by Carl Merritt
Around this time my baby sister Lee – by now in her late twenties and the divorced mum of one child – had a big problem with some drug dealers down at a pub she ran in Rochester, Kent. So me and my brother Ian popped over the Dartford Bridge to give her a helping hand. Scum like drug dealers deserve everything they get.
We hung about in the pub one night and picked off five of these pieces of vermin and told them to stay away – permanently. They didn’t look too happy but they did what they were told. I decided that me and Ian should stay over at Lee’s flat above the pub that night because I had an inkling there might be some follow-up aggro.
Lo and behold, at dawn the following morning, three of these bastards turned up at the pub with baseball bats. Ian and I smacked ‘em about a bit and then took their bats off them and gave them a right hiding. They never came back. Sometimes you have to resort to such measures, and no one can tell me they care about a bunch of low-life drug dealers.
Back in Forest Gate, it wasn’t just domestics and drug dens that required my personal attention. One time I heard that a sick paedophile bastard had just got out of jail after serving a five-stretch for sexually assaulting kids on my manor. The piece of scum then went back to his old home, just around the corner from where one of his victims still lived. Imagine it. Every day you walk out of your home and come face to face with the vermin that ruined your childhood. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Well, as you can no doubt imagine; there was a lot of bad feeling when this sicko got out of clink and started showing his face on the manor once again.
Within a week of him turning up again, he was found shot dead – right between the eyes. What a crying shame! What a pity! If ever anyone had it coming to them, it was this sick piece of dog shit. Everyone on the manor was happy as pie. Even the Old Bill didn’t seem too bothered.
Well, that’s how it seemed until me and my brother Ian got pulled in by the law for questioning. They wanted to know our movements on the day of the murder because some neighbour had given a description of a heavy-set man wearing a baseball cap being seen outside the victim’s house just after he had bought it, so to speak: The cozzers reckoned it was me.
They kept us in for seven hours that day, on the basis of a description that could have fitted about half a million blokes across East London. It was well out of order but I presumed the law was simply going through the motions. That evening we were let out of the nick and I thought that was the end of it.
But two days later they hauled us in again. They claimed some wrong ‘un had put my name in the frame. I suppose it’s also possible I got pulled because I was known on the manor as someone who helped others out if they’d got a problem. I would have happily pulled the trigger on a piece of crap like him, but as I said to the Old Bill at the time: ‘If I could have shot him I would have. But shooters are not my style.’
The cops were quite decent to me and they made it clear they felt obliged to investigate the murder, but they thought that piece of scum got exactly what he deserved. Eventually the cozzers left us both in peace. Recently I found out who put me in the frame and they know it’s not all yet forgotten. I’ll pick my moment to confront him.
In 1994 me and Carole could finally afford to move back into our flat in Stratford. Carole let me get a doorman’s job in the West End in addition to my day job in the building trade because we needed the money if we were going to start a family. She wasn’t too happy, but she knew it was the only way we could get ahead of the game, financially speaking.
Then, out of the blue, my old man reappeared on the scene like the bad penny he always was. Better late than never, I guess. One Saturday, me and him went to see a semi-pro boxing tournament at Walthamstow Town Hall. And who do we bump straight into but Bill and Kenny? My heart sank when I spotted them, and I tried to duck out of sight, but a few minutes later I got a tap on the shoulder and they were soon chatting away as if we were long-lost mates.
I clearly meant so little to them on a personal level that they didn’t even ask me if I’d recovered from that last vicious beating in Vegas. They made it clear they’d moved on to a bunch of new fighters but insisted there was still a place for me if I wanted what Bill still called a ‘job’.
As we talked, I found myself sweating profusely. I just didn’t like being in their company, so I said I had to go because I was with my dad and I didn’t want them to meet him. Bill gave one of his shallowest smiles and handed me a business card. ‘Kenny and I are now full-time partners. Gissa call some time.’
I was still strapped for cash but just looking at the greasy, money-grabbing expressions on both their faces kept me from feeling tempted. I took the card to be polite before turning and walking away from them. I’d given Carole a solemn promise and I fully intended to stick to it. On the way home, however, that card started burning a hole in my pocket, just like before. I wanted Carole to feel financially secure so that she’d feel happy starting a family. This was a chance to get ahead of the game.
Back home with Carole that night, I tried to bring the subject around to fighting. But the very mention of it turned her into a fury. ‘Don’t even mention it! You are never going back into that game,’ she said. I dropped the matter on the spot. No point in winding her up; better just to leave things alone.
Before I got into bed a few minutes later, I found Bill’s card in my top pocket. I took it out, looked at it for a moment and then tore it into shreds. I’d made a commitment and I wasn’t going back on my word.
A couple of days later, Carole was out seeing her mum when I got home from a building site, knackered and too hard-up to even pop down my local for a pint. I pulled open the drawer of the kitchen table to see if there was enough change to cover the cost of a packet of fish and chips when I noticed the scraps of Bill’s business card, which I’d dropped into the drawer.
