We needed to start over, as they say in America, but I wondered what on earth had brought Dad to Allentown. Tenerife had been a stopgap, but this time it was different. Dad needed to be away for a good while and put down some roots, and Allentown was the place we would remain for the foreseeable future. You couldn’t have picked a place more different from London if you’d tried.
Talking to Dad, I discovered there was only one reason we’d ended up here: Joe MacLean. The laughing Glaswegian. Joe was an old mate of Dad’s, one of the chaps, who’d moved to Allentown 14 years previously. He had been a big face on the Glasgow scene, but a gang war in the late sixties made his situation a little too hot to handle. Joe got out while the going was still good, moved to the US and rebuilt his life. He’d made a very good job of it too, establishing strong contacts with important local families, and going into business with Dave Rosen, a fantastic old man linked to some powerful New York crews. Known as Mr Philadelphia, Dave employed Joe to oversee his slot and games machine business, and Joe was bringing in some significant funds. He had even married a wonderful American girl, Joanne. She was a smart cookie and worked for a major company as the top exec’s personal secretary. Joe and Dad had never lost touch, and Joe was only too happy to help when he discovered Dad needed to ‘relocate’.
By the time I arrived, Dad had already made himself some allies in the Ballateri family, the main mafia crew in Allentown. They had owed some serious money to a London firm who were very close to Dad. Joe introduced Dad to Pete Ballateri, the head of the family, and together they worked the problem out. Dad has always had a knack for persuading debtors to cough up and he soon proved a few thousand miles of ocean was no obstacle to getting a result for his friends. A few meetings and phone calls later, the job was done and Dad had made some new allies. He always manages to grease the wheels.
Joe and Dave Rosen were keen for Dad to help run and expand the business and my arrival meant another man was on the firm to keep it growing. Thanks to our pool-table days, Dad and I were old hands at putting machines in bars and collecting the takings, and we took to the slight variation on a theme like ducks to water. We drove around all the towns within the New York–Atlantic City–Philly triangle, and were soon taking a good cut of money for our efforts. Our English charm seemed to work wonders on the various bar and hotel owners we spoke to. They loved our ‘funny accents’, and were only too happy to take machines and benefit from the protection offered by our formidable associates.
Driving around gave me a taste of how big America is. You really have no idea until you live there – we were only covering a tiny pocket of a vast country, but the distances involved were still huge. On working days we’d cover hundreds of miles – a far cry from our old ‘rounds’ back in London. People would ask us to supply a couple of pinball machines for their bar. ‘Where are you?’ we’d ask. ‘Just up the road,’ they’d say, but ‘up the road’ would be a two-hour drive away. In the first few weeks, Dad and I had a wonderful time giving our eyes a treat and thinking about how we might carve ourselves a bigger slice of the pie in the games-machine business. We were always looking for angles, and sooner or later we hoped to find something to provide much more substantial paydays.
I look back on that period with fond memories. America was new and exciting, and I was delighted to have Dad to myself for such long stretches of time. I think he felt the same way too. Back home we’d always been surrounded by so many people – family, friends, the chaps – and I’d loved that, but now it really was just the two of us. It was a wonderful chance for us to really get to know each other as men.
At first we lived at close quarters in Dad’s condo. Dad had the bedroom, I had a sofa bed. We spent a lot of time just chilling out and doing what men do best – eating, watching movies, talking and laughing. We were like The Odd Couple – minus the tension of course – with me doing a Felix, the Jack Lemmon character, constantly cleaning and preparing meals in the kitchen. I’ve always loved cooking, and for the first couple of months I was the chef in our little condo-cum-diner. With no women around to tell us what to eat, we always went for our favourites. Night after night we’d wolf down huge bowls of spaghetti Bolognese. If there was left-over sauce I’d add chillies and beans – hey presto, I had a chilli con carne for the next day’s lunch. Broiled steaks and jacket potatoes was another regular. Whatever we ate was always washed down with a couple of bottles of red, and it was pretty damn wonderful. The trouble was we weren’t getting any exercise, and all the good living soon began to take its toll on our waistlines. Before we knew it, we were massive. I ballooned to nearly 15 stone. And Dad – well, I won’t mention his weight gain!
