This book is dedicated to those who survived those years of madness, mayhem and murder:

My good friend Gavin Spicer, who was always at my side; my good friend Martin Hall and family; Sue Woods; Steve ‘Nipper’ Ellis; Big Greg from Leytonstone; Ian from Barking; Jeff (stitch my head) Bulman; Larry Johnston; Mark Rothermel; Peter and Tony Simms; Chris Raal; Mark and Carol Shinnik; Roger Mellin; Dave (where’s my television) Thomkins; Steve Curtis and Nathan from Bristol; Liam the jogger from Basildon; Maurice (I’m so handsome) Golding; Paul Trehern; Chemical Bob and partner Mark. Special thanks to Martin Moore of Great Barr, Birmingham. Last, but not least, my partner Emma Turner, and my children, Adrian, Vinney and Karis.

Those that have passed cannot change anything.

www.bernardomahoney.com

www.mesh-29.co.uk

WANNABE IN MY GANG?

FROM THE KRAYS TO THE ESSEX BOYS

Bernard O’Mahoney

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licenced or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781780570730

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Reprinted, 2006

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by

MAINSTREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY (EDINBURGH) LTD

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Extracts from Stop the Ride by Dave Courtney, reproduced by permission of Virgin Books Ltd.

Extracts from Inside the Firm by Tony Lambianou, reproduced by permission of John Blake Publishing.

INTRODUCTION

I can hear them now in the pubs and clubs around Essex and London: calling me a hypocrite, swearing murderous revenge for showing them disrespect by casting doubt on their prowess.

They will call me a hypocrite because I am a man who, like them, has broken the law, spent time in prison, intimidated, punched, kicked, cut and stabbed others to get what he wanted. They will want their revenge because nobody who thinks they have a reputation likes to hear the truth about themselves.

So, I hear you ask, who are ‘they’?

‘They’ are the men who promote themselves as ‘the kings of the underworld’, the ‘hardest men in Britain’, or the ‘most evil men on the planet’.

Fucking idiots . . .

To be honest, I couldn’t care less what these people say or think because I am my own man and I say what I feel needs to be said. Throughout my life I have been at odds with people who have tried to impose their views or authority on me. I couldn’t see eye to eye with my father, school teachers, policemen, probation officers and later in life, prison officers. They didn’t seem to realise when they were shouting and screaming at me that I consider nothing more despicable than so-called respect based on fear. I loathed their attempts to intimidate me, make me do their will and agree with their twisted philosophy simply because they thought they could scare or overpower me. I am neither ashamed nor proud of the fact that I have been in trouble all of my life. I would be ashamed if I and those close to me had endured the years of misery it has caused for nothing.

I don’t believe we have. Adversity has given us a bond nobody can break. It has also given me the will to try and prevent others from following the same path that I took.

I wish somebody had been there to guide me before I embarked on this nightmare of a journey.

Few in Essex will ever forget 1995 – I certainly won’t. Young people, fuelled initially by recreational drugs, embraced and danced at raves across the county. The Summer of Love, as the media called it, soon soured and gave way to the Winter of Discontent. My friends, their minds poisoned with Class ‘A’ drugs and ideas of gangland grandeur, began murdering one another. As well as the casualties of an undeclared war, others on the fringes were suffering mental-health problems, imprisonment and death because of the drugs the combatants supplied.

Five weeks before Christmas in 1995, an eighteen-year-old girl called Leah Betts died after taking a pill that had been supplied by my associates. Two weeks later, three of my friends had their brains blown out by an assassin as they sat in their Range Rover, parked down a quiet farm track. So much for the season of goodwill.

The death of Leah Betts and the murder of my friends in such a short period of time had a profound effect on me. I knew my time had come, that I had to get out or I too would die an undignified death or be imprisoned. I realised I had to try and shed the criminal make-up I had worn since I was a boy.

I did everything I could to break my criminal bonds. I distanced myself from my associates and I did the unthinkable; I assisted the police. I told myself that I was a reformed character but I soon found out that society never really wants to forgive, because people are not prepared to forget. Why should they, particularly when the debt you owe involves the deaths of others?

Such debts can never really be settled.

In 1996, Leah Betts’ father appeared on national television and called me a bastard, saying he held me responsible for the death of his daughter. The public naturally felt for a man who had lost somebody so young and many believed that I had indeed killed her. At school my children were taunted by other children who said that I was a murderer. Life for us all became impossible. In an effort to set the record straight, I wrote So this is Ecstasy?, telling the true story of the events which led up to Leah’s death.

I have since written three other books. Essex Boys highlights the plight of Jack Whomes and Mick Steele, who were convicted of murdering my three friends as they sat in their car. I firmly believe that they are innocent and so felt it was a book that needed to be published. I then wrote Soldier of the Queen, an honest account of my time serving as a British soldier in my family’s native Ireland. Forget those SAS memoirs, this book tells the true story of what life was really like fighting an everyday war against the IRA. After a three-year legal battle at the High Court in London, I won the right to publish The Dream Solution, which tells the story of my involvement with sisters Lisa and Michelle Taylor who butchered 21-year-old bride Alison Shaughnessy and evaded justice.

