by Carl Merritt
‘Good,’ said Bill, as he flicked his electronically controlled window down and a hand passed in an even fatter envelope than the one he’d handed over a few minutes earlier.
As his window buzzed back, Bill fired up the Jag along with just about everyone else in that warehouse. The noise of all the engines starting up at virtually the same time was eerie and deafening. Then the fumes started wafting through the Jag, combining with the steam from the cold. It left the entire warehouse filled with drifting smoke.
‘You have to get out quick,’ explained Bill. ‘Specially the ones who’ve just lost a packet.’ I just nodded. What more could I say?
Bill drove me back across the water and took me all the way to Stratford tube station that night. I made him drop me well away from home as I didn’t want him knowing anything about my life. I had a feeling he was someone who’d shoot me if it suited him. As I got out, he leaned over and tapped my arm. ‘It’s up to you, son.’
I nodded. I didn’t believe it was up to me. He was in charge of my destiny and I knew he’d be making a lot more dough than me if I turned out to be a winner. I was just about to shut the door when he pulled a handful of clean, crisp banknotes out of his pocket.
‘I don’t need it,’ I said firmly, still wanting time to consider my decision.
‘It’s a day’s wages for being there today.’
I shut my eyes for a moment. But his hand was still there when I opened them again.
‘Alright,’ I said, taking the notes and wondering if I’d live to regret my decision.
‘Gissa bell when you’re ready.’
He knew he had me in the bag.
I walked two miles home that night. It was a long, thoughtful stroll through my life in a sense. What did I want out of life? Was it money? Or was it revenge for all the shit that had been thrown at me for so long? Whatever the answer, I knew that Bill was standing over me like the grim reaper waiting for me to confirm my contract with the devil.
Shall I or shan’t I? What happens if I lose? Would I even live to tell the tale? And even if I did live, would I be a cabbage after suffering one beating too many?
With all this swimming through my mind I stopped at my local – the Camden Arms – for a pint. At the bar I bumped into a mate called Scott.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong, mate?’
I put a brave face on things, ‘I’ve just seen somethin’ so fucking unreal you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.’
‘What you on about?’
‘Nothin’. Just buy me a pint and shut up.’
I was stunned by what I’d just witnessed. That night the booze went straight to my head and I was virtually legless by my third pint. I hadn’t eaten all day and Scott ended up carrying me home to my mum’s.
Next morning I felt so weird about what I’d witnessed at that fight that I retched up in the bathroom. The trouble was I could so easily see myself as one of those very same fighters. I had the right background, the right experience and probably the right attitude. You see, at that time I hated most of the fucking world. I didn’t owe anyone outside my family anything. I wanted to be somebody. Somebody who earned respect within my community. Someone people would look up to. Maybe even somebody to be feared.
And then there was the money. It would be handy. More than handy. It could give me a lift up into another sphere. Then I tried to slap some sense into myself. How could I even be seriously considering it? This fight game was sick and twisted – and a highly dangerous contest. One that should be avoided at all costs.
For the next couple of months I thought a lot about Bill and the illegal fight scene. At first I kept my training up, although I still insisted to myself I’d never actually phone Bill and ask to be counted in. Trouble was that on the work front things were not looking good. The building game had virtually dried up and I couldn’t get many door jobs at clubs. I was scraping the barrel and my mum was barely able to afford to run our little home, let alone support her grown-up son. Soon my training started to fade as well.
I didn’t have the dough to buy myself any decent clobber or even buy a girl a rum and blackcurrant at my local boozer. I kept wondering about that pot of gold awaiting me if I picked up the phone and dialled Bill’s number. His card was still hanging over my bed at home, tempting me every night.
CHAPTER TEN
The Love of My Life
I first met Carole in 1983 when I was working the door in the Charleston Club in Leyton. I’d run into quite a few girls through working in clubs, but I noticed her because she was the only one in a crowd wearing a tracksuit. When she appeared at the door, I told her she was too young to come in, which as it turned out was a bit strong of me as I later found out she was three months older than me (we were both seventeen). She glared at me in a fearless kind of way and I immediately clocked there was something about her that I really liked, so I waved her in with her mates.
Later that night I was on roaming duty at the club, which meant I had to wander around the premises and make sure no trouble flared up. I was near the bar when I noticed Carole and her mates again. I offered to buy her a drink on the QT but she refused. I shrugged my shoulders, smiled at her for a few moments and then walked away. It just wasn’t my style to be a pushy bloke. I’ve always had too much respect for women to do that. After all, where would we men be without them?
That night I was back on duty at the door when Carole was leaving. I don’t know what came over me. but I asked her for her phone number. I was expecting a right mouthful for being so upfront. Instead she said, ‘Alright’ and wrote it down. I was well chuffed. My brother, who was drinking in the club that night, even had a go at me because he thought Carole looked too young to date. But I knew there was something about her I really liked.
So I went home a happy man that evening, determined to ring her and ask her out. Next morning I spent at least half an hour plucking up the courage before I finally dialled her number. It turned out to be a wrong number. I tried it again over and over just in case. Then I moved some of the digits round but it was a complete dud. I screwed up the piece of paper and threw it in the bin. I was heartbroken. She’d obviously not felt the same way about me.
