Uncovering the Legend of Norrie McKillop

Hitman, Poet, Friend of the Krays... or Just a Brilliant Storyteller?

During my penniless adventure the length of Britain, which became my first book, Free Country, my friend Ben and I spent a night in Carlisle with a man named Norrie McKillop. He was by far the most memorable character we met on our trip, and the one I receive the most comments about (with the possible exception of Mrs Rogers 😂).

Norrie and I exchanged a few letters afterwards and then I heard in 2013 that he had died.

I posted this on Facebook in 2013:

This is 'Ronnie' the former hitman that Ben and I stayed with in Carlisle. His real name was Norrie McKillop, and I found out this morning that he died peacefully in a hospice a couple of years ago. I had been trying to track him down as the phone number that I had for him no longer worked. We had exchanged several letters after the trip but then lost touch, so I recently wrote again to his address and received a reply this morning from the current tenant notifying me that he had died.

Norrie was very pleased for me to take a photograph of him and he signed a release form agreeing that I could use his photo (and name) for any means. However, because of some of the stories that he told us, I decided to change his name (his was the only name in the book that I changed) and not to include his photo in the book, as it seemed like the most sensible option at the time. I know he would definitely want to be remembered as the enigmatic and unique character that he was, which is why I have now decided to include his name and photo.

Despite Ben and me only spending a few hours in his company, he was, without a doubt, one of the most fascinating, kind, generous, intelligent, humorous and undoubtedly terrifying people that we will ever meet. It was a real honour and privilege to have had the chance to spend time with him. Rest in peace, Norrie.

I always had a feeling that this wasn’t the end to the Norrie McKillop story.

Turns out, it was only just the beginning.

But before we dive in, I thought it would be helpful to share the extract from Free Country about our night with Norrie. I have also included the section from the audiobook (read by Kris Dyer) in the voiceover to this post. Trust me, you really didn’t want to hear my attempt at a Scottish accent.

Extract from Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

There were picnic tables outside the front of the pub, and a few groups of people were sat under parasols in the rain watching Manchester United play a Champions League game on a screen through the doorway. We surveyed the groups of people and decided on our plan of attack. We headed towards a group of lads who looked like students.

We asked if any of them would be willing to put us up for the night, but nobody was forthcoming. We tried the same approach at another table of guys who were too absorbed in the football to even acknowledge that we were speaking to them.

‘Yous can sleep at mah hoose,’ said a Scottish voice from the other end of the table. We turned to see a man in his early seventies, with tightly cropped grey hair, a badly rolled cigarette hanging from his mouth and a woollen jumper that looked like it had been knitted by someone with severe colour-blindness. His eyes were wild and piercing. They were magnified by a pair of badly sellotaped glasses that made him look genuinely terrifying. I doubt he had ever lost a staring competition in his life.

‘Really? Ok, great. Thanks. That’s very kind of you,’ I said, looking at Ben for some sign of acknowledgement.

‘Thanks, that’s really good of you. But we really don’t want to put you out,’ said Ben.

‘Aye, it’s nae bother. Yous both need somewhere to sleep. I have space. It's th' leest ah can dae. Nae bother,’ he said, knocking back the shot of whisky that sat next to his half-finished pint of Guinness.

‘But we might be a pair of serial killers,’ joked Ben.

‘That’s awe rite. I’m a serial killer tay,’ he said flashing us a glance that made Hannibal Lecter look like a teddy bear. He then burst out laughing and we laughed, too, although somewhat less convincingly.

‘The name is Mick. Here, go get yerselfs a wee drink,’ he said, handing over a £10 note.

‘That’s very generous of you, but we’re ok,’ I said.

‘C’mon ya pussies. I insist. Get me another pint, too.’

‘This is going to sound really stupid,’ I said, ‘but we’re on this challenge to cycle the length of the country without spending any money.’

‘Uh huh,’ said the man. ‘Aam askin’ you ta spend mah money.’

‘I know, I know, but part of the deal is that we’re not allowed to use money at all – even other people’s money.’

‘Ah for fuck sake,’ he said, grabbing the arm of a guy sat watching the football. ‘Go and get these wee lads a fecking drink. And one for me and yous, too.’ He fumbled in his pocket and handed the guy £20 instead.