There is nothing wrong with anybody writing books that are factual and have something worthwhile to say, but I do think that during the last decade publishers and those in the media who serialise and review books have turned misery and murder into a form of light entertainment.

When ‘gangster’ Dave Courtney wrote his biography (1999), he boasted about getting away with murder, living a life of luxury funded by crime and dealing in drugs. The book was serialised by a national newspaper who printed a photograph of one of Courtney’s young children holding a gun. This was an absolutely obscene episode and should have been condemned, but the newspaper concerned paid Courtney for the ‘privilege’ of promoting him as a successful criminal and showing the offensive photograph. I can now reveal that Courtney has never committed a murder; the book is based on his weird and disturbing fantasies.

Sadly, Courtney is not the only one who has written a ‘true crime’ biography which is in fact bullshit. Several more are exposed in this book.

Many young kids think that being a gang member is flash or something to aspire to. That is a disturbing enough thought, but when you consider that gun crime in the UK has risen by 35 per cent in the last few years, promoting such a lifestyle is criminal in itself.

Lying fools like Courtney, to whom the media give oxygen, are not men of respect as they want others to think – they are despicable. They use their books to boast and brag to impressionable young kids about the heinous crimes they have committed, the lavish lifestyle they have enjoyed on the back of a life of crime and the ‘useful’ time they have spent in prison. I describe them as despicable because they are recommending a lifestyle to kids that they themselves have never experienced or had to endure.

I have endured it and I can assure you if you’ve bought this book to read about the glamour of being a gangster, you’re going to be very disappointed.

EPILOGUE

Nobody can say for certain what the future holds. I would like to think that my problems with the law are over, but since moving to Peterborough I have been arrested, clubbed by overzealous policemen with batons, locked up overnight and then released in the morning without charge. In an effort to ‘escape’ before things got out of hand, I moved to a place where I thought nobody would bother me.

One Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in my own home watching football on the TV when the phone rang. The caller said he was a policeman and asked me if everything was OK as they had received a report of a disturbance. I laughed and said, ‘It’s a wind up, isn’t it?’, but the policeman was adamant.

He asked if anybody else was in the house and I told him Emma was asleep upstairs as we had both been out late the night before. The policeman insisted on talking to her, so I called up to Emma and she picked up the phone in the bedroom and confirmed to the police that there was no problem or disturbance in or around our home. The policeman said OK and put the phone down.

Ten minutes later there was a loud knock at the door. I had ordered a pizza and assumed it was the delivery boy, so I sorted out some money and went to the front door. When I opened it, approximately eight police officers were standing there looking very, very agitated. Three of them took their extendable batons out and flicked them open.

A WPC said she wanted to come into my home and when I asked why, she said, ‘There’s been a disturbance.’

I laughed and said, ‘We’ve just had your people on the phone saying the same thing. My partner’s in bed, I’m watching a good game of football on the TV and waiting for a pizza. What is disturbing about that?’

The WPC tried to push her way in and I told her that she was not welcome in my home and as she had no warrant she wasn’t getting in. I shut the door. Somewhat bewildered, I walked back towards the lounge. Moments later, there was an extremely loud crash. I guessed it wasn’t the pizza delivery boy and turned to see that the police had kicked my front door off its hinges. They ran up the hallway towards me and without saying a word sprayed me several times full in the face with CS spray.

I was pushed to the floor, handcuffed and four officers then sat on me. One of them struck me across the ribs with his extendable metal baton despite the fact I had not said a word or offered any form of resistance. Emma came downstairs and asked what was going on. The police said that they had been told I had assaulted somebody and I was under arrest for it. At no stage had they asked my name, but they certainly knew it.

Emma was in shock. She repeatedly told them they were talking total nonsense, that she had been in bed since the early hours of the morning and nobody had fallen out, let alone been assaulted. Fearful of their true intentions, Emma plugged in a cassette recorder and taped herself, telling the officers they were talking rubbish, but their only response was to radio their headquarters and inform control that they were being recorded. After 15 minutes of being sat on by four burly officers who were not quite sure what to do next, I was frogmarched out into the street where five police vehicles and one ambulance were parked with their blue lights flashing. I was put in a van, taken to a police station 15 miles away (there’s one half a mile from my home), locked up until 3 a.m. and then released without charge. When I left Peterborough, I didn’t move to Iraq or Palestine – this diabolical incident occurred in sleepy Lincolnshire.

I am not saying I am a saint and that I deserve to be treated well, I am just saying this is the way you are treated if you have behaved like a bastard all of your life.

I have spoken to a senior police officer since and I have emphasised the fact that my past is in the past and there is no need for ‘extra vigilance’ where I am concerned. Only time will tell if he was listening.

