The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books)

by Robin Barratt

  His life quickly spiralled out of control; he lost his business, his homes, money and eventually his marriage through an adulterous affair. The drugs were killing him. Depression led to suicide attempts and his new-found professions as a nightclub bouncer and illegal debt-collector to make ends meet and to fuel his drug habit. He soon had a violent reputation and made many enemies. His life was close to ending.

  But when things were about as bad as they could get, Arthur found a faith in God and slowly turned his life around and he openly admits that his new-found faith saved him from almost certain death.

  He remarried Jacqui after four years of separation, has the love and respect of his children again, and admits to having all he needs in life. He also started to compete in power-lifting again – drug free – and continued to win many more international titles until his final retirement from the sport in 2006.

  Taken from his book Tough Talk, this is Arthur’s own dark and haunting story of his time as a ruthless debt-collector, his addiction to cocaine, his dark depression and suicide attempts, and his eventual path to redemption.

  TOUGH TALK

  By Arthur White

  “There he goes. Watch that man, he’s evil.”

  “He’s working for Joe. Keep clear of ’im.”

  “The guy’s tooled up, he nearly killed Jimmy.”

  I could hear the voices of the men, as I strolled through Spitalfields fruit and vegetable market in Bishopsgate, London, coat flapped open as I looked from side to side at the different wholesale stands. I wanted to laugh. One fight, and now I was reputed to be as bad as one of the Krays.

  The fight had taken place the night before, in the Gun pub, in Bishopsgate. My brother’s friend Joe was a rich man, who owned a wholesale business in the market. His turnover was millions of pounds each year. He was having a problem with the market traders. He operated a credit system whereby you bought the goods, sold them and then you paid what you owed. Unfortunately, some men were unscrupulous and had no intention of paying Joe the money that they owed him. Jimmy fell into that category.

  That evening, Joe was boozing away, whilst I was drinking Pepsi. I had taken some lines of coke, to keep me alert. Joe got into an argument with Jimmy, and Jimmy whacked him on the chin. Joe fell on the table and landed on the floor. He was not a fighter, and I knew that if he didn’t get any help, he would be done for. So I stepped in. Grabbing hold of Jimmy, I smacked him in the mouth. A full bottle of champagne was on the bar; I hit Jimmy across the face with it. As he staggered back, I hit him again. Jimmy didn’t know what was happening to him, but I wasn’t finished yet – I was only just warming up! I was well aware that I had to prove myself to Joe. The whole point of meeting him that evening had been to make an agreement about being his debt-collector.

  My speciality was to “throat” somebody. Being a champion “deadlifter”, my grip was like a vice: I would grab someone by the throat, which would quickly cut off their air supply, causing them to faint. Their arms would go limp, and just before they passed out, I would give them one powerful smack, which sorted them out good and proper. Jimmy experienced my technique. I dragged him through the bar doors, and continued to beat him. By now, he wasn’t able to put up any resistance. I took his keys out of his pockets, opened up the door of his Mercedes car and threw him on to the front seats. Blood was pouring out of him like a leaky kettle. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t pay Joe what he owed him, he would be getting more of the same, but in double doses. He paid up!

  It was after 2 a.m. as I walked through Spitalfields; the tale of my exploits had already reached the market traders. Although the situation seemed comical to me, I knew that some of the punters that I would have to deal with wouldn’t be easy pushovers, like Jimmy.

  I needed to get tooled up.

  Joe was ecstatic with my performance. Now, he was confident that he would recoup all that was owed to him, and he had his own personal bodyguard – me. Because Joe was pleased with me, he dutifully paid me £5,000, as a retainer. This money was a sort of down payment on any future worked I carried out on Joe’s behalf. I felt good that, once again, I had some decent cash. The nature of the job was such that I knew that I had to kit myself out with some tools.

