Wannabe in My Gang? (2 page)

Sadly, Courtney is not the only one who has written a ‘true crime’ biography which is in fact bullshit. Several more are exposed in this book.

Many young kids think that being a gang member is flash or something to aspire to. That is a disturbing enough thought, but when you consider that gun crime in the UK has risen by 35 per cent in the last few years, promoting such a lifestyle is criminal in itself.

Lying fools like Courtney, to whom the media give oxygen, are not men of respect as they want others to think – they are despicable. They use their books to boast and brag to impressionable young kids about the heinous crimes they have committed, the lavish lifestyle they have enjoyed on the back of a life of crime and the ‘useful’ time they have spent in prison. I describe them as despicable because they are recommending a lifestyle to kids that they themselves have never experienced or had to endure.

I have endured it and I can assure you if you’ve bought this book to read about the glamour of being a gangster, you’re going to be very disappointed.

1

ABOUT A BOY

Johannesburg, South Africa, 20 September 1988

As the car came hurtling down the street nobody could have imagined the devastation it was about to cause. The teenager at the wheel was under age, had no licence or insurance and had taken the car without the consent of the owner. Unaware of the approaching car, ten-year-old James Fallon, who had moved from Wolverhampton to South Africa with his parents, was walking across a zebra crossing with his BMX bike. By the time the driver saw James, it was too late. The vehicle struck the boy and dragged him along the road for 30 metres before tossing his body onto the pavement. Ironically, the accident took place close to a nurse’s house. By the time James’s body had come to rest he was unconscious and had turned blue. The nurse, having heard the collision, ran on to the street and gave James the kiss of life before calling the emergency services.

When he arrived at the hospital, James underwent surgery for seven hours. A steel collar had to be put on his body in order to hold his head in place on his shoulders. James was put on a life-support machine, but nobody thought he would survive the night.

An examination of James revealed that he was paralysed from the neck down. He was unable to breathe without the aid of a respirator and he was unable to swallow or speak. He could hear and see and, crucially, his comprehension was unimpaired. With the help of round-the-clock nursing care, James’s heartbroken parents began the slow process of bringing him back to life.

Miraculously, he learned to communicate by eye movement and within six months was ready to return home to his parents. Not only did James continue to improve his communication skills but also managed to pass exams in maths, general knowledge, English and geography with the aid of videotapes. James’s terrible accident generated publicity locally, nationally and back home in England.

On Friday, 20 January 1989, I was visiting my mother in Wolverhampton when I read the following article in the local evening newspaper,
The Express and Star
:

UNCLE STARTS FUND TO HELP PARALYSED CRASH BOY, 10

A Codsall man has launched an appeal fund for his nephew who ‘died’ twice and is now totally paralysed after a road accident in South Africa.

Former Codsall boy James Fallon, aged ten, had his skull detached from his spine in the smash last September. Top surgeons from all over South Africa managed to save his life in a seven-hour operation, which has since featured in medical journals throughout the world. It was the first time it had been carried out in the country and only the fourth time it had been attempted anywhere.

But now James cannot talk, breathe or swallow without the aid of life-support systems. He is still in Johannesburg General Hospital where he has been taught to use a computer, which allows him to communicate, by eye movement.

‘We are hoping he will be allowed home some time in May,’ said his uncle, Paul Nicholson of Wilkes Road, ‘but his parents will have to install very expensive equipment if he is to survive.’

His parents, Elaine, 33, and Roger, 35, who also lived in Wilkes Road, emigrated to South Africa six years ago. The accident happened as James was going back to school for a concert recital. He was hit by a speeding car driven by an under age motorist. The 17-year-old driver, who had taken his father’s car without consent, was later fined £50.

James was hurled more than 90 feet along the road and also suffered internal injuries and crushed legs. He stopped breathing once at the roadside and again in the hospital.

‘It was a miracle he survived, but now he is a prisoner in his own body,’ said Mr Nicholson. His parents need a lot of money to convert their home and he is starting an appeal in James’s name at Barclays Bank in Codsall.

I knew all about being a prisoner and the thought of an innocent ten-year-old boy being trapped in his own body really struck a chord with me. I had quite rightly been imprisoned on two occasions for wounding people. I also had convictions for robbery, violent disorder, breach of the peace, affray and assaulting police. Yet here was a ten-year-old boy, with his whole life before him, imprisoned in his own body and he had done nothing. I really felt for him.

His mother, Elaine Fallon, used to live in the same street as me in Codsall, where I was brought up. Even though she had only lived 20 doors away, I had never really spoken to her. I did know Elaine’s elder brother, Paul, but only to say hello to. They were a close-knit family, good hard-working people who kept themselves to themselves. James would receive all the love and moral support he needed from them – of that I was certain. All the Fallon family required was financial support to pay for the specialist equipment that James needed. I decided I would ‘do my bit’ and try to raise a bit of money locally.

At this time I was living in Basildon, Essex, with my partner Debra and our son Vinney. I didn’t fancy making endless trips up and down the motorway, so I settled for a one-off event. I decided that the quickest and most efficient way of raising money would be if I could get lots of items off famous or infamous people and hold an auction. I wrote about 150 letters to well-known people and bands such as The Rolling Stones, The Who, Paul McCartney, Madonna and Dire Straits. I also wrote to numerous football clubs including Arsenal, Manchester United and Wolverhampton Wanderers. In fact I wrote to everybody I could think of who had ever been ‘a somebody’. Amongst those ‘somebodies’, I included the infamous Kray twins.

I asked the various people I wrote to if they would donate something of theirs that had been signed and which people would be prepared to pay money for. It didn’t matter if it was a book, an album, a T-shirt, a football, photo or item of clothing. The vast majority of people did send something: Dire Straits sent a gold disc, The Rolling Stones sent signed albums, as did The Who. Madonna donated a signed T-shirt and most football clubs sent signed footballs and photographs. Even Great Train Robbers Ronnie Biggs and Buster Edwards sent signed white £5 banknotes – the same type as they had stolen in their infamous heist.

