JUDAS PIG

by Horace Silver

  ‘Everything go all right with fat bollocks?’ says Danny.

  ‘In like Flynn,’ I say, plonking myself down in a chair and helping myself to a portion of garlic chicken feet, an acquired taste, and that you suck wholesale off the bone. After my reply Danny gets on with his eating. He knows not to say anything more about the Spud Murphy coup because we never chat gangster business to anyone outside of our immediate circle.

  For some time now we’ve promised Peacock that we’d take him to see his hero, Ronnie Kray, currently languishing in top security nuthouse, Broadmoor. We’ve been to see him loads of times before ourselves, and whereas at first it was a giggle, the novelty’s now worn off. Well it has for me at least. I liken it to kicking a cripple. No fun for you, no fun for the cripple. The problem is you see he drives you bonkers, what with him being bonkers himself. But when you’re trying to get on with your life, and fuck knows in this city that’s hard enough, you get a call of the blue, and it’s some total nutrock on the other end of your phone saying things like, ‘I’m a friend of Ronnie’s and I just got out of Broadmoor, and he reckons you might be able to fix me up with a whistle and flute.’ And so through gritted teeth you make an appointment for him at Peacock’s, and two days later, in strolls some absolute fucking loppo, that’s not only pulled half of his own hair out with a pair of pliers, but has been behind the wall for twenty stretch for chopping up his wife and kids with a meat cleaver, just because one of them poached the Sunday supplement out of his favourite newspaper.

  And none of them have ever got a tanner. Plus, they’ve been in the nuthouse for so long that the last time they bought a suit it cost them three shillings and sixpence. A good suit nowadays is going to cost at least a couple of grand, but these lunatics are expecting it for nishmans, just because they’ve spent the last decade stepping and fetching and getting down on their knees to dish out blow jobs to a burnt-out sixties psychopath with a taste for well-cut Italian suits and souk-bought Arab boys.

  And talking of suits, Peacock’s knocked up a little three-button, single-breasted number, along with a pair of hand-engraved gold RK cufflinks especially for Ronnie, and Ronnie’s going to be wearing the ensemble on today’s visit, so Peacock’s well chuffed. But I’ll be perfectly frank, it’s Danny that has the fascination with the man. Two peas out of the same psychopathic pod I suppose. And when they’re together all they do is gee each other up with the biggest load of old bollocks you’ve ever heard, trying to outdo each other with stories of wickedness. It goes without saying that Ronnie Kray was wicked in his day, but when he was wicked he was mostly doing it on medication strong enough to bollox a horse. Danny’s wickeder, and he does it stone cold sober, and that surely must be the real essence of evil. And I really have got better things to be doing than sitting in a lunatic asylum listening to a sixties has-been droning on about his salad days. But it’s not just the time factor. I mean even the trip down there comes to a small fortune, relatively speaking. By the time we get him a bit of Chinese, his fags, and his non-alcoholic booze, and then buy boxes of chocolates for all the loony tunes that do his bidding, you don’t see much change out of a bottle. And don’t believe all the bollocks you read in the papers. The Kray twins ain’t got a shilling. They’re always on the ponce, trying to scrounge this or that. And I hate to seem like a fucking minge, but there ain’t no mileage for me in the pair of them. They got nicked, tough shit. Don’t be crying over spilt blood. And it was Ronnie that got the pair of them their bird in the first place by thinking he was invincible, just like Danny. The Kray twins were despised by other criminals because what they were was thieves’ ponces, just like us. I’ll give you an example of how they’d graft.

