Once a Jolly Hangman (5 page)

From then on I would always instinctively look up whenever I approached the front door of any potentially reticent quarry. In this case there was no window above the front door to worry about. But there were at least a dozen Darshan Singhs in the records I found with addresses from one end of the island to the other. I muttered to myself, coining a new phrase, it would be like finding a Singh in Singapore or a Smith in England. It also occurred to me that none of the addresses I found could possibly be the home of the hangman simply for security reasons alone. Such a man in such a job might be advised not to have such an easily accessible address. If I could find it, so
could many others less well-intentioned. Being such a potentially vulnerable public servant he might well have been provided with a government security flat close to the prison and well protected by his armed colleagues on and off duty
.

Hangmen are not the most beloved creatures in any society and there is always the risk of a grieving, maddened relative exacting some form of retribution on them. I also recalled stories about Britain's most famous hangman Albert Pierrepoint having a police escort whenever he turned up at a prison to carry out an execution. Sometimes he was armed with a hidden revolver just in case things got out of hand especially when he went to Germany to hang a Nazi war criminal. There were always angry scenes at the prison gates as infuriated campaigners gathered to protest at the latest killing. So I took pot luck, using my lucky number and stuck a proverbial pin in the seventh 'Darshan Singh' in the list and made the Woodlands address my first port of call.

I knew also that trying to interview Singapore's hangman would bring me into conflict with Singapore's Official Secrets Act. Many years
earlier I tried to interview Britain's last executioner, Harry Allen, who ran a pub near Manchester at a time when abolitionists were finally getting the upper hand. Change was coming. Allen knew his days were numbered, too. Genial pub host though he was, he always refused to talk about his 'other job' adhering to the Official Secrets Act which, by that time, had been torn to shreds by his predecessor Albert Pierrepoint who had resigned in the early 1950s. Pierrepoint had become the enfant terrible of the British establishment. He not only revealed the horrors of the gallows but gave evidence at the Royal Commission which helped put an end to the death penalty in Britain for good. Hoping he would eventually change his mind, I would often call in for a pint and a chat whenever I was passing on my way to or from the Daily Express in Manchester where I was a staff reporter. But, unlike Pierrepoint, Allen's lips were always sealed on that subject.

That was also a long time ago, in another century. And I was a long way from Manchester. Now I was in Singapore, standing outside my quarry's home, praying that not only did I have the right man but also this one would be prepared to talk! Memories of Harry Allen's discreet silence did not help my confidence. And I knew that executions and the executioner had always been shrouded in mystery in Singapore, protected by an Official Secrets Act, just as they once were in Britain. I prayed a little harder. There was another jangle of keys as two locks clicked and the heavy, polished wooden door opened. A large stocky man appeared behind the ominous bars of the wrought iron security gate, the kind you would find in any decent jail. The first thing I noticed were his large shining, dark eyes and large round face. Kian Yan was holding a camera just below her waist. I'd instructed her that if he at least opened the door, confirmed who he was but refused to let us in or talk, to snatch a few shots. Then run! As we say in the newspaper business, a picture is worth a thousand words! 'Yes?', he inquired. 'Excuse me', I said. 'I'm looking for a Mr. Darshan Singh ... but I'm not sure if I've come to the right address. Is your name Darshan Singh?' 'Yes'. 'There are at least a dozen Darshan Singhs in the records'. I said, 'So I might still have come to the wrong address. The gentleman I'm looking for used to be an officer at Changi Prison'. 'That's me', he replied, 'I'm retired now'. 'But you still work there occasionally in another ... er ... capacity, don't you?' I added, affecting nervous hesitation. 'Er ...

some ... er ... Friday mornings?' A slight smile creased his weathered face. 'Yes'. It made me feel more confident. 'It's a very special job, isn't it?' 'Yes'. And you have another very special job soon involving an Australian citizen, Nguyen Van Tuong?'

