Читать книгу Doing the Business - The Final Confession of the Senior Kray Brother - Charles Kray - Страница 8

RON KRAY HAD BEEN HIT time and time again and his face was showing the signs of the night’s work. His cheeks were bruised and grazed and his left eye was completely closed, but he had finally beaten his man to the floor in a sudden flurry of pure aggression; winning was the name of the game for Ron and he didn’t care how he did it. His brothers hadn’t fared much better, but it was without doubt Charlie who had come off worst of all. He was in complete agony, doubled up in pain from the severe beating he had taken. It wasn’t a good night for the Krays and it marked a fatal turning point in all their careers.

They vigorously washed the blood from their aching hands as they vowed never to be beaten like that again. Ron and Reg talked about the future and how they would get even; Charlie could only talk of getting out — he had had enough! The purple blur of half-shut eyes, the mangled hands and the bloodied features would soon be a thing of the past for all three Kray brothers. Never would they let this happen again, never would they allow themselves to fight on someone else’s terms.

The day was the 11th December 1951 and the brothers had all been fighting on the same bill at The Royal Albert Hall, the only time this feat has ever been achieved. The boxing days were over for the Krays. Next time they would fight by their own rules — street rules.

Charlie had been a fighter most of his life, both in the ring and on the street. In London’s East End in the 1950s, fighting was a way of life — and death. It was about survival of the fittest. Street gangs and street people all settled their scores in the same way: with their fists. Fight first, ask questions afterwards. Careless talk cost lives.

The Kray boys had pedigree. Cannonball Lee was a champion bare-knuckle fighter. He was also their grandfather, Jimmy Lee. Lee had fought in the days when boxing didn’t have many rules. Just the street. It was every man for himself. He’d entertained the boys for years with tales of prize fights and fighters; the same stories over and over again. They never tired of them. Fighting was in their blood.

When Charlie decided to pick up the gloves, he met with strong resistance from his mother Violet. As Cannonball’s daughter, she had lived through years of watching her father come home hurt after bouts of fighting. She had spent her childhood helping her mother to pick up the pieces of him, only to wait for him to dust himself down and start all over again. but she didn’t want to watch her own boys do that.

Their father, though, took a different point of view. If they wanted to fight, then that was OK with him. After all, he couldn’t do much about it, even if he’d wanted to. But he knew of the advantages that boxing had brought. He had fought as a youngster and was pleased to see his boys carry on the tradition, to keep the punch in the family name. He would help them all he could, if he could. He had his position in the East End to think about. At home, however, it was his wife Violet who ruled the roost; but even she could not persuade her boys away from the boxing ring.

In the East End of London, the name of Kray had become well known in boxing circles. And old man Charlie commanded a lot of respect through the reputation of his three boxing sons. He liked the reflected fame and glory. Life had been tough early on. During the Second World War, Violet had taken Charlie and the twins Ron and Reg to Suffolk, where they could live safely away from the German bombings of London. Although he had visited them every weekend and supported them through it, it hadn’t been easy.

Old man Charlie felt that he hadn’t always been a good father to his sons. Not that he had mistreated them. Not in any way. On the contrary, he’d always tried his best with his family. Even when he had been on the run as a deserter during the Second World War, he had made every effort to go home as much as he could. But he had been absent so much during the War. He had missed much of their growing up then. He could remember when the twins were young, though, how they would always side with their mother Violet in any argument. And how he could never win.

Although old man Charlie may have been the breadwinner in the family, it was Violet who always took care of her boys: their school days, their ill days, their happy days. Violet was always there for them. Old man Charlie went away again, later on, after the War, taking care of business. He travelled extensively throughout England, the south in particular, buying and selling whatever he could. Sometimes gold. He made a good living, enough for Violet and the boys — and just enough for regular nights out with his pals. The drinking and the fighting were both an important part of life in the East End.

Nothing could make up for the fact that old man Charlie hadn’t been part of the family much — not enough for his liking, anyway — in the early years. So, it had become his job to prepare his sons boxing kit. It was his contribution to the smooth-running of the pre-match organization — and his way of showing that he, too, wanted to help out and join in with family life. The three sets of kit were laid out in neat piles in the front room: the black, highly polished boots; white socks; blue satin dressing-gowns; an array of towels and protective cups; and the shorts, black and white for the twins, and light blue silk with a yellow leg stripe for Charlie — a present from the twins. They were Charlie’s first pair of silk shorts, a special memento for what Charlie wanted to be his last fight.

