Third time this month on foreign TV

House interior.  Somewhere in Europe. 1965. A man in his mid-thirties is sitting, smoking, on a cheap sofa.  He's professionally lit.  A film camera is running.  He begins to speak.

"It was 20 years ago now and so you cannot expect me to remember too much. [Small laugh] But I can remember being hungry most of the time and as well, cold sometimes.  There was constant talk of the Russians arriving.  All the time.  Everywhere.  Fear of the Russians.  You could hear distant guns firing, but I never saw a Russian at that time.  Not at first.

So.  We were all lined up like some pretend army korps?  About a dozen of us, maybe more and I remember we didn't have long to wait.  The first thing I noticed was how short he was and the way he held his arm and his hand behind his back, with the other arm.  Like this.  We later found out that at times it used to shake without any control.  I imagine that could have been quite comical…is that the word?  Yes?  Thank you.  Comical for such a serious man.  And later my friend Karl made a joke about him and Axmann having one good set of arms if you added them all together. 

Anyway, he came down the line and there were these truly amazing looking medals.  I have since found out that at least one was an Iron Cross.  Whatever lies we had heard in the past, it was true that these…medals were impressive.  The sun had just about begun shining when he reached me, but still the whole area had a sad and cold feeling around it. 

Axmann looked at the boy next to me and he shouted ‘Yesterday, this soldier destroyed two enemy tanks on his own.'  I knew some of the older boys had gone out looking for Russian tanks on their bicycles, but I didn't really believe that they'd knocked out any. 

He looked at this boy, pushed his hair and touched his face, here, with his fingertips.  Then he said 'I wish my generals were as brave as you.'  The medal was pinned to his coat, in a hurry and they moved down the line.  A few days later we heard he was dead and the war was over.  I heard the other boy threw the medal in the dustbin.  The Russians had arrived by now and I don't think he wanted them to find him with it.

Is that alright?  I think that's everything."

Martin C

True Story

The day after it was reported that someone had stolen a Mark Chagall painting from Manhattan’s Jewish Museum I was asked by the housekeeper of one of the tenants in the Upper Eastside apartment building I was working in as a handyman if I could hang a painting in the tenant’s study.

The guy was a good tipper and as a consequence he rarely heard the words, ‘Sorry I can’t.’ Hell, he never heard it from me. I told the housekeeper I was a little busy but that I’d be up as soon as I was done. When The Jerry Springer Show finished I grabbed a few tools and asked the elevator operator (yep, one of those kinds of buildings) to take me to the 17^th floor. I rang the back doorbell and let myself in. The housekeeper and the cook were having a bite to eat and a coffee. I was offered and accepted some food and a coffee. We sat and chatted for a while, the tenants were out and the chat was the usual gossip, mostly about the tenants and their family and a bit about the new nanny in 12D who had, the housekeeper informed me, a tattoo on her ankle!

In the study was an envelope addressed to me that contained a note detailing instructions on where to hang the picture and a $50 bill. On the floor, leaning against the wall behind the tenant’s desk wrapped in brown paper and tied with cord was the painting in question. I knelt down and undid the packaging. That was the first time I’d ever seen a Chagall in the flesh.

 

Jon L

The Barber Of Soldau

Towards the end of the war he'd earned the nickname “The Barber Of Soldau”, due to the practice of hair removal at the Soldau concentration camp.

Throughout his trial in Nuremburg, the newspaper headlines would make great creative use of this moniker, of which even he took a twisted enjoyment in reading.  If the truth be told, he’d grown quite fond of his new name - The Barber - as he felt it alluded to some of his better qualities – namely his precise nature and adherence to personal hygiene.  And with the benefit of hindsight, he knew his reputation could have spawned a name much uglier.    For if his son were to live the rest of his life to only be known as the son of The Barber Of Soldau in hushed tones – well, it really wouldn't be so bad, all things considered.

With an irony not lost on him, he'd once considered this line of profession as a youth in Wolfsberg, Austria.  But as was the case with so many like him, the outbreak of war put stop to these and any other aspirations.  For the war would bestow it's own ambition on him – one for exacting death.

Contrary to his prosecution, he never saw himself as having much of a proactive involvement in the Nazi party during his tenure at Soldau.  As his defense would put it – his role was one of administrative duties.  Guilty of being a good soldier, it was often said.  Or as he himself would put it – “I was a numbers man”, a suitably detached response which - albeit not without an element of truth - did not fair well with his own defense.

