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 dialled 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 been 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.
Bill said the winner’s fee was £4000 and loser would cop £1500.
‘But you won’t lose,’ he added.
‘Right,’ I replied, not at all sure whether I shared his confidence.
Bill said the fight would be in two or three weeks’ time. I didn’t bother asking who my opponent was because I knew he’d never say. About a week or so later I called him up with a progress report on my training and to assure him I’d kept out of trouble and not had any mishaps that might threaten my fitness.
‘Keep your nose clean, Son,’ said Bill.
I couldn’t get that oncoming fight out of my head. Soon I was living, eating, shitting and sleeping it. And there were so many questions I hadn’t got around to asking Bill … Had any fighters died? What happened if I was badly injured? Who’d get me to a hospital? But I bottled it all up and didn’t tell a living soul.
I kept my head down and got on with my training. At one stage, I thought about calling Uncle Pete but I knew he’d have a right go at me. After all, I think he’d wanted me to steer clear of Bill. But all this secrecy was making me feel incredibly lonely and a bit desperate. My stomach was twisted up in knots.
And Dad had long since disappeared off the scene. I hadn’t seen him since I’d been in South London. I heard from Uncle Pete that he’d moved in with yet another bird. Typical, he was never there when it really mattered. I so needed to talk to someone about the biggest dilemma I’d ever faced in my life. Then I thought about the money and the excitement of winning. And I convinced myself it would all be worthwhile in the end.
The day I had to call Bill about the date of my first fight finally arrived, and I was so nervous I couldn’t eat anything or even think straight. I kept playing the words I would say over and over in my mind. Of course, when it came to the actual call it was easy as one, two, three. And Bill made it all sound so normal.
‘It’s on for tomorrow. Make sure you wear jeans and get yourself a pair of boots but no steel toecaps. Alright?’
‘What sort of shirt do I wear?’
‘A tight-fitting T-shirt or nothin’ on top if you want to show off yer tan.’
No way, I thought to myself, I’ll get a T-shirt. I’m not one for showing off my physique. I’m not just a piece of meat on display. I’m a proper fighter, aren’t I?
Bill told me to be outside Strafford bus station. ‘A car’ll meet you. It’ll be Jimmy, the geezer you met in the gym the other day.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Jimmy and a mate of his were waiting in a dark blue Volvo when I got off the bus. He waved me into the back of the car and off we went. The driver never even turned his head towards me.
‘We’re meetin’ Bill in an hour near the location,’ said jimmy.
That was it. He didn’t say another word, and although I was desperate to fire a few questions at him I knew that wasn’t the done thing. As we headed west along the Embankment I sat back and listened to Barry White playing on the stereo cassette and glanced over at the sparkling lights of Tower Bridge. Here I was with a couple of East End hardmen on my way to a prize fight that might end in my death and I didn’t even have a fucking clue where we were heading.
Eventually we got through West London and stopped at the first service station on the M4 just before Heathrow Airport. ‘You want anything, Son?’ asked Jimmy. The driver remained up front without moving a muscle. All I could see were the pockmarks on the back of his ugly bulldog neck.
‘Nah,’ I responded.
A few minutes later we were back on the M4 and Barry White was moaning and groaning away again, ‘You’re The First, The Last, My Everything’. We took a turn-off for Reading about thirty minutes later. A couple of miles down the road I spotted Bill’s Jag slung up in a lay-by. He was in the driver’s seat and there were a couple of minder types keeping him company.
As we pulled up in the lay-by, Bill got out of his Jag at the same time as his minders. They left all their doors open as if they were planning a quick escape.
I stepped out of the Volvo.
‘Allright, Son? You ready for action?’
I nodded and muttered, ‘Right as rain.’
Bill pointed towards the back of the jag so I got in with one of the minders. Bill and the other fella sat up front.
‘It’s about ten minutes away. You eaten?’
“Bout four hours back.’
‘Good.’
The minders didn’t utter a word. They were wearing black suits with white shirts and black ties.
‘The opposition’s not up to much. Bit of a fat bastard,’ said Bill, as if he was talking about the weather.
‘Where we fightin’?’ I asked nervously, more to make conversation than because I cared. It was already too late to back out.
‘Don’t worry, Son. You’ll be well impressed.’
I presumed by that he meant a few cars parked round in a circle like that bout he’d taken me to see in Lewisham.
A few minutes later we got to a big industrial park. It was pitch dark and most of the warehouses seemed to have closed down for the day.
The Jag then turned sharply onto a ramp up towards the front of one warehouse and in through an open double doorway. Wooden pallets lined the walls inside the building, but there was no sign of any ring or cars.
Then the car did a sharp turn to the left where a bloke was standing by a shutter doorway that was automatically opening up. Bill nodded at the fella and the Jag headed through the entrance into an alleyway between two warehouses.
‘What’s happenin’?’ I asked Bill.
‘You’ ll see.’
At that moment the jag made another sharp turn off the alleyway and into the opening of the next building where another fella stood sentry at the door. This time there were lots of people and cars. Top-quality motors that were even flashier than the ones I’d seen at that fight over in Lewisham. This was it. My stomach was turning wheelies.
Then I saw something in the distance. I squinted for a moment because I couldn’t quite believe it. It seemed to be built out of tubular steel and closely knitted wire mesh.