It was a big, fuck-off weapon. It had a curved blade and a big handle because it was designed to be used two-handed, just as the Japanese samurai warriors used it.
‘That’s a lot of booze you’ve got in the back of your van,’ the customs official said as I sat behind the steering wheel of my yellow Transit van and waited to drive onto the Eurostar in Calais.
‘I’m getting married,’ I said. ‘We’re stocking up for the reception. It’s all for personal use and it’s much cheaper buying it this way.’
‘Funny that,’ he quipped back. ‘I reckon that must be the tenth time you’ve got married this month from what my colleagues tell me. You’re going backwards and forwards like a jack in the box.’
‘I keep falling for the wrong man and my plans keep changing,’ I said with a grin. I was behind the wheel and a good mate was sitting next to me in the passenger seat. She was also trying hard not to laugh. We were on the beer run. It was just like doing the booze cruise, only we were doing two runs a day, buying in bulk and selling the booze and fags to dodgy warehouses and off-licences who didn’t want to pay import duty. It was the best money I had ever made and I didn’t need my sawn-off. I felt sorry for Tracey because her husband had been cheating on her and one month before Christmas in 1995 he just did one and disappeared, leaving her and her four kids with nothing.
I had got into the beer game after one of my mates asked me to work for him. He was doing it, needed a driver and said he would pay me £50 a journey. I could do two trips a day for seven days a week if I wanted. It was good regular money so long as I didn’t get caught. I was already earning a few quid through the speed and the puff but I could always do with some more money. I was on my own now and you never knew when times would become hard again. While it’s there, grab it. I snatched his hand off.
John was ten by now and I had turned twenty-eight. Life had been hard but nothing I couldn’t deal with. At first Tracey took over at home looking after my boy while I’d do two journeys a day, seven days a week. It just went to show I didn’t mind doing some graft because it was hard. But I was supporting my boy and looking out for our future and I was happy with the work. In fact, I enjoyed it. The bloke I was working for was one of my mate’s husbands and I thanked her for trusting me with him on the road. She wouldn’t have let just anyone go with her fella but she knew I was proper. She said, ‘Jane, if there’s one person I know I can trust, it’s you.’ She asked me to keep my eye on him though and we both laughed.
The business relationship was good for the first few months, apart from the frequent occasions when I had to lend him the money to get the beer due to unforeseen circumstances. Basically, he was skint most of the time. I didn’t mind at first. But then I found out he was on crack cocaine and the money was going on his filthy habit. So I told him, ‘I’m not laying out all my money every day and doing all the work for £50 anymore. I want in on the profits and, if my money is making the profits, half of it is mine.’ He didn’t like it but he had no choice because, if I pulled my money out, he wouldn’t even have a business.
Then I found out he’d got a bird on the side. Now, I loved his missus – she was a true friend of mine who had put her trust in me. She had six kids and was living off benefits because he didn’t give her anything. In fact, he was even taking money off her to spend on crack with his other bird. I grew to hate him. I couldn’t tell his missus though. I couldn’t be the one to make her life more sad than it was already. But he knew I didn’t like what was going on. The crack had him in its grip so bad that he even lost his van over it.
I bought my own transport and before too long he was working for me. I was on a roll and life was finally being good to me. All I needed was to avoid being nicked. Tracey was still playing Mum and she did everything from looking after John to sorting out the bills, cooking and cleaning – everything really. I paid her well and she had whatever she wanted. The cash was rolling in. I was tired all the time but I was living and I was not being let down by some bloke being all mouth and no trousers.
I was not only the only women doing the beer run, I was the first. That may never go in the Guinness Book of Records but it remains a fact I am proud of. There would be 50 vans all driven by men. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a lesbian but at this moment in time I was no lady. I was all woman though and some of the men tried to pull me. But I’d had enough of blokes by this time. It was me keeping house and home together and I didn’t want anything to rock the boat now that everything was looking like plain sailing. The blokes soon found out it was a mistake to get too friendly. I was there to do a job and get home to my John. End of.
‘Hello, darling. What’s a good-looking girl like you doing a job like this for?’ was a typical chat-up line. I would get it all the time. But I was very bitter, to say the least, and I blamed all men for the way I had been treated. I knew it was wrong but the Gran was out and in charge, and any man paying me a compliment or trying to get too friendly with Jane was likely to get the Gran answering him back.
‘Who the fuck are you talking to? What’s a fucking div like you doing a man’s job for?’ I didn’t make myself very popular but it worked. They couldn’t say a nice thing to me. They thought I was mad. In a way, I suppose I was, or at least single-minded. They usually knew from looking in my eyes that I wasn’t interested. A lot of people have said there was something in my eyes that showed I meant business.
