The Guv'nor

by Lenny McLean

  A couple of days before, I’d stuck my nose in one of his warehouses and clocked about six ton of copper. Once he rumped me, that made my mind up. So I phoned up a pal of mine who was in the scrap game, Ronnie Norris, and told him to bring his big lorry and meet me at the yard. He knew where to go because a while before I’d got him some sub-contract work for Fred cutting up miles of double-skinned pipes all lagged with asbestos. I’ll tell you more about that in a bit.

  We cut the padlock off the gates and drove in. We did the same in the warehouse, backed in and loaded up. It was two o’clock and they started work at six-thirty, so we sweated our nuts off. We got away just before six, parked up in Ron’s yard, and I went home to bed. At half-eight, there was a bang on the door. It was Fred with two foremen.

  I said, ‘What the fuck do you want? You’ve got me out of bed.’

  He was doing his nut. ‘What do I want? You’ve nicked all my gear.’

  It wasn’t obvious, was it? I was still black from all that copper that I hadn’t had the strength to wash off. So I said, ‘OK, Fred, you’re right. I have nicked all your gear and I’m keeping it, so piss off.’

  He’s pleading now. ‘It’s got to go back.’

  I’m getting wound up. ‘I’ve told you, fuck off. You’ve taken the piss out of me with the wages and, anyway, me and Ron worked all night and it was bloody hard work. So you can fight me or you can call the law.’ Give him his due, Fred was one of your own. The law was out of the question and he wasn’t going to take me on. I noticed the two foremen had moved down to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Len, please take it back and I’ll sort it.’

  ‘Sort it now,’ I said. So he pulled out a wedge of notes as thick as a Bible, peeled off a grand, and said, ‘What a fucking liberty. I’m buying my own stuff back.’

  We never fell out and I’ve done favours since, but only when he’s in desperate shit. He doesn’t seem to like me going near the yard, though.

  I cut up the wedge with Ronnie and he did better out of it than me because I was already owed £300 from Fred. It was only money, though, and if I knew then what was to happen I’d have given him the lot.

  A couple of years later, when I was making a name fighting, I got a call from his wife Pat. She said, ‘Lenny, Ron’s bad in hospital and he wants to see you.’ I shot up there straight away and when I saw him I could hardly talk for a bit because that big man had turned into a seven-stone skeleton. His eyes filled up when he saw me.

  ‘Len, mate, I’m done for, I’m dying.’

  I said, ‘Shut up, you’ll be up and about in a couple of weeks,’ and I squared up to him. He clenched up his bony fingers into a fist and tried his best to shape up to me, but he couldn’t even raise his arms.

  I gave my nose a good blow, sat him up, and cuddled him. And I thought to myself, ‘Please, God, I hope it wasn’t that asbestos job that done in his lungs with cancer.’

  I said, ‘I want you ringside when I fight Roy Shaw, and when I’ve beat him I’m taking you out for a steak dinner. Fatten you up a bit.’

  He stroked my hand, he didn’t have the strength to pat it, and he said, ‘You’ll murder Shaw, Len, but don’t bank on the steak dinner.’

  A week before I took on Roy Shaw, he died in his sleep. He was 45. My Val loved him, and he was a great pal. God bless you, Ronnie. We still miss you.

  After about two minutes I’ve done all the money from the scrap copper and I’m looking around for something to fill the pot up again. I don’t know where money went in those days, though you’ve got to remember that when somebody tells you they’ve picked up a grand here, two grand there, for a few hours’ work, that might have been the first tickle for a month. Anyway, I’ve blown my bit of dough, Val wants a new coat, and the kids are looking for new shoes again.

  I was in the Widows, a little drinker in Bethnal Green just behind the Blind Beggar, when a couple of Rastas walked in. All hair, woolly hats about two foot high, beads, the lot. They had a quick word with the governor, then they looked round at me. I gave them a bit of a growl in case they were thinking of starting something, but they came over anyway. We got all that ‘Hey, man, how they hanging?’ crap out of the way and the biggest one said, ‘Some people we know need a minder for a few hours and the word is you’re a very tough man with your fists.’

