Fighting to the Death

by Carl Merritt

  ‘Who the fuck is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ came Neville’s response. His gun was aimed straight at them.

  I heard him flick the safety catch off his weapon.

  The two cars slithered to a halt on the muddy field. The doors swung open and a familiar voice shouted: ‘Put that fuckin’ thing away.’

  It was Bill and he was behaving as if we’d just come out of the local boozer and were organising a ride home.

  On board I strapped in next to Wayne and Neville – the only two fellas I trusted on that entire plane. Bill stayed up front, drinking with his cronies as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Once we got to cruising altitude, Bill wandered up to us and slung mean envelope containing £5000.

  ‘What happened back there?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothin’ special,’ said Bill with a grin.

  ‘Nothin’ special? It was fuckin’ hairy,’ I said.

  ‘Nah, that was nothin’, Son,’ added Bill.

  I wasn’t convinced.

  Neville, Wayne and myself had ourselves a few drinks on that plane trip home. I wouldn’t have minded changing my pants as well! But Neville and Wayne kept me laughing all the way. They knew the score because they’d worked in the illegal fight game with Bill for years. But I felt they were more on my side than his.

  When we finally touched down in Essex, all Bill said to me was: ‘I’ll bell you in a few days.’ It was clear his only concern was his next fat pay packet, thanks to yours truly. He didn’t even ask me if I was alright.

  Neville and Wayne were a different story. They got me in Neville’s Capri and took me to hospital to sort out a nasty wound to the back of my head. They were good fellas and I believed I’d made friends for life.

  At Queen Mary’s Hospital, in Stratford, the casualty department sewed me up a treat and the boys stuck with me throughout the night and even dropped me back at my flat. It was about three in the morning by the time I tip-toed in. Luckily Carole was asleep.

  Next morning; I woke up late to find my pillow soaked in blood. My nose was the size of a balloon and my hands were red raw, as usual.

  ‘What happened to you?’ asked Carole.

  ‘Had a big tear-up at the club. Punter went a bit mad.’

  ‘You’re the mad one. Who’d want a job like yours?’ said Carole, dabbing at my wounds with some cotton wool soaked in hot water. If only she knew the truth.

  Luckily she didn’t notice the two-inch gash inside my mouth and didn’t stumble across the five grand in cash still sitting in my inside jacket pocket.

  I didn’t show up on the building site for the next couple of days. My mouth was so sore I couldn’t eat. I did a lot of thinking over that period and decided I’d never let Bill risk my life like that ever again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Fly by Night

  All the aggro with that fight in Ireland left me in a bit of state. I had to face up to a few facts: I was risking ending up on a mortuary slab for the sake of a few grand in my pocket. And if there was ever to be a next time then I had to insist Bill told me more about the fight in advance.

  Of course I would have coped more easily if I wasn’t still bottling everything up and not telling a soul about my secret life as an illegal fighter. The strain of it was doing my head in. But at least I had my new mates Neville and Wayne. They tried to put my mind at rest by saying Bill was a trustworthy fella. But I was far from convinced.

  But my biggest priority was not losing Carole under any circumstances. She was already putting me under pressure to stop working as a ‘doorman’ – my cover for going off training and then fighting. I told her we needed the money for our wedding and that I’d quit as soon as we actually got married. I knew she wasn’t happy, but it was better than telling her the truth.

  I needed enough dough to buy our own place, settle down and have kids. That was the dream. I so wanted a happy, stable life different to the one I’d had thanks to my wayward dad. If it meant taking a few on the chin and risking a beating then so be it. But was it really worth risking my life for?

  With all the money pressures mounting, I let Bill talk me into taking on two more ‘jobs’, as he liked to call them. They were both in cages. One was in the Ipswich area of Suffolk and the other was in Birmingham. Luckily both of them were brief and victorious and I copped three-and-a-half grand for each bout. They weren’t that different from my first fight in the cage and I insisted to Bill that Wayne and Neville were alongside me so at least I felt a little bit more secure.

