The Hangman

On the night before the hanging, Arthur Plowman had not been able to sleep. This was unusual. He’d spent much of the night lying awake and going over the calculations in his head again and again to make sure they were spot on. Height, weight, shirt collar size, length of rope. They had to be right – this time more than ever. There could be no room for error.

What was wanted tomorrow morning, as in every hanging, was the perfect drop. Enough for a nice clean break in the neck vertebrae. Instant death. Painless. No hanging around choking and kicking. No long, drawn out suffocation and strangulation. That would simply not do. He'd witnessed that once when he was starting out as an assistant hangman. Distressing for the victim, naturally, and for those officiating. And embarrassing for the so-called professional hangman.

If the drop was too long and the condemned prisoner too heavy, there was a risk that the head could be completely severed. Fortunately, this was not something he’d witnessed personally. But he had seen some rather gruesome newsreel footage of a hanging that had ended in this way. A summary execution carried out by an angry lawless mob in some distant country in the midst of a revolution. Not the efficient, dignified and humane operation carried out by an expert hangman following the correct procedure.

And the rope had to be examined. The amount of stretch in it had to be judged and factored in. The length had to be just right. And the noose had to be placed in the correct position. There could be no risk of the rope snapping or the noose slipping off or unravelling. That would be farcical. Humiliating.  Such an anti-climax. He'd seen a rope snap once in his early days. The hangman responsible on that particular day was dropped from the list of Home Office approved hangmen and never worked again.

The gallows and trap-door mechanism had to be checked, too. He would carry out several test runs with a bag of sand equal to the weight of the prisoner. He would insist, too, on pacing out the route from the condemned cell to the gallows room, timing it, choreographing every step of the way. Everything to make the process as quick, smooth and stress free as possible.

But there was more to it than just measurements and mathematical calculations, he liked to think. There was artistry as well as science involved in the process. He liked to view his clients for a few minutes. Weigh them up by eye. Assess their frame. See them move around, take a few steps. (He would love to have met them face to face, shaken hands, even exchanged a few words with them – but protocol prevented this, of course.) And this would enable him to fine tune his calculations, and to choose the most secure yet most comfortable arm and leg restraints. This could be quite difficult through the peephole of a cell door, but he prided himself that he could do it.

Mr Plowman, as he was known by everyone, took great pride in his profession. In the skills and expertise he had built up over the years. And he took great pride, too, in the fact that he was carrying on the family business. His father and grandfather before him had both been employed by the Home Office as professional hangmen. All experts, like him,  in the art of judicial killing.

Mr Plowman would always arrive smartly dressed in a black suit and tie, bowler hat, highly polished black leather shoes and black leather gloves. Though not a big man, he carried himself upright, back ramrod-straight, with a brisk walk, and conducted himself in an imperious and military manner, all of which gave him an air of authority. Although he’d been too young to have served in the First World War and too old to have served in the Second, he might have been mistaken for an ex-army officer. He was a stickler for detail. He was always punctual. There was never any small talk. The only communication was about the job in hand. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. Anyone who tried to engage with him was ignored, especially while he was carrying out his seemingly endless pre-execution checks and calculations.

Despite his curt and peremptory manner, the news that Mr Plowman was to be the appointed executioner in a case would always be welcomed by the prison staff and Home Office officials in attendance. He inspired confidence in them (and, Mr Plowman liked to think, in his clients, too). However tense everyone was before a hanging, they could trust the no nonsense and meticulous Mr Plowman to take control and do the job right. With his one hundred per cent record, he was regarded as a safe pair of hands.

He never got involved with any of the condemned.  It didn’t matter to him what background they came from, what age they were, or what gender they were (although he’d only hanged one woman during his long career). He wasn’t interested in the nature of their offences. He never got involved in the drama of any last minute reprieves. These were rare and often only temporary, due to some legal technicality. He knew that in most cases some months down the line he would be called again to the same client. He always kept the calculations on file, and a picture in his mind's eye for future reference.

He never got involved in the public debates about the rights and wrongs of capital punishment. That was for the politicians and newspapers to argue about. Public opinion was divided. He suspected that one day the law might change. But until then, he was just carrying out his duty…

But tomorrow’s hanging would be different. There had been no judicial process. The evidence, indisputable though it was, was not of a legal nature. It was the medical profession that had pronounced the death sentence. The test results, his GP had told him had revealed an inoperable cancer. Mr Plowman would have only six months to live, nine months if he was lucky. A steady, painful, debilitating, and undignified deterioration in his faculties that Mr Plowman was not prepared to endure.

There was no problem about his measurements – he knew his own body intimately, of course. He was confident about the rope. It was brand new - he had known exactly what sort to buy. He had managed to carry out several trial runs alongside the rehearsals for a recent hanging he’d performed. The prison staff had been aware of his taking a long time but had put it down to his usual fastidiousness and not dared to question him.

