Synopis
John Farrell Is Utrinque Paratus - Ready for Anything
by T.D. McKinnon
Action/Thriller
What is the picture you have of yourself? Everyone has an image of themselves; some keep that picture very private but everyone has one. Can you imagine any circumstance in which you might kill? And if you could, would that necessarily make you a bad person?
This is a story of tragedy, friendship, loyalty and enduring devotion; devastating treachery, betrayal, and murder most foul. Propelled by circumstance, John Farrell has to be 'ready for anything'(Utrinque Paratus) as he is taken on a rollercoaster journey from his coalmining community origins in County Durham to Aldershot, the home of the British army, and to war torn Belfast; from London to the poverty ridden streets of Mexico City; from inside the infamous Wormwood Scrubs, to the South of France, to Glasgow, the Scottish Highlands, Berlin and Bangkok. Along the way, influenced by the evil men do, inadvertently it seems, John kills: in desperation, in fear, in anger, in ignorance accidentally. Does that make John Farrell a bad person? You decide! Orphan, boxer, soldier, convict, writer, fighter, loyal friend, protector, loving family man and killer. Killing is something not only evil men do.
This is the story of one man's love for his family and the lengths he is prepared to go to safeguard that family. It is about hope, courage and human endurance in the face of adversity. Readers who enjoy a good thriller will love this compelling, character driven, gritty tale, and be able to relate to and empathise with its thoroughly believable if, by necessity, sometimes violent hero.
CLICK ON ANY ICON TO BUY YOUR BOOK!
This is a story of tragedy, friendship, loyalty and enduring devotion; devastating treachery, betrayal, and murder most foul. Propelled by circumstance, John Farrell has to be 'ready for anything'(Utrinque Paratus) as he is taken on a rollercoaster journey from his coalmining community origins in County Durham to Aldershot, the home of the British army, and to war torn Belfast; from London to the poverty ridden streets of Mexico City; from inside the infamous Wormwood Scrubs, to the South of France, to Glasgow, the Scottish Highlands, Berlin and Bangkok. Along the way, influenced by the evil men do, inadvertently it seems, John kills: in desperation, in fear, in anger, in ignorance accidentally. Does that make John Farrell a bad person? You decide! Orphan, boxer, soldier, convict, writer, fighter, loyal friend, protector, loving family man and killer. Killing is something not only evil men do.
This is the story of one man's love for his family and the lengths he is prepared to go to safeguard that family. It is about hope, courage and human endurance in the face of adversity. Readers who enjoy a good thriller will love this compelling, character driven, gritty tale, and be able to relate to and empathise with its thoroughly believable if, by necessity, sometimes violent hero.
CLICK ON ANY ICON TO BUY YOUR BOOK!
Sample Chapters
John Farrell Is UTRINQUE PARATUS - Ready for Anything
by T.D. McKinon
Action/Thriller
Chapter 1: IN THE SHADOW OF GUILT
On the roof top of the thirty-story office block opposite, and four floors above Craven’s penthouse, I'm in full sniper mode and ready for the task at hand. It's been ten hours since I arrived in the early hours of the morning and set up my hide.
As Craven’s Silver Ghost pulls up at the curb opposite, I snuggle the stock of the Remington against my cheek and focus my scope sight on the action taking place in and around the car; it's like a well oiled machine. The front passenger side door and the rear off-side doors open almost before the Rolls stops; two sharp looking characters in plain, dark suits step quickly, simultaneously, out of the vehicle and two others quickly follow from the other doors. They're scanning 360º, each with their own arc of view, traversing vertically and horizontally. Something attracts the driver's attention and he looks straight up. Pulling the rifle back under cover, I suspect he may have seen the reflected glare from my scope.
Craven has employed a professional 'Close Personal Protection team'. Spotting Craven's head coming clear of the car I quickly level my rifle again.
“Had it been twenty years ago I would have had him as they hustled him into the building…” I say indignantly. “As it was, I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t hit one of the CPP team… I didn’t take the chance.”
“Shit!… He must have picked them up in the States; or I would have had some wind of it,” comments Bobby.
“Yeh… that’s what I thought. I watched them moving through the penthouse, searching every nook and cranny, until they'd swept it clean; then they closed all the blinds and curtains prior to, I’m supposing, ushering Craven into the flat.”
“Well, there wouldn’t be any point in hanging around after that. While that team is on the job the odds of getting to Craven are pretty slim.”
“My thoughts entirely… that’s when I got the hell out of there.” Falling into silent contemplation, I sip my favourite single malt. It seems, for the moment, that Craven is out of my reach.
“I wonder…" says Bobby, coming out of his introspection, "if I can find out who these guys are?” and he goes into the next room to make some phone calls.
I'm still sipping the same glass of malt, staring into the pale gold liquid, when he returns half an hour later. “Definitely not domestic,” he says. “I should know the details in an hour or so.” We return to our meditations with another glass.
It’s an hour to the minute when the phone rings and Bobby goes to answer it. Five minutes later, smiling from ear to ear, he comes back in and tops up our glasses before sitting down; letting out a relieved sigh, he said, “They’re a mob working out of New York: ‘Protect International’. The team currently looking after Craven is a tight group of buddies; former ‘Navy Seals’. They're supposed to be here for another five days, when they're relieved by another team flying in from New York. But, guess what? Surprise, surprise… our Mr Victor Craven hasn’t been entirely honest… and I've just provided a more accurate picture.” Smiling, taking another sip of scotch, he gives another sigh. “Now, we just wait for it to hit the fan.”
Craven had billed himself as a legitimate businessman fallen foul of a rival business, who had then put a contract on him. Bobby put the story to rights; specifically, that Craven was in fact an underworld figure hiding behind some legitimate business fronts. Furthermore, he was in danger, not from a hit-man, but from a former British Airborne Forces veteran, whom, along with his son, Craven had put a contract out on because the vet’s son refused to help him in a drug-related crime. Bobby also gave details of how, after I paid him a visit the first time, Craven killed two of his own bodyguards just to set me up on a murder charge. We don't have to wait long.
The following morning, at around 8:30am, I watch the CPP team leave in a taxi. No replacement team arrives. There's no visible movement in the penthouse, not a curtain stirs. At around 10:00am, five heavies pull up in a Jaguar; I recognise two of them from the country property. It looks like Bobby has influence in areas Craven can’t touch. Now, with only his thugs again, I wonder what his next move will be.
Two days later he still hasn’t moved, or opened the blinds. Deciding to stir the porridge a little I fire fifteen silenced rounds, five into each window, and then get out of there, leaving Bobby nearby in a café to observe the reaction. The police arrive in droves, along of course with the armed response group. They check out the whole street, including the café Bobby's sitting in.
It's a couple of hours before the majority of them vacate the street, leaving one of the undercover cars. An hour after that, when the last of the daylight has faded, Bobby spots Craven among a group of undercover cops moving quickly to their car. He tails them through the busy, London traffic to a place in St Johns Wood.
Assuming they've taken Craven to a safe-house – which will give me a couple of days before they move him to another location – I act quickly. Big mistake!
“Drop your weapon, now!” the order comes clearly over the loud hailer, and I freeze. “Lie face down, spread eagle, on the floor… Now!”
Setting himself up as bait; Victor Craven, if nothing else, is a man of considerable internal fortitude. At 3:00am in the morning as I enter the building through a ground floor widow I'm suddenly illuminated, at centre stage so to speak. I comply with their every order, there's no point doing anything else, and all things considered they aren't too rough with me. Watching and listening, I try to assess whether there is an honest policeman there: not in the pay of craven; however, it's made pretty obvious there's no way I'm getting an opportunity to speak to anyone unattended. Taken immediately to Scotland Yard, I am questioned extensively by several detectives over a five-hour period, during which time they try several different methods of interrogation. I of course tell them nothing, and maintain my request for a lawyer before answering their questions. Eventually, they lock me up in a cell and I manage to sleep for a couple of hours. After waking me, a different set of detectives begin the whole interrogation process again.
I'm eventually charged with two counts of ‘break and enter’ – no mention of the country property – two counts of manslaughter, and two counts of ‘first degree murder’: all Craven’s thugs. I'm then fingerprinted and, in line with a new policy, they take a DNA sample before locking me up.
I've had a particular law firm in mind for some time; it seemed like a good idea to at least give that avenue some consideration, just in case. Now, it appears, we have arrived at that ‘just in case’ juncture. If I don't show, or get in touch within twelve hours, Bobby is to presume something has gone wrong and engage the aforementioned legal firm. This legal firm, specialising in criminal law, possesses a brilliant track-record.
He is instructed to hand them the fully documented account I've been preparing, in journal form, from day one of this conflict with Craven. He should then disappear. His job is then to keep Connie and James out of the way, for the moment. Bobby, as usual, is right on the ball and when the police eventually allow me to make my call the lawyers are primed and waiting.