Henry Berry had trained all three boys. He had started with young Charlie, whose boxing career had begun at senior school — and he’d been training ever since. But Charlie hadn’t trained for the Albert Hall. He’d been asked to compete rather late in the day and had decided that although he’d give it a go, this would be his last professional fight. He was only doing it for the money this time. The £25 purse was too tempting to resist. His chances he realized were not good. Lazar came from a great boxing family and was a well-fancied contender. But Charlie had decided to accept the challenge. He didn’t have anything to lose, except his pride. And the money was guaranteed.

Charlie had been in training three nights a week since he was fifteen. He went to a local club and continued when he got home too. Cannonball Lee had rigged up a gym with a canvas kitbag as punchbag in an upstairs bedroom. Once he’d left school he worked during the day as a messenger for Lloyd’s insurance brokers in the City, but at night he would train relentlessly. With a heap of training, no smoking or drinking, he became a good clean boxer.

A few weeks off with rheumatic fever weren’t enough to stop him. He fought to recover quickly and went back regularly to a boxing club in Hoxton. Everything was going well, and once he’d joined the naval cadets at Hackney Wick, he didn’t look back.

With the help of good training facilities and an iron will to succeed, Charlie became increasingly serious about boxing. As a decent welterweight with a string of successful amateur tournaments behind him, he decided to turn professional. It was just post-war and there was good money to be made -often as much as £10 — for just a night’s work. Good money in those days. The coins thrown on stage by fans at the end of a match would have been a bonus, but most of this went to the helpers. As Charlie once said, ‘Have you ever tried picking up coins with boxing gloves on?’

What young Charlie did collect, though, was a row of trophies, a flash of silverware that had pride of place on the mantelpiece at home in Vallance Road. His success and enthusiasm were enjoyed and envied in equal turn by his younger brothers. They wanted to join in; they wanted to fight their way to the top too. Ever mindful of his by now high standing in the East End community, old man Charlie was eager to help any way he could. The gymnasium upstairs was improved, and the boys trained day and night.

Charlie had been encouraging his kid brothers to spar with him from when they were so small that they had to stand on a chair to reach the punch bag. Six years younger than Charlie, they made up for in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience, and with regular workouts in the homemade gym they became fighting fit. With its speedball, punchbag, weights and skipping ropes, it was the place to be. There was a steady stream of aspiring young fighters going in and out of Vallance Road all the time. Young Charlie would organize competitions for the youngsters, and the twins had already decided to form their own boxing club, operational from the back upstairs bedroom.

In spite of her fears for the well-being of her boys, Violet Kray found herself enjoying these training sessions. She was pleased to have young men around who were appreciative of how she kept things in order and looked after their kit. She liked the involvement and attention.

When after a year of training like this, they moved on to the Robert Browning Institute in Walworth, South London, Violet was sorry to see them go, but they knew they could rely on her support. The twins had been agitating to join a real club, and once there they didn’t have to work too hard at catching the eye of the trainers who were to be their key to stardom.

‘How old are they?’ asked one trainer. He was hanging out at the Institute, surveying potential talent.

‘Ten,’ replied Charlie. ‘And they have never boxed.’

The trainer’s jaw dropped. ‘They are amazing,’ he said. ‘We’ll sign them up.’

Around this time, the Kray twins, aged ten, boxed their first public match together in East London — at a funfair boxing booth in Victoria Park. This later became a rare occurrence, and, once they reached their twenties and operated in business together, the twins never, ever fought. Like most brothers, they argued a lot, but nothing would happen. Although the atmosphere would get so thick and heated sometimes you felt sure there’d be all hell let loose.

The boxing booth that day took all comers, and when nobody proved willing to spar with a particularly beefy fighter, Ron Kray chanced his arm. He was quite keen to earn the prize money, but it was his notorious bravado that took the upper hand.

‘I’ll take him on,’ he shouted.

Taking one look at the size of him, the manager of the booth just laughed. He thought it was a good joke, as did the gathering crowd, who hooted and catcalled. It wasn’t possible for Ron to fight the big man. No, it wasn’t on. There was no one small enough for him to fight with.

The anti-climax became too much for Reg Kray. Without a second thought, pointing at Ron, he yelled above the roar of the crowd: ‘I’ll fight him.’

