A Cockney's Journey (17 page)

    “Your brothers and sisters reckoned it was you. That’s good enough for me,” he shouted through the window.
    I panicked. “Where am I supposed to go?”
    “Don’t give a fuck. Just piss off and never show your face around here ever again,” he said shutting the window. I gathered all my belongings, rolling them up in my Crombie, and sat on the kerb using one of my tee shirts to clean the blood from my hands and face. Alone again and no one to help me, that’s been the story of my life.

CHAPTER NINE
    The next few weeks were interesting, to say the least. I was sleeping in the back of a dumped Cortina car around the back of the garages on the estate. My only consolation was the fact it wasn’t winter and there were no more beatings from him. After a while, I lost my job at the toy factory through bad time-keeping. I just couldn’t get my body clock working properly while sleeping in that car. This was one of many low points in my life and, in fact, worse was still to come! I used all my resources to survive the situation I found myself in; getting baths from Rose, Brian, Tony and my aunt who lived in Camberwell. My Saturday job enabled me to feed myself. Even though I was homeless, the fear, stress and unhappiness that had engulfed my life had gone. I felt relieved and an overwhelming sense of freedom!
    During the early part of summer, I started hanging around with my cousin Allan, or Al for short, as everyone called him. Knowing I had nobody to answer to, I unfortunately lost the plot; going down the wrong path and getting mixed up with all the local villains. I was a regular drinker in all the local boozers. Fortunately, this phase only lasted four years, or so. It was during this time that I met Sue. She was walking her pet poodle in the park. We chatted for ages and then I asked her out. She accepted and, for many years, we were an item. I’ll go into that in more detail later.
    Al was well-known in the manor and well respected by all. He was renowned for his violent streak! I mean, this bloke could have a row. Nobody took Al on or crossed him; if they did, then God help them. In my defence I was easily led. Knowing I had Al as back-up gave me delusions of grandeur. However, there was one local villain, who hated Al; Slasher Barnes, and as his name suggests, he was a real hard case and very dangerous. This part of my book is difficult; I’ve now got to use fictitious names, as certain individuals, some of them rather infamous, might get really pissed off. I spent a lot of time in the company of notorious criminals, big and small. Most of them came from Peckham, Old Kent Road, Bermondsey, Deptford and East London. You must remember that these villains were young, in their early twenties, branching out into the criminal fraternity. I was a six foot three, fifteen-year-old who looked and acted a lot older. Although I grew older and I walked away, they never did. Some of them became publicly well-known for their notorious acts.
    I was having a light ale in a boozer in Bermondsey with Al and a couple of guys that I didn’t really know that well. They were talking about Slasher Barnes and how he was beginning to piss them off, and that someone called Mack was due for a slap.
    “He’s taking the piss, fucking big time,” the blonde guy reckoned.
    “Leave him to me. I’ll sort the mug out,” Al said, winking to the blonde guy. Apparently, this guy Mack was a mate of Slasher’s. He’d been putting it about, acting the big-un, slagging off Al and a few others. There are a few things you don’t do. One is grassing up fellow villains; the other is not to bad mouth anyone or intrude on their patch. Unfortunately for Mack, he broke one of the codes and was going to suffer the consequences very soon. On the other hand, Slasher was a different kettle of fish and his demise would have to be plotted carefully, so I heard from various sources. During the course of the evening Al was accompanied by other members of his clan and some of them looked really nasty. I just sat there drinking my light ale, listening to their aggressive conversations, most of which were directed at Mack and Slasher. Al got up and, moving slowly, he sat down with another group of guys who were drinking in the corner of the snug. They sat chatting for at least half an hour. There were a lot of hand expressions going on and they were obviously discussing something important.
    I didn’t know it at the time, but the main guy Al was talking to was one of the biggest villains in South London. He would, much later on in his life, get put down for many years. The old Bill took nearly twenty years to nab him! I spent nearly every weekend drinking with these guys in various pubs in South London, but I’m not going to name them because two and two makes four and, believe me, it would be obvious who I was chatting about. There were a couple of other guys involved with local villains that I met during my drinking sessions with Al. Today they are very wealthy and very much in the public eye! I know I am being elusive, but it’s for my own protection and the protection of others. There’s one thing I’ve learnt in my life and that’s never shoot your mouth off. I’ve witnessed much bigger men than me pay a terrible price for their big gobs and I have no intention of being one of them. I won’t even give any clues as to who they are or what they are doing today.