A few weeks later I was off duty, having a bevy at the Charleston when in walks Carole – bold as brass. Naturally, I completely blanked her, convinced she wanted nothing to do with me. Then she came up to me.
‘D’you remember me?’
‘Yeah, you did me up like a kipper.’
‘Well, here’s your chance to buy me a drink.’
And off we went. We went out at least three times that first week. She was the best thing that ever happened to me – and she still is to this day.
Carole was such a special creature to me. She didn’t fall into all the usual categories and she wasn’t a noisy Essex girl. She was a straight-talking, polite but strong-willed teenager. And she really wanted to be in my company because of who I was, not because I could get her into a club free or because she thought I was the local hardman.
She was quiet, but when she spoke her mind she meant it. She never shouted. I liked the fact that she always wore casual clothes like jeans and trainers. There were no airs and graces to Carole. What you saw was what you got. And I knew she was someone I could trust, which was probably the most important thing in my life at that time.
Carole was into volleyball big time and I used to watch her play once a week and then use the gym facilities for free. Something in the back of my mind kept telling me to keep my fitness up – just in case.
I spent most of my time at Carole’s house because it was cheaper than going out. And my car was a right joke – a rusting white ex-police Triumph 2000. You could still see where the police stickers had been ripped off it. And there were holes in the dash where the two-way radios and other equipment had been.
Carole, bless her, didn’t care about stuff like that. But I gotta admit it really got to me. So one night I picked up the phone and dial
led Bill’s number. This was it; decision time.
‘Let’s meet up,’ he said without a hint of surprise at my call. He knew he’d already reeled me in the last time we’d met.
A few days later we met up in what was then the West Ham and England soccer star Bobby Moore’s pub, called Mooro’s, in Stratford. I still didn’t want Bill knowing where I lived because if my mum got any inkling of what I was up to she’d have hit the roof.
It was early evening and I got to Mooro’s first. I always get to places early when I’m a bit nervous. I was sitting quietly in the corner supping a pint when Bill walked in with a mate. They both stuck out like nuns in a strip joint in their smart, neatly cut whistle-and-flutes and ties. We nodded at each other. Bill got some drinks in and then he introduced his friend. ‘Grant has earned a packet out of the fight game. He doesn’t look too bad on it, does he?’
What was I supposed to say? ‘He does. He’s a right ugly bastard.’ So I just nodded politely.
‘Right,’ said Bill. ‘There’s a job on the go. You been doing any training?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well you’d better get your arse into gear, sunshine.’
Bill then asked me if I wanted to train with Grant. I replied ‘No thanks. Prefer trainin’ on my own.’ I didn’t know who the fuck Grant was so I wasn’t keen on turning him into my new best friend.
Five minutes later – after a bit of small talk and banter – Bill and I shook hands and he got up to leave with Grant.
‘You need some readies?’ Bill asked me, almost as an afterthought.
‘Nah. I’m alright.’ In my naivety I thought that if I didn’t take any money off him that day then it’d be easier to back out if I wanted to.
‘Gissa bell in exactly one week and I’ll tell you all the details.’
Then he was gone.
Fuck it, I thought to myself. Am I really going to do this? I’d shaken his hand on it and I’d been brought up to believe that a handshake was as good as a written contract. There was no way I could back out now. I was up to my ears in it. But what the hell …
That week I went back to hod-carrying at a building site in Tottenham, North London, and tried to get down to the gym to do some running whenever I had the chance. At first, I was shocked at how unfit I’d become. A lot of it was down to the fact I’d been spending much of my time with Carole at home, instead of going to the gym.
Finding out I was so unfit made me realise that if I was serious about the illegal fight game then I needed to get properly fit again. So I didn’t ring Bill a week later as he’d instructed. Instead I went through a rigorous training regime because I knew I’d be like a lamb to the slaughter if I entered a ring before I was fighting fit.
Three weeks after I was supposed to have called him, I finally picked up the phone.
‘Why d’you take so fuckin’ long comin’ back to me?’ Bill responded in a dry tone.
‘Got caught up at work,’ I lied.
‘How’s the trainin’ goin’?’
I assured Bill I’d been hard at it. Then he said he’d come down and see me later that night. Obviously he was a bit twitchy about whether I really was fit again and wanted to inspect his ‘goods’ to make sure they were in good working order.
Three hours later I was banging away on a punchbag when Bill strolled in to the local youth hall called Maryland Point, in Stratford.
‘Is there a quiet corner we can have a chat?’ he asked me within seconds of arriving.
‘Yeah. Just gotta shower up first.’
Ten minutes later Bill was driving me in his XJ6 to a local snooker hall called the Golden Eagle. He kept well off the subject of the fight game in the car, and conversation wasn’t easy between us, especially since his driving continued to greatly trouble me. Stirling Moss he was not. There were lots of uncomfortable silences.
Once we finally got to the Golden Eagle, I got Dave the manager to put the light on table number six because it was in a corner well away from the other tables. Then I racked the balls up carefully. Bill took the break.
He smacked at them and managed to get a stripe in the far left corner pocket.