There was silence for a moment. It was obvious that the boys were brothers and evenly matched. If they were both willing, then why should anyone want to stop them? The twins climbed into the ring and prepared themselves for the fight. Although they had sparred together many times before, this time it was the real thing.

They proved to be great entertainment for the crowd, both determined to win and hitting each other furiously. Finally the booth manager called it off. The match, he decreed, had ended in a draw, and he paid the boys a few shillings for their efforts.

But, for Ron and Reg it had more significance. They had enjoyed themselves, the boxing, for sure, but more so being the centre of attention. The applause was more than gratifying, it was the way forward. Through boxing, they could get what they wanted. The roar of approval from the crowd was for them; they were in charge, calling the shots.

In time, Reg became a good boxer, quietly confident. Nothing ever seemed to shake him, and he had a confidence in himself that was strong. He could be relaxed and easy going and he never appeared to get tense or edgy before a big fight. He’d shadow box with himself as he jogged up and down the street or on the spot. He’d train hard. He didn’t like losing, and he was sure that he wouldn’t.

Ron also boxed well and was as fearless in the ring as he was proving to be outside it. His nerves always showed, though, as the match drew near. He tried to take everything in his stride and accept his life without argument, but it wasn’t that simple. The prospect of losing face — anywhere, anyhow — spurred him on to success. And there was the family name to consider. He had to win. But the fear of failure never left him.

The Krays were driven to the Albert Hall on the night of 11 December 1951 in Jack Jordan’s Riley. Jack had been their manager for years. He’d got the Kray party good seats at the Albert Hall, all the family and friends who wouldn’t want to miss the fights. All that is except Violet; she was staying in that evening. The sight of someone hitting one of her boys was just too much for her.

The car pulled up at a side entrance in Exhibition Road, South Kensington. They all piled out, rushing off in different directions — old man Charlie to find his seat, and Ron, Reg and Charlie to the changing rooms.

Ron was on first. Followed by Reg and then Charlie. No sooner were his hands bandaged than the whip knocked on the door: ‘Ron Kray, you’re on.’

Ron left the dressing room with Jack Jordan; Reg and Charlie were close behind. The roar of the crowd was deafening as Ron walked out into the spotlight, along the red carpet to the ring. The atmosphere was electric. As Reg and Charlie watched backstage, they were aware of Ron’s apparent indifference to his opponent, Bill Sliney. He, Ron, was giving all his attention to Henry Berry who was drilling him one last time.

It was roasting hot in the Albert Hall, and the buzz from the crowd was deafening. It was getting smoky, as though a fine mist were falling in the hall. In the arena, Ron was beginning to sweat; it was running steadily down the sides of his face.

‘And, now,’ the master of ceremonies bellowed over the speaker system, ‘on my right, Bill Sliney from King’s Cross and on my left, Ron Kray from Bethnal Green.’ The referee called the two men into the centre of the ring.

He briefed them, ‘We want a nice, clean fight. No butting or holding and no punching low. Go to it. Have a good fight.’ Back in their opposite corners, the boxers waited. They were alone in the boxing ring. Some say it’s the loneliest place in the world.

‘Seconds out,’ the time keeper shouted.

Now it was all down to Ron. The fight started well, and Ron soon had Bill Sliney down for a count of eight. It looked as if it was going to go Ron’s way, he was really on top. Although Bill Sliney was putting up a courageous defence, Ron was definitely ahead. Don’t count your chickens though! Always keep in mind that the fight’s not over until you’ve won — or lost.

It was a nasty blow to Ron’s eye from an accidental clash of heads that turned the fight round in Bill Sliney’s favour. When it happened, the crowd went quiet. No one stirred in the Albert Hall. The referee inspected the damage, and even as he did so Ron’s left eye was closing fast — but not enough to call off the match. Ron was forced to fight on with the use of only one eye.

In the second round, Sliney used Ron’s injury to his advantage, circling Ron anti-clockwise, making sure to keep to his blind side and at arm’s length.

‘Jab, jab, jab,’ came the cries from Sliney’s corner.

Ron Kray only knew one way to fight and that was to go forward, keep going, with aggression. His pride and courage would not let him give up — even though half the time he couldn’t even see his opponent.

He had fought hard fights in the past, such as one time at Lime Grove Baths in West London, when he had been caught by a right hand and took a count of eight. Everyone saw it, except Ron. He came round just in time to see the match through to a win in three rounds. It was sheer guts and will power that carried him.

