by PR Hilton
"On your feet you sadistic bastard."
A voice bellowed in his ear and this was followed by a sharp blow from a truncheon to his stomach and he felt his cheek explode in pain as a punch smashed into his face. Falling to the floor, he felt boots going in and hitting home. After a few seconds, he lost conscious again. He came to a couple of minutes later, handcuffed to a chair. Three military policemen were standing in front of him and a man in a suit was flashing a pen torch in his eyes. The man prodded him and then turned away from Harry to speak to the MP's.
"Well he's in a bad way, but he'll live, go ahead, but gently does it, or he won't be able to say anything."
One of the policemen came into view and looked at him with disgust and utter contempt.
"Wake up Royle. Time to pay the piper. You've been a naughty boy, haven't you?"
Royle shook his head in disbelief.
Just then more voices came into the room. These voices had calm, serious tones to them, one, in particular, sailed across to where Harry sat and announced its owner's presence.
"As you were men. I'll question the prisoner, before the handover."
The man's face swam into view and Harry was surprised to see a Provost Major looking into his eyes. The Major continued, this time addressing Royle.
"Look, Royle, I have no idea what happened to you, but dear God man, why would you do this?"
Harry Royle shook his head slowly again and tried his hardest to order his thoughts. His mouth opened to reply, but only silence came.
"Inspector he's all yours. I'm at a complete loss to be honest as to whether the man is a drug fiend or an imbecile, either way his crimes are civil. We only have him on the books for two days absent without leave so I'm happy to hand him over to you. Please don't treat him well on our account."
Two civilian police officers came forward and uncuffed him. They roughly dragged Harry from the chair. Putting their arms through his, they frog marched him across the room, to the waiting inspector.
As they reached the inspector, the men wheeled Royle around and it was only at that moment that the disturbing scene on the bed became apparent. He now realised that he had awoken on a low settee at the foot of the bed. On the bed sprawled in death poses, were two naked women. Both had been strangled and beaten with what appeared to be a blood-soaked army belt which was tied to one of the faded brass bedposts. The filthy sheets and bedding were covered in bloodstains and vomit. A whisky bottle stood empty with a single glass on the bedside table, along with a syringe and a small empty brown bottle.
He closed his eyes tightly in disbelief. A hard backhander snapped his eyes open again and a clenched fist in his hair made him look at the scene once more. The rough hands pulled him about face once more. The inspector looked past him and addressed the military police as they left the room.
"I would like to know who called your office, major Clarkson?"
The major replied over his shoulder as he left.
"Yes, Inspector that is something we would all like to know."
A feeling of numbness took control of Harry's body and mind and he became as an observer of the events of the next few hours. He was taken to a police station in London in the back of a van. Two new officers sat in the back of the van with Royle. His hands were cuffed and chained to a metal ring screwed to the bench. The men didn't try to make conversation and this was something Harry was at least grateful for.
At the station, he was led into the yard at the rear, stripped and then hosed down with cold water. As much as the public humiliation stung, it felt good to be washed clean of the blood and encrusted vomit. He could now see the wound site on his upper left arm. There was a dark purple bruise which had been caused by a series of needle puncture wounds. He wasn't given a towel, just thrown a pair of old overalls.
After the soaking, he found himself in a cell. Alone, he at least had time to think about all that must have happened. Nothing seemed to make sense. Harry attempted to recall the last events before waking up. Mandell that hadn't been a dream he realised. Nor the women he had seen in chains.
Leaping to his feet, rage surging through his entire body, he pounded his fists on the locked cell door.
Later that day, he was taken from the cell to an interview room. Inside he was ordered to sit in front of a desk. He was left alone in the room for a time and then the door opened and in walked Colonel York, his commanding officer. The colonel was flanked by two MP's. Harry was paraded in front of his commanding officer, who sat down in the chair at the other side of the table. Royle stood to attention. The older man looked away, avoiding his eyes.
Colonel York read the charge, which ended with the official dishonourable discharge from the regiment in his absence. At the end of this, Harry was asked if he had anything to say. Royle explained all that had happened at the base. He told the colonel about the women and about Captain Mandell's conduct. York nodded and looked down at the notes he had made, notes which after another moment he ripped into small pieces.
"Listen to me Royle, you are a disgrace. It is bad enough all that you have done, but to attempt to drag down with you an officer, and one with an unblemished record is nothing short of the worst kind of cowardice. Forget telling lies about women on the base and such nonsense. No one will ever believe you. You are finished."
The colonel gave Royle a cold look that spoke volumes of his own knowledge of Mandell's crimes.
Harry Royle kept his mouth firmly shut and looked down at the floor. His body grew numb and he felt after a time that he was being held by his arms and dragged back and pushed into his cell. The night passed in a painful sleepless haze.