Sitting opposite me, Mr Franklin Pierce is somewhere in his mid fifties, average height, lean and impeccably groomed; his intense blue-grey eyes and silver-grey hair perfectly co-ordinate with the charcoal-grey herringbone of his three-piece-suit. “If all that you have set out in your deposition to us is correct, Mr Farrell, you are in an extremely unenviable position.”
“Yes sir… I know that, but will you take my case?”
Just at that point the cell door opens and four detectives literally flood into the room. “Do you mind, gentlemen!… I am entitled to a little privacy with my client,” says Mr Franklin-Pierce, assertively, more than a little put out.
I don’t even have time to register that he, by way of his statement, has just accepted my case when one of the policemen announces, “John Farrell… you are hereby charged with the murder of Ronald David Jones… You are charged that, on or about the 11th of July 1976, you did murder seventeen-year-old Ronald David Jones at Hampstead Heath…” He pauses, my jaw drops and I observe, all be it momentarily, my lawyer’s jaw drop. “You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and—“
At about that point I cease hearing what the policeman is saying: my mind’s eye is rerunning that few moments early in the morning of the 11th of July 1976...
“My client has nothing to say at this point in time,” says Mr Franklin-Pierce, bringing me abruptly out of my reflective, introspection.
A DNA data base was initiated in the UK only this year; following a routine cross referencing of my DNA they were rewarded for their methodical and systematic adherence to the new regulations. I hadn't noticed on that dark morning, all those years ago when I broke the boy’s neck, but the dressing had come off my cut finger and stuck to the side of his head. I now have the dubious honour of being the very first person in the United Kingdom to be charged due to the implementation of this new regulation. At a preliminary hearing, we apply for but are denied bail, and I'm whipped away to the detention centre at Wormwood Scrubs.
The induction process is the introduction to the dehumanising experience of Her Majesty’s correctional services; beginning by stripping naked in front of the warders and the other criminals being processed. My worldly possessions are taken from me, catalogued and locked away for the duration of my incarceration. I then wash with carbolic soap in a communal shower together with my fellow inductees, in full view of the guards. Before being issued ill-fitting prison garb, I am inspected to make sure I'm not carrying contraband. Apart from the fact that I was searched at the police station, where trouser belts and shoe laces were taken from me, I'm naked and have just gone through the showering process; you can imagine what is left to search.
“Open your mouth!” This from a prison guard half my age. “Move your tongue to the roof of your mouth!... Lift your arms straight up in the air!” But of course the final indignation is to come. “Bend over and spread your arse-cheeks!”
Sitting here in my cell, staring at the walls, I can't help wonder how the hell I came to this? What quirk of fate? What set of unfortunate circumstances brought me to this juncture?
Chapter 2: HUMBLE BEGINNINGS
Born just after the Second World War to a coalmining family in Lampton, County Durham, my earliest clear memory is in our National Coal Board home.
Ma is bent over the sink, using an old scrubbing board to do the daily wash. Da and my brother are just leaving for the back-shift. My three sisters are still at school, being in infants I get out earlier. Geordie, my brother, is sixteen and, after being on the dole since leaving school, has recently started work. Da's happier because he's helping to support the family; Ma's happier, because she can put a better spread on the table at mealtimes, and doesn’t have to worry so much about him getting into mischief; and Geordie's happier now, having a beer on the way home with Da on paydays, he can call himself a man. My sisters and I are happier, of course, because he’s hardly ever around to tease us now. When he’s not working, he's allowed to be out pretty much when he wants as long as he’s home by eleven o’clock; when Da locks the door.
I started school last week and I’ll be five next week. I have a thirteen-year-old sister, Elizabeth, who gets Izy or lizy or Beth; an eleven-year-old sister Margaret, who gets Maggie or Megs; and an eight-year-old sister Josephine, Jo, Jo-Jo, or Jossie. Oh yes, and my name’s John. I like my name because there’s not much you can do with John.
“See ya’ later Ma,” says my father, kissing her on the top of the head as she's bent over the sink. “See ya’ tomorra’ John!” he says rubbing the top of my head as he passes: I’ll be asleep by the time he gets home from work tonight.
“See ya’ Ma,” says Geordie smiling at my mother, “see ya’ shrimp!” he says cuffing me across the head on his way out. I remember that little scene as if it was yesterday. About six months separates it from the next scene, but emotionally they're worlds apart.
The house is full of people I hardly know, and everyone's wearing black, Ma and my sisters are crying, they have been for days. Da and Geordie are lying in coffins in Ma’s bedroom.
There was a cave-in at the pit, Da and Geordie were among fifteen buried alive, and it took four days to dig the bodies out. Today is the funeral. I’m not quite sure how I feel yet, it doesn’t seem real; I keep expecting Da and Geordie to come through the door with black faces, laughing, just as they always did after a shift.
Ma’s been sleeping with me in mine and Geordie’s bed, although I suppose it’s just my bed now. She keeps me awake for hours with her crying; when we get up in the morning the girls look like they’ve been crying all night too.
Da and Geordie are in closed coffins. I heard someone say the coffins were closed because the bodies had been so badly squashed. They didn’t know I was under the table trying to stay out of the way. Most people don’t even realise I’m there, or think I don't understand what’s being said. I haven't been able to cry yet.
“Poor Annie!” one woman says, “What’s to become of her and the bairns? Naybody’s gonna to take on a widow and four poor, wee orphans!” I can’t work out why anything has to become of us.
“If you need anything at all, Annie, don’t you hesitate to ask,” I hear another woman say. And as Ma turns away the woman says quietly to another, “I feel bloody awful… I had to offer… but I’ve barely enough to keep body and soul together m'self.”
Following the funeral, life changed so much for me and what was left of my family. Ma took in washing to earn extra money, but it wasn’t long before even I began to feel the pinch: I was always hungry, for one thing. Ma would wake up at night crying with the pain in her back and her hands, from bending over the sink, scrubbing clothes, twelve hours every day. I know because she was still sleeping in my bed.
Lizy moved into Ma’s bed after a couple of weeks. “No point in three of us being squashed up in one bed… while a big bed goes completely to waste!” she said one night; Ma made no comment, so she moved in that night. Ma eventually got a job cleaning offices at night, at which stage she still had enough energy left to look after us, but she still wasn’t earning enough. A few weeks later she got a second job, working in a clothing factory during the day.
Other things changed too. Because Ma was working 'all the hours God sends', as she put it, our chores increased significantly. The girls started first thing in the morning: cleaning the house, washing clothes in the sink, cleaning out the fireplace if we were lucky enough to have coal the night before. I got to make the porridge, if there was any oats left, and wash the dishes when we’d eaten, all before getting washed myself and going to school.
By the time my sixth birthday came around we were all pretty used to being without Da and Geordie, even Ma had stopped crying at night. In fact she got an old single bed from Mrs McKracon around the corner and moved back to share the room with Lizy. Life goes on.
By the time I was eight years old Lizy was working in Woolworths, Durham City, and Ma was only working her day job at the factory. Maggie, Jo and I had more chores to do, but that’s to be expected, they got done without too much fuss most of the time.
Lizy got a boyfriend, Bobby; he came around a couple of times a week and we all watched the television: a joint family Christmas present. At half-past-eight I would go to bed, Jo would go to bed at nine, Maggie at half-past-nine and Ma’ at ten o’clock. Lizy and Bobby would then have the place to themselves until eleven o’clock when Bobby went home and Lizy locked the door.
School was always a mixed bag of tricks. I wasn't one of the in-crowd. How could I be? I didn’t have a dad. I wasn’t bad at my lessons: how hard could it be at eight years old? But even as young as eight I wondered what the point was: I’d have to go down the pit to help support the family; you don't need an education to work in a coalmine.
By the time I was nine things had changed again; Lizy got married. Ma said it was a shotgun wedding, and I remember being confused because I couldn’t see any guns. Lizy and her new husband, Bobby, moved in after the wedding, and there was a reshuffle, as Ma put it. Bobby and Lizy moved into my room and took over my double bed, I moved in to share Jo-Jo’s room and got the old single bed Bobby brought from home, and Maggie moved in with Ma. Oh yes, and all this when Lizy was three months pregnant.
Lizy worked for another five months or so before she got too big, but with Ma still working and Bobby working down the pit, financially, things didn’t change that much. As my tenth birthday came around Lizy had just had her second baby daughter; Bobby managed to get them the house around the corner after old Mrs McKracon died. Maggie left school and took over Lizy’s job at Woolworths and she and Ma were now supporting the house. "Life's a bit of a struggle," I can remember Ma saying, "but at least we still have a roof over our head."
I can’t ever remember having new clothes; I always wore Geordie’s old hand-me-downs. I wanted to do my bit too; ever year since the cave in I'd tried all the paper shops for a job; always with the same answer: "Sorry son you're too young." The year I turned eleven, at the very first shop, Mr Cameron told me he'd give me a job.
Starting at five o'clock in the morning; I still had my daily chores prior to delivering my papers before and after school, so when I eventually got home for tea at about half-past-five I was usually pretty tired. I generally fell asleep in front of the telly before seven o'clock when Ma would give me a shake, "Off to bed with you, son. Bed's the place for sleepin'."
