Hanging Around - A tale of suspense by Hopman

[Hopman]

My take on this month's theme of suspense:

Hanging Around.

 

In front of him, he saw something in the gloom swinging from side to side. Before he could understand what it was, he felt his arms held behind his back. A hood was placed over his head. Something brushed against the side of his head before he felt a noose tighten around his neck. His arms were released and the floor gave way under his feet. He was falling, falling…

He awoke with a start. His pillow was soaked in sweat. This wasn’t the first time he’d had this dream. It had happened frequently over the past months since the verdict. It was a dream he’d remember the rest of his life…

 

***

In a family run hotel on the shore of Lake Como in Italy, no-one paid much attention to the Englishman in the short sleeved shirt having his breakfast on the terrace. Eight weeks previously, his dress had been much more formal as he’d donned the black cap to pass sentence.

 

***

 

The Home Secretary was up early and after a breakfast of corn flakes, he was taken to the Home Office in his official car, arriving a touch before seven o’clock. He hastened to his office to listen to Jack di Manio presenting the news. Not unsurprisingly, he knew what the lead item would be.

 

There was a knock on the door. “Enter!” ordered the Home Secretary.

“Good morning, Home Secretary.” said Foster, the aide.

“Is it?”

“I’ve brought the press.” and Foster placed a sheaf of newspapers on to the desk in front of the Home Secretary.

“Where do you stand on the case?” asked the Home Secretary. He glanced at Foster. The aide was without his waistcoat and his tie was hanging freely.

“I’ve not seen all the court papers. I only know what I’ve seen in the Times and on the BBC.”

“Should Jones hang?”

“That’s not my decision. You’re the Home Secretary, not me.”

“Thank you, Foster.”

Once the door was closed, the Home Secretary looked through the newspapers. His mind was made up. Philip Jones was guilty, had been sentenced and that was that. Stewart would do his job. That was what they paid him for.

The Home Secretary thought back to his hustings. He’d made a promise to his electorate that he would do the right thing. That was why he’d been elected. That was why the Prime Minister had made him Home Secretary. That was why he would allow the execution to take place at nine o’clock that morning inside the prison. He glanced at the grandfather clock standing in the corner of the office, its pendulum slowly swinging from side to side, its tick measuring the hours, minutes and seconds of life.

 

***

 

Earlier in the year at twenty to five on a cold Saturday afternoon, one hundred and twenty people were shaken from their lethargy by a last minute equalizer for an obscure Scottish League club. At a few minutes past five, the result was welcomed in a particular household by a couple who had never been to that obscure Scottish town. A telegram was quickly sent to Liverpool.

 

***

 

On the morning before the execution an employee of the shipping line handed a mailbag full of postcards to the GPO driver soon after the ship docked at Southampton following its circumnavigation. For the disembarking passengers, the sight of Blighty brought them down to earth after the joyous hedonism of the past few weeks. For the pools winner, his first action on reaching dry land was to catch up on the news in the Daily Herald. There was something familiar about the face which leapt off the page.

***

 

Jones awoke at seven o’clock. As usual, the two warders were in the cell. One of them, Frank Cooper, with the inevitable Hollywood nickname, glanced up from the copy of the Reveille newspaper he’d been reading.

“Morning, Jonesie.” said the other, the forty-something Gordon Blair.

Breakfast arrived for the condemned man at seven fifteen. Two rashers of bacon, two fried eggs, fried bread and tomatoes, with a mug of hot sweet tea. This was soon polished off.

“I don’t suppose there’s any news?” asked Jones.

“Sadly not.” said “Gary” Cooper.

“I’m innocent, you know.”

“I believe you.” said Blair, “but the jury didn’t.”

“I was nowhere near the scene.”

“We’ve heard it a thousand times.” said Cooper. “You claim to have been with someone else at that time. Has this person ever come forward? No. What does that tell us?”

“But I’m innocent.”

“Why don’t you accept your guilt?” asked Cooper. “The priest will be along shortly.”

