‘The witch has got to you, ain’t she?’ The voice of the older guard hissed into Ryan’s ear, startling his thoughts and bringing a deep red flush to his face. When he slewed round, it was to see the weathered face crumpled in a sardonic smile.
‘Got the hards for her, have yer… can’t wait to mate with her?’ Suddenly the smile slid away and in its place came a look of impatience. ‘Like I said, yer a bloody fool! Don’t be fooled by dark smiling eyes and a promise.’ He cast a scornful glance towards the woman, whose knowing gaze was instinctively uplifted. For a brief second their gazes mingled; his accusing, hers bold and challenging. In the moment when he surged forward, the fear within him erupting in fury, the woman quietly smiled and turned away, deliberately busying herself before the open ovens, her handsome face blushing pink from the intense heat they generated.
Frustrated, the guard fell silent, his brooding eyes intent on her face. ‘There’s a witch if ever I saw one,’ he mumbled. ‘If yer ask me, Rebecca Norman shoulda burned, alongside her grandmother!’
‘What’s that you say…?’ Ralph shifted his weight. It had been a long day and his feet ached. ‘Was her grandmother burned?’ He had witnessed the conflict between his colleague and the woman. Now he was excited and further intrigued by the snippet of information grudgingly imparted. ‘What was her crime?’ he asked quietly. ‘Lord knows, there’s plenty gets strung up, and plenty as deserves it, but the gallows seems a harsh punishment for an old woman.’
‘Save yer sympathy, matey,’ the other man replied gruffly, his small shifty eyes surveying the scene below. ‘Rebecca Norman’s grandmother weren’t no “old woman”… no more than forty-eight year old, they say, though o’ course there’s them as is ready fer the knacker’s yard at that time o’ life.’ He grinned broadly, flicking the tip of his tongue in and out of the many gaps between his blackened teeth. ‘Look at meself,’ he prompted, ‘the tail end o’ forty-nine and in the prime o’ life, wouldn’t yer say?’ As though to press home a point, he drew himself up to full height and sucked in his belly. ‘’Tis a handsome fella I am,’ he chuckled, ‘though I do say so meself.’ Reaching up, he took off his hat, straightened his hair and replaced the cap with a flourish. ‘Oh, aye, there’s many a woman would be delighted of a night in my company.’
Amused, Ralph Ryan roved his gaze over the other man’s physique, at the pot belly straining beneath its broad black belt, the red neck that now grew purple from the effort of suppressing that mighty mound of blubber, and he was obliged to smile. ‘You’re certainly in better shape than many a man at your age,’ he remarked.
‘Ain’t that the truth, eh?’ the older man rejoined, thankfully deflating a little and grinning at a certain realisation. ‘Especially when yer consider that most old cronies my age are already worm’s meat!’
Impatient now, Ralph persisted. ‘You were saying the woman was burned?’
‘Yer mean the grandmother?’ When the young guard nodded sombrely, he went on in a quieter voice, ‘Aye. Her crime was recorded as murder, so they say.’ His suspicious gaze darted to where Rebecca Norman was laying out the shapeless mounds of dark-baked bread. ‘Murder, that’s what, but there was talk o’ witchcraft and diabolical acts. The old trout was sentenced to be hanged, but local folk had other ideas. They took her from under the nose of the authorities, and they burned her to death.’
‘Was there ever any evidence that she committed murder?’
The older man appeared not to have heard, and he gave no response. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably. Grabbing the crotch of his trousers, he complained, ‘These bloody uniforms’ll be the death of me!’
‘I asked was there any evidence,’ Ralph reminded him.
‘Oh aye! Evidence enough, so they say. Evidence that led the authorities to the place where that one and her grandmother were hiding. They were holed up in some filthy shack aside the Liverpool docklands. Candlemakers they were, the two of them. A strange, unsociable pair, I’ll be bound!’ Undoing the buckle of his belt, he sighed noisily. ‘Christ almighty, me belly’s near cut in two!’
