Fighting to the Death (8 page)

Just then the old boy steams in with yet another flurry of master-strokes and the punter crumbles to the deck. The ref leaps in and puts his hand up to end it. ‘Well done, lads. Now shake on it.’

It looked ridiculous when the winner tried to shake his opponent’s hand because the other man was still lying groaning on the floor at the time.

Uncle Pete and my old man were laughing and clapping both fighters. ‘I reckon I could ‘ave him easy,’ my dad yelled over to his brother. I looked across at Uncle Pete and he winked. He knew what I thought of the old man. In any case, there was no way my dad was going to grab my glory that night. And I knew from Pete’s reaction he was thinking along the same lines.

A short interval followed that first bout so that everyone could top up their glasses. That’s when the club manager went over and had another look at the pad to see who was next up for a scrap. My eyes had wandered back to the strippers by this time. They looked as tasty as ever.

Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder. It was the club manager. ‘You’re next, Carl,’ he screamed in my ear. ‘You’re fightin’ that guy, Adam.’ He then pointed at the gym instructor two tables away who was just standing up. ‘Go get your gloves on, Son.’

Adam saw us pointing in his direction. He nodded and winked at me. I just dropped my head. I didn’t want him to see the look in my eyes – yet. There’d be plenty of time for that once we got in the ring.

I followed Uncle Pete and the club manager across the room to the gloves table behind the ring area in a relatively quiet corner of the club. Pete almost immediately started putting the huge gloves on me. Alongside me, my opponent Adam and two of his mates turned up and started doing likewise. They did up his gloves quicker than me, which seemed to suggest he’d been in the ring a few times before. He and his mates then strolled back to their table.

Pete was just tying the second knot on my gloves when the club manager asked, ‘You ready, lads? ‘

I nodded, ‘Yeah.’

Across at his table, my opponent Adam did the same thing.

At that moment my dad stood up at his table and also shouted, ‘Yeah’ at the top of his voice. I felt a bit embarrassed. Then the old man turned to me and said. ‘Watch his hands. They’re fast. Get in there and do it, Son.’ I wasn’t really sure if I wanted his advice or not but I didn’t have any choice. I grimaced. My old man was irritating me. I’d made myself very nervous although I was glad I hadn’t got the old boy with the beer gut who’d won the contest before me. My breathing suddenly got much heavier. I could feel my heart thumping away. I was no longer aware of anything other than myself. I was locking myself off emotionally, just the way I’d been taught when I was a proper boxer.

I was stood next to the ring and started doing some warm-up shadow boxing in a mirror, twisting my neck, generally loosening up. My opponent was still sitting chatting with his mates at the table across the other side of the ring. Why wasn’t he getting up? Perhaps he was so confident he didn’t have to bother warming up?

Suddenly I heard one of his mates shouting across the room. ‘He’s a bit flash, ain’t he?’

Another quipped at my direction, ‘Thinks he’s a bit tasty, does he?’

Just then my old man shot up from his table. ‘Shut yer mouth, you fuckin’ prat.’

I glanced across at my dad. I knew he meant well, but the last thing I wanted was a pub brawl before I’d had a chance to show
off my skills in the ring. I looked daggers at the old man and he seemed to get the message and sat down.

Meanwhile the club manager was leaning over the ropes taking late bets from the crowd. I noticed there was a lot more interest in this bout. Did they all know something I didn’t?

My opponent Adam was still at his table. It seemed to be part of his act to be casual about the whole thing. Was it all a trick? His mate was even feeding him a pint through a straw because he couldn’t hold the glass on account of his gloves being on. His mates then laughed snidely over in my direction. I could hear them dissing me but I ignored it all. I carried on shadow boxing in front of the mirror. My image was multiplied by six thanks to other mirrors nearby.

Then I stopped the warm-up. I shook my wrists and arms and finally looked up and focused in on my opponent Adam. I caught him looking up at me and gave him a cold, hard stare. It was the first time I’d stared him properly in the eye. Adam looked right back at me. But his eyes seemed glazed and the pupils were beady and dark as treacle. Maybe he was on drugs or something? Or maybe he was just that sort of person.

Seconds later he finally got up and walked to the ringside. He did a bit of what I’d call token shadow boxing as he walked around the tables towards me and the club manager standing by the edge of the ring.

‘Ready, lads?’ asked the club manager.

‘Yeah.’

Adam leaped over the ropes and into the ring in one fluid movement that seemed to suggest he was good on his feet, despite all the boozing.

I didn’t immediately follow him because Uncle Pete was whispering instructions right in my lug hole.

‘You alright?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m up for it. No problem.’

At that moment the club manager put his foot on the bottom rope and lifted the middle up. I got in the ring slowly. Make your opponent relax, was what I’d always been taught.

I headed straight to the middle where the ref and my opponent Adam were waiting.

‘Keep it clean, lads,’ said the club manager. But his words melted into the crowd by this stage. I’d only got one thing on my mind.