“How can I? I’m not guilty.”

Cooper shook his head. This was not going to be easy.

“I think you’d better accept that time is short. Are there any letters you need to write?” asked Cooper.

“One to my parents. That’s all.”

Jones was allowed to write his letter which occupied him until gone eight o’clock.

“What’s it like out?” asked Jones.

“No idea,” said Cooper, “we’ve been here all night.”

“I am innocent, you know. They wouldn’t hang an innocent man, would they?”

“Of course not.” said Blair.

“Can I look at your paper, please?”

Cooper handed the paper to him. He spent some time looking at the pictures and looking at the cartoons with a smile. Cooper glanced nervously at his watch. Thirty minutes. The last half hour. Forty minutes to breakfast.

There was a knock on the door and the priest came in.

“Any news?” asked Jones.

The priest shook his head. “I’m so sorry. It’s too late now. All I can do is pray with you, pray for your immortal soul.”

“As long as I don’t hear you.”

“Anything you say, Rocky.” murmured Cooper. He glanced again at his watch. Jack di Manio would be rounding off the programme and the nine o’clock pips would soon sound.

The door would be opened and Jones would be led away. It would all be over before he knew it.

The second hand swept round to the upright position. Across the country church clocks were sounding the hour. Across Parliament Square Big Ben boomed. In factories up and down the land clocking in machines clicked the start of a new hour.

Borrowed time. A minute went by.

No-one dared speak in the cell.

Something was seriously wrong, or was something seriously right?

“This doesn’t normally happen.” said Cooper.

The priest and Jones both had their eyes on the door. Cooper alone knew that there was a secret door to the execution room behind the wardrobe and was watching this. Whichever door was opened first would decide Jones’s fate. Had the Home Secretary intervened at the last minute?

There could be no other reason for the delay.

Cooper noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye. A door was opening. He turned to see the Governor standing in the doorway.

“No!” cried Jones. “I don’t want to die!”

“It’s a reprieve, Philip.” said the Governor. “The Home Secretary’s been on. There’s some new evidence. There’s something in the Daily Herald, today. A pools winner remembers seeing you at the time of the killing. It looks like you might be innocent after all.”

“Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

[coyleys]

Hopman, you just buggered my manicure and my dentures up. You certainly excelled yourself on that one, a cracking story.

[Tallyman]

Hopman

 

What an excellent piece! Just like Coyleys, I genuinely felt my heart rate increase as I got towards the end - very well done indeed

 

I also liked the way you 'date stamped' the whole story - from the names of the newspapers still available at the time (and the warder reading Reveille!), and from Jack di Manio reading the news (I could hear his voice as I read that line!)

 

For what it's worth, I've a couple of observations to take or leave as you please:

 

You used the title 'Home Secretary' a good deal in the third section. I realise you may not have wanted to use a real name, or let the story lose its credibility by using a genuinely false one, but perhaps it would have been worth finding ways to reduce the repetition: 'Good morning Sir', perhaps, from the aide.

 

Also, I'm wondering about the exchange between Home Secretary and Foster. HS asks Foster what he thinks, and Foster's reply ('You're the Home Secretary, not me') suggests either a flippant and rude aide, or a close working relationship where honest opinion could be given without fear of reprimand. I think it's the latter, but in that case, would the Home Secretary call him 'Foster'? Perhaps an additional "Yes, I know, David," he sighed. "My decision, and mine alone."

 

My last observation is about timing really. The witness had been away on a cruise for the last two weeks, so couldn't get in touch until arriving back in England and seeing the paper. But the judge had passed sentence 8 weeks earlier, and so the trial would have been in the period before that. It's likely that news coverage of the trial would have been in the papers, and perhaps likely that the witness' memory pricked then? Perhaps, with such a pools win, your witness could understandably have taken a three month round-the-world cruise and missed everything? Just a thought!

 

None of which detracts from the fact that it was a fine story, and a very effective piece of suspense