Roy Shaw Unleashed - He's a one man killing machine. This is his story by those who know him best. Roy Shaw
That gave me the rush of adrenalin through my whole body. They had their dads and mine had been taken away. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to kill them. It was a strength I didn’t know I had. A powerful feeling like nothing else on earth. All my anger and grief came out in those punches. I didn’t feel any pain myself.’
‘Were you getting hurt?’
Roy shrugged. ‘I suppose I was. It didn’t mean anything to me. It never does when I fight. It’s as though I don’t feel anything. What happens to me doesn’t matter – the only thing is to beat the other guy, to knock him down, finish him. I have to win.’
‘The eye of the tiger?’
‘The same. I’ve always looked on it as a gift from God. I smashed those kids good and proper. They never came near me again. And that’s when I realised that something can come out of even the worst pain. I was never going to be frightened of anybody or anything again.’
As I listened to Roy talking about his childhood, I thought that even his voice has an intensity about it. I had to lighten the mood – we were going into a room full of hyped-up boxers – one false move and it would be a row to end all rows.
We made it to the East End of London and eased our way through the traffic on the double-parked streets. It wasn’t so far now. Roy began chatting about his property investments. He is a real charmer and great company. I learned about the houses he’d done up, his fabulous holidays, the cruises to the Caribbean and Far East. Roy is making up for lost time.
There was only one subject we didn’t talk about – women.
I already knew that he had lots of girlfriends. This is a man who likes to party. So, I had to ask. ‘Is there a lady in your life now?’
Roy shook his head.
‘Come on. You’ve made it, you’ve got a fabulous house, a successful business, you’ve no money worries.’
‘That’s right, Katie.’
‘So why do you live on your own?’ I thought about him coming home to that big empty house.
‘Being rich is terrific. I’ve done skint – I don’t ever want to go there again.’
That wasn’t quite what I was asking. ‘There’s no one to cook you a meal when you get in?’
Roy grinned. ‘There’s no hassle – I can please myself.’
‘There isn’t anyone special then?’
Roy was thoughtful for a moment or two. ‘There was someone once … who was very special.’
‘Who was she?’
‘A girl called Dorothy.’ He kept his eyes fixed on the road, maybe so I couldn’t see his expression.
‘And did you love her?’
‘She was the love of my life,’ he told me simply.
I’d touched a nerve. There was a silence. I somehow knew that for the time being I mustn’t go any further. This was yet another loose piece of the puzzle about this man who has more hidden depths than the Bering Straits. We were nearly there. I let it go. But I was going to ask him about Dorothy again, when the time was right. Who was she? And why had she had such a big impact on Roy? What had gone wrong?
We drove along Upton Park Road. The Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Jaguars and Mercs were bumper to bumper. Damn. There was nowhere to park. We circled the pub a couple of times and eventually found a space opposite. Standing outside the pub was a bald-headed doorman, who looked a bit fierce and growling until he saw it was Roy, then he stopped immediately.
Roy pushed the swing doors open and we went inside.
I followed, feeling a bit apprehensive. What was I getting myself into? Britain’s most violent gangster, a warrior with the tolerance level of a cornered rattlesnake and the last King of the Unlicensed Ring was about to socialise with the blokes on the other side of the fence – the legit licensed boxers. My heart was going thud, thud, thud – now I knew what it felt like going into the ring – ‘Seconds out …’!
IT WAS A PROPER EAST END PUB, NO FRILLS OR FANCIES OR WINE BAR PRETENSIONS – THERE WEREN’T EVEN CARPETS OR DECENT CURTAINS, JUST CURLING CIGAR SMOKE AND AN ATMOSPHERE YOU COULD CUT WITH A KNIFE. The place was packed, buzzing with noise and wall-to-wall with blokes past their prime, pot-bellied and flat-nosed pug-ugly. These guys were talking fast, huddled in groups, leaning on the bar and pressed up against the walls. They were drinking beer, bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving as they re-enacted their last fight, or the one before – even the boxing they’d seen on Sky the previous evening – ‘If only … ya should ’a’ seen it … he came at me with a right hook … he went down for eight … it oughta have been …’
These blokes don’t have blood in their veins – it’s testosterone!
My partner, Leo, is a boxer himself; even so, I felt a bit uncomfortable being there. These past-their-prime pugilists were still trying to win their fights – but now it was verbal sparring – each one of them was trying to outdo the other. It was all egos – World Champions, British Champions, Gold Medal Winners, Middleweight, Heavyweight – they were all there, the best of British Boxing – and the could-have-beens, the might-have-dones, all the boxing world’s movers, shakers, fixers and hangers-on. They were all trying it on.
Living in the past most of them. I found it quite sad that these tough men were still reliving their fights, their glory days, their hard-luck stories – the fights they’d won and the fights they’d lost. They were still matching themselves with boxers they wished they’d fought … or wished they hadn’t.
I noticed that, as they were talking, their eyes were constantly darting round the room. There was an element of tension; I sensed they were waiting for something; an unspoken question was hanging in the air. The Pearly King and Queen were standing in the far corner – we were in for a knees-up and a rendition of ‘Roll out the Barrel’ and ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’. Was it to do with them? But why? I knew they were popular but these guys were on pins. I studied the crowd.
It took me a few minutes to figure it out. No, it wasn’t the buttons they were looking at – it was the table next to them, it was loaded down with food. All eyes were focused on the lavish finger buffet – sandwiches, vol-au-vents, lots of plates covered in Bacofoil and underneath it were lots of goodies – cocktail sausages, ham, cheese and pineapple on little sticks and, best of all, spicy chicken wings. Mmmm.
The same question was on everyone’s mind: when are we going to eat? But they’d have to wait, there were speeches first.
Roy was in no mood for socialising. He’d been out the night before and wanted to get this done and dusted. He pushed his way to the bar and ordered three glasses of sparkling water with lime juice and lots of ice and lemon. ‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘Who do you want to interview first?’
As we sipped our drinks, a buzz went round the pub – ‘Roy’s in.’ Within minutes, there was a seemingly endless stream of wide-shouldered blokes with noses as wide as double wardrobes, all coming up to shake hands and say hello.
Roy spoke to each one of them warmly and sincerely. ‘Nice to see you, my old mate …’ and ‘How are you doing, son?’
But he kept turning to me, his face blank. ‘Who the hell was that?’ All these people seemed to know him like a blood brother, but he didn’t have a clue who most