One evening I was sitting in the local pub with Emma when two young musicians walked in, set up their equipment and began to play. I could not believe what I was hearing. I have loved music all of my life and have seen most, if not all, of the major artists play live, but these boys were something else. I asked the landlord who they were and he said the guitarist and vocalist was Adam Mezzatesta, and the keyboard player was a guy named Anthony Shiels. ‘They call themselves Mesh 29,’ he said. When they were packing up their equipment, I introduced myself to them and said I thought they were wasting their talent playing in village pubs in front of a dozen or so people. I offered to manage them free of charge for a year and if at the end of that period we were not getting anywhere we could go our separate ways. Adam and Shielsie said that they would ‘give it a go’. We shook hands and from that moment on I threw myself into getting them as much exposure as possible. Within weeks they had performed at The Cavern in Liverpool, The Rock Garden and The Borderline in London and supported ex-Carter USM star Jim Bob at The Shed in Leicester. An American record company has shown an interest in the band and two German TV stations have featured them in programmes. I know it is only a matter of time before somebody offers them a recording contract. It is extremely rewarding to see my efforts helping two decent young men fulfil their dream.

Listening to them talk about the future with such hope and excitement makes me realise the true cost of my wasted years. I can never take back the pain and misery I have caused those I love, those I thought I hated, or myself. I can only try to make amends.

How can anybody who has joined me on this journey say that crime is glamorous or gangster equals chic? If being a gangster is all about being clever and streetwise, why do so many of them end up living their entire life in the gutter?

The men and women who write these books about events they have made up or who lie to show themselves in a better light are inadequate social misfits crying out for attention. They are sad, lonely individuals who want people to admire them, like them and think they are somebodies. They surround themselves with fools they publicly call ‘a firm’ and privately call friends, but they know deep down nobody really gives a shit about them.

That is not a criticism, it is a fact. When the individuals in this book have finished telling people they are going to shoot, stab or murder me for what I have said, they will go home, reflect and know everything I have said is true. I have no doubt their loved ones will have been telling them the same thing for years, so it shouldn’t come as that much of a shock to them.

When they sat down to write an account of their lives they may have thought that they were producing a book which people would admire them for. They were obviously so ashamed of telling the truth they turned to fantasy for inspiration. Stuck for genuine material, they probably believe that their lives have only been worthy of filling one book, but if they were prepared to unburden themselves of this gangster, I’m-so-fucking-hard nonsense, they would have another, more useful and important story to tell.

Tony Lambrianou, always keen to point out that he can walk around with his head held high, may be able to really walk tall if he knew that by being honest he had prevented an impressionable young man from spending his life in jail. If he told young people how he had been treated by the Krays, that gangs are no good, that the Krays were selfish, seedy bullies and there can never be loyalty amongst people who have devoted their lives to breaking rules and laws, he may be able to look at himself with pride. These days, the former ‘Kray gang boss’ must wonder what side of the mirror he is really on.

I am sure Gaffer, who I know endured the misery of spending an unhappy childhood in a home through no fault of his own, could give a boy in a similar situation hope and a will to make something of his life. Instead of writing a book about how hard he is, he could write about how much pain his anger, stupidity and recklessness have caused him and those he loves.

As for the Frayne brothers and Dave Courtney . . . Well, I suppose everybody is entitled to dream.

Reg Kray, ‘gang boss’:

‘There are no sex offenders or the like on my wing. We are the so-called hard men of the prison and we simply wouldn’t tolerate them. No one likes these monsters.’

David Courtney, ‘gang boss’:

‘One thing that never fails to amaze me is some people’s capacity for self-delusion. I can understand trying to con someone else because you might get a reward, but conning yourself? One of the hardest things in life is to be honest with yourself; do that and you’re halfway there.’

Leighton Frayne, ‘gang boss’:

‘I was stabbed very bad, through the lung, heart and spleen and seven other wounds. Pretty bad ones, but that’s life isn’t it?

‘I don’t like bullshit, I’m a man of my word.’

Tony Lambrianou, ‘gang boss’:

‘I have regrets about my past, I must admit, but more important than anything else, I’m not ashamed of it. It’s important to me as a person that I can hold my head up, knowing that I didn’t point the finger at anybody, that I was with the twins and I fell with the twins.’

John ‘Gaffer’ Rollinson:

‘All families are good families. I believe in the family structure; people look after each other. If I could have been born into a Mafia family, I would have loved it.

‘I was what I was. Basically, a violent, selfish, lazy, pig-headed thug, whose idea of domestic bliss was to say goodbye on a Friday evening and turn up again on Monday morning, smashed out of my skull, with a load of drunken mates in tow, waking up the kids.’

Kate Howard (Kray):

(1993) Ron Kray: ‘I don’t like your book. It’s too personal . . . no more books about us?’

Kate: I smiled back. ‘No more books about us.’

Ron: ‘Let’s forget about it.’

Kate: ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

(2003, from the official Kate ‘Kray’ website) ‘When Kate married gangster Ronnie Kray, he introduced her to some of the most feared and deadly criminals Britain has ever known. She persuaded them to open their hearts to her and talk about their crimes, their fears and their dreams. Kate is now an established author and has written three books on the Kray Twins and many more on what she knows best – tough guys.’