‘When you say “diabolical acts”, what d’you mean exactly? And who was murdered?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ came the impatient reply. ‘All I know is what’s been told me over the years. Some say the fellow were known to the witch and her brat.’ When Ralph asked about the Norman woman’s parents, he explained what had been detailed to him down the years. ‘By all accounts, the father ran off with some floozy. Ain’t that what allus happens?’ Agitated, he loosely fastened his belt.
‘And the mother?’
‘By! Yer do like to know the ins and outs of a cat’s arse, don’t yer, eh?’ He licked his rubbery lips and went on with the story; if the truth were told, he was enjoying telling the tale, especially when the listener was so impressed. ‘Well now, from what I can make of it, the poor bugger was struck down by a terrible illness… died, I expect.’ He had no more to tell, which to his mind was a sin and a shame. ‘The crux of it all is that the brat’s father deserted her and her mother, who took it so bad, well, she just upped and died. The poor girl was deserted by both her parents in a manner o’ speaking. The father going off that way… he med her an orphan, that’s what! The young ’un grew up under the influence of the old witch. Soon after there was a body found and the old candlemaker were charged with his murder.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me at all if it were the brat’s own daddy that was bumped off.’ The idea took his fancy, although it had never been said, as far as he could recall.
‘What else?’
‘Nothing else!’ The guard eyed Ralph Ryan with puzzlement. ‘If yer mean the witchcraft, well, there was talk aplenty, or so the story goes.’
‘Talk, eh? But was there proof?’
‘When was such a thing ever proved, eh? If yer ask me it’s true enough. You’ve only to look at that one… at them black witch’s eyes.’ He glanced down, half-smiling.
Ralph’s inquisitive brown eyes followed the other man’s intent stare. ‘What was her crime?’
‘I’m surprised yer need to ask!’ came the retort. ‘She may have been only fourteen year old, but no doubt she were a full partner to what took place. The grandmother swore to the end that the young ’un were innocent… never changed that likely tale neither, the old bugger. Not even when the flames were sizzling her eyeballs.’ He smiled, delighting in the images brought to mind.
‘And if this one was innocent,’ Ralph continued to look on the prisoner below, her dark head bent to its task, ‘yet sentenced to twelve years and transported to these far shores; wouldn’t that be enough to bring out the worst in any of us?’
‘Innocent? Not that one! If yer ask me, she were every bit as guilty as the old woman. Mebbe even more so. Guilty o’ murder an’ foul practices that don’t bear thinking on.’
‘There’s many an innocent been wrongly accused.’
‘Aye! And there’s many a bad ’un slipped through the net. But not this one, no indeed. This one’s in the right place, and if it were up to me she’d never again see the light o’ day!’ When he saw Ralph regarding him with curiosity he became cautious. He must be careful not to give away too much. It wouldn’t do for Ralph Ryan to guess the real reason for his loathing of Rebecca Norman. It would be a bad thing if the truth were to get out.
It was a well-known fact that now and again a desperate guard would press himself on a female convict, especially if she weren’t old and withered by the passage of time in this place. As for himself, the old guard mused, he’d never risk catching a dose o’ the scabs on a cell floor, not when he had a fat belly at home to squash up against; his own woman was not the prettiest thing you ever saw, but at least he were the only one to get beneath her petticoats. Oh no, he’d never taken such a fancy to any inmate – at least, not until Rebecca Norman’s black eyes fell on him with a particular purpose. Thinking on it now made his blood run cold. It were fifteen years since, during a shocking night of storms and ga
les that lashed mercilessly through the dark hours. His colleague was laid low with an injury, leaving that particular duty shift short-handed. There was no trouble, the storm seemed to exhaust and frighten every manjack behind bars. He recalled the night now. Wild, it were, the wind howling like a wolf, the sky black and heaving, except when the lightning tinged everything blue, and it seemed like the end of the world. On that night he had seen Rebecca Norman dancing in her cell. Like a dark, flitting shadow she was, magnificent, and naked as the day she were born. Like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her. Even now he could recall every detail like it was only yesterday – her young warm body merging with his, the delicious feel of her nakedness, the way she seemed to weave herself round him, inside him, her shocking, primeval beauty and those eyes, those dewy fathomless eyes that watched him even while he was in the throes of the deepest ecstasy.