  ‘You look big enough to do your own heavy stuff,’ I said.

  He gave a shrug. ‘I agree, man, but I don’t do that sort of work. I’m in business, I do other kinds of things.’

  I was polite but I told them I was too busy what with this and that, so they let it go. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no racist, in fact loads of my pals are black fellas and they’re as good as gold, but there was something funny about these two. Couldn’t put my finger on it, but when I get a gut feeling, I go with it.

  Don’t forget, when I get offers to work, it’s on the other side of the fence. It’s not decorate a couple of rooms, bang a few nails in, or taxi someone to the airport. It’s something heavy with a fair bit of aggravation. So I never, ever take chances.

  As I said, I turned them down and forgot all about it. I could have done with the work, but you can’t be too careful. A couple of days later, I was in a different pub when this pikey-looking geezer introduced himself, threw up a couple of names, and offered me a bit of work. These pikeys aren’t proper gypsies, though they like to think they are, but most of them are straight enough to deal with so I didn’t get a sense that it might be a bit iffy. There was no reason why I should – I got these offers all the time. He seemed sound enough, what with the names and everything, so I heard him out. Three grand in cash if I watch his backside while he does a deal with a little South London firm to buy a load of bearer bonds. Straightforward, so we set it up for the coming Friday.

  The meet was to be near the Dartford Tunnel, well out of the way of any nosey bastards. It’s different now, what with the motorway and bridge, but then it was like a trip out into the country, and the waste ground where we were going to meet is now built over with a shopping centre on about five acres.

  I met this pikey, Bill, not far from where we were going, got in his motor, drove the rest of the way, and parked up. Twenty minutes later a big Ford Executive pulled in and flashed its lights. Out we got. Bill was holding a bag of money. ‘Hold back a bit,’ he says, ‘but if you see it looks a bit iffy, get in quick, and put them down.’ Getting out of the other motor were two blokes, the same set up as us, one doing the deal and one minding. Usual stuff.

  Bill handed over his parcel and as he put his hand up for the other package – flash, bang, and he’s gone down. As I jumped forward and grabbed the gun before it was pulled round on me, the other bloke jumped in the motor and started it up. I only managed to get one belt in before the geezer I took the gun from scrambled up from the ground, dived in the car, and it took off.

  I flung the gun at the motor and ran over to Bill. He was screaming and crying and holding his side. Now I was raving mad. I didn’t give a bollocks about the deal, it was nothing to do with me, but this slag had nearly got me killed. I got hold of him and dived down his pockets.

  He had a wallet stuffed with notes, so I took the lot. I gave him the choice; fill me in on what had just gone down or stay there and bleed to death. It turned out he was fronting for the Rastas and it was a drugs deal, not bearer bonds. I’d guessed as much – I had taken on a straightforward minding job with good heart and this shit’s gone down. I never can tell what I’m getting into.

  He was still crying for me to take him to a hospital, so I slung him in the back of his motor, fuck the blood on the seats, and drove back to where I’d left my car in a little lay-by. He had passed out by now, so I parked him up, put all the lights on, and scarpered. At the first phone box I came to I dialled 999, told them where the geezer was, and put the phone down. I didn’t want to be involved in any more shit.

  Does that sound heartless? Well, it was, and I didn’t give a toss. As I was driving along I felt
cold sweat running down my face, thinking about my wife and kids and how close that drug-dealing bastard had come to ruining their lives.

  By the time I got home I had calmed myself down. It wasn’t finished yet but I was using my nut. Keep cool. Keep calm. Val was dozing in front of the telly; the screen was blank and giving out a sort of musical hum because it was after midnight. Do you know, I didn’t have a drop of blood on me. Driving along I felt like I was covered in the stuff. Val’s sleepy, ‘Hello, luv, how did it go?’ was so ordinary and homely I couldn’t believe what had gone down just over an hour ago. Still, I couldn’t disbelieve it either, because when I emptied the wallet that little stash counted up to over four thousand. I cut in it half and dropped one of the bundles into her lap. She just said, ‘Thanks, Len, I’m going to bed.’ Bless her, she didn’t ask why, where, or what. Not disinterest – just trust. She was the housewife, I was the money-getter, and that was that.