CONTENTS

Introduction

1. About a Boy

2. Looking After Your Own

3. GangStars’ Paradise

4. ‘I Read the News Today . . . Oh Boy’

5. Conspiracy to Murder

6. Debt and Destruction

7. An Indecent Proposal

8. Four Funerals and a Death Threat

9. Murder and Mayhem

10. Crossing the Thin Blue Line

11. A Right Charlie

12. Reunited at Last

13. Pinky and Perky

14. I’m a Celebrity? Get Out of Here!

15. The Ride Breaks Down and the Jester is Unmasked

Epilogue

ABOUT A BOY

Johannesburg, South Africa, 20 September 1988

As the car came hurtling down the street nobody could have imagined the devastation it was about to cause. The teenager at the wheel was under age, had no licence or insurance and had taken the car without the consent of the owner. Unaware of the approaching car, ten-year-old James Fallon, who had moved from Wolverhampton to South Africa with his parents, was walking across a zebra crossing with his BMX bike. By the time the driver saw James, it was too late. The vehicle struck the boy and dragged him along the road for 30 metres before tossing his body onto the pavement. Ironically, the accident took place close to a nurse’s house. By the time James’s body had come to rest he was unconscious and had turned blue. The nurse, having heard the collision, ran on to the street and gave James the kiss of life before calling the emergency services.

When he arrived at the hospital, James underwent surgery for seven hours. A steel collar had to be put on his body in order to hold his head in place on his shoulders. James was put on a life-support machine, but nobody thought he would survive the night.

An examination of James revealed that he was paralysed from the neck down. He was unable to breathe without the aid of a respirator and he was unable to swallow or speak. He could hear and see and, crucially, his comprehension was unimpaired. With the help of round-the-clock nursing care, James’s heartbroken parents began the slow process of bringing him back to life.

Miraculously, he learned to communicate by eye movement and within six months was ready to return home to his parents. Not only did James continue to improve his communication skills but also managed to pass exams in maths, general knowledge, English and geography with the aid of videotapes. James’s terrible accident generated publicity locally, nationally and back home in England.

On Friday, 20 January 1989, I was visiting my mother in Wolverhampton when I read the following article in the local evening newspaper, The Express and Star:

UNCLE STARTS FUND TO HELP PARALYSED CRASH BOY, 10

A Codsall man has launched an appeal fund for his nephew who ‘died’ twice and is now totally paralysed after a road accident in South Africa.

Former Codsall boy James Fallon, aged ten, had his skull detached from his spine in the smash last September. Top surgeons from all over South Africa managed to save his life in a seven-hour operation, which has since featured in medical journals throughout the world. It was the first time it had been carried out in the country and only the fourth time it had been attempted anywhere.

But now James cannot talk, breathe or swallow without the aid of life-support systems. He is still in Johannesburg General Hospital where he has been taught to use a computer, which allows him to communicate, by eye movement.

‘We are hoping he will be allowed home some time in May,’ said his uncle, Paul Nicholson of Wilkes Road, ‘but his parents will have to install very expensive equipment if he is to survive.’

His parents, Elaine, 33, and Roger, 35, who also lived in Wilkes Road, emigrated to South Africa six years ago. The accident happened as James was going back to school for a concert recital. He was hit by a speeding car driven by an under age motorist. The 17-year-old driver, who had taken his father’s car without consent, was later fined £50.

James was hurled more than 90 feet along the road and also suffered internal injuries and crushed legs. He stopped breathing once at the roadside and again in the hospital.

‘It was a miracle he survived, but now he is a prisoner in his own body,’ said Mr Nicholson. His parents need a lot of money to convert their home and he is starting an appeal in James’s name at Barclays Bank in Codsall.

I knew all about being a prisoner and the thought of an innocent ten-year-old boy being trapped in his own body really struck a chord with me. I had quite rightly been imprisoned on two occasions for wounding people. I also had convictions for robbery, violent disorder, breach of the peace, affray and assaulting police. Yet here was a ten-year-old boy, with his whole life before him, imprisoned in his own body and he had done nothing. I really felt for him.

His mother, Elaine Fallon, used to live in the same street as me in Codsall, where I was brought up. Even though she had only lived 20 doors away, I had never really spoken to her. I did know Elaine’s elder brother, Paul, but only to say hello to. They were a close-knit family, good hard-working people who kept themselves to themselves. James would receive all the love and moral support he needed from them – of that I was certain. All the Fallon family required was financial support to pay for the specialist equipment that James needed. I decided I would ‘do my bit’ and try to raise a bit of money locally.