‘Look at the size of us,’ we’d say. I’ll never forget how I used to make Dad laugh whenever I stood behind a door, stick my huge belly out and whistle the tune from Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Another thing that never failed to tickle him was my impression of the Phantom Raspberry Blower of Old London Town from The Two Ronnies. It was a Spike Milligan idea: a Jack the Ripper-style madman used to roam the Victorian streets and stun his victims by blowing raspberries. In my version the Allentown Raspberry Blower would strike whenever Dad was going into one about something or other. Dad had an endearing habit of getting worked up while watching the American news. ‘That’s a fucking liberty,’ he’d say, red-faced about something that had no bearing on us – increasing taxes, for instance – and I’d respond with a great big raspberry. It got him every time. Still does. Humour really bonded us while we were finding our feet in those early weeks.
We’d go out drinking together and, alongside all the laughter, we had some proper heart-to-hearts. Serious conversations about the past, present and future. For the first time I asked Dad about many of the things I’d always wanted to know about his life, and he spoke to me openly and honestly, man to man. When younger, it’s true to say I had sometimes wondered how and why Dad did the things he’d done. It was only natural and Dad understood. From those frank conversations I coloured in all the blank spaces and joined up all the dots about the man who had always been my hero.
Dad had done things many would consider terrible, and I’ve already explained that those acts were part and parcel of the world he lived in. But it was only now that he told me how he really felt about the consequences of his actions. His years away in prison had been painful for him, as they had for me, and his emotional openness about the past was a revelation. Dad’s only regrets were centred on what mattered to him most: the effect it had on his family. I discovered nuances of light and shade in him that I’d never noticed before. Beneath that unflappable, tough exterior lies a deeply thoughtful, caring man.
When I was young, I’d often felt anger that my father wasn’t with me. His absence caused me so much heartache. I missed him so deeply and, most of all, I blamed those who’d taken him away. That boy took a lot on his shoulders and the authorities became my scapegoat. Yet there’s no denying I knew Dad was being held for a reason: he’d done ‘bad’ things. Dad would be the first to agree that he wouldn’t have gone to jail were it not for his actions, and as a boy I had moments of anger towards him for not being around. I was angry that what he’d done had led to the family being torn apart. I couldn’t help it.
At the same time, I knew how much he loved us all and I felt guilty for blaming anything on my father. Even when Dad returned to us, that guilt never left me. It wasn’t until now, years later, that I was finally able to admit my true feelings. I explained everything and Dad understood perfectly. He’d felt his share of guilt about hurting us kids too, and those intimate conversations put a lot of ghosts to bed for both of us.
Those early days in Allentown gave each of us a chance to learn what the other was really about. Dad had always been prepared to pay the price for his actions, and if it came to it he was prepared to do the same again. I came to understand him as a man who needed to fulfil his own destiny – if Dad didn’t live life his way, he wouldn’t have been the fantastic father he was. Fencing himself in, becoming tamed and trying to live a ‘normal’ life would have wiped out his self-esteem. And a father without self-esteem is no father at all. Dad told me he would never promise to give us a worry-free life, as it was a promise he knew he could not keep. I understood this perfectly, especially because I was beginning to realise I didn’t want a worry-free life.
A rich life is filled with uncertainty, with peaks and troughs, with good times and bad. Growing up a Foreman, and looking at the lives of others, the highs seemed higher and the lows seemed lower. But, as a result, I’d learned to take things as they came, to roll with the punches and enjoy the buzz of living life on the edge. It also struck me that acting was a career where nothing is for certain. Rather like Dad’s world, you never know what’s around the corner. One minute you could have your name in lights, the next be unemployed, sitting on the sofa watching daytime television. That unpredictability is half the excitement. Speaking with Dad, I came to understand how a fear of the unknown makes you feel more alive.
I believe that Dad’s devotion to me during that period was his way of saying sorry for all the time we’d been apart. We became true mates, the best of friends. It was one of the most wonderful things that ever happened to me. We made up for those painful lost years, and then some. I don’t know many men who’ve been lucky enough to share such closeness with their fathers. I will always feel blessed for the opportunity I had to understand – and be understood by – my dearest dad.
