A Cockney's Journey (21 page)

After a few weeks’ research, I found out from the local police station that in 1934, a married couple lived in the building. Unfortunately for the wife, her husband was a paranoid schizophrenic. He actually mutilated her body in a frenzied attack, chopping her up into pieces with an axe, then disposing of her body. However, during the police investigation, they dug up her body, which had been buried in the back garden, with the exception of her right hand, which was never found!

CHAPTER TEN
    After viewing our new home, we moved in that same week. Not bad really: at seventeen we had our own two bedroomed house with a front garden and a very small back yard. However, there were a few major obstacles to get over, or should I say get used to. One was the lack of a bathroom, another was the outside toilet and also there was no hot water! Southwark Council told us that they would eventually modify our amenities so that we could have hot water and washing facilities. I think what really pissed me off was the lack of heating. In fact, there wasn’t any. We had electric fires and fan heaters in every room during the winter months, I used to stand and watch the wheel spin round on the electric meter, thinking that if it spun any faster, it would take off. So I decided to break the lead seal and stick a wedge of cardboard under the wheel to stop its momentum, which I did successfully for years without being sussed.
    It was during this period of my life that I succumbed to peer pressure, namely Al, and went out earning with his villainous friends. This was the start of my demise as I spiralled out of control, forcing all my spiritual feelings and beliefs to the back of my mind. It was also the end of my relationship with Brian, Tony and Danny, as we all took different paths in our lives. Rose moved to the south coast and eventually I lost touch with all the friends from my childhood. I was now going to be sucked into the seedy world of villains and crime, at the tender age of eighteen.
    It all started one Friday night. I was drinking with Al and a few of his cronies; they were discussing the night’s activities. The plan was to nick a set of wheels, preferably one with some ‘oomph’, just in case we had to outrun the Filth. I was reliably informed that that was my job, much to my displeasure. I’d never ever stolen a car before. In fact, I didn’t even know where to begin. I’d driven cars before and I’d like to think I was pretty neat behind a wheel. However, nicking one was a different story. I left the pub with strict instructions to be back within the hour with a fast set of wheels. I walked around the streets in a daze, looking at cars, thinking
how the hell am I going to do this?
After a while, I came across this large, underground car park beneath some flats, my attention was alerted by the sight of this white Rover 2000. The driver’s side window wasn’t fully wound up and there was enough room to squeeze my arm down and pull the door button up. Once inside, I searched the car, looking and feeling in every corner. What for, you might ask? Well, in the seventies, car owners would hide their spare key inside the motor. Why? I haven’t got a clue, but they did. Low and behold, I found the spare key, hidden under the passenger seat carpet.
What a cretin,
I thought to myself.
Some people have the brains of a rocking horse.
On further investigation, I realised the owner was a woman. In the glove compartment were perfume, lipstick, a hairbrush and a dental appointment card with the name ‘Jackie Rowland’. I stuck the key in the ignition and screeched out of the car park. I parked the car discreetly in a side alley round the back of the boozer. Entering the pub, I informed the guys of my success. Al looked at me in disbelief.
    “You actually nicked a motor? We were having bets that you would come back with nish,” he said, shaking his head.
    “Right then, let’s make a move lads,” Frank insisted. “Where’s the wheels?” he asked impatiently.
    “Follow me,” I said, feeling all pleased with myself.
    “You ever driven on the motorway, Ed?” Harry asked.
    “Err, not really. Why?” I responded.
    “Because that’s where we’re going, mate,” Frank said, all cocky. “I’ll drive, just to be on the safe side, otherwise we’ll get lost.”
    We all bundled into the Rover with Frank driving. I wasn’t very keen on Frank and Harry. The pair of them were a bit too aggressive for my liking; they made me feel uncomfortable and uncertain. I didn’t trust either of them.