At this time I was living in Basildon, Essex, with my partner Debra and our son Vinney. I didn’t fancy making endless trips up and down the motorway, so I settled for a one-off event. I decided that the quickest and most efficient way of raising money would be if I could get lots of items off famous or infamous people and hold an auction. I wrote about 150 letters to well-known people and bands such as The Rolling Stones, The Who, Paul McCartney, Madonna and Dire Straits. I also wrote to numerous football clubs including Arsenal, Manchester United and Wolverhampton Wanderers. In fact I wrote to everybody I could think of who had ever been ‘a somebody’. Amongst those ‘somebodies’, I included the infamous Kray twins.

I asked the various people I wrote to if they would donate something of theirs that had been signed and which people would be prepared to pay money for. It didn’t matter if it was a book, an album, a T-shirt, a football, photo or item of clothing. The vast majority of people did send something: Dire Straits sent a gold disc, The Rolling Stones sent signed albums, as did The Who. Madonna donated a signed T-shirt and most football clubs sent signed footballs and photographs. Even Great Train Robbers Ronnie Biggs and Buster Edwards sent signed white £5 banknotes – the same type as they had stolen in their infamous heist.

The Kray twins donated a signed photograph and a picture that Ronnie had painted in Broadmoor. The picture looked as if a three-year-old had painted it. It was a house on a hill. The hill was green. The house was orange and red. There was a tree by the side of it that looked more like a stick with a green blob on the top. The sky was black and to me that said more about the state of Ronnie’s mind than his obvious lack of artistic talent.

I wasn’t sure anybody would want to hang it on a wall in their home, but I was certain somebody would buy it just because ‘a Kray had painted it’. I was sitting in the garden one afternoon when the telephone rang. Debra answered it and then called out to me.

‘Bernie, there’s a man on the phone. He says his name is Reggie Kray and he wants to talk to you.’

‘Here we go,’ I said. ‘Some fucking unemployed fool I’ve met with nothing better to do than play jokes on people.’

I went in and picked up the receiver. The man on the other end of the line sounded elderly, weak and almost effeminate.

‘All right, Bernie? This is Reggie Kray.’

‘Oh yes, and what can I do for you, Reggie?’ I still thought someone was trying to wind me up so I was being sarcastic.

‘I’ve read the article you sent me about the boy James Fallon. My brother and I have sent you a painting, but we just wondered if we could do any more to help. We just wanted to offer our assistance.’

I have to admit that I was quite shocked when I realised it was in fact Reggie Kray who was on the phone.

I had always imagined him to be a powerful, menacing man who would speak with a deep intimidating tone. How wrong I was; he sounded just like Corporal Jones off the TV series Dad’s Army.

I told Reggie that I was organising a charity auction in Wolverhampton and that was going to be it, as far as I was concerned, so I didn’t really need any help.

‘Well, we just wanted you to know that we’re thinking about the boy and if we can help you, we will,’ said Reg.

We exchanged pleasantries and Reg said that he would keep in touch by letter to see how James was getting on. I put the phone down and thought no more about it.

The Krays had earned their infamous reputation from the way they had controlled the East End of London during the 1960s. They had beaten, stabbed, shot and even murdered rival gang members on their way to the top of the criminal heap, but were as well known for their charitable acts as their violent outbursts and many in the East End saw them as Robin Hood-type figures. I couldn’t see anything wrong with the Krays being associated with the Fallon cause. In fact I thought it could only have been a positive thing. They knew a lot of people and never failed to generate interest where the media was concerned. To raise money for James, I would have to give his plight as much exposure as possible and the name Kray would certainly help me achieve that. For now, I didn’t need anything other than the items they had so kindly donated, as they would be enough to give me the publicity I needed.

I booked the Connaught Hotel in Wolverhampton, which is one of the better hotels in the city. I also secured the services of a local band called The Sect, who agreed to play free of charge. A local DJ also agreed that he would provide his services for free. I was reasonably confident that the event was going to be a success.

Ticket sales, however, were non-existent. I could only put the lack of local support down to two factors.

Firstly, at that time, the mid- to late ’80s, there was a lot of anti-South African feeling in reaction to the apartheid laws. Trade sanctions had been imposed against the country by Britain and many other Western nations. It wasn’t politically correct for people to have anything to do with the country and, particularly, with white South Africans.

The main reason, I guessed, was that as young men growing up in the Wolverhampton area, my elder brothers and I had been nothing but trouble. We had all been imprisoned and convicted of numerous violent offences and people felt intimidated by us. I just don’t think that anybody wanted to be involved with anything we were doing, regardless of what or who we were doing it for.

My attitude was ‘Fuck them’ – I wasn’t going to let their petty mindset interfere with my efforts to help a child. As the event drew nearer, my elder brother Paul, who lived in Brixton, south London, my younger brother Michael, who still lived in Wolverhampton, and I decided to visit the pubs and clubs in the city in order to generate interest and sell tickets.

We were going from pub to pub, leaving tickets with landlords and asking customers to buy them, but they were all claiming to be short of money or ‘busy that night’. I hate fucking ponces and tight people.

Rightly or wrongly, their attitude didn’t put me in the best of moods. I was annoyed that so-called ‘decent people’ could hold petty prejudices and in a sad attempt to spite me, withhold a meagre £5 note from a 10-year-old paralysed boy who was fighting for his life.