After a few months of helping out old man Rosen, a business opportunity arose. A premises became available on Hamilton Boulevard, the main drag in downtown Allentown. Dad, Joe and I realised we’d found the angle we were looking for. It was a huge old building with a Wild West-style frontage. The ground floor had recently been an office-furniture showroom, and at the back there was a warehouse. We thought the whole lot would be perfect as a games room. Thanks to Rosen, we obtained a licence and set up shop. The doors opened and we were soon doing a very, very brisk trade, pulling in hundreds of dollars a day.
We’d filled the room with the most state-of-the-art slot and games machines. Down one side we had about 15 pinball machines and all the brand-new video games – Asteroids, Space Invaders and Pac-Man – in the prime positions. Before I’d left for Tenerife all those months back, people were marvelling at electronic table tennis, but these games were out of this world. And they took a fortune at a quarter (25 cents) a game. Whenever anyone played, a crowd would gather around to watch. At the rear we had six full-size American pool tables and an air-hockey machine.
Allentown had plenty of kids with nothing to do, so we always had a crowd in. And what a bunch of characters they were. Our clientele weren’t the most sophisticated bunch. It was soon clear that we’d mainly be dealing with a lot of feisty souls from the wrong side of the tracks. We had the lot, from white trailer trash to unemployed black kids and rowdy Puerto Ricans. Our customers were a handful from the off. A right lairy lot. They’d come in with their quarters and spend their days pumping them into our machines – just what we wanted, of course. Trouble was, different factions and gangs would constantly squabble and fight. But worse still was the liberties that were taken with our machines. Bad losers would kick and shake our very expensive equipment and that showed a total lack of respect.
Dad and I knew how to run a business, and we wouldn’t be taken for a ride. The Foreman name was well known in London and as a result Dad’s premises had always been safe, trouble-free places. But we had no such notoriety in Allentown. Not yet, anyway. These people thought they could take the piss. How wrong they were. We never took any shit back home, and we weren’t about to take it here. The Foreman reputation had to be established.
Being Londoners, we were quick off the mark when it came to dealing with trouble. If a punter kicked a machine, they were told to fuck off out of it in no uncertain terms. The threat of getting barred sufficed much of the time, as they never had anywhere else to go. At first, however, people didn’t know what ‘getting barred’ meant. A funny example of America and England being divided by a common language.
Many of the kids fancied themselves and didn’t take us seriously to start with. I’d give someone a bollocking, only to get a load of jive talk – it was the seventies, remember – spat back at me. Perhaps people thought we were soft touches because we were English and had ‘funny voices’, perhaps it was something else that drove them. Either way, those who fronted up to Dad and me soon learned they were mouthing off to the wrong people.
When dealing with certain situations, there’s sometimes nothing for it but to show people what you’re made of. In the early days we had to throw many a right-hander at those mouthy bastards. That was a language they did understand. I didn’t like doing it, but it was the only way to maintain order. At first I was chinning one of them every other day. But, lo and behold, we soon began to get the respect we deserved.
That said, the hassle never stopped. Predictably, those we had barred would try to come back in and get aggressive when told they were on probation. Time and again some black dude would square up to me and, once again, I’d lay him out. I’d never been much of a fighter up until then, and I never chinned anyone who didn’t ask for it, but putting it about became the only way to survive.
On the positive side, being on my feet and dealing with all that grief meant I had to lose that belly of mine – we joined the YMCA gym and Dad trained me up with a lot of bag and ring work. Before long, I was as fit as a butcher’s dog and back to my fighting weight. I had a couple of close calls now and again, but normally Dad and I were on each other’s shoulder, so we were able to match whatever was thrown at us. But there was one occasion when I really thought I’d met my match.
It was a Saturday morning. I’d been out the night before and was very hung-over. A bloke came in with his son – a harmless little white kid with glasses – left him with a bunch of quarters and headed off shopping. While his Dad was gone, some of the black kids started to give the boy a hard time, nicked his money and the little boy ran out crying.
The first thing I knew about it was when his father came back. He was a giant. He looked like an American footballer – a real man-mountain – and suddenly I found myself being screamed at by this very angry, scary-looking bastard.
‘You stood by and watched my little boy getting robbed,’ he yelled. ‘You let this happen and I want my money back.’