  That very afternoon, I found a shop in Leyton, nearby where I was now renting a bedsit: it was a fishing accessories shop. I purchased a twelve-inch diver’s knife. The shiny steel blade made me feel well able to deal with any punter that dared to challenge me. The knife case had two straps which, normally, divers would wear strapped to the outside of their leg. I fastened it to the inside of my forearm, with the handle pointing down to my wrist. It made access to the knife, in an emergency, easier. I got a list of names, from Joe, of the people that owed him money. My days were spent visiting various markets, collecting Joe’s dosh.

  I met up with one guy called Ted in the Camden Lock market. He was very reluctant to pay up and didn’t like being threatened by the likes of me.

  “Listen mate,” he said as he pointed his finger in my face, “I know Lenny McClean, he’ll sort you out.”

  I knew of Lenny and, shrugging my shoulders, said to him, “I’ll see about that. I’ll be back.” Lenny McClean was known in the East End of London as the Guv’nor. He was a prizefighter who could never be beaten. People were terrified of him, and one never used his name lightly unless you were sure he was on your side. I had met up with Lenny some years previously when we were training together in a gym. I knew of his fighting skills and he knew of my strength in power-lifting. We showed each other a fair bit of respect. I never doubted for one moment that he feared me, but I knew that I couldn’t cross him.

  So I used my “loaf”.

  Lenny was working at the Hippodrome nightclub, in Leicester Square, London. I went to the club to meet him. The big bouncers on the door didn’t want to let me into the club initially.

  “Who are you?” they asked.

  “Don’t worry about who I am: I’ve come to see Lenny. Tell him Arthur White wants to see him.”

  Two of them walked off. Within minutes they returned and said, “Follow us.”

  They led me to a dark little office at the end of a corridor. Lenny was large as life, all of 310 pounds, in a dog’s-tooth check jacket. In a very gruff voice he said to me: “Ello, son.”

  I told him the story about the guy from Camden Lock market threatening me with his name and filled him in on Joe’s story, and the money he was owed. He agreed to come and work with me – it was an easy way for him to earn a few quid. Turning to leave, Lenny said: “That will cost yer a monkey [£500].” I paid him there and then. Lenny was now on my firm, which meant I had a lot of power.

  My reputation grew in leaps and bounds. Many people thought I was Lenny’s younger brother: we looked quite alike. I never dispelled those rumours; it was good for business. We were very successful in our debt-collecting. When people saw us turn up, we aroused fear, which caused them to cough up the dough quickly. It was a lucrative business. Whatever we amassed for the day’s work, we creamed off our percentage first and gave Joe the rest. The following week, when I went back to see Ted, I told him Lenny was now on my firm and he paid up post-haste!

  There was one guy called Johnny. He alone owed Joe a small fortune. Johnny was like a shadow – very elusive – he was hard to track down. I discovered where his office was and one day I broke into it and smashed it up. I left a message with the guy in the office next to him: “Tell Johnny that I’ll be back.”

  Early one morning, at Spitalfields, Johnny came to Joe’s stand. He didn’t see me at first and I never gave him a chance to react. I pounced on him, like a cat after a mouse. I “throated” him and threw him against a pallet-load of tomatoes – 144 boxes. He and the tomatoes went flying. I kicked the squashed boxes of tomatoes out of my path to get a strong grip on Johnny again: I sorted him right out. Being a shrewd man, he settled a large part of his debt and skulked off, licking his wounds. Johnny knew that my debt-collecting was
illegal and he turned up a few hours later with the police, who cautioned me. Johnny thought that once he had got the police on to me, I would back off. He didn’t know me. I found out where he lived and then threatened to burn his garage down, along with his house. I was determined to win – to get him to pay up. Johnny knew I was getting too close for comfort and, eventually, he coughed up. It was a nice little earner for me.

  Most of the time people paid up, but there were always one or two of them who thought they were a bit clever and could give me a knock-back. Billy was one of them. He was a wide-boy who thought he was razor-sharp. He owned a number of fruit stalls, but he was forever dodging Joe: he didn’t want to pay up.

