When
Gerard Tuite escaped in 1980 from Brixton prison
it was a fillip for morale in the H Blocks. Seven
men had passed the fifty-day stage of their hunger
strike for political status and an end of some sort
was imminent. Although Tuite was accompanied on
the escape by two other remand prisoners, for the
population of the H-Blocks Tuite's was the only
name we cared for. He was the sole IRA escapee.
The names of the other two men meant absolutely
nothing to us. So concerned were we in the contentious
crucible of the prison to assert our distinctive
political motivation some in our number even wondered
what Tuite was doing escaping alongside hoods. Most
just envied him and hoped he would evade the security
dragnet that would inevitably seek to pull him back
inside.
The
events of Brixton Prison in December 1980 had long
since slipped my mind. Then a book, Moody, arrived
at the house for review purposes. I let a friend
have it for a while; a former republican prisoner who
had been on blanket protest at the time of the Gerard
Tuite escape. On returning it he explained
that Jimmy Moody was the guy who had escaped with
Tuite and had since been killed. All news
to me. I may not have read the book at all only
the friend told me that its author alleged that
Moody, after the Brixton escape, may have carried
out a couple of operations for the IRA. Worth a
browse for that alone.
After
the first few pages I sensed I was being pulled
into the grip of the book, reading over 100 pages
on a single bus journey. It is so well written that
the mind glides effortlessly from page to page.
So immersed was I in the narrative that at one point
I arrived in Armagh bus station to change buses
and but for a call from the driver would not have
made the transfer successfully.
Easy
but unsettling reading. Jimmy Moody was a callous
hit man and was not averse to torturing some of
his victims. Wensley Clarkson takes his readers
into 1960s London where the Krays and Richardsons
were involved in vicious gangland feuding. Moody
threw his lot in with the Richardsons who went on
to grab the media headlines as a result of being
hauled before the courts to face accusations of
torture.
Clarkson
does not ease up in his depiction of Moody as a
ruthless London gangster. But he does try to capture
the multiple dimensions that made up his personality.
In a rather hybrid construction the character that
is narrated to us through Clarkson is a sociopath
with a human face. His utter heartlessness in murdering
people he never knew in return for payment sits
cheek by jowl with the grandchild-adoring cuddly
grandpa bear.
From
‘pavement artist’ to blagger (gangland
colloquialisms for certain types of crime) to hit
man, Moody never rested as he pursued the ‘big
one’ – the pot of gold at the end of the
rainbow that would allow him to retire in comfort
for the rest of his life. But it was never going
to work out that way. The ‘buzz’ the gangsters
got from their activities became as much a sought after
objective as the booty. At one point Moody and a friend are sitting
in a small boat observing the QE2 while they plan
how to go about robbing it. The more daring the challenge, the
greater the attraction.
Clarkson
is at his best in describing the activities of Moody
and his fellow gangsters when they were part of
the chainsaw gang that cut open security vans to
gain access to the cash supposedly safely ensconced within.
Much of what comes to light here has been gleaned from police
and court records. The sheer professionalism of the robbers, their
ingenious planning, and their military precision
jarred heavily with their post robbery behaviour.
Once the adrenalin buzz had evaporated the robbers
seemed to abandon caution. Many of them were eventually
caught with their money close at hand.
Where
the book seems particularly weak is in relation
to Moody’s supposed IRA career. Allegations that he
was a hit man with the organisations’ internal
security department require a suspension of the
reader’s critical faculties. The evidence is
little more than an allusion here, an unnamed security
source there. The IRA was hardly without its own
large supply of ‘OBE’ (one behind the
ear) practitioners that it had to rely on the services
of an English gangland hit man.
Over
twenty years ago I read a Carey Schofield book on
a French gangster, Mesrine. That I remember
the name of both book and author is evidence of
the traces it left on my mind. All being well two
decades from now, I think Moody and Wensley Clarkson
will form a word association that brings back memories
of a great read.
Moody
By Wensley Clarkson. Published by Mainstream. Price
£15.99
