On my last journey to Malaysia on the "Disoriented Express," the train was seething with extremists and crammed with refugees fleeing from reason. I had a bunk in a carriage of anachy.
The first guy introduced himself by interrupting. His brain was as frayed as his jeans. He wasn't a passenger on a train, he was a hippy on a mission. By the time the train had crossed the Chao Phraya and turned south, he had already insulted everyone he needed to. The possibility of a conversation never stood a chance as he ranted and sprayed his redundant philosophy in everyone's face.
"Give everyone forty acres and a mule," he splurted. "It's the only way to save the planet. By the way, have you got any ecstasy?"
He was from California. He had lost his mind and was losing his hair. I decided that he wasn't real, he was just a trick of the light.
"How long have you been in Thailand?" I managed to ask.
"I don't know. I woke up here."
And he staggered off, deaf to the language and blind to the culture.
The three spivs from Pattaya who held court in the restaurant car were large, friendly, and, mercifully, unarmed. They were tanned and tough, drank the train dry, and ate nails for breakfast. Naturally, they knew everyone who knew anything. they had stories, connections, inside information; they had everything covered. They winked at each other in conspiracy. I felt that gorillas would purr at their approach. They welcomed me. I read the menu - which was three pages of pure fiction - and sat back and listened.
They had a novel way of securing superior accommodation. They would check into a room and set fire to it. Then they would spray the room with foam, ring the manager, and pretend that they had saved the hotel from a devastating blaze. Naturally, they were upgraded to the best suite - free of charge. Drinks on the house.
"Works every time my son ... "
I liked them, but then I'm easily led astray.
And then there was the depressed New Zealander. He used to be a policeman, he said, from Waputo or Wanatoke, or someplace.
I've always thought that a desire to join the police should be grounds for not being allowed to - even among a nation of sheep. Anyhow, he had come to Thailand to teach. It depressed him. He'd had four motorcycle accidents in three months, he didn't like the food, it was too hot, and he felt that everyone was trying to rip him off. For a while, I was sympathetic, and then I realised that this guy enjoyed being depressed. He was hooked into the victim game. He had no curiosity. He didn't talk, he droned. He had the charisma of a peanut. He was a fanatic for failure.
"Have your tried alcohol?" I suggested brightly.
"Makes me sick," he moaned.
I may have invented a new word; Miserabalist.
The fanatics will not be budged. Their minds are set like concrete. They could never be accused of having a split personality, for there is no personality to split. They never ask questions. From Anchorage to Amsterdam, the fanatic is ignorant of geography, and the earth hums with the hustle of persuasion.
In a sweating alley in Georgetown, Penang, I shared a bowl of bobbing amoebas that looked suspiciously like whales eyeballs, with an Italian guy who had just spent time in a neighbouring country where, "Murder is regarded as a legitimate means of career advancement."
The country was run with refined menace by men you told the indigenous people, "Look, either the borders move, or you do. Got it?"
I looked up from the fishy gruel to see smoke rising from a hotel in the distance, and thought, "Ah, the boys have checked in."
I relaxed. Everything was functioning normally.
By Roger Beaumont
Available
at Bookazine
Two Thrupenny's to West Croydon
The Craig/Bentley case has haunted British Justice for 50 years
By DAVID COCKSEDGE - True Crime Series
ON THE DAMP SUNDAY EVENING of 2nd November 1952, teenagers Christopher Craig (16) and Derek Bentley (19) took the bus to West Croydon station in south London. For Bentley, it was a threepenny bus ride to oblivion: he was never allowed to return to his home in Fairview Road, Norbury, and 86 days later he was dead, executed by the state as an accomplice to murder.
The two lads were opportunistic thieves who attempted to break into the Barlow and Parker warehouse in Tamworth Road by scaling a drainpipe and gaining entry from the roof. But within minutes, neighbours had alerted the local police, and the boys were trapped. They hid behind a lift housing as policemen climbed onto the roof.
When Sergeant Frederick Fairfax called on the lads to give themselves up, Bentley walked out from behind the lift housing, and was placed under arrest. Craig, however, produced a revolver, and shouted defiance. "Come on you coppers! Come and get me!" His older brother Niven Craig had just been sentenced to twelve years in gaol for armed robbery, and young Chris harboured a deep hatred for the police. When Bentley allegedly shouted, "Let him have it, Chris!" Craig fired, wounding Fairfax in the left shoulder. The officer fell, but recovered to grab Bentley, and haul him away. Whilst Fairfax searched Bentley, (finding a knife and knuckle-duster on him), Craig fired at PC's Harrison and McDonald, who both took cover.