He was effing and blinding something chronic and unfortunately there was no reasoning with him. I could tell he wanted to have it, but frankly I didn’t fancy my chances with a six-foot-four brick shithouse. He was calling me everything under the sun and I was getting a little nervous. The last thing I wanted to do was steam into this guy – he looked like he’d eat me for breakfast. But I couldn’t back down in front of everyone either. So I kept trying to reason with him.
‘There’s no need to call me names,’ I said. Stern but polite.
He paused for a second. Then he took a step back. ‘You’re right,’ he said, suddenly all humble. ‘I’m sorry for being so rude.’
This was a little confusing. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d done, but it seemed to be working. With every second he became more apologetic, his massive frame shrinking away from me. My confidence began to rise.
‘Another thing. You shouldn’t have left your son in here in the first place,’ I said, taking a step forward. ‘And I think it’s time for you to leave.’
He nodded nervously, and told me everything I said was true. I was winning this contretemps and becoming ever braver. The bloke was backing off in a hurry, and soon we were at the door.
‘So,’ I added, feeling pretty pleased with myself, ‘fuck off out of here and don’t ever come back.’
Strong words, for sure, but I thought his rudeness deserved them. Thankfully, he turned and beat a hasty retreat down the street. Result, I thought. I’d never been so relieved to see the back of someone. At the same time I was shocked I’d got away with it so easily. I guess it made me feel pretty smug.
I turned to walk back inside, and it was only then that I realised the truth behind my triumph. Behind me stood another very large man, a hard-as-nails Hell’s Angel with the meanest look on his face and a huge knuckleduster wrapped around his clenched fist. It was Tyce, the head of the local chapter and a very good man. Tyce and I were good friends. The penny dropped right away. The father wasn’t scared of me one bit until my leather-clad, bearded bruiser of a mate showed his face. I burst out laughing. What a good man Tyce was. Always a man of few words, he’d sat on my shoulder with quiet composure, knowing it was all he needed to do. I’ve always treasured that moment. He also backed my dad up on one occasion when it looked like he was outnumbered. We were both very fond of Tyce.
Tyce and I also became hotshots on the pool table. We did a roaring trade in hustling, playing ‘three-handed carve-up’ for money. He’d set me up, I’d set him up, and together we’d wipe the floor with anyone who took us on. We used to cut up 50 dollars each on a good day – a very nice little drink back then.
As was the way of our world, we always took care of our own problems. We never called the police for help, and for that the local gendarmerie was grateful. Our relationship with the cops was good as gold. It was a proud moment for Dad and I when one day some officers came in and congratulated us for running such a tight ship in such a troublesome area. When we’d opened up they’d expected to be called out every five minutes. Little did they know they were the last people we wanted to have anything to do with.
By way of thanks, Dad and I used to contribute to their social and charitable functions, which kept them sweet. Cops everywhere never fail to appreciate a case of Scotch. It was always amusing when one of the black dudes would come in, cause trouble, get a belting, then call in the law to try and get us nicked. On many occasions a cop would show up, look at my exasperated face and give me a sly wink – they knew the type of people we were dealing with and the matter would always end there. We were lucky in that respect. According to the US constitution, defending your property by any means is a God-given right.
Ironically, the only difficulty we ever had with the police was nothing to do with our business. On reflection, it makes me laugh, but at the time it could have been a very dangerous situation. One night Dad and I were driving home from a bar in Easton, a nearby town, where we had a couple of pontoon gambling machines. The bar was owned by Larry Holmes, the former World Heavyweight Boxing Champion. On the way home I suddenly realised that nature was calling. It would be a long drive home and there was no way I could wait. Dad pulled over at a gas station and, realising it was closed, I nipped round the side of the building to relieve myself. I’d just unzipped when I suddenly heard the screech of tyres on tarmac. The next thing I knew I was fully illuminated by a spotlight. It was the police. I looked round to see a copper leaning over the door of his squad car with a .38 pistol pointed straight at me. It was just like something out of Starsky & Hutch. This wasn’t the first time I’d had a gun pointed at me by the law – I had a flashback to that morning back in Dulwich. Here we go again, I thought.
‘Put your hands up,’ yelled the officer.
I was in a rather compromising position – I was reluctant to raise my hands as, with a gun trained on me, I was finding it a little hard to refrain from peeing. Shouting over my shoulder, I did my best to explain my predicament to the increasingly nervous copper. Eventually, by the time he had screamed at me for the third time, I was finally able to stick up my hands. I zipped myself up and walked towards him, hands in the air.
