by Paul Sykes
Fucking tell him Janet, I'd say, or I'll tell everybody why I'm not talking to Mick. I'll tell everybody you're a slag, and then I'd leave. Mick would understand but we wouldn't be friends.
'Listen Mick, I know what you're thinking and you've got it all wrong but you've as much chance of stabbing me with that as flying.'
'You fucking bastard.' He grunted from the effort of rising and I took half a step towards him and let go. As the punch left my shoulder my balance was all to cock caused by the sling on the other arm. As I adjusted my feet they became entangled in the carpet-rug and Mick was up with the skewer in his hand and I was falling face down onto the freezer. The first thing to hit would be the hole in my hand. I could see myself prostrate across the freezer with the 15" skewer between my shoulder blades. If that didn't kill me the pain from my hand would.
Twisting to avoid landing on my hand I snapped at him with my teeth and caught something soft. It was lapel I thought as it came away between my teeth and fell to the floor. I hit the freezer with my shoulder and straightened immediately to meet the attack. He was standing rigid and holding the side of his head. He'd gone the colour of milk and I realised it wasn't lapel but ear. I'd bitten his ear off as easily as I'd tear paper. Of all the rotten diabolical fucking luck it had to happen to me. Why couldn't he have had a proper ear, one that was fastened on properly. He wouldn't listen to reason at all and nearly fainted when Janet bustled in and picked it up from beneath his feet. I begged him to let me take him to the hospital but he wouldn't let me and threatened he'd get the crossbow if I didn't leave. 'Janet was sending for the ambulance,' Elaine said, walking to the car.
How I wished with all my heart it was Janet's ear I'd bitten.
The Monday morning, before I could get to a solicitor, I'd been ar-rested, charged, and remanded in custody for 7 days. The police objected to bail on the grounds the plaintiff, his wife and children were living in constant terror of me, and, of course my record. After 7 days they used exactly the same excuse and this time the old feller was in court. He went straight to the police complaints department and made a complaint. The copper who'd objected to bail had committed perjury, he'd told deliberate lies under oath and to prove it Mick came to visit the following week.
He had a thick crepe bandage over the injury but even that was hardly noticeable under his thick mat of black hair. His ear would be completely covered. Anyway he had ears like an elephant and I knew I hadn't ripped it all off, just sort of trimmed it a bit. Smartened it up. Might do the other one if he doesn't get me out I thought, watching him enter the visiting room looking sheepish and embarrassed, and
telling me he was sorry. Old Mick would do his level best to get me out but I was up against the coppers and they wanted me away, even Mick knew that now. He wouldn't listen when I'd told him what would happen if he didn't let me take him to the hospital.
'They'll send for the police Mick, once they see what's wrong with you and I'll get five years.' 'No you won't,' he'd promised, 'cos I'll tell 'em the fuckin' dog did it.' He added, 'Now fuck off afore I get the crossbow.' The police were involved up to their necks in the case, doing everything in their power to get Mick to alter his story, and the power they had had frightened him to death. Full-time police protection and all his visitors screened. They'd even stopped his dad from seeing him while he'd been in the hospital but they hadn't hustled him into a little room to see if they could dig something up about me like they'd done with the others.
They'd even been having a go at me through Paul while I'd been serving the last sentence, the old feller had told me. Until then he'd been pro-police. Little Paul, who'd been 21 months old, had been taken into the intensive care unit at Pinderfields after somebody had battered him. That was the diagnosis. Pauline, his mother, blamed her younger brother who'd been baby-sitting but the old feller strongly suspected Pauline. He'd gone up to Wood Street to report it and when the sergeant behind the desk realised I was his father he'd laughed in the old feller's face and asked when I was due to be released. If Mick knew about that little episode he'd realise the powers of the police were unlimited and they could do exactly what they wanted.