The same thing had happened at the Sporting Club in the West End. Felled early in the contest, he had regained his strength sufficiently to knock out his opponent in three rounds. But, this time it was turning out differently. Maybe he was just a slow starter, but on this occasion he couldn’t catch Sliney. He tried relentlessly, but he couldn’t land a good, clean punch. After six gruelling rounds the referee announced Bill Sliney’s victory.

The decision against Ron was a slim one, made on points. It had been close, but Sliney had got the verdict. Disappointed but gracious in defeat, Ron slipped through the ropes and strode back along the red carpet, through the applause to the dressing room. He’d been unlucky this time.

Reg was on next against Bob Manito, a South Londoner from Clapham. Reg had psyched himself up; he was feeling confident. He remembered the time he had fought Ron in the finals of the London Schools’ competition. Then he had had to face Ron over three consecutive years. The first two years he had lost, but on the third occasion he had made up his mind not to lose. He had given himself a good talking-to. Nothing was going to stop him.

It worked — he won on a unanimous points decision. But there was hell to pay at home. Violet made them promise that they would never fight each other again. She’d been disappointed in them. The family must stay together, stand by each other, play together and stay together. No in-fighting. It was something that was bred into the roots of their lives and stayed with them for ever.

That night at the Albert Hall he was sure his mother would soon be more than proud of him. He’d see to that. And sure enough it worked like a dream. He beat Manito in each of the six rounds. He had won. Strength and will power, combined with careful attention to his trainer’s advice, had proved a heady and triumphant brew. It was strong stuff: the stuff that dreams are made of.

In the ring now, Charlie was not in good shape. He knew that if he were knocked down in the course of the fight, he should stay down. Lew Lazar was going to come up with a hard fight. Harder than his boxing bouts in the Royal Navy, harder than the knock-out tournaments when he would fight three times a night. There was nowhere tougher for him to be than in that arena at the Royal Albert Hall. It was now time for Charlie to face himself and what he wanted; there is no place to hide in a boxing ring.

It was as early as the second round that Charlie started to slide, to lose his grip on the match. He didn’t see a left hook to his stomach and promptly went down on his knees. The referee started counting as Charlie tried to get his breath back. It wasn’t easy. He looked across at his trainer who was motioning him to stay down for the count of ten. Charlie couldn’t do it. His pride made him get to his feet as the referee reached the count of eight.

‘Box on,’ came the command from the referee, and both boxers resumed their fight.

It was getting harder for Charlie Kray, but he had to go on. The end of the round was near, and he relaxed for a brief moment, just to regain a little composure.

This proved a mistake. Charlie’s guard had dropped, and Lew Lazar caught him again with another vicious left hook to the stomach, and the result was the same as before. Charlie sank to his knees, hardly able to breathe. He was gasping for air as the referee counted, ‘One, two, three …’

A quick look over to Berry, who was frantically signalling for him to stay down, was all he could manage as he fought within himself to regain the strength that had gone completely from his legs.

‘Four, five, six …,’ continued the referee, as he stared into Charlie’s eyes, looking for signs of recovery.

Charlie’s mind raced. Was this really the end of a good boxing career? Should he continue, or should he follow the instruction of his trainer? Questions, questions, questions filled his head. There were always questions to be answered.

‘Seven, eight …,’ said the referee.

The pain wasn’t so acute now, after a short rest. Maybe he could continue. His pride made him get up at the count of eight. But Charlie Kray was lucky. As he rose to his feet, the bell was sounded for the end of round two, and, even then, he only just managed to hobble back to his corner.

‘That’s enough, Charlie. You’ve done enough’ were the words that greeted him from his corner. ‘Don’t go on.’ Henry Berry was emphatic in his advice to his boxer. But Charlie chose to ignore him this time.

Could he make it? Could he survive? Could he win? There wasn’t time for Charlie to think. He was down on his knees again in the third round, and there were still three more rounds to go. Lazar had landed him yet another left hook to the body, and the referee was counting again: ‘One, two, three …’.

Getting up at the count of eight was becoming a habit, and Charlie dragged himself up by clutching at the ropes. The referee checked him over for a few moments, just to make sure that he was in a fit state to continue, and then he let the fight resume once again. Surely it couldn’t last much longer.

It was only halfway through the third round, and things weren’t looking at all good. All those fights over so many years had given Charlie the will power to continue, but by now even he knew the end was near. It was almost inevitable.

