With Charlie fading so fast, and unable to talk to me as his co-writer, I had to produce the following chapters without him – something I could never have done without a dear mutual friend of ours, Wilf Pine.
During the last three weeks of March, Charlie started going downhill, and by the first Sunday in April, Wilf decided to stay at the hospital, sleeping overnight in a bedside chair. By Tuesday, Charlie was drifting in and out of consciousness, but, in a wide-awake moment, suddenly brought up his funeral.
‘You know I’ve never been a gangster, Wilf,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want to be remembered as one, because of the twins. I was never like them, and I don’t want people thinking I was – even when I’m dead. I spent my life trying to distance myself from their way of life, and a gangster’s funeral would associate me with all they stood for, which wouldn’t be right.’
Charlie told Wilf that he wanted his body taken to Diana’s flat near Crystal Palace, with a few friends, stay there overnight, then be buried quietly, with no fuss, at Chingford Cemetery, beside his son, Gary. Charlie felt this would be a fitting way for him to say goodbye, for, although he liked lots of parties, he also enjoyed the quiet life.
Despite the differences they had had throughout their lives, Charlie felt sure Reg would respect his wishes.
A few hours later, that same Tuesday, Reg was brought from the prison to be with his brother. As next of kin, he was asked by a senior nurse whether he wanted Charlie resuscitated.
After a brief discussion, Reg decided against it. He was then asked which religion Charlie believed in and if Reg wanted a priest present when Charlie passed away.
‘No priests, no vicars,’ Reg replied. ‘Nothing religious.’
Later, Reg sat down with Wilf and said: ‘We must be realistic. What do you think we should do about Charlie’s funeral?’
Wilf told him what Charlie had said that morning and Reg looked surprised. Then, after thinking about it for a few seconds, he said: ‘All right. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll have.’
By mid-afternoon, Wilf had contacted Diana, still working at the Ideal Home Exhibition in central London, and she was on her way to the island. Charlie was now fading fast, but seemed to be aware the end was near because he told Wilf: ‘I must hold on for my Di.’
At six-thirty, Charlie was fading so quickly that Reg was brought to the hospital again to say goodbye. But a raging storm had caused the ferry bringing Diana to be diverted from Ryde to Fishbourne, three miles away, and it was touch and go whether she would make it in time to say her own goodbye. She finally arrived, soaking wet from the torrential rain, and held Charlie in her arms. He appeared to be unconscious, but as soon as he heard Diana say: ‘Charlie, I’m here’, he opened his eyes.
‘How much do you love me, Charlie Kray?’ she asked softly.
‘Twenty-two quid,’ Charlie replied, in a feeble whisper.
An hour or so later, he died in Diana’s arms.