It seemed to go on for ages. And then suddenly Ronnie stopped. He looked all around him, a strange look on his face, staring at us all as if trying to remember us or recognize somebody. Then he turned and walked quickly to the middle of the room where he stood deep in thought, as though he had some major decision to make and he didn’t know what to do. His whole body suddenly stiffened as if someone had given him an electric shock. We all stared at him, transfixed. We’d never seen anything like it in our lives and we didn’t know what to do. Gradually, Ronnie’s stiff, straight body lost its tenseness. The electric shock had been switched off. Slowly, he sank to his knees as if he was praying. He stayed like that for several seconds.
We were all staring. Then I heard someone shouting, Charlie, for God’s sake, do something!’ I don’t know who it was but it snapped me out of my shock. I ran over to Ronnie and put my arm round his shoulder, but he shrugged it off and pushed me away. ‘Go away!’ he shouted. ‘Go away from me, I don’t know you.’
He stayed like that for a few more seconds, then slowly got to his feet. I told Reggie we had to get him to hospital and he shouted to someone to call an ambulance. When it arrived, Ronnie refused to get in. Then the police came and we all coaxed Ronnie gently, telling him it was for the best, that he was unwell and we needed to make him better. Finally he agreed to get in.
They put Ronnie in a bed with curtains round it and then, at about midnight, a doctor told us there was nothing wrong with him.
We were shell-shocked. I told the doctor what had happened in the billiard hall.
‘We’re not trying to get him certified, you know,’ I said. ‘We think the world of him. We brought him here because there’s something badly wrong.’
The doctor wouldn’t have it.
He must be developing a cunning mind,’ I said. Because you’re a doctor, he’s behaving differently.’
The doctor wasn’t impressed. But the situation was too critical for us to be fobbed off and I persisted. ‘Ronnie doesn’t even believe we’re his brothers. Just stand outside that curtain and listen.’
Somewhat reluctantly, the doctor agreed. Reggie and I went in. ‘How are you, Ron?’ I asked.
Ronnie reacted as we expected. ‘What are you two doing here?’ he said. ‘Get out!’
We pointed to small scars on our faces as proof of our identities but Ronnie said, ‘You’ve had them put on. How clever. Go on, get out – you imposters!’
Ronnie’s behaviour didn’t please us, but it did convince the listening doctor and he apologized for doubting us. He arranged for Ronnie to be admitted to St Clement’s Hospital in Mile End immediately.
For the next two weeks Ronnie was given tests and more drugs to stabilize him. The family visited him every day. He always knew Mum and half-knew the old man, but for the first week neither Reg nor I had a chance: we were still imposters. And then one day I walked in and I could tell straight away that he was all right again.
For the first time Ronnie talked about what he had been going through. It was weird: some of the time he realized the stupid things he was doing but he couldn’t stop himself; most of the time he knew I was Charlie but couldn’t help denying it.
The doctors told me that the terrifying experience in the billiard hall was a seizure and Ronnie could have gone one way or the other. If he had gone the wrong way he would never have come out of it; he would have gone mad. But he fought it and because his will-power was so strong he came through it.
The price he had to pay was immense. Drugs would be part of his life for ever: four different tablets a day, an injection once a month. Ronnie accepted it without complaint; he realized how unwell he was and he knew that the drugs kept away the paranoia and the eventual distrust that led to extreme violence.
The Ronnie Kray who came back into the world to join us in the enterprises we had built in his absence not only looked different from the one who had picked up that gun two years before. His movements were more ponderous, his speech slower, his mind numbed. He wasn’t the Ronnie we had known.
Things changed when Ronnie got involved in The Double R. He had always been the dominant twin and immediately took over. While he was away, Reggie had more or less had a free hand and made his own decisions, but now Ronnie insisted that everything had to be discussed. And even then he would always have to be right. They would argue, as they had always done, but if it came to the crunch, Ronnie would keep on and on until he got his own way. This had a bad effect on all our finances because it was Reggie who had the better business brain. Ronnie, as generous and kind-hearted as ever, preferred to give money away.
