D Dugan - Bloodhouse

For decades after the British took possession of Australia in 1788, the land at the southern end of the earth was little more than a dump for criminals and hungry and poor men, women and children from Britain and conquered Ireland, Canada and New Zealand. Also deported were political malcontents, plus 92 heroes of the American Patriot Army.

This book shows that the brutal penal system of colonial Australia was not dead when I was incarcerated. Of course, many of my jail keepers were fine and fair-minded. Others were no better, probably worse, than their sadistic forebears.

Men and women who break the law should, of course, be punished. But not systematically tortured. My guts churn at memories of Grafton jail that hell on earth.

You can judge me here for yourself. If you know a young Alec who reckons its smart to flaunt the good laws of society, you can scare the hell out of him or her by recounting what happened to this Alec.

Darcy Dugan

In his late 40s, when he wrote this book with my help, safe-cracker, robber and cat burglar Darcy Dugan had spent most of his life in reformatories and jails. He spent 11 harrowing years longer than any other prisoner in Grafton jail, the Bloodhouse, Australias most horrid institution.

Darcy very nearly pulled off at Grafton what would have been the bloodiest mass break-out in Australias penal history. He escaped from custody six times and narrowly missed breaking out five times. For daring and brilliance in execution, his jailbreaks are unparalleled. On his way to a court appearance, under heavy guard, he managed to saw a hole through the top of a moving prison tram (which is now a star attraction at the Sydney Tramway Museum at Loftus) and escaped onto the streets of Sydney. He once spent only 25 minutes in Sydneys Long Bay jail before bursting through a ceiling and a roof and leaping over the wall, in daylight, only 30 yards from an armed guard.

He deserved most of his jail sentences. Not, though, the months of black and solitary confinement and flogging that, day by day, turned him and other prisoners into blood-lusting animals.

Yet this tale is told with surprising humour, insight, objectivity and eloquence plus a burning passion to curb corruption in the police force and politics. After relating his life story to me, Darcy was set up by the Mr Big of Australian crime and the police and was imprisoned again to stop his public and accurate accusations of corruption by police and politicians.

Fearing what Mr Big and the police on his payroll would do if revelations in this book became public, the Houdini of crime urged me to suppress it until he and his enemies were dead. One threatening former policeman still lives, but rather than wait for his demise, his name has been deleted.

Michael Tatlow

I sentence you, Darcy Ezekiel Dugan, and you, William Cecil Mears, to be taken to the place from which you have come and, at a date to be set, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.

The sonorous words from Mr Justice Herron two days earlier in the hushed Supreme Court, in Sydney, pounded in my mind. You bastard, Herron. You judicial bastard. And you, you screws and cops here. Gloating over us! Youll get pissed celebrating this tonight.

From the Catholic convent a mile away, the sombre ringing of a solitary bell wafted over the grey walls of the state penitentiary at Long Bay, an awful hours trip from inner Sydney. I was in the jails Observation Section, the maximum-security wing Sydneys death row.

Is it me for whom that bell tolls? Nah, its calling them to evening Mass.

The cells naked globe in the ceiling glared down on me. Would they ever turn that damn light off?

Darcy. Hey, Darcy! It was Billy Mears again, calling from his cell three doors along the row.

God, is this happening to me? That long, grey beam was waiting in the next building. They hanged men from that beam. I had seen it a hundred times in the past few years. Now I was waiting for its rope to wrench my head from my shoulders when the trap door snapped open.

Waiting. All of us who were condemned; those callous screws outside the cell; the priest; the police; Dick, my pop; my mother and brother, Tom. The hangman.

I pondered on the condition of Leslie Nalder. The bank manager was fighting for his life in some hospital bed, a .38 slug from Mearss Webley revolver embedded beside his heart. It was his legacy from our abortive bank hold-up.

And June was waiting maybe fretting about me. What was she doing now?

Darcy! You awake, Darcy?

Mears. He was advertising his terror before those screws, his hoarse, high-pitched voice pleading.

I put my feet on the housing to the left of the steel-plated door and levered myself up so my head was against the thick ventilation grille leading to the corridor.

Of course Im awake. What do you want this time?

Ah, how are you? He sounded relieved. The poor wretch just wanted someone to talk to.

Im all right.

He asked, Have you heard anything?

No, of course not. I dont know any more than you.

Do you think well die?

I did not reply. If Nalder died, the chance of a reprieve was a lot slimmer. I didnt want to think about it.

Hey, Darcy. Are you there?

Heck, where else would I be? Look, mate, how the hell do I know? If he dies, these bastards here will tell us soon enough.

The two screws sniggered. Hah. The pair of yous are gunna swing, anyway, said one of them, a big and balding brute. Youre all over the front of the papers. And weve got ya this time. You specially, fucken Dugan.

People are betting on whether you hang. And my doughs on them gallows. Ill sure be in there to see you take the drop.

My neck jerked as I leapt from the housing. I could not see my harasser through the slits of thick glass embedded in the door.

You bastards! I yelled.

They sniggered again.

The other screw shouted, You shuddup, Dugan, or well go in there and kick your bloody face in. His boots would be itching for action.

I paced the cell twelve feet by seven. The church bell donged on. Control that ego, boy.

Billy had taken fright during the bank hold-up and had shot the scared bank manager. But the laws of this land said that, even though I didnt shoot, as his accomplice I was equally guilty of attempted murder. Which might soon become murder.

Hey, Darcy! Billy was back at his grille. What if the Liberals get in?

I empathised with his panic but did not want to hear his voice again that night. I jumped back on the housing. Then well bloody well hang!

A screw kicked the door. One more noise from you and well be in there, swinging, Dugan.

I lay on the coir mat that was my bed. The New South Wales general election the previous day Saturday, 17 June 1950 would determine who governed the state for the next three years.

The Australian Labor Party had governed for the last term. And ALP policy was to commute death sentences to life imprisonment. The screws had cheerfully told me, however, that early vote counting showed a big swing to the Liberal Party, which carried out executions.

If the Liberals governed, we would surely swing, regardless of whether Nalder died.

If not hanged, I would go up the coast to the Grafton jail, Australias hell. The Bloodhouse. Many considered it the most brutal penal establishment in the civilised world. Strong words? Later, you will find out why it had that reputation.