Reality crashed in the next morning in the form of an older constable in size twelve hobnail boots. The big man entered the cell and before Harry could rise, planted a kick squarely in his ribs. The air escaped Royle's lungs in a sharp gasp, as another kick caught him hard in the stomach, sending him back onto the bed gasping for air. Harry became aware of another two men crowding into the small room and then became only aware of the sharp, intense pain, which was a direct result of the torrent of well-aimed kick and blows. After a moment of frenzied attack, the men stepped back and stood, breathing heavily. The first man pulled up Harry's head by the hair and looked him in the eyes.
"Welcome to hell Royle, sorry we ain't got no ladies for you to abuse, but I hope we'll be alright for you. Now be a good slag and fight back next time you coward."
The man dropped his head and aimed one last sharp, hard blow to Royle's lower back. Harry winced and took a sharp, deep breath. He heard the shuffle of boots and click of the lock and knew he was alone once more.
Alone, with the cold, harsh reality of the morning after, his mind began to clear and he remembered all too well everything that had happened. As he lay fighting for breath, his mind began fighting for a way out. No matter how he moved, his body hurt, he realised that he had really been given a professional beating and then it came to him. He would use the pain, the beating and turn it against them.
He was brought food later and he made certain not to touch it. In fact, he made sure he remained in the same position, curled up in a ball on his bunk. It took some hours, but a young copper came in to have a look at him and Harry knew it was time to act his heart out. He looked up at the young man through hooded eyes and murmured incoherently. The other man shook him and slapped him. Royle allowed his body to be as lifeless as he could manage. When the other man let go of his shirt, Harry slid back and rolled onto the floor face down. He decided it was time to cough and begin wheezing.
Footsteps, a slammed door, and a few moments later, running boots. Within half an hour, he was stretchered out of the station and taken to hospital under close arrest, at last out of the station.
Harry Royle knew that he was being watched very closely and was only too aware that one slip would give him away and back he'd go, with no chance of escape. He knew he must act up and bide his time until the right moment presented itself. He'd been put in a sing
le room, a burly officer sat on a chair beside his bed. His right hand was cuffed to the metal bed frame. Beyond the door he knew from snatched conversations he'd overheard, stood another officer on duty. Even as strong as he was, he knew that he would be no match for two fit men, and so, things seemed to be no better than before.
It was only when a nurse came to look at him, that an idea occurred. It was all thanks to an innocent comment made by the man guarding him and the nurse. As the young woman was taking his blood pressure, the man on the chair addressed her quietly.
"What are you expecting to find with him?"
She answered the question abruptly.
"My job is to observe and report, it is for Doctor to decide whether there are any internal problems which might need addressing."
That was enough to give Harry his plan. Internal would mean operating and there was no way on earth his guards would be allowed to follow inside an operating theatre. But what would the signs be? He had no idea. As he was turning things over in his mind, he realised that the nurse was speaking to him directly.
His mind suddenly grasped an image, an episode that had happened during a training exercise two years before. A young soldier had shot himself in the stomach. The medics were worried that he couldn't focus and his mind was wandering. Harry also recalled the soldier saying he felt very cold, it had been a hot August afternoon at the time of the accident. Harry decided to make his play and ignore her. Her voice spoke again.
"Mr Royle, can you hear me?"
Harry shivered as best he could and made his teeth chatter, rolling his eyes, he mumbled quietly in reply.
"So cold I'm so cold. Can't get warm. Let me sleep."
With this, he let his eyes close. He felt her young body tense beside him.
"Harry, stay awake there's a good chap. Open your eyes and look at me."
The ploy was working perfectly, the nurse's voice was tinged with alarm. He kept his eyes shut and kept shivering. Soft hands shook him gently. He kept up the show and soft hands quickly released him.
Within a moment all hell broke loose, a doctor was barking orders, handcuffs were unlocked, and Harry Royle was being rushed to an operating theatre to save his life. He kept his eyes closed and brought his shivering up to fever pitch, even affording himself the odd low moan. His performance worked wonderfully and he felt himself moving quickly through doors and down corridors until he at last stopped. Being certain to keep shivering, he eased his eyes open just enough to form twin slits from which to peer out from. They had their backs to him and no guards in sight. He quickly opened his eyes fully, two nurses and two doctors stood over him. He knew he would have to convince them that he really was as ruthless as people believed.
Leaping up he snatched the first bladed metal object he saw, and pulled a nurse towards him, his arm around her neck. The others stood in horror at the sight of the battered and bruised desperate murderer holding a scalpel at the throat of the youngest student nurse in the hospital. The charade worked, as he hoped it would. In truth had they called his bluff, he would have had no option but to let the poor frightened girl go and make a run for it. But fear and false knowledge had worked for him. The doctors and nurse backed away, as he told them not to raise the alarm until the young nurse returned. Harry pushed her ahead of him out of the door.
Outside of the room he could see two uniformed men with their backs to him further down the corridor. He turned abruptly and dragged the nurse through a door and into a stairwell. The area was empty and once the door had closed, he tossed the scalpel onto the floor, kicking it into the far corner. He looked at the girl's tear-streaked face, her eyes wide and full of fear and he shuddered. Putting his hands gently on the nurse's shoulders, he spoke in as quiet and calming a voice as he was able to manage.
