Doing the Business - The Final Confession of the Senior Kray Brother. Charles Kray
that had pride of place on the mantelpiece at home in Vallance Road. His success and enthusiasm were enjoyed and envied in equal turn by his younger brothers. They wanted to join in; they wanted to fight their way to the top too. Ever mindful of his by now high standing in the East End community, old man Charlie was eager to help any way he could. The gymnasium upstairs was improved, and the boys trained day and night.
Charlie had been encouraging his kid brothers to spar with him from when they were so small that they had to stand on a chair to reach the punch bag. Six years younger than Charlie, they made up for in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience, and with regular workouts in the homemade gym they became fighting fit. With its speedball, punchbag, weights and skipping ropes, it was the place to be. There was a steady stream of aspiring young fighters going in and out of Vallance Road all the time. Young Charlie would organize competitions for the youngsters, and the twins had already decided to form their own boxing club, operational from the back upstairs bedroom.
In spite of her fears for the well-being of her boys, Violet Kray found herself enjoying these training sessions. She was pleased to have young men around who were appreciative of how she kept things in order and looked after their kit. She liked the involvement and attention.
When after a year of training like this, they moved on to the Robert Browning Institute in Walworth, South London, Violet was sorry to see them go, but they knew they could rely on her support. The twins had been agitating to join a real club, and once there they didn’t have to work too hard at catching the eye of the trainers who were to be their key to stardom.
‘How old are they?’ asked one trainer. He was hanging out at the Institute, surveying potential talent.
‘Ten,’ replied Charlie. ‘And they have never boxed.’
The trainer’s jaw dropped. ‘They are amazing,’ he said. ‘We’ll sign them up.’
Around this time, the Kray twins, aged ten, boxed their first public match together in East London — at a funfair boxing booth in Victoria Park. This later became a rare occurrence, and, once they reached their twenties and operated in business together, the twins never, ever fought. Like most brothers, they argued a lot, but nothing would happen. Although the atmosphere would get so thick and heated sometimes you felt sure there’d be all hell let loose.
The boxing booth that day took all comers, and when nobody proved willing to spar with a particularly beefy fighter, Ron Kray chanced his arm. He was quite keen to earn the prize money, but it was his notorious bravado that took the upper hand.
‘I’ll take him on,’ he shouted.
Taking one look at the size of him, the manager of the booth just laughed. He thought it was a good joke, as did the gathering crowd, who hooted and catcalled. It wasn’t possible for Ron to fight the big man. No, it wasn’t on. There was no one small enough for him to fight with.
The anti-climax became too much for Reg Kray. Without a second thought, pointing at Ron, he yelled above the roar of the crowd: ‘I’ll fight him.’
There was silence for a moment. It was obvious that the boys were brothers and evenly matched. If they were both willing, then why should anyone want to stop them? The twins climbed into the ring and prepared themselves for the fight. Although they had sparred together many times before, this time it was the real thing.
They proved to be great entertainment for the crowd, both determined to win and hitting each other furiously. Finally the booth manager called it off. The match, he decreed, had ended in a draw, and he paid the boys a few shillings for their efforts.
But, for Ron and Reg it had more significance. They had enjoyed themselves, the boxing, for sure, but more so being the centre of attention. The applause was more than gratifying, it was the way forward. Through boxing, they could get what they wanted. The roar of approval from the crowd was for them; they were in charge, calling the shots.
In time, Reg became a good boxer, quietly confident. Nothing ever seemed to shake him, and he had a confidence in himself that was strong. He could be relaxed and easy going and he never appeared to get tense or edgy before a big fight. He’d shadow box with himself as he jogged up and down the street or on the spot. He’d train hard. He didn’t like losing, and he was sure that he wouldn’t.
Ron also boxed well and was as fearless in the ring as he was proving to be outside it. His nerves always showed, though, as the match drew near. He tried to take everything in his stride and accept his life without argument, but it wasn’t that simple. The prospect of losing face — anywhere, anyhow — spurred him on to success. And there was the family name to consider. He had to win. But the fear of failure never left him.
The Krays were driven to the Albert Hall on the night of 11 December 1951 in Jack Jordan’s Riley. Jack had been their manager for years. He’d got the Kray party good seats at the Albert Hall, all the family and friends who wouldn’t want to miss the fights. All that is except Violet; she was staying in that evening. The sight of someone hitting one of her boys was just too much for her.
The car pulled up at a side entrance in Exhibition Road, South Kensington. They all piled out, rushing off in different directions — old man Charlie to find his seat, and Ron, Reg and Charlie to the changing rooms.
Ron was on first. Followed by Reg and then Charlie. No sooner were his hands bandaged than the whip knocked on the door: ‘Ron Kray, you’re on.’
Ron left the dressing room with Jack Jordan; Reg and Charlie were close behind. The roar of the crowd was deafening as Ron walked out into the spotlight, along the red carpet to the ring. The atmosphere was electric. As Reg and Charlie watched backstage, they were aware of Ron’s apparent indifference to his opponent, Bill Sliney. He, Ron, was giving all his attention to Henry Berry who was drilling him one last time.
It was roasting hot in the Albert Hall, and the buzz from the crowd was deafening. It was getting smoky, as though a fine mist were falling in the hall. In the arena, Ron was beginning to sweat; it was running steadily down the sides of his face.
‘And, now,’ the master of ceremonies bellowed over the speaker system, ‘on my right, Bill Sliney from King’s Cross and on my left, Ron Kray from Bethnal Green.’ The referee called the two men into the centre of the ring.
He briefed them, ‘We want a nice, clean fight. No butting or holding and no punching low. Go to it. Have a good fight.’ Back in their opposite corners, the boxers waited. They were alone in the boxing ring. Some say it’s the loneliest place in the world.
‘Seconds out,’ the time keeper shouted.
Now it was all down to Ron. The fight started well, and Ron soon had Bill Sliney down for a count of eight. It looked as if it was going to go Ron’s way, he was really on top. Although Bill Sliney was putting up a courageous defence, Ron was definitely ahead. Don’t count your chickens though! Always keep in mind that the fight’s not over until you’ve won — or lost.
It was a nasty blow to Ron’s eye from an accidental clash of heads that turned the fight round in Bill Sliney’s favour. When it happened, the crowd went quiet. No one stirred in the Albert Hall. The referee inspected the damage, and even as he did so Ron’s left eye was closing fast — but not enough to call off the match. Ron was forced to fight on with the use of only one eye.
In the second round, Sliney used Ron’s injury to his advantage, circling Ron anti-clockwise, making sure to keep to his blind side and at arm’s length.
‘Jab, jab, jab,’ came the cries from Sliney’s corner.
Ron Kray only knew one way to fight and that was to go forward, keep going, with aggression. His pride and courage would not let him give up — even though half the time he couldn’t even see his opponent.
He had fought hard fights in the past, such as one time at Lime Grove Baths in West London, when he had been caught by a right hand and took a count of eight. Everyone saw it, except Ron. He came round just in time to see the match through to a win in three rounds. It was sheer guts and will power that