Mick gave me plenty to think about before I came up for bail for the third and final time. If it wasn't granted this time I was bang in trouble and the police would be objecting in the strongest possible terms. They'd been objecting since the second week I'd been out of Durham, when one accused me of knocking his elbow in Heppy's. He'd come to the table where I'd been sitting with Patsy and Lily, the two Liverpool girls, and asked if I was looking for a fight because I'd spilt beer all down his sleeve.
Both sleeves were dry and I'd not been near him. Leaning against the bar were five of his oppos supposed to be looking for the Ripper. Without a doubt I could have battered the lot of the useless bastards but that's what they were after. A week later the same copper came to the house with a sergeant and an inspector to ask why I'd been to the
Empire stores last week. This week they'd laid on an armed ambush. They thought I'd been going to rob the wages.
I'd explained I'd been driving past at dinner time just as all the girls were going back in, my pal thought they all looked like American majorettes and wanted to see them again. It was Michael, Del's brother, so I told the manager he was the Nigerian Postmaster-General and we wanted a look round because maybe the company could expand into Africa. We'd been given a conducted tour wearing security badges and seen a dozen girls I knew. They knew we weren't who we said we were and told the gaffer, who in turn told the coppers. They came to the house the day after the ambush wanting to know what my game was and to lay down the law, an inspector, a sergeant, and the copper who'd pulled me in Heppy's. In no uncertain manner I'd been told if I didn't get off their patch I'd spend 6 months out of every 12 on remand if I did anything or not. The inspector had told Mick while he'd been in hospital and added I shouldn't really be in prison, an animal like me should have my arms off at the elbow and my legs off at the knees and then be released.
The coppers in charge of this case were the sergeant and the one who'd pulled me in Heppy's. Mick said his name was Dawson, and he'd been about Wakefield years. Mick also told me Tommy had been to see him and promised free tickets to my first fight and said this bit of bother wouldn't alter anything, I'd still be on the first bill in the new season.
Tommy was very confident I'd be given bail and even arranged to have the ex-mayor of Castleford stand surety for me. My finger was almost better and I'd regained all the fitness I'd lost with late nights and whizzing about, with regular sleep and a session in the gym every day. Tommy had seen me perform in the ring with Phil Martin, his light-heavy who'd fought weeks earlier for the British title, and Peter. Tommy knew a good thing when he saw it and he had the pull to swing it for me.
Leeds produced me at the Magistrates court for the third time and it all went the prosecution's way until Mick breezed down the aisle and took the oath. When he'd finished the coppers didn't have a case but the old feller did with his complaint. Bail was granted providing I had two sureties of £200 each. The old feller and Burt Corris, Tommy's mate, the ex-Mayor, stood for me and I was released with
the only condition being I hadn't to associate with Mick, and to keep away from his shop.
The condition didn't say Mick couldn't associate with me though but apart from buying a car I saw nothing of him, because I was living at the other side of town with Elaine, in her lovely big 3-storey house overlooking the Grammar School playing-field. We spent the first night in the old feller's bed while he'd slept in mine, which had been a real surprise; I'd never thought they'd let me sleep at home with a married woman, and then I'd moved in with Elaine the following day.
* * * *
It was a peculiar house for a peculiar lady. From the front door to the back garden, you had to go through a funny little door under the stairs and down a steep flight of stone steps, along a narrow passage with a room either side, and out of the back door. The house was split l
evel, about 12ft, and the very bottom floor wasn't used. The two rooms were acting as cellars and perfect for what I had in mind. The long, narrow back garden had fallen into neglect but it wasn't overgrown on account of the stately beech tree taking all the goodness from the soil. The kitchen and bathroom had been added after the house had been built and from its layout they hadn't existed before. It was a staircase with a room either side from the basement to the top bedrooms with the rooms progressively becoming smaller which gave the impression two more floors would end in a point. It was far too big for a single-child family so Elaine had taken in a lodger, a tiny half-caste girl with proportionately the biggest tits you could imagine. They came into view minutes before she did. She was 19, on the dole, but supplemented her income with part-time prostitution and a bit of shop-lifting. Her name was Wilma, and Elaine was her manager. When Wilma was in the house she acted the nurse to Elaine's daughter, but it was a job she didn't like. Before I could put my idea into operation the daughter would have to go.