Some 20 minutes later, police located the warehouse manager and obtained keys to the building. Police marksmen had positioned themselves on adjoining rooftops when Fairfax returned to the roof with a handgun, and fired twice at Craig. When PC Sidney Miles opened the stairwell door on the roof and stepped out, he was shot in the forehead and fell dead. Craig, now pinned down behind the lift housing, reloaded and continued to fire on the police until he had just two rounds left. He put the gun to his head, but it misfired each time he pulled the trigger. Throwing the weapon away, he then jumped 30 feet from the roof and crashed into a greenhouse, breaking his back. Thus ended the rooftop battle of West Croydon, which led to the one of the most famous cases in British legal history.
During the Old Bailey trial Chief Justice Lord Goddard, the presiding judge, interrupted statements of evidence 250 times, and his summing up left no doubt as to his view. He virtually directed the jury to bring in a verdict of guilty to the murder of a brave police officer. Now Craig, at 16, was too young to hang, but Bentley, at 19, was not. The court was however not told that the illiterate Bentley was prone to epilepsy, and had the menta1 age of 11. This meant that he was incapable of instructing or helping his own defence lawyers. When the jury foreman requested additional information on the shooting of Sgt Fairfax, Lord Goddard screamed at him in rage and smashed Bentley's knuckle-duster onto his desk. It was an irrational and frightening display.
When the jury brought in the expected verdict - both boys guilty of murder - the foreman added a recommendation of mercy for Bentley. It was a recommendation that the Home Secretary, Sir David Maxwell Fyfe, amazingly chose not to exercise. In his memoirs, published in 1964, Sir David showed a shocking and inexcusable ignorance of the facts in this case. Like many members of the establishment at the time, he was perhaps less concerned with justice than making an example of Derek Bentley.
One senior Conservative politician was of the view that a deterrent had to be established, or else criminal gangs would be employing underage gunmen to do the killing for them! The establishment mood can perhaps be summed as - a policeman has been shot dead in the line of duty, and someone has to swing for it. The Crown's case was that Bentley had urged Craig to kill Fairfax by shouting to him. Both boys denied that Bentley had done so, and anyway, why would someone who had willingly surrendered to police custody suddenly call to his friend to shoot at the policeman holding him, knowing that he would also be in the line of fire? It's possible of course, but highly unlikely. .
Craig was detained at Her Majesty's pleasure until 1963, but there was to be no reprieve for Derek Bentley, a dim-witted youth of nineteen who could barely write his own name. A year earlier, Bentley had been deemed unfit for National (military) service on medical grounds and because of a low IQ, but now the state considered him competent enough to stand trial and face execution. Amidst much parliamentary and public debate, Bentley was hanged at Wandsworth Prison at 9am on 28 January 1953. His last words were "I didn't kill that copper". There was a riot outside the prison gates when the notice of his death was posted.
Now Craig allegedly shot PC Miles at a distance of 39 feet with an Eley .455 revolver loaded with homemade ammunition. Craig had also filed off the foresight, and ballistics experts estimated that the gun was extremely inaccurate at that range. Also, Miles was shot between the eyes as he left the stairwell and turned away from Craig to join his colleagues on the rooftop. It is certainly possible that a police marksman, firing at a movement on the warehouse roof, may have mistakenly shot him. Witnesses saw policemen armed with .303 bolt action rifles deployed on nearby rooftops, though the police denied that this had been done. Could Miles have been a casualty of what Americans call 'friendly fire'? We will never know, because no such expended bullet was ever found, and Miles's body was cremated three days after the crime. In February 1953, the King's Police Medal was posthumously awarded to PC Sidney George Miles, and presented to his wife by the Queen. But the Police Pension for dead officers of the law remained the same. The state awarded this brave policeman's widow the princely sum of two pounds, sixteen shillings and four pence per week in compensation.
It should be emphasised that in those days soon after the 1939-45 war, guns were readily obtainable in Britain. Craig was a typical young London thug. He had an arsenal of weapons in his loft, and never went anywhere without carrying a loaded handgun. He also manufactured his own ammunition, and the Eley .455 revolver held Sten gun rounds that he had adapted for it. Being armed at all times was second nature to him: sixteen-year-old Christopher Craig pocketed a gun on getting dressed just as another man would pull on a pair of socks. That night he was carrying the Eley pistol and extra clips of ammunition on the fateful bus journey to West Croydon.
After 46 years of tireless campaigning, Derek Bentley's family and friends finally found some moral recompense when the Labour Government awarded him a posthumous pardon in April 1999. At his grave in Mitcham Road Cemetery the headstone reads: "Derek Bentley (30 June 1933 - 28 January 1953). A victim of British Justice".
(Research: 'To encourage the others', by David Yallop, Corgi Books)
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