Wild Thing (14 page)

Things were fine at first, but Pat began to get jealous about my marriage to Jean. I tried to explain to her that I no longer had feelings for my wife, but Pat was having none of it. ‘You still love her! I know it!’ she would scream. I arrived home one night to find Pat, photos of Jean and an empty bottle of Drambuie lying on the floor. Pat was drunk, and Jean’s head had been cut off in all of the photographs. I shook Pat until she awoke and asked her what on earth she had been up to. ‘You still love her, Lew,’ she mumbled. ‘I know you do.’

‘What are you on about?’ I replied. ‘We have been through all of this. I haven’t seen Jean for over a year. I am with you now.’

She got off the floor and began to shout at the top of her voice about me being a liar, so I walked out of the flat and sat in my car. I saw no point in defending such a pointless allegation made by somebody who was drunk, so I remained there for about an hour. Hoping Pat had calmed down, I then returned to the flat. When I opened the door, I could smell burning, so I rushed into the lounge. She had put the waste-paper bin in the middle of the room, filled it with the mutilated photographs of me and Jean, then set it on fire. The blaze had got out of control and set fire to the carpet, so Pat had flooded the room with water in an effort to douse the flames. I screamed at her, ‘You could have killed the children, you lunatic!’ Pat didn’t reply. She just sat on the settee sobbing her heart out. I packed her belongings in a suitcase, led her out to my car, put her and the luggage on the back seat and dropped them off at a cab office in Forest Gate.

A few days later Pat arrived back on my doorstep, suitcase in hand, tears rolling down her face. ‘I’m sorry, Lew,’ she said. ‘I really miss you.’ What could I do? I didn’t have the heart to turn her away. I had to let her in, make her promise it wouldn’t happen again and carry on as before. Things did go OK for a while, but the green-eyed monster that dwelled within her wouldn’t rest. I had a lot of feelings for her, but I also had to think about my children. After three or four more drunken scenes involving plates and similar missiles being aimed at my head, I knew that I had to call a halt to our relationship. I sat her down and insisted that she must leave. Pat didn’t argue; she simply packed her bags, walked out of the flat that day and left London the following weekend. I missed her terribly, but I think going our separate ways was the best thing for both of us.

Theresa and Margaret heard that Pat had departed and immediately contacted me to ask if they could babysit the children again. I was more than happy to oblige. Theresa had by this time found a day job and soon found that staying up late and getting up early was too much. So Margaret, who at the time was unemployed, ended up babysitting nearly every night. Because of the amount of time she spent at my home, it was inevitable that we would form some sort of relationship. After my experiences with Jean and Pat I was happy to be just friends with Margaret. The problem was Margaret was single, tall, slim, very attractive and sleeping under the same roof as me. Why on earth did God burden mankind with desire?

Roy Shaw’s manager Joe Carrington turned up at the Room at the Top one night. Joe Pyle, Shaw’s former manager, was still on the scene but was more involved in promoting the fights. Carrington was about 5 ft 10 in., well built, smartly dressed and spoke with a gruff voice. He came across as very confident, cocky almost, and looked as if he was no stranger to violence. Carrington introduced himself to me, and we shook hands. ‘I hear you want to fight Roy,’ he said.

‘I do,’ I replied, ‘but he wouldn’t take up my challenge.’

Carrington said that the game was all about money. ‘If you put £10,000 on the table, a fight with Roy could probably be arranged.’

‘But I don’t have £10,000,’ I replied. ‘It sounds to me like he’s making excuses.’

Carrington sighed, ignored my comment and said, ‘I can get you a fight if you like. The guy’s name is Donny “The Bull” Adams. He is a teetotal, non-smoking, hard-faced Gypsy. Amongst the travelling community he is king.’

‘And how much would that cost me?’ I replied.

‘Sweet fuck all, Lew, sweet fuck all. You can mix it with The Bull for nothing.’

If Carrington could promote a fight between me and Donny ‘The Bull’ Adams without £10,000 being paid up front and make money, I failed to see why he couldn’t promote a fight between Shaw and me without a fee being paid. The £10,000 down payment just seemed like a good excuse to avoid fighting me.

‘I came to London to fight the Guv’nor,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be king of the Gypsies, nor do I want to fight men Roy has already beaten. It’s Roy I want to meet in the ring, nobody else.’