I earned twelve-shillings-and-sixpence a week and helped to support the house by paying for my own school dinners; that was five bob a week. I had my fair share of fights, no more or less than the average eleven year-old I suppose, but I did seem to get beaten a fair bit. "It's the lack of a male role model," Lizy said. My sisters did tend to be a bit overprotective. I joined the local National Coal Board boxing club; it was well worth the nine-pence a session, twice a week, from my hard earned newspaper money. After a while I proved I was going to be a stayer and Mr Fizgerrald, the trainer and the local greengrocer, took me under his wing.
“You've got very fast reflexes son; never quite seen anything quite like them, but you’re a skinny wee bugger, John,” he said, “You’ve got to try and eat a bit better.”
“But we can’t afford it, sir!... I wish we could… I’m always starvin'.”
“You’ve got the paper run that comes past my shop haven’t you… if you call in when you’re passing in the mornings I’ll give you some fruit to take home.”
The next morning he gave me a couple of apples and pears, and a grapefruit. “The grapefruit’s important for vitamin C,” he said, and every morning he gave me some fruit: sometimes apples and pears, sometimes an orange or a banana, but always a grapefruit. “And drink a glass of water first thing… it cleans out your kidneys." A glass of water and a grapefruit became part of my morning regime for life.
This next episode is one of those clear snapshots: I'm fourteen going on fifteen, Maggie got married the previous year; she and her husband, Martin, and their two month old baby son, little Graham, live in my old room. Jo’s a hairdresser’s apprentice in Durham; she doesn’t have a regular boyfriend. In fact she’s getting a bit of a name for herself: just last week, I had to give one of the boys down the street a bit of a seeing-to for bad-mouthing her.
I’ve been boxing for a couple of years now, I’ve had eighteen straight wins; three weeks ago I won the under fifteens A B A championships in Newcastle. Ma’s not very well, she’s still working, but she’s looking shocking these days: a shadow of her former self, she's barely forty but looks seventy. I’ll be leaving school in a couple of months and going down the pit; maybe Ma can quit that bloody factory at last.
Ma was taken to hospital last night when I was at boxing training. She’s never been one to complain; wouldn’t go to the doctors, we all thought she was just tired-out. By the time I get to the hospital she has passed away: tuberculosis they say. All the same people are at Ma’s funeral as were at Da and Geordie’s, but this time I recognise all of them; and this time I really am an orphan. I don’t have to worry about being the only one not crying this time: I’m shedding more tears than my sisters. Martin and Maggie took over the tenancy of the house and I no longer had to go straight down the pit. I wasn't going to stay on at school though; I’d left it too late. In anticipation of going down the mine I’d done no work at school. A couple of my teachers told me that I’d be wasting my life and it’s never too late to get stuck into my education, but I knew what I was going to do. An army recruiting officer had come to the school a couple of weeks previously, recruiting for the Junior Leaders; I hadn't known you could join the army at fifteen. I'd been interested but hadn’t allowed myself to get too exited; at the time I thought I was going down the pit.
Chapter 3: THE PROFESSIONAL
I somehow got through the entrance exam and was accepted into the Junior Parachute Company. At the end of August I boarded the London train, bound for Malta Barracks in Aldershot, the home of the Junior Parachute Company.
That first day at Malta Barracks is one of the clearest memories of my life; the day I put away children's thoughts for ever; the day I became a soldier.
Collecting my gear from the quartermaster's stores, following directions to the barrack-room, I stagger in and drop my gear on the floor before collapsing, exhausted onto my bed: all in all it's been a pretty long day.
"Robert McGraw…" says the boy sitting on the bed to my left, and putting his hand out, "but call me Bobby, please."
"John Farrell… pleased to meet you."
Laughing, the boy from the bed on my right, in a distinct Irish accent, says, "Well, well, well… a Jock and a Geordie… good company indeed. Patrick Mahony, at your service… Paddy to my friends." Shaking hands the three of us bond from the very first moment.
Paddy was a Catholic from Londonderry, Northern Ireland. After his father died under suspicious circumstances, following an arrest by the notorious B Specials, he spent most of his young life in various foster homes; eventually, arrested for housebreaking, he spent time in an ‘approved school’. Bobby’s childhood was no cake-walk either; he was an orphan from Stranraar, a South-Western sea port of Scotland.
It turned out that Paddy was a boxer too, and two years running we both won the 'Junior Army Boxing Championship’ in our weight divisions. I attained a 'junior' sergeant's rank and Bobby and Paddy were both corporals.
After leaving Junior Para, completing depot preparation, parachuting and getting our wings - with the final shaping into ‘battle ready paratroopers’ complete - we were sent to the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment, who were just about to leave for Borneo. Paddy, Bobby and I were in the same section, and spent six months fighting a hit and run battle with a rebel militia. It was a pretty intense time, but only once did I feel in immediate danger: our platoon, eighteen men, was chasing a section, or so we thought, of rebel militia. As it turned out we were engaging a whole rebel company, eighty or ninety rebel soldiers.
My six man section was laying down covering fire, while we fought a tactical withdrawal, when we were cut off from the rest of the platoon. Completely surrounded, it was looking pretty bad: as in maybe we were all going to die.
I was the section machine-gunner; seeing a fleeting opportunity to get into a flanking position, I went for it. Taking out thirty rebel militia I managed to knock a hole in the enemy offensive and we got out by the skin of our teeth. They made a whole big deal out of it, I was given the credit for saving my section and they awarded me the DCM.
By the time I was nineteen I was a lance-corporal, the first step on the promotional ladder and by twenty-one I was a full corporal. I had my fair share of girlfriends along the way but being single minded about my army career and my boxing I wasn't so obsessed with the female gender as most of the guys.
When I was twenty-two, while on a sniper's course, I fell fifty feet out of a tree, and ending up in the military hospital at Aldershot with a severely, broken leg.
"Come along, wakey wakey…" Opening my eyes, the first thing I see is the cute little backside of the nurse pulling the screens around my bed. "Time for your bed bath, Corporal Farrell."
I can hardly believe my luck: I'm about to be sponge bathed by a golden haired angel. Struggling to rouse myself, a stupid smile on my face, I try to think of something clever to say, but all I manage is a pathetic moan, and a grimace as I move too quickly against the pulley system my leg is hooked up to.
"You just lay still Corporal," says the angel, "let me do all the work for you. That's what they pay me the big money for," and her cheeks dimple as she gives me a flash of her beautiful, white teeth, while gently adjusting my position.
"Call me John, please," I manage at last.
"Alright… John; let's make this as painless as possible. In my experience you Paras, even as incapacitated as you are at the moment, try to take advantage of we poor nurses in these situations. Now… I'm going to wash from your face, down as far as possible; and then from your feet, up as far as possible," and then showing me her dimples and lovely teeth again, "And you can wash possible yourself."
The cute little angel's name was Connie and almost straight away we began a fairly serious relationship. Twelve months later we were married and Paddy was my best man. By the time I got my sergeants stripes we had a son, James after my father, and Bobby was his godfather. At twenty-four I was the youngest sergeant in the battalion, maybe even the entire regiment.
More than ten years after joining up, just before Christmas, something happened to change the way I looked at the army. We'd been in Northern Ireland for about a month and I was in the company offices talking to the clerk when Bobby came in, obviously troubled.
"John… Paddy was absent from parade this morning… He went out last night and didn't come back."
"That's not good!" It was the first time in ten years Paddy had missed a muster parade.
Knocking at the door to the OC's office I let myself in. Sitting at his desk, Major Fields looked up, pen in hand. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"
"Sir, Corporal Mahony is missing."
"What do you mean… missing?"
"Missing… Sir. As in absent from parade, Sir. As in went out last night and didn't come back, Sir."
Looking at me thoughtfully, slowly putting his pen down, he said, "Maybe he got lucky: picked up a girl last night and is running late? After all, muster parade was only ten minutes ago."
"No Sir… trust me… we joined the same day, ten years ago. Paddy is a professional. Something's wrong."
He paused, assessing the situation, and then picking up the phone he dialled a number. "We have a man missing… yes… a Corporal Patrick Mahony."
We had the whole company looking for Paddy; searching houses, gardens, parks, garbage tips and the dumpsters behind shops etc. I personally talked to hundreds of people, showing them Paddy's photograph and asking questions. After a week Major Fields officially called off the search, but unofficially…
"Listen in guys… this is unofficial… so if you're not comfortable with it I'll understand... and excuse you from tonight's patrol." We were about to go on a routine night patrol. The platoon voiced their general assent and I proceeded to tell them my plans to split the platoon into sections and make the evening a 'search and find' exercise. "And if there are any repercussions I'll take full responsibility… Alright, let's keep this low key: try not to draw any attention." I took the lead section along the Shank Hill Road and into the first pub.