In those late fifties, lots of people were coming out of prison and word soon got around that Ronnie Kray was a soft touch. People I’d never seen before would come into the club and Ronnie would give them fifty quid out of the till. The next day it would be someone else. It never seemed to stop.
Reggie and I would get very uptight about it. We said we didn’t mind helping people, but we had to draw the line somewhere. It didn’t cut much ice with Ronnie.
‘What do you want to do – show ourselves up?’ he said. ‘People come home expecting to be given something. Do you want us to get a bad name? Do you want people to think we’re tight?’
Reggie said, ‘We’d better slow down, that’s all. We’re overdoing it.’
Ronnie wouldn’t have it. ‘You may think we are, but I don’t. It’s not going to change. That’s how it’s going to be.’
It was frustrating not being able to reason with Ronnie. I’m sure he thought there was a bottomless well of money he could dip into when he liked. And when there wasn’t any there, he’d moan about it.
One day he came in for some for himself. The till was empty. ‘Where’s the money?’ he said, all surprised.
‘You’ve given it all away.’ I told him.
‘We have to do something,’ he said impatiently. ‘We’ve got to earn some money.’
‘How can we?’ I asked, pleased to make the point. ‘You give it away as fast as we can earn it.’
But it didn’t make the slightest difference. In those days, when the average weekly wage was less than £10, our combined enterprises were bringing in around £200 a week. Ronnie continued to give away twenty, thirty and fifty pounds if he felt people needed it. Children, old people, families who were skint – Ronnie would help them all. But as usual he did it all quietly, without fuss; he didn’t want people to know. One day, however, his generosity was made public, much to Ronnie’s embarrassment.
Every Wednesday a show was put on for old people at Oxford House in Hackney. Ronnie took great delight in arranging for boxes of apples and pears to be sent over to them. This went on for several months, then one night Ronnie delivered the boxes himself. The owner of the little theatre called out, ‘I’m on the stage.’ As Ronnie walked out, the man quickly pulled back the curtains, revealing scores of old ladies and gentlemen waiting for the show to start.
He pointed to Ronnie and said, ‘I thought you’d like to know that this is the gentleman who sends the fruit.’ Then, to Ronnie’s horror, he said, ‘Let’s have three cheers for Ron!’
Ronnie blushed. He couldn’t wait to get off that stage.
If we had to pay a bill for, say, a hundred pounds, Reggie or I would put the money away. But if someone came in and Ronnie felt they needed the money, he’d give it to them without thinking about it. Then later, he’d start worrying about how the bill was going to be paid. If several people wanted help, Ronnie would go out of his way to help them all. Reggie was generous, too, but he was sensible; he wouldn’t leave us with no money for the bills. Money meant everything to Ronnie – but it also meant nothing. If he had a million pounds, he wouldn’t be happy until he’d given it all away.
His charity didn’t stop at cash handouts either. If a kid came into the billiard hall looking for a job, Ronnie would take him on, helping our old man behind the bar or cleaning the tables. We had all the staff we required but Ronnie found it hard not
to help someone if he felt they needed it.
With him around, business was like a benevolent fund or welfare office and one day I told Ronnie he’d missed his vocation in life: he’d have made a fantastic welfare officer. In one respect it was true: he was capable of so much patience with people. One of our customers had a sister who was very ill in a mental hospital, and Ronnie visited her a few times. He just sat talking and listening, trying to help her.
Another customer had a sister who had become a drug addict and changed from a lovely girl into an old hag. Ronnie paid doctors a lot of money to try to help her, then bought her a hairdressing salon to give her an interest. Sadly, the girl was hooked for life and became a registered addict. But she appreciated Ronnie’s help and wrote to a newspaper explaining what he’d done. When Ronnie learned that a certain bloke had ruined her life by forcing her to have drugs at a party, he smashed in the door of his home and gave him a hiding.
