and unmoving. Then suddenly she breaks into a wide smile and leans forward across the table.
“You know what? You are sound,” she says, pointing her finger at me. “You can take the piss and you don’t take any crap. I reckon you and I could have been good mates on the outside,” she says, nodding at me.
I pause before answering. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” I say, casting my eyes downwards at my notebook, not able to take in the hurt reaction on her face.
“Oooh…too much of a scally to be hanging round with you, eh? Woollyback,” she says derisively.
“I think that if you came face to face with the people that have been hurt by your actions, and by the actions of Kerrigan, Powell and everyone else, you would think differently. You can’t allow yourself to think of them because it would eat away at you. So, whether consciously or subconsciously, you isolate all the bad stuff, all the moral questions, into a locked-down corner of your mind and you leave it there undisturbed. That’s part of how you’re able to function and how you were able to function in that world. That’s what I think,” I say quietly.
Reynolds doesn’t look at me for a long time. It’s hard to tell whether she’s nodding slightly or rocking slightly. Whatever her thoughts are right now, they’re not about the statement I’ve just made.
“Well, that’s for the prison quacks to delve into. If I ever allow them to delve down there, that is. We’ll see. I’m sure all kinds of people have got their opinions and half-arsed theories about why I ended up the way I did. You know what? If I was a bloke, nobody would give two shits about me. It’s true. I’d just be pegged down as another thick twat who got caught. But because I’m a girl, I get all this crap. Oh, what happened to her? What awful things could have happened to her to make her like this? All these armchair psychologists and criminologists, fucking two-bit journalists and authors all stroking their chins and wondering how some weak and feeble-minded female climbed to the top of the tree. Well, congratulations, love. You’ve got the scoop. You’re the one with the insight.”
Rey
nolds is quiet for a long time.
“You asked about guilt. About regrets. When it comes to that criminal underworld, as you put it? When it comes to the other people in the business that I had to deal with? I’m self-aware enough to know the damage I’ve done, the lives I’ve destroyed, the enemies I’ve created. And you know what? I wouldn’t change a fucking thing.” Reynolds is defiant, almost belligerent as she says this. But she falls quiet once more.
“I just…when I look back? When I look around me now? When I think about the future?”
Reynolds looks as if she is on the verge of tears. I wonder if it is self-pity. Without thinking, I lean forward across the table, bringing myself closer to her. As she resumes speaking, her voice cracks and at times is no more than a whisper.
“As much as I hate to play what-if…I wish…I wish I’d realised that there were different ways of living. Different ways of being. That the world isn’t automatically this big, bad place where terrible things are bound to happen. Yeah…I learned that far too young,” she says as tears begin to trickle down her face. “I wish I’d realised that things can change. That things can change for the better. And it’s too late now.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“How old are you?” Reynolds says as she wipes the tears from her eyes, which are bright and shining, a complete contrast from the dark despair of a just a few moments ago.
“I’m 38,” I respond.
Reynolds smiles at me.
“I’ll be 42 at a minimum when I get out of here, with parole and all that,” she says, looking around the room and at the guards. “Older than my Mum when she died. And by that time, I’ll have missed the boat for the whole family thing, you know, kids and all that.”
“Did you want children of your own? A family?”
“Fuck no! Don’t want some whiny baby hanging off my ankle while I’m on the phone to Venezuela trying to ship a shitload of Charlie over the water,” she says before dropping the pretence of humour. “That was a joke, alright? No, I mean, being in prison for that length of time means that lots of things which were optional for me are now gone. Some paths will always be closed off to me because of being caught, being in here. That’s if the powers that be let me out at all. I’m sure the authorities can come up with another charge to keep me detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
“What makes you think that? Are you sure it’s not your own paranoia?” I say gently.
“Oh, fuck no,” she laughs. “I wish it was so simple as just being paranoia. Nah, them lot,” she says, gesturing upwards, “our lords and masters would like to keep me under lock and key until I snuff it. I’m less troublesome that way. Let’s just hope they never get their hands on our exclusive material, eh?” Reynolds says.
“Humour me for a little bit. What if they did let you out? You’d be tempted to pick up where you left off? Get back in the game, as you put it?”
“Oh, I’m sure that plenty of people would want me to get back in the game, they know I’m good for bringing in the brewsties. Plenty of other people would love to empty a gun into me for whatever reason – to get rid of the competition, to take revenge for the people who got killed and maimed along the way, to silence me. The trouble is, I don’t know who wants what any more. I don’t know who to believe any more. Who to trust. Jimmy could’ve been telling me the truth about MI5 and Sean. Part of me wants to believe it’s the truth but another part thinks he was just bullshitting to buy time, to save himself. Strange how no one ever got done for Sean’s murder, eh? What I do know is that I don’t want to be part of that world any more. I’ve had my fill. It’s like Mr Chips said. The game stays the same. It’s the players that keep changing.”