I sat at the kitchen table and started putting the pieces of the card together like a tiny jigsaw. At first it was a game, just to see if all the pieces fitted. Then I realised I was succumbing to temptation.
With the entire card reconstructed, I sat and looked down at it, hoping that Carole would walk in and break the spell. But she didn’t appear and, like a drug addict looking at a syringe or an alcoholic staring at a bottle of vodka, I finally gave in and called Bill.
I still hated him and Kenny. In fact I hated them even more for tempting me back into the cage. But I needed their money and that was what they relied on. Bill answered the phone after a couple of rings. I told him I was up for fighting in the cage again, but I didn’t want to do any ducking and diving like before. I also didn’t want to travel. Any fights had to be nearby. I knew that was the only way I could make sure Carole didn’t suss I was back in the fight game.
Bill fixed me up with three fights in fast succession. I breezed through them all without getting much more than a few scratches, but the money wasn’t as good as before. Two grand was about average and that didn’t make much of a dent on our debts. And, of course, the less money, the more fights I had to do in order to earn any decent wedge. They had me by the short and curlies.
But I did notice another big difference about these fights compared to when I’d started out; the crowds were much younger. A lot of them were now drug dealer types. There were also quite a few Essex boys, City traders and even a few posh-speaking stockbroker types. The cage seemed to be widening its appeal. Now it wasn’t just hardened crims putting huge bets on their boys. Maybe that was why the prize-money had gone down? Yet Britain was booming at the time. House prices were soaring and people were out enjoying themselves every night of the week. That made my drop in pay even harder to swallow.
Luckily, the soft nature of my opponents meant I suffered very few injuries so I managed to prevent Carole discovering what I was up to. If she knew she’d have given me the order of the boot and I couldn’t risk that. Nothing was worth it.
Those three fights helped me completely regain my confidence, even though they didn’t exactly stretch me
to the limit. I’d learned my lesson in Vegas and I was always very well prepared for each bout. I’d also rediscovered my aggression with a vengeance. To be honest about it, I was really enjoying myself. I loved steamrollering opponents in seconds. It made me feel invincible again. I even started acting like a showman – a bit like my idol Ali. I lapped up the crowd as they stood and cheered me on.
I was determined never to repeat the fuck-ups of the past. I even maintained a different type of fitness from before. I deliberately bulked down so I wasn’t as heavy as before which gave me more speed in the cage. And that speed of movement and punches was proving devastating for my opponents.
Naturally, Bill and Kenny were in attendance at every fight, rubbing their hands with glee at the tens of thousands of quid they were no doubt earning by betting on me. They regularly tried to lure me with bigger purses to fight in places like France and Ireland but I turned them down flat.
Carole was pregnant by this time so at least I could save a few bob for fatherhood in the process. But there were a few close shaves with her. She’d noticed the extra money I kept bunging at her. I wasn’t slapping down thousands on the dinner table because that was too obvious, but I kept offering to pay for everything. I kept the bulk of the cash hidden, but she’d check my wallet and find more than just a few bob. I got regularly grilled, so I hid some of the cash in my mum’s garage. I’d pop round there every so often and make out I was picking up or dropping off tools I’d used on building sites.
My cover story to Carole was that I was working doors in the West End at weekends. But living a secret life in order to avoid hurting the ones I loved proved an even bigger strain than before. I didn’t even dare tell Carole when I was training. Instead, I said I was out boozing with the boys. But I believed I was lying for a good cause: the future of my family. More and more frequently, I’d catch Carole looking at me in a strange kind of way, as if she knew exactly what I was up to. Women have an antenna for such things but, for the moment, this seemed the least hurtful way of dealing with the cage.
On 16 May 1995 our baby daughter Melanie was born. It was a twenty-two-hour birth. Carole lost a lot of blood and, in the end, they had to use forceps to pull the baby out into this big, bad world. Poor little Carole and poor little Melanie – it was a close call that shook me to the core.
Rocking tiny Melanie and looking down at an exhausted Carole, I decided later that same day that I had to walk away from the fight game for good. This was it -the big decision. I’d continue keeping fit and trim – but that was just for the sake of my own health. How could I let those two girls down after what they’d been through?
Even my wayward old man turned up in the hospital to see his granddaughter. He didn’t ask me much about what I was up to, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts. He did, however, fire me a warning shot about keeping clear of the illegal fight game. No doubt he’d heard something on the grapevine. Then he went and disappeared again, which didn’t really bother me because my only priority at the time was Carole and Melanie.
Despite the extra fight money, finances were still tight and Carole had to go back to work as a secretary at Railtrack a couple of months after Melanie’s birth. That got to me because I wanted her to be at home looking after the baby. I convinced myself that Carole’s working had caused all those problems with the birth.
Then Carole made me promise to give up the door work and I realised that was why she’d gone back to work. It was a testing time for both of us. But we settled into a quiet life of domestic bliss and I began sleeping easily at night for the first time in years. No more red-raw knuckles and aching bones. Money remained tight, but at least me and my family were in one piece.