‘It’s not going to happen,’ Carrington replied. ‘Not unless there’s £10,000 on the table.’ I shook hands with him. He finished his drink and left.

There was one other man I wanted to fight – not in the ring, but to the death in the street, or wherever else I could lay my hands on him. The spectre of Paul Smith and the damage he had caused my family refused to leave us. Billy, especially, had terrible bouts of sadness and would sob uncontrollably while asking ‘Where has Mum gone?’ or ‘When is Mum going to come home?’ I felt his pain and wanted to be able to ease it for him, but until I could locate Jean, I knew I was powerless.

I became friendly with a customer at the Room at the Top who said that he worked for the DVLA (Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency). I was talking to him one night about how my wife had deserted me and how I came to be in London. He asked me if I still had the police summons that I had found in my wife’s bedside cabinet. ‘I have, but why do you want to know?’ I replied. The man explained that Paul Smith’s summons would have his car registration written on it. If I wanted, he could put the registration into his computer at work and the current address of where the car was registered would come up.

Fear was the first emotion I felt when the man handed me a slip of paper with Smith’s address on it the following week. Fear because I was not sure I could control my urge to walk out of the club and kill Smith. I sat down trembling with rage. I knew I had to think rationally; I knew I had to think of the children. I unfolded the small piece of paper and saw that the car had recently been taxed and an address in Guildford had been given. The registered owner was a Mr Paul Smith.

‘Fucking hell, Lew, you look like you have seen a ghost. Is everything OK?’

I looked up from the table where I was sitting and saw that big Steve Ryan, a doorman I worked with, was standing there. ‘I haven’t seen a ghost, Stevie,’ I replied, ‘but I am thinking about turning somebody into one.’

When I told Steve I had been given Smith’s address, he urged me not to do anything I would regret. ‘Think of the children, Lew,’ he said. ‘You have got to think of the children.’ I knew he was right, but I couldn’t just throw the address away and forget about the matter. The children had a right and a need to see their mother, so I decided to travel to Guildford and talk to her.

The following day Steve Ryan and I went in search of Jean. Steve had insisted on accompanying me, because he feared I might do something I would later regret. ‘Jean was a hairdresser,’ Steve said. ‘Guildford isn’t a huge town, so we will check out all of the salons to see if she is working before we go anywhere near Smith’s address.’

By this time I had calmed down, so I agreed to look for Jean rather than wreak revenge on Smith. Once the children had made contact with their mother, I could deal with Smith. I spent the day sitting in the car as we drove from salon to salon in search of my absent wife. Steve had said that, as Jean did not know him, he would go into each salon and look for her. It made sense, because if Jean saw me approaching her workplace she might hide or flee. I gave Steve a photograph of her and he got out of the car to begin the search. I lost count of the salons I watched Steve walk into and then walk out of shaking his head. It was getting late, we had not had any luck, so we agreed to try three more before heading home. When Steve walked out of the second salon, he was nodding his head and smiling. ‘I have found her,’ he said when he reached the car, ‘but for fuck’s sake, Lew, please stay calm.’ I was angry with Jean for what she had done, but I had no intention of harming her. I just wanted her to have contact with the children, because they were missing her so much. I had tried to believe that they would eventually forget her and move on, but children can’t pretend their mother doesn’t exist. I asked Steve to wait in the car and I walked towards the shop.

I hadn’t quite reached the salon when I saw Jean and another lady walk out the front door. Jean’s eyes met mine and the colour immediately drained from her face. ‘It’s OK, Jean,’ I said, ‘I just want to talk to you about the children.’ Jean didn’t answer; she turned and began walking briskly away.

‘Is everything OK, Jean?’ the other lady asked.

Jean didn’t answer; she continued to walk away at speed. I assured the lady that there was no problem and went after Jean. I caught up with her, promised her that there wasn’t going to be any bother and explained that the children really needed to see her. ‘You’ve made your bed,’ I said, ‘you have to lie in it, Jean. This is about our children, not us.’ Eventually Jean stopped walking and, after hearing what I had to say, agreed to meet me two days later. I didn’t tell the children I had met their mother, because I thought she might disappear again without seeing them. On the day of the meeting Billy and I travelled to Guildford. He thought that we were going shopping. When he saw his mother, Billy cried with joy and put both of his arms out so that Jean would pick him up. Tears of joy turned to tears of pain, because, to my horror and Billy’s, Jean refused to hold him. I couldn’t quite believe how Jean had changed; the girl I had fallen in love with and married was no more.