    Being homeless and living out the back of a car was becoming intolerable. My relationship with Sue was becoming very serious. She knew the type of guys I was knocking around with and it didn’t seem to bother her at all. But you must remember, we were both young and very impressionable. It wasn’t long before I moved into her parents’ home and Sue fell pregnant with my first son. For the first time in my life, I had a bit of stability. We were soon married, at the tender age of sixteen.
    Even though I was in the company of all the local villains, not once did I participate in any of their activities. Al, to his credit, kept me in the background, which I am grateful for. A couple of weeks went by and then I started hearing rumours on the street that Mack had been kneecapped so badly that he would never walk again. The shooting of Slasher Barnes shortly followed the news about Mack. I knew who the culprits were and why they did it. So it wasn’t long before the old Bill had me in for questioning for two days, apparently acting on information from a local scumbag. My experience at being banged up for twenty-four hours stood me in good stead for a tad later on. As I have always said, keep fucking schtum. Upon my release, I was inundated with handshakes and nods of approval. That evening I was treated to a slap-up meal and all I could drink at the local Greek restaurant. After twelve, the owner pulled down the blinds and dimmed the lights. The restaurant was chocker, with local revellers mixing it with big-time villains. All the years I ate there, the local police never intervened! Mind you, I’m not surprised. You’d have to be a bit dense to fuck with that lot. I’m not saying that the place was never watched, because it was; always. I suppose, in the old Bill’s eyes, if they were there, then nothing was going down elsewhere. I was sitting with Al and eight other guys who were discreetly discussing a certain job they had lined up for next week. I listened intently to their plans, not saying a word. I only spoke when I was spoken to. Big Ron reckoned it would be easy to stop the payroll van with the two Sherpa vans he had in his yard. He also informed the others that he had ringed two sets of wheels, one being a Jag the other a Princess Van de Plat. After a while, the talking stopped and the drinking got serious. They raised their glasses, toasting their success so far and to their future enterprises. I tried to keep up with the flow of booze and ended up totally blotto.
    The following week, I was having a quiet drink with Sue, Tony, Brian and a few mates in my local when I heard that my cousin was on the run and had gone into hiding. Apparently, the payroll job had gone pear-shaped. Well, I say pear-shaped. They actually got away with the dough, but three of them got caught. The driver of the payroll van was in intensive care, fighting for his life. It was down to the van driver that they were caught; during their escape, he flung himself in front of the Jag causing it to crash, nearly killing himself in the process. This enabled the Filth to apprehend half the gang. Al decided to lay low, just in case any of them grassed. However, none of them did so yet again he got away with it. Mind you, Al’s luck would soon run out. It was during the summer of ’71, June if I remember rightly, that Al got put down for GBH. He battered one of the local villains outside a boozer down the Old Kent Road. He spent the next twelve months in Pentonville Prison. With Al out the frame, every little toe-rag in the manor that had any grievances against him but never had the bottle to do anything about it, hunted me out. Seeing as I was his cousin, they tried to hurt me to get at him. The next twelve months were a fucking nightmare, what with having to avoid certain pubs, being vigilant where I went, and careful who I spoke to for fear of getting a pasting. I decided to keep a low profile, avoiding all my local haunts. I mentioned earlier that Sue fell pregnant when she was four months away from her sixteenth birthday. I was three months. We ended up getting married on the 22nd April, 1972. Sue was five months pregnant and, believe me, it showed. She was such a small, delicate girl that it looked like she had a football up her smock. We had just turned sixteen, and had to get written permission from our parents to get married. My old man shouted at me, “you made your fucking bed, you wanker, now fucking lie in it.” I would hasten to add that he signed the consent form gladly. I’ll never forget his words nor his past violence towards me and the fact I could never turn to either of them in times of trouble or hardship. From the age of eleven, it was me against the world. “You’re big enough and ugly enough to look after yourself,” echoes through my mind. Consequently, that’s how I lived my life, sticking my fingers up at authority and sorting my own problems out, right or wrong. I did it to survive and for the survival of my new family. Unfortunately, my actions were ultimately used against me to take away two of the three loves of my life. That pain I will take to my grave.