  The Ipswich fight was in another warehouse on an industrial estate. The fight in the Midlands was held in a huge underground car park near the Bullring in the centre of Birmingham. They both lasted under a minute, thanks to my opponents being old and fat. These fights also confirmed to me that Bill was raking in a lot more dough after putting thousands of quid on me in bets, as well as splitting the ‘match fee’ with me.

  The next fight was in South London and the crowd there got really out of control when I steamrollered some local fella who looked like the England footballer Rio Ferdinand. He lasted about a minute and a half. Turned out he had a kickboxing background and the home crowd thought their man would walk it. They started banging on our van and even tried to rock it over. Neville couldn’t get the motor started. I was laughing my head off for some strange reason. After winning a tough fight, a few problems with the crowd seemed like small fry. Neville and Wayne got really wound up, while Bill, as usual, was nowhere to be found.

  Secrecy was the key to all these fights. At one bout, some idiot started taking pictures with a flash. Three heavies grabbed his camera, stamped on it and then stamped on this geezer’s face for good measure. Wayne and Neville said that amongst the audience at those fights were a lot of senior Old Bill. Many of them were partial to a flutter and the big-time crims liked entertaining the cozzers. One time Wayne even recognised a judge in the audience because it was the same fells who’d sent him down a few years earlier. I also spotted a number of East End actors at some of the fights.

  By the time my fifth fight came around Bill had bought himself a brand-new S-class Mercedes with his own personal driver. Meanwhile, I was still saving hard for my wedding to Carole. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit it niggled me that Bill was making so much dough out of me. He definitely also had a couple of other fighters on his books, but refused pointblank to even discuss them. The secretive world of the cage and illegal fighting was very convenient for Bill. It meant he could avoid all sorts of other issues.

  Besides the wedding money, I’d also given Mum quite a few bob. She deserved it. She still worked at the pub and was too proud to ever ask for any money, so I’d drop a little something in her biscuit tin whenever I was round at her gaff. She never asked me where it came from. Luckily, during this run of quick fights, I didn’t suffer any bad injuries or marks to my face so neither Carole nor my mum suspected what I was up to. So far so good.

  I was still determined to contribute towards our wedding. Carole wanted the full works for what she saw as the most special day of her life. I’d have been happiest with a few mates at a quiet little ceremony, but you gotta let the little lady in your life have what she wants, haven’t you?

  As it happens, 9 May 1987 turned out to be a great day for all. The wedding ceremony itself was held in a massive old church that hadn’t been used for more than two years, in the middle of the old Stratford one-way system. About four hundred people turned up, including the shadowy Bill; no doubt he saw it as a necessary duty to keep me sweet.

  I’d asked him along as a ‘business associate’. Bill came to the church service, but didn’t show up at the party afterwards. He didn’t bring his wife or anyone else and I only realised he was there when I spotted his Mercedes and driver slung up as we walked out of the church following the ceremony.

  As we were posing for photos, Bill wandered over. I had a quick chat without bothering to introduce him to anyone. As we shook hands, he slipped me a
n envelope containing a couple of hundred quid. ‘Congratulations,’ was all he said before heading off through the crowd back to his Merc.

  ‘Who s that?’ Carole asked me a few seconds later. I lied. ‘Boss of a club where I work.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  Well, it was the nearest to the truth I could manage at the time.

  The only disappointment of the day was that my Uncle Pete, who was back in England, didn’t show up because his car broke down. I would have liked him to see me on my biggest day. I owed him a lot in many ways.

  Amazingly, my old man did make an appearance. Naturally, he had a new girlfriend in tow. The wedding reception went with a real swing thanks to a great mixture of people from all backgrounds. But ultimately, it was Carole’s day. I just tried to behave myself and keep a low profile.

  My new father-in-law, Jim, even told the reception in his speech: ‘He’s a good boy who never stops working.’ Coming from him that was a compliment. If only he knew the truth. Shortly after the wedding, Jim even had the decency to come up to me and say how wrong he was about me and that I was ‘alright after all’.