‘Don’t look at me like that, darling,’ they would say.
‘Like what?’ I would reply. I knew very well what that look was. It was hard. I didn’t always know I was giving it. But there could be a message in my eyes. It was my gypsy blood and the life I had led. I was five-foot-seven with long blonde hair and a figure to die for. I really looked good but I was a hard bird by now and it was going to take a lot to make me melt. And, just in case any of those drivers weren’t getting the message and fancied their chances with me, I kept my samurai sword in my cab. I never had to use it though. Well, not on a driver because they just knew that one word back from them after I had warned them would result in severe repercussions.
My crack-addict mate continued to let me down by not turning up for work. But his little trips to see his other bird didn’t cause a problem once I had my operation up and running. In many ways I was glad to see the back of this bloke, as I’d had enough of his sort and how they treated women. He’d got me into the beer run – I was grateful for that – but that was about as far as it went.
I got one of my good friend’s two teenage girls to look after John indoors. They were 16 and 17 and their mum and dad were always on call if they were needed. John was loving it. He could have his mates stay and I supplied anything they needed, plus I was paying the girls a couple of hundred quid a week and they were more than happy. Things were running smooth and everyone was happy. For the first time in ages I could spend money. I was collecting antiques and I really got into it – furniture mostly. And I’d bought every bottle of champagne you could get, plus perfumes. I still had my collection of guns – all legal – knives and swords, and jewellery. And I’d bought everything myself – all the things I had always wanted but until now I could never afford. Nobody, apart from Rosie, had ever bought me anything when I was a little girl. Now my house looked like it was an antique shop with antiques piled everywhere.
On one day off I went shopping in London at a military shop but arrived after closing time. I just knocked on the door and, when the man came to say he was closed, I pulled out a big wad of £50 notes and waved it at him. You should have seen his face. He couldn’t unlock the door quick enough. There was me in my army trousers and bomber jacket and Doctor Martens boots. I felt good with a pocket full of money. Next I went into Jane Norman in Oxford Street and, even though I don’t wear dresses, I thought they did look pretty. I bought eight dresses and two jackets and it came to over £2,000. I just put the cash on the counter in front of the startled assistants. I had a good figure in those days and those dresses looked good on me. Even after all my relationship problems, I wondered if a special man would come along and see me in them. But for the time being it was just nice to have enough money to be able to afford them.
I wasn’t the only one who was happy. John was loving it because he could have anything he wanted and, as long as he was happy, I was happy. I bought him a couple of 50cc schoolboy motorbikes and all the top games. I was spoiling the both of us. I know it sounds like I wasn’t spending a lot of time with John but I was doing what I could. I was a women living in a man’s world and I tried to spend as much time as possible with him when I finished work. But I was worn out. Usually, I would get home in the morning after a run and take John and all his mates to Southend, where I would buy them all lunch, give them money for fair rides and then I would crash out on the beach. Afterwards, John would come and wake me, we would all have dinner and then go home. It was crazy. I mean, I wasn’t sleeping in a bed, I was sleeping on Southend beach but, if meant I would have more time with my John, it was worth it. And we were all happy.
It wasn’t the perfect way to bring up your child but I was doing my best. He never moaned. He was the most handsome and perfect son. John and his mates even came to France with me sometimes. I paid them £30 each and they loved it because it was a bit of extra pocket money and a bit of an adventure. They worked really hard, loading and unloading. But I never let them come when they should be at school – only at weekends and on holidays. John didn’t even have to earn the money, as I gave him whatever he wanted but, being like me, he was keen to get stuck in and he worked as hard as any man I know. I was so proud of him – and still am.
The man I had started off with on the beer run soon wanted to come back to work with me when word got around about how well I was doing. But I wasn’t having it. I knew he was still treating my friend – his missus – and her kids like dogs. He was never at home and never paid the bills. I didn’t like it and I knew he thought that, because he was six feet tall and twenty stone (of fat), he could intimidate me. He tried anyway.
He came round and, before he was through the door, he started shouting about how I owed him. He thought that, because he could intimidate and scare his missus, he could do the same to me. I just picked up a bottle of spirits and smashed it across his head. He dropped to his knees and there was claret everywhere. Being hit with a full bottle is the same as being hit with a hammer but he was still screaming abuse so I grabbed another and did him again. Down he went for a second time but he got up, still shouting, ‘You mad bitch!’ and he came at me. But by now I’d grabbed my samurai sword and he turned in panic and ran for the door. At that point Tracey turned up. She took in this 20-stone idiot, blood everywhere, and me chasing him with my sword. The red mist had definitely descended. I know I might sound nutty but the people I was involved with were total villains – and he was the worst. He was off his head on crack and had no morals or honour and no loyalty to anyone. Everything I hated in a man. I wasn’t around innocent people with normal lives.