  “Fancy a drive in the country, Lenny,” I asked one day.

  “Alright, boy,” he answered.

  We motored to Epping, where Billy had a large stall in the street market.

  “You have owed ten grand for a long time. It’s pay up time. I want the first instalment, now,” I threatened.

  “But, I ’aven’t got it. Look, see me next week and …”

  “No, you look. I want two grand now, and we’ll talk about the rest later.”

  While I was busy negotiating terms and conditions, Lenny, who was standing beside me, was getting agitated. He had a lot of nervous energy building up inside him. He let out a bestial roar and, hooking his hands under the corner of the stall, he turned the lot over. The stall’s contents flew through the air, spewing into the road and over the pavement. Women started screaming. Traffic was halted because oranges and apples, cabbages and potatoes were flying everywhere. Not wanting to be outdone by Lenny, I grabbed Billy by the throat and his leather belt, and turned him upside down. The contents of his pockets fell on the floor, and his money pouch emptied all over the ground.

  “Put me down, put me down,” he screamed.

  I threw him on the floor.

  “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me,” he whined, as he gathered up the money which was scattered all over the street. He knew we weren’t messing about. Laughing, I took the money and calmly walked off, warning, “I’ll be back next week, Billy, so be ready.”

  Driving away, I saw in my rear-view mirror, the mess we had left behind.

  “A good morning’s work,” I grinned at Lenny. “Ere’s your monkey, mate.”

  The orange-flavoured “Jubbly” produced the desired effect. I thought that the triangular ice-pop would do the trick in numbing my neck, making it easier to cut, thus ending my life.

  I had bought it that morning at about five o’clock from the corner shop. When I asked for it, the shopkeeper looked at me as though I was crazy. I suppose it was a strange thing for someone to request in December.

  Driving through Homerton, east London, I knew it was the right time. I turned into a side road. The morning was dark and cold: it reflected how I was feeling inside. Tears ran down my face. For the last few days I hadn’t slept and whenever my eyes became tired, I would lay on my bed, with a towel over them. My cocaine consumption had increased to a new high. All the money that I was earning was being snorted up my nose – I didn’t care. My life was such that cocaine was my only companion. The bedsit I was renting was bereft of life and warmth. I had to push all thoughts of my life at home with my wife Jacqui and kids completely out of my mind. Even Donna wasn’t very interested in me – she had turned her charms on to someone else. That’s how much she cared for me!

  Living no longer held any pleasure. Death was beckoning with powerful arms, waiting to engulf me. The familiar shroud of blackness, slowly, stealthily, crept over me. I welcomed it. Leaning my head back against the headrest, I tried to gain control of the battle that was raging in my heart and mind. My heart was crying out for help: help from someone – anyone – to stop me from doing what I had set out to do to myself, help from someone to sort my life out, help from someone to just help me. Yet my mind was closing the lid on my life: it’s too late, there is no one, you’re all alone mate. That’s it. Finito. Finished. Done. Dead.

  Audible sobs broke out from my lips.

  ‘Oh Jacqui, what have I done.’

  My mind jumped from the faces of my father, my mother, my siblings, my children, from people that I knew, to the people that I had given a hard time to. No one was here for me now. The Jubbly had numbed my neck. I withdrew the diver’s knife from its sheath.

  The dawn was breaking – it was now or never. Lifting the blade up, I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror. Those eyes that reflected back weren’t mine. The blackness in them seemed to have no end. Shutting my eyes tight, I gripped the handle of the knife and placed the blade against my cheek.

  Time stood still.

  For what seemed like an eternity, the blade slowly opened up the skin of my cheek, sliced through my neck and down across my chest. Blood spurted out like a garden hose. With my eyes still shut, I sensed the warm stickiness of my blood, pumping out all over me. I wondered how long it would take for my heart to realize that my blood was no longer coursing around my body. I managed to replace the knife in its sheath. A heaviness weighed me down. This is it, I thought. My last few moments on earth. Fleetingly, I wondered where I was going, I hoped that it would bring the relief from this life that I desperately needed.