    We sped down the motorway, towards Redhill in Surrey. Frank was caning the arse out the Rover, which made me feel very uneasy. He turned off the motorway, driving like a man possessed, speeding through narrow country lanes and sleepy villages. He eventually stopped outside the local petrol station. I didn’t really know the SP, but I soon twigged why we were here. Now, in the seventies, petrol stations shut at about eleven in the evening, leaving a hundred pound float in the till for the next day’s shift. This was before they invented under-floor safes. Frank drove onto the forecourt, turning the cars lights off. He reversed straight through the glass doors. Well, before I had time to blink, we were inside, loading holdalls with all the fags on display, and I mean thousands of them. Harry opened the till, taking the float. We were in and out in a matter of minutes. That night, we hit four petrol stations, earning one hundred quid each. I was flabbergasted at the ease with which we carried out the thefts. We drove back to London, dumping the car in a multi-storey car park near Wandsworth. We then boarded a train back to the Elephant and Castle. This went on for months…
    One Friday night, we were all in the local Indian restaurant just off the “blue” in Bermondsey. When I say all, I mean Sue, Al, Jane, Frank, Harry, Jane’s brother, Paul, and myself, along with three others, who ended up very much in the public eye, for one reason and another, and for these reasons will remain nameless. Al’s relationship with Jane was rather strained, to say the least. After she had confided in me with regards to how she felt, I was surprised they were still seeing each other. Her brother Paul was a nasty piece of work. He’d been pals with my cousin for yonks. During the evening, I noticed loudmouth Frank giving Jane the eye. He obviously sensed that she wasn’t keen on Al. Unfortunately for Frank, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his intentions. Frank and Jane sat opposite each other at the table. When Al went to the toilet, Frank made his move. He stretched his arm across the table, touching her hand, and leant over whispering in her ear. Jane giggled, smiling at Frank. Paul looked at Frank, his eyes full of rage and malice.
    “What the fuck you playing at, pal?” Paul shouted, screwing his face up in anger. Everybody’s eyes in the restaurant focused on our table. I knew that wanker would cause trouble. Sue grabbed my hand under the table, squeezing hard in a downward motion, indicating for me to stay put. Not that I would get up anyway. I was way out of my league. At the end of the day, I was only interested in earning dough, not grief. Frank stood up, flexing his shoulders, while his chair toppled over onto the floor.
    “Who do you think your chatting to, mate?” he said giving it the big-un. Paul stood up, his fist clenched, ready to lay into him.
    “Sit the fuck down, you pair of plums or you’ll both answer to me. Get it?” one of the nameless quietly said. To my surprise, they both sat down, like children after being chastised by one of their parents. Al came back from the toilet, oblivious to what went on.
    “Bit quiet, isn’t it?” he said, looking around the table suspiciously.
    “Yeah, we was just deciding on whether we should order another couple bottles of wine or push the boat out and go for some Champagne,” Harry said, rolling his eyes smiling.
    “Yeah, why not? I fancy a drop of bubbly,” Al reckoned.
    Suddenly the table came to life, with everyone chatting and smiling, everything seemingly forgotten. I’d known Paul for eighteen months myself and, believe me, Frank’s card was well and truly marked, even though he never showed it during the rest of the evening. Frank was so up his own arse that he thought Paul had bottled it. At the end of the evening, Sue and I grabbed a cab home, leaving Jane and Al trying to sort out their differences. My son stayed the night round the in-laws’. Good as gold, Min and Bill were, they just loved baby-sitting their grandson. Sitting in the cab, feeling stuffed and half-pissed, my mind started thinking of my nan and wondering how she was doing. The last time I saw Nan, she wasn’t well. Now we had got our own place, she could come and stay with us for a while.
I’ll write to her tomorrow, inviting her to stay.
    Nan’s mental health had deteriorated rapidly over the last couple of years. Since William Charles Bennett died in 1955, she’d lived on her own in Margate. God bless her, only the previous week had we received a parcel from her. The poor love sent a fresh chicken wrapped in paper. My eyes watered with sadness when I opened the parcel; the stink filled the house for hours. She really was a top class woman, even though she’d lost the plot. I will always love her with all my heart and I know deep inside my soul that we shall see each other again when my time comes.
    The following day, after posting a letter to my nan, Sue and Daniel and I spent the day shopping, buying household items and baby clothes from various shops at the Elephant and Castle centre. By the time we reached home, I was knackered. All that traipsing around shops takes it out of you. All I wanted to do was chill out in front of the box all night, with Sue. Unfortunately, my evening was already planned out for me; later that evening, I met up with Al and the boys in our usual boozer. Frank failed to show up, much to my relief. We didn’t know it at the time, but Frank had been pulled in for questioning. Apparently, his prints were found all over the Rover and he was in the process of being charged for robbery on ten counts. If only we knew we’d probably not have gone out earning that night. But, as it stands, we did. Al replaced Frank with Paul, who did the honours of nicking the wheels for the night’s exploits. Driving out of London, Al informed the three of us that we were going to do a job just outside Redhill. I pressed Al, asking him what kind of job he was referring to. His answer shocked me little.