But what was niggling him was the improvised nature of the venue. He knew he wouldn't be able to have use of the purpose-built gallows of a prison. So he had had to work out how to carry out the operation at home. This had been a considerable challenge, but one that he had tackled in his typical detached, matter-of-fact and methodical way. A roof joist, he judged, would be the only thing strong and secure enough to hang the rope from. But to get a big enough drop he had had to position it directly above the loft hatch and remove part of the bannister. Then he’d bought a step ladder of the appropriate height. He knew he could stand in the loft balanced on the top rung, which he would then step off with one foot while simultaneously kicking the step ladder away with the other foot, allowing gravity then to complete the task. There would be no leg or arm restraints, although he was pretty sure he wouldn’t need any as there would be no struggling. After all, unlike most of his clients, he was going to be a willing participant in the process. And death would be instantaneous if he’d got everything right.  All in all, he was pleased with and proud of the arrangements he had made and was ninety-nine per cent confident that the process would work. It was that one per cent doubt that had kept him awake.

At dawn, Mr Plowman had got up, washed and shaved, dressed in his usual suit, and cooked himself eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade, with two mugs of strong sweet tea. No reason why he shouldn’t be entitled to and enjoy a last favourite meal, like anyone else.

Mr Plowman now looked at his watch. It was now a quarter to nine. Fifteen minutes to the appointed hour. He wanted to keep to the schedule he’d set himself. He washed up and dried his frying pan, crockery and cutlery, and put them away. A final inspection of the kitchen. All was in order. Just as he liked it.

He now took three sealed envelopes from his inside jacket pocket and placed them in a line on the kitchen table. One contained a cheque for an outstanding gas bill. (He’d ensured that all his other bills were paid up.) The second contained a letter to the Home Office turning down the forthcoming execution he’d been offered. This had been a hard letter to write. He’d only ever had to refuse one job before. This was some years ago when he was convalescing from an operation. He’d felt guilty then, as now, for what he had considered as letting people down. The third contained his will and a short suicide note explaining, in the briefest terms, his decision.

Mr Plowman allowed himself a moment of reflection on the end of his career and on the end of his life. There was no need for sentiment. He had no close family still living and no close friends. He’d kept himself to himself. When he was younger, he'd found that some people were reluctant to get too friendly with him once they'd discovered his profession, while others showed an unhealthy and prurient interest in his work. And he’d never married – he had never met any woman who'd been prepared to fit in with his rigid daily routine and confirmed bachelor lifestyle, let alone come to terms with the nature of his career. These days, he'd always been discreet about discussing his job – people knew that he worked for the Home Office, but not in what capacity. No-one would miss him. He’d had a good life, done his duty. He’d trained up several assistants well over the years – they would continue the good work.

There would be no priest today. But he didn’t need one. After all, he had no crime to confess. But there should be a prayer at least. That would only be right and proper.

'Our Father,' he said aloud, as he left the kitchen.

In the hall, Mr Plowman was surprised to see a letter on the doormat. He was sure the letter wasn’t there when he’d come downstairs and he hadn’t heard the letter box click shut. He found this irritating.

‘Who art in Heaven,’

His foot hesitated on the first stair. He'd thought he'd put all his affairs in order. He hated unfinished business. He bent down, picked up the envelope and examined it. A brown envelope marked Private & Confidential and Urgent. Not a letter from the Home Office – he would recognise that – but something official, nevertheless. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes to nine.

‘Hallowed be thy name,’

Better just sort this out. He went through into the sitting-room, took the letter opener from the sideboard, and opened the envelope.

 ‘Thy kingdom come,’ It was from the hospital. He scanned it as he walked back into the hall.  Deepest apologies.... mix up with test results...tumour benign...surgery possible...every hope of a favourable outcome... appointment on the 22^nd …

‘Thy will be done…’

Mr Plowman sat down on the bottom stair, his thoughts uncharacteristically confused and his plan of action temporarily derailed. He looked up at the noose dangling down from the attic. He re-read the letter carefully, twice, trying to make sense of it. The truth at last began to sink in. There was no doubt about it. He had been granted a reprieve. A rare thing in his line of work, but a reprieve, nonetheless.

‘Thy will be done….’ he repeated, as he heard the church clock at the end of the street begin to strike. Nine o'clock. In any case, the hour had passed. Too late, now, to carry out his plan.

No point finishing his prayer either.  He stood up. And no point hanging about – there was a lot to do. He began making a mental list.  Retrieve the envelopes from the kitchen table. Put his will safely away. Dispose of his suicide note. Re-write his letter to the home office accepting the forthcoming job – he’d enjoy that – and post it. Go out and pay the gas bill. Do some shopping – he’d allowed the larder to become almost bare. And then he’d have to think about replacing the missing bannister, and repairing the loft hatch. And tidy up in the loft.

On second thoughts, no need to rush things. The loft could wait. The hospital had got it wrong once - what if they had got it wrong again? Might be better to keep his options open, be prepared for all eventualities. After all, in his experience, reprieves were rare, usually temporary, and just based on some technicality.