As we both tapped gloves reluctantly, I saw Adam look across at his mates. I couldn’t hear what they were mouthing but they obviously thought he was going to cruise it. The noise was deafening. Then I heard Uncle Pete and my dad shouting at me:

‘Go on, Son.’

‘You’ll have him.’

They both clutched pint mugs in their hands:

Me and Adam went back to our respective corners. Then the ref dropped his hand and we were off. I deliberately walked slowly out towards Adam. I wanted him to come to me. His hands were down by his side. He was either brilliant or untrained. I had a feeling he didn’t know what he was doing. I thought he’d take a run at me there and then, just like the previous fighter had done in his contest.

But instead he started goading me and beckoning me towards him. I held back. I wasn’t going to let this arsehole control the contest. Pete and my old man had other ideas.

‘Get in there, Son,’ Uncle Pete screamed above the crowd.

‘Come on. Get on with it;’ the crowd screamed, baying for blood.

‘Give him a hiding, Son.’

Then Adam finally took two steps in my direction. That was enough for me. That was the signal. I immediately hit him with my long-reach jab to see how he’d respond. It worked a treat because he then took a wild swing at me with both fists and completely missed, smacked nothing more than the hot, smoky air.

Soon I’d got into my stride with my favourite Ali shuffle routine, the one that used to get them really pissed off back at the gym in East London. As Adam grew more and more frustrated and kept trying to swipe me with wild, inaccurate punches, I got down low, under his arms. I threw a strong right then a left into his ribs. I heard him groaning as that punch connected. The crowd was at top volume by now. I couldn’t hear a thing from Pete or my dad.

Then I stepped back to see what kind of damage I’d inflicted. This time his guard was up high and he was covering himself up, looking like a frightened deer. He was shocked and stunned. Blood was coming from his lip and a cut above his eyebrow. I’d also clearly winded him because he couldn’t stand up straight. He made no attempt to come back at me so I went in really hard. I was buzzin’ for it by now. I could smell victory out of his fear.

Then he surprised me by managing to land a few straight punches to my forehead as I charged in. It stopped me for a few seconds before I got him with one of my finest left hooks. It was a short, sharp blockbuster and he visibly wobbled. But then he came back with a couple of defensive punches so I
went in with short right jabs followed by another left hook to the side of his head.

He veered across me and then paused for a moment. I thought he was winded. Then his eyes rolled and he lurched across the rope and vomited right onto the table where all his piss-taking mates were sitting. They shot up like a bunch of schoolgirls to try and avoid the spew, but two of them caught it full on. I stood watching it in disbelief – it was bloody brilliant.

Then the ref jumped into the ring. But I hadn’t finished yet. As Adam turned around, I aimed another flurry at him. I was just about to land a bone-cracking left when the ref and Uncle Pete pulled me off him. For a few seconds I kept punching out, as if I was on autopilot. Then I blinked and noticed for the first time what an awful state my opponent was in, and stopped immediately.

It was only then I realised the crowd was going wild for me. That gave me the best buzz I’d ever felt in my life. It was wicked – like a shot of adrenaline in the arm. Then I noticed the look of pride on the faces of Uncle Pete and my dad. They both looked chuffed to bits. A couple of feet away, Adam was carried out of the ring by his spew-covered mates. They didn’t even dare give me a second glance.

I acknowledged the crowd with a huge wave and a little bit of shadow boxing. They loved it. I got out of the ring and went with Uncle Pete to the glove table.

‘Well done, Son,’ said the old man. ‘What an operator. Fuckin’ brilliant!’

‘You done it, Boy,’ said Uncle Pete as he took off the gloves. ‘You fuckin’ done it.’

‘That’s a vicious left hook you got, Son,’ said the old man, so
pissed he was mumbling his words. I felt like saying he would have known all about my punches if he’d bothered to watch me boxing when I was a kid.

Dad stood there, pint in hand, laughing and patting me on the back like we were the closest father and son in the world. But all I kept thinking was why the fuck wasn’t he there alt those years earlier when I’d really needed him? It didn’t make me happy that he was proud of me, because he didn’t deserve my love that day. I didn’t say a word to him. But I caught his attention with a hard, cold look straight into his face. I wanted him to know that all was far from perfect between us.

Nevertheless, all of us had some celebrating to do that evening. We got back to our table and I had a pint or two – I needed something to water down the adrenaline rush. I felt as tense as a board. I shook from the excitement for hours afterwards. My opponent, Adam, returned to his table eventually, having cleaned up. I walked over to him.

‘You alright?’ I asked.

‘I’ll live,’ he mumbled back through a swollen lip.

We then both shook hands.

‘You here next week?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘Yeah. But I’m not goin’ back in there!’ he said, nodding towards the ring.

This time round his mates didn’t take the piss. They were alright, as it turned out. We even bought each other a few bevvies that night. All’s fair in love and war as they say.