And with this, he found himself back in the Polish town of Działdowo on an unseasonably hot September day.   Stood beneath the shadow of an acacia tree,  to his left a dusty road leading to village of Rybno and to his right, the iron gates of the Soldau that he'd grown to know so well.  Beneath his shackled ankles a wooden stool and in front of him; 5 guards busying themselves in the formalities of what was to be his own execution.

The noose around his neck hung limply as it awaited the afternoons main event, the noose no less an instrument of death than the men before him, or the tree above.  His death was simply the full stop in a chain of events he could not control, this much he knew.  As the stool got kicked away from beneath him, this thought would stay with him as he hung rigid.  His body absorbing the energy of a lifetimes misfortune.  For the short while he was still able to see, he saw the branches of the acacia tree.  Such a beautiful tree, he thought.

Tobias Prior

A Food Encounter

"Have you got any steak and onion baguettes?"

"No.  Sorry.  Sold out pal."

"Ok, what about the chicken strips one?"

"No, all gone.  Only hot food I got is jacket tatties.  Hot fillings are chilli or baked beans.  Cold is tuna or cheese."

"What sort of chilli is it?"

"What sort! It's normal chilli."

"But what sort of chilli?  There's different types."

"Is there?  This is the same chilli I make every day and have been doing for 6 years."

"Ok.  Please can I have a tuna mayo baguette."

"Yeah, sure.  Anything else?"

"No thanks."

"That's £2.50 please."

"Ok, there you go.  Cheers.  See you later."

"Bye.  Take care."


Paul Jobson

Drinks, Doubts and Lager Louts...

"A one, two, three, four...". The bartender recited my change with military precision.

Deploying the copper soldiers into my outstretched, eager palm, his voice flickered with a false enthusiasm. His acne accentuated face dripped with disinterest as he muttered his scripted pleasantry.

I didn't really mind, as I had long before shifted my gaze to his forearm tattoo - its sharp, jagged points wrapping and warping like arms through bars, trying to escape an inky prison.

It was a permanent, fleshy name badge, reading 'Brad'.

Why had I asked for lager again? I don't even hold much of a candle for the fizzy variety, much less the tasteless vase of warm glow presented before me.

Perhaps my inexplicable request had stemmed from my inability to cope with the pressure of a quiet bar and an impatient barman.

In those situations, it seems that I am pre-programmed to select a default choice - lager. Of course, 'Brad' was only too happy to oblige.

Now, underwhelmed by my hasty purchase, and having tardily processed the fact that, actually, I quite fancied a mojito.

There's something about the kind of person who can confidently stride into a bar and sit alone, sipping a mojito. 

I often conclude that it is almost exclusively the activity of rare James Bond characters - the men who pull bawling babies from burning buildings, gracefully jump into a stategically-parked top down convertible, and then speed home to read GQ in their penthouse. All whilst wearing a tux.

I looked on as he hastily married his dry towel to the moist marble surface, and did for a moment consider requesting an alternative - but quickly surrendered that bold notion.

It wasn't Brad's fault, after all. What power did he have if the bubbles refused to cooperate? He wasn't even a supervisor.

Instead, I merely knocked back his sympathetic glance with a knowing nod, and bitterly began to swallow down my dead purchase in the most mournful manner I could reasonably muster, considering my lack of acting ability.

As I theatrically choked down a likely unhealthy swill of my flat treat, I was quickly distracted by an angst-sodden group of teenagers entering stage left.

The ringleader, approximately ten stone of problem child, was a walking black mood housed under a Burberry roof.

Apparently thriving in this clammy climate, and spurred on by the poisonous plip of his Euro trance ringtone, he strode quickly toward the bar.

As his large feet went crashing forth, as though surfing on steel toe capped Rockport waves, he boomed a noisy request for three pints of lager, and I did for a moment wonder if the pressure had affected him too.

Ordinarily, I would have offered him a helpful review of my negative experience, but as he cast me a murderous look, I thought better of it.

"What?" he grunted in my direction. As the threat of a happy slap shocked me out of my grumpy trance and back into an uneasy reality, I concluded that I must have failed to hide my amusement at their antics.

Well, as mentioned previously, acting isn't my strongpoint.

Shrugging and sinking back into the familiar frothy depths of my golden enemy, I counted my blessing as the thirsty inquistor turned away to review the status of his pending transaction.

