Unanswered

The last judicial execution in Australia was of 41-year-old Ronald Ryan in 1967.

He looked like death a day too early. There was still twenty-four hours until Ronald Ryan’s date with the hangman, and already his skin had a grey corpse-like quality. His eyes were ringed so dark they looked bruised. Perhaps they were? Lord knows what sort of treatment he’d been receiving in this horrible place.

Did he deserve it?

I tried to ignore the irksome crawl that his sunken eyes and sallow skin sent skimming down my spine. I’d been giving the prisoners over in A-division their pre-court-date haircuts for almost a year now, but this was my first time dealing with a death-row inmate. I hoped it would be the last.

A guard stood watch at the door while Ryan shuffled his way into the room. Heavy iron shackles hindered his feet and weighed down his hands, making the process of crossing the small room slow and tedious. The chains clinked loudly on the grimy floor tiles of the H-division shower room. The tiles, which may have once been white, had now turned an unsavoury shade of green-brown. Closing my eyes, I tried instead to picture my immaculate Barbershop; the clean benchtops, large shiny mirrors, the soft leather adjustable chair - but even if I could tune out the grating sound of the chains, my imagination couldn’t thwart the sickly reek of damp air and stale piss.

Instead of the adjustable leather chair, I was reduced to stacking two grey plastic chairs on top of each other to get the height I needed. Instead of the large shiny mirrors on the wall, I had to bring my own small mirror. And for a bench I had a small folding card table set up in the corner of the room, six feet from where the chairs sat, keeping my handheld mirror and other barbering tools out of Ryan’s reach.

Would he want to hurt me?

He didn’t look like a violent man, merely a weary one. He met my eyes with a small lopsided smile that brightened his features ever so slightly.

“Howya doin mate?” he greeted with a nod. I found myself smiling and nodding back, good manners and ingrained customer service habits overriding my uncertainty.

“Please take a seat Mr Ryan” I said, gesturing to the chairs.

“Call me Ronnie” he replied before taking his place, the clatter of his chains reverberating around the room as he hopped up onto the stacked chairs.

“John” I returned. Despite Ryan’s friendly demeanor, I couldn’t meet his eyes. Fear, instilled from the countless newspaper articles, and nightly news reports detailing his crimes kept my eyes firmly glued to my task of securing the cape around his collar. I even hid my face with the mirror while I stood in front of him, offering Ryan a chance to see his reflection before we began.

“Jesus!” I heard him gasp.

Does he still see a good man in that reflection?

“How would you like it?” I asked, still hiding behind the mirror. When he didn’t answer I finally lowered it and looked into the pale blue of his eyes. They didn’t seem to focus for a while, and the smile he’d held since greeting me had slipped. His lips, already thin to begin with, disappeared entirely as they tensed in a grim expression.

“Ronnie?” I queried cautiously. Upon hearing his name he seemed to recover. A quick shake of his head and his roguish smile returned, although it no longer reached his eyes.

“Yeah, sorry Johnno, just a quick shave and trim around the sides ay? Got the Missus coming to visit later thisarvo."

Could she still love a criminal like him?

“Of course.”

For any of my usual customers I would use the titbit about his wife to start up a conversation. Ask if he had any kids, and what he did for a living. It seemed a moot point in this situation. The 7 o’clock news had already gone into great detail about his family life and criminal history as it followed the escape, the trial, and the appeals over the last year. So I remained silent and went to work.

It was a sweltering February morning, and the small bathroom offered little ventilation. The only windows in the room were small and barred shut, sealing in the heat and adding sweat to the existing pungency of the room. Perspiration trickled down my neck and brow as I stooped to plug in my clippers. My palms were slippery and I had to wipe them each twice on my coat before I could begin. Ryan’s neck too dripped with sweat, his hair wet with it. The sodden and oily locks tumbled to the floor as my clippers did their work around his neck and ears, their electric buzz the only sound in the room.

“Some heat we’ve had this week huh?” Ryan asked, and I was grateful for the distraction of small talk.

“Yes, it has been a scorching summer so far. But I heard we’re to expect storms later this wee…” I stopped short; realising that the man I was talking to was unlikely to live to see those storms.

Was he scared to die?

I quickly recovered by asking which way he parts his hair? He replied the left. If he’d been offended by my faux pas he showed no sign of it, instead, he smoothly continued the conversation asking about where I learned my trade. As my fingers gathered and combed his thick black hair, snipping away the split and ragged ends, I told him about my shop not far away on Gilbert Rd, and how it had been in my family for three generations. He listened attentively, asking more questions about the business and my family. It became easier to share, Ryan seemed amiable enough and with his chains and prison uniform hidden by the black cape it was almost possible to forget that he was a convicted criminal. That was until the guard standing watch in the doorway snickered at a joke Ryan made about quaffs. The fantasy of normalcy shattered, and I was once again all too aware of where I was.

Doing the straight shave was harder. Without my reclinable chair, Ryan had to hold his head back with nothing to rest on. My eyes lingered on his Adam’s apple bobbing in his stretched and exposed neck.

Will it hurt to die by hanging?

I lathered the soap onto my brush and spread it across his cheeks and neck. Normally I’d have prepared his pores with a hot towel first, but the showers here only ran cold. Despite its pallor, his skin looked like a man who had lived. There was a roughness about it that spoke to a life working under the harsh Australian sun. Every stroke of the straight razor revealed another small scar or laugh line around his mouth and jowls, and there had to be at least one interesting story about why the bridge of his nose sat at such a peculiar angle.

Did he regret the life he had lived?

When I was done, I used a dry towel to wipe away the excess soap. With the mess cleaned away, I noticed a few spots I had missed, and I lathered up his face once again. The guard in the doorway cleared his throat loudly, and I looked up to see him nod towards his wristwatch. I nodded back but continued lathering. The hangman might not care if his shave was patchy, but I did. Pulling at his skin with one hand, and skimming the razor with the other I took pride in hearing the haggard hair scratch away swipe after swipe. When I cleaned away the excess this time, I was much happier with the result. Every man deserved to meet his maker with a clean face.

Did Ronnie believe in heaven?

I used a dry powdered brush to sweep the hair from his collar and unclipped the cape. This time when I held up the mirror, I watched his reaction. It was difficult to discern what he was thinking. He certainly looked more revitalised than when he had walked in. Yet his eyes looked distant and sad. His shackled hands reached out for the mirror, and despite the warnings I’d been given, I released it to him. We stood there for a few moments, sweating in somber silence. Ryan stared into his reflection, and I stared at him. When the guard began clearing his throat again but louder this time, I knew our time was up. I took the mirror from Ryan with one hand, while the other reached out to gently pat his shoulder. This was the only comfort I could offer him. No words seemed appropriate.

Outside the looming bluestone walls of Her Majesty’s Prison Pentridge, I paused and took a deep breath. It was still a hot day, but out here a light breeze tamed the stifling heat. Around me, there were hundreds of protestors waving pickets towards the jail. Most were just opposed to capital punishment, but some signs still proclaimed Ryan’s innocence.

Did he actually do it?

My feet dragged as I walked back to my car. My heart was heavy and my brain dizzy with unanswered questions. The loudest of which was…

Do the answers really matter?

At 8 am on the 3rd of February 1967, Ronald Ryan hung by his neck until dead.