‘I’m terribly sorry, officer,’ I said in my poshest English accent. ‘I’m a tourist from London, England. I was suddenly caught short…’
I sensed the officer calming down a little. ‘Walk toward me and get out your ID,’ he barked suspiciously.
‘No problem,’ I replied calmly. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my dad getting out of the car and walking up behind the cop. His hand was thrust into the inside of his jacket – he was obviously reaching for his ID – and I could see his mouth moving but there was no sound coming out. Suddenly I remembered Dad had lost his voice. Shit, I thought, the copper’s going to think he’s being crept up on and that Dad’s reaching for a gun. Carefully I explained that my dad was approaching from the rear, couldn’t speak and was searching for his ID. I was desperate for the copper not to panic.
Luckily he didn’t. But he did look a bit confused. He asked us to clarify who we were. We did. Finally he lowered his gun. It turned out there’d been a recent spate of robberies at various gas stations in the area – the police had spotted Dad’s car and assumed the worst. Fortunately we managed to convince him we were innocent and didn’t do anything rash. It was all over. Realising all was well, the policeman got chatty.
‘I’ve got a friend in Liverpool who runs a fish and chip shop,’ he said. ‘Do you guys know it?’
Now Liverpool’s a big place with hundreds of chippies, a fact our uniformed friend didn’t seem to appreciate.
‘Yeah, sure we do,’ said Dad, giving me a wink. ‘Lovely place on the corner, right?’
‘That’s right. So it is,’ said the cop.
Anything to get rid of them, eh?
Life in the games room was pretty repetitive. There were always hassles to sort out and Dad and I were at the front line. You couldn’t let your guard down for a second. Staying sharp was sometimes tough, not to mention boring. Both of us felt that way. Still, it was better than being banged up back in Britain.
There were other consolations too, one of them being money. We were making a fortune. Aside from the games room – which brought in very tidy profits – Dad’s ever-expanding connections in Allentown and beyond gave him some very nice touches. Several enterprises were doing very nicely indeed. As a result he soon had enough funds to start building us a new family home in preparation for Mum and Danni’s move from England. Very conscious of what a huge upheaval America was for us all, he wanted to give us the best life possible. He heard about a new ‘private’ development that was being planned in a wonderful location on the outskirts of Allentown. He laid down a deposit for a house to be built in the Georgian style. There would be three bedrooms, all with en suite, a large den with a stunning open stone fireplace, lounge and separate dining room, double garage, a swimming pool and a beautiful garden filled with cherry and peach trees. Work was soon under way.
Another positive for me was the girls. My English-gent manners worked wonders on American ladies, and I was an instant hit with the women. I was never short of a date and had a ball going out to all the best bars and clubs. I knew all the owners, so never had any trouble with the under-21 rule – not that they tended to be much younger than that, I hasten to add! – and always made a point of holding doors open and pulling chairs out. That’s the way us English do things, but many of the girls I met simply weren’t used to being treated so nicely. The results were astonishing and I had some wonderful evenings with some very liberal young ladies.
Dad and I had made a good name for ourselves in Allentown and were welcomed by black and white folk alike. Segregation was long gone, but the different ethnic groups still tended to stick to their own. Most of the bars and clubs were either ‘black’ or ‘white’, but we felt very privileged to be welcomed in either. I’ve many fond memories of nights out as the only white face in a black crowd, but those evenings were only possible because of the goodwill we’d earned through a combination of business and friendship – two things that had always mixed in our world back home.
It’s said that ‘Home is where the heart is’ and it was painful for Mum and Dad to finally sell our wonderful house in Dulwich. After Mum completed the sale, she and Danni made their way to Allentown. We hadn’t seen them in five months and our reunion was as wonderful as can be imagined. Dad had moved us to a new, larger condo and Mum lost no time in turning it into a lovely home for us to stay in until the new house was completed.