The pub was busy with people beginning festivities early and quite noisy, but as we entered the place fell silent. Trying to remain affable, we moved around asking about Paddy and showing his photograph, but the patrons were resentful and disobliging. Eventually, realising we were wasting our time, I signalled to the rest of the section and we started to leave. As we exited the pub began to come to life again, and one of the disgruntled patrons voiced his vexation: "Fuckin' Paras!… Think they fuckin' own the world!... You'd think they'd give it a rest at Christmas."
"It's been two weeks since Corporal Mahony went missing," said Major Fields. He was not pleased; I had been called into his office to get my knuckles rapped. "We should have stepped down the search a week ago… Now I've received orders – from on high – to stand down immediately. Some local business people have complained to the Commissioner." He sighed heavily and looked me straight in the eye. "You're a good sergeant; I should hate to loose you… Am I making myself clear, Sergeant?"
"Crystal, sir!"
"Good… Off you go."
It was the most miserable Christmas I ever experienced. While 2 Para remained in Ulster, for the next couple of months, Bobby and I haunted Belfast on our off-duty time, dressed in civilian clothes, searching for some kind of closure. There were times when we knew we were being watched. Having been sniper trained myself, I have a sixth sense about these things: more than once I could feel a sniper's cross-hairs on us.
Paddy's disappearance was simply written off as one of Northern Ireland's unsolved incidents. When we returned to Aldershot Bobby bought himself out of the remainder of his contract; he'd only signed back on the previous year. He said he was going to spend some time in London and then perhaps go home to Stranraar. He dropped off the radar.
The week after my twenty-fifth birthday, the night I took out the ABA championship for the sixth year in a row, a promoter who had propositioned me after each championship, three years running, came into my dressing-room after the fight.
“John-lad…” he said warmly, “Looking as sharp as ever… Sharper!… How many's that you’ve won by the short route?” he asked, the cultivated voice barely giving away his Lancashire roots.
“I don’t know… I’ve lost count; maybe twenty-four out of the last thirty fights.” “Very impressive!” he said, and then, “Actually, you've stopped twenty eight out of thirty.” He frowned then before asking, “How old are you now, lad?”
“I was twenty-five last week,”
“How many fights, all told?”
I thought about it for a moment, but I knew the answer, just as I’d known the answer to his first question – just checking to see how much attention he was really giving me. “I’ve been fighting since I was twelve and I’ve had two-hundred-and-fifty-one fights.”
“Jesus!… Not many these days have had half that, their entire career. Any idea of the tally?”
Without pause for thought I said, succinctly, “Two-hundred-and-thirty inside the distance and three draws.”
He gave a little whistle and said, “A commendable record, lad.”
“What’s your point, Mr Cross?”
“A World Title. A professional ‘World Title’… That’s what I’m talking about.”
I looked at the wily old promoter for a moment, before saying, candidly, “I’m a good boxer, Mr Cross; the best amateur in Britain, maybe? Maybe even in the world. But you and I both know there's a world of difference between the best amateur and the best professional. Besides, only black Americans win professional world titles.”
“Yes, mostly,” he agreed, “but not always, lad… not always!” and then, apparently changing the subject, “How’s the army treating you?”
“Good… as always.”
“Are you in for the long haul then?”
“I think so,” I said, but no longer feeling the conviction.
“So taking a ‘World Professional Title’ within two years, and all the money that goes with that doesn’t interest you?”
Previously, when questioned about turning pro, the answer had always been clear in my mind. I had given it some thought, in actual fact I always considered myself good enough to make it as a professional, but the Army had been my home, and the Paras my family for ten years. I was a soldier first, a boxer second. However, recent events had shaken my certainty somewhat.
“This will make the fourth year running I’ve spoken to you at these titles, and I guess what I’m saying is… this'll be the last time I’ll ask you. Next year you will have missed the bus, as far as shooting for a world title is concerned. Every man’s time comes and goes; it doesn’t matter what he’s doing, or going to do. And with a very physical pursuit, like boxing, the window of opportunity is pretty small.
“What I’m about to say won’t, I’m sure, be news to you… You are a smart fighter, but what makes you so good is that you have the quickest reflexes of anyone, bar none, that I have ever witnessed; because of that your window of opportunity has lasted longer than most. Two years hard work, John… two-million pounds and a world title… What do you say?” Previously fairly quick with my reply, I hesitated, and his eyes opened a little wider; barely perceivable but I recognised the hopeful expectancy. “Am I tempting you at last, John-lad?”
“Let me talk to my wife tonight, Mr Cross, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“Whatever you say, John,” and smiling he handed me a card. “Call me anytime… anytime.” I nodded; the smallest, enigmatic smile on my lips.
“It’s your life... You do whatever you think is best,” and she smiled, touching my face briefly, tenderly. “I’ll support you in what ever you want to do.” Of course I knew she’d say that; that was part of the reason I loved her. I had of course already made my decision. The trick now was to keep enjoying the game for as long as it took to win the title.
We bought a house in Hampstead, London, to be close to Mr Cross’ gym, and my preparation for an assault on the ‘Light-Heavyweight Boxing Championship of the World’ began. I'd been training almost like a professional boxer for the best part of six years before turning pro: the army was good with its sportsmen, particularly if you keep winning. In fact, over the next two years, as a pro, I spent less time actually in the ring than I did as an amateur: only nine fights.
The first three fights didn’t last a round, the next three fights went to the third round, then another first round knockout, the eighth fight lasted four rounds, and then a second round knockout. Mr Cross was a little concerned about my fights not lasting long enough to test my endurance.
“I’ve lined you up a Mexican: Hernandez… You heard of him?”
“Of course, Mexico doesn’t produce many light-heavyweights. Gonzáles Hernández, ‘The Mexican Devil’. One tough hombre – southpaw – and never been stopped.” I stated, as though reading off his promo sheet.
“That’s the one,” said Mr Cross.
“Then we get Foster?”
“Then we get Foster,” he confirmed.
Chapter 13: THE LION'S DEN
Not knowing Glasgow at all, no matter how hard I try to keep orientated, by the time he turns sharply into a doorway and up a set of stairs, I'm lost; that is obviously the intention. At the top of the poorly lit stairway there is a set of double doors, and I'm close behind him as he pushes through two sets of double doors; and then I stop.
To my surprise, we're in a boxing gym; with a training session underway. There are half a dozen heavy bags, three old punch balls on stands, two speed balls and a couple of floor-to-ceiling balls dispersed around the old wooden floored gym. In the middle, complete with badly stained canvas and corner pads, is a full sized ring. There are fighters sweating and grunting at each piece of old equipment, and a couple of guys going at it in the ring with a trainer acting as referee. I don't mean they're sparring: there's a difference between sparring and 'going at it'. There are two more trainers around the room working hand pads with fighters. The smell of antique leather mixed with old, stale sweat and the rapid smack, smack, smack of leather hitting leather, and the grunting of fighters putting in their effort reminds me, vividly, of a boxing gym I haven't been in since I was fifteen years old.
The young man with the cruel eyes reaches halfway up the gym before realising I've stopped. "This way, Mr Farrell," he says. After watching me take a few steps towards him, he turns and continues across the gym, disappearing through a door on the far side. Pushing the door open I find him waiting just inside. "Y' packin' Mr Farrell?" he asks, giving me a piercing look with those cruel eyes.
Pausing momentarily, I glance over his shoulder; there's another flight of stairs just behind him with a door at the top. I feel a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach and the steel fist that has gripped my intestines since the previous Thursday afternoon releases me. This is it! I know, intuitively, that Victor Craven is on the other side of the next door! Glancing back, into the icy depths of those eyes, I open my jacket and say evenly, "No… but I'm sure you're not going to take my word for it." If he discovers my hidden treasures I'll have to take him out, and then take my chances upstairs. I can tell he's hoping not to find anything as he steps cautiously forward and gives me a perfunctory pat down.
"Mr Farrell… we meet again."
He's sitting behind a desk on the far side of the office, looking relaxed. There are seven serious looking individuals sitting or standing in various positions around the room between us. They seem fairly at ease: as if they don't expect me to do anything… troublesome, but prepared just in case I'm stupid enough to try.
"Where's my family?" I ask bluntly.
"Safe and well," he says; a smile touches the corners of his mouth, but doesn't reach his eyes. "You're quite something aren’t you, John Farrell… You destroy my life's work and you stand there as arrogant as the first time you whispered in my ear, after breaking into my home. I could have you killed where you stand."
"Yes… well, it's fairly obvious that you want something of me before you kill me. And as far as me being arrogant is concerned… You send your thugs to kill my son, and then kill two of your own men to frame me for murder. Further to that you make sure I can't get a fair trial: condemning me to rot in jail for the rest of my life; however short you can arrange that to be. Not to mention having an old man killed for caring about me, and then fuelling a situation that killed my best friend and almost killed me. Have I missed anything?... Oh yes, to add insult to injury, you kidnap my wife and son." At this stage I'm beginning to work my self into a bit of lather so I pause and take a deep breath before saying, "You… conceited, egotistical, egoist bastard!... You sit there and call me arrogant. I could kill you right now, before any of your lackeys stopped me."