There are only a few minutes left before our final meeting comes to its conclusion. It’s fair to say I have mixed emotions. There is a sense of surprise – surprise that Reynolds is nothing like the blurry picture I had in my mind, and surprise at how sharply focused that picture becomes upon speaking with her.
There are times when I simply cannot reconcile the feared gangster, responsible for hundreds of tons of drugs entering this country, with the cheeky and erudite young woman sat in front of me. I cannot help playing the what-if game myself. What if Alison Reynolds had been born into a different family in a different area? Would she have ever countenanced becoming a drug dealer? I recall reading various articles from psychiatrists and neuroscientists speculating as to whether people are born bad via nature or made bad via nurture. With Reynolds, I find it hard to come down on one side or the other.
As I go over my notes, the details that she has disclosed and our conversations, I find myself wondering whether she is the product of a perfect storm. A perfect storm which descended on a particular location at a particular time, and out of the devastation it wrought, new life sprang up in the form of this new generation of working class criminals who have become the lords and masters of the criminal underworld. A new generation of criminals coming of age on the cusp of a new society dominated by technology and global trade. Their criminal activities are not committed with sawn-off shotguns and coshes – they’re committed with keyboards and bank transfers.
As disgusted as I am with Reynolds’ disclosures about the deals and the money, as appalled as I am about the detached disregard she displays on occasions, I cannot help feeling sorry for her. And that pity is tinged with admiration. She has endured personal horror that most other people cannot comprehend. But instead of letting that horror weaken her, she channelled it so that she could become stronger. But at what cost to herself? That is a question that only she can answer.
“So,” Reynolds says as she stretches her legs out under the table once more. I wait for her to continue but she is silent.
“So,” I say, not sure what to say myself. We both chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. “It’s not often you’re lost for words,” I add as I begin the process of gathering up my items and placing them back in my bag.
“Oh, I’m all talked out, love. I’m knackered after all that,” she says, smiling. “So you reckon you’ve got enough there?” she says, nodding towards my notebook.
“I’ve actually got far more than I expected. I have to say, Alison, I wasn’t expecting you to be so open.”
“First time for everything. It’s good. It feels good after a lifetime of keeping my mouth shut. It’s like therapy except I don’t have to pay for it.”
“Going to prison to do that is a bit extreme, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, yeah. You know me, I don’t do anything by halves. So what happens now?”
“Well, for a start, I’ll be typing up the transcripts of our conversations.”
“Fucking hell, love. Hope you’re a fast typist. There’s fuckloads.”
“I’m painfully aware of that. But once they’re completed I’ll be giving them to your legal team for you to review. And then once I get your approval to use them, it’s just a process of putting all the material together to see if I can get something out of it. Bearing in mind all of the stuff that we talked about, I will need to speak with our lawyers to see how much of it we can print so I can’t make any promises on that,” I say.
“Nah, fair enough, I get all that,” she says breezily.
“What happens now? With you, I mean,” I ask.
“Oh, I’ll be alright. Got my case to keep me busy, that’s what I’m focused on. I know there’s a chink of light somewhere. I just have to keep going and I’ll find it.”
“Would you have any objections to me coming to visit you again? I know you have a steady flow of visitors but in case I have any follow-up questions about the case, would you mind?”
Reynolds smiles at me and shakes her head. “Knock yourself out, love. Just make sure these two don’t get too touchy-feely with you on the way in,” she says, gesturing towards the two guards, who are now in position by the side of the table, ready to escort me out. “Terrible, they are. Prison does strange things to women, you know. I hav
e to fight these two off all the time. Always wanting to watch me in the shower, you dirty sods.”
“In your dreams, you cheeky cow,” says one guard as she prepares to unlock Reynolds’ handcuffs and release them from the table. Prison regulations state that prisoners and visitors are not supposed to have overt physical contact in case they try to pass items between each other. Before the guard can attach Reynolds’ handcuffs to herself, Reynolds has stuck out her right hand towards me.
“Nice one, love. Cheers,” she says, beaming at me.
“Thank you, Alison. Look after yourself,” I say as I shake her hand.
“I always do, love. I always do. Take care.”
With that, the guard locks Reynolds into place alongside her and leads her to the rear automated double gates. Just before she disappears from view, as Reynolds and the guard step through the second gate and into the corridor, Reynolds gives me a backwards glance and winks at me.
THE AFTERMATH
On the morning of Friday, 17th of September, 1999, at approximately 10.12am, Reynolds informed prison guards that she was suffering severe abdominal pain and requested to see the prison doctor. The prison guards who attended to Reynolds in her cell confirmed that Reynolds looked to be in pain and was lethargic, and that she had been struggling to digest meals during the preceding 48 hours. However, she was conscious and lucid, although at times prison guards reported that she was doubled over in pain.
