The Guv'nor (30 page)

Charlie Kray showed up with his wife, because he knew what I was going through. I have bundles of respect for him because he's suffered. He lost everything when he got a ten just for trying to look after his brothers, but after that he climbed his way back up and became a successful businessman. Now he's gone all the way back down after being lifted for being involved in some drugs deal. The man's nearly 70 for Christ sake. He should be in his slippers by the fire, not banged up in some piss-hole prison. Just remember, don't believe all you read in the papers and a guilty verdict doesn't always mean that the man isn't innocent. Charlie is 100 percent a gentleman. He was there for me and he knows I'm there for him, any time he needs me.

So, all that support from outside was a comfort, but it didn't get me out. I still had to go on day by day towards whatever was on the cards.

There's good and bad everywhere. Some of the other cons were so bad they should have been put down, but then many of them were diamonds whom I'm still friends with today. The same went for the screws. One of them who was always fair was a bloke by the name of Gary Taylor. One time, I couldn't believe I was actually cheering on a screw when I watched him on the telly winning
The World's Strongest Man
competition.

I saw him in Wandsworth and I gave him a tug.

‘Oi, Gary, has my pal outside had a word with you about slipping me in a few ounces of tobacco?' I knew they were mates because my pal's in the bodybuilding game as well. In fact, he was ‘Mr Universe' at one time.

‘Yes, Len,' he said. ‘He's asked me to do you a favour, but I'll tell you what I told him. Can't be done. When I took on this job I promised myself I'd keep straight, then everybody knows where they stand. You lot do your time and I'll do my job – no hard feelings.'

How could I knock that? I respect anybody who's got principles. It didn't mean I wouldn't try to bend one of the bastards who didn't have any.

The next one I tried was a right arrogant git. The first time I saw him he was just giving this skinny kid a belt round the head for not moving sharp enough. He clocked me watching him and went, ‘Fucking nuisances, these kids. I want to get home.'

Another time, I might have belted him for taking liberties, but I thought, ‘No, I'll get my hooks into him.' I said, ‘You're a big fella, do you use the weights?'

He breathed in and pumped up like a fucking turkey. ‘Yeah, I do, and I'm benching 295 pounds at the moment.' Cocky twat.

‘Not bad,' I said. ‘I'm doing 500 pounds … how does that grab you?' He didn't say nothing, just walked off like he was sucking Tunes up his arse.

When I saw him the next day, I told him I was only kidding. I wasn't, but I wanted to sweeten him up. After a bit, he was moaning about the piss-poor wages, and I thought, ‘Hello, you're trying to hook me first. So I said, ‘Why don't you get yourself a bit of extras? What I'm saying is between you and me, and if you go to the Governor I'll deny every word.'

He said, ‘Go on, I'm listening.'

‘What I'll do is get you £100 a week. You get me a load of tobacco and cream off thirty for yourself'.

He agreed, so I set up a meet between him and Val in the same burger bar where she passed over the mobile phone to the doctor.

She met him on the Friday and on the Saturday he slipped me a package with the smoke. I said, ‘Lovely, ta very much,' then when I opened up there was only about 30 quid's worth of tobacco in all. When he come back down the landing, I shot out and collared him. ‘Oy, you greedy c**t, where's the rest of my tobacco?'

He said, ‘I can't risk my job for anything less. If you can find anybody else to do it for you, the best of luck. Otherwise, that's my cut.'

Robbing bastard! I didn't have any choice, so I wiped my mouth and Val carried on dipping out 100 notes every Friday until my trial.

The authorities think that Wandsworth is their flagship, the best and toughest nick all round. What are they going to think about their screws being as bent as arseholes? I won't name that screw because he's still working there. I wouldn't like to get him into trouble!

A lot of the younger kids used to be in and out of my cell all the time. This was because they liked being around ‘Big Lenny'; it made them feel that some of my reputation would rub off. I took a shine to one
particular kid because he was a live wire and always laughing or up to something.