The idea was to have an after-hours drinker, somewhere for people to go when the pubs and clubs had closed, providing I could find suitable premises and the rent wasn't too high. This was perfect, two soundproof rooms, no rent, and there was plenty of parking without attracting attention. The neighbours were all in flats in the adjoining
houses. Nobody would notice: Elaine would notice though and it was her house. She surprised me at home, she was a different woman altogether. Around the town of a night she acted and postulated as if she was a big wheel in the Mafia. Her hair style a huge frizzy Afro, and all her clothes were black, plain black, like the Phantom of the Opera, and she had a terrible habit of talking from the side of her mouth. She didn't care if her lipstick smudged and smeared talking the way she did and it was at these times 1 fancied she would accept the idea no problem. At home she hung the black mac and her gangster guise in the wardrobe and became a different woman altogether. She became an ordinary housewife with a small daughter. The house was spotless from top to bottom and she could knock up a decent meal without fuss or bother. She wore normal clothes, skirts, blouses, dresses, in pleasant colours but just occasionally she'd lapse into criminal jargon that would shatter the image completely. It would have to be at home when 1 asked, when she was normal, otherwise she might change her mind, but before 1 could 1 had to get rid of the daughter.
She was a pretty little girl at first glance but the more 1 saw of her the more 1 thought she was as peculiar as her mother. She would stand for ages looking at me without expression but a wary glint in her eye, and trying to weigh the job up. One minute she had a dad, the next minute she had me. She wasn't frightened or timid, just puzzled. She would stand about a yard from the side of the double bed and the instant she saw my eyes open she'd twirl away and disappear. She would go into the garden to throw bricks and stones at the cat from next door, or find somewhere different to hide. She had a remarkable ability to get herself in places she couldn't be found. Sometimes 1 supervised her nightly bath like her Daddy had and she didn't mind, not even when 1 'accidentally' managed to get soap in her eyes and pointed out her Daddy wouldn't be so careless.
The next time she stood at the side of the bed 1 kept my eyes closed and said quietly so Elaine wouldn't hear, 'I've killed your Daddy and buried him in the back garden.' She didn't answer but twirled away as she'd done before. The idea was to set up a chain where she would want, demand, to see him. 'I want my Daddy,' she'd begin to cry but she didn't. Three mornings later 1 said it again and this time she reacted. 'Daddy kill you,' her little girl's voice lowered.
'He run you over with a motor car.' She strutted from the bedroom like a judge leaving the courtroom after pronouncing sentence. What she said or what she did I didn't know but she'd gone when I came back from Great Yarmouth a few days later. She was living with her Daddy in Horbury, and I had enough money to get started. The trip to Yarmouth had been well worthwhile.
* * * *
Knowing I'd 6 months to get through before I could earn a living boxing I'd spent hours thinking of how I could survive without breaking the law. There wasn't any chance of signing on the dole for me, not because I wasn't eligible but I didn't want to feel I had to ponce to get by. Signing on the dole was no different to begging and admitting defeat. It wasn't in my nature to work for somebody else either even if I could find a suitable job. There was no way I needed or wanted a boss, I was quite capable of bossing myself. Self-reliance was a lesson the old feller and Mother had taught me from being a nipper and almost 13 years in the nick had done the rest. I'd had £76 when I'd been released from Durham, of which I'd given Davy £25 the first morning. He'd given me it back ages ago and at the same time brought a few bits and pieces for me to sell which had given my finances a much needed boost. It wasn't the only bit of wheeling and dealing I'd done, always with lads from out of town, and I'd always managed to have a few quid in my pocket, but the point was I didn't like or want to break the law.
The least sniff and Dawson would be on me like a ton of bricks. I'd had enough of the nick; almost 13 years was a good lump of life for a feller my age. There was so much to do, so much to make up for, so many places to see, but it all took money and I hadn't any.
