Fighting to the Death (13 page)

D
oing up that flat cost a lot more money than I’d expected. I was still working in the building game, but Carole’s salary and mine never seemed to cover everything. Also, it was pretty relentless working on other people’s homes and then coming back to do the same thing all over again in my own place.

I had quite a few restless nights thinking about my next move. Then, in the middle of 1988, I called Bill up and left a message on his answer machine. When he didn’t call back I started to wonder if I’d blown it by turning him down so many times since the wedding.

Then our bank statement turned up in the post and I rang him again. This time Bill picked up after just two rings. He must have known how desperate I was, but he made no reference to my earlier call.

‘There might be somethin’ about for you. I’ll have to make a few calls,’ Bill said.

‘This time I need to know more about who I’m fighting,’ I said.

‘Can’t talk on the dog, Son. Let’s have a meet.’

This time it was at a real spit ‘n’ sawdust tavern called The Swan, in a tough old manor near the Rotherhithe Tunnel. Bill was already in the boozer with his driver and a minder when I showed up.

Bill went a bit moody on me at first. Maybe he was punishing me for turning my back on him for so long.

‘So what d’you wanna know so bad?’ he said dismissively. ‘If I’m gonna get back into this game I gotta know more about the opposition this time.’

‘That’s not on.’

‘Yes it fuckin’ is ‘cause I gotta be better prepared than I have been in the past. One day I’ll come up against a hitter who’s really the business and I’ll be in trouble.’

‘That’s not down to me, Son.’

‘Just keep me posted, alright?’ I paused. ‘And I want my own people alongside me,’ I said, knowing I was pushing my luck.

‘No way.’

‘Then count me out.’

‘I provide the muscle, not you.’

‘Just make sure Neville and Wayne are at every fight.’

Bill looked relieved when I said their names because they were already on his payroll. Looking back on it, I was playing right into his hands.

I drove home after that meet with Bill in my rusting old two-litre Cortina Ghia kidding myself that I now had a measure of
control over my own destiny. With Neville and Wayne on side, maybe I’d even have a bit of a laugh as well as earn a crust.

A couple of days later Bill called up again.

Day after tomorrow.’

‘What about the dough?’

Not on the phone.’

Yet again he was telling me nothing, but at least there was a fight in the air and I needed the cash badly.

Next I belled Neville and Wayne and asked them if they had any idea who I was up against. Wayne promised me he’d get back to me, soon as he heard something. Naturally, he was as good as his word.

Within half an hour, Wayne was back on the old dog and bone.

‘Bring your passport, bruv.’ ‘Where we goin’?’

‘I think they eat snails.’

‘What?’

‘Think about it …’

We were off to France. Wayne also reckoned I’d walk the fight, but I wasn’t sure how the hell he could be so certain.

We flew Air France to Paris – none of that cloak-and-dagger stuff at tiny airfields in wobbly planes with two rusting props. But there was no Bill on board. Instead I found myself sandwiched between my two six-foot-three-inch heavyweight friends Wayne and Neville. We must have looked a frightening threesome to all the other passengers. We even had to pull the arm rests up between us just so we could all squeeze into a row of seats together.

Sticking out like three sumo wrestlers at a garden centre
meant we, naturally, got thoroughly searched by customs at Charles de Gaulle Airport. When we finally walked out into arrivals, we bumped straight into this little garlic-breathed fella with a scrap of paper in his mitt which read WAYNE.

Our new pint-sized friend drove us off in a Citroën with blacked-out windows and, thirty minutes later, we were waltzed into the plushest hotel reception I’ve ever seen in my life. Bill was sitting there, cool as a cucumber, in the lobby. We all joined him.

‘No muddy field filled with shamrock merchants this time?’ I asked.

Bill laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Son. This one’s in a different league.’

Bill even kept to his side of the bargain by giving me a proper pre-fight briefing. I was fighting in a cage in an underground car park beneath another big hotel just a few minutes from where we were sitting.

Just then, I noticed Wayne being handed a bulky-looking paper bag by one of Bill’s other minders: Looked like a shooter just in case anything went wrong.

‘You sure this one’s alright?’ I asked Bill.