Ironically, it seemed that my misplaced choice - our only common ground - had probably saved me. 

Imagine if I'd ordered the mojito.

Jonno Turner

The Room

The room wasn’t familiar to Nick in the real sense of the word, yet in his recurrent dream he knew every inch of the dust filled single room under his bedroom rug. The paisley patterned rug that he had walked on every day of his short life had suddenly become a no go area to the eight year old youth. Each night required a series of hop, step and jumps to negotiate landing on his bed without touching the seemingly innocuous looking piece of carpet. You see Nick’s dream always involved him falling through the rug as if there were no floorboards underneath and landing perfectly unharmed in an imagined room below. Not much of a nightmare you might think but to Nick it was beyond terrifying. The feeling that once in the room, it was impossible to get out. The room came across as cold with all the colours seeming ‘off’. Everything in the room, from the single bed to the pictures on the wall to the small chair in the corner didn’t quite appear the right shade, almost as if they were living objects that were dying and fading with time. Even the small stuffed teddy bear on the end of the bed had lost its honey brown lustre and appeared flat and insipid. Nick feared that once he fell into this room he would end up like the objects and slowly fade into nothingness. . Every night after Nick had kissed his Mum goodnight he felt the unease of ascending the stairs to his bedroom and the leap over the rug into his bed. Once in his bed he often imagined he could hear a gentle sob from his Mother and the consoling tones of his Dad. Once lying down on his comfy duvet though, he never struggled to find sleep. The sleep was always broken with the feeling that he had stepped out of his bed and fell through the rug into the imagined room below. Nick always awoke with a start and gasping for breath each night. With much anxiety though, each time Nick would pull himself together and sleep an untroubled sleep for the rest of the night.

Nick managed to pluck up enough courage to tell his mum who listened with watery eyes as she reassured him as best she could that it was all just a dream and that it will fade with time.

Then Nick’s mum told me the story.

I, by the way go by the name of Dr Mayweather who diagnosed Nick’s weak heart just after he was born. I’m afraid Nick died in his sleep last night and was found lying on the rug by his mum first thing this morning…..

Colin Elliott

Ladder #4 (Volunteers) Gets A New Driver

-Now listen kid, I don’t want you getting all excited and running red lights and shit, it’s better we get to a fire in one piece a minute or two later than get in a fucking crash at some intersection just because you wanted to drive like fucking Steve McQueen outa Bullet ok?

-Steve McQ….

-Oh fuck you’s fucking kids. Christ I’m too old for this shit. Too fast too fucking furious whatever that shite is yous kids watch these days. It’s not an Xbox, it’s a fucking fire engine. It’s fucking big and it’s heavy and it can do a lot of damage if it hits another vehicle.

-Yeah, I got that Captain. Nice and steady.

-Right kid, nice and steady. We’re heroes but we don’t have to act the fucking hero. We get a call, we get on the truck, yous drive us there nice and steady, no panic no adrenaline rush, we’re no good to anyone if were wrapped round a fucking streetlight.

-Point of order there Cap, he’ll destroy a fucking street light if he hits it with the engine.

-Fuck you you fucking hump.

-So you got that kid? This is a good crew, you can be a big part of it. I knew your old man he was a good firefighter to. Measured.  I see a bit of him in you.

-There goes the fucking alarm baby, Capt, Jr, you’re up kid.

-Now remember slow and steady.

-I got you Captain.

-O’Connell, leave the fucking food we’ve got a call.

-Come on Cap, it’s chilli.

-It’ll keep.

-Slow and steady.

-What’s the address?

-203 South Mountainside Ave. Report of a turkey roaster tipped over, deck on fire.

-Fuck! Hey kid, remember all that bullshit I just told you, slow steady, fuck all that, hit the fucking gas, that’s my fucking house!


Johnny L

The Lady And The Bird...

She comes out of the plane, "It's ok Jane, it's ok." is what she reassures herself with.

Out through immigration, passing with a breeze and through to the luggage carousel.

"Where is it?! WHERE IS IT?!" screams in her head, panic erupting in waves like volcanoes.

A familiar blue luggage bag in pristine quality is thrown onto the carousel roughly. The one with the red and green tag.

Round and around and around it went until it arrived at the lady's feet...

And out she goes.

Tourists like herself stare at her as she

walks out the doors, bag being pulled just behind. Peculiar, it seemed to them. And, yes. Indeed that briefcase was.