I don’t know what was going through my troubled mind, but I didn’t blame Jean; I blamed Smith. He was responsible for turning my children’s mother against them, and he had to pay. I didn’t say anything to Jean about her lack of affection for Billy; I knew that if I started having a go at her, the meeting would deteriorate into an argument and nothing would get resolved. I picked Billy up in my arms. He was still reaching out towards Jean, crying and kicking in the hope that she would embrace him. Jean continued to ignore him. We sat on a bench talking, and after an hour Jean agreed that she would have contact with the children. ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘I will meet you next week, and we can finalise the details.’

Billy was very distressed, so I said I would walk with Jean to the bus stop in the hope that her ice-cold heart might thaw. When the bus arrived, Billy became so upset that I genuinely feared for his well-being. He was trying to cry but was unable to catch his breath he was so distraught. Jean got on the bus and didn’t even look back. I couldn’t let her go with Billy in such a state, so I jumped on the bus and ordered the driver not to move until I told him it was OK to do so. I walked to where Jean was sitting and in front of all the passengers said, ‘This boy, your son, needs you. Now get off this bus, give him some attention or I will drag you off.’ Jean looked around at the passengers, who were staring at her, got up and walked off the bus. When Jean finally held Billy, he clung to her, digging his small hands into her clothing, ensuring they couldn’t be parted. After making numerous promises, Jean calmed Billy down enough to allow her to catch her bus and go home.

The following week I arrived in Guildford to meet Jean and discuss her having contact with all of the children. As I stood at the bus stop where we had arranged to meet, I noticed a woman watching me from the end of the street. I could only see her head, which appeared momentarily but at regular intervals from behind the wall of a building. I had no doubt that the woman had something to do with Jean. I was tempted to wave at her, but I thought it best to let her play out whatever game she was playing. When Jean arrived, we agreed to go to a café for a coffee so that we could discuss the children. We walked past the woman who had been watching me, and when I looked back shortly afterwards I saw that she had followed us. We had not been in the café long when the woman entered. I’m not sure if she was deliberately making such a poor job of trying not to be noticed, but if the woman thought I wasn’t aware that I was being followed, she clearly believed I was either blind, stupid or both. I stood up and walked over to the woman’s table. ‘I know you’re following me on Jean’s behalf. Do yourself a favour: get up, get out and don’t trouble me again.’

The woman didn’t reply. She looked at Jean, shrugged her shoulders and disappeared out the door. When I asked Jean who the woman was and why she had followed me, she denied knowing her. When I tried to arrange a time and day for the children to meet Jean, she refused to commit herself. All she kept saying was, ‘We will see, we will see.’ As I sat there, I kept recalling Smith’s friend telling me that he had said it was ‘too bad’ about Jean’s children. To me it seemed as if she had adopted his attitude. It was at that table that I decided I was going to kill him. Jean and I failed to agree on anything at the meeting, and to be honest I gave up caring. I felt I shouldn’t have to beg, plead or try to talk a mother into maintaining contact with her own children. After what had happened, Jean should have been grateful that I was giving her the opportunity to see them. The meeting ended in an uncomfortable silence, after Jean announced she had nothing further to say on the matter.

We didn’t arrange to see each other again; there seemed no point. I turned up at Jean and Smith’s house instead. I didn’t knock on the door or even get out of my car. I just wanted to see what Smith looked like so that I could begin to plan his death. Jean must have described my car to Smith or seen it outside the house herself. Somebody noticed it, because shortly after I arrived a police car pulled into the road and parked in front of me. Before the officer had a chance to speak to me, I started my car and drove off. The police car followed, so I turned around, drove up and down Jean’s road three or four times and then headed for London. A few days later I received a letter from Jean’s solicitor informing me that a court had granted her an injunction against me. I was, the letter said, forbidden from going within a ten-mile radius of her home. She had now made it official that she had no intention of having any sort of relationship with the children. My anger consumed the few rational thoughts that I had left. I asked one of my friends, Ray Todd, to travel down to Guildford in order to watch the house. I wanted to know if Smith left the house or he arrived home at a certain time. I needed to have a window of opportunity to strike. After Ray had arrived in Guildford, he telephoned me. ‘The house is empty, Lew,’ he said. ‘They have gone.’