Shortly after arriving at Parkhurst, my address book was returned to me and I quickly started contacting all the friends I’d neglected during my illness at Frankland. I wrote to Robin to thank him for sending me a copy of Ken Follett’s novel The Key to Rebecca, which had gone to No. 1 in the American bestsellers’ list. Before becoming a multimillionaire novelist, Ken had worked for Robin’s publishing company, Everest Books, and, noticing that Rebecca was dedicated to Robin, I reminded him of the time, in 1975, that Ken and I had a pub lunch to discuss the first edition of Me and My Brothers, which Everest was publishing. I had a few quid in my pocket and, as Ken was such a lovely guy, I happily paid for our lunch, which, in the light of what has happened to each of us, has always struck me as amusing and ironic. Here I am in prison, skint, and Ken’s rolling in it, with homes in London and the Caribbean. But good luck to him: he’s a talented writer and deserves all his success.
I’d only been on the island a few weeks when Big Albert was cleared to visit me – and even though he lived two hundred or so miles away, he was soon visiting me twice a month. He would lock up The Elbow Room in the early hours – sometimes as late as 5 A.M. – grab a few hours’ sleep, then drive to Portsmouth to catch the Isle of Wight ferry. After a light lunch, he would drive to the prison and was never, ever a minute late for the visit. In times of trouble, you find out who your true friends are, and Albert proved himself to be one of the firmest, most loyal I could have wished to have.
Sometimes he came with a mutual friend, Keith Smart, formerly the drummer with the Rockin’ Berries pop group, now their manager, and we had a laugh one day after I found Keith on his own in the visiting hall.
‘Where’s Big Albert?’ I asked, disappointed that the big man wasn’t there.
‘He’s being strip-searched,’ Keith said.
‘WHAT?’ I said, shocked. ‘Why?’
‘To check him out for drugs,’ Keith said.
I couldn’t believe it. Albert being daft enough to try to smuggle drugs in to me was too ridiculous for words.
‘When we were going through security, one of the police dogs was all over him,’ Keith said. ‘So they took him away.’
Albert didn’t emerge until half an hour later. Apparently they had him starkers but for his underpants, seriously believing he was hiding something. Having driven so far, Albert wasn’t too happy about the hassle, and having half an hour lopped off his visiting time, but, typically, he quickly made a joke of it. Next time, he promised, he’d put a Bonio in his pocket to give the dog something to find. We had a chuckle about that, and it gave me something else to think about for a while.
That November, I was thrilled to hear that Wilf and Joey had been given Visiting Orders to see me. If they, too, were shocked that I looked gaunt and haggard, and the long, flowing barnet that had always amused people had been cut short, they didn’t show it. They did their best to lift my spirits, but I was so worried that my legs had swollen and I was having even more trouble breathing that I found it hard to respond.
When they asked what was wrong with me, all I could say was: ‘I don’t know. I suppose it must be old age.’ Deep down, though, I feared there was more to it than that and, three months later, I was proved right when my legs ballooned even more and I was transferred to nearby St Mary’s Hospital for tests.
I had no idea anyone on the outside knew I was there, but, the next day, Wilf turned up unexpectedly. He said someone had contacted Reggie, in Wayland Prison, in Norfolk, and Reggie had rung him, asking him to check on me. I was surprised. Reggie was still writing letters, slagging me off about this and that, and I didn’t think he was bothered about me, one way or the other.
Wilf took one look at the long chain linking me at the wrist with a prison officer sitting beside the bed and said, as politely as he could: ‘Is that really necessary for someone as old and sick as Charlie?’
‘I don’t like it either,’ the officer replied. ‘But it’s laid down in the regulations. There’s nothing I can do.’
However, the chain was several feet long and, without being asked, the officer moved out of earshot, so that Wilf and I could have a few private moments.
‘I’m in real trouble, Wilf,’ I said. ‘The doctors say they don’t know what’s wrong, but have a look at this.’ I pulled back the sheets and showed him my legs and feet, which were now so swollen I could barely walk.
Seeing me in such a state must have hurt Wilf: he knew I’d always kept myself in trim – never more than eleven stone – and was proud of my slim figure. We chatted for an hour or so, about nothing in particular, then Wilf left, promising to come back the next day. I appreciated that more than you can imagine: I was so lonely and worried that I desperately wanted the comfort of such a good friend.
When Wilf arrived the following afternoon, I almost broke down. ‘The doctors have told me they can treat whatever I’ve got with medication,’ I said. ‘They’ve recommended I go back to the nick later today.’
Typically, Wilf tried to see the positive in that. ‘Well, at least you’ve got something they can cure,’ he said. ‘Keep your chin up – you’ll be feeling better soon.’ I wasn’t so sure and, again, my suspicions proved right because, a week later, I was back in hospital, having yet more tests. Reggie got word and, again, rang Wilf, asking him to check on me.
When he arrived, I was propped up in bed, feeling relaxed – and looking it, according to Wilf. We chatted for a bit, then he made an excuse to leave. ‘I’ve got to go somewhere for an hour or so,’ he said. ‘Anything you want while I’m out?’