  Back in the day, two brothers, Albert and Bobby Redding, both very proper people who we know well, hijacked a snout lorry and took the load. Word went round, as it does, and the twins let it be known to Albert and Bobby that they wanted a chat. A meet was made in Vallance Road, where Ronnie Kray would hold court drinking endless cups of tea while stroking a black cat on his lap. Albert and Bobby turned up thinking that the twins were interested in a trade. Instead, Ronnie informed them that the load they had taken was being minded off by them. A statement which was known by both parties to be total bollocks. It was then suggested by Ronnie that the twins would swallow the load, but to smooth things over, Albert and Bobby would have to hand over half of any readies they sold the gear for, then everything would be hunky-dory. Albert and Bobby told them, ‘bollocks’ and walked out. The twins caught up with them a couple of days later and broke both Albert and Bobby’s arms with baseball bats, then had them run up the hospital to get mended. When they got better they paid on, because next up it would have been a bullet in the head. And that of course was only one stroke they pulled. As time went on they took so many fucking liberties with good people, that very soon all they had on the firm was total mugs. And it was these mugs who grassed them up when the shit hit the fan. And when the twins were finally convicted at the Old Bailey for the murders of Jack The Hat and George Cornell, villains all over London breathed a collective sigh of relief, because now they could get on with the job of earning dough without Gert and Daisy breathing down their necks and putting the bite on them every five minutes. Not only that but Reggie could have got out of the murder charges. He only stuck his hands up because he didn’t want to be parted from Ronnie, who by the way hanged himself in the witness box, because of his arrogant ignorance.

  So, there they were sitting in the cells beneath the Bailey after they’ve both been weighed off with recommended thirties, and Ronnie shouts to Reg through his cell bars. ‘Eat up all your dinner, Reg. We don’t wanna let ‘em think we’re gutted.’ And how did Ronnie repay Reggie’s loyalty? Ten years into their bird he told him he couldn’t handle nick anymore and had himself nutted off. Leaving Reggie to walk the landings in prison blues on his own, while Ronnie sauntered around Broadmoor in silk suits and eating Chinese takeaways, and having his bollocks sucked by mentally defective murderers. Believe me, Reggie’s doing his time hard. He’s been poofed-off on numerous occasions by lesser cons, for holding peter parties and having bouffanted blonde bumboys prancing about to disco music in his cell wearing nothing but bollock-busting white shorts. I don’t know what it is about gangsters and gayness, but sometimes I get the feeling that deep inside every hard man there’s a queen just screaming to get out. I’ve even caught Danny, who books himself as hetero number one, running a crafty eye over the well-sculptured butts of buff bodybuilders in the showers, after we’ve worked out in our gymnasium. So there you go! And if you need one more measure of the twins, chew this one over. When they were in their teens they tied their younger brother Charlie naked to his bed and gave him electric shocks to try and make him more violent, like them. And like all the old faces they were the bollocks back in the day, but they wouldn’t last five minutes if they were around now. Different class today. No one cares for reputations any more. A common or garden scumbag high on smack will blow your nut off without thinking about it. And not only that, when the twins and all the other London gangsters were ruling the roost in their horrible suits, Old Bill chased you with whistles and pushbikes. Now he’s got computers and helicopters.

  BROADMOOR TOP SECURITY hospital. Home for the criminally insane. Even though the drive here was a welcome reminder of how green and pleasant this land can be when the sun’s shining, as soon as the dark and foreboding Dickensian turrets of Broadmoor loomed into view it sent a shiver straight through me. Because behind its unscalable walls lurk twisted minds, infected with the most degenerate evil that humanity has to offer. After parking our motor in the visitors’ car park and making our way past a row of twee, prefabricated single-story cottages that Broadmoor screws call home, we head towards the hospital’s main gate. The big blue clock on its main turret chimes two, telling us we’re bang on time. But even before stepping inside, the stink of the place’s institutionalism is already causing me to wish I was somewhere else.

&
nbsp; Slight problem on the Chinese front. We’ve eaten it all. Well what can you do? I know it’s a stinking liberty, especially as Ronnie looks forward to his takeaways. But fuck it, I paid for it, and besides, it smelt so gorgeous in the car coming down here we just couldn’t resist dipping into a couple of spring rolls. And you know what Chinese food’s like. Once you start you just can’t stop. So in the end we ended up caning the whole shebang. I reckon it’s done Ronnie a favour really. I mean he’s as jumpy as a jack-in-the-box at the best of times, and all that MSG they stick in Chinky food can’t be any good for his mood swings.

  After signing in the visitors’ book we follow a security screw in through a maze of high-powered, sliding see-through screens and security doors, that makes a man feel like he’s in the process of being decontaminated, until reaching the inner sanctum of the hospital’s castle-like walls and courtyards, where thankfully there’s a modicum of apparent freedom and the regime seems at once more relaxed. The first nutjobs we set eyes are a few harmless looking old codgers pottering about in frayed bathrobes and soft-soled bedroom slippers, like awayday pensioners doing the seaside shuffle. Each seems preoccupied with some non-existent task or thought and is either muttering to himself or staring silently into oblivion. It dreads me to think how long some of these mushes have been here, but one thing’s for sure, once you’ve been certified insane, the only certainty is that you ain’t going to be getting out of here in a hurry, because once old mother nuthouse has clasped you to her bosom like a long lost child, you’re hers forever.