‘Right, let’s talk money,’ he said, leaning on his cue and taking a look to see if anyone was within listening distance. Then he glanced down at what he could pot next.
‘What sorta money we talkin’ about?’ I asked in a deadpan voice.
Bill smashed at a stripe and missed the pocket by miles.
‘Works out 60/40.’
I lined up my first one of the day.
‘Me 60?’ I asked.
‘Nah. Me 60. You 40,’ said Bill.
This bloke was taking the piss. I smashed a solid brown into the middle pocket.
‘But how much actual dough we talkin’ about here?’ I asked.
‘Depends on what happens.’
I missed the next one and then looked over at him.
‘What d’you mean? Who wins?’
‘Yeah,’ he answered as he took aim.
Bill clearly didn’t like talking money because he then tried to change the conversation by suggesting I do some more work in the gym.
‘Yeah I’ll do it, if it makes you feel better,’ I said, sounding as if I didn’t give a toss.
I won the snooker game hands down. But Bill never actually specified how much money was involved and I was so desperate for a decent earner I never nailed him down properly. As I left the hall that night I wondered what the hell I was playing at.
Three days later, Bill picked me up outside Stratford bus station and had a right go at me when I slammed his precious car door too hard. That bothered me a bit, but not half as much as his rubbish driving. We eventually headed along the Whitechapel Road to Bethnal Green. Bill hardly said another word in the car after that first exchange and I didn’t have a clue where we were going, except that he’d told me to bring my gym bag. Eventually he parked the Jag up in a residential street and I followed him up the steps to a big imposing Victorian house.
An old dear of about eighty let us in through the front door. I couldn’t even see her face clearly because she hid behind the door as she opened it. Where the hell was he taking me? I followed Bill down a narrow hallway and through a back door into the garden. I was surprised how small the garden was. There was a one-storey building constructed at the end of it, which partly explained the size of the garden in comparison to the house.
When we reached the door to the building, it was swung open by a fit-looking ex-boxer type in his late forties. Inside were two heavy bags hanging from the ceiling and a small-sized ring. It was like an Aladdin’s cave amongst the rose bushes.
The ex-fighter turned round and walked back to hold one of the bags for a wiry-looking fella who was slugging the hell out of it. It all looked like a bit of a show for me. Then Bill broke the ice by introducing me.
‘This is the boy I was tellin’ you about,’ he said to the older ex-fighter, completely ignoring the bloke doing the punching.
Just then the boy on the bag stopped whacking it. The ex-fighter shook hands with him and the kid disappeared out the back. Bill nodded to a bench next to the bags and I sat down and changed into my boots and training gear. I noticed that the small ring was surrounded by ropes and even had padded corners. It was a thoroughly professional training set-up. Maybe Bill had a stable of fighters, I thought to myself.
‘Just give him a gentle warm-up,’ Bill said to the ex-fighter. ‘Carl, take it easy on him. We’re only here to see how you’re shapin’ up.’
Using proper gloves, we had a nice, easy sparring session as per Bill’s instructions. I jabbed away at my new partner and he lashed out a few times to see how I handled the punches. After about two minutes Bill called a halt to proceedings.
I went and sat back on the wooden bench on the edge of the ring and Bill pulled up a chair and sat down opposite me. He went through all the details of each of my early prize fights down in South London and for the first time I realised he’d be
en watching me at every bout. He had a dossier on me in his mind. I was impressed.
Then he got serious. ‘There’ll be a lot more kickin’ and dirty tricks. Things you’ve been told not to do in the past. Now you’ve gotta do them, otherwise you’ve had it.’
I nodded keenly.
‘Jimmy,’ said Bill to the ex-fighter. ‘Show the kid how it’s done.
Jimmy then got back into the ring and started a short demonstration. First he showed me a throat punch. It’s exactly that: a punch directly on the Adam’s apple that knocks out a man if properly detonated. I mumbled something like ‘I do know a bit about the street’ to try and let them know that I was knowledgeable about such moves, but Bill and his mate took no notice. Next came close quarters kicking. Bill could see from the look on my face that I was far from impressed.
Then Jimmy turned towards me and punched his own chest lightly. Bill said: ‘Solar plexus. Base of the rib cage.’ Jimmy then showed how if you brought forward a couple of your knuckles you could make your fist into an even more deadly weapon. Looking back on it, a lot of the moves were pure martial arts, but I didn’t know much about that at the time. Jimmy did each move in slow motion, making it all look a bit strange. I nodded my head each time. I didn’t have the bottle to tell Bill I’d pulled just about every trick in the book since becoming a doorman.
At the end of the session, Bill nodded towards the door and off we headed through an alleyway behind the house. As he dropped me back in Strafford, Bill patted me on the back. ‘Off you go, Son. And don’t forget this is all between you and me. Less people know about it the better.’
I felt like saying I’d worked that one out. There was no way I wanted anyone to know what I was up to. My mum and brothers would have killed me, and Carole would probably have dropped me like a hot brick if I’d confessed what I was getting into.
I called Bill a couple of days later to ask him when I’d be fighting.
‘It’s all organised,’ he said.
‘So what about the money, then?’ I asked.