A Fatal Love — Reimagining the story of the last woman executed in Britain

It is Easter Sunday in 1955 and a young man lies face-down on the ground covered in blood. A woman, blonde and petite, stands over him with a gun in her hand. This is the story of Ruth Ellis as never told before. Here is an excerpt from A Fatal Love by Louisa Treger.

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Prologue

Easter Sunday, 1955

Ruth got out of the car and walked towards the Magdala, the gun in her hand heavy and cold. She could hear the grinding sounds of traffic, but they were muted, as though she were moving underwater. Through the rippled glass window of the pub she could see David at the bar with Clive, laughing and talking to the landlord, and a pain like cold steel went through her.

She paced back and forth outside the grand Victorian building, her thoughts racing as she moved from street lamp to street lamp. The patches of light seemed to swim towards her, dipping and swaying, and in one of the dark stretches in between, she imagined her son’s face watching her, as if waiting for her to act. The horror of what she was about to do rippled through her in waves. She stopped and waited in the shadows, completely still. 

At last the two men came out, jostling boisterously, their arms laden with beer bottles. The Vanguard was parked outside. Clive – his handsome features angular in the lamplight – walked to the passenger door and waited for David to unlock it. David fumbled in his pocket for the keys, balancing the bottles under his arm. Neither of them saw her standing nearby.

“David!” she called, as he extracted the keys.

He ignored her, though he must have heard. Her mind cleared, and all the times he had hurt her began to flash through it. The other women, the drunken rages – the kick to her stomach that had killed their baby. She stepped into the light of the street lamp and pointed the revolver at him. He swung around, eyes widening as he saw the gun. Sprinting around the back of the car, he ducked behind Clive, still clutching his beer and keys. He always was a coward, she thought, her fingers closing around the trigger.

“Get out of the way, Clive!” she shouted, but Clive stood frozen, his eyes bulging.

Ruth fired twice, the retorts vibrating through her, and for a moment her vision faltered. There was the sound of breaking glass as David dropped the bottles, but she could not tell if she had hit him or not. He turned away and ran down the hill. Ruth fired twice more and he fell forwards, his head on his arm. She stalked over to the convulsing body. Blood was coming from his mouth in bright spurts. He raised himself on his elbow, and managed to twist his head towards her. The pleading in his eyes sent a pang of love through her that was carnal, almost ferocious. She pushed the feeling down and fired the last shots into his back.

A small crowd had gathered, mouths open in shock, their expressions paralysed.

Clive rushed over and knelt beside David, cradling his head.

“What have you done, Ruth?” he shouted.

David gasped, his breathing ugly and wet. His body shuddered and went limp. He lay still now. It was done; there was no going back.

Silence reverberated around her. She brought the gun to her temple and pushed it underneath a lock of hair, feeling for the trigger. She was burning. She would die with the flames scorching through her because when they went out, nothing would be left but ash.

A moment passed, and another. She could feel her will to live rise, clashing against the desire to join him. Behind her closed eyes, sparks flew around her head.

Do it, she ordered herself, but the instinct to live was stronger.

Finally, she gave up and let the gun fall to the ground. It fired, the bullet ricocheting off the pavement. Somewhere, a woman screamed in pain.

Ruth turned to look at Clive.

“Phone the police,” she said quietly, and Clive ran. Next, a man walked slowly towards her.

“Phone the police,” she whispered to him too.

He picked up the gun. “I am the police.” He knelt beside the body and felt for his pulse. “He’s gone.”

A fever of shaking began in her legs and arms. She watched the foaming red mixture of blood and beer run down the hill. The sound of sirens filled the air. A car cruised onto the street, headlights carving through the darkness. She locked eyes with the driver. He smiled at her, before gathering speed and vanishing into the night.

Part One

Ruth, Easter Sunday Night, 1955

The night seemed endless, waiting in a cell at Hampstead Police Station. Ruth did not cry. She felt as if she, not David, had died. She sat motionless, her eyes drifting around the stark, narrow space that held a bench and a toilet in the corner. Through the high, barred window she could see a patch of black sky. There were voices in the corridor – a man shouting drunkenly. A door banged shut, cutting off the sounds. She waited and waited – for them to bring her something to drink, or haul her off to prison; she scarcely knew. At last, she heard the scrape of a key in the lock and the groan of the metal door opening.

A policewoman with a deeply lined face stood on the threshold. “You’re to come with me for questioning.” Her voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly.

Ruth hoisted herself to her feet. She felt light-headed and detached, as if she was only there in body. The woman led her down a corridor to a harshly lit room where three policemen sat around a table. 

“Hello, Mrs Ellis,” the oldest of them said, passing a hand quickly through his short, grey hair. ‘My name is Davies. This is Crawford and Gill.’ The men nodded at her and gestured for her to sit.

Crawford cleared his throat. “I’ve just seen the body of David Blakely at Hampstead Mortuary. I understand you know something about it.” He watched her with curious, mild brown eyes. “I have to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

“I am guilty,” she said decisively, then hesitated. “I am rather confused.”

“Tell us what happened.”

She nodded, moistening her lips. “It all started about two years ago when I met David Blakely at the Little Club, Knightsbridge. I was the manageress.”

Crawford raised a hand slightly to stop her. “We’re going to take a written statement.”

She nodded.

Gill, the youngest detective, prepared to take notes.

“My flat was above the club,” Ruth said. “I’d known him for about a fortnight when he moved in with me. He was there the whole time, except for a few weeks last year when he went to Le Mans for a motor race.” She still felt entirely disconnected from herself. The words kept coming, but in her mind’s eye she saw David’s blood spreading, spreading across the pavement.

“He came back when it was over and remained living with me until Easter Friday morning. He left about ten o’clock and promised to be back in the evening, but he never came. I waited all weekend for him. About eight o’clock this evening, I took a gun and put it in my handbag.”

Gill was making notes, writing down everything she said. When she reached the part about the gun, he looked up quickly. “How did you get it?”

“A man gave it to me about three years ago in a club – in exchange for a loan. I don’t remember the name.” She stammered a little, involuntarily.

“The club or the man, Mrs Ellis?” Davies asked.

A moment’s hesitation. “Both.”

Davies looked at her for a moment in silence. “You say the gun was security for money?”

“Yes.” She looked at her hands, crossed and clenched in her lap.

“Did you know it was loaded when it was given to you?”

“Not until the morning after, when I looked at it.”

Davies’ fingers drummed on the table. “When you put the gun in your bag today, what did you intend to do with it?”

She paused, then spoke with suddenness. “I intended to find David and shoot him.”

The men had grown very still. Davies shot her a sharp glance.

“Do you know what that comment implies?”

“It doesn’t imply anything, sir. It’s a statement of fact.” DM

A Fatal Love is published by Bloomsbury Publishing. It is available at a retail price of about R440.