The effect on Ronnie was startling, and very worrying. Relieved that the dark shadow of madness was lifted, he started taking even more risks. He would have a few drinks here, a few drinks there, and once he strolled all the way along Bethnal Green Road, cheerfully returning the greetings of people who thought he was Reggie.
But after five months the strain of being on the trot began to take its toll. He’d put on a lot of weight through heavy drinking, his face was drawn and haggard, and he’d become morose and anti-social, preferring to stay in and read or sleep. None of us knew what to do for the best. I was told Ronnie was suffering from the after-effects of the drugs pumped into him. He needed medical treatment very quickly, but to get it would mean revealing his identity and recent history.
In the end, the problem was solved for us. Ronnie took one risk too many and was recaptured. He suspected police would be waiting for him to turn up at Vallance Road to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday, so he waited until the day after and arrived after dark. But the police were still waiting and let themselves in quietly at three in the morning as one of the party guests left.
A few days before, Ronnie had been acting very strangely; sometimes he didn’t even recognize Reggie or myself. But when those two uniformed policemen and two male nurses walked into the house that night Ronnie was perfectly normal. He said he knew they had to take him back, and went to get his coat. I think he was relieved it was all over.
The police said they would take Ronnie to Long Grove for a formal discharge, then return him to Wandsworth where he would finish his sentence. But first he would stay overnight in Bethnal Green nick. Alarm bells rang loudly in my mind and Reggie’s: we had not forgotten the PC Baynton affair. And although it was now nearly four in the morning, we rang our solicitor, a doctor and a national newspaper reporter.
Two hours later, Reggie and I walked into the police station with the lawyer and the doctor. We were not welcome. A high-ranking officer refused to let us see Ronnie and, in spite of the lawyer’s protests, ordered us out of the building.
If someone had talked to us civilly, assuring us that Ronnie was all right and would get the proper treatment, I’m sure that would have been the end of it. But when Ronnie eventually came out, the police laid on a security pantomime that got everyone’s back up. He was in a taxi – with a police escort – and they roared past us as though Scotland Yard was on fire. Angry now, as well as concerned, Reggie and I gave chase in our car, with the doctor and lawyer behind in theirs and the reporter behind them. It was like something out of those pre-war Keystone Kops silent movies. And it got even crazier near the Oval cricket ground in Kennington, South London, when a second police car, probably called on the radio, cut in front of Reggie, forcing him to swerve on to the pavement. It was all so stupid and irresponsible.
The security farce continued even when we reached Long Grove. The police escort let the taxi into the hospital grounds, then parked across the drive, blocking the entrance. We simply got out and walked. But then the second police car was allowed through and it crawled behind us as we walked to Reception. What on earth did they think we were going to do? Hurl hand grenades and rush Ronnie to freedom under cover of machine-gun fire?
At Reception, we asked to see Ronnie. The request was turned down. Instead we were shown into the Superintendent’s office. He was as charming as before, but repeated that we’d done Ronnie no favours by helping him escape: he was very sick. We agreed, but argued very strongly that he wasn’t insane. The Superintendent listened politely, promised to consider Ronnie’s case carefully, then arranged for us to see him there and then.
That Superintendent didn’t have long to consider the case. Within a couple of days Ronnie was taken back to Wandsworth. He was not re-certified, but he was put on tranquillizers. He hated this, but he finished his sentence without further trouble and walked out a free man about seven months later, in May 1959.
The release date surprised us. Ronnie, sentenced to three years, had belted a prison officer, caused a certain amount of damage to others, then escaped from captivity for five months. Yet he still earned full remission and served just two years.
Did someone blunder, I wonder? Was Ronnie diagnosed wrongly? Did a doctor or psychiatrist prescribe the wrong treatment? Was Ronnie allowed out earlier than he should have been just to keep him happy?
And to keep us quiet?
The weight Ronnie had put on before he went back to prison had dropped by the time he came out. He looked awful: he was very pale and drawn, and his eyes had no life in them. He would spend much of the time staring into space, unaware of what was happening around him. He recognized Mum and the old man, and he trusted them, but he looked blankly at Reggie and me, refusing to believe we were his brothers.
We’d laid on this big party at The Double R. Dozens of old friends were looking forward to seeing Ronnie again. But he refused to go and I had to apologize to everyone and make up an excuse. All Ronnie wanted to do was sit in the kitchen at Vallance Road and drink tea and smoke. Reggie would sit with him for hours and then ring me to say he couldn’t handle it any more. Then I’d go and sit with him. Poor Mum! She didn’t know what to make of it all. She didn’t understand when Ronnie would suddenly look at me strangely and say, ‘You’re not Charlie. Why do you keep coming here?’ It got worse and worse and he got more and more suspicious, even of Reggie.
And then, inevitably, Ronnie exploded.
We had taken him to a pub to try and cheer him up. Throughout the evening he was very strange, talking funny and making no sense at all. And if he caught Reggie or me looking at him, he’d snap, ‘Who you looking at?’
Mum or the old man would say gently, ‘Ronnie, that’s Charlie, your brother.’
‘Yeah,’ Ronnie would scoff. ‘That’s what he tells you.’
It was frightening for all of us.
At about ten o’clock, Ronnie slammed his glass on the table and dashed out of the pub. We all looked at each other, not knowing what to do. Then Reggie and I jumped up and ran after him. We found him trying to smash a shop window with his hands.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ we yelled.
But all Ronnie said was, ‘Go away. I don’t know you.’
Luckily for us, a chap we knew – Curly King – pulled up in a car. He seemed to sense a problem. He said hello to Ronnie. Ronnie recognized him and stopped bashing the window.
‘Come on, Ron, take me down the billiard hall,’ Curly said.
It saved the situation. Ronnie liked the idea and I went back into the pub for Mum and the old man and we all went to the billiard hall. What happened there was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.
While the rest of us chatted amiably, Ronnie was restless, prowling up and down all the time like a caged tiger. We all tried to calm him down but it was no good: Ronnie was in a world of his own and no one, it seemed, could get in. None of us could relax. Everyone kept looking at me to do something. But every time I tried to talk to him, he kept telling me he didn’t know who I was. He just kept prowling up and down…up and down…up and down…
It seemed to go on for ages. And then suddenly Ronnie stopped. He looked all around him, a strange look on his face, staring at us all as if trying to remember us or recognize somebody. Then he turned and walked quickly to the middle of the room where he stood deep in thought, as though he had some major decision to make and he didn’t know what to do. His whole body suddenly stiffened as if someone had given him an electric shock. We all stared at him, transfixed. We’d never seen anything like it in our lives and we didn’t know what to do. Gradually, Ronnie’s stiff, straight body lost its tenseness. The electric shock had been switched off. Slowly, he sank to his knees as if he was praying. He stayed