The young student didn’t know what to say. He was just being ordered to go and buy drinks by a drunk Scottish man. You could see him weighing it up in his head, and then it suddenly clicked that he was getting a free drink.

‘Alright. What will it be then?’ he said.

‘Two pints of Guinness please,’ I said.

‘Ack, that’s more like it,’ said Mick. ‘Yous gotta stop being such southern nancies.’

What followed was, without exception, the strangest night of my life.

We sat talking to Mick on the bench outside Walkabout for another hour. During that time, he sent the young lad at the end of the bench to buy another round. It transpired that Mick had been an alcoholic for many years. He had managed to stay ‘dry’ for five months up until the day we met him. That morning he had been to the doctor to receive the results of some tests. He was told that the cancer that he was being treated for had spread throughout his body. Mick then arrived at Walkabout just as it was opening, and had been there ever since. Ten hours of solid drinking had caused his words to slur slightly, but it hadn’t hampered his energy or his memory.

‘Aam the greatest living English-speaking poet in th’ world today,’ he declared.

‘You’re a poet?’ I asked.

‘Ah huh.’

‘Cool,’ and before I even had a chance to ask him, he launched into a recital. Much to the annoyance of the other drinkers.

‘This one’s called The Gargoyle,’ he said.

The Gargoyle
Has wings…of stone
He’s alone and feeling
All those things
No mortal creature knows
The clothes, of dreams
He shows
As though to seem to mean to see.
Belief – in fantasy – be fact
And acting out its part
The rain
Wears out his tears
With deadly animosity
Yet he succeeds to be
Totality
And passes, temporary
Man.

I was genuinely speechless. I don’t know why, but I had expected his poetry to be, well, shit. I didn’t fully understand the poem the first time I heard it – I’m still not sure I do – but the way he recited it from memory with his prominent Scottish accent, intense stare and perfectly measured delivery was incredibly captivating.

Mick then took us to the pub across the road, and we took a seat by the window so that we could keep an eye on our bikes that we had pretend-locked to a lamp post just outside. The place was huge, but almost empty, apart from a group of about 15 blokes standing on an otherwise deserted dance floor. The music was so loud that Mick’s Scottish accent became even more difficult to understand. He bought us both a shot of whisky and another pint, and also ordered us a burger and chips each, without us having time to protest.

The more he drank, the more he opened up about himself to us. He told us that he was gay, but had never disclosed this to anyone throughout his life, nor had any sort of relationship with anyone.

‘When ah was yoong you could be pit in jail for being a buftie like me,’ he said. ‘Ye ken whit aam sayin? Aw mah life I've hud tae pretend aam somethin' aam nae.’

He talked a lot about ‘God’s will’, too, and he gave us the impression that he was ashamed of his homosexuality, and felt that he had betrayed God.

‘Ah dornt fancy either ay ye, by th’ way,’ he said, necking his whisky.

‘Why not?’ asked Ben, slightly offended. ‘What’s wrong with us?’

‘Well you ah not my type, and his legs ah too hairy,’ he said pointing to my exposed white thighs.

‘I’ve killed people,’ he then said a while later. ‘I’ve killed lots of people.’

This was a conversation-stopper like no other.

‘It was mah job,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Aam nae proud ‘bout whit ah did.’

‘What do you mean it was your job?’ I asked hesitantly.

‘Ah worked fur th' british government killin' terrorists. IRA mostly.’

‘Surely that’s an admirable job?’ said Ben.

‘Aye, you would think so, wooldnae ye? All mah life I've hud aw thes guilt inside me abit th' things I've dain an' th' things I've seen. I've never talked aboot this tae anyone before. Aam nae supposed tae. But after whit happened at th' doctor's this morn, ah cooldnae give a fuck anymore.’

He told us more about the places he had lived and the things he had done. At one point he started talking in Russian – a requirement for one of his missions, apparently. Ben and I were both totally gripped by his stories. We had met some interesting characters on our trip, but Mick was in a league of his own.

We were then faced with the moment of having to go back and sleep at his house. We suddenly longed for the easy, unthreatening nature of the other people that we had stayed with – Monica in Ludlow, or David and Annie in Nanstallon – rather than facing the uncertainty of a night with Mick.

He led the way back to his house which was a 15 minute walk from the pub. He was staggering all over the pavement and occasionally had to hold onto a wall or lamppost to regain his balance. Despite his age, and poor dress sense, he looked fairly fit and had a powerful athletic build.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ whispered Ben.

