On the evening of Monday, 16 December 1963, I step through the inner gate of Bristol Prison and make for the officers’ mess. I have been on duty here for six weeks and it is my last shift. Russell Pascoe will hang in the morning, and then I will return to my home prison, Birmingham.

Twice a week I’ve been on night shift. Before I go in, the caterer, Mr Hughes – known as Teddy Bear – makes me supper. As I open the door to the mess I am met with voices and a burst of laughter. Six or seven uniformed men sit in the wooden hut drinking and smoking. Two whisky bottles, one badly wounded, stand on the table. Crates of beer wait their turn. Teddy Bear does the introductions.

“Harry, this is Robert Douglas. One of the lads sitting with him.” The company falls silent for a moment. Harry Allen rises, offers his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, son.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I shake hands with the public hangman, then his assistant.

“How has he been during the six weeks?” Allen asks.

“Hasn’t been any bother,” I reply.

The caterer serves me my meal and Allen goes back to holding the floor with anecdotes about his time working as assistant to Albert Pierrepoint, the doyen of British executioners. Both men were publicans as well as hangmen, but had very different personalities. The taciturn Pierrepoint never bragged about “the job”.

“When you were at Nuremberg,” I ask Allen, “did you give them six weeks in the condemned cell before you hanged them?”

“Did we hell – we’d still be there if we had,” he replies. “What most people don’t realise is there wasn’t just the major trial with Göring, Hess, Speer and the rest of ’em. There were a dozen or more courtrooms round the city. Trials non-stop for a year. Hundreds of the buggers. If they were sentenced to death their appeal was heard within an hour. If that went down they were hanged an hour or two after that. They built a scaffold in a gymnasium that could take four at a time so we’d hang them in batches.” He takes a sip of whisky. “We’d wait until we had a few, then we’d have a session. On one afternoon we did 27 in two hours 40.”

“Fuck me!” says someone.

“Aye, but it got worse,” Allen continues. “There were hangmen from each of the four powers: America, France, Britain and Russia. But a couple of the executioners the Yanks sent over were gas-chamber lads. Hadn’t a clue about hanging. They started by dropping them too far, were pulling the heads off them! Then they overcompensated so they weren’t dropping far enough and they were strangling. We had to take over their quota. Here in Britain we normally leave them hanging for an hour or so. Hadn’t time for that nicety. We’d do four, the doctor would immediately go under the scaffold, have a listen with his stethoscope. Then it was on to a trolley and away with them.”

Just before 10pm the officer I am paired with, Ken, comes in. It is time to see the prisoner. We make our farewells.

“See you shortly,” says Allen. I don’t realise at the time, but he means it.

The Bristol officer who will let us into the cell arrives – we aren’t issued with keys. We leave by the kitchen door. Just 20 yards away the condemned block looms, a dark mass in the night. The officer lets us into a narrow passageway and locks the door behind us. Another door faces us at the other end. Ken speaks to one of the officers.

“I’m not looking forward to this one, Ken.”

“Me neither,” he replies in his soft Devon accent. “What the hell are we gonna find to talk about?”

In the dock: Harry Allen at Madame Tussauds’ dock of Britain’s worst criminals – some of whom he was involved in executing. Photograph: Peter Price/REX Photograph: Peter Price/REX

Ken nods to our escort. The door is unlocked and we enter Bristol Prison’s condemned cell for the last time. As usual it is warm and stuffy. Russell Pascoe lies on his bed at the far end of the room. He doesn’t look up. Ken inclines his head in the direction of the passageway. He, and the senior of the two officers we are relieving, step into the passage for a moment.

“How’s he been?”

“He was all right when we came on at two, but later on he got his final knock-back. Been quite depressed since then.”

“Can’t blame the poor bastard.”

We don’t shake hands with the officers as they leave. Not in front of Pascoe. It would have been too stark a reminder as to why we were saying goodbye. The officers nod to him and then exit without a word. What could they have said?

They lock the door. Suddenly the silence is heavy. We take our hats off and unbutton our tunics. Over the past six weeks Ken and I have built up a good rapport with Russell. We are the nearest of the officers to him in age: Ken is in his early 30s, I am 24 – a year older than the prisoner. He has given the officers no trouble during his time here. Stockily built, with a round, pleasant face topped by black curly hair, he is sociable and laughs easily.

The first three weeks were especially easy. He had three avenues of appeal open to him. No way was he going to hang. You could bet on it. Then inexorably, as in a bad dream, one by one they all failed. After three weeks his appeal against conviction and sentence was heard at the Old Bailey. It was refused. Two days ago his petition to the Home Secretary to have the death sentence set aside and a life sentence imposed was rejected. This afternoon he was informed that his plea to the Queen for clemency was turned down. That was his last hope. He will hang in the morning.

Russell and his co-accused, Dennis Whitty, were sentenced to death for the murder of William Rowe, a Cornish farmer. Pascoe hit him with an iron bar then Whitty stabbed him. They escaped with just £4, missing the £3,000 hidden in the house. Pascoe admitted hitting the old man with the iron bar, but claims he didn’t know Whitty had a knife. In law, that is not a defence. Whitty will hang for the murder, Pascoe as an accessory. Whitty will die at the same hour, in Winchester Prison.

I look down the end of the bed and try to sound casual.

“Fancy a cuppa, Russell?”

“No thanks.”

“I’ve brought you a cream doughnut.”

He manages a smile. “Go on then.”

He’d had his 23rd birthday in the cell three weeks ago. I’d brought him a cream cake, and continued to bring one each day since. He lays down the book he hasn’t been reading and joins us at the table. Ken and I struggle to think of lightweight things to talk about. Up until last night it hasn’t been a problem. But last night isn’t tonight. A key rattles in the door. Ken takes his feet off the table and we both hurriedly button our tunics. The door opens and the governor enters, accompanied by another man. The three of us stand up.

“How are you, Pascoe?” asks the governor.

“All right, sir,” he replies. The other man suddenly steps towards the prisoner, thrusts his hand out.

“How do you do, son?”

“In a reflex action, Russell takes it. They shake. Ken and I glance at one another.

“I’m, eh, not so bad,” mumbles Russell, obviously thinking.

The governor and the man turn on their heels and leave. As the doors are locked Ken and I unbutton again and sit down, but the mood has changed. Russell sits quietly for a minute.

“Who were that with the governor?”

Ken and I know. I’ve just had supper with him in the mess. “I’m not sure,” Ken mutters, unconvincingly.

“I knows,” says Russell. “That were the fucking hangman weren’t it?”

I look at Ken. He shrugs.

“Aye, it was,” I say.

“I knew it. What’s he want to shake hands with me for?”

“It’s a thing Albert Pierrepoint used to do,” I say, and “Harry Allen has carried it on. Probably makes him feel better or something.”

“If I’d twigged I wouldn’t have took his hand. Fucker! Caught me on the hop!” He goes to the end of the cell and lies on his bed. A moment later he raises his head. “They weighed me this afternoon, you know. So they know how far to drop me.”

Ken and I can’t think of anything to say. Russell lies on the bed staring at the ceiling. Most of the six weeks in the cell have been spent playing cards, board games such as Monopoly and draughts, or simply reading and listening to the radio. In between times we’ve talked about anything and everything; tried to remember jokes to keep him amused. Whatever we can think of so as not to leave long, silent gaps. Try not to give him “thinking time” in which to reflect on his plight.

We hear the door opening again. The face of the duty officer appears. “Sorry lads. Pascoe’s brother and mate have come up from Cornwall. Should have been here this afternoon, but their scooter broke down three times. Under the circumstances, the governor’s going to let them have a visit.”

I take Russell to the visitors’ cubicle and sit him opposite the reinforced-glass window. Two young men enter. They look cold and tired. It is mid-December and they have been on the road for 12 hours. No doubt it’s a comfort to Russell that they are here, but their conversation is desultory. What can you talk about when your brother will be hanged in the morning? This is the last time you’ll see him. After 30 minutes the silences are becoming longer and more uncomfortable. Painful, almost, as the three of them struggle to think of something to say. I step in and put my hands on Russell’s shoulders. I want his brother to see that, even in here, he isn’t friendless.

“It’s up to you, Russell. But do you think it’s maybe time?”

He looks at his brother, who nods. All three stand and make their stilted, sad farewells through the glass, without a touch. I have a lump in my throat. Russell returns to his cell and lies there, silent.

At around midnight an officer comes in and gives him a strong sleeping draught. Soon he is fast asleep. It’s easier for the three of us.

At last, 7am and things begin to speed up. Two officers relieve me and Ken. The chief officer and a hospital officer also arrive. We will now have nothing more to do with Pascoe. As Ken and I leave I take a last glance down to the end of the cell. Russell is still in bed, but is he asleep? Or is he lying there trying to deny where he is and what’s about to happen? I can’t see his face, just the dark, curly hair and the form under the blankets. There is no point in disturbing him: we wouldn’t know what to say. We leave without saying goodbye. For the final hour of his life Russell will be surrounded by strangers.

Ken and I eat breakfast with Allen. He is less gregarious this morning. A tall, slim man in his late 50s with grey hair and a neat moustache, he has a distinguished air. In between “jobs” he is the landlord of the Woodman Inn, a pub in Manchester. During his 20 years, or more, as first assistant to Albert Pierrepoint, their vocation has taken them to some exotic destinations. Many colonies of the shrinking British Empire don’t have their own executioner. The two hangmen are often called out to Jamaica, the Bahamas, Cyprus, British Honduras.

The anti-hanging demonstrators always assume that the hangmen will arrive at a prison shortly before the execution, but Allen and his assistant spent the night in the officers’ mess.

I cannot rid myself of the contradictory feeling that somehow I’m letting Russell down by breakfasting with the men who are about to hang him.

“How was he last night?” asks Allen. We tell him. “Aye, I think this lad will go without any bother,” he says.

At around 7.50, Ken and I watch as the governor, lord lieutenant of the city and other officials file into the block. At three minutes to eight, Allen nudges his assistant. “Right, it’s us,” he says. He leaves a freshly lit cigarette in an ashtray and the two men tiptoe away.

Although I don’t see it I know what happens. With the arrival of the executioners the tempo increases. A procedure developed over centuries and perfected by Pierrepoint goes smoothly into action.

The condemned man, on Allen’s earlier instructions, is dressed in an open-necked, blue-striped prison shirt, grey trousers and grey felt slippers. At five to eight he is offered, and drinks, a large tot of whisky. Allen walks smartly over to Russell, who is sitting on a chair.

“Stand up,” he says firmly. The two officers who have spent the last hour with him take up position on either side of the condemned man. Allen looks Pascoe in the eye. “Do exactly as I say, son, and it will all be very quick and easy.” While Allen speaks his assistant goes behind Pascoe and, with a leather belt, secures his arms behind his back. The prison’s clock strikes the first of eight chimes.

“Right, straight through,” says Allen. The officers take an arm each and march him the 12ft from the condemned cell to the execution chamber. They stand on beams either side of the trap doors and hold on to braided ropes. The moment that Pascoe stops on the trapdoors, Allen’s assistant squats behind him and fastens a leather strap around his ankles. Allen puts a white hood and rope together over the condemned man’s head. He turns the rope so the knot is at the side of Pascoe’s neck, then takes up the slack. Wordlessly the hangman steps back, places a hand on the lever which operates the trap, and gives a signal to the officers, who release Pascoe’s arms.

For barely a second he stands on the trapdoors, bound, blindfolded, isolated. Inside the silent darkness of the hood, Pascoe knows it is about to happen. As the prison clock strikes its fifth chime, Allen pulls the lever. Without a sound Pascoe plummets 5ft and dies instantly as his neck is broken and the nerves from his spinal column to his brain are severed by the weight of his body. He is already dead as the prison clock strikes the three remaining chimes. From leaving the cell to dropping through the doors, 14 seconds have passed.

The hangmen return to the officers’ mess. The cigarette in the ashtray still burns. Allen picks it up, takes an appreciative draw. “Any tea on the go?” he asks, rubbing his hands.

“Was he any bother?” I ask.

“Nah, good as gold, Jock.”

I find this a comfort. I’d have hated to hear that Russell had been dragged, terrified, to his death.

As I’m about to leave, Allen gives me his business card: “Harry Allen. The Woodman Inn, Wood Street, Manchester.” I place it in the little pocket in my wallet, meant for such things.

Ken and I shake hands, we don’t say how we feel. We probably won’t see each other again.

I step out of Bristol Prison’s gates for the last time. It is not yet 9am. It’s a cold morning with a weak, wintry sun. For a moment I stand on the cobbled streets in front of the gate and watch people go about their business. The demonstrators have gone. Buses lumber past with passengers reading their morning papers. I don’t see anybody take as much as a glance at the prison. In the now silent, deserted block, Russell still hangs through the traps, the hood over his head.

In an hour or so the hangmen will return to the block and enter the cellar-like room underneath the trap doors. Taking their jackets off and donning rubber aprons, they will take Russell down and carry out their little-known task as undertakers. Stripping him naked they will lay him out, wash his body, and then wrap him in a shroud. Their final task is to place him in an inexpensive, plain coffin.

Sometime this evening, when the prison is locked up for the night, out of the sight of other inmates, the coffin will be filled with quicklime. Pascoe will be buried in a newly dug, unmarked grave within the prison’s walls.

Nine months later, on 13 August 1964, the last judicial hangings in Britain are carried out at Liverpool and Manchester prisons. In December 1965, the death penalty is finally abolished.