As we continued touting the tickets, we came across what I can only describe as a group of drunken louts who were hanging about in the street. They were behaving like drugged-up monkeys, hurling wastepaper bins, screeching and throwing chips at one other.

As we walked by, somebody threw a chip that hit me on the back and one of them called me a ‘wanker’. I turned around and asked who had thrown the chip. Nobody said anything, so I asked who had called me a wanker. Again, nobody answered so I started to walk away with my brothers. I really wasn’t in the mood to be dealing with these people. Once more, the abuse started and one or two of them were mimicking me and laughing. They’d had their chance, so I walked up to who I thought was the culprit and punched him in the face.

He immediately lost his swaggering bravado and started whimpering, ‘Please don’t hit me, please don’t hit me. I haven’t done anything.’ One of his friends began to run to a nearby telephone box – so as to ring the police, I assumed. I didn’t relish the thought of being arrested for the likes of these people, so I ran over to try and stop him. Meanwhile the man I had hit, Stuart Darley, was getting brave again and shouting further obscenities, so I left his friend and walked back over to where he was standing. I hit him again to shut his drunken mouth. I know what some people might say – it’s violent, it’s wicked – but vulnerable people like my elderly mother have to walk those same streets and endure that sort of intimidating, loutish behaviour. The gang quickly dispersed. My brothers and I carried on with what we had set out to do.

The following day, my brother Paul and I returned to our homes in the south and Michael remained in Wolverhampton. Around midday I got a phone call from Michael, who said that the police had arrested him that morning and charged him with assault. They told Michael that they were also going to arrest Paul and me, so we should contact them at the earliest opportunity. It was typical: somebody starts something, comes unstuck and calls the police. No doubt it would have been a different story if the gang had kicked some old man around the streets after he had objected to being called names and having food thrown at him.

I wasn’t too concerned. In my mind, I had done no wrong and the police could wait. I wasn’t going to jump into my car and go to hand myself in; I would make myself available to them when it suited me.

The event for James was scheduled to take place later that week and everything seemed to be in place. The local newspaper advertised the event and I had even managed to get it a plug on the local radio station. The venue and the entertainment were booked and all the items I had to auction were in Wolverhampton, so my presence was not essential. If I did attend and the police arrested me, then it would have been embarrassing for James’s grandparents and everyone concerned, so I thought, for everyone’s sake, it would be best if I stayed away. I rang James’s grandmother and explained that I wouldn’t be able to attend the event because of ‘personal problems’. I didn’t tell her about the police because I didn’t want to concern her; I just said that everything was sorted and that all she needed to do was turn up. The night after the charity auction, Michael rang me and said that there was an article in The Express and Star about the event.

He warned me that it didn’t make pleasant reading:

CHARITY NIGHT FOR CRASH BOY A SHAMBLES

A charity evening in aid of a former Codsall boy who was horribly injured in a car crash raised barely £40 after only 20 people turned up.

The disco and auction at Wolverhampton’s Connaught Hotel last night was described as a shambles by the boy’s grandmother, Mrs Rita Nicholson.

Mrs Nicholson of Wilkes Road, Codsall, hoped to raise hundreds of pounds for equipment desperately needed for her 11-year-old grandson, James Fallon. He had a seven-hour operation after a road smash in South Africa last September. James, formerly of Wilkes Road, Codsall, is now back at home with his parents in Johannesburg, but they have been told he will never recover from his paralysis.

His grandparents aimed to buy him a computer he can work with his eyes so he can start to communicate with those around him again. Mrs Nicholson said: ‘I don’t know why people didn’t turn up last night but it was disappointing. The hotel has offered to let us have the room again some time in the autumn and we will be trying to organise another and more successful event.’

I was absolutely appalled by, and ashamed of, what had happened. I couldn’t understand how people could snub such a young boy who was suffering so much. I didn’t care what they thought about me, but it bothered me that people could turn their back on a boy like James.

A few days later, Reggie Kray wrote to me and asked me how the event had gone. I sent him the newspaper article and explained to him why I had not been able to attend. I told him that I wasn’t going to let it end there; I was determined to do something to help James. It felt personal now. I told Reg that if the offer he and his brother Ron had made earlier still stood, I wanted to take them up on it. When Reggie received the letter, he telephoned me and said that I shouldn’t worry about other people because he and his brother Ronnie would now assist me with my efforts to help James. One of the many aids James needed cost about £40,000 – a specialised computer that would be attached to James so that he could communicate with people by moving his eyes.

Reg said that he and Ron were going to try and raise the money to buy this computer. To show he was sincere, Reg sent me a letter pledging all proceeds from his book Slang to James. I had no idea how much this gesture was worth. I guessed it would be several thousand pounds so I was extremely happy when I rang to tell the Fallons the news. Good news for them had, after all, been rare of late. Reggie’s kind offer was reported in several national newspapers and it seemed his generosity knew no limits. The Sun reported that the book would make £80,000, and James’s mother was quoted as saying, ‘I don’t care what the Krays have done in the past, to us they are saints.’

