Fighting to the Death Read online

  Eventually we left the boozer and dropped Bill off at a cab rank in Streatham. That night, back at Uncle Pete’s place, he told me that Bill had asked him if I’d be interested in earning ‘a lot more money’ in a ‘different class’ of fighting. Pete made it clear that he wasn’t over keen on it as he felt he was responsible for me. ‘It’s heavy stuff. It’s full monty bare-knuckle and it can end up costin’ you more than just a few bruises.’

  I took Pete’s advice on board. Bare-knuckle wasn’t really what I was after and I’d heard some horror stories about the injuries inflicted during bouts. What I really wanted was to go back to proper boxing or stick to the prize fighting with the big gloves. It seemed more respectable. But all I’d earned up to then was a maximum of £100 a fight. No more was said about the subject that night and I went to bed without really giving it a second thought.

  A couple of weeks later I decided it was time to head back to East London and stay with my mum. Terry had finally abandoned the manor so the coast was now clear. I’d missed mum a lot and I knew she’d been worried about me while I’d been away in Croydon. I’d enjoyed it in South London but I wanted to get home and pick up where I’d left off. I didn’t want to run away from my responsibilities. I didn’t know what sort of job I’d do, but was fed up of my mum asking when I was going to come home!

  * * *

  It soon felt good to be back amongst my old mates in Forest Gate. I quickly got myself fixed up working two days a week as a hod-carrier for a bricklayer. Some mornings I also did the bottling up at a pub where my mum worked, which meant stacking the shelves. And most weekends I was out pubbing and clubbing.

  One Sunday afternoon me and two of my mates called Jimmy and Terry – both very skilful ex-amateur boxers – went down the Prince of Wales boozer, in High Street, Seven Kings, near Forest Gate. They reckoned there was a prize-fighting contest every weekend and I couldn’t resist having a look at the standard of fighters on display. The Prince of Wales was a massive pub/club similar to some of the places back in Croydon but on a bigger scale. I’d been very careful not to tell a soul about what I’d been up to in South London. Not even my mum knew. Uncle Pete had said that was the best way to keep things.

  That first Sunday I went down to the Prince of Wales, they had a residential champ from the previous week who’d taken on all comers and won every contest. The locals rated him as a tasty fighter. The moment I saw the makeshift ring, my heart jumped a few beats as I thought back to my previous prize-fighting bouts. I missed fighting and I was itching to get back in the ring, but I was there at the Prince of Wales with my mates and I didn’t want them to see me in action. My older brother John also joined us and I certainly didn’t want him blabbering to Mum about what I’d been up to.

  I can’t deny that fighting had been in the back of my mind ever since I’d got back on my manor. But I’d also started enjoying a bevvy and the company of girls, and I was still only a youngster. Also, I wasn’t as fit as I’d been in Croydon, although hod-carrying did keep me in reasonable nick. I was having a right laugh with my mates for the first time in my life. I had enough money to get out and have a good time. What more could a sixteen-year-old want? I didn’t say a word to anyone that day at the Prince of Wales and just watched the bouts with my fists clenched tightly, thinking about how I could so easily have gone in that ring and made mincemeat of every fighter I saw.

  I stayed strong and resisted the temptation. I was trying to carve out a new life for myself. But seeing those fights did persuade me to get another job working a club door. This time I started minding at a place called Lords, in Ilford. At least being a doorman meant I could have the occasional dust-up without getting myself into trouble or disclosing my past involvement in the fight game.

  At Lords, I was part of a well-established doorman firm and was paid £50 a night, which was good money in those days; thirty quid a night had been the going rate down in South London. It only took a couple of weeks before trouble flared up when Lords hosted an over-25s night. There was a fight between some Essex boys who’d turned up and some of the door firm keeping an eye on the dancefloor. Two bouncers called Bob and Ted ended up with torn jackets and bloody noses, and the club manager did a midnight runner because he thought someone was about to rob him. I ended up taking out a couple of older punters with a flurry of useful lefthanders, which helped calm it all down real quick. The cozzers turned up after this little barney was finished so we all went through the motions with them to convince them nothing serious had happened. As the suspicious cozzers finally left, one of the older doormen came up to me.