  A sudden pang of pity finds me moved at their plight, but it stops almost as soon as it starts when I remember that ninety-nine per cent of this mob are noncey killers and rapists that have committed terrible transgressions against fellow human beings. Yeah, I know we’re nasty bastards ourselves, but we only kill and maim other criminals, whereas the loony tunes in here will fuck you half to death with a red-hot poker and then gouge out your eyes with a pencil, before chopping you up into little pieces with a cleaver and boiling your head for brunch. After which, they’ll go strolling in the park to feed the ducks as though nothing untoward ever happened. That’s why not any common or garden criminal can make it through these hallowed doors. Broadmoor is for deluxe fruit and nut cakes only! And to prove my point we’ve just walked into the visits room, a modern and well-appointed outhouse, that’s unfortunately infused with an aroma of boiled cabbage and stale piss. Sitting on a table by a far window is the housewives’ choice himself, Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. We start to call him all the dog-cunts under the sun, until a screw steps in to warn us that if we don’t shut it he’ll terminate our visit. We ain’t happy because if this was a proper nick, that gap-toothed slag would be served right up with a severe beating, not sitting on a visit looking out over green fields eating chocolate biscuits and having a cup of tea.

  Ronnie Kray arrives in his normal manner and one befitting his former status as London’s premier gangster. He’s suited and booted, courtesy of Peacock, and his bearing is erect and proper. He enters the visits room alone and with both hands clasped firmly behind his back and his head held high. Still managing to exude an aura of dignity and menace after having been snapped in two by the system takes some doing, but underneath the bravado it’s clear he’s a broken man. He’s also a lot thinner than his infamous sixties photos, a mere shadow of the man that terrorised the East End of London and put the fear of Christ up the establishment. But looking at the whole package and bearing in mind that they pump him full of enough drugs to keep Larry happy, he carries himself well enough for a nutrock that’s been deprived of his liberty for over twenty stretch. Alas, things get sadder as Ronnie gets nearer, because on closer examination things ain’t what they seem. His nose seems more bulbous than what I remember, and both it and his cheeks are blotched and red and dotted with bluey veins, giving him the appearance of a postcard drunk. Behind his expensive, horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes are milky and distant, and it’s patently obvious that someone somewhere has fucked up his measurements, because he’s veritably swimming in the suit that Peacock has made him. But none of us says nothing because we don’t want to ruin Ronnie’s day, and so, as soon as he approaches we all rise to be treated to one of his legendary, vice-like handshakes, after which we all sit down informally around a square Formica table.

  ‘Hello, Ron,’ says Danny, breaking the ice. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Smashing,’ says Ronnie, there being a slight tremolo in his soft and effeminate, delinquent Cockney. Quite unlike his twin Reggie who speaks East End gruff and proper.

  ‘Hello, Ron, how you doing?’ I say.

  ‘Smashing, Billy,’ says Ronnie.

  ‘This is Peacock,’ I say. ‘He made you the suit, Ronnie.’

  ‘Smashing,’ says Ronnie.

  ‘You’re my hero, Ron,’ gushes Peacock, frothing at the mouth and seemingly on the verge of coming his load inside his trousers. ‘I’ve modelled my whole style on you and Reg.’

  ‘Smashing,’ says Ronnie.

  Knowing that the conversation ain’t going to get much better, I hurry up proceedings by ordering Ronnie’s expected luxuries. Four large cans of Barbican non-alcoholic lager and two hundred unfiltered snout, that arrive post-haste, by way of one of Ronnie’s lackeys. Ronnie, whose chain-smoking habit has left him with a hacking cough, slowly breaks open the first of his near-beers, takes a couple of gulps then lights the first of what will be his many cigarettes, and of which he only ever smokes each one three quarters down before replacing it with another. And it’s a surreal sight watching one of London’s most feared gangsters puff away in the manner of silver screen legend Greta Garbo.