The atmosphere in the office changes somewhat during my tirade, and everyone looks ready to burst into action. Except Craven, the corners of his mouth are still affecting the semblance of a smile. "Yes, well…" he says, mimicking my own reaction to his inclination to kill me, "It's fairly obvious that you want something from me first, too. And by the way, I killed those two 'excuses for bodyguards' for falling down on the job," and his mouth definitely does make a smile as he adds, "After all… you could have killed me, quite easily."
I can't help returning his approximation of a smile and nodding, before saying "Yes, I could have… twice. Do you still have that little memento?" and involuntarily his hand goes halfway to his throat before he regains control, and instead runs his fingers through his hair; all semblance of a smile gone.
"The difference between what I want from you and what you want from me – apart from me knowing what you want, and you not having the faintest idea what I want – is that I could change my mind and just have you killed, and then kill your family anyway. Whereas if you kill me your death would follow swiftly, and again your family would die anyway." Taking back control, that annoying facade of a smile returns.
"So, what is it you want, Craven?" I say through gritted teeth.
"That's better Farrell," he says, and the atmosphere in the room relaxes somewhat again. "All I want is for you to do what you're good at." My face must be mirroring my bewilderment because he says, "Oh come on, Farrell! Don't be so modest… You were one of the infamous Red Devils and were awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for single-handedly killing thirty-odd rebels. You were also, at one time, arguably the best, pound for pound, boxer in the world, and killed Gonzalez 'The Mexican Devil" Hernandez in the first few seconds of the fight. You heroically came to the aid of a victim of a gang rape and, in one foul swoop, snapped the neck of one of the assailants, killing him instantly. Thr-"
"Where's this going, Craven?" I say attempting to cut him off, shifting uncomfortably as all eyes in the room burn into me.
"Hold on John, I'm just getting to the best bit… Three men armed with guns attacked you, and according to the one who ran away, you killed two of them in the blink of an eye – with kitchen knives. And last but certainly not least: you were one of eleven men to enter a gymnasium in Wormwood Scrubs and the only one who came out alive."
"Two." I correct. "Ah, yes… but I don't consider being a vegetable actually living."
"The point, Craven; get to the point?" My patience is totally exhausted by now as I add, "And before you do get to it… I might as well tell you now: there's nothing you can say or do to me, or my family, that would induce me to kill for you." A little worked up by this point, I'm trying not to alert the villains in the room to the fact that I'm getting ready to kill Craven and take as many of them out as I can. Connie and James will have to take their chances; I send up a silent prayer for them.
"No, Farrell. I think I know you a little better than that by now: I've studied you for two-and-a-half years," and shaking his head he goes on. "No… when I want someone killed I've got plenty to choose from," he says gesturing around the room. "And there's plenty more. No, Farrell… I want you to fight!... Mind you, you may, inadvertently, kill someone. Because, believe me, they'll be trying to kill you."
"What are you talking about, Craven?" and while trying to appear as compliant as possible: my movements slow and deliberate, I reach for a spare chair; stepping forward, I place it a couple of metres in front of his desk and slowly sit down, folding my arms with my hands inside my jacket. Inwardly coiling, I fill my fists with gun and knife; my mind calm before the storm. 'You don't know me as well as you think'.
"It's known as 'The Real World Championship', and eliminations are fought throughout the globe," says Craven, watching me intently. "It takes place over a period of eight weeks. The district title, which in our case is the UK Championships, is held here in Glasgow; the regional title, the European Championships, is held in Berlin; and the finals take place in Bangkok."
Relaxing, emptying my hands, unfolding my arms, I rest them on my thighs. I have heard of this competition. It's ludicrous that he should consider a man of my years for such a contest, but I have no doubt that during the course of preparing for such an event I will get a better opportunity to save my family, and stop Craven once and for all.
"You do this, and you take your family and get on with your life. If you don't do this however, you, your wife and son all die… it's that simple."
"So… I enter this competition and you let us go… just like that?"
"Oh… no, John. You misunderstand. No wonder you sound sceptical," and he actually chuckles. "You win this competition, and then I let you go."
I think 'This person is mentally unhinged', but I give no outward sign that I'm thinking anything. "So… just to clear up any possible misunderstandings…" I say slowly, and I'm folding my arms again. "If I don't win this competition, outright, we all die?"
"I'd like to think I'm just a bit more humane than that." He says, attempting to sound benevolent. "No, John, not quite. But the only way your family lives if you loose: is if you die trying."
Relaxing again, I empty my hands and rest them on my thighs once more. "When is the first stage of the competition?" "That's the spirit… tremendous. You've got a little under three weeks to get ready; I know you've been keeping in shape, so that should be plenty of time to familiarise with the rules of combat…" and he chuckles before adding, "there aren't any!" and he chuckles a little more at his own joke before, motioning to one of the assembled group of thugs. "This is MacGreggor…" and a stocky, slightly overweight, thirty-something man steps forward; by his scarred face, broken nose and cauliflower ears he is obviously an ex-pugilist. "He'll be your trainer."
"What are his qualifications?" I ask and before Craven can answer MacGreggor speaks up; his rapid fire Glaswegian accent made even more obscure by a badly broken nose, and a gap where his two front teeth should be.
"A've been init three times," he says.
"Did you win?" I asked reasonably. His facial reactions are enough that I don't need to hear his answer. "Well… I'd hardly say that qualifies you to train me, then."
"That's not fair, John," Craven speaks up in his defence, "he did get through to the district finals all three times, winning them once to go on to the first round in Berlin."
Looking from Craven to MacGreggor, I'm silent for a moment, thinking. "I mean you no disrespect Mr MacGreggor, but my life and, more importantly, the life of my family hangs in the balance here… I will be happy to have you as part of a support team: your insight into the rules of this competition might prove invaluable." I then turn my attention back to Craven. "But to have a fighting chance, I'm going to need a certain trainer."
Craven's eyes narrow to black slits before he asks, suspiciously, "And who might that be?"
"A local man, actually. Hamish Duncan."
Before Craven can respond, the young man with the cruel eyes speaks up. "A know 'im, Mr Craven," and all eyes swivel in his direction.
"You know him?" Craven says, incredulously.
"Well… A don't actually know 'im, personally. He's the highest gradit karate master in Scotland. He's refereed m' fights a few times. A have a noddin'… or, should A say, a bowing acquaintance wi' 'im."
"In other words… you know who he is, but he wouldn't know you from a piece of dog shit?" says Craven sarcastically.
"Aye… a suppose so," says the young man sullenly, eyes downcast. But as Craven turns his attention toward me, the young man shoots Craven a withering, sidelong glance – focusing those cruel eyes, momentarily, on him – and if looks could kill…
"And what makes you think this Hamish…"
"Duncan." I offer.
"…Hamish Duncan will train you for this… competition?"
"He'll train me."
Craven lifts an eyebrow. "Old friends, are you?"
"We knew each other… a long time ago." I say evasively.
"Just don't get any ideas, John." He says in a warning tone, eyes narrowed.
"Look, Craven… you obviously want to win this competition, and for some reason you believe I can take it out for you. And while I'm flattered at your confidence; I for one – particularly as, thanks to you, I have my own vested interests – feel I need as much edge as possible. Hamish Duncan can give me that edge." There follows a moments silence as he blatantly evaluates me.
"Very well… take MacGreggor, and young Dinga here, and let them know exactly what you need for your training purposes; you might as well get started. But before you go…" and he picks up the phone and dials enquiries. "Hamish Duncan, please." A couple of seconds pass. "No… Yes, that's right. I understand he's connected with karate… Yes, that's him," and after picking up a pen and scribbling down a number, "Thank you." Hitting the receiver, he dials another number. "Mr Duncan?... My name's Victor Craven, I understand that you are acquainted with an associate of mine: John Farrell?..." and he listens thoughtfully for a couple of seconds. "Well… he assures me that you know each other."
"Tell him twenty-five years ago, C Company, 2 Para." I call out.
"Hello, Mr Duncan… I'm told to remind you: twenty-five years ago, C Company 2 Para… Yes, that John Farrell… Ah, good." Craven is now wearing his in-control smile. "I wonder… could you meet with me to discuss training him for a competition?…" and after listening for another moment. "Yes I am aware of how old he is, but I can assure you he is still in excellent condition…" another pause. "Good, I'll be along at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," and he puts the phone down.
"Pay him what ever you need to… he'll be worth every penny," I say standing to leave. "Farrell?" he says looking at me suspiciously.
"You're holding all the aces, Craven," and I turn my back on him. Making my way to the door I acquire two new shadows.
We shop for some training shoes, shorts, vests, and a tracksuit, but as it's late, anything more specific to fight training will have to wait until tomorrow. Alec MacGreggor gives me a rundown of all the competition procedures while we eat a late meal at the hotel; he and young Dinga Bell are booked into rooms on the same floor. After dinner, as they head for the bar, I return to my room for an early night; it's been a long day.