  Just as we were about to leave for our honeymoon, Mum grabbed my hand and asked me a strange question: ‘So where’s all this money coming from, Carl?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mum.’

  ‘You’re not goin’ to get yourself in trouble are you?’

  ‘Nah,’ I tried to say it with a smile on my face, but I was worried because I didn’t want her thinking I was up to no good.

  Carole and me spent the first couple of nights of our honeymoon at a hotel by the sea in Clacton before setting off for the sunshine of Corfu. Carole’s dad stumped up for the honeymoon, which was nice of him. I got quite a shock when I first saw all the topless girls on the beach but I soon got used to it!

  It was a difficult time because I didn’t like hiding the truth from Carole. One side of me felt really bad about it. But I handled it by blanking it out of my mind most of the time we were in Corfu, although Carole did catch me once or twice looking a bit thoughtful.

  ‘What you thinkin’ about Carl?’

  ‘Nothin’ special.’

  What else could I say?

  Once we got back to East London I tried to keep myself as busy as possible with plenty of hod-carrying work. I kept up a strict training regime, but I told myself it was for my health rather than any future fights. I even convinced myself that the £200 wedding present from Bill didn’t mean I had to commit to another fight. My ultimate goal remained a happy family and home. I’d had a good run and each fight had seemed easier than the previous one, but now I wanted to put all that behind me.

  In June 1987, Carole and I bought our own flat in Keogh Road, Stratford. I’d managed to steer clear of Bill ever since the wedding. He regularly called but I told him I was doing up my new home and didn’t have time to do anything else. I had responsibilities now for the first time in my life. But in some ways I was leaving the door wide open. Something inside me stopped me from completely blowing out Bill. I didn’t want to slam that door shut just in case there came a day when I needed him again …

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Le Underground

  Doing up that flat cost a lot more money than I’d expected. I was still working in the building game, but Carole’s salary and mine never seemed to cover everything. Also, it was pretty relentless working on other people’s homes and then coming back to do the same thing all over again in my own place.

  I had quite a few restless nights thinking about my next move. Then, in the middle of 1988, I called Bill up and left a message on his answer machine. When he didn’t call back I started to wonder if I’d blown it by turning him down so many times since the wedding.

  Then our bank statement turned up in the post and I rang him again. This time Bill picked up after just two rings. He must have known how desperate I was, but he made no reference to my earlier call.

  ‘There might be somethin’ about for you. I’ll have to make a few calls,’ Bill said.

  ‘This time I need to know more about who I’m fighting,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t talk on the dog, Son. Let’s have a meet.’

  This time it was at a real spit ‘n’ sawdust tavern called The Swan, in a tough old manor near the Rotherhithe Tunnel. Bill was already in the boozer with his driver and a minder when I showed up.

  Bill went a bit moody on me at first. Maybe he was punishing me for turning my back on him for so long.

  ‘So what d’you wanna know so bad?’ he said dismissively. ‘If I’m gonna get back into this game I gotta know more about the opposition this time.’

  ‘That’s not on.’

  ‘Yes it fuckin’ is ‘cause I gotta be better prepared than I have been in the past. One day I’ll come up against a hitter who’s really the business and I’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘That’s not down to me, Son.’

  ‘Just keep me posted, alright?’ I paused. ‘And I want my own people alongside me,’ I said, knowing I was pushing my luck.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Then count me out.’

  ‘I provide the muscle, not you.’

  ‘Just make sure Neville and Wayne are at every fight.’

  Bill looked relieved when I said their names because they were already on his payroll. Looking back on it, I was playing right into his hands.

  I drove home after that meet with Bill in my rusting old two-litre Cortina Ghia kidding myself that I now had a measure of control over my own destiny. With Neville and Wayne on side, maybe I’d even have a bit of a laugh as well as earn a crust.

  A couple of days later Bill called up again.

  Day after tomorrow.’

  ‘What about the dough?’

  Not on the phone.’

  Yet again he was telling me nothing, but at least there was a fight in the air and I needed the cash badly.