He got to his car just in time. As he slammed the door I smashed the blade straight through it. ‘Don’t you ever come back and threaten me in my home, you fat bastard!’ I shouted as he sped off down the road.
Tracey told me to get some sleep and she cleared up the mess. The next day I was on my way back to France when a mate phoned to say word had got around the East End about me smashing this bloke up with the bottles and my sword. Apparently, the coward was going around saying it was lucky I was a woman or he would have of done me good and proper. That was a mistake on his behalf. I couldn’t ignore the insult. This was just the world I was in and it was how I survived. It was mad and sad but it was life in that world. I was in danger of losing respect and then I would stop earning, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I had John and his mate with me in the car but I turned round and started heading for his crackhead’s house. He wasn’t there so I went to his mum’s house and he wasn’t there either but it wasn’t too long before he turned into the street in his car. I pulled out my sword and John’s mate looked a bit shocked. I mean, this sword was the business. It was a big, fuck-off weapon. It had a curved blade and a big handle because it was designed to be used two-handed by Japanese samurai warriors.
‘What are you going to do?’ John asked.
‘Watch and learn,’ I said.
I jumped out of my van, ran to his car door and held the blade to his throat. ‘Don’t you ever come to my house again or tell people what you are going to do to me, you fat bastard!’ I screamed at him. ‘If you do, I will cut your fucking head off.’
He screamed like a girl, this 20-stone hard man. ‘Please don’t. We’ve been mates for years, Jane,’ he whimpered.
‘I’m lucky I’m a woman or you’d have done me? You pathetic piece of shit,’ I smirked at him. ‘You had better start looking at me as a warrior because I’m the most dangerous woman or man you’re ever going to meet.’ I left him there sobbing and begging for his life and got back in my van and carried on to France to do my day’s work with the lads.
John and his mate just looked at me, then looked at each other and burst into laughter. ‘It’s better than going to movies, watching you perform, Jane,’ John’s mate said. We did laugh about it. Another funny thing was that the crackhead’s brother was a good mate of mine. You may think he would be on his brother’s side in all this but he thought I had done the right thing by teaching him a lesson. I used to visit him at his home in Kent on the way back from France. I’d pop in just to have a bit of a break from the driving. ‘You done the right thing with my brother Jane,’ he said one day. ‘He needed teaching a lesson and you done that good and proper.’
After a while the beer run started to take its toll on me physically and I was starting to fall asleep at the wheel. But I wanted to keep getting the money in while the going was good. There was no way I wanted to slow down now I was on top. Like a mug, I started taking speed to keep me awake, going for days without sleep. I’m not making excuses. All I can say is that it worked. It made more sense than one of the staff at a warehouse in France I used, who tried to have me over on the money. I mean, they tried to steal from me and for a little while they got away with it. You see, they had these counting machines that checked you had paid them the right amount. There was no need, from my point of view. I would always check the amount before I left home in the morning. When I got there, I would just give it to them and they would stick it in their machine and it was always right. But one day there was a new bloke taking the money. I had given him £1,500 and he put it in the machine, then said I was £40 short. This was a first but I was tired because I’d been doing two trips a day for months now and I was lucky to get fifteen hours sleep a week. So I put this down to tiredness, apologised and gave him the difference.
But on the next trip the same thing happened. ‘You are £60 short this time,’ he said. I gave him the extra but I wasn’t amused. I knew I hadn’t made two mistakes on the trot and I was certain he was having me over. If there were two things I never got wrong, it was what I had to pay out and what I got in. But I just suffered again, although I know I should have counted the money by hand in front of him. So I took that one on the chin but I made up my mind he wouldn’t do me again.
Two of my mates counted the money with me before I left for the next trip. One at a time we each did it. And it was there, every penny. When I got to France, I gave this bloke the money and he put it in the machine and, lo and behold, it was £40 short. I already knew what I was going to do. My sword was sheathed inside my bomber jacket in the middle of my back. I reached round for the handle over my shoulder and pulled it out. You should have seen his face. I didn’t say anything. I just chopped him across his shoulder and he fell to the floor, screaming like a pig. I didn’t want to kill him but I did want to hurt him and show him what happens to lying thieves. He’d thought that because I was a woman he could have me over. The idiot. Out of everyone using the place, all the men, I was the worst and most dangerous person to have over. And he had just found that out the hard way. There were about eight men behind me waiting to be served but they just bowed their heads. Not one of them said a word to me.