Before turning in, I check again for monitoring devices, and then phone Bobby from the toilet. "Hi, Bobby. Any news?"
"Only that I'm up to speed with what's happening with you and Hamish. How did you manage to pull that one off? And what competition has Craven got you involved in?"
After briefly filling in the blanks, I say, "We have less than three weeks to find out where he's keeping Connie and James, or I'll have to fight in, and win, this bloody tournament."
"And it's no rules, you say?"
"That's right… we fight in a cage." "Don't worry, John, with Hamish on the inside now – that was a stroke of genius, by the way – we'll track them down in no time."
"I sincerely hope so." I suddenly feel very old. "It's been a pretty full five days… I'm going to have a shower and get some sleep… goodnight, and good luck!"
"And the same to you, my friend."
"Oh, by the way…" I say before he hangs up, "tell Hamish to demand a large fee; Craven will pay it."
CLICK ON ANY ICON TO BUY YOUR BOOK!
On the roof top of the thirty-story office block opposite, and four floors above Craven’s penthouse, I'm in full sniper mode and ready for the task at hand. It's been ten hours since I arrived in the early hours of the morning and set up my hide.
As Craven’s Silver Ghost pulls up at the curb opposite, I snuggle the stock of the Remington against my cheek and focus my scope sight on the action taking place in and around the car; it's like a well oiled machine. The front passenger side door and the rear off-side doors open almost before the Rolls stops; two sharp looking characters in plain, dark suits step quickly, simultaneously, out of the vehicle and two others quickly follow from the other doors. They're scanning 360º, each with their own arc of view, traversing vertically and horizontally. Something attracts the driver's attention and he looks straight up. Pulling the rifle back under cover, I suspect he may have seen the reflected glare from my scope.
Craven has employed a professional 'Close Personal Protection team'. Spotting Craven's head coming clear of the car I quickly level my rifle again.
“Had it been twenty years ago I would have had him as they hustled him into the building…” I say indignantly. “As it was, I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t hit one of the CPP team… I didn’t take the chance.”
“Shit!… He must have picked them up in the States; or I would have had some wind of it,” comments Bobby.
“Yeh… that’s what I thought. I watched them moving through the penthouse, searching every nook and cranny, until they'd swept it clean; then they closed all the blinds and curtains prior to, I’m supposing, ushering Craven into the flat.”
“Well, there wouldn’t be any point in hanging around after that. While that team is on the job the odds of getting to Craven are pretty slim.”
“My thoughts entirely… that’s when I got the hell out of there.” Falling into silent contemplation, I sip my favourite single malt. It seems, for the moment, that Craven is out of my reach.
“I wonder…" says Bobby, coming out of his introspection, "if I can find out who these guys are?” and he goes into the next room to make some phone calls.
I'm still sipping the same glass of malt, staring into the pale gold liquid, when he returns half an hour later. “Definitely not domestic,” he says. “I should know the details in an hour or so.” We return to our meditations with another glass.
It’s an hour to the minute when the phone rings and Bobby goes to answer it. Five minutes later, smiling from ear to ear, he comes back in and tops up our glasses before sitting down; letting out a relieved sigh, he said, “They’re a mob working out of New York: ‘Protect International’. The team currently looking after Craven is a tight group of buddies; former ‘Navy Seals’. They're supposed to be here for another five days, when they're relieved by another team flying in from New York. But, guess what? Surprise, surprise… our Mr Victor Craven hasn’t been entirely honest… and I've just provided a more accurate picture.” Smiling, taking another sip of scotch, he gives another sigh. “Now, we just wait for it to hit the fan.”
Craven had billed himself as a legitimate businessman fallen foul of a rival business, who had then put a contract on him. Bobby put the story to rights; specifically, that Craven was in fact an underworld figure hiding behind some legitimate business fronts. Furthermore, he was in danger, not from a hit-man, but from a former British Airborne Forces veteran, whom, along with his son, Craven had put a contract out on because the vet’s son refused to help him in a drug-related crime. Bobby also gave details of how, after I paid him a visit the first time, Craven killed two of his own bodyguards just to set me up on a murder charge. We don't have to wait long.
The following morning, at around 8:30am, I watch the CPP team leave in a taxi. No replacement team arrives. There's no visible movement in the penthouse, not a curtain stirs. At around 10:00am, five heavies pull up in a Jaguar; I recognise two of them from the country property. It looks like Bobby has influence in areas Craven can’t touch. Now, with only his thugs again, I wonder what his next move will be.
Two days later he still hasn’t moved, or opened the blinds. Deciding to stir the porridge a little I fire fifteen silenced rounds, five into each window, and then get out of there, leaving Bobby nearby in a café to observe the reaction. The police arrive in droves, along of course with the armed response group. They check out the whole street, including the café Bobby's sitting in.
It's a couple of hours before the majority of them vacate the street, leaving one of the undercover cars. An hour after that, when the last of the daylight has faded, Bobby spots Craven among a group of undercover cops moving quickly to their car. He tails them through the busy, London traffic to a place in St Johns Wood.
Assuming they've taken Craven to a safe-house – which will give me a couple of days before they move him to another location – I act quickly. Big mistake!
“Drop your weapon, now!” the order comes clearly over the loud hailer, and I freeze. “Lie face down, spread eagle, on the floor… Now!”
Setting himself up as bait; Victor Craven, if nothing else, is a man of considerable internal fortitude. At 3:00am in the morning as I enter the building through a ground floor widow I'm suddenly illuminated, at centre stage so to speak. I comply with their every order, there's no point doing anything else, and all things considered they aren't too rough with me. Watching and listening, I try to assess whether there is an honest policeman there: not in the pay of craven; however, it's made pretty obvious there's no way I'm getting an opportunity to speak to anyone unattended. Taken immediately to Scotland Yard, I am questioned extensively by several detectives over a five-hour period, during which time they try several different methods of interrogation. I of course tell them nothing, and maintain my request for a lawyer before answering their questions. Eventually, they lock me up in a cell and I manage to sleep for a couple of hours. After waking me, a different set of detectives begin the whole interrogation process again.
I'm eventually charged with two counts of ‘break and enter’ – no mention of the country property – two counts of manslaughter, and two counts of ‘first degree murder’: all Craven’s thugs. I'm then fingerprinted and, in line with a new policy, they take a DNA sample before locking me up.
I've had a particular law firm in mind for some time; it seemed like a good idea to at least give that avenue some consideration, just in case. Now, it appears, we have arrived at that ‘just in case’ juncture. If I don't show, or get in touch within twelve hours, Bobby is to presume something has gone wrong and engage the aforementioned legal firm. This legal firm, specialising in criminal law, possesses a brilliant track-record.
He is instructed to hand them the fully documented account I've been preparing, in journal form, from day one of this conflict with Craven. He should then disappear. His job is then to keep Connie and James out of the way, for the moment. Bobby, as usual, is right on the ball and when the police eventually allow me to make my call the lawyers are primed and waiting.
Sitting opposite me, Mr Franklin Pierce is somewhere in his mid fifties, average height, lean and impeccably groomed; his intense blue-grey eyes and silver-grey hair perfectly co-ordinate with the charcoal-grey herringbone of his three-piece-suit. “If all that you have set out in your deposition to us is correct, Mr Farrell, you are in an extremely unenviable position.”
“Yes sir… I know that, but will you take my case?”
Just at that point the cell door opens and four detectives literally flood into the room. “Do you mind, gentlemen!… I am entitled to a little privacy with my client,” says Mr Franklin-Pierce, assertively, more than a little put out.
I don’t even have time to register that he, by way of his statement, has just accepted my case when one of the policemen announces, “John Farrell… you are hereby charged with the murder of Ronald David Jones… You are charged that, on or about the 11th of July 1976, you did murder seventeen-year-old Ronald David Jones at Hampstead Heath…” He pauses, my jaw drops and I observe, all be it momentarily, my lawyer’s jaw drop. “You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and—“
At about that point I cease hearing what the policeman is saying: my mind’s eye is rerunning that few moments early in the morning of the 11th of July 1976...
“My client has nothing to say at this point in time,” says Mr Franklin-Pierce, bringing me abruptly out of my reflective, introspection.
A DNA data base was initiated in the UK only this year; following a routine cross referencing of my DNA they were rewarded for their methodical and systematic adherence to the new regulations. I hadn't noticed on that dark morning, all those years ago when I broke the boy’s neck, but the dressing had come off my cut finger and stuck to the side of his head. I now have the dubious honour of being the very first person in the United Kingdom to be charged due to the implementation of this new regulation. At a preliminary hearing, we apply for but are denied bail, and I'm whipped away to the detention centre at Wormwood Scrubs.
The induction process is the introduction to the dehumanising experience of Her Majesty’s correctional services; beginning by stripping naked in front of the warders and the other criminals being processed. My worldly possessions are taken from me, catalogued and locked away for the duration of my incarceration. I then wash with carbolic soap in a communal shower together with my fellow inductees, in full view of the guards. Before being issued ill-fitting prison garb, I am inspected to make sure I'm not carrying contraband. Apart from the fact that I was searched at the police station, where trouser belts and shoe laces were taken from me, I'm naked and have just gone through the showering process; you can imagine what is left to search.