‘Yeah, we’ll be fine,’ I said, not entirely convinced.

‘I’m absolutely shitting myself. We’re going back to sleep on the floor at a trained killer’s house, who is absolutely shitfaced. Are we insane?’

‘When you put it that way, it does sound a bit stupid, but he seems like a genuinely nice bloke who just wants to help us out. What’s the worst that can happen?’

‘Errr, that we get bummed or killed, or both,’ said Ben.

Mick lived in a small council flat on the edge of Carlisle. It had not been decorated since the 1960s. Either that or Mick was into retro-styling in a big way. A few meagre possessions dotted his front room; library books, a radio, an overflowing ashtray, and, somewhat surprisingly, a windowsill full of seedlings.

‘If ye move those chairs outta th’way ye can sleep on the floor,’ he said. He disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a bottle of whisky and three glasses. ‘Time for a wee dram before bed?’

This was more of a statement than a question, as despite our polite declines we were both given a huge neat whisky. Ben sipped at his like a connoisseur, and I downed mine in the hope that it would make me sleep better. Mick slumped into his armchair and seconds later he was asleep.

‘Shit! What do we do now?’ asked Ben.

‘I don’t know. We can’t just go to sleep with him sat there can we?’

‘No. But I’m not going to try and wake him and put him into bed. Are you?’

‘No way.’

‘I’m so glad I’ve got the sleeping bag. At least if he wakes up you’ll be the easier one to attack,’ said Ben.

‘Stop boasting about your bloody sleeping bag. Besides, if he wakes up in the night and tries to rape or murder us at least I’ll be able to make a quick getaway whereas you’ll be hopping round the room like you’re in a sack race.’

We both started laughing at the thought, but then stopped quickly when Mick started fidgeting. Mick asleep was far less terrifying than Mick awake.

Ben climbed into his sleeping bag and I covered my legs with my towel and we lay on the floor longing for the morning.

We had been quiet for about ten minutes when I decided to release a fart. Now, I’m a fairly prolific farter – I would even go as far as saying that I’m a master – but this was like nothing I had ever done before. It lasted for about ten seconds and the vibrations of it rumbled through the floorboards, echoing round the entire room. We looked over towards Mick who shuffled in his chair, sat forward, opened his eyes briefly, and then went back to sleep.

Ben almost wet himself with laughter and I had to put my fist in my mouth to stop myself shrieking. It was just what we needed to break the tension.

‘Holy shit,’ said Ben, ‘we’re sleeping next to a drunken killer and you go and let out something like that. I’ve never heard anything like that before.’

‘It was definitely one of my best. I think it’s a combination of the Guinness, the burger and the fear.’

It’s fair to say it was not one of my best night’s sleep.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, kept awake by the presence of Mick slumped in his chair a few feet away. He would swear loudly at himself at regular intervals throughout the night – seemingly in his sleep.

At some point in the early hours of the morning, Mick heaved himself up from the chair and staggered down the corridor to what we presumed was his bedroom. Ben then pushed the sitting room door closed behind him, so that we would at least get some sort of warning when he returned.

The temperature dropped considerably and the wind and rain battered the flimsy council flat windows. I put on my suit trousers but they did little to keep me warm. Ben lay smugly next to me in his sleeping bag.

Day 13

‘Guid mornin’, campers,’ said Mick as he burst through the door. He stood in the doorway bouncing around on his toes shadow boxing. He was full of energy and enthusiasm, and was clearly not feeling any after effects from the previous day’s drinking.

‘Ah heard voices comin' frae in here an' it took me a wee while tae remember ah hud brooght ye home.’

‘Yeah, it took us a while to remember where we were, too,’ I said.

‘What did ah tell ye mah name was?’ he asked.

‘Mick,’ said Ben.

‘Ach, noo. Ah say 'at tae fowk ah dunnae kinn. Mah real name is Norrie.’

Norrie offered us breakfast but then discovered he didn’t have any food in the house. Instead he made us a coffee and topped them up with the remainder of the whisky. He then sat back in his armchair and spent an hour retelling most of the stories about his life that he had told us the night before. Neither Norrie nor his flat seemed quite so daunting in the daytime.

From his sitting room window, you could see into the back garden which was shared with a row of six other flats. Norrie, it transpired, was the designated head gardener.