    “There’s a local sub post office in a small village, near Redhill. Monday is pension day. There’ll be shitloads of dough inside the gaff. The old boy that runs the place lives above the shop on his jack. No problems. It’ll be a piece of cake,” he reckoned, smiling.
    Paul turned the Jag off the motorway towards Redhill, doing a steady sixty miles an hour, quite a contrast to Frank’s death wish antics. We quietly crawled through this picturesque sleepy village, passing a typical old village pub and convenience store, towards the far end of the village, where the post office was situated. Pulling up opposite, Paul turned the engine and lights off. We all sat there, screwing our intended target. I had a really bad feeling about this; my instincts told me that what we were about to do was far too risky. I mean it’s dead quiet; not a sound came from anywhere.
    “It’s too quiet, Al. We’ll get sussed if we make the least bit of noise,” Harry whispered, expressing his concerns.
    
Well
, I thought.
I’m not the only one with reservations about the set-up.
    “What did you expect, a welcoming committee? It’s bloody two in the morning! Fuck me, Harry. Would you have felt better if there was a football match taking place on the village green?” Al said sarcastically, sliding out of the Jag.
    One after the other, we climbed out of the motor. Paul opened the boot, retrieving a crowbar and club hammer.
    “Come on, let’s do it. I haven’t driven all this way for jack shit!” he said. He moved towards the shop’s entrance door, ramming the splayed end of the crowbar between the edge of the door and the frame. Putting his whole weight against the bar, he pushed it back towards the wall. Suddenly, there was a loud crack, followed by a splitting ripping sound. Paul went flying as the door sprang open. He released his grip on the crowbar, dropping it onto the floor. It made a loud clanging noise. The sudden noise was followed by deathly silence. We all stood there, fearing the worst. Paul lay on the floor looking up at us with his finger pressed against his lips, indicating to us not to make a sound. After a few moments had lapsed and nothing seemed to happen, it was obvious our presence wasn’t detected.
The old boy must be a heavy sleeper
, I thought.
Thank fuck for that!
All four of us entered the post office, thinking we’d cracked it. Paul pushed the door to, pulling down the blind.
    At the back of the shop, the post office counter was encased in protective toughened shatterproof glass. Built into the counter and screen was a metal entrance door, with two large locks. Harry shone his torch on the door and screen.
    “Fucking hell, well prepared or what?” he gasped, shaking his head in disappointment. Al looked the door over with Paul, both agreeing that it wasn’t possible to open the door without waking the whole village during the process.
    “Why don’t I go upstairs and bring the old boy down to open up the door. If I shove this in his mush, he won’t refuse,” he said, pulling out a handgun from inside his jacket; I nearly collapsed with shock.
    
You’re having a fucking laugh,
I thought to myself and my jaw nearly hit the floor when Al nodded in agreement. Harry glanced over at me, widening his eyes, frowning.
    “Here we go, Ed. This is where the shit hits the fan, mate,” he said, anxiously.
    Paul crept up the stairs to the flat above, brandishing his bloody gun like Wyatt fucking Earp. Suddenly, we could hear voices and bumping noises above. I wanted to run away; this wasn’t exciting anymore.
What have I got myself into?
Paul appeared at the foot of the stairs with this guy in pyjamas; his nose was bleeding. His face was pure white with fear and his eyes were pleading, while Paul pressed the barrel into the old boy’s throat. I felt sick and ashamed that I was part of his nightmare. He was carrying a large bunch of keys. Al dragged him over to the door.
    “Open the door and you will live to tell the tale to your grandchildren. If you don’t, you’ll be pushing up daisies very soon, my old son,” he warned him aggressively.
    The poor sod was shaking so much he kept dropping the keys on the deck. Paul snapped; his patience stretched like an elastic band. He smashed the butt of the gun across his head. The old boy dropped to his knees, holding his head and screaming in pain.
    “Leave it out, Paul. There’s no fucking need to hurt him,” I shouted hysterically. He spun round, pointing the gun at me.
    “You speak to me like that again, boy, and I might just forget your Al’s cousin and fucking waste ya!” he screamed, menacingly. His words and glaring evil look sent a shiver down my spine. I put my hands up, expressing my apologies and trying not to took terrified. Paul turned his attention upon the old fella, who was looking at me while kneeling on the floor, his eyes begging mine for help. I shrugged my shoulders while rolling my eyes upwards, indicating that there was nothing I could do which would help him.