“Open your mouth!” This from a prison guard half my age. “Move your tongue to the roof of your mouth!... Lift your arms straight up in the air!” But of course the final indignation is to come. “Bend over and spread your arse-cheeks!”
Sitting here in my cell, staring at the walls, I can't help wonder how the hell I came to this? What quirk of fate? What set of unfortunate circumstances brought me to this juncture?
Chapter 2: HUMBLE BEGINNINGS
Born just after the Second World War to a coalmining family in Lampton, County Durham, my earliest clear memory is in our National Coal Board home.
Ma is bent over the sink, using an old scrubbing board to do the daily wash. Da and my brother are just leaving for the back-shift. My three sisters are still at school, being in infants I get out earlier. Geordie, my brother, is sixteen and, after being on the dole since leaving school, has recently started work. Da's happier because he's helping to support the family; Ma's happier, because she can put a better spread on the table at mealtimes, and doesn’t have to worry so much about him getting into mischief; and Geordie's happier now, having a beer on the way home with Da on paydays, he can call himself a man. My sisters and I are happier, of course, because he’s hardly ever around to tease us now. When he’s not working, he's allowed to be out pretty much when he wants as long as he’s home by eleven o’clock; when Da locks the door.
I started school last week and I’ll be five next week. I have a thirteen-year-old sister, Elizabeth, who gets Izy or lizy or Beth; an eleven-year-old sister Margaret, who gets Maggie or Megs; and an eight-year-old sister Josephine, Jo, Jo-Jo, or Jossie. Oh yes, and my name’s John. I like my name because there’s not much you can do with John.
“See ya’ later Ma,” says my father, kissing her on the top of the head as she's bent over the sink. “See ya’ tomorra’ John!” he says rubbing the top of my head as he passes: I’ll be asleep by the time he gets home from work tonight.
“See ya’ Ma,” says Geordie smiling at my mother, “see ya’ shrimp!” he says cuffing me across the head on his way out. I remember that little scene as if it was yesterday. About six months separates it from the next scene, but emotionally they're worlds apart.
The house is full of people I hardly know, and everyone's wearing black, Ma and my sisters are crying, they have been for days. Da and Geordie are lying in coffins in Ma’s bedroom.
There was a cave-in at the pit, Da and Geordie were among fifteen buried alive, and it took four days to dig the bodies out. Today is the funeral. I’m not quite sure how I feel yet, it doesn’t seem real; I keep expecting Da and Geordie to come through the door with black faces, laughing, just as they always did after a shift.
Ma’s been sleeping with me in mine and Geordie’s bed, although I suppose it’s just my bed now. She keeps me awake for hours with her crying; when we get up in the morning the girls look like they’ve been crying all night too.
Da and Geordie are in closed coffins. I heard someone say the coffins were closed because the bodies had been so badly squashed. They didn’t know I was under the table trying to stay out of the way. Most people don’t even realise I’m there, or think I don't understand what’s being said. I haven't been able to cry yet.
“Poor Annie!” one woman says, “What’s to become of her and the bairns? Naybody’s gonna to take on a widow and four poor, wee orphans!” I can’t work out why anything has to become of us.
“If you need anything at all, Annie, don’t you hesitate to ask,” I hear another woman say. And as Ma turns away the woman says quietly to another, “I feel bloody awful… I had to offer… but I’ve barely enough to keep body and soul together m'self.”
Following the funeral, life changed so much for me and what was left of my family. Ma took in washing to earn extra money, but it wasn’t long before even I began to feel the pinch: I was always hungry, for one thing. Ma would wake up at night crying with the pain in her back and her hands, from bending over the sink, scrubbing clothes, twelve hours every day. I know because she was still sleeping in my bed.
Lizy moved into Ma’s bed after a couple of weeks. “No point in three of us being squashed up in one bed… while a big bed goes completely to waste!” she said one night; Ma made no comment, so she moved in that night. Ma eventually got a job cleaning offices at night, at which stage she still had enough energy left to look after us, but she still wasn’t earning enough. A few weeks later she got a second job, working in a clothing factory during the day.
Other things changed too. Because Ma was working 'all the hours God sends', as she put it, our chores increased significantly. The girls started first thing in the morning: cleaning the house, washing clothes in the sink, cleaning out the fireplace if we were lucky enough to have coal the night before. I got to make the porridge, if there was any oats left, and wash the dishes when we’d eaten, all before getting washed myself and going to school.
By the time my sixth birthday came around we were all pretty used to being without Da and Geordie, even Ma had stopped crying at night. In fact she got an old single bed from Mrs McKracon around the corner and moved back to share the room with Lizy. Life goes on.
By the time I was eight years old Lizy was working in Woolworths, Durham City, and Ma was only working her day job at the factory. Maggie, Jo and I had more chores to do, but that’s to be expected, they got done without too much fuss most of the time.
Lizy got a boyfriend, Bobby; he came around a couple of times a week and we all watched the television: a joint family Christmas present. At half-past-eight I would go to bed, Jo would go to bed at nine, Maggie at half-past-nine and Ma’ at ten o’clock. Lizy and Bobby would then have the place to themselves until eleven o’clock when Bobby went home and Lizy locked the door.
School was always a mixed bag of tricks. I wasn't one of the in-crowd. How could I be? I didn’t have a dad. I wasn’t bad at my lessons: how hard could it be at eight years old? But even as young as eight I wondered what the point was: I’d have to go down the pit to help support the family; you don't need an education to work in a coalmine.
By the time I was nine things had changed again; Lizy got married. Ma said it was a shotgun wedding, and I remember being confused because I couldn’t see any guns. Lizy and her new husband, Bobby, moved in after the wedding, and there was a reshuffle, as Ma put it. Bobby and Lizy moved into my room and took over my double bed, I moved in to share Jo-Jo’s room and got the old single bed Bobby brought from home, and Maggie moved in with Ma. Oh yes, and all this when Lizy was three months pregnant.
Lizy worked for another five months or so before she got too big, but with Ma still working and Bobby working down the pit, financially, things didn’t change that much. As my tenth birthday came around Lizy had just had her second baby daughter; Bobby managed to get them the house around the corner after old Mrs McKracon died. Maggie left school and took over Lizy’s job at Woolworths and she and Ma were now supporting the house. "Life's a bit of a struggle," I can remember Ma saying, "but at least we still have a roof over our head."
I can’t ever remember having new clothes; I always wore Geordie’s old hand-me-downs. I wanted to do my bit too; ever year since the cave in I'd tried all the paper shops for a job; always with the same answer: "Sorry son you're too young." The year I turned eleven, at the very first shop, Mr Cameron told me he'd give me a job.
Starting at five o'clock in the morning; I still had my daily chores prior to delivering my papers before and after school, so when I eventually got home for tea at about half-past-five I was usually pretty tired. I generally fell asleep in front of the telly before seven o'clock when Ma would give me a shake, "Off to bed with you, son. Bed's the place for sleepin'."
I earned twelve-shillings-and-sixpence a week and helped to support the house by paying for my own school dinners; that was five bob a week. I had my fair share of fights, no more or less than the average eleven year-old I suppose, but I did seem to get beaten a fair bit. "It's the lack of a male role model," Lizy said. My sisters did tend to be a bit overprotective. I joined the local National Coal Board boxing club; it was well worth the nine-pence a session, twice a week, from my hard earned newspaper money. After a while I proved I was going to be a stayer and Mr Fizgerrald, the trainer and the local greengrocer, took me under his wing.
“You've got very fast reflexes son; never quite seen anything quite like them, but you’re a skinny wee bugger, John,” he said, “You’ve got to try and eat a bit better.”
“But we can’t afford it, sir!... I wish we could… I’m always starvin'.”
“You’ve got the paper run that comes past my shop haven’t you… if you call in when you’re passing in the mornings I’ll give you some fruit to take home.”
The next morning he gave me a couple of apples and pears, and a grapefruit. “The grapefruit’s important for vitamin C,” he said, and every morning he gave me some fruit: sometimes apples and pears, sometimes an orange or a banana, but always a grapefruit. “And drink a glass of water first thing… it cleans out your kidneys." A glass of water and a grapefruit became part of my morning regime for life.
This next episode is one of those clear snapshots: I'm fourteen going on fifteen, Maggie got married the previous year; she and her husband, Martin, and their two month old baby son, little Graham, live in my old room. Jo’s a hairdresser’s apprentice in Durham; she doesn’t have a regular boyfriend. In fact she’s getting a bit of a name for herself: just last week, I had to give one of the boys down the street a bit of a seeing-to for bad-mouthing her.
I’ve been boxing for a couple of years now, I’ve had eighteen straight wins; three weeks ago I won the under fifteens A B A championships in Newcastle. Ma’s not very well, she’s still working, but she’s looking shocking these days: a shadow of her former self, she's barely forty but looks seventy. I’ll be leaving school in a couple of months and going down the pit; maybe Ma can quit that bloody factory at last.
