The Devil's Neckinger
Confession time.
I'm not entirely convinced I'd make a good hangman.
Here's a short extract from Pilgrimage that explains why...
Our path leads us to St Saviour’s Dock and the ominously named Devil’s Neckinger, a historic gallows where pirates were executed until sometime in the 18th century. It is located where the River Neckinger enters the Thames and is believed to have got its name from the term ‘Devil’s neckcloth’… a hangman’s noose. For reasons that worry me profoundly, I find myself salivating at the thought of attending a hanging – or even being the hangman.
The mist rises from the murky waters as I stand alone in my quarters. My hands are trembling slightly as I prepare for the grim task ahead. The weight of duty hangs heavy. I take a deep breath, inhaling the damp air. The stench of the river mingles with the tang of fear. I close my eyes, steeling myself against the flood of memories - faces frozen in terror, final pleas for mercy, the sickening crack of breaking necks.
I don my uniform, each button a reminder of the lives I've ended. Slowly, so slowly, I make my way through the prison's winding corridors. I think of the man waiting in the condemned cell, wondering if he sleeps or whether such glorious luxury has deserted him for what remaining time he has left.
But there's no room for sentiment. Entering the cell I get to work, becoming swift, efficient. I secure the prisoner's arms with a leather strap. We walk the short distance to the gallows, place the hood over the prisoner's head and adjust the noose. Today has drawn a large crowd. Some families have come early to the hanging to get the best seats. They have sandwiches for a day’s picnic. Others throng the sides of the river, and the kids push their way to the front. I step back and my hands hover over the lever.
In this moment, I am death writ large. The lever is puled. The trapdoor opens. The rope snaps taut. The kids at the front jump up and down in demonic ecstasy, and in the cheering that follows, I stand silent and motionless, my face an impassive mask. Behind my eyes, ghosts multiply, as the Devil's Neckinger claims another soul.
Pam is reading the notes on the information plinth. ‘Life was brutal back in those days,’ she says. I nearly say ‘Yes, I was,’ but resist the urge. Still, I am deeply worried about how easily I can empathise with a man who kills people for a living. This is meant to be a pleasant walk by the river, but history shows we can all fall prey to the darker side of our nature. And I am sure I would have made a terrible hangman.