‘Nobody else aroond here gi'es a jobby abit plants,’ he said.

He had done a brilliant job. It wasn’t going to win any awards at Chelsea, but you could tell he had put a lot of time and effort into the garden. It was fascinating to witness the two extreme sides to Norrie’s personality. Part of him was an angry, bitter, cynical, former killer. The other part was a generous, thoughtful, kind, nature-loving old man.

Shortly after completing the trip (damn it, I’ve spoilt the ending again), he sent me a lovely long letter saying how much he had enjoyed us both staying with him, and to thank me for some audio books that I had sent him. He enclosed a couple of poems – including a new one, which he said he wrote about me.

Out of your eyes
The love of life appears
Seeking liberty to feel
The actual, the real.
Your solitude absorbs
So gladly…
Knowing and yet unknowing me
I’ve no need to explain
The want of wanting
The haunting of you shall be me
And love completely
But teardrops on the windowpane
Of experience this is youth.
And I passing through your life
Hope to stain that glass… with truth.
And leave it with you.

When I tell people of our experience with Norrie, I admit that his stories do sound far-fetched. Out of all the people in Carlisle, we happened to end up with a drunken hitman, who was in his final weeks of life. Most people laugh and say that it sounds like a load of bullshit. Norrie’s story, that is, not my version of events.

I don’t consider myself a very gullible person. In fact, I tend to be very suspicious of people. Especially those that I don’t know. But in Norrie’s case I never doubted anything he said. Looking back, this seems a little naïve.

I have been told on a couple of occasions since, that it is a classic sign of senility, that people will have delusions about a fabricated heroic past. In a way, I hope that Norrie was just a delusional old man and that none of his shocking past life actually happened. I would be comforted, to some extent, if it turned out he had spent most of his years holed up in that council flat tending to plants and listening to the radio.

If you search ‘Norrie McKillop’ on Google, my Facebook post about his passing is the first thing that comes up. Beyond that, there’s almost nothing else about him online - or at least nothing I’ve been able to find.

But Ben and I weren’t the only ones to meet Norrie or hear his stories.

Back in 2019, I received the following email:

Dear George,

This will be a strange and unexpected email to receive, but earlier this evening having been reminiscing with a friend, I Googled the name Norrie McKillop. The only result that was relevant was your post describing a meeting with him and I believe his subsequent appearance in one of your books. So let me explain my acquaintance with Norrie.

At the age of 18, I ventured on an Inter-Railing trio around Europe with a friend. This was in 1997. We met Norrie on the train from Hoek van Holland to Amsterdam. We chatted to him and on arrival in Amsterdam we spent a few a hours together in cafe. On going our separate ways he and I exchanged addresses, and subsequently continued to correspond. The letters were full of Norrie’s philosophical musings and humorous responses to my waffling about teenage romances. I got the feeling he was attracted to me sexually, but his letters never crossed a line of being inappropriate. We ended up losing contact with one another probably a few years later. 

So I am now curious as to your meeting with Norrie, and would love to hear any more knowledge you found out about him. Does this appear in one of your books? I do remember him suggesting a shady past, but we never explored this with him in our encounter, nor did I probe further in my letters.

I knew that Norrie would have died by now, considering his age when I met him, but it was still a poignant moment to read of his death and see a picture of him. He was a fascinating fellow, who I kept up the letters with I suppose as I felt he had very little friendship in his life, ie. longer term friendship that would go beyond the chance encounters that were clearly part of his life judging by the ease with which he befriended us in Amsterdam.

Anyway, I’ve had to write this quite briefly as I’m a father with two children pestering me to show them some attention, but I would love to hear from you.

Kind regards,

Robin

I replied to Robin and included the extract about Norrie from my book.

He replied:

George,

Thanks so much for the reply. It was so amazing to read the book extract. It took me back to the time in my life when in contact with Norrie. The poems, the alcohol, the stories... all very nostalgic. It makes me wonder how many more strangers like you and I he featured in the lives of. All the best with the books, and thanks again.

Regards, 

Robin

I too often wonder how many others are out there with similar stories. I regret not including Norrie’s real name and photo in my book from the start so that others could have made the connection.

Later that year, I received this message from Marc in Austin, Texas:

I saw your post about Norrie McKillop. Do you know if he happened to live in London in the late 80’s, between Notting Hill and Shepherd’s Bush? I had a bizarre encounter with a guy with that name.

