Macragge1
Banned
Regicide
'Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl,
Than to be with another man,
You better keep your head little girl,
Or I won't know where I am.'
- Popular Song.
February the seventeenth and the clock is moving closer to twelve. Emergency Powers and now the Police can do whatever they want. The call came last night and they set off at six sharp this morning. Under silent sirens they glide down empty grey motorways. There are two cars - four men going north, four south. Both are silent save for the hum of the heater and the hourly radio news this is the BBC News at nine o'clock concerns are growing today turn that off lad will you been the same for bluddy weeks.
Four north, four south. From Manchester.
Noone on the roads save for long green convoys that loom out of the mist and then back into it. Just before Leeds the first car passes a mile of tanks on the hard shoulder and bluddy hell they're serious aren't they. The driver of our southern car hears the sound of reconnaissance bombers and for a moment he goes back twenty years and shivers really badly like and they pull over for five minutes and the thermoses open but tempus fugit so they get back on the road south.
Both cars are bang on time as they pull off the motorway and into the flat embrace of the city. It's only lunchtime but it doesn't feel like a Friday really does it? No it's proper quiet - too quiet if you ask me.
It is ten to twelve. A supersensitive ear might have heard, above all the noise of the wailing world, the steady grind of the plan accelerating into action. At HMPs Durham and Holloway, keys are ground into big locks and turned open. In the south, black boots echo on linoleum as they drag a third pair of feet limply resisting. In the north, the figure stands and walks - almost goosesteps - out of his cell.
And they to the appointed place.
At five to our cars pull into the gates of their allotted prisons.
At Holloway, they are met with no fanfare and walked through by the governor to the prison courtyard. Tied to a flagpole, they see a middle-aged woman, her brown hair jarring with the memories of our weary travellers.
'I wanted a priest.'
With these words our four detectives draw their weapons and empty them, the revolver's echoes barking off the courtyards four walls long after the smoke has cleared.
Myra Hindley, born July the 23rd 1942, died February the 17th 1984, aged forty-two years and seven months.
*
In Durham, King Ian does not know that his consort Hess has died three minutes before him. As willing volunteers tie his hands behind his back, he knows that their bullets will not change anything. He breathes and moves, as she did, but they have been dead since 9.2am on the morning of October the 7th 1965. As the visitors make their way out into the exercise yard, King Ian notices that they are still walking off the numbness of a long car journey. He recognises them, after all these years. He knows that they recognise him. He smiles at the figure in front, a man with lines burnt onto his face by the whistling Saddleworth wind. In that Scottish burr;
'You look aulder, Detective Inspectorrr'
Over high cheekbones King Ian stares at the enemy agents and grins. He will die a hero and his two secrets will remain forever secret. Message from Headquarters great job and they'll all get what they deserve. His grin turns into a smile, and then a laugh.
Ian Duncan Brady, born January the 2nd 1938, died February the 17th 1984, aged forty-six years and one month.
And poor Edward, Lesley Ann, Keith, John and Pauline will soon have all the playmates they could ever want.
'Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl,
Than to be with another man,
You better keep your head little girl,
Or I won't know where I am.'
- Popular Song.
February the seventeenth and the clock is moving closer to twelve. Emergency Powers and now the Police can do whatever they want. The call came last night and they set off at six sharp this morning. Under silent sirens they glide down empty grey motorways. There are two cars - four men going north, four south. Both are silent save for the hum of the heater and the hourly radio news this is the BBC News at nine o'clock concerns are growing today turn that off lad will you been the same for bluddy weeks.
Four north, four south. From Manchester.
Noone on the roads save for long green convoys that loom out of the mist and then back into it. Just before Leeds the first car passes a mile of tanks on the hard shoulder and bluddy hell they're serious aren't they. The driver of our southern car hears the sound of reconnaissance bombers and for a moment he goes back twenty years and shivers really badly like and they pull over for five minutes and the thermoses open but tempus fugit so they get back on the road south.
*
Both cars are bang on time as they pull off the motorway and into the flat embrace of the city. It's only lunchtime but it doesn't feel like a Friday really does it? No it's proper quiet - too quiet if you ask me.
It is ten to twelve. A supersensitive ear might have heard, above all the noise of the wailing world, the steady grind of the plan accelerating into action. At HMPs Durham and Holloway, keys are ground into big locks and turned open. In the south, black boots echo on linoleum as they drag a third pair of feet limply resisting. In the north, the figure stands and walks - almost goosesteps - out of his cell.
And they to the appointed place.
At five to our cars pull into the gates of their allotted prisons.
At Holloway, they are met with no fanfare and walked through by the governor to the prison courtyard. Tied to a flagpole, they see a middle-aged woman, her brown hair jarring with the memories of our weary travellers.
'I wanted a priest.'
With these words our four detectives draw their weapons and empty them, the revolver's echoes barking off the courtyards four walls long after the smoke has cleared.
Myra Hindley, born July the 23rd 1942, died February the 17th 1984, aged forty-two years and seven months.
*
In Durham, King Ian does not know that his consort Hess has died three minutes before him. As willing volunteers tie his hands behind his back, he knows that their bullets will not change anything. He breathes and moves, as she did, but they have been dead since 9.2am on the morning of October the 7th 1965. As the visitors make their way out into the exercise yard, King Ian notices that they are still walking off the numbness of a long car journey. He recognises them, after all these years. He knows that they recognise him. He smiles at the figure in front, a man with lines burnt onto his face by the whistling Saddleworth wind. In that Scottish burr;
'You look aulder, Detective Inspectorrr'
Over high cheekbones King Ian stares at the enemy agents and grins. He will die a hero and his two secrets will remain forever secret. Message from Headquarters great job and they'll all get what they deserve. His grin turns into a smile, and then a laugh.
Ian Duncan Brady, born January the 2nd 1938, died February the 17th 1984, aged forty-six years and one month.
And poor Edward, Lesley Ann, Keith, John and Pauline will soon have all the playmates they could ever want.
p).