That briefcase had previously stowed away live birds, all shapes and sizes. Cockatoos to rainbow lorrikeets, all ending up alive in the end. It was a briefcase that had endured everything, pain and hardship as of a human. But still, to her, it seemed downright normal for her.

She rushed out, needing to get to her point of destination. She was holding, in her briefcase, the world's very first mutant bird. A miniature peacock crossed with a crow. For the first few days in her custody, it had

stared at her, those beady eyes clawing their way to her soul. 

Fond of the bird, you Say?

Yes. She was.

She stopped for a moment to check if it was still alive, opening the bag to a 'CACAW!'

"Your taxi is here ma'am, where to?"

The rush of the airport closed around her, encasing her thoughts and movements.

You know why? Because she had no idea where she was going!

She was lost in Papua New Guinea. With a mutant bird!

"Great job, Ali!" she muttered to herself.

Isabelle

Shame

I’m eight years old, my life is a simple cycle of eating, sleeping, playing and state enforced learning. These activities all take place within the protective cocoon of a small village on the Welsh border. Little concerns me; I’m a poor loser but given that there are only four boys in my year at school and I am the don, this doesn’t happen with any great regularity. My mind is free of troubles, to use the early eighties vernacular, my life is skill!

On any given day my unfettered joy can consist of football, cycling and tree climbing but without fail there must always be a large dose torment dished out to my sisters. One older, one younger. The older one’s feeling towards me oscillate regularly between antipathy and abhorrence. The younger one blindly adores me. To me this matters not one whit; I will inflict irritation on whichever one is nearest. They are both ticklish so a swift grab of an unguarded foot can be hugely satisfying for me and distressing for whichever sister is on the receiving end. At this stage in my life I am unfamiliar with karma.

It’s Sunday morning and having eaten all that I can reach in the kitchen, I wait impatiently for the remainder of the family to wake up. Finally mum appears and makes a pot of tea to take upstairs. This indicates the start of the ten minute notice period before we can all go and pile into their bed. At last having watched the minutes slowly pass we’re in the bed. The older sister has long eschewed this family fun and as I’m not yet bold enough to torment my parents, annoying my younger sister is the only option. Like a cat sizing up prey I wait for the perfect moment. I strike for the foot, the foot feels strange and my dad has just leapt like a salmon, spilling his and everyone else’s tea.

After the commotion subsides my parents don’t make a big deal of it and all my younger sister knows is that I missed her foot. I will carry this burden of shame with me for the rest of my life, I touched a man’s penis and not just any man’s, my dad’s! I am now familiar with karma.

Tim McB

Tourists versus Travellers

Or rather, me versus travellers. You’re on holiday, I’m on holiday. You might not like your sojourn being reduced to the same level as mine but its an inescapable truth.

Let us begin with some simple definitions:

holiday n time spent away from home for rest or recreation; day or other period of rest from work or studies

tourist n person travelling for pleasure

travel v to go from one place to another, as by car, train, plane, or ship

traveller n person who travels

As you can see, the above definitions apply to both groups yet they, or we, consider one another with contempt.

There was a time when travel was the preserve of the wealthy and adventurous, the children of industrialists with ready made careers and fortunes ahead of them. It is now available to us all and we have become rather tribal about the whole thing.

We no longer set off with great fanfare at The Royal Geographical Society, you can of course but it is much easier embarking from one of a number of provincial airports which are allied to larger towns and cities with little or no discernible link. At least Leeds and Bradford are relatively close but London Luton?

You sneer at my holiday just because I’m choosing comfort, comfort is hugely underrated. It would take a lot of persuading for me to consider swapping a fortnight of comfort for six months in something lifted from the set of Tenko. If you want an authentic experience living like the natives try it in some of the shit holes the UK has to offer, I’m sure there are many people in Merthyr Tydfil, Hull and Salford for example who would happily take your money and let you share their squalor - Britain could well be your oyster.

If you’re so enamoured of travel for the sake of it I can heartily recommend the Circle line and to give it a Bangkok flavour just try it on any weekday at 8.30am with a couple of wheeled cases and a rucksack. No one will speak to you, you’ll feel distinctly alien and sweat will actually spray rather than seep from you.

