Читать книгу Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story - Jamie Foreman - Страница 10
ОглавлениеMum came and took me out of school to break the news.
‘Bad things are going to be said about your father but you mustn’t listen to any of them,’ she told me, trying to explain what was happening as sympathetically as possible. ‘They’re accusing him of terrible things and trying to bring him down. But it’s all lies. All of it.’
I was completely shocked. A sort of numbness descended on me that makes my memory of the events a little fuzzy. It was all too much to take in. I don’t remember the word ‘murder’ being used around me. After all, it’s not the sort of word you use lightly around a ten-year-old, especially in relation to his dad, but I knew that my father was facing life imprisonment and I might lose the man who meant everything to me.
As soon as Dad had been charged, we were surrounded with people who wanted to help and protect us. His network of family, friends, allies and those who owed ‘favours’ went into full swing. They needed to put their heads together. They needed to get him out of this. In my experience, there really is honour among thieves.
I knew I had to be strong and stand tall for my mum. It’s what Dad would have expected. I hated seeing her crying all the time. I wanted to be there for her. But it was decided, rightly, that I should return to school for the time being.
The school’s reaction was fantastic. An ‘old boy’ network similar to ours: ‘You always look after your own.’ I’ll never forget how the headmaster, Mr Furby, sat me down on my return. He was surprisingly gentle and kind, and spoke with reassuring calmness: ‘You’re not to worry about anything, Jamie. You mustn’t talk to anyone outside of school. And don’t worry, we’re all going to look after you and protect you from this.’
Those words encapsulated the beauty of my boarding school. Whatever was going on, I would not be shunned by the place to which I had grown so attached; nor would I be exposed to the gossip and hearsay that would be circulating in the outside world. I wouldn’t be drawn into the chaos surrounding the biggest criminal trial in British legal history to date.
Looking back, it seems incredible that those around me managed to shield me from everything so well, yet they did. We didn’t have access to newspapers at school, and I was kept well away from the press who circled the place like vultures. As far as school gossip went, it was ‘Woe betide any boy who dares whisper whatever they may hear on the grapevine.’ I was safe.
Like I said, the stress the episode placed me under – the way it felt like a surreal, terrible dream – means I can’t tell it all exactly as it happened. All I know is that at some point I was back at home before Dad went to trial. The atmosphere at the pub was so different. Dad wasn’t there, of course, but the rooms upstairs were constantly buzzing with activity. A lot of my ‘uncles’ – members of Dad’s firm and other associates – were always around. They were there to reassure us, and constantly told us that it was all going to be OK.
They would also huddle in the living room and talk for hours in hushed tones. I wasn’t privy to their conversations, but every time I ferried in tea and sandwiches for them I was aware that whatever they were discussing was focused on helping Dad. It wasn’t a happy time, but to know that everything possible was being done gave me the focus I needed to stay positive, keep making the tea and feel that I too was doing my bit.
From my experiences at similar meetings later in life – and there have been a few – I know that what seemed mysterious to me then was nothing but my dad’s closest, most trusted friends putting their heads together and exploring every possibility on the road to building his defence case. It’s quite a formidable thing to witness men who plan crimes with professional precision employing the same attention to detail when trying to get out of them. The atmosphere of intensity and focus is something to behold.
The first charge Dad faced was for the murder of Frank Mitchell. Mitchell was known as ‘The Mad Axeman’ – you don’t get a nickname like that for nothing, do you? Anyway, the charge came about on the evidence of a man called Albert Donahue, who claimed he was an eyewitness to Mitchell’s shooting. Donahue was one of the Kray firm who’d turned supergrass and gave evidence for the prosecution. Perhaps he had his reasons, but Donahue broke one of the fundamental rules of the underworld – never grass. Once you cross that line, you never live it down. The act of snitching comes to define you in the eyes of many. Including yours truly. Donahue is the lowest of the low. He’ll never escape it and he will die a grass.
Yet Donahue’s uncorroborated testimony didn’t get the result he and the authorities were after. Dad was found not guilty. He’d avoided the biggie – a life sentence. It was no time to celebrate, though. Once he had been acquitted of murder, Dad had to face the charge of being an accessory in the murder of Jack McVitie. Jack ‘The Hat’ was an associate of the Krays who, like Mitchell, had become a liability to them. The Krays had killed him, and my father was accused of disposing of the body.
