By D Dugan
′Mike, a lot, occasionally rot, has been written approximately me. Please carry this, my actual story, to edit and current to a brand new generation, after I and the crooks we′ve uncovered have grew to become to dust.′ Darcy Dugan Written in mystery in the course of his lengthy years in detention center and smuggled out to maintain it secure from his enemies till now, Bloodhouse is Darcy Dugan′s brutally sincere and gripping tale of his striking lifestyles and occasions. in the course of Dugan′s felony career, he pulled off numerous hold-ups however it was once his bold escapes that captured the public′s mind's eye and earned him the monicker of ′Houdini of the criminal system′. one in all his many recognized escapes happened below part an hour after arriving at lengthy Bay, one other after sawing a gap in a relocating legal tram, yet even Dugan couldn′t crack Grafton Jail, the notorious ′Bloodhouse′, the place he spent eleven torturous years. In all, Dugan...
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Additional resources for Bloodhouse
Out! ’ The perplexed man looked at her, then at the other women, who were scowling menacingly, and left. For me it was a sobering moment. The girls were genuinely outraged. Had that man insisted on remaining, they would have not waited for the bouncer to arrive. The homo would have been clawed, kicked and bitten to pieces. I had seen prostitutes fight men. A sane man who has been around does not lightly pick a fight with a seasoned Sydney prostitute. I was now, though, regularly accused in the Children’s Court of stealing.
Would they ever turn that damn light off? ‘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.
I would tenaciously stick at some adversary who lived nearby or went to the Christian Brothers school I attended, until I beat him. I was not a bully but I certainly had plenty of scraps, usually with older, bigger kids who were bullies to other kids of about my age. Sometimes my Irish maternal grandfather, Patrick O’Connor, who lived with us, would quietly call me aside. ’ Then the dear old gent would tell me about some kid who had been cheeky to him in the street. ‘Go teach him a lesson, lad,’ Grandad urged, pressing a shilling into my hand.