I replied:

Hi Marc. I'm not sure. I don't think he mentioned London but he sounded like he'd been all over.

Marc replied:

Thanks for getting back to me. Yes. Would have been 1988 or so, I would have been 16 or 17.

I was new to the UK and I had a group of friends from school who drank at The Swan in Notting Hill (yes, we were underage, they didn’t care).

The pubs had shut, and my friend Andrew and I were walking back to his flat in Shepherds Bush. Andrew and his family basically knew everyone around there and Andrew starts talking to this guy in the street. After a few minutes the guy invited us up his flat for a beer, it was a bit odd but Andrew seemed to know him and, hey, free beer. There was also two of us and one of him so I kind of figured we’d be OK.

We get up to the flat and the guy announces “I’m Norrie McKill, and I kill people”. Then Norrie goes into the kitchen to get beer and make tea. At that moment I establish that Andrew didn’t know Norrie at all, just had started talking to him randomly.

I had no idea why Norrie would have invited us to his flat? Just to talk? Looking for gay sex (we weren’t gay)? Maybe to rob us? Or is he some kind of serial killer going to kill us? So now we’re literally shitting our pants, the two-vs-one thing was fine if he planned to rob us, we didn’t have any money anyway, but if he planned to kill us we hadn’t considered that he might have a gun or something until that moment.

We considered bolting but we figured that would make him mad... and we couldn’t figure out why he had invited us to his flat to tell us that he killed people.

So we drank the beer, Andrew was pretty calm about it, as if this was a normal London thing, very personable and politely made small talk. Norrie said something about working for The Krays, this was before the film about them came out. He repeated “I’m Norrie McKill, and I kill people” a number of times like it was some kind of catchphrase. We really didn’t want to know more, we had heard of the Krays and knew they were very bad guys.

We never figured out why he wanted to tell us this. It’s quite possible he thought we were going to rob him, we were in his flat after all, maybe he was having second thoughts about inviting us up to the flat and made it up trying to scare us. Maybe he was trying to impress us. Or maybe he was confessing to us?

We finished the beer quickly, made excuses and left. Andrew was ahead of me out the door and as soon as the door shut behind us he literally tore down the stairs. We never saw Norrie again after that.

So one of the most bizarre encounters of my life. Here we are 30 years later, I’m working with a guy coincidentally called Norrie and I decided to google for Norrie McKill and your post is about the only thing that comes up.

Same guy?

I replied to say how similar our experiences were and that it must have been the same guy. I also forwarded the message I had received above from Robin.

Marc replied:

That is amazing! Has to be the same guy. Seems he was quite a memorable fellow to many. Thanks for taking the time to message me back and to share Robin’s encounter.

He then sent another message a few days later:

Just bought your book on Kindle, read the first chapter and then skipped forward to the bit on Norrie. Other than the location (he could have moved) and the reasons for his killings (he told us he did it for the Krays, he told you for the government, and it’s well possible that he could have lied in either instance), it has to be the same guy. How many murderous Norries could there be?

Cheers again, I’ll read the rest of your book, and I’ll track down Andrew and send him a paperback copy. I haven’t talked to him in about 25 years but I found his Sister on LinkedIn. You’ve brought together two old mates who haven’t talked in a very long time.

All the best, and a comfy bed awaits you should you ever find yourself in Austin, Texas where I live now.

Once again, I found myself wondering how many others out there had crossed paths with Norrie. How many had read my book without realising that ‘Ronnie’ was Norrie? So, I finally got around to adding his photo and updating his name in the ebook version of Free Country (formatting books is my least favourite task, so I tend to put it off as long as possible). I'll update the paperback soon, but, sadly, the audiobook might stay as Ronnie forever.

It feels like this could be the start of something. Surely there must be more Norrie stories out there. Surely someone must know the truth. And if anyone out there can help me verify whether he really worked for the government – or if he was simply a brilliant storyteller – please let me know.

Norrie left a lasting impression on Ben and me that night in Carlisle, and it’s clear his unique personality had an impact on others too. It would be incredible to piece together the truth behind the man who left such a lasting mark on all who crossed his path

I have made this post public, so please restack/share it far and wide. And don’t hesitate to get in contact if you have any more information.