Apart from the after-hours drinker I'd fancied I could earn a living, a good living, selling snide jewellery, bracelets, rings, watches, all ramped and stamped as the real thing but I hadn't been able to find any for sale, not until after I'd been in Leeds for Mick's ear. The library red-band, a little fresh-faced kid from Accrington, with a gold tooth, had introduced himself and told me he was a pal of Norman's, and advised me I should go look him up when I was given bail.
'You'll get bail, can't keep you in,' he'd said. 'Get yersel across and see Norman. He's allus on about you and he'll put you straight in touch with somebody. Go and see him.'
The following weekend, in a car Mick was trying to sell me, I'd gone across to Norm's village to look him up. He'd been standing in the front garden as if he'd been primed I was coming. After I'd had words with him I bought the car and Norm not only introduced me to a feller who had exactly what I was looking for but came with me to Great Yarmouth to see if I could sell it.
It had been exactly 10 years since I'd first met baldy old Norm, in Nottingham prison. He'd been serving 4 years at the time and when he'd gone on the hostel to serve his last 6 months working outside he'd brought me in a little parcel every week of eggs and meat. It had been a lifesaver. At 21 I'd always been hungry and Norm was 37 and we hadn't really been friendly. It was a terrible risk for him to take for a young lad he hardly knew and I'd always been grateful and appreciated his nerve.
During my latest sentence he'd shouted to me from the fours on G wing in Liverpool the minute I'd come from the punishment landing and two minutes later we'd been in the same cell. We were in the same cell all through the summer of '75, baldy old Norm and me. It was the most enjoyable period I'd ever spent anywhere. He was shrewd, calculating, knew everything about everything; It had been Norm who showed me how to make the kettle and he was the most reliable, straightest, wisest feller you could ever wish to meet. He'd been discharged and I'd gone back to Durham.
The village where he lived was out in the country on the border of Wakefield and Barnsley, in a council house the likes of which was unique. It looked no different to the others from outside, a neat lawn and flower beds and double gates but when I went inside I couldn't believe my eyes. Walls had been demolished and new ones erected with all the back wall being French windows overlooking a huge pond with lilypads and surrounded with a lovely stone crazy-paving path. Beautiful rosewood wall units and well-worn chesterfield settees seemed to be everywhere and the atmosphere was that of a home, a real home, not like the warehouse, and I loved old Norm all the more. His wife, Kathlene, was responsible for the home and all that was in it and it was Norm's job to provide the money. It seemed ample too judging from the house and the size of his kids, three powerful boys and a girl. His eldest lad was a paratroope
r, one a trainee miner, one waiting to be a paratrooper, and the girl worked in a supermarket.
He took me across to Doncaster to meet his mate Sam, the feller who would and did sell me some jewellery. We did a straight swop for a bit of something I had for 15 rings with either a ducat or a full or half sovereign mounted, ten 40z gents' ID bracelets and 2 ladies', all ramped and stamped 18ct and a couple of days later we set off for Yarmouth.
The reason why I'd picked Yarmouth to start was I knew some people who were renting shops for the season who would either buy the stuff or mark my card on possible punters. After I'd explained all this to Norm he said, 'But tha'll need some money afore you set off an', ave got none. '
Neither had I but I had a bag full of 18ct jewellery.
'Nobody will buy it,' he argued, 'Nobody is that daft.'
'Leave it to me Norm, and remember what we both said in G4-1. I've never been in that part of the world.' We'd agreed if we ever got chance we would visit all the places we'd only read about and go to places we'd never been.
On the 4-hour drive we stopped for some ' snap', as he called food, at a village pub, when out of the blue he asked about Pauline and the little lad. He knew all about her; the visit with the carving knife, the 57 'Dear 10hns', and Kath had been the one who'd sent the report in that stopped me writing for 18 months. With Norm rubbing his belly, he called it a ropp, and saying how full he was I told him of Pauline and the boy on the second leg of the journey.