Allentown was a shock for Mum and Danni, as it had been for me. Being away from friends and family was undeniably hard on the girls, but as always they made the best out of the situation. We were all in this together. We knew it wasn’t for ever, so there was nothing else for it but to be thankful for family life, knuckle down and get on with it. Danni found a job with the local theatre company and was soon having a whale of a time in several productions. I think she enjoyed the experience really. She made new friends. Scott, a good-looking young gay guy, was her real ‘buddy’. He was a lovely kid and idolised Danni. We helped her get a part-time job in a clothes shop in the local shopping mall, and Dad gave her the use of our truck – a huge Dodge pick-up that she absolutely adored. It really was something to watch the way she handled that beast, and we soon gave her the nickname ‘Trucker Dan’. It was good to see her happy – like me, my Danni had been through a hell of a lot over the years.
And why didn’t I get involved in a bit of acting? I was too busy bringing home the bacon with Dad. Providing for the family always came first.
Eventually, our beautiful house was ready to move into. The whole family adored it. For the first time since leaving our beloved house in Dulwich, we were in a place we could really call home. I cherished the moments spent together in our new house. For me home life was as fine as it could be. But as the year wore on my life outside that home slowly began to unravel.
Day in, day out, Dad and I minded the games room. At first I’d been happy with it all – setting up and establishing control had been a real challenge, a battle I’d enjoyed fighting. But nothing ever changed after that – it was the same old same old. The same faces, the same old squabbles, the same threats and jibes and the same old right-handers to keep trouble at bay. I was winging it every day of the week and over time the repetition started to wear me down. When it came to our customers, my fuse got shorter and shorter. I was well used to their petty displays of bravado – at first I’d found their small-town mentality a mere surface nuisance – but now the ignorant, unworldly ways of our punters was really getting under my skin. I wanted to be an artist on stage. Hanging around with these lowlifes was a constant reminder of how starved I was creatively.
Often, as I stood around listening to the endless quarters dropping into our machines, I thought of my old life in London. How I missed the places I’d seen and the fascinating, diverse world of entertainment I was part of. My friends had been actors, directors, artists – people with ideas and dreams. What a contrast they were to the crowd in this place. It seemed our punters dreamed of little more than a free game of Space Invaders.
I became directionless and dejected. All the hopes and ambitions I held felt like nothing more than a pipedream. I would never reach my full potential stuck in this place, and that realisation made me feel very depressed. But I bottled up my emotions for the sake of the family. We all had our worries. I sensed the claustrophobia of the games room was getting to Dad too, and Mum and Danni had become increasingly homesick. We all had to do our bit and stay strong for each other. I kept telling myself it wasn’t for ever and tried to remain positive. After all, we had a house, friends and money and, most importantly, our freedom – all reasons to be cheerful. Still, I couldn’t put the brakes on my unhappiness. Slowly but surely the cracks began to show.
My frustration inevitably turned to anger. I’m sorry to say that I started taking it out on others. Simple as they were, the guys at the games room couldn’t help it. They came from tough, deprived backgrounds and hanging out and ducking and diving was as good as it was going to get for them. Those guys were our bread and butter too. Without their quarters our business didn’t exist. But knowing that didn’t stop me from starting to hate those around me – I needed another scapegoat and unfortunately I found it in our customers.
At first I’d only got physical if somebody was taking a liberty, but all of a sudden – much to my horror – I found myself wanting to have a row over the littlest things. Comments that normally would have been water off a duck’s back were rankling with me big time. I was picking fights for no good reason. I got more and more feisty and the change in my demeanour made me very uncomfortable. Worst of all, I couldn’t do anything about it.
Even Dad was shocked by my unpredictable outbursts. I remember walking into the office one day to relieve him from a morning shift. Sitting with Dad was a guy I’d thrown out the previous day. Without saying a word I walked up and punched him in the eye. One minute Dad had been talking to him and now the bloke was clutching his face in agony. Dad was shocked.
‘What was that about?’ he said.
‘I fucking barred him yesterday,’ I yelled, pumped up and angry. ‘I kicked him up the arse and slung him out.’
Always fair, Dad thought I’d gone over the top and told me so. I calmed down, and felt ashamed for talking back to my own father. I apologised and that was the end of it. Looking back, I should have taken my outburst as a warning that there was worse to come. But I didn’t. I certainly could not have predicted what I would end up doing a couple of months later. But I think that moment in the office was a sign to Dad that something was wrong. It certainly wasn’t lost on him. This wasn’t the Jamie he knew, and it worried him.