  Before I got into bed, I looked in on the kids. Jamie in bed, Kelly in her cot, two little ginger heads sticking out of the blankets. I gave them both a little kiss without waking them and shivered when I thought again what might have happened, not for me but for these little innocents. Some bastard was going to get it.

  I checked out the papers for a few days but there was nothing about the Dartford business. I put the word out through a few people I could trust for them to keep an eye out for those Rasta slags. It took nearly a month before I got the call that put them in a club in East London. You think I’d cooled off? You don’t know me.

  I was there in ten minutes. The place was nearly empty. Three people, that’s all – the two I wanted and the bloke behind the bar. They’d have had more chance if somebody had let a wild dog loose on them. I slipped into both of them at once. I broke their jaws with the first swipe and as they went down warned the barman he was next if he touched the phone. I could’ve stopped there, they were well damaged, but what the fuck, they nearly made my Val a widow. Anybody who’s seen one of my bare-knuckle fights will know what I gave them. This wasn’t a straightener, it was all in. With both of them still on the floor, I punched, belted and kicked them until they didn’t move. I gave the barman a look and he put his hands up. ‘Didn’t see a thing, mate. Blokes who done them was masked up.’ I gave him a nod, said, ‘Mind how you go,’ and slipped out. I was satisfied. When word got round, slags would think twice about taking me for a mug.

  A little end came to that story about 18 years later. I’d done a bit of work for a firm over Catford way. In fact, I’d done a lot of work for them over a few years, so we were quite friendly. We were talking about various things we’d got up to, and I told them how I nearly got blown away. One of them, a bloke called Jimmy, gave a big laugh and told me he knew who it was that took a pop but that he’s been dead for years.

  It’s a small world. There’s me all pally with a geezer who was a mate of the bloke who nearly killed me. It might seem strange but I never really had the needle with the other firm. What I’d been well pissed off about was being taken for a mug without knowing the score.

  About a week after the shooting, and luckily while I was still carrying a good wedge in my back pocket, I was driving down Hackney Road with a pal of mine when we got a tug. An unmarked car pulled us over for a dodgy brake light. What a load of bollocks. That stuff’s always left to old plod, not plain clothes. Never mind, we’re as good as gold. We’ve got to be. In the boot there were two boxes of blank insurance certificates, and a handgun in the glove box. The joke was, it wasn’t even my gun. I’d taken it off a slag who had tried to use it on me months ago, and had forgotten all about it.

  We both sat there like we had ice lollies stuck up our bums, looking straight ahead, dead innocent, while they walked round the motor. These two aren’t really looking at the motor, just walking round for a bit of show. I was just thinking that this was simply for them to break the monotony between tea breaks, when we were asked to step out of the car.

  Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full, sir. We hopped out and one of them started looking through the motor. Now we were in deep shit. The paper in the boot’s not worth a lot but the gun could see us off for a long time. Still, he might miss it. Some hope. He opened the glove box, rooted round, then shut it again. The next minute, him and the older one got their heads together. Here we go.

  If I’d thought about it, we could have done a runner as soon as they waved us down, but now it’s too late. The older one came over, took me to one side away from Jimmy, and said, ‘This brake light could be a lot of aggravation for both of us. I could get you nicked and give myself a lot of paperwork.’

  I wasn’t thinking. ‘What, you’re going to nick me for a fucking poxy light?’ He just gave me a look. ‘Lenny, I know of you, you’re not a c**t. Which way’s it going to be?’

  I said, ‘Like that is it? Well, come round my gaff tomorrow and we’ll sort something out.’ But as I spoke I already had my hand on the roll in my pocket.