  ‘You’re a bit useful, son. You were pickin’ that lot off like wooden tops.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I answered, trying to sound professional and a lot older than sixteen.

  This fella then pointed out I was the only doorman not armed with a cosh. Some even had rubber bike grips packed with lead, which were called ‘Co-Joes’ – don’t ask me why. Others had rubber mallets and one or two used something I thought was a bloody outrage: squirty lemon juice containers filled with ammonia.

  ‘I prefer using my bare fists, a bit of fancy footwork and the occasional head butt,’ I told the other doorman. And that was the way I wanted to keep it.

  Not long after the fight, my firm of doormen decided we should mount a takeover bid for security at the nearby Ilford Palais. We had a five-on-five tear-up with the existing firm in the club car park. It ended up evens so the takeover never materialised, although I did manage to take out two of their blokes, which got me even more rave notices on the manor.

  Around that time I started also working at private parties as word of my ‘security skills’ spread. Some of these functions were held in private halls while others hired me to mind the door to their giant; fuck-off mansions in places like Chingford and Loughton. I copped £50-£80 a night so it was very useful extra dough at the time.

  Then I moved to working the doors at the Charleston Club, in Leytonstone High Road. It was a busy place and the work was non-stop. I was also doing daytimes on building sites as a hod-carrier. To be honest about it, I was feeling like a slave to my wages. I didn’t seem to have any spare time and no personal life. Trying to date girls anywhere apart from in the club was virtually impossible.

  Then, out of the blue, I got a call from Uncle Pete. He asked me to a party back down in Croydon because he was off to live in New Zealand. He’d had enough of the ratrace. I had a real soft spot for Uncle Pete. He’d been like a father to me in many ways, so the least I could do was go down to South London. All the old faces were at Pete’s house for his party. Most of them still worked as doormen. It was a great night. A lot of beer was drunk and everyone got very merry.

  A whole bunch of us stayed on at Uncle Pete’s house that night and we all ended up playing ping-pong in his garage between pints. Pete pulled me aside at one stage and started asking me all about my life back in east London. I think he’d missed my company since I’d moved out of Croydon and he was genuinely interested in my future. Then another voice butted in. ‘You still fighting …?’

  I turned round to find myself face to face with the old bloke, Bill, who’d hitched a ride with us after that hairy contest in Brixton. I didn’t hesitate to answer. ‘Only when I’m workin’ the door.’

  ‘You and me should have a chat,’ said Bill.

  Just then Pete interrupted. ‘Don’t start on all that.’ He seemed irritated at Bill for even talking to me.

  Bill went a bit quiet after that and backed right off. But just as he was leaving Pete’s house about an hour later, he slipped me his phone number. ‘Might be able to earn you some extra cash,’ he muttered, well out of Uncle Pete’s earshot.

  The next morning I drove back to East London with Bill’s number burning a bit of a hole in my pocket. I kept wondering about whether I should call him. Certainly, I was anxious to find an easier way of earning money without having to work every hour of the day. After I got indoors, I took Bill’s card out and pinned
it up on a notice board that hung over my bed. On it were loads of cards given to me by people aver the years. I made a point of not telling a soul about Bill and how he’d given me his phone number.

  That night I lay on my bed, arms behind my head, looking up at Bill’s card, wondering whether I should give him a bell. I shut my eyes and thought of the fight game and immediately felt the adrenaline rush streaming through my body. The thrill. The butterflies. I was still living at home and hadn’t gone out that night because I was strapped for cash. Maybe if I called up Bill I might not have to worry about money ever again …

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deadly Game

  ‘Hello, Bill. It’s Carl …’ I was about to say my last name but he interrupted with lightning speed.

  ‘I thought you’d call.’