‘You know what, Wilf,’ I said, ‘I’d love some prawn sandwiches – brown bread. I’ve been dreaming about them.’
When Wilf hadn’t returned after two hours, I started to get anxious, fearing the visit had proved too much for him and he’d gone home. But then in he walked, carrying not just a massive selection of seafood sandwiches but two pairs of smart, blue pyjamas, matching dressing gown and a pair of slippers, big enough to fit my enormous feet. I didn’t know what to say, I was so touched. I hadn’t given a thought to my grey prison pyjamas, but Wilf obviously felt I’d feel better in something more in keeping with the smart image I’d always maintained on the outside.
Fifteen minutes or so later, a doctor came in and talked to me about the results of the tests. I’m sure he explained everything as well as he could, but, to be truthful, I was so confused I didn’t understand most of what he said. He mentioned septicaemia, emphysema, pneumonia, pleurisy but I had no idea how serious they were and, in the end, asked him to tell Wilf everything about my condition.
Over the next few weeks Wilf convinced me I would get better; I only needed a heart bypass operation, he said. But then one of the doctors shocked me by saying he was going to try to get me a compassionate release, on the grounds that I was terminally ill. I was gutted and hurt that Wilf had conned me. ‘Why did you lie to me, Wilf?’ I asked.
‘Listen, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Use your brains. There’s no way, at your age, that the authorities are going to pay out thousands for you to have a bypass. But once we get you out on compassionate grounds I’ll arrange for our friends to hold benefit nights all over the country to raise money to get you the best surgeon in the land to operate privately.’
I believed him; desperately wanted to. ‘I’m sorry to have doubted you, mate,’ I said. ‘Just get me out of here and get me that operation.’
In their wisdom, the authorities decided that Reggie no longer posed a threat to anyone and, over the next two weeks, he was brought to Parkhurst every other day. Someone somewhere obviously had a brain, because, suddenly, he was allowed to stay permanently in my vacant prison cell, to save him, and accompanying prison officers, the 400-mile round trip. That was the good news; the bad news was that, rules being rules, Reggie had to be handcuffed, and his legs chained together at the ankles, before he left the jail. Shuffling through the hospital, in front of gawking patients and staff, was unnecessarily humiliating, and it upset both of us.
But, then, nothing changes, does it? Reggie Kray was still viewed as a monster and needed to be treated as such.
I was allowed as many visitors as I liked, and Wilf wrote down the people I wanted to see most, in addition to Ronnie’s childhood friend, Laurie O’Leary, who had been visiting regularly since I’d arrived on the island. Top of my list was Diana, of course, but she was working at the Ideal Home Exhibition in London, as she’d done every year since I’d come out of prison in 1975.
Wilf contacted our mutual friends, Joey Pyle, Big Albert and Keith Smart, and all responded immediately. Soon, Big Albert was making that ten-hour round trip, not once, but three times a week. The first time he arrived – again with Keith – my feet were so swollen I was unable to walk and had to use a wheelchair. As I was wheeled in to meet them, Keith, who has a fast wit, joked: ‘Now, come on, Charlie, don’t let them push you around!’ That got us off to a bright start and we had a good visit, talking about everything, it seemed, except what was wrong with me.
When I needed to go to the loo, Albert offered to take me, and as he helped me out of the wheelchair I remembered what I’d told Flanagan in Belmarsh.
‘They won’t let me out of prison until I can’t walk,’ I’d said.
I was not a free man, but I was out of prison. Being proved right was no consolation at all.
Another person I was desperate to see was my dear old mate Freddie Foreman. But there was a problem, now that Reggie was visiting every day. The two of them hadn’t spoken for about four years since Fred went on TV, revealing information about the Frank Mitchell killing that Reggie thought mugged him off badly. He was furious, and ever since had blanked all efforts at a reconciliation. Even now, he refused to be in the same room as Fred, which upset me. Life’s too short to harbour grudges, isn’t it?
Fred decided to come to the hospital anyway and it was a lovely surprise when he walked in with Diana. I was looking the best I could, in my new pjyamas, dressing gown and ridiculously large slippers, but I knew I was unrecognizable as the man Fred knew. He failed to hide his shock. Leaning down, he took my hand and said: ‘My pal, it breaks my heart to see you like this.’
‘You know what breaks my heart, Fred?’
He shook his head.
‘That I ever introduced you to those twins of mine. Look at all the trouble they’ve caused you.’
Fred shook his head again. ‘No, Charlie, no. You’ve got it wrong. You don’t understand.’
And I didn’t.
‘I was with you, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Always you. I was never with the twins.’
I felt my eyes filling up: at the lowest ebb of my life, it was what I needed to hear, and when they left I felt calmer and happier than I had done for weeks.
We’d always got on, Fred and me, and I wasn’t at all surprised he chose Respect for the title of his autobiography, because he, more than anyone else in the London underworld, commanded it.
Me and the twins had grown up with that word, respect. Mum drummed it into me as a small boy that it was the greatest word in the English language: if you gave respect to people, she’d say, you nearly always got it back. I felt it my duty to drum it into the twins, too, and now, thinking back, I wondered whether I went over the top. For the word became all-important in their lives and, as they grew into young men, it became part of their everyday language; they were almost obsessive about it. As respectful people them-selves they demanded respect from others and, if they didn’t get it, they were physically equipped to do something about it. Which they did quite often.