  ‘No, Len,’ he said, ‘we’ll square it now or forget it and you can take a pull, but remember, there are two of us. Want to shake on it?’ Bastard – I never answered, just stuck out my hand and palmed him my last £700.

  I could see in his eyes he was weighing up the roll of notes and I thought, ‘In future, I’m going to carry a wad of notepaper wrapped in a tenner.’ The wedge must have felt right because he gave me a nod, stepped away, and said, ‘Thank you, sir, you can proceed.’ As he got in his motor he called over, ‘Don’t forget to get that light seen to, and give your kid his water pistol back, somebody might think it’s real.’

  See what I mean? Easy come, easy go. Now I’m potless again. I’ve often wondered how they picked on me – they knew something. Coppers never take backhanders off muggy punters. Forget all that crap about sticking a £20 in your driver’s licence when they give you a pull, it only works in the pictures. They’ll only take from those who know the score and then they won’t consider anything under £500.

  Somebody said coppers could be trusted in those days and they were right – trusted to be bent as arseholes. But if you made a deal they stuck by it. Today, a lot of them don’t want to know, and those who do will bugger you anyway once they’ve got your money. That was the first time I’d had to pay my way out, but it wasn’t the last.

  I shifted the certificates to get a bit of dough back in and the gun ended up in the river. I made up my mind to get rid of the starting handle tucked under the seat of the car that I kept in case of trouble. If I didn’t, the cozzers might realise that Cortinas don’t have starting handles. If it suits Old Bill and they catch you carrying a piece of pipe, lump of wood or whatever, without good reason, they’ll do you for carrying an offensive weapon, a bit like my bayonet and Charlie’s penknife all those years ago.

  So that’s how life was in the early Seventies – up one minute, down the next. Some days, I could have five grand in my bin – others, five bob. But I loved it.

  And all through these ups and downs my Val stood beside me 100 per cent. She would have loved me to go to work proper and be a straight guy. But I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t going to work all my life for the system then when I’m 65 get thrown on the heap without two bob to my name. I always got a good living and we never went short. It had its risks but what hasn’t? I fought everybody, but mostly I fought against certain types in the straight world and the system. Fuck the system.

  Everything was going well for us. We had a nice little flat, the kids were growing up lovely. Jamie was nearly four and Dad’s little sweetheart Kelly was nearly three. Good kids, no trouble. Val seemed to become more beautiful as she got older and the three of them were my world.

  Linda was still living with Nan and looking after her and Uncle Fred. Barry was doing well in Australia. And for the same reasons as Barry, Lorraine, who was never called anything else but Boo, had gone to America with a mate of hers. And my little brother Kruger, who wasn’t so little any more, had just married a girl out of Hoxton.

 
; At home – funny how I never got out of the habit of calling Mum’s place home – things were a lot better than they had been when I lived there. This was mainly because Jim Irwin spent most of the week living with some bird up north. Sherry was about twelve, a smashing kid who still followed me around the house whenever I went over to see them. Which leaves Mum, and she was worn out.

  She’d put her whole life into bringing us all up. She’d always been kept short of money so it was a struggle. The money had been there, she just never saw much of it from Irwin. She never gave herself a second’s thought. She was just a proper old-fashioned mum; family was everything. As long as they were all right that’s all that mattered. She put everything into everyone else’s life and took nothing out for herself. And because she’d prematurely aged with the constant struggle, that piece of shit Jim Irwin was shagging some other woman; how’s that for a punch in the mouth for any wife? She never mentioned it though, kept it all inside. She never complained about her health either, though she had asthma and related problems. She just suffered in silence in case it upset us all.

  A bit later she was taken into Hackney Hospital for a check-up and a bit of a rest. Then, one night, I got a call from the hospital that the doctor wanted an urgent word. I flew up there, but before I could see Mum the doctor took me to one side and said, ‘Mr McLean, your mother’s a very sick woman.’

  I said, ‘Well, do an operation or something.’

  He just shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, it’s gone beyond anything we can do.’

  I couldn’t take it in – he was making a mistake. ‘How many years are you talking about – two, three?’ I was shaking him now.