  I took a deep breath. I was more nervous than before the start of a fight.

  ‘Before I agree to anythin’ I wanna know what I’m gettin’ myself into.’

  ‘No problem.’

  We arranged a meeting for the following evening after Bill said he had something to show me south of the river. I didn’t know what he was on about but I thought it was worth a spin. That evening, Bill was waiting in his five-year-old Jag at Lewisham Station. He had that yellow tie on again. He said very little as we drove straight to an industrial estate. Bill was a bad driver, very erratic. He was always braking suddenly, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and just wasn’t concentrating.

  As his Jag approached a vast, grey warehouse, I spotted a heavy-looking fella in front of the main door. Its metal shutters then started opening automatically to let us in. Bright lights illuminated the inside of the warehouse. I immediately spotted loads of flash motors and people walking around the inside of the warehouse. The vehicles were expensive – Rollers, Mercs, Jags, you name it. I was gobsmacked. This wasn’t another afternoon with the boys down at Lacey Lady’s.

  ‘This is the real thing,’ muttered Bill as the Jag crept slowly along the inside wall of the huge warehouse. ‘None of your prize-fightin’ bare-knuckle bollocks. We’re talkin’ big money ‘ere. Last man standirr’ takes the prize.’ I later found out that this sort of fighting had been going on for years but always stayed well underground. A world few people knew about, but where the stakes were high and the fighter’s lives were on the line.

  As we slowly rolled to a halt between two sparkling limos I realised the cars had been carefully parked in a circle creating a ring area in the middle. People were walking around with huge wads of cash in their hands.

  After Bill carefully parked up, we got out of the Jag and I followed behind him as he stopped and greeted at least half a dozen heavy-looking geezers in overcoats. When he got to the last fella, I saw him take a fat envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. Looked like it had thousands in it.

  ‘All of it on Gary,’ Bill said to the other fells, obviously a bookie. But there were no betting slips. The stakes were far too high for anyone to ever contemplate they might get ripped off. As Bill had already said, this was the big time.

  Then we strolled back to his car, got in and waited for the action to begin. I noticed that all the people – mainly well-dressed blokes – had an attitude to them. They held themselves in a certain way. Their shoulders rolled as they walked. Many of them talked out of the side of their mouths and they had tons of gold jewellery.

  The floor of the warehouse was concrete and I wondered to myself if it caused a lot of extra injuries to anyone falling hard on it. The building itself had a glass ceiling and masses of lights hanging from it. Back time the doors opened and shut, the noise echoed through the entire warehouse. It was a spooky set-up. I certainly didn’t feel safe in there.

  Then Bill turned to me: ‘Reckon you could handle it?’

  ‘Depends how much?’ I said, nibbling unashamedly at the bait.

  ‘Thousands, son. Fuckin’ thousands.’

  Just then the vast warehouse doors rolled up yet again and a black BMW with blacked-out windows cruised in. Bill’s eyes snapped across at the pimp-mobile. Seconds later another vehicle sped in.

  The Beemer pulled up on the edge of the group of cars and I could just make out four men. Three of them got out snappily. They looked like armed heavies with their sunglasses and bullnecks. They were casting around, casing the joint. Just then the fourth man emerged. He was more bulky, dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt. He wore heavy Chelsea-style boots and wasn’t wearing any gloves. But I knew immediately that he must be one of the fighters.

  On the opposite side of the main group of parked cars, a similar scene occurred moments later with the fellas in a Merc. All the cars encircling the ring had their dipped headlights on to help illuminate the fight area. Both fighters then started walking through a gap between the vehicles towards opposite sides of the ring. It was like a Hollywood movie. Surreal is the only way to describe it: fucking surreal.

  Each trainer walked in front of his man, with two minders immediately to the front and back of the fighter. I could barely make out either of the fighters’ features except that they both seemed to be dark and swarthy. I learned later that this was quite deliberate so that no-one got a good enough look at the fighters to point the finger at them in a court of law.