Later, he was in no doubt that she had deliberately bewitched him. When the rush of pleasure was over, she had begged him to help her escape. When he refused, she turned on him like a wildcat, tearing at him with sharp, jagged nails and leaving him with scars he carried to this very day. Worst of all, she had spat out a terrible curse on him and his family.
Within hours of ending his shift, he was stricken with a mysterious fever which raged for days and kept him at death’s door. His wife, too, contracted the illness. He survived. She did not. In his heart he knew it was Rebecca Norman’s curse, but he dared not voice his suspicions for fear of punishment. Guards had been severely reprimanded, badly punished, and even dismissed for fornicating with an inmate. These days, a man in his work was more secure than he used to be – trade unionism had come a long way since the leader of the shepherds’ strike was given five hundred lashes for daring to demand higher wages. Even so, a man had to be wary, observe certain rules, and sleeping with prisoners was only inviting trouble. It went on, ’course it did, even to this day, but always with the utmost discretion. Now, once more he had a woman to call his own, again not pretty, but homely and eager to please him in every way. He had learned his lesson the hard way.
Sneaking a look at his young, handsome colleague, he hoped history was not about to repeat itself. ‘I’m not one to give advice as a rule,’ he told him, ‘but, where she’s concerned, I’m telling you for your own good. She’s every bit as bad as they say. There! I’ve warned you, matey. The rest is up to you.’
He had seen how Rebecca Norman looked at Ralph; and he was afraid. But he was not his brother’s keeper. All he could do was warn of the dangers. This he had done. Somehow, though, he didn’t believe his warning would make any difference. Looking at Ralph now, at the glint in his dark eyes, he believed it was already too late.
The day’s work was done. Like the wail of a banshee the weird lament of the siren pierced the air, telling one and all that prisoners should now be secure under lock and key. It was the moment when warders gave a sigh of relief, and convicts began to shuffle under guard to the dank, dismal cells where they would remain, incarcerated, until the grey light of morning, when the long, monotonous day would begin again.
‘Move along, move along!’ The older guard, the one they called Jacob, cracked the bullwhip behind the line of convicts, urging them on, defying them to stumble, wishing they would. As they edged forward, up the steps and along the darkened, narrow corridor, the stench of damp, oozing flesh was rancid.
Bringing up the rear, Ralph Ryan kept his eyes skinned and his every nerve-ending on edge. He had reluctantly accepted the temporary transfer from the lunatic asylum to Her Majesty’s Prison; the pay was better for working shifts, and what with Maria fat with their new child, every extra penny came in handy. Besides, he had been given little choice in the matter. When men went down ill at either establishment, it was common practice to make temporary transfers of staff from one to the other. Still, he hoped it would not be for much longer. Demanding though it was, he preferred his job at the asylum.
Still, he had accepted this temporary transfer knowing all the risks. If he should falter in his judgement, or betray any sign of weakness, then his credibility would be dangerously undermined. There were desperate men here, wicked creatures of the worst order – although there were others whose severe punishment did not fit the paltry crimes committed. Sadly, once a man of lesser crime was sent to this place, his character could change overnight; he would grow bitter and resentful, aching with revenge, and more often than not he would become a more dangerous animal than his hitherto more violent counterpart. Ralph Ryan knew this and as he ushered the convicts to their cells, his expression was grim, his manner unbending.
Realising the strength and iron-like determination of their guards, and always wary of the penal back-up system that was there to crush them, the convicts went quietly, if grudgingly, to their cells.
Rebecca Norman, though, had a message to impart. Being one of only two females left wasting in Fremantle Prison, she was spared the overcrowding and the fraught atmosphere to which the men were subjected. Instead, she and the old hag were assigned to a cell whose small iron-barred window looked out over the cobbled courtyard. It was a bleak area all the same, surrounded by high walls, and seeming always to be immersed in shadows, even on the brightest day. Strangely, the song of birds was never heard in this part of the yard.