What made the twins so fearsome that they became legends in their own time? If anyone’s to blame, it’s probably me. I was the one who made them aware their fists were lethal weapons. I was the one who bought them their first boxing gloves and taught them how to take care of themselves. I was the one who told them how good they were and took them, at just ten, to a boxing club. I was the one who persuaded them to turn pro and trained and sparred with them and sat in their corners, advising, encouraging, convincing them they were uniquely outstanding, with the potential to become champions.
I was the one who made them believe they were invincible.
Certainly no one can blame our mother for how the twins turned out. She did her best for them, as she did for me. When Ronnie and Reggie got in trouble as kids, she’d tell them: ‘You mustn’t argue with people – it’s not right.’ But they’d make light of it, telling her this or that person had done something bad and they had to sort it out. They loved the violence even then.
When they had flare-ups indoors Mum always cut them short. But how could she control them when they were away from the house? She tried her best to guide them, to discourage them from arguing and fighting, but, as they grew into teenagers and young men, she couldn’t be with them twenty-four hours a day – any more than I could.
Lots of people, I know, find it impossible to accept that our mother didn’t know what the twins were up to. Well, I can assure you she didn’t. She was terribly naive; all the family were, believe it or not. And she never asked questions. Obviously, she got to hear the rumours of the heavy violence and the Cornell killing, but the twins merely glossed over it. ‘It’s just talk, Mum,’ they’d say. ‘Just people in the clubs.’ And Mum always accepted it. Once, she was asked on TV if stories of the twins’ violent exploits were true and she replied, simply: ‘I don’t know.’ And she didn’t, believe me.
I’ve often wondered whether, deep down, Mum did know they had an evil streak, but turned a blind eye because she couldn’t face the truth.
Certainly she was always on my back, asking me to look after Ronnie and Reggie. Even when they were grown up, she’d worry about them and say to me: ‘Oh, Charlie, those twins.’ I knew it would ease her mind if I was watching out for them, so I did. Over the years, I must have saved dozens of lives by stepping in and talking Ronnie out of whatever vengeance he was planning when he was ‘on one’. Usually I was able to sit him down and make him see sense, but if he was in one of his moods I’d go the other way and agree with him. ‘You know what, Ron – you’re right,’ I’d say. ‘You should do this geezer. Publicly execute him.’
That would do the trick. ‘What! Are you mad?’ Ronnie would say.
‘No, I’m not mad. You’re right and I’m wrong. Get hold of the dirty bastard. Go down Shoreditch High Road and put one in the nut. That’s what he deserves!’
Ronnie would stare at me, horrified. ‘You are mad,’ he’d say. ‘I’m having nothing more to do with you. Forget it.’
I did. And so did he – until the next time!
Now, confined to a wheelchair, unable to walk, but with plenty of time to think, I found myself wondering if the twins’ lives would have turned out differently if I’d taught them a different sport; bought them football boots, not boxing gloves, and encouraged them to vent whatever anger and frustration they felt by running across a field, not slugging another human being.
I knew much more about boxing, though: it has always been an honourable sport, and I believed it offered the twins – two academically unqualified young men – the best chance to make something of themselves; to become the sort of people who would warrant the respect they wanted.
I always tried to do my best for my brothers, but, unfortunately, they rarely saw it that way. I never got any credit for anything, only the blame when things didn’t turn out to their liking. I was their scapegoat, their human punchbag who would never hit back, no matter how much punishment I took. At no time did they show any understanding, let alone sympathy, for the selfish way they destroyed my life. At times they even gave me the impression that they thought it was my fault they were in prison.
My fault! All along I’d warned them that certain members of their so-called Firm would grass them up if the police got lively. But they took no notice; they didn’t respect my judgement, never had. And, of course, I was proved right. When the going got tough, Ronnie Hart, Albert Donaghue and Scotch Jack Dickson went straight to Nipper Read and his team. Hart and Donaghue, particularly, loved the violence – and the money it brought in – but as tough guys they proved themselves cowards. Donaghue was one of the most vicious villains around and carried out much of the violence the twins were accused of. Yet he was allowed to walk away and begin a new life.
I would have loved the twins to have shown me some gratitude – or even just some recognition – for the warnings I gave, problems I sorted out, and for helping arrogant, ungrateful idiots the twins befriended behind bars. But Ronnie and Reggie were not made that way. The only time I remember feeling really close to them was that day in August 1982, when our mother died and I comforted them – Ronnie in Broadmoor, Reggie in Maidstone Prison. They were at their lowest ebb and maybe seeing things as they really were, for the one and only time in their lives. Both said they were proud of me. And they thanked me for all I was doing.
Sadly, their memories proved short. Older brother Charlie, good old reliable Charlie, was just a bit too soft, too easy-going, for their liking. They never said as much, but I’m sure my brothers viewed me as a huge disappointment.
Certainly respect was something they never once showed me.