He laughed. ‘Just a little insurance, Son.’

Then Bill continued his briefing on my opponent. His height, weight and previous fights. ‘He’s not bad, a bit flash but you’ll hammer him easy,’ said Bill. How the hell could he be so sure?

A few minutes later, two French limos drew up outside the hotel and it was time for the off. One vehicle – a Citroën Pallas – was driven by Bill’s regular minder. Our car was piloted by an immaculately dressed Frenchman who didn’t speak a word of English. I remember he had this huge mobile phone which he
used every other second for some call or other. It was certainly a bit slicker this time around. Maybe Bill was right.

It was night-time by now and I sat in the back hemmed between Neville and Wayne in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam near the Eiffel Tower. Then we went and lost Bill’s car at some lights. But luckily our man knew where he was going.

A few minutes later, our limo cruised into a car park and started twisting down a spiral roadway below ground level. We must have gone round at least six times when we were stopped by another well-dressed fella. He leant in and spoke to the driver in French, gave us a cursory glance and waved us in. I noticed the handle of a shooter in a holster under his jacket.

Then I saw the cage. It was carefully lit like something on a movie set or theatre. All around were well-dressed people, including a lot of very glamorous-looking ladies. Many of them looked like stunning catwalk models.

The cage itself was entirely on its own in a far corner of the car park. People were milling around it. Many were carrying bottles of champagne by the neck. At least a dozen men and women were snorting cocaine off the sparkling clean bonnets of a row of Mercedes and BMWs. None of them even bothered looking up as our vehicle slowly cruised through the car park.

As we came to a halt another limo slid in alongside us. A blonde woman in the back seat was scooping something from a small glass bottle and then sniffing it. More cocaine I guess. Music was blasting out of a PA system, giving the whole place an even more dramatic atmosphere. It sounded like French jazz music and was what I’d call very sexy sounds. There were even some black people swarming around, which was unusual because in most of my fights to date there had been a distinct
lack of anyone who wasn’t white. The smoothest-looking bookies I’d ever seen were handling all the cash with expensive leather holders under their arms. None of those old-fashioned cases with legs like I’d seen back in England.

As I got out, all heads turned towards me. Bill appeared alongside me from the other limo. ‘You alright, Son?’ I’d never felt more relaxed in my life, but I didn’t want to admit that to Bill. ‘Fine.’

I began my warm-up by stretching my body over the bonnet of the Citroen. When I looked up at the ceiling I noticed it was very high for an underground car park and the organisers had bolted extra lighting to overhead beams to improve the atmosphere.

It was only then I saw my opponent on the other side of the cage. He was kicking into the air with a bunch of flashy looking warm-up exercises. He looked like some kind of street fighter because they always use their legs like that. Silly bastard was showing off in front of a bunch of gorgeous-looking birds standing nearby, but all he was doing was giving away his trade secrets before we’d even got in the cage.

His jet-black hair was so over-slicked back, he looked like he’d just dipped his head in a bucket of olive oil. And he had a gleaming body that looked more suited to page seven of the
Sun
. Obviously, he fancied himself as a bit of a Claude Van Damme. I sized him up carefully but kept myself very low profile in comparison, which suited me just fine. He was so up his own arse I’m not sure he even noticed me. ‘Look at
dat bumba clot
[“wanker” in Jamaican],’ chuckled my mate Wayne, moving into full West Indian mode.

Next to me Bill handed over a wad of bank notes to a bookie
in a £1000 suit. Then he nodded towards us and said: ‘Follow me, lads.’

The cage had been very carefully constructed with mesh and metal bars expertly bolted together. This time the entrance doors were taller. At least I wouldn’t have to stoop so low to get in. Just then a compère started babbling in French on the PA system. Less than a minute later, he dropped his hands as we both entered the cage through our separate doorways.

‘Watch his feet,’ screamed Neville as he slammed shut the gate.

‘Allez!’

It was only then that my slicked-up opponent actually looked me in the eyes. And he didn’t keep it up for more than a split second.

The crowd went completely silent at first, then some of them began shouting in French.