  The ‘ringmaster’ – that’s what Bill called him – was already in the space between the cars, awaiting the fighters. ‘You watchin’ this?’ asked Bill in an almost impatient voice, without moving a muscle in my direction. I nodded. I was transfixed, glued to my seat, so to speak. It was clear that Bill didn’t want us to leave his motor. Virtually everyone else remained in their limos because, as Bill later told me, ‘They’re not the sorta faces who want to be spotted out in the open.’

  However, there were a few women out there, dripping with jewellery and fur coats. They sort of added to the atmosphere. A lot of them looked like brasses, but some of them might have been genuine wives – old-fashioned crims are surprisingly good at keeping their marriages intact.

  My window was open throughout and I could hear bets being laid left, right and centre. The bookies stood out like sore thumbs. They even had the same kind of suitcases with legs underneath that they use at racetracks up and down the country. Every time a suitcase opened, I spotted the banknotes spilling out.

  Just then the ringmaster took centre stage. There was a hush in the audience. ‘The fight is about to commence,’ he yelled in the echoing warehouse. ‘All bets must be in now.’

  Meanwhile each fighter was shadow boxing behind two minders on the edge of the ring. But the sheer size of the minders still meant it was virtually impossible to see the fighters clearly.

  The ringmaster then slowly backed his way out of the ring. The minders separated and the fighters began walking to the centre. They moved slowly and stood upright and fearless. Bill’s Jag was one of the motors parked right at the front so we had one of the best views in the warehouse.

  Seconds later they were both in the ring, prowling the perimeter like caged animals. The ringmaster raised both his arms at the same time. That was the signal. The ringmaster ducked between two Rollers and the fight commenced.

  No time for formalities. They were off with a vengeance. Headbutts, kicking, biting. I was astounded. The aim was victory by any means. My jaw dropped to the floor as I watched these two men brutalise each other. The ferocity of the fight was breathtaking. I could feel tension in my own stomach just watching them grinding each other down with the type of sheer unadulterated violence I’d never witnessed before in my entire life.

  They bounced off at least half a dozen of the nearest cars. At one stage, one of them appeared to drop to the floor unconscious, only to be grabbed back up by the hair by his opponent, who then rammed his head against the grille of a brand new Mercedes 500 SL. Then he collapsed to the floor, out cold. The other bloke continued kicking him as he lay on the concrete. He seemed to be trying to kill him.

  This put all those prize fights in the shade. This was brutal, terr
ifying and, I hate to say it, awe-inspiring.

  The entire bout only lasted about a minute and a half. The victor signalled his win by stopping in his tracks and spitting onto the floor next to his opponent, who was out cold or maybe even dead. Then the victor turned and walked out of the ring, his minders closing in on him as he strutted towards his Beemer between all those other flash motors. The doors of both fighters’ cars had remained opened throughout the fight, to make sure they could make a fast getaway in case of trouble. Already, some of the well-dressed audience were spitting and cursing in the direction of the loser. They’d no doubt lost a packet by betting on him.

  As the winner headed back to his vehicle, a cacophony of car hooters started blasting away, showing their approval. Others put their headlights on full beam, showering the warehouse with fingers of sharp, white light.

  Then I looked back in the ring to see the loser being dragged towards the same Merc that had brought him in just a few minutes earlier. Then, a screech of tyres as the winner disappeared through the electronically controlled doors. Back in the warehouse, the loser’s minders were desperately trying to revive him with a towel before shoving him in the back of the Merc. Eventually they picked him up off the floor and bundled his crumpled body in the back seat before speeding off. Some people were still screaming abuse as the motor careered out of the building.

  ‘Fuckin’ wanker,’ said one brassy-looking blonde, who I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of.

  ‘Useless prat,’ screamed an old boy with a long overcoat and badly fitting wig.

  Just then Bill chipped in, ‘What d’you reckon, then?’

  I was still gobsmacked by the whole event.

  ‘Fuckin’ amazin’. I’m definitely on for it.’