Doing the Business - The Final Confession of the Senior Kray Brother. Charles Kray
early in the contest, he had regained his strength sufficiently to knock out his opponent in three rounds. But, this time it was turning out differently. Maybe he was just a slow starter, but on this occasion he couldn’t catch Sliney. He tried relentlessly, but he couldn’t land a good, clean punch. After six gruelling rounds the referee announced Bill Sliney’s victory.
The decision against Ron was a slim one, made on points. It had been close, but Sliney had got the verdict. Disappointed but gracious in defeat, Ron slipped through the ropes and strode back along the red carpet, through the applause to the dressing room. He’d been unlucky this time.
Reg was on next against Bob Manito, a South Londoner from Clapham. Reg had psyched himself up; he was feeling confident. He remembered the time he had fought Ron in the finals of the London Schools’ competition. Then he had had to face Ron over three consecutive years. The first two years he had lost, but on the third occasion he had made up his mind not to lose. He had given himself a good talking-to. Nothing was going to stop him.
It worked — he won on a unanimous points decision. But there was hell to pay at home. Violet made them promise that they would never fight each other again. She’d been disappointed in them. The family must stay together, stand by each other, play together and stay together. No in-fighting. It was something that was bred into the roots of their lives and stayed with them for ever.
That night at the Albert Hall he was sure his mother would soon be more than proud of him. He’d see to that. And sure enough it worked like a dream. He beat Manito in each of the six rounds. He had won. Strength and will power, combined with careful attention to his trainer’s advice, had proved a heady and triumphant brew. It was strong stuff: the stuff that dreams are made of.
In the ring now, Charlie was not in good shape. He knew that if he were knocked down in the course of the fight, he should stay down. Lew Lazar was going to come up with a hard fight. Harder than his boxing bouts in the Royal Navy, harder than the knock-out tournaments when he would fight three times a night. There was nowhere tougher for him to be than in that arena at the Royal Albert Hall. It was now time for Charlie to face himself and what he wanted; there is no place to hide in a boxing ring.
It was as early as the second round that Charlie started to slide, to lose his grip on the match. He didn’t see a left hook to his stomach and promptly went down on his knees. The referee started counting as Charlie tried to get his breath back. It wasn’t easy. He looked across at his trainer who was motioning him to stay down for the count of ten. Charlie couldn’t do it. His pride made him get to his feet as the referee reached the count of eight.
‘Box on,’ came the command from the referee, and both boxers resumed their fight.
It was getting harder for Charlie Kray, but he had to go on. The end of the round was near, and he relaxed for a brief moment, just to regain a little composure.
This proved a mistake. Charlie’s guard had dropped, and Lew Lazar caught him again with another vicious left hook to the stomach, and the result was the same as before. Charlie sank to his knees, hardly able to breathe. He was gasping for air as the referee counted, ‘One, two, three …’
A quick look over to Berry, who was frantically signalling for him to stay down, was all he could manage as he fought within himself to regain the strength that had gone completely from his legs.
‘Four, five, six …,’ continued the referee, as he stared into Charlie’s eyes, looking for signs of recovery.
Charlie’s mind raced. Was this really the end of a good boxing career? Should he continue, or should he follow the instruction of his trainer? Questions, questions, questions filled his head. There were always questions to be answered.
‘Seven, eight …,’ said the referee.
The pain wasn’t so acute now, after a short rest. Maybe he could continue. His pride made him get up at the count of eight. But Charlie Kray was lucky. As he rose to his feet, the bell was sounded for the end of round two, and, even then, he only just managed to hobble back to his corner.
‘That’s enough, Charlie. You’ve done enough’ were the words that greeted him from his corner. ‘Don’t go on.’ Henry Berry was emphatic in his advice to his boxer. But Charlie chose to ignore him this time.
Could he make it? Could he survive? Could he win? There wasn’t time for Charlie to think. He was down on his knees again in the third round, and there were still three more rounds to go. Lazar had landed him yet another left hook to the body, and the referee was counting again: ‘One, two, three …’.
Getting up at the count of eight was becoming a habit, and Charlie dragged himself up by clutching at the ropes. The referee checked him over for a few moments, just to make sure that he was in a fit state to continue, and then he let the fight resume once again. Surely it couldn’t last much longer.
It was only halfway through the third round, and things weren’t looking at all good. All those fights over so many years had given Charlie the will power to continue, but by now even he knew the end was near. It was almost inevitable.
It was another left hook to the stomach that finally did the trick for Lew Lazar. He had made every punch count, and his left hooks to the body were executed with exact precision. Lazar’s timing was superb that evening. He really was a good boxer.
Charlie Kray collapsed to the floor as the crowd rose to their feet. Everyone was cheering; they had done so throughout the fight. They weren’t cheering for anyone in particular, as they appreciated the effort put in by both boxers.
‘One, two, three …,’ counted the referee, as Charlie looked across at Henry Berry.
The signals back were the same as before, and Charlie could almost hear his trainer’s words: ‘Don’t be a hero, Charlie.’
‘Four, five, six …,’ said the referee, peering into Charlie’s eyes.
It was time for Charlie to summon all his strength. He reached out for the ropes and grabbed at them. This time he was successful, but it just wasn’t enough.
‘Seven, eight, nine …,’ continued the referee, who realized that the inevitable was about to happen.
Charlie just couldn’t do it — he couldn’t stand up. His pride couldn’t help him. The bell couldn’t help him. No one could help him in this loneliest of places.
‘Ten and out,’ said the referee at long last. It was all over.
The crowd was applauding both fighters as the referee counted Charlie Kray out. Charlie just stayed on his knees for a while, looking fixedly at the floor of the boxing ring. This was it. His final fight, and he had lost. But, he had done so to a good fighter and a possible champion, and there was no disgrace in being beaten by a better man.
Back in his corner, Charlie felt better. Henry Berry consoled his boxer, confirming that he had expected him to lose, given his lack of fitness. It had been a fair fight. And now it was over. Lew Lazar had deserved to win.
Charlie walked back along the red carpet to deafening applause from the crowd, who always gave a good loser a warm send-off. He thought to himself how thankful he was to have been the last of the brothers to box that night — so neither Ron nor Reg had seen him beaten.
Charlie entered the dressing room with Henry Berry and sat down immediately to have his gloves removed. He still had his blue satin dressing gown around his shoulders. He was feeling much better as the twins came over to offer him their condolences. Ron said not to worry; it was only a fight. Reg told him that he had done his best, though he really should have trained more.
Slowly Charlie regained his composure, something he had sought to do that night in the ring. By the time Jack Jordan came into the dressing room to hand the men their pay for the evening’s entertainment, all three brothers were laughing and joking among themselves.
For Charlie, Jack Jordan had made an alteration to the normal rules of professional boxing. He didn’t take his percentage from Charlie’s pay