    After the birth of my first son, Daniel, my relationship with Sue’s parents was getting slightly strained to say the least. I wasn’t used to being cooped up in such a limited space. Me, Sue and the baby lived in the attic. The bedroom was so small that if you jumped out the bed too quick, you would fall down the bloody stairs. I was getting very frustrated and my tolerance level dropped dramatically during our time there. I would lose my temper very quickly, which ultimately ended in a fight with her father, something I regret to this day. Even though I appreciated their kindness, I didn’t show it too often. I had to find a way to get our own space and as soon as possible. It was Sue’s father who introduced me to gambling. One Saturday, he was going on about the
ITV Seven
, asking me if I fancied a bet in the big race. The race was the Irish sweeps hurdle at Leopardsdown. I never had a clue about racing. I looked at the runners, deciding on Steel Pulse, and gave Bill ten-bob to put on him. He reliably informed me I was backing a donkey, asking me if I wanted to change my selection. My answer was a resounding no. All my life I had been told what I should do. This time, I was in control of my own decisions, so I stuck with Steel Pulse. What happened that afternoon would have a resounding effect on the rest of my life, ultimately causing me major grief and heartache and getting me in and out of serious shit! If only, I ask myself. What would have happened if Steel Pulse had been beaten? Easy money, I thought. Bloody 20/1! Ten pounds, I won; a full week’s wages! That was it, hooked! My love affair with horse racing nearly destroyed my family and me. From that day, I had a bet every Saturday and then the disease rapidly spread to every day. Today, however, I have a little dabble at least twice a month on the dogs. I seem to crave that adrenaline rush a lot less now than I did ten years ago, thank God, but I still need it occasionally! I still bet every Saturday during the football season, spending a fiver on predicting results. These days it is more for fun, than gain.
    The following week, I was walking through the arches underneath Peckham train station with Tony and Brian. We were making our way to the café for a coffee, hoping to also meet this guy called Fred. He ran a local building firm. We heard he was looking for labourers for a site in New Cross. Coming out of the arches, I noticed a white Jag parked across the footpath we were on. I stopped and looked around, thinking there was no reason for that motor to be there. It was an unused cul-de-sac with waste-ground all around. Tony glanced at me.
    “You all right, Eddie?” he asked, looking concerned.
    “Not sure. Those wheels look familiar. I just can’t place them,” I said, sounding very mysterious.
     “I’ve seen that motor parked up outside Frank’s house,” Brian informed me.
    “Who’s Frank when he’s at home, Brian?” I asked.
    “A little runt who thinks he’s one of the chaps.”
    “Oh, I know who you mean,” Tony said. “Isn’t he the idiot that your cousin gave a good hiding to outside the boozer?” He was looking in my eyes, reading my mind. “Shit, fucking leg it!” he screamed.
    In a split second, the Jag came speeding up the path towards us. Out jumped these two burly guys, brandishing a sawn-off shotgun, pointing it towards me. I ran like a whippet, back under the arches towards the other end. I heard two loud short bangs echoing through the arches, followed by running footsteps and high-pitched screaming. I gave a quick glance over my shoulder as I turned out of the arches, nearly running straight into a lamp-post. Brian was lying on the floor, holding his leg. Tony had vanished into the train station, seeking help. The two assailants started to retreat to their Jag as people from the station poured out into the arches calling for the old Bill. I ran back to where Brian lay, fearing the worst. He looked up at me, his ashen face looked distraught with shock.
    “You was fucking dead lucky, Eddie boy,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
    “Never mind me, mate. What about you?” I bent down to give him a hand to his feet.
    “I think I’ve twisted my ankle. I bloody tripped up on that raised slab,” he said, cracking half a grin.
    “Why was I lucky?” I asked, puzzled.
    “The guy with the shooter was gaining on you. Just as he pulled the trigger, he fucking tripped, blasting the deck. The other guy got blasted in the foot and screamed his head off.”
    “What a pair of plonkers!”
    Tony came running out of the station, informing us that the old Bill would soon be here. We made our excuses to the onlookers and pissed off a bit lively.
    “You’ve got to keep out of the manor for a while, Ed, or at least till Al’s out of nick,” Brian warned me.