Ronnie had this thing about the underdog – anyone underprivileged, weak or in trouble. He loathed bullies and flamboyant, overpowering people who thought they were God’s gift; and he couldn’t stand blokes who took liberties, either. Once, I was with him in a crowded pub when a cocky Irishman came in and ordered drinks all round. When he was asked for the money, he said he would pay the next day because he had none on him. Ronnie was fuming and laid the big Irishman out with a right to the jaw. I picked the guy up and took him outside. When I got back, Ronnie was still seething. ‘What a liberty!’ he said. ‘Walking in like that, then saying he’ll pay when he feels like it!’
The irony is that if that arrogant Irishman had gone up to Ronnie and asked to borrow some money to buy a round, Ronnie would no doubt have given him some.
Most of us in a situation like that would have felt like saying something to put the man in his place. But Ronnie had an abnormally quick temper. If someone did something he didn’t like, he would see red and lash out.
One night there were about twenty of us having a quiet drink in a pub when two guys came in and started staring at us. I asked the group if anyone knew who they were. No one did. I said that when I bought the next round I’d go over and see if they said anything. A little while later I strolled over, unaware that Ronnie had followed me. I was ordering the drinks, waiting for the two blokes to say something, when there was a scuffle and they both ended up spark out on the floor.
The guv’nor looked at me, stunned. ‘I don’t know if I saw that, or I didn’t.’
Ronnie got the two guys to their feet and took them outside. When he came back, he said to the guv’nor, ‘I didn’t want you to have any bother in your pub.’
I told Ronnie I had gone over to see what was happening, but he said he knew what they were up to, and didn’t want any part of it.
Strangers who took liberties were always in danger with Ronnie. People he knew were not. He’d bawl and shout at them perhaps, but knock them up in the air? Never.
For the next six months, money continued to flow in, despite Ronnie’s philanthropy, and we lived well. We didn’t have a lot of staff as such, but we did gather around us a number of loyal and trusted allies who looked after us and who, in turn, expected to be looked after.
There was ‘Big’ Pat Connolly, a huge, happy man, who was doorman at The Double R; Alf ‘Limehouse’ Willey, who had a brain like a computer when it came to calculating gambling odds; Tommy Brown, a quiet, withdrawn, but immensely strong young man, nicknamed The Bear of Tottenham; Billy Donovan, one of the hardest men I’d ever met; and two lifelong close friends of the twins, Ian Barrie and George Osborne. We had premises, clients and large sums of cash to protect, and these men helped us protect them. In the East End in those days there were ‘firms’ and ‘mobs’. The mobs consisted of villains and thieves, who specialized in robbery with violence. A firm was a group of people who ran an enterprise which dealt in cash – readies – didn’t keep books or records and handled their own social security. We were not the only firm operating in Bethnal Green but we were the best organized and most successful – and, because of that, the best known.
Just as the twins had said they would not tolerate trouble in their clubs, they also made it plain they did not approve of rival spielers opening in their manor. If anyone did open one, the twins went along, said they felt it was a liberty, and asked for a percentage of the takings. It was not so much the money they wanted – they had enough interests of their own – it was the principle. They hated the idea of someone taking a liberty. Such was their reputation that they always got a share. But it wasn’t always like that. Because there was rarely any trouble in Kray premises, spieler owners came to the twins asking them to be involved. It was a sensible, practical arrangement and, in most cases, they accepted the offers. But not always. Danny Green, who owned The Grange in Stoke Newington, for example, came to us, saying he was having a lot of bother with local tearaways. With tears in his eyes he begged the twins to give him protection in return for a share in his business. The twins were sorry about Danny’s problems but declined his offer. Stoke Newington was outside our manor and we had enough on our own plates.
I understood the principle of discouraging a rival operation starting up in the same area, but I did not approve of the twins leaning on people. If I was around and saw or heard anything I did not like, I would say something about it and we’d have an argument. But the twins rarely listened to what I had to say, so it was really a waste of time saying anything. Ironically, they would ask my advice on many things. They would listen for five minutes, then start arguing with me. Finally I would blow up and say, ‘Why ask my bloody advice when you never agree with me?’ In the end, I started looking around for other interests, because they got on my nerves.