One day we heard a whisper: a gang were planning to rob us. The stick-up crew would be armed. This was bad fucking news and very troubling. Up until then we’d been happy to steer clear of guns – they’d caused us enough trouble in the past and we had no need for them in our line of work. But, knowing our fists would be useless against firearms, we decided to acquire a couple of shooters from the local chaps. We bought an automatic and a revolver. There was a lot of money at stake and we had to be tooled up in case of the worst.
We didn’t have a gun licence, so couldn’t carry loaded weapons, but there was a way around that. In America you could carry a gun if you keep the bullets in one pocket and the gun in another. Licence or no licence, you couldn’t get nicked for it. We kept the .32 automatic locked in a drawer at work, but sometimes I’d walk around with it, the clip in one pocket and the piece in the other. I felt safer that way.
Time passed and thankfully the robbers never showed. But locking up one night we heard someone trying a back door. Dad drew the automatic, cocked it and shouted through the door that he was going to fire. We gave it a second and charged out. Whoever it was must have legged it. A false alarm, perhaps, or maybe the crew realised we weren’t to be fucked with. Who knows? Following that, I kept the tool close at hand as I went about my angry days in the games room.
By now I’d been doing the same job for nearly a year and it was really sapping my resolve. I was constantly on edge and my state of mind only worsened. The lower I got, the more I tried to fight it and keep myself on an even keel. But I was fighting a personal battle – and losing. The pressure in my head mounted; I was a bomb waiting to go off. Then, one terrible day, I exploded.
For once the games room wasn’t busy. There was no need for me to stand around, so I took a rest in the back office. I was in a reflective mood, dreaming of England. How I wished I were back home. My mates were there, my career was there – or had been – and life in Allentown had nothing left to offer me. I was melancholy as hell.
Just then a man came bursting into my office. It was Tyrone, one of the local faces, a real character who did a good line in nicked gear. He was always out thieving and I used to help him shift whatever he pinched. He was six foot two and a right funny bastard, so I’d always had a bit of affection for him. We got on well. Tyrone stood out from the others and always amused me. Today, however, I wasn’t in the mood.
Full of himself as ever, Tyrone waltzed in on a high: he’d nicked a load of designer shirts. ‘Look at this lot,’ he babbled excitedly, assuming I’d be interested. I wasn’t. I didn’t give a fuck about Tyrone and his shirts. ‘We’d better shift these,’ he said, holding out one of them. ‘Help me take the pins out.’
And then he threw it at me.
I can barely remember what happened next. All I know is that I lost it. Within seconds of that shirt hitting my chest, I was out of my chair, across the room and pointing my cocked .32 automatic against Tyrone’s head. A red mist had descended over me and I completely flipped out. I growled every swear word under the sun into his wide-eyed, terrified face: I was going to maim him, I was going to put one in his nut, I was going to bury him; he was a nigger, he was a punk, he was a cunt. Terrible, terrible words, I know, but I was in a terrible way.
Tyrone shook as I ranted, and tried in vain to calm me down. His words were no use – I’d truly lost it. For the first time in my life I wanted to kill and I came terrifyingly close. I remember thinking how easy it would be to pull the trigger and be done with it, with him, with everything. Worse, I remember feeling capable of it. I had it in me.
Thank God I came far enough down to earth to realise what I was doing. Not that I calmed down right away. Far from it. Still seething, I fired off another volley of insults and slung Tyrone out of the building. When he was gone, I looked down at my hands. I wasn’t even shaking.
I hadn’t given a thought to the position I could have put us all in. What if he called the cops? But he’s a thief, I thought. He won’t go to the police. I’d pulled a gun on an Allentown face for no good reason and possibly opened a can of worms. I knew there might be a comeback, but right then I didn’t give a fuck. Let him do what he had to do, I thought, I’ll fucking have him…
Eventually, the adrenalin died down. Calmer now, I walked back to the office, my head down. What had I done? I’d completely lost control. Simple as that. I’d threatened to end a man’s life over a shirt, for fuck’s sake – a shirt. I’d flipped. I was shocked at myself. Disgusted, confused and shaken. I knew what had happened, but didn’t understand why. I’d work that bit out later. Right now there was a situation to deal with.