  Dying was taking a bit of a time.

  I started the car and drove deeper into the East End of London. My hope was that I would lose consciousness and crash the car. That would definitely be the end of me. I thought about other people being involved in an accident, but the truth was, I didn’t care. I just wanted out of this miserable existence.

  Unfortunately, the blood that, half an hour ago, was being pumped out, had now dwindled to a halt. My clotting agents were working overtime. The cut on my cheek, to my disgust, was congealing. The realization that I was going to live caused me to break down in a torrent of tears and anguish. Could I do nothing right?

  Turning the car around I headed back to my bleak bedsit. Stripping off my bloodied clothes, I felt despair.

  From then on, everything became an effort, but I forced myself to go to work. I didn’t see any point in hanging around my flat. Maybe, I could earn enough to buy a big stash of gear and blow my brains out. Walking through Spitalfields, I noticed that people were looking at me on the sly. Nobody questioned me about the cut on my face and I let them reach their own conclusions. They probably assumed that I had been in a violent fight. They would have been right, in a way – the fight being with myself!

  The hot sun was beating down on my skin with a vengeance. I was tanked up with coke and cheap wine. Tenerife.

  Donna and I had decided at the last minute to hop on a plane and see some of the world. The fact that for nearly two weeks we had hardly communicated with each other didn’t disturb me too much. We had gone through the motions of trying to resurrect our relationship, but I knew it was dead. Still, I tried to enjoy myself, regardless. My mood, even on holiday, was a yo-yo of confusion. One minute I would be flying high, the next I would plunge into the depths of depression.

  Early one morning, I took myself off to the beach, alone. I had just called Jacqui at home and told her a pack of lies.

  “I’m here on business, love.”

  “On business, in Tenerife. Don’t take me for a fool, Arthur.”

  “No, no, straight up, Jacqui, I’m collecting money.”

  “Okay, okay,” she sighed.

  Replacing the handset, I knew she didn’t believe me. I’d had a weird compulsion to hear her voice. Now, she was even more suspicious of me. I shouldn’t have bothered.

  Sitting on the beach, I watched the sun grow brighter and brighter, as the day broke forth in all its brilliance. It was difficult for me to think clearly. This was paradise – but, here was I, my mind in sheer hell and torment. The waves were gently lapping to and fro. What should have put me in a tranquil mood stirred up giant feelings of guilt, remorse, anger, sadness and loneliness, to name but a few. The motion of the waves was enticing. It was so tempting to just stand
up and walk towards their beckoning call. Taking deep breaths, I was just about to walk off into a watery grave when a voice said: “You cannot take your own life.”

  There was no one around. It was natural for me to address the voice, looking up into the cloudless sky.

  “Who are you?”

  Anyone walking by would have assumed that I was a regular fruitcake and given me a wide berth when they heard me talking to myself.

  The voice answered: “I am your father.”

  Snorting, I replied, “You’re not my dad, my dad’s dead.”

  Peering up into the sky, I waited for an answer. I thought I had glimpsed a face among the clouds, but I couldn’t be sure. Shaking my head, I suddenly realized that I had finally flipped my lid.

  “I’m going crazy,” I said to no one. “I’m having a conversation with myself.”

  I forgot about topping myself. Instead, I went back to the hotel and did a few lines of coke to block everything out.

  The holiday was soon over. Stanstead airport is small in comparison to the other two main London airports. Walking through customs, Donna and I probably looked like all the other sun-baked, relaxed holiday-makers. In reality that was far from the truth. At the time, I didn’t notice that among the relatives and friends that were in the arrivals hall, waiting to meet their loved ones, was Jacqui.

  I called her later to tell her that I was home. Lying through my teeth, I stuck to my story about being on a business trip.