At the airport you take up too much space in check-in, creating a sort of mini walled city out of luggage whilst sleeping on the floor. This might be acceptable during an eight hour stopover in Accra but it seems a little unnecessary having just been dropped off by parents at Stansted. Once aboard the plane you get on with your traveller's checklist; talk loudly about travel experiences, go to great lengths to ignore flight attendants and safety instructions and swaddle yourself in blankets to illustrate warm climes being your natural environment.

Travelling seems to bring about the desire to sport badges of honour. Much better to get yourself tattooed with a crusty stick in a festering sewer in Vientiane, and if it isn’t Lao for twat it might as well be because that is how I’ll read it when you get back to sign on. Maybe it’s just more exciting getting it done on your travels in much the same way that the fun never ends when contracting HIV or hepatitis C abroad as opposed to back in Blighty. Très exotique!

I’m not suggesting that you are the worst of our exports, a trip to the Spanish Costas will soon find you amongst many Brits of whom we should be all be ashamed - the ignorati. Quite often these are the same folks who bemoan immigrants, the ghettos they create and their failure/refusal to learn the language and integrate. No obvious parallels.

You are infinitely preferable to the ignorati but puzzling nonetheless. Why are you always adorned with string? Wrists, ankles, neck, string everywhere. Is it to signify your individuality or to help me identify you and thus give you a wide berth. Maybe my resentment stems from the acknowledgement of a long faded youth but let's not stop sneering and sniping at each other, I enjoy it and you’re positively dripping with superiority.

Tim McB

Waiting For Jojo

When the family dog went missing, no one slept that night. The kids were running round the streets, shouting, "Jojo! Come home!" in their pitiful voices. 

Their parents neglected the fact that it was a school night.

As the weeks went on, Jojo's face appeared on posters around the neighbourhood, above the brightly crayoned letters: 

"HAVE YOU SEEN JOJO?" The desperate family knocked on doors after school and work, and every dog that had even the faintest resemblance to Jojo was chased down the street, until the distance between the children and the dog was closed enough so they could see that no matter how many dogs they saw that looked like Jojo, none would replace him.

Then came the dreams.

In the early hours of the morning, the youngest crawled into his mother's bed, whispering, "I dreamed that we had Jojo again." His mother sighed. "We all want Jojo back."

Months passed, and the crayon posters warped in the rain, sliding hopelessly down the power poles and lampposts they were taped to. The crayon colours faded and became waxy memories, ground desperately into the miserable notepaper and attached to a once bright photo.

The sheer love of Jojo led the family to find themselves outside a news station. "You have to help us find Jojo, it's the only choice we have left!" pleaded the mother. "Please, Mr man, please help us find our doggie," said the youngest. "Just one show," added the middle daughter. "It's our only hope," finished the oldest. The presenter sighed. If they were going to make so much of a drama about it, well, they may as well do the presenting themselves.

A few nights later, an advertisement flashed on an old couple's television set. A family of five stood and reminisced about Jojo - a beloved family pet who was lost a year to this day, and if anyone had found a dog like theirs, call them on this number. 

The dog they had picked up from the streets a long time ago padded into the room, looking for comfort and perhaps a biscuit. "Oh, Muggins, you cheeky boy!" - he had evidently tried to open the back flywire door, and unsuccessfully at that. The old woman did a double take - Muggins looked so much like that dog on the telly - what was his name, Jojo? 

No, Muggins wasn't the dog the family described...but they were so similar...

She pushed the thought out of her head and answered her husband's request for a hammer, nails and a cup of tea.

Natasha Gill

The Mysterious House

In our street lives an elderly man in old dilapidated house. Every year on Halloween he does not sleep well. When the fog descends, he hears strange noises coming from the timbers of the house. Chains seem to be dragged and clanged against the walls. Marbles seem to be dropped and rolled across the floor. Last year on Halloween the elderly man decided to take walk in the fog. He carried an old Polaroid camera with him. The further he walked the louder noise of the chains and marbles became.  He turned back to look a look at his house. The house looked no different, but he still decided to take a photo of it. As he clicked the shutter of the camera a chill went down his spine and what little hair he had on his head stood on end. He shuffled as fast as he could back into his house. As he sat in his armchair he watched the Polaroid photo develop under his reading lamp. To his horror, instead of the house being in the photo, there was a ghastly face and two ghostly figures staring back at him. The poor old man now spends his days in an old age home. He still clings to the Polaroid photo, showing it to anyone who is willing to listen to his story. All see a house surrounded by fog. Only the old man still sees the ghastly face and two ghostly figures. This year on Halloween he still did not sleep well.