Then, to top it all, the brunette stripper who’d caught my eye earlier came over to our table, lent across my uncle Pete, planted a lovely wet kiss on my bruised lips and said: ‘You gonna buy me a drink, then?’

My uncle and the old man were giggling like a couple of schoolboys. She was wearing nothing but skimpy black lacy underwear and a pair of strappy shoes. She said her name was Susan and, naturally, I was convinced she had a twinkle in her eye for me. I bought her a rum and blackcurrant and we talked for a couple of minutes before she had to go back on stage.

Then I was handed £35 for that first fight by the club manager. Me, my uncle and the old man went off for a slap-up meal. It was the least we all deserved.

Afterwards I went to Scamps – as a paying customer for a change. That £35 had burned a hole in my pocket and I was out to enjoy every penny of it. Within minutes of walking into Scamps I bumped straight into Susan, the stripper I’d met earlier at Lacey Lady’s. She looked even better off-duty: blue eyes, lovely long-flowing brown hair, about five-feet-seven. She said she was nineteen. Of course I never told her I was just sixteen. Naturally, I got her another rum and black for good measure.

At Scamps that night the doormen were all talking about my prize-fight victory. That one small dust-up helped earn me a bucket load mare respect. I was standing up straight, chest out proudly as they all came up and slapped me on the back. I was turning into a bit of a minor celebrity.

Even Dave, the manager at Scamps, had heard about my exploits. As I stood there with this tasty bird on one arm and lots of people calling me a hero, I decided that maybe the prize-fight game was worth having a proper go at. Uncle Pete had said the money would quickly get a lot better and, in any case, I loved the buzz of it all.

Aged just sixteen, I was a doorman with a reputation as a decent scrapper. People looked up to me for the first time in my
life. Even the old man began treating me with more respect. Our positions were reversing. Now he wanted to keep me happy, but he knew I was still far from happy with him: All the staff at Scamps were telling him what a brilliant geezer I was. I understood why he felt so proud, but he needed to do more for me before I could forgive him for everything that had happened in the past.

That night at Scamps they were. a bit short of doormen at the end of the evening so I helped out when it came to escorting the manager Dave with all the takings over to the bank deposit machine across the street. We also had to accompany him to his house, in case there were any robbers lurking in the bushes.

I didn’t mind helping out. The doormen and staff at Scamps had already become like my new family. I felt safe and secure in their company and I didn’t want to do anything to risk losing them. For the first time in my life I had a purpose, a goal to fulfil. But how long would it last?

S
oon after that first fight, my old man once again drifted out of my life. He was up to his usual tricks, ducking and diving, and I soon heard on the grapevine he’d hotfooted it to Cyprus. So Uncle Pete became even more of a father figure. Sometimes I wondered how two brothers could be so different. Pete had always looked after my dad and now he was looking after me.

I had four more prize fights in quick succession at clubs near where I was living with Uncle Pete in Croydon. One opponent head-butted me as we tapped gloves to start the fight. He was like a madman on amphetamines but luckily he didn’t manage a full head butt so I quickly recovered and gave him a thrashing.

The second fight went the full distance but I was never in any real danger. My opponent was like a human punch-bag,
soaking up punishment and walking right back at me for more and more punches. I won on the verdict from the ref. Afterwards, when I bought my opponent a couple of beers, I realised he was so brainless he just didn’t feel pain like other normal human beings.

But it was in the dark depths of Brixton that I came closest to a few problems. I was fighting in the back of a notorious boozer called The Crooked Billet, taking on a local boy who made George Foreman look like Twiggy. I eventually knocked this big bruiser out with a hammer left but the crowd were far from happy on account of the fact I wasn’t a local, so me and Uncle Pete made a run for it before the crowd could rip us to shreds. We were just pushing our way out of the boozer through a sea of nasty, unfriendly faces, when an older fellow called Bill came up and introduced himself to us. He complemented me on my fighting skills and blagged a ride with us in Uncle Pete’s motor. I’ll never know to this day if he and Pete had planned that meeting all along but at the time I thought he seemed a decent enough fellow.

Bill was silver-haired with a broken boxer’s nose. He was about 5ft 6in tall, tubby but not fat, and immaculately dressed in a single-breasted Krays-style black suit with brogues and a yellow tie. He must have been in his late fifties. He barked out in an East End cockney twang while sucking on a fat cigar; which annoyed me because I hated the smell. He made lots of hand movements as he spoke, and he boasted that his wallet was always filled with cash. I was intrigued by the big signet ring on his left hand and a watch that must have been worth a couple of grand.

Me, Bill, Uncle Pete and another of Pete’s doorman mates stopped for a pint once we’d got out off the manor that night in Brixton. Bill and Pete seemed to have a lot to talk about so I played a few rounds of pool with the other doorman. Every now and again, I’d look up from the game and spot both of them looking in my direction. I got the distinct feeling they were talking about me but I was too shy, and young, to go over and ask them what it was all about.

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 …