I could not be with the twins twenty-four hours a day, so I don’t know everything that went on. But they only ever approached spielers for money, not shops or pubs.
People on our payroll were well paid and well looked after if they were totally loyal and honest; if there was one thing none of us – particularly Ronnie – could bear, it was dishonesty. One of our most trusted and valuable employees was Barry Clare. We were all devastated to learn that he’d gone home one night and stuck his head in the gas oven. Determined to find out why, we put the word out and soon discovered that Barry was being blackmailed.
I discovered the blackmailer by chance because, from a distance I resembled Barry and was mistaken for him in the doorway of the club. A car pulled up and a bloke in the passenger seat called out, ‘Hello, Barry, got it for me?’
I sensed immediately it was the blackmailer. But I resisted the temptation to grab him by the throat. Instead, I said. ‘Sorry, mate, I’m not Barry. He’s round the billiard hall.’
I knew Reggie was at the hall. And as the car pulled away, I rang and told him what had happened. When the guy arrived for his ‘pick-up’ Reggie was waiting. The man was given such a hiding it’s unlikely he ever put the squeeze on anyone again.
Reggie, like Ronnie, never forgot a favour. And someone who had been very helpful while Ronnie was staying in Finchley when he was on the trot from Long Grove, was a car dealer and gambler called Danny Shay. One day, towards the end of 1959, he came to the billiard hall and asked Reggie to help him collect a hundred-pound gambling debt. The man who owed it, he said, was a Pole called Podro, who owned a small shop in Finchley Road. He was a notorious welsher, it seemed.
The task didn’t seem too difficult and Reggie said he was happy to try to persuade Mr Podro to pay up. As an afterthought, he asked George Osborne if he’d mind driving them to Podro’s shop. Georgie didn’t mind, and off they went.
What the three of them didn’t know was that Podro, who obviously expected a visit, had told the police. Three of them were hiding in the back of the shop listening to Reggie’s own brand of persuasion, and when Reggie finally hung a right-hander on Mr Podro’s chin they ran out and nicked him, Shay and Georgie.
The next day the newspaper headlines screamed: ‘Chicago-style gangsters�
�� methods!’ And later, at the Old Bailey, Shay got three years and Reggie and Georgie eighteen months each for demanding money with menaces.
It was all so stupid. Reggie didn’t need money, he was doing someone a favour. And poor Georgie Osborne had just gone for the ride.
‘Demanding money with menaces.’ It was a phrase that would plague the twins for ever.
Just before Reggie was jailed, a Leyton car dealer named Johnny Hutton introduced him to Leslie Payne, a big man with a quiet chuckling laugh and great charm. Payne, a year older than me, was talented and knowledgeable and could have made a lot of money honestly, but for some reason he seemed to prefer bending the law. He and a financial wizard named Freddie Gore were operating a second-hand car racket in the East End – at the expense of the finance companies – and after Reggie went away they often turned up with ideas and propositions for us to consider. Although we did a couple of deals with them through a second-hand car business of our own, other projects rarely got beyond the discussion stage.
But then they suggested something that was right up our street.
There was a lot of talk in the early part of 1960 about the Government legalizing gambling, and Payne had been tipped off that a first-class West End club was coming on the market. We had a great opportunity to get in on the ground floor of what promised to be a bonanza.
A meeting to sort out the details of the takeover was held in a flat over the Scotch House, in Knightsbridge: it was the home of Commander Drummond, a retired naval officer with blue eyes and a small moustache. Apart from him, Ronnie and myself, there were four others present: Payne, who just sat and smiled, Gore, who scribbled figures on a piece of paper, and the major shareholders in the club, two gentlemen called Faye and Burns. Why the commander was involved I didn’t know, but he did most of the talking. After a pleasant enough chat, a price was agreed, a deal struck and Ronnie and I went home to celebrate. The Kray brothers from the backstreets of Bethnal Green now had a club in Wilton Street, Belgra-via, one of the wealthiest parts of London.
Me and My Brothers Page 7