I picked up the phone and called Dad to explain what had gone down. ‘You’d better get down here,’ I said. ‘It’s serious.’
Dad came over like a shot, revolver tucked into his waistband. In situations like that you never know how soon the comeback will happen.
I felt numb. I was so ashamed of myself. It was bad enough that I’d lost the plot, but I felt sick to think I’d created a reputation and put my dad in danger. Rather than an asset to the business, I suddenly felt I was a risk to our safety and well-being. It made me feel like shit. I apologised profusely to Dad, but he was wonderful about it. We sat together and talked it over. I shook my head in disbelief every time I thought about what I’d done. Dad stayed with me for an hour or so.
‘These things happen,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s not the end of the world. Still, I think you should go home. I don’t think Tyrone will come back now – he’s probably shitting himself. Take the afternoon off.’
I didn’t want to leave Dad on his own, but he reassured me he would be all right and insisted I rest. So I went.
I’d really scared myself. I was shaken to the core by what I’d nearly done. Never had I felt remotely capable of doing such a thing. But my behaviour made me realise I’d got myself wrong. I was capable of anything. During those moments with Tyrone I’d glimpsed that dark place in my soul – a place that I feel any man can go if pushed – and, while I learned something about myself, it terrified me. The hatred I felt towards my situation had led me to hate others. My actions in that office made me start to feel very uncomfortable about myself. I realised what I had become. I wasn’t the man I thought I was, nor the man I wanted to be.
Back at the house, Mum comforted me. I have always been able to unload on Mum. I still do today. She opened some wine and we talked about the way I’d been feeling over the last 18 months – the stress I’d been under – and I told her how I’d been bottling it all up. I needed to understand why I’d lost control that badly, and Mum’s wisdom and love helped me accept that I wasn’t a bad person. My situation had turned me into a caged animal and eventually something had snapped. It wasn’t Tyrone I’d been trying to destroy, it was what he represented. Tyrone was just one of my jailers in a life that had imprisoned me.
My situation had come to a head. The incident was proof I needed a change. Having discussed it with Mum, Dad was the first to recognise it. It upset him to realise I’d got to a place in my head where I might end up doing similar things to those he’d done in the past. It broke his heart to think I might do something rash and have to pay the price in prison. He’d always loved my help, but he’d never wanted my life to go the way of his. Just as I’d always wanted to be there for him, he wanted to be there for me now that I needed it.
Our journey had been long. Together we had started from scratch and made a success of America, but it couldn’t go on for ever. I could no longer see the wood for the trees and, with nothing but my best interests in mind, Dad decided enough was enough.
‘I know what you’ve been through,’ he told me one night. ‘I’ve found it tough myself. But this is my life. You have your career and your life to think about. I think you should start thinking about going back to England.’
Dad had recently got word from the chaps that it would be safe for me to slip back – the poor Customs man’s murder case was over and the hunt for Dad was dying down. The authorities had realised that I’d had nothing to do with planning to bring the drugs in.
Much as I missed my old life, the idea of leaving Dad again filled me with fear. We’d relied on each other so much in America – for months we’d stood shoulder to shoulder on the lookout for danger – and I was scared of leaving him vulnerable. Dad and I have an inextricable bond and those months together had brought us closer than ever. Looking at him then, sensing the compassion and kinship in his eyes, I loved him more than ever.
But I also felt guilty. Allentown was a prison for Dad too. The idea of abandoning my father brought back all the sickening, horrible feelings from Leicester jail all those years ago. We’d come so far since those dark days – we were together, free and strong – but sometimes those buried emotions came back. I’d lost my father and found him again and I never wanted to let him go. I thought that leaving him would be disloyal in some way. I told Dad how I felt.
He understood. He felt the same way as me – he never wanted to let me go again either. Our time in America had been so precious. We learned more about each other than a father and son could ever hope to. We’d witnessed each other strong and weak; revealed our love through words and actions. Going on the run had been a blessing in disguise. I looked at Dad and smiled. I hadn’t failed, I wasn’t weak. But the time to move on had come.
‘You’ve done more than your bit, Jamie,’ said Dad. ‘I’m proud of you. We all are. I’ll be fine here, you’ll see. But it’s time for you to think about yourself. It’s time for you to go home, son.’