  Next I belled Neville and Wayne and asked them if they had any idea who I was up against. Wayne promised me he’d get back to me, soon as he heard something. Naturally, he was as good as his word.

  Within half an hour, Wayne was back on the old dog and bone.

  ‘Bring your passport, bruv.’ ‘Where we goin’?’

  ‘I think they eat snails.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think about it …’

  We were off to France. Wayne also reckoned I’d walk the fight, but I wasn’t sure how the hell he could be so certain.

  We flew Air France to Paris – none of that cloak-and-dagger stuff at tiny airfields in wobbly planes with two rusting props. But there was no Bill on board. Instead I found myself sandwiched between my two six-foot-three-inch heavyweight friends Wayne and Neville. We must have looked a frightening threesome to all the other passengers. We even had to pull the arm rests up between us just so we could all squeeze into a row of seats together.

  Sticking out like three sumo wrestlers at a garden centre meant we, naturally, got thoroughly searched by customs at Charles de Gaulle Airport. When we finally walked out into arrivals, we bumped straight into this little garlic-breathed fella with a scrap of paper in his mitt which read WAYNE.

  Our new pint-sized friend drove us off in a Citroën with blacked-out windows and, thirty minutes later, we were waltzed into the plushest hotel reception I’ve ever seen in my life. Bill was sitting there, cool as a cucumber, in the lobby. We all joined him.

  ‘No muddy field filled with shamrock merchants this time?’ I asked.

  Bill laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Son. This one’s in a different league.’

  Bill even kept to his side of the bargain by giving me a proper pre-fight briefing. I was fighting in a cage in an underground car park beneath another big hotel just a few minutes from where we were sitting.

  Just then, I noticed Wayne being handed a bulky-looking paper bag by one of Bill’s other minders: Looked like a shooter just in case anything went wrong.

  ‘You sure this one’s alright?’ I asked Bill.<
br />
  He laughed. ‘Just a little insurance, Son.’

  Then Bill continued his briefing on my opponent. His height, weight and previous fights. ‘He’s not bad, a bit flash but you’ll hammer him easy,’ said Bill. How the hell could he be so sure?

  A few minutes later, two French limos drew up outside the hotel and it was time for the off. One vehicle – a Citroën Pallas – was driven by Bill’s regular minder. Our car was piloted by an immaculately dressed Frenchman who didn’t speak a word of English. I remember he had this huge mobile phone which he used every other second for some call or other. It was certainly a bit slicker this time around. Maybe Bill was right.

  It was night-time by now and I sat in the back hemmed between Neville and Wayne in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam near the Eiffel Tower. Then we went and lost Bill’s car at some lights. But luckily our man knew where he was going.

  A few minutes later, our limo cruised into a car park and started twisting down a spiral roadway below ground level. We must have gone round at least six times when we were stopped by another well-dressed fella. He leant in and spoke to the driver in French, gave us a cursory glance and waved us in. I noticed the handle of a shooter in a holster under his jacket.

  Then I saw the cage. It was carefully lit like something on a movie set or theatre. All around were well-dressed people, including a lot of very glamorous-looking ladies. Many of them looked like stunning catwalk models.

  The cage itself was entirely on its own in a far corner of the car park. People were milling around it. Many were carrying bottles of champagne by the neck. At least a dozen men and women were snorting cocaine off the sparkling clean bonnets of a row of Mercedes and BMWs. None of them even bothered looking up as our vehicle slowly cruised through the car park.

  As we came to a halt another limo slid in alongside us. A blonde woman in the back seat was scooping something from a small glass bottle and then sniffing it. More cocaine I guess. Music was blasting out of a PA system, giving the whole place an even more dramatic atmosphere. It sounded like French jazz music and was what I’d call very sexy sounds. There were even some black people swarming around, which was unusual because in most of my fights to date there had been a distinct lack of anyone who wasn’t white. The smoothest-looking bookies I’d ever seen were handling all the cash with expensive leather holders under their arms. None of those old-fashioned cases with legs like I’d seen back in England.