This morning, the news that Harry Roberts is to be freed from prison reminded me of the effect his mugshot had on me when I was a wee boy. The Belfast News Letter published this piece in March 2009.
Tormenting
Picture of a Killer
Picture from BBC News website
WE
all know that certain smells, sounds and images can stimulate the senses and
trigger memories of childhood. You know the sort of thing: mother’s apple tart
freshly baked and hot from the oven; frying bacon sizzling and spitting in the
pan alongside pork sausages and potato farls; Michael Holliday singing The
Runaway Train; the theme from Housewives’ Choice filling the scullery with a
soundtrack to the daily chores; and even Pinky and Perky murdering one or two
hits of the 1960s – all tiny fragments of nostalgia to bring a smile for the
joy of days gone by.
But
like most things in life, memory and nostalgia also have a dark side and
something happened last week to transport me back to a time when I was 12 years
old. I saw a photograph in the newspaper. The accompanying news that a man
called Harry Roberts, labelled Britain’s most notorious police killer, could be
freed from jail after serving 42 years, jolted me back to some nightmare weeks
in 1966 when Roberts was on the run, hiding out in Epping Forest during a
massive manhunt. He shot dead two young policemen and was complicit in the
shooting of a third constable so, by any accounts, he was a nasty piece of
work. He managed to avoid arrest for three months and because he was an evil
fugitive his photograph was all over the television news and newspapers. It was
this picture that haunted me because, at a young age, I understood the evil in
his eyes and the terrible things he would do to me if he turned up at our house
looking for a place to hide out. He had a kind of Jack Palance look about him,
entirely unpleasant and certainly not the kind of man you would want to get
stuck in a lift with for even a nano second. The fact that Epping Forest was
hundreds of miles away from Belfast did not ease my concerns that Roberts could
be banging on our door at any minute. He was the bogeyman, a real life baddie
who, for a time, overtook my fear of banshees, those wispy screechers who, it
was said, wailed the nights away in Smicker’s field, a few hundred yards up our
back garden. Roberts was in a different league. Banshees were not as frightening – perhaps,
maybe, hopefully.
My fear of this man, from the mugshot, was so intense
that when my mother asked me to go into the airing cupboard to switch on the
hot water I couldn’t do it at first. I had the notion that Harry Roberts, on
the loose and with the military skills to be anywhere in any disguise at any
time, would emerge from the piles of towels and sheets to grab me by the throat
and throttle me before I knew anything about it. My mother would only realise I
was missing when she ran a bath and discovered that the water was stone cold.
Later, in bed, I would try to erase the picture of Roberts from my head, but it
kept returning, kept me from falling asleep quickly and, coupled with the noise
of the wind outside, rustling trees, occasional footsteps of passers-by and
general creaks and groans from the walls and rafters, it made for a very scary
experience. I would wrap myself tightly in bedclothes in the hope that my
eiderdown armour would protect me through the night.
I look at the 1966 picture of Harry Roberts in today’s
newspaper and it still sends a shiver down my spine but, I kid myself, now that
he is 72 years old, that if he came round our way looking for trouble, I could
take him and exorcise all those childhood demons. But he won’t and I won’t
because I’m not hard enough and, hopefully, neither is he any more. But I still
hesitate any time I go to the airing cupboard, for you never know, as you reach
for a clean towel, who or what might make a grab for you. But you can do it. Go
on, be brave and hum The Runaway Train to give you that little bit more
courage. Know what I mean, Harry?
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