  After holding out his top two fingers in a V sign, Ronnie places each cigarette at the very top then slowly raises the cigarette to his pouting lips, after which he inhales deeply before tilting back his head to blow a theatrical kiss of smoke towards the ceiling. The three of us sit goggle-eyed at Ronnie’s camp ritual, as in between lighting his next cigarette, his tongue slowly works its way out of the corner of his mouth to loll gently over his bottom lip, and his head drops forward as though probing one of us for a French kiss.

  ‘Can I buy some chocolates for the boys?’ says Ronnie, cutting through an embarrassing couple of minutes of thumb-twiddling silence.

  ‘Sure, Ron,’ says Danny. ‘Anything you want!’

  ‘Smashing,’ says Ronnie, snapping his fingers in the air, the signal for another trustee inmate to come scampering over and stand to attention, pen and paper at the ready. Ronnie starts to dictate his order, and I’m horrified to hear that the Yorkshire Ripper has been included.

  ‘We ain’t buying that cunt fuck all, Ron,’ I say, spitting razor blades.

  ‘Peter’s all right, Billy,’ says Ronnie. ‘He’s harmless really.’

  ‘Fucking harmless, Ron?’ I say. ‘The slag’s killed thirteen fucking birds with a ball-peen hammer. How can he be fucking harmless!’

  Ronnie’s face goes blank and hard, and it don’t take Einstein to work out he don’t like being challenged. But fuck it, he ain’t the king of east London no more, he’s the queen of Broadmoor. And if he don’t like it he can go back to his padded cell, piss in his pants and stamp his feet like a naughty schoolboy. We rule the fucking roost nowadays, and this cockamamie cunt ain’t no more than a curiosity in a curiosity shop.

  ‘Make you right, Billy,’ says Ronnie, after some deliberation that proves he ain’t as mad as they make him out to be. Turning to the trustee he then says. ‘Yeah, leave Peter out, he’s a cunt.’ After which, he then goes on to finish the order.

  ‘Any news on the film they’re making about you, Ron?’ says Peacock, shitting bricks at me and Ronnie’s conflagration and attempting to change the subject.

  ‘Done and dusted, Peacock,’ says Ronnie. ‘But I got the right hump with Roger Daltrey. Don’t care if he is a rock star. He never showed me and Reg enough respect. I’d like you to do me favour, Danny.’

  ‘Yeah,
sure, Ron,’ says Danny.

  ‘I’ll give you his phone number and I want you to tell him I need to see him. You know, kid him along and get him to come up here to see me. Then I’ll cut him to pieces on the visit.’ Danny kicks me under the table, and it’s all we can do to stop ourselves from bursting into fits of laughter.

  ‘Yeah, no problem, Ron,’ says Danny, poker-faced. ‘We’ll do that for you. Won’t we, Billy?’

  ‘Yeah, no fucking problem, Ron,’ I say. As if we’ve got the slightest intention of getting involved in such ridiculous fucking nonsense.

  ‘Smashing,’ says Ronnie, happy once more.

  ‘D’ya think you’ll ever get out here, Ron?’ says Peacock.

  ‘I don’t really care,’ says Ronnie. ‘But if I do get out, I’m going to go on a round the world cruise. Then after I’ve visited all the places I wanna see, I got an outstanding list of slags I’m gonna kill. Then I’ll be happy to come back here. I got everything I want in here and they all worship me, even the screws.’

  Now it don’t need me to tell you that the man is obviously two tacos short of the full enchilada. And this sort of bollocks is exactly why the twins got their bird.

  ‘Got someone I’d like you to meet,’ says Ronnie, continuing. Step forward Charlie Smith. ‘Charlie’s very talented. Plays guitar and writes his own songs. I was telling him that you’ve got contacts in the world of showbiz. We sent out a tape to Simon Cowell, but he ain’t come back to us yet.’ And I’m looking at this fucking dinlow and thinking, no fucking wonder! Because no disrespect to Ronnie Kray’s eye for talent, but Charlie Smith’s hovering over our table, looking like the bastard offspring of an anal fuck between Batboy and the Bearded Lady. And my first thoughts are that if this man’s got any talent at all, it’s for looking like he should never be released back into civilised society.