It was another left hook to the stomach that finally did the trick for Lew Lazar. He had made every punch count, and his left hooks to the body were executed with exact precision. Lazar’s timing was superb that evening. He really was a good boxer.

Charlie Kray collapsed to the floor as the crowd rose to their feet. Everyone was cheering; they had done so throughout the fight. They weren’t cheering for anyone in particular, as they appreciated the effort put in by both boxers.

‘One, two, three …,’ counted the referee, as Charlie looked across at Henry Berry.

The signals back were the same as before, and Charlie could almost hear his trainer’s words: ‘Don’t be a hero, Charlie.’

‘Four, five, six …,’ said the referee, peering into Charlie’s eyes.

It was time for Charlie to summon all his strength. He reached out for the ropes and grabbed at them. This time he was successful, but it just wasn’t enough.

‘Seven, eight, nine …,’ continued the referee, who realized that the inevitable was about to happen.

Charlie just couldn’t do it — he couldn’t stand up. His pride couldn’t help him. The bell couldn’t help him. No one could help him in this loneliest of places.

‘Ten and out,’ said the referee at long last. It was all over.

The crowd was applauding both fighters as the referee counted Charlie Kray out. Charlie just stayed on his knees for a while, looking fixedly at the floor of the boxing ring. This was it. His final fight, and he had lost. But, he had done so to a good fighter and a possible champion, and there was no disgrace in being beaten by a better man.

Back in his corner, Charlie felt better. Henry Berry consoled his boxer, confirming that he had expected him to lose, given his lack of fitness. It had been a fair fight. And now it was over. Lew Lazar had deserved to win.

Charlie walked back along the red carpet to deafening applause from the crowd, who always gave a good loser a warm send-off. He thought to himself how thankful he was to have been the last of the brothers to box that night — so neither Ron nor Reg had seen him beaten.

Charlie entered the dressing room with Henry Berry and sat down immediately to have his gloves removed. He still had his blue satin dressing gown around his shoulders. He was feeling much better as the twins came over to offer him their condolences. Ron said not to worry; it was only a fight. Reg told him that he had done his best, though he really should have trained more.

Slowly Charlie regained his composure, something he had sought to do that night in the ring. By the time Jack Jordan came into the dressing room to hand the men their pay for the evening’s entertainment, all three brothers were laughing and joking among themselves.

For Charlie, Jack Jordan had made an alteration to the normal rules of professional boxing. He didn’t take his percentage from Charlie’s pay packet that evening, since he knew it was Charlie’s last fight. This was a big gesture from Jordan, who remained a life-long friend of the Krays. Henry Berry, too, had been with the Krays right from the start of their boxing careers, and he would continue in boxing for many years to come. The Krays would always be grateful to these two men’s dedication to their fighting success.

Old man Charlie travelled back to Vallance Road in Jack Jordan’s Riley with his three sons and their trainer. The atmosphere in the car was light-hearted and fun. Everyone was in a good mood. Jordan and Berry were busy lining up Ron and Reg with more fights. Both men were confident that the twins could become really good boxers; Reg, in particular, could possibly become a champion. He was certainly skilful enough.

Violet received the men at the front door, inspecting each of her boys as they entered the house. She wasn’t bothered about the results. All she was concerned about was her sons’ well-being.

‘What have you done to your eye, Ronnie?’ she said as she greeted Ron.

‘It’s all right, mum. It don’t hurt,’ replied Ron as he reached out for a cup of tea.

Jack Jordan and Henry Berry came into the house for a few minutes to say hello to Violet, but before long it was just the Kray family alone at home, drinking tea and eating sandwiches. All they thought and talked about was their fights that night. Old man Charlie had enjoyed himself immensely, as he always did on such evenings. Violet was just happy that it was all over.

But for Charlie, Ron and Reg it really was all over. The three Kray brothers had made their first and final appearance at the Royal Albert Hall, and they would never, ever, fight professionally again. They had other things to do.

Charlie simply wanted out, knew he had to move on. The twins had no choice: they had just been conscripted into the Army. But they had all left while the going was still good, and, although their days of sparring in the ring were over, they were just about to begin their fight for success in another arena: the streets and clubs, casinos and pubs of London’s East End. If the three Kray brothers had made their mark on British boxing, they were about to impress themselves indelibly on the world in other ways.