Wei Song

Gone Too Soon

The bedsheet. The sofa. The tray. The television. The trees. The walls.

Everything seemed so dull at that moment. It was as if colour ceased existing altogether.

I rested my hands on my stomach. Felt the flatness of it under my palms. As if it had always stayed that way.

As if it hadn’t once ballooned into a humongous thing, protruding out of my body, an obstacle which latched itself to me everywhere I went.

As if there had never been life in it before. A tiny human being kicking and squirming when I least expected it.

And now.

What’s left of it is a layer of over-stretched skin and…

Nothingness.

Wrenched away from me faster than I could blink. Leaving me dumbstruck, lost, speechless. Empty.

A careless trip on the stairs. That was all that I could remember. The rest was a blur.

I stared blankly into the distance. Thinking that nothing could compare to the guilt I was feeling.

For being so careless. For losing him.

I might as well have murdered him with my very own hands.

I glanced forlornly towards my stomach, where he should have been kicking, squirming, doing anything to show that he’s alive.

Slowly, tears trickled down my face. I made no move to wipe them away, allowing them to flow towards my mouth until I could taste the saltiness on my tongue.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And broke down sobbing.

Samantha Sim

The Final Goodbye - Prequel

'Riley, you gotta help me.' I said to Riley as I got in touch with her after so many attempts trying to find her. I was at her house, finally able to find her after a week of MIA.

Riley is my best friend who is also a witch.

'You know you can't interfere with Fate. I can't help you.' She said with sorrow in her voice, obviously sad about James dying.

'There's a way. You know there's a way.'

'There is but it's too dangerous for me to do it. It'll also bring harm to you.' As Riley said those words, I knew there was something bitter about them. Maybe she has experience, although she never mentioned any of this to me.

'I don't care. I just want James back.' I let out a bitter cry. I loves James. If it weren't not for me, James would still be alive now. If it weren't not for me, James wouldn't be in the accident in the first place.

James was involved in a car accident when trying to get me the dress at the boutique - the dress i desperately needed to wear for the gala the following day. If I hadn't asked him to pick it up, he wouldn't have been in an accident.

'Are you sure, Alex? You know you could die If i do it, are you willing to leave James?'

'It's better than him leaving me. I can't stand the idea of losing him.'

'Alright, if you say so.'

'Come in, follow me, if you want to do it. I need to gather some stuff for this.' Riley brought me to her living room while she grabbed the things she needed to perform the spell.

'Alright, I'm ready, let's get started.' She began the spell and moments later i collapsed. Riley looked exhausted when I awoke.

'Is it done? Am I a ghost now?' The answer was obvious as I could see my body looking so peaceful and serene laid on the couch of her living room.

'Can I visit James for a second before he wakes up? I know that it takes some times for him to regain his consciousness, let me visit him in his dream. This is my last wish then I will rest peacefully on the other side'.

'I can arrange that.' Riley said above her weariness.

'Oh, Riley! Can I ask you another favour? I want you to tell my family that you found me on your doorstep this morning already cold and tell them how much i love them'.

Nadratul S

The Great Tower Heist Part Two: The Great Jail Break

Every evening throughout the British summer of 1964, the routine on the ground floor of Block B in Newgate Prison had been invariable. Gordon, in cell 7, would take off his blue uniform, fold it neatly and put outside the door. Then the door would be locked by a warder who would after that peer in every 15 minutes, for Gordon was a maximum security prisoner. Meanwhile, Gordon would stretch his 32-years-old, six-foot, sinewy frame on the berth, run his hand through his wavy brown hair and gaze at the ceiling, as if engaged in some marvellous reverie.

Gordon’s routine was interrupted in the early hours of August 12. That night he reduced his 30 years sentence by 29 years and eight months. Shortly after 3am, three men scaled the prison‘s 6m wall with ladders and, with duplicates of two master keys, made their way into Gordon’s corridor and cell. When Gordon’s warder appeared on schedule they smashed him into unconsciousness. They provided the prisoner with civilian clothes and left the way that they had entered with Gordon. And the Great Tower Heist, already a British legend, fascinated Englishmen even more now that the gang had managed the Great Jail Break.

The break added one puzzle to another, for little is known about the heist itself. It was said that more than a year or so later, the police were still putting the pieces together.

Silvers Rayleigh