Mr Smoothy came straight at me with a bunch of – surprise, surprise – side kicks. He completely missed me as I ducked away with an immaculate Ali shuffle to one side. Then I caught his knee with my arm and grabbed his leg so he couldn’t get away. I punched him twice straight in the face and he fell backwards but I still had his leg in my hand. The crowd was getting noisier. I could tell they were annoyed I was in control. Then I let Mr Smoothy crash to the tarmac, dropped to my knees and bang, bang, straight up with my fists into his pretty little face. He went out like a light.

The crowd went hysterical. They’d all just lost a bucket-load of dough in a matter of seconds. Many of them, including some of the women, grabbed onto the mesh of the cage and peered in at us like we were wild animals in a zoo. They were trying to
shout him out of his unconscious state but he remained out for the count. I stood waiting for the nod to end the fight or to have another whack at him if he woke up. Just then his manager got into the cage and crouched down to examine Mr Smoothy. Another fella then appeared who must have been a doctor.

The coked-up crowd continued rattling the cage. Bill waved me out and I headed for the door. By now the punters were rocking the cage so much it was quite tricky getting out of the door. Bill had a big Cheshire-cat grin on his old, haggard face as we moved through the crowds.

‘That was a piece of fuckin’ cake,’ yelled Bill.

‘Yeah. Too fuckin’ easy,’ I snapped back.

Just before we got to the limo, a blonde and a brunette appeared out of nowhere. Bill smiled and moved to one side to let them get closer to me. In broken English, one of them said to me, ‘Come with us to a party.’ The other one handed me a card.

‘No thanks.’

‘Come on. We can ‘ave some fun,’ said the brunette. ‘Shame we can’t take ‘em back with us in our suitcases,’ grinned Neville, who was right alongside me like a good minder.

‘Here’s their card,’ I said. ‘Be my guest.’

Truth is, when you’re at an illegal fight in a strange country filled with cocaine-snorting hoods, the last thing you want is to start partying with their molls. In any case, I was a newly married man!

That night I eventually rolled home in the early hours to find Carole fast asleep. It made it all worth it when I saw her lying there. As far as she was concerned I’d been out working the door at a West End club. The next day Bill bunged me an
envelope containing £6000 for that fight in Paris. Not bad for under a minute’s work. I gave Neville and Wayne £500 on top of what they no doubt earned from Bill. They were worth every penny of it.

And I kept up my own limited training schedule by spending at least one hour every day in the garden using mild weights. Nothing too heavy because I didn’t want to bulk up and lose my speed. Then I’d run two or three miles every day, usually around Wanstead Flats. In the middle of all this I did a lot of stretching and side bends. And I kept my muscles toned at all times. I also went to the local baths and swam up to fifty lengths and then had a session on the running machine.

On the food front, I stuck to a diet of mainly pasta, potatoes, rice and white meat, with lots of milk for the calcium. Definitely no fry-ups and no burgers.

Shortly after the France fight, I met Wayne and Neville for a beer and they let it slip that quite a number of fighters had popped their clogs at bouts organised by Bill.

‘But it ain’t your problem, bruv,’ said Neville.

I shrugged my shoulders and tried not to look too bothered. But inside I was well upset. I never wanted anyone to die although I knew that the fighters I faced wouldn’t have thought twice about finishing me off. Neville felt bad about blurting this information out. Bill had no doubt tried to keep the truth from me about the deaths because he didn’t want me to be put off.

A few weeks later I confronted Bill about the whole business. He admitted he’d heard from one of his people that the other fighter I’d knocked out in my first fight had died from a brain haemorrhage. When Bill told me he patted me on
the back as if to say well done for killing that poor bastard. ‘Fuck off, you prat,’ I snapped back at him. ‘D’you think I wanted him to die?’

I was gutted when I heard about that other fella. And it could so easily have been me. Hearing about that other fighter’s death made me decide I had to get out of the game. Then my younger brother Ian got me a job at a well-known hotel in the West End as a handyman. It was a full-time job and I hoped it might help keep me off the circuit now I was happily married and settled with Carole.

But it’s almost as if trouble just followed me around because on my second day I bumped into a chef who I’d boxed when he was at West Ham Boys’ Club. He was organising illegal fights in the basement of the hotel.