The imminent execution of Nguyen was beginning to give fresh voice to anti-death penalty campaigners in Australia, which had long abolished capital punishment, and around the world. Given the history of the executions of Kevin Barlow and Brian Chambers in Malaysia when the Australian Labor Party was in power, I knew it could also threaten a major diplomatic rift with Singapore. A frank interview with his executioner would be sensational. As I stood on the hangman's doorstep, time was running out for Nguyen. Would he soon become another dead man walking? Getting an interview with this man at any time seemed like mission impossible. And I knew it would not please the powers that be in Singapore. 'He won't talk', advised a local friend. 'Don't waste your time. And be careful. This is Singapore!' But I was determined to get to know the man who was to hang Nguyen. It would not only make a good and timely story but also history - as the first journalist to help break a most sacred Official Secrets Act concerning the death penalty. I wanted to expose some of the ghastly secrets of the gallows - the kind of secrets Singapore's leaders are so proud of, revere, put so much faith in but don't want anyone else to know about. Capital punishment in the tiny island state had for far too long been shrouded in this kind of secrecy and discussion on the subject completely discouraged. It was time something was done about it in as dramatic a way as possible, I thought to myself. Could I be the one to expose the un-exposable? It would not be the first time I had rattled a few cages in high places with an equally embarrassing expose. Knowing sensitive government jobs anywhere in the world usually come with punishable laws, I was only too aware that this was going to be a formidable if not impossible task. 'You could get two years behind bars', warned my journalist friend. 'He might shop you to the authorities and have you arrested'.

I knew all that. But being trained in journalism in the 'publish and be damned' way, I was determined to go ahead come what may. I did once venture to enquire from an official at the Home Affairs Ministry about the pending execution of Nguyen. The standard email response
was always: 'We have a general policy not to give any information on the death penalty or the condemned'. So no one ever knows for sure who or when someone is about to be strung up and killed in this barbaric way. There are never the kind of angry, noisy protests outside Changi Prison like there used to be outside British prisons by banner- waving human rights campaigners whenever an execution was about to take place. These were the kind of people who stirred the consciences of all Britons until the death penalty was finally abolished in 1965. Such activism is severely discouraged in Singapore and the penalties for overstepping the mark can be dire. A gathering of more than four people to protest anything without permission always lands the perpetrators in court and a fine, or worse, jail, as many brave human rights activists have learned and are still learning to their discomfort and peril.

Now I was standing on the doorstep of the world's most secret and arguably most prolific hangman in history in one the most ominously secretive countries on earth. Was
I on the verge of obtaining yet another major scoop? There have been many over the years and I knew an interview with Singapore's mystery hangman could be the story of the year for the Australian and world media. The timing was perfect. It was bound to become a major topic of television and radio talk shows and help trigger a much wider anti-death penalty campaign that would echo around the world. Nguyen suddenly ceased being just 'another Viet boy dealing smack' in the eyes of many Australians. It's what freedom of the press is all about, I always say, no matter how unpalatable such revelations might be to those with politically sensitive palates or who are more comfortable with the status quo and the peons left in sublime ignorance. It was this kind of revelation that finally led to the abolition of the death penalty in many countries, especially my own, Britain. Australia had also long abolished it as being potentially unjust and belonging to a long-forgotten, barbaric age. It also put the spotlight on Singapore's legal system which many observers inside and outside the country believe has been perverted to suit political and economic expediency. 'Yes', replied Singh, 'I will be hanging Nguyen Van Tuong very soon'.

This statement seemed to me to be a little premature. The President of Singapore had not even received a promised appeal from prime
minister John Howard in Canberra. Darshan Singh, it seemed, was certain Nguyen would not get one. He knew the ropes, as he was later to say with a grin. At least he was responding to my questions. But I still hadn't properly introduced myself. It might not be this easy, and I continued with my well-rehearsed little speech. 'I'm a freelance journalist based here in Singapore', I said. 'I would like to talk to you about Nguyen's execution'. He smiled again and without hesitation unlocked the iron security gate and ushered us inside. 'Come in', he said with a smile. I shot a glance at Kian Yan as if to say, 'I can't believe this is happening...'. Not only had I found this proverbial needle in a haystack, he was prepared to talk - and with gracious hospitality! 'What would you like to drink?', he asked. He had a good selection of beers and I could see his drinks cabinet across the living room was well-stocked with wines and spirits including Chivas Regal, his favourite whiskey he told me later. I settled for a glass of Guinness and he disappeared to the kitchen. Several minutes later, as I sipped the nicely chilled beer through the full head of white foam and we began talking, a nagging feeling came over me: all this friendliness and hospitality might be too good to be true! Had he called the Internal Security Department or the prison governor on the pretext of providing the drinks and get me arrested? No sign of anything untoward at that moment! But a knock at the door or the blare of a police siren could still come at any time.