"Look, love I am so sorry to have scared you like this, but this isn't me."
The girl looked more frightened than ever. He continued.
"No, I'm not crazy. What they say about me, killing those women, well it's not true, not any of it. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. Honestly, I wouldn't. I had to make it look real."
The girl looked at him the way an animal looks when it has nowhere to run and is too tired to do anything but await its fate. Harry realised that he was running out of time and not getting through to the poor girl, and so, kissing her cheek, he ran down the stairs and from the building. He hoped the peck on the cheek would mean something, show his humanity.
She sat down in the quiet stairwell and cried as she hugged her knees and prayed the killer wouldn't return to finish the job. It would be an episode that would long haunt Wendy Butler's nightmares. Long after she qualified and became a senior nurse. It would be many years before a glanced newspaper headline during a hurried breakfast, would return her thoughts to the kiss and the declaration of innocence and allow her to smile and think kindly of the poor hunted animal that had once used her as his only means of escape. At this thought, she had allowed her smile to brighten her entire morning, knowing that she had herself helped save an innocent man.
Chapter 2
Harry had decided to avoid the obvious choice of staying in London and instead headed north. A week later, still at large and hungry, he turned up on Manchester‘s Market Street. He had stolen an overcoat and a suitcase from a station waiting room and had managed to live so far off the proceeds. He had been lucky and had found a wallet containing a substantial amount of money in the coat pocket. He despised his new life.
Harry Royle had made a decision and realised he must stand behind it. Life wasn't always fair and he would just have to make the best of things. Not knowing anyone in a big city was good and bad. Good that you could simply vanish, bad that you had nowhere to go. Finding an office window poorly latched after closing time, he crept in and found a complete set of draughtsman's tools. Selling these gave him enough for a cheap room in a house on Denmark Road, now at least he had a base. It was far enough from the city centre and the locals ignored everything and everyone. Manchester was a hard city; a man could disappear on its streets.
The funny thing was that Harry knew that had things turned out differently he would have been on the opposite side and been firmly in no man's land, hardly a gentleman officer, and not welcome to socialise with the men. Up from the ranks officers were always seen as cross-breeds, mongrels that could get the job done and were respected, even liked by the men, but never quite trusted, once elevated to a higher rank. He'd seen them, poor bastards, always off drinking on their own, finding their own billets and attracting anger and derision from their brother officers, because of their unwillingness to take on a batman. They would be quietly despised and laughed at by all and sundry.
Now he thought about it; he was glad not to have to live that life, but even that was a life, not like the lie he had been forced to live. It had been some time since the break-in and Harry knew that he had to do something and very soon if he were to continue to eat and live in the new little nest he had found.
It was a cold, wet Tuesday evening that found Harry making his way to The Alexander Crown Hotel, known locally as The Alex. He had been told by his landlady about the place, as they might know of some work going. But she warned him to watch himself, as all sorts went in there.
8pm found Harry Royle making his way across Princess Road and towards the imposing building with the illuminated windows and murmur of ale-fuelled banter. Pushing his way through the solid wooden doors, he was almost surprised that the chatter continued, as the atmosphere was a little like a Tom Mix film, but in those the bad guys always stopped talking when the man with the white hat came in. Maybe his hat didn't look so white anymore. It was crowded and he could see the usual old men playing dominoes in the corner and the small groups in huddles around the room. The bar itself was thick with elbows and it was through these he eased himself. Taking off his brown trilby, he caught the barman's eye.
"Pint of best when you've got a minute."
The bald headed man in the dark re
d waistcoat nodded and moved towards a pump. He began to pull the pint and make small talk at the same time.
"Not seen you in here before."
"Not been in before, heard it was all right."
The other man smiled.
"Depends what you have in mind, we're not to everyone's taste. What do you do for a living, if you don't mind me asking that is?"
"Not at all, this and that, you know, but I'm out of work at the minute, looking for something."
The man pushed the foaming glass across the bar.
"What can you do?"
"I can turn my hand to most things."
The man in the waistcoat considered Harry's answer and looked him up and down. He gestured towards a small group of men in the far corner of the room.
"Tell Pete that Alfie sent you over, might have something for you."
Harry pushed off the brass foot bar.
"Thanks."
Royle threw the comment back over his shoulder, towards the bustling barman. This time, the small huddle of men playing cards did stop talking as Harry approached, and it was silence which greeted Royle, as he drew up close and came to a stop at eye level. He was about to speak when his trilby was thrust into his hand by the barman.
"Pete, young man here is looking for odd jobs, seems a decent sort."
Pete was an older man with that odd Manchester style of heavily greased back hair. He looked up and smiled exposing a large gap in his otherwise dark yellow tobacco stained teeth. The man wore an old dirty cardigan and equally dirty slacks and tie. Royle noticed that the seedy looking man had large hands and filthy nails. His voice was straight out of a Dickens novel with a dressing of nasal Mancunian added for good measure.