This Shibberton and a black pal of his were in my cell and they were sitting on my bed having a smoke. I never touched drugs, not even grass, which I don't think does a lot of harm anyway. In fact, from what I've seen it keeps those that smoke it nice and calm and placid. I thought these kids were on Old Holborn but it turned out they were puffing at the waccy baccy. All of a sudden, security walked in and they slung their half-smoked fags under my bed and disappeared double quick. Security was straight on those dog-ends, gave me a look, then they were out the door. Back came Shibberton, looking a bit wary.

‘Did they find our smokes, Len?'

I said, ‘Too right they did, and right under my bed. Now they're off to the PO and down to you I'm going to lose some time, and I've not even been sentenced yet.'

He said, ‘Sorry. I'm really sorry. I wasn't thinking, but I'll tell them it was mine.'

I said, ‘You say nothing and I'll say nothing, but afterwards I'm going to belt your ear'oles. What a stupid thing to do.' Right enough, two hours later I was pulled into the PO's office. He had these fags on his desk and he was flicking them with a pen.

‘Guv'nor,' I said, ‘before you say anything, let me mark your card. I'm a fighter and I look after my body. I don't need that sort of shit inside me, and if I did I wouldn't be smoking it two at a time. But don't ask me whose they are, because I'm not a grass, even if you charge me.'

While I told him this, his po-face became a grin, then he said, ‘Quite a speech, McLean. I'm already aware that this material is not yours, so there won't be a charge. And as we can't be sure who actually was smoking this drug, I'm prepared to let it go this time. But pass on the message that I will crack down in future.' Fucking hell, that was a result. I saw the funny side of it afterwards, so Shibberton didn't get a belt, but he came very close.

Life wasn't all bad news, though, and after I did a little favour for a screw I got a favour myself that's never been equalled by anyone in Wandsworth. This screw had been in the game for about 20 years, and all the cons reckoned he was a very fair man. So when he started speaking to me, I didn't mug him off like I might have.

‘You're a fighter, aren't you, McLean?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘If I have to, I'll fight every screw in this place.'

He said, ‘No, what I want to say is I'm going to Crystal Palace tonight to see a boxing exhibition. If you like I'll bring you back a programme. You might find it interesting to see who is on the bill.'

I said, ‘You've been fair, so I'm told, so what I'll do is give you a phone number. Ring it now and you'll get through to Alex Steen. It's his show you're going to tonight, so tell him who you are, mention Lenny McLean, and he'll treat you right.'

Next morning this screw's bubbling over. Alex had got him seats ringside, laid on drinks for him and his wife, and given them a lovely meal afterwards. He was over the moon. I told you he was fair, so he wanted to return the compliment. I didn't know anything about this, but he'd got his head together with Alex and they'd cooked something up.

I was downstairs in the kitchens one afternoon when a screw came down and said, ‘Back to your cell, McLean,' and before I could tell him to fuck off he winked at me. Up I went, opened the door, and there was Alex Steen and Bruce Wells – ex-boxer, twice Golden Gloves Champion – sitting on my bed laughing their heads off. I was knocked out, absolutely gob-smacked.

I gave them both a kiss and a hug and just sat there looking at them. Alex got out a bottle of wine and Bruce slipped six ounces of Holborn and 40 Bensons behind my cupboard. What a pair. Every now and then a different screw would stick his head round the door, look in, and go off shaking his head without saying a word. My screw's got them all under his wing, so they don't go running to the PO.

For an hour they sat in my cell and it was great. We talked and talked and it was just like old times. At five o'clock this screw came up, made sure the coast was clear, then slipped them both out the side door, and none of the bosses had a fucking clue.

Alex, being the man he is, offered to bring in some boxers to entertain the cons. He went through the channels and the Governor jumped at the idea. So that's what he did, and it was a brilliant exhibition. Afterwards, the boxers answered questions and signed autographs and it went down a bomb. Alex got a nice letter from the Governor thanking him and his team for their efforts, and even today you can see it hanging on the wall among the photographs of friends of his, such as Muhammad Ali, Henry Cooper, Bruno, Diana Dors, and hundreds of others. I see it every time I pop into Alex's office and it takes me right back to that day in my cell.