Now, as she filed past him, following the old hag into the cell, Rebecca Norman deliberately and deviously brushed against the young guard, sending a shock through every corner of his being. When he made a slight gasp, instinctively drawing back, her wide dark eyes searched him out, smiling, delving deep into his soul. In the moment before he swung the heavy cell door into place, her whisper bathed his ears, causing him to tremble. ‘Tonight… in the dark hours I’ll be waiting.’ Her voice was soft, enticing as a summer’s breeze. It haunted him.
As he walked away, he could hear her laughter. Suddenly she was quiet and the old hag’s voice could be heard taunting her. ‘Want him, d’you? Want to squeeze him dry, d’you? Think he’ll be the one to set you free from this ’ere cage, is that it?’ Her laughter was cruel.
The old one’s voice dipped low, out of Ralph’s earshot. ‘You’ll never be free, dearie! D’you hear me? You’ll never again see the light o’ day. You’ll grow old like me… old and ugly. Nobody’s gonna want you then, are they? Think on that, me beauty. You’re stuck here till the end of your days, just like me. But then it’s no more than you deserve. They say as how you helped kill some poor unfortunate! There’s also them as say you’re a witch.’
Incensed but incredibly calm, Rebecca walked towards her, her eyes opaque and deadly, like the shark’s. She made no sound.
Outside in the corridor, Ralph listened. The silence was unnerving. Suddenly the old hag screamed out. There was terror in her voice. ‘Get away from me! Dear God above, help me. Somebody help me!’
Her cries went ignored. It wasn’t the first time she had raised the alarm in such a way. In their cells the prisoners settled down, stretching out on the narrow iron beds, exhausted and miserable. The guards went about their duties, checking the inmates, logging the events of the day and making preparations for the changeover of the shift.
After a while, the old woman was silent. The sound of snoring began to infiltrate the claustrophobic corridors. Soon the remaining daylight would be swallowed up, darkness would creep over the land and all would be still – save for those tortured souls who dreamed of home, and love, and freedom. And one particular soul that craved only revenge, a terrible and exacting revenge, the like of which filled her every waking moment. Rebecca Norman had not forgotten how they had burned her grandmother; nor how they had sentenced her to this dismal place. She had not forgotten that. Neither had she forgotten him. Nor had she forgiven. She never would.
The sounds that echoed along the corridors were familiar. Hushed voices, jangling keys and smart, hurried footsteps. The guards were changing shift. As he left the building, Ralph bade the duty officer goodnight. Strange, he mused, how his voice and manner wer
e so normal, even while his insides were fluttering like so many butterflies. She had got to him, the black-eyed beauty, and – try as he might – he could not thrust her from his mind.
Outside, he paused a while, drawing in long, refreshing gulps of unsullied night air. The tang of salt was carried on the freshening wind. It tasted good. Filling his lungs and mentally dismissing the dark, clinging atmosphere of the prison, Ralph Ryan lingered a moment, his sharp, busy mind assessing the day’s events. Today the prison had been every bit as suffocating as every day in the previous two weeks, but uniquely satisfying also. He felt right in his prison warder’s uniform. It stamped him with a degree of authority. He liked that. Also, to his surprise, he had discovered a certain awareness in himself, a kind of quiet respect for some of the milder-mannered convicts. Like almost every other citizen in Fremantle, he had entertained small regard for the convicts on the hill. They had earned imprisonment. There were few feelings of mercy or compassion for these hapless creatures. From many quarters was nurtured a measure of deep resentment towards them. This bitterness went back a long way, some thirty years or more. During the period from 1850 to 1868, nearly ten thousand convicts were transported from Britain to Western Australia, a considerable number arriving in Fremantle itself. Cheap labour for a young and growing colony, they were employed on the ships and on the land, loading and off-loading cargo, constructing new roads and erecting new buildings; even raising their own places of incarceration. Now, some twelve years after the last incoming shipment of convicts, many of these unfortunates had earned tickets-of-leave, and even pardons. Most had settled in Fremantle; some had moved on to make a new start elsewhere. Others, like Rebecca Norman, had constantly rebelled against the system, consequently lengthening their years in custody, and ultimately jeopardising the day of their release.
Hiding Game, The Page 22