I cast these thoughts to the back of my mind. The Guinness was going down nicely. They couldn't hang me, or even cane me for that, I joked to myself. But they could jail me for a few weeks or months or a year or so with a heavy fine. I knew it was an offence under the Official Secrets Act that I should not be doing what I was doing. This was Singapore.

He sat in the armchair opposite me, now with a quizzical look on his face. He wanted to know how I managed to find out who he was and where he lived. 'Finding your name was the hardest part', I said. 'I found some public records but there were at least a dozen Darshan Singhs in the list'.

'I took pot luck, chose the seventh on the list and decided to come here first. It also happens to be the nearest to where I live'. "Then this is your lucky day', he said with a laugh. It did not take much prompting for him to start going down memory lane, how he first came to
Singapore from Kuala Lumpur in 1957. Malaya was in the last days of British rule and Singapore was not then separate and independent. The entire region was threatening more turmoil and still another eight years before complete independence finally came for the city state. He had just graduated from college. Jobs were scarce amid the tension of Malaya's struggle for independence and the young Darshan Singh decided to travel south where opportunities were greater and the situation a little more promising. Looking through the jobs columns in The Straits Times, he saw an advertisement for young men and women to join the British Colonial Service and become officers in Changi Prison. He was accepted immediately and, after a short training course, he was soon watching over and supervising dozens of prisoners on his block.

Darshan Singh had just turned 24 with a stout build and powerful arms. He was an impressive-looking young man who commanded authority. His physique also gave him a natural ability to wield a cricket bat - much to the chagrin of many a good bowler. Cricket was and still is one of his loves and back then his prowess made him a top scorer playing for Singapore Cricket Club against British Army and Royal Air Force teams. Such prowess singled him out for a very lucrative sideline career within the prison walls. He became a member of the 20-man team of fierce, rattan-wielding caners whose skill at inflicting maximum pain on the unfortunate bare buttocks of those convicted of serious offences was legendary Their tortured screams as flesh flew could be heard all over the prison. Some say all over Singapore. I'd already heard personal accounts of what goes on between the floggers and their victims. They are always well-built, muscular Indian or Malay men trained in martial arts. Not only are they taught to inflict great pain but ensure that each stroke of the rattan cane lands roughly on the same spot. This ensures a deep, lasting scar they will never forget.

Capital punishment was also a part of the colonial regime. The chief hangman at this time was a B. Seymour whom Singh described as an 'English gentleman' and who was anxious to retire to become a partner in a chicken farm in Johor. So Seymour began looking around for an understudy to 'learn the ropes'. This is one of his jokes and he constantly peppers his conversation with his own personal brand of gallows humour, always breaking into guffaws of laughter as though
he was hearing each one for the first time! An enthusiastic, strict disciplinarian like his father who believed in the 'sparing the rod and spoiling the child' way of thinking inspired during Queen Victoria's reign, Darshan Singh seemed an obvious choice for the caning team and, when approached by Seymour to see if he would like to take over his job and hang people, he agreed without hesitation. It also meant extra money Bonuses were paid on a per head basis. Each hanging brought in around $30 per head in those days. A member of the caning team, Darshan Singh was able to boost his earnings at the rate of 50 cents per stroke and this official moonlighting provided some useful extra money. When he became Chief Hangman in 1959 he was one of the highest paid prison officers. Business on the gallows was brisk. He was only 26. Singh had also just married a young Muslim woman
slightly younger than himself. She had no idea what his other duties were inside Changi, other than that he was a prison officer. His other title, chief executioner, was the only secret he kept from her. He had, after all, signed the Official Secrets Act and did not feel guilty about not telling her. He could tell no one. Although he refused to talk to anyone about what he did, she finally discovered that every time he left home almost every Friday at around 2.30 a.m. it was to kill someone. Horrified, she left him. Darshan Singh refused to discuss that episode in his life, but one of his friend's told me in confidence that not only was she appalled at the idea that her young husband killed people on behalf of the state she did not believe in Singapore's death penalty laws.