My beer had been loaded so I grabbed the money, jumped in my van, where Tracey was already sitting, hid my sword and put my foot down because now I needed to get out of France. I had known what I was going to do to him but it wasn’t until I’d done it that I realised what an idiot I’d been. I mean, I was in France and I had just stabbed a Frenchman, and now I had to get back to England sharpish. Yet I didn’t regret what I’d done for a moment. I was old school and I didn’t call the police – not that I was in a position to. I dealt with it myself. That was my way. You fucked with me, I would be your judge, jury and executioner. As it was, I made it home without any problem from the police. I reckoned the guy I stabbed was about as interested in calling them as I was. And I like to think I was the last person he played that dirty trick on.
There were about 50 vans in line for the journey back over the Channel but, while mine was old, it was special. The last owner had been a police officer so, accidentally on purpose, I left his name on the paperwork. I thought it might make me untouchable. What copper is going to pull another copper? As we waited to get home, the van in front of me started rolling backwards and hit us. I was with a good mate and said, ‘Look at this idiot. He’s going to hit us.’ It seemed very funny – I mean, hysterical – by the time it hit us because I was high on puff. The man got out of his van. I was nearly crying with laughter when I said, ‘You hit us but don’t worry, there’s no damage.’ I couldn’t even get out of the van I was laughing so much. But he was looking a bit puzzled.
Then he said, ‘No, love. Vans don’t roll up hill. You’ve hit me.’ That finished us off. We just couldn’t stop laughing. It was the puff. We were out of it and it was only luck that we didn’t get pulled over. The bloke just walked away shaking his head and, fortunately, laughing to himself. There was no harm done. We laughed for weeks afterwards over that.
Another time, we were on the train, fully loaded, during the day and we went to the toilet. When we got back to the van, there were about 20 men up against the van pushing it. I’d forgotten to put the handbrake on and it had rolled into a convertible BMW, denting the back end. I apologised to the owner of the car but he said, ‘That’s OK, sweetheart. My motor’s only an old peace of shit. No real harm done.’ Flash git, I thought to myself. A motor worth £25,000 and he’s calling it a ‘piece of shit’.
When we once had 500 cases of lager in the van, a friend and I were driving home and all of a sudden there was a massive crashing noise. I had fallen asleep. We had veered out of our lane and hit road cones in the middle of a section of road works – and thank God we did because, if we had stayed in our lane, we would have driven into the stationary traffic ahead and probably been killed. Instead, we were in the works lane smashing cones all over the motorway. We were suddenly wide awake and I couldn’t get out of the works lane because there were cones stuck under the van and everyone was looking. I just looked at my friend and drove right through them. It did us a favour really because we missed all the traffic and got off the motorway. But it was scary too. When we got home, we still had a cone under the van but I was so exhausted that I just went to bed.
I could only think that the Billy wasn’t working as well it had, as there is only so much your body can take before it needs rest. I was working constantly and battling through the exhaustion. It wasn’t just the money. By now people were relying on me to get their orders in. We were lucky we hadn’t died that night but the Billy took those thoughts away and it was all about getting the job done.
On the next trip the van decided to break down on the way home. It was fully loaded, we were on the M20 on a steep hill and the van was doing about five miles an hour before it died on us. We were nearly at the top of the hill on the hard shoulder when it overheated for the last time. The journey was just getting too much for the old vehicle. So we let it cool down a bit. We kept trying to start it again but it wasn’t having it. I stuck it in reverse, took my foot off the brake and let it roll backwards down the hill. We were going backwards on the hard shoulder of the M20 at about 50 miles an hour, fully loaded. It was flying – but in the wrong direction. There were lorries flying past us with drivers just gawping in amazement at how fast a Transit van could go in reverse down a hill. But we were terrified and those drivers must have been too, seeing us heading in their direction at breakneck speed. I mean, we could have veered across into their path at any second. We were in big trouble. If I couldn’t keep it in a straight line, we were dead. But, amazingly, I got it to bottom of the hill and we rolled to a stop. I tried to start it again but the engine was still dead. We could see a petrol station in the far distance across fields and hills.
I said we had to get to the garage to get some water for the radiator but my mate replied, ‘Leave it out, Jane. I’m knackered and it looks miles away.’
I told her to stop being a baby. ‘You’re a soldier tonight, girl. We’ve got a dodgy load of booze so we’ve got to get this van started and get home or we could end up being nicked.’ We climbed the barrier into the fields, walked through a forest, got to the garage and she had been right. It was a lot further than it looked. Even then we had to wait two hours for it to open. We bought loads of bottles of water and went back to the van and poured the water into the radiator. And, thank God, it started and we headed home.
What a life we were having. It was hard work and scary when we broke down in the middle of the night. But we were earning and we were surviving. That’s life, I thought to myself as we got back to Essex.