Ma was taken to hospital last night when I was at boxing training. She’s never been one to complain; wouldn’t go to the doctors, we all thought she was just tired-out. By the time I get to the hospital she has passed away: tuberculosis they say. All the same people are at Ma’s funeral as were at Da and Geordie’s, but this time I recognise all of them; and this time I really am an orphan. I don’t have to worry about being the only one not crying this time: I’m shedding more tears than my sisters. Martin and Maggie took over the tenancy of the house and I no longer had to go straight down the pit. I wasn't going to stay on at school though; I’d left it too late. In anticipation of going down the mine I’d done no work at school. A couple of my teachers told me that I’d be wasting my life and it’s never too late to get stuck into my education, but I knew what I was going to do. An army recruiting officer had come to the school a couple of weeks previously, recruiting for the Junior Leaders; I hadn't known you could join the army at fifteen. I'd been interested but hadn’t allowed myself to get too exited; at the time I thought I was going down the pit.
Chapter 3: THE PROFESSIONAL
I somehow got through the entrance exam and was accepted into the Junior Parachute Company. At the end of August I boarded the London train, bound for Malta Barracks in Aldershot, the home of the Junior Parachute Company.
That first day at Malta Barracks is one of the clearest memories of my life; the day I put away children's thoughts for ever; the day I became a soldier.
Collecting my gear from the quartermaster's stores, following directions to the barrack-room, I stagger in and drop my gear on the floor before collapsing, exhausted onto my bed: all in all it's been a pretty long day.
"Robert McGraw…" says the boy sitting on the bed to my left, and putting his hand out, "but call me Bobby, please."
"John Farrell… pleased to meet you."
Laughing, the boy from the bed on my right, in a distinct Irish accent, says, "Well, well, well… a Jock and a Geordie… good company indeed. Patrick Mahony, at your service… Paddy to my friends." Shaking hands the three of us bond from the very first moment.
Paddy was a Catholic from Londonderry, Northern Ireland. After his father died under suspicious circumstances, following an arrest by the notorious B Specials, he spent most of his young life in various foster homes; eventually, arrested for housebreaking, he spent time in an ‘approved school’. Bobby’s childhood was no cake-walk either; he was an orphan from Stranraar, a South-Western sea port of Scotland.
It turned out that Paddy was a boxer too, and two years running we both won the 'Junior Army Boxing Championship’ in our weight divisions. I attained a 'junior' sergeant's rank and Bobby and Paddy were both corporals.
After leaving Junior Para, completing depot preparation, parachuting and getting our wings - with the final shaping into ‘battle ready paratroopers’ complete - we were sent to the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment, who were just about to leave for Borneo. Paddy, Bobby and I were in the same section, and spent six months fighting a hit and run battle with a rebel militia. It was a pretty intense time, but only once did I feel in immediate danger: our platoon, eighteen men, was chasing a section, or so we thought, of rebel militia. As it turned out we were engaging a whole rebel company, eighty or ninety rebel soldiers.
My six man section was laying down covering fire, while we fought a tactical withdrawal, when we were cut off from the rest of the platoon. Completely surrounded, it was looking pretty bad: as in maybe we were all going to die.
I was the section machine-gunner; seeing a fleeting opportunity to get into a flanking position, I went for it. Taking out thirty rebel militia I managed to knock a hole in the enemy offensive and we got out by the skin of our teeth. They made a whole big deal out of it, I was given the credit for saving my section and they awarded me the DCM.
By the time I was nineteen I was a lance-corporal, the first step on the promotional ladder and by twenty-one I was a full corporal. I had my fair share of girlfriends along the way but being single minded about my army career and my boxing I wasn't so obsessed with the female gender as most of the guys.
When I was twenty-two, while on a sniper's course, I fell fifty feet out of a tree, and ending up in the military hospital at Aldershot with a severely, broken leg.
"Come along, wakey wakey…" Opening my eyes, the first thing I see is the cute little backside of the nurse pulling the screens around my bed. "Time for your bed bath, Corporal Farrell."
I can hardly believe my luck: I'm about to be sponge bathed by a golden haired angel. Struggling to rouse myself, a stupid smile on my face, I try to think of something clever to say, but all I manage is a pathetic moan, and a grimace as I move too quickly against the pulley system my leg is hooked up to.
"You just lay still Corporal," says the angel, "let me do all the work for you. That's what they pay me the big money for," and her cheeks dimple as she gives me a flash of her beautiful, white teeth, while gently adjusting my position.
"Call me John, please," I manage at last.
"Alright… John; let's make this as painless as possible. In my experience you Paras, even as incapacitated as you are at the moment, try to take advantage of we poor nurses in these situations. Now… I'm going to wash from your face, down as far as possible; and then from your feet, up as far as possible," and then showing me her dimples and lovely teeth again, "And you can wash possible yourself."
The cute little angel's name was Connie and almost straight away we began a fairly serious relationship. Twelve months later we were married and Paddy was my best man. By the time I got my sergeants stripes we had a son, James after my father, and Bobby was his godfather. At twenty-four I was the youngest sergeant in the battalion, maybe even the entire regiment.
More than ten years after joining up, just before Christmas, something happened to change the way I looked at the army. We'd been in Northern Ireland for about a month and I was in the company offices talking to the clerk when Bobby came in, obviously troubled.
"John… Paddy was absent from parade this morning… He went out last night and didn't come back."
"That's not good!" It was the first time in ten years Paddy had missed a muster parade.
Knocking at the door to the OC's office I let myself in. Sitting at his desk, Major Fields looked up, pen in hand. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"
"Sir, Corporal Mahony is missing."
"What do you mean… missing?"
"Missing… Sir. As in absent from parade, Sir. As in went out last night and didn't come back, Sir."
Looking at me thoughtfully, slowly putting his pen down, he said, "Maybe he got lucky: picked up a girl last night and is running late? After all, muster parade was only ten minutes ago."
"No Sir… trust me… we joined the same day, ten years ago. Paddy is a professional. Something's wrong."
He paused, assessing the situation, and then picking up the phone he dialled a number. "We have a man missing… yes… a Corporal Patrick Mahony."
We had the whole company looking for Paddy; searching houses, gardens, parks, garbage tips and the dumpsters behind shops etc. I personally talked to hundreds of people, showing them Paddy's photograph and asking questions. After a week Major Fields officially called off the search, but unofficially…
"Listen in guys… this is unofficial… so if you're not comfortable with it I'll understand... and excuse you from tonight's patrol." We were about to go on a routine night patrol. The platoon voiced their general assent and I proceeded to tell them my plans to split the platoon into sections and make the evening a 'search and find' exercise. "And if there are any repercussions I'll take full responsibility… Alright, let's keep this low key: try not to draw any attention." I took the lead section along the Shank Hill Road and into the first pub.
The pub was busy with people beginning festivities early and quite noisy, but as we entered the place fell silent. Trying to remain affable, we moved around asking about Paddy and showing his photograph, but the patrons were resentful and disobliging. Eventually, realising we were wasting our time, I signalled to the rest of the section and we started to leave. As we exited the pub began to come to life again, and one of the disgruntled patrons voiced his vexation: "Fuckin' Paras!… Think they fuckin' own the world!... You'd think they'd give it a rest at Christmas."
"It's been two weeks since Corporal Mahony went missing," said Major Fields. He was not pleased; I had been called into his office to get my knuckles rapped. "We should have stepped down the search a week ago… Now I've received orders – from on high – to stand down immediately. Some local business people have complained to the Commissioner." He sighed heavily and looked me straight in the eye. "You're a good sergeant; I should hate to loose you… Am I making myself clear, Sergeant?"
"Crystal, sir!"
"Good… Off you go."
It was the most miserable Christmas I ever experienced. While 2 Para remained in Ulster, for the next couple of months, Bobby and I haunted Belfast on our off-duty time, dressed in civilian clothes, searching for some kind of closure. There were times when we knew we were being watched. Having been sniper trained myself, I have a sixth sense about these things: more than once I could feel a sniper's cross-hairs on us.
Paddy's disappearance was simply written off as one of Northern Ireland's unsolved incidents. When we returned to Aldershot Bobby bought himself out of the remainder of his contract; he'd only signed back on the previous year. He said he was going to spend some time in London and then perhaps go home to Stranraar. He dropped off the radar.
The week after my twenty-fifth birthday, the night I took out the ABA championship for the sixth year in a row, a promoter who had propositioned me after each championship, three years running, came into my dressing-room after the fight.
“John-lad…” he said warmly, “Looking as sharp as ever… Sharper!… How many's that you’ve won by the short route?” he asked, the cultivated voice barely giving away his Lancashire roots.
“I don’t know… I’ve lost count; maybe twenty-four out of the last thirty fights.” “Very impressive!” he said, and then, “Actually, you've stopped twenty eight out of thirty.” