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Thomas Parker’s mother doted on her little boy. This spoilt brat grew up to be a workshy, wife-beating drunk. And he repaid his parents by turning a shotgun on them.

Parker’s father survived with slight injuries. But his mother lingered for weeks with a festering head wound.

The year was 1864. Elizabeth Parker fell into a coma and died in April. Four months later, her son also met his maker — at the end of a rope in front of 10,000 citizens.

Thomas Parker was the last person to be hanged in public at Nottingham. This is his story.

The Six O'clock Knock© is a Psycho Killer production.

See our news article https://psycho-killer.co/psycho-killer-true-crime-podcast/news for photographs of the crime scene as it is today, contemporary court documents and the post mortem sketch prepared for the coroner.

With contributions from Emmaline Severn, a distant relative of Elizabeth Parker, and Paul Mann QC.

The traditional folk songs in this episode are performed by Catherine Earnshaw and Keith Clouston. 'The Quiet Joys of Brotherhood' is a traditional tune with lyrics by Richard and Mimi Fariña. 'Blue Bleezin’ Blind Drunk' is also traditional, with the last verse written by Linda Thompson. 'False, False' is a traditional Scottish song collected in 1962 by Ewan McColl and Peggy Seeger.

Transcript
[Music] This podcast contains descriptions of death and violence that some listeners may find upsetting we begin at the end [Music] a cool dry morning in august a Wednesday a 29 year old man in the prime of his life stands on a scaffold the roar from the crowd arrayed below engulfs him like flood water buffeting and deafening him with abuse [Music] for the first but not the last time today tom parker tilts his head back and gasps for air he is surrounded by a sea of faces so many it's impossible to count them all some are contorted in rage and scorn some are giddy with excitement others turn away afraid to look upon the condemned man's face out of respect or superstition but then there are those men just like him or like he used to be full of drink leering and braying as if revelling in a day at the races pressed in a doorway a youth and a maid steal an unlikely embrace her bare breast hidden only by her lover's needing hand their passion inflamed by the bloodlust of those thronged before them some have been here all night keen to take a prime spot from which to enjoy the day's grisly spectacle i am the resurrection and the life saith the lord he that believeth in me though he were dead yet shall he live the chaplains words are drowned out by another wave of impatient jeers a hush descends now though as the white hood is placed over the prisoner's head in the distance the barking of dogs and the striking of a clock it is eight o'clock parker's eyes are swimming his heart beating as though to break free from his rib cage a hot dark bloom spreads in his trousers betraying his terror [Music] those closest can see and smell his shame some hurl obscenities at him fanning the air melodramatically the dirty bastard shat himself i know that my redeemer liveth and that he shall stand on the latter day upon the earth parker mouths the verse almost in unison desperate to display his newly restored faith in the almighty the summer breeze fills the chaplain's surplus like a sail and snatches at the brittle leaves of the prayer book he had fretted that the expected rain would make the scaffold slick any slip up here would be greeted with a very public type of ridicule that he wished to avoid and though after my skin worms destroy this body parker shuts his eyes as the noose is slipped over his hooded head and tries to mouth the verse [Music] but a vision swims into view a familiar kindly face every detail is there from the carefully parted gray hair under the modest bonnet to the cameo brooch at her throat to his horror the vision distorts then revealing a bloated sightless eye and a skein of dried blood staining the pallid cheek man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery in tones the reverend howard he cometh up and he is cut down like a flower he flees as it were a shadow and never continueth in one stay parker screws up his eyes but still the apparition of his mother dances before him her lolling head now reveals a shaved pallid scalp peppered with birdshot he tries to scream but his tongue has swollen and his mouth fills once more with the brandy he'd sucked at breakfast in the midst of life we are in death the bolt is drawn with a terrible sound richard thomas parker dangles in agony on the scaffold his struggles lasting much longer than expected for a moment he imagines he is airborne gliding above the throng impervious to the sting of their insults their jeers finally silenced in ore but then the roar of the crowd crashes back in waves febrile animalistic they're chanting like peels of thunder an urgent response to the denial of the reverend's fervent prayers he died hard they will say thomas askin the executioner has a reputation for botched hangings parker convulses but the drop is too short to break his neck the noose draws tight the brass ring behind his ear trapping his last breath compressing the vagus nerve and in that instant as his consciousness evaporates he is briefly aware of an overpowering odor it is blood and pig shit and lilac blossom...

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