On one of Val's visits, I said to her, ‘You heard anything from Ray Perry lately?'

She said, ‘I told you, Len, I haven't had a penny from him since the day you were nicked. He called round the day after and when I said that you'd been arrested he put the money he had in his hand back in his pocket.'

‘Lovely, fucking lovely.'

This bloke came to see me in desperate trouble looking for ten grand. I used to do a bit of money lending if I was sure of the person, and, as I knew him – no problem. He cleared up his trouble and he was giving me good dough every week, on the nail. Then he got nicked on a fraud and got 18 months. OK, Lenny's not one of those fellas who breaks legs when a payment's a week late. In fact, Val says I'm too fucking soft, but I think fair is a better way of looking at it.

I bent over backwards to help him. When he said he was worried about paying me back, I told him to forget it until he was out. On top of that, I gave his missus mortgage money and put my hand in my pocket to square up her bills. If I was in the same boat, I'd like to think my pals were looking out for me. That was before my own nicking, when I was to find out that my pals would stand by me. Apart from money, I helped get him an early move to Ford Open Prison. Usually, there's a three-month waiting list, but as I had some people straightened at the nick he was in, they managed to cut that time in half. So all he had to worry about was doing his time.

He came home and I gave him a few quid to get him on his feet and in no time he was back in business and starting to square me up again. He got his debt to me down to about five grand, then I was lifted on the murder. Everybody knew about it because it was all over the papers. Did he phone up or call round to offer a bit of help? No, he fucking didn't. That slag took it on his toes praying for me to get lifed off and, as Val said, never paid another penny. If you read this, Mr Perry, call round and see Lenny.

So I had already got the hump when I was told to report to the PO's office. I wasn't brooding over the money. I'd give it to the bloke if he was in the shit, but I was gutted that he felt obliged to stitch me up after what I'd done for him.

The PO was smiling like he had my release papers on his desk. Some hope. ‘Good news, McLean, they've set your trial date. Two weeks from today. Get your things together for a move to Brixton in the morning.'

Twelve months I've rotted inside, and now the time has come to
face the possibility of another 24 years. My stomach turned over and I walked out without saying a word.

As I went back to my cell to get my head together, I bumped into a con and he was reading the paper and laughing. ‘Seen this, Len? So much for big gangsters. That Ronnie Knight's just had the bollocks beaten out of him in Fuengerola.'

I nearly belted this mug there and then. ‘So you think it's funny that a bloke in his fifties gets a belting, do you, you c**t?'

‘Well,' he said, ‘these blokes think they're so tough.'

Right at that moment the PO was doing his rounds so I walked off, but I hadn't finished with him. Instead of going into my own cell, I slipped into his before he got back. I hid behind the door and as he walked in I belted him straight in the chin and caught him before he hit the deck. He was spark out, so I laid him on the bed and pulled the covers over him. His cellmate came in and I said, ‘Open your mouth and you're next. Your muggy mate's taken the piss out of a pal of mine, and he's lucky he only got the one belt.'

The next morning I saw the con slopping out and his face was like a balloon. He walked past but he kept his eyes on the floor – he wouldn't look at me, and his mate was laughing. As he got closer, he said to me, ‘Len, he didn't wake up until four this morning.' To give him his due, he never screamed, but I think he was well pleased to see me shipped off to Brixton later on.

It seems a lifetime since I first came through the gates of Brixton, and in many ways it was. In the last 12 months I've thought and thought more than I have ever done in my whole life. Can you imagine being on a murder charge, and I mean charge, not sentence, and you know you haven't committed the crime? You live and breathe it every second of the day. As you wake up in the morning, for one tiny second it's not there, but count to two and your head's filled. Murder-life-murder-life, and that goes on and on until you fall asleep, and even then it doesn't stop. It's terrible.

It's not the prison, it's the fucking charge. Three hours' sleep every night because your brain won't switch off and when it does, the dreams come. And then it's like being smothered or drowned. Everything presses down on you until you wake up. You can't breathe and one second later, murder-life-murder-life.