It’s important to point out here that, although we’ve had some really noisy rows, I’d never lay a finger on my family – it’s just not my style and I suppose a lot of it is down to the way my mum brought us up. Men are different. They’re all fair game in a way, as I’ll always remember what I saw my dad and that arsehole Terry get up to. Carole and I are up and down like yo-yos really, but I couldn’t survive without her. She’s in charge of all the money I earn. She doesn’t like to spend money unless it’s really necessary and she certainly doesn’t spend much on herself. When I’ve been a right pain, I get her flowers and when I’ve got some cash burning a hole in my pocket, I love buying her jewellery and stuff. I still feel that the best day of my life was the day that I met Carole.
Eighteen months after Melanie’s birth, I went out for a rare pint at a pub called the Two Puddings, in Stratford, with a couple of mates. I bumped straight into Kenny and Bill. The grim reapers of the fight game were leaning against the bar, smirking as if they owned the place. Their eyes lit up like a couple of Soho pimps when they spotted me.
‘Long time no see,’ said Kenny in that soft, charming Irish voice of his. ‘Why haven’t you belled us?’
‘I’ve gotta kid. I’m gettin’ my life on track,’ I replied in a matter-of-fact voice, hoping they’d get the message and fuck off.
‘Pricey business, being a dad, ain’t it?’ said Bill.
I ignored him, knowing full well what he was up to.
‘We could put a few bob your way,’ chipped in Kenny.
‘I don’t wanna know,’ I muttered.
Kenny whipped out a business card and shoved it in my top pocket.
‘Call me.’
I didn’t reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tell No One
Not long after bumping into Kenny and Bill, I ran into my old minders Neville and Wayne. They told me that one of Kenny and Bill’s fighters had died a couple of weeks back after losing in Ireland. My blood froze as my mind snapped back to what happened to that poor bastard roasted alive after my last visit to Ireland.
‘You’re better off out of it,’ said Wayne. I nodded. Hearing about another fighter’s death reconfirmed to me that Kenny and Bill didn’t give a toss about ‘their boys’, as they liked to call us. They’d probably bet on his opponent anyway, I thought to myself. One death wasn’t going to get in the way of a good earner for those two slimy rats.
‘Keep away from them, bruv,’ warned Neville, who had this habit of reading my mind. Wayne and Neville were decent fellas and I appreciated their honesty. I left them that evening even more convinced that any return to the cage would be sheer madness.
Back at home, money was so tight that we had to cancel a holiday in Spain. Carole and I even talked about having a crack at living and working in LA because my big brother John was always saying it was much cheaper to live out there. It was tempting but I convinced Carole that, for the moment, we should battle on because I knew it was easier to avoid certain other issues if we stayed put in East London.
Then fate stepped in when John called up a few weeks later and asked me if I’d be the godfather to his newly born baby son, Alfie. ‘Why don’t we go out there and take a look at the work situation? Have a break and kill two birds with one stone?’ Carole asked me hopefully. She’d had enough of her job and desperately missed Melanie while she worked as a wage slave.
I looked at her in a doubtful sort of way. I had to resist it. I was afraid of what might happen if we went to LA.
‘But what if I don’t get any work? Then we’ll be even worse off when we come back here,’ I pointed out.
‘It’ll do us both good, Carl,’ Carole said, giving me a hug and a kiss as we discussed it in front of the telly.
‘Let’s decide in a day or two,’ I said.
I scratched my head nervously and wondered what I was letting myself in for. I didn’t want to move to LA but if we went out there then I could earn a big payout and we could come back home and start again.
The next morning I called Kenny from a building site. I’d decided to go for broke. One last fight would set us up for life. ‘But this one has to be really worth it, Kenny,’ I said.
‘Naturally.’
‘No, I mean really worth it.’
‘What? �
�
That’s when I told Kenny I wanted a rematch with the Mexican who’d beaten me in Vegas. That defeat had been niggling away at me for years. Kenny said he would see what he could do, ‘but I can’t make any promises, son.’ Yeah right, I thought to myself.
I met Kenny and Bill the following evening in a pub in Stratford. They were well suspicious of my reasons for wanting the rematch.
‘Why now?’ asked Bill.
‘I want that Mexican back. I’m owed a rematch if he’s still fightin’.’
‘I’m not sure we can do it, son,’ said Kenny, examining me through increasingly narrowing eyes as if I was up to no good.
A few minutes later they got up and left the pub promising to ‘be in touch’. They didn’t seem too happy to have me back in the fold.
About a week later, Kenny belled me on my mobile.
‘The man you’re after is still fighting. D’you want me to set it up?’
I told Kenny I planned to visit my brother John in LA and that I wanted the fight to happen within forty-eight hours of my nephew’s christening in Santa Monica.
‘I’ll call you back,’ said Kenny. The match seemed to hold as much appeal for him as a lump of old rice pudding. He didn’t like me calling the shots, but on the other hand he couldn’t resist the dollar signs clicking up in front of his eyes.
A couple of days later we had a meeting in the Railway Tavern, in Forest Gate. Bill and Kenny looked even more flash than before. They had two meaty minders in tow, who I insisted sat on a table at the other side of the saloon bar while we got down to business.