The Kray twins donated a signed photograph and a picture that Ronnie had painted in Broadmoor. The picture looked as if a three-year-old had painted it. It was a house on a hill. The hill was green. The house was orange and red. There was a tree by the side of it that looked more like a stick with a green blob on the top. The sky was black and to me that said more about the state of Ronnie’s mind than his obvious lack of artistic talent.

I wasn’t sure anybody would want to hang it on a wall in their home, but I was certain somebody would buy it just because ‘a Kray had painted it’. I was sitting in the garden one afternoon when the telephone rang. Debra answered it and then called out to me.

‘Bernie, there’s a man on the phone. He says his name is Reggie Kray and he wants to talk to you.’

‘Here we go,’ I said. ‘Some fucking unemployed fool I’ve met with nothing better to do than play jokes on people.’

I went in and picked up the receiver. The man on the other end of the line sounded elderly, weak and almost effeminate.

‘All right, Bernie? This is Reggie Kray.’

‘Oh yes, and what can I do for you, Reggie?’ I still thought someone was trying to wind me up so I was being sarcastic.

‘I’ve read the article you sent me about the boy James Fallon. My brother and I have sent you a painting, but we just wondered if we could do any more to help. We just wanted to offer our assistance.’

I have to admit that I was quite shocked when I realised it was in fact Reggie Kray who was on the phone.

I had always imagined him to be a powerful, menacing man who would speak with a deep intimidating tone. How wrong I was; he sounded just like Corporal Jones off the TV series
Dad’s Army
.

I told Reggie that I was organising a charity auction in Wolverhampton and that was going to be it, as far as I was concerned, so I didn’t really need any help.

‘Well, we just wanted you to know that we’re thinking about the boy and if we can help you, we will,’ said Reg.

We exchanged pleasantries and Reg said that he would keep in touch by letter to see how James was getting on. I put the phone down and thought no more about it.

The Krays had earned their infamous reputation from the way they had controlled the East End of London during the 1960s. They had beaten, stabbed, shot and even murdered rival gang members on their way to the top of the criminal heap, but were as well known for their charitable acts as their violent outbursts and many in the East End saw them as Robin Hood-type figures. I couldn’t see anything wrong with the Krays being associated with the Fallon cause. In fact I thought it could only have been a positive thing. They knew a lot of people and never failed to generate interest where the media was concerned. To raise money for James, I would have to give his plight as much exposure as possible and the name Kray would certainly help me achieve that. For now, I didn’t need anything other than the items they had so kindly donated, as they would be enough to give me the publicity I needed.

I booked the Connaught Hotel in Wolverhampton, which is one of the better hotels in the city. I also secured the services of a local band called The Sect, who agreed to play free of charge. A local DJ also agreed that he would provide his services for free. I was reasonably confident that the event was going to be a success.

Ticket sales, however, were non-existent. I could only put the lack of local support down to two factors.

Firstly, at that time, the mid- to late ’80s, there was a lot of anti-South African feeling in reaction to the apartheid laws. Trade sanctions had been imposed against the country by Britain and many other Western nations. It wasn’t politically correct for people to have anything to do with the country and, particularly, with white South Africans.

The main reason, I guessed, was that as young men growing up in the Wolverhampton area, my elder brothers and I had been nothing but trouble. We had all been imprisoned and convicted of numerous violent offences and people felt intimidated by us. I just don’t think that anybody wanted to be involved with anything we were doing, regardless of what or who we were doing it for.

My attitude was ‘Fuck them’ – I wasn’t going to let their petty mindset interfere with my efforts to help a child. As the event drew nearer, my elder brother Paul, who lived in Brixton, south London, my younger brother Michael, who still lived in Wolverhampton, and I decided to visit the pubs and clubs in the city in order to generate interest and sell tickets.

We were going from pub to pub, leaving tickets with landlords and asking customers to buy them, but they were all claiming to be short of money or ‘busy that night’. I hate fucking ponces and tight people.

Rightly or wrongly, their attitude didn’t put me in the best of moods. I was annoyed that so-called ‘decent people’ could hold petty prejudices and in a sad attempt to spite me, withhold a meagre £5 note from a 10-year-old paralysed boy who was fighting for his life.

As we continued touting the tickets, we came across what I can only describe as a group of drunken louts who were hanging about in the street. They were behaving like drugged-up monkeys, hurling wastepaper bins, screeching and throwing chips at one other.

As we walked by, somebody threw a chip that hit me on the back and one of them called me a ‘wanker’. I turned around and asked who had thrown the chip. Nobody said anything, so I asked who had called me a wanker. Again, nobody answered so I started to walk away with my brothers. I really wasn’t in the mood to be dealing with these people. Once more, the abuse started and one or two of them were mimicking me and laughing. They’d had their chance, so I walked up to who I thought was the culprit and punched him in the face.

He immediately lost his swaggering bravado and started whimpering, ‘Please don’t hit me, please don’t hit me. I haven’t done anything.’ One of his friends began to run to a nearby telephone box – so as to ring the police, I assumed. I didn’t relish the thought of being arrested for the likes of these people, so I ran over to try and stop him. Meanwhile the man I had hit, Stuart Darley, was getting brave again and shouting further obscenities, so I left his friend and walked back over to where he was standing. I hit him again to shut his drunken mouth. I know what some people might say – it’s violent, it’s wicked – but vulnerable people like my elderly mother have to walk those same streets and endure that sort of intimidating, loutish behaviour. The gang quickly dispersed. My brothers and I carried on with what we had set out to do.