Reggie, flattered by the positive publicity that he had received, started ringing me four or five times a day. He said that he knew a lot of people in London, including celebrities, who would help, so, by hook or by crook and using his contacts we could pull this off.

‘You will have to link up with a few of my people,’ Reg said. ‘I will give them your number and they will call you within the next few days.’

What should have been a straightforward fundraising event was turning into a bit of a roller-coaster ride. The police were looking for me, I had been snubbed by the people I grew up with and the event had been a shambles. I had surely endured all of the lows, but now, with the Krays on board, I felt I could achieve what I had set out to do.

My efforts to raise funds for James were now taking up most of my time. I didn’t think about it or realise until later, but my own family were beginning to suffer because I was working fewer hours and this had resulted in a dramatic fall in my income. My weakness is that I never do things by half – it’s all or nothing with me – and to be honest this has never caused me anything other than grief. The blinkers were on and I was determined to show the locals that their childish snub had not deterred me.

The first of ‘Reggie’s people’ to telephone me was a Scotsman named James Campbell, who lived in Chigwell, Essex. He introduced himself, as is common with people who knew the Krays, not with ‘My name’s James Campbell’, but with ‘My name’s James. I’m a friend of the Krays.’ Reggie, he said, had asked him to get in touch with me and I was to expect another call from a man named Peter Gillett. Campbell told me that Gillett had recently formed a PR company called Progress Management, which had been set up to sell Kray merchandise and campaign for the release of the twins. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘that will be great. I need as much help as I can get at the moment’.

‘Give us a couple of weeks while I look at a few possible events,’ Campbell said, ‘and then I will be back in touch with you.’

I felt better about the situation, to be honest. With other people now taking on some of the work I could dedicate more time to putting my own affairs in order and earn some much-needed money for my family.

About a week later I got a call from Peter Gillett, who introduced himself as Reggie Kray’s ‘adopted son’. Gillett had got to know Reggie whilst serving time for armed robbery in Parkhurst Prison. They soon became romantically linked after they had both been interviewed by the press.

Reg was quoted as saying: ‘Peter is the best friend I have ever had. He makes me feel young again.’

Gillett, however, was a little more forthcoming when he was asked about his feelings for Reg: ‘It’s an intimate relationship, but we aren’t bent. It’s like a homosexual affair without sex and I’m closer to Reg than I have ever been to anyone, even my wife.’

Gillett’s ambition was ‘to be a pop star’ so Reg used his contacts to promote him, but his singing career never did take off. Instead of stardom, he settled for forming Progress Management, which was nowhere near as lucrative or glamorous.

I asked Gillett what I could do for him and to my surprise he accused me of trying to con Reggie Kray out of several thousand pounds. I asked him what the fuck he was on about and who the fuck did he think he was talking to. Gillett claimed that he had done checks on the Fallon family. He said he had found out that Elaine Fallon lived in a huge house with servants and had a bottomless pit of money at her disposal. To cap it all, he claimed that the fundraising for James was a con made up by me to get money out of Reggie Kray.

I politely told him to fuck off and put the phone down. I was totally shocked by what I had heard as I knew the Fallon family were far from rich. I had lived on the same council estate as them and I knew they wouldn’t dream of using their son’s tragic accident to con money out of people. I was still shaking with fury when I sat down to write Reggie a letter. I asked him who the hell this Gillett was, phoning me up and accusing me and the Fallons of conning people.

‘If you and yours are going to give us all this shit,’ I told him, ‘then I can do without your money and your help.’

It caused quite a lot of bad feeling to say the least. I didn’t want to trouble the Fallons with Gillett’s allegations, but I felt I had to put them in the picture just in case he contacted them directly. I rang James’s grandmother and explained to her about the various allegations being made. She said that she was ‘really annoyed about this Peter Gillett. Elaine has a modest, three-bedroom, one-storey house. She has no servants whatsoever. They are in debt up to their eyes. They have had to borrow money for the equipment James needs.’ I told her not to worry about it – I had contacted Reggie and I would let her know what he had to say.

When Reggie received my letter, he rang me and explained that I should ignore Gillett as people intent on causing trouble had given him the wrong information. ‘He’s only looking out for me,’ Reg said. ‘Somebody told him all that knowing he would react and I might fall out with him over it.’

I wished I had stuck with my original decision to say ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to the Krays, but I thought that perhaps it was ‘all just a misunderstanding’, as Reg said.

Shortly after my introduction to Campbell and Gillett, I received a phone call from a lady who introduced herself as Kate Howard. Kate said she was Ronnie Kray’s fiancée and he had asked her to contact me. She said that Ronnie had heard about the shambles in Wolverhampton and wanted James’s mother’s address so he could send her a cheque for £500 to make amends. If I needed any more help with James, I was to speak to Kate and she would get things done if possible. I thanked Kate and told her I would keep her up to date with James and the efforts to raise funds for him.

Kate, a tubby bleached blonde, had only recently got to know the twins. She had written to Reggie in Gartree Prison after she had read a book about their lives. This was how most of their associates had got to know the Krays; few appeared to be true friends and most were more like members of some macabre fan club. Reg said that there was something in Kate’s letter that made him think that he could do business with her. What ‘business’ was beyond me. Kate, I learned, ran a chauffeur-driven car-hire company and, as a side line, a tacky ‘strip-o-gram’ service.

Reggie had put Gillett in touch with Kate in July 1988 and despite the fact Kate was married, she and Gillett quickly became lovers. Kate began talking to friends about how she was going to live with Gillett and Reggie in a country mansion once Reggie was released. Her plans were dashed, however, when one afternoon, whilst in bed with Gillett, she let it slip that her husband was dying of multiple sclerosis. Disgusted that Kate was sharing his bed whilst her husband was so ill, Gillett ordered her out of the house. A few days later he took her to Gartree Prison in an attempt to convince Reg that he shouldn’t have anything more to do with her. Gillett reckoned she was lacking in sensitivity and principles.

No doubt Gillett, himself married, would have considered it acceptable to sleep with another man’s wife if the husband was healthy.

Reg did not want to kick Kate into touch completely, as he was afraid she might go to the media with embarrassing letters that he had written to her. To keep all parties happy, but, more importantly, to keep Kate away from the press, Reggie palmed Kate over to Ronnie, his mentally ill, homosexual twin. Kate and Ronnie were hardly compatible, but within a year Kate was announcing her forthcoming marriage to him. I must admit I was surprised that a man like Ronnie, who was said to demand strong moral principles, would marry Kate, a woman who whipped businessmen for money whilst topless. Then again, the image the public and I had of the Kray firm was totally at odds with the people I was encountering. On Monday, 6 November 1989, Kate and Ronnie Kray married in Broadmoor Hospital. Ronnie was said to be extremely happy with his new wife; I guessed Kate was even happier with her new name.

Up until this point, I had only spoken to the Kray brothers on the telephone but the morning after his wedding, Ronnie telephoned and suggested that I should visit him. He said that if I brought a reporter along with me from James’s home town, he would give him an interview and appeal to people to send the Fallons donations. I accept Ron Kray was not the Archbishop of Canterbury and his heartfelt pleas wouldn’t tug many heart strings, but it would give James’s plight more exposure and hopefully get more people involved in helping him.

On 16 November 1989, I travelled to Broadmoor Hospital with a journalist from The Express and Star named Jon Griffin. I had known Jon for a few years, as he had been a court reporter in Wolverhampton for some time. Inevitably our paths had crossed as a result of my regular appearances there during my formative years.

Broadmoor Hospital is situated on the outskirts of the village of Crowthorne, near Bracknell in Berkshire. Crowthorne is a picturesque village with a tree-lined winding road leading up to the hospital. You think that you are entering the grounds of a stately home until you reach a clearing at the top of the hill. There you find a long, high, red-brick wall surrounding the hospital like a thick, protective scarf.

We parked the car and walked to a reception area that was bustling with waiting visitors.

‘Name please, sir,’ asked the hospital official.

‘O’Mahoney,’ I replied.

‘And which ward is that?’

I explained that I was O’Mahoney and that I wished to visit a patient.

‘Oh right,’ he said, ‘and who might that be?’

‘Kray,’ I replied, ‘Ronnie Kray.’

I could feel all of the people in the waiting-room looking at me. Even here in an institution renowned for holding some of Britain’s most notorious killers the very mention of the name Kray still prompted a reaction. I must admit it made me feel slightly apprehensive. Who was this man I was going to meet? A monster, it would seem, judging from the way the people in the waiting-room had turned to look when his name had been uttered. After a short wait, a hospital warder appeared with a clipboard and called out: ‘All visitors for Henley Ward please.’

Ronnie was on Henley Ward, so Jon and I approached the warder with about five others and gave our names, which were then ticked off a list on his board. We were allowed through a door, which was locked behind us.

Immediately in front of us was another door. We were effectively locked in a very small room. When the door in front of us was unlocked we stepped into another room and then the door behind us was locked. This procedure happened about four times until we emerged into a large courtyard, which we crossed, closely guarded by a hospital warder.

Broadmoor Hospital reminded me of my old secondary school. A big Victorian red-brick building with big arched windows.

There was no ‘buzz’ about the place, the atmosphere was subdued, controlled, intimidating almost. When we eventually reached the building on the other side of the courtyard, the door was unlocked and we entered a long corridor at the end of which came the sounds one might hear in a school dining-room. There were voices, people moving about, the clink of teacups, chairs being dragged and the odd raised voice giving instructions to others.

At the top of the corridor, I turned to my left and saw a large room where approximately 50 people were seated at tables. To my right was a canteen hatch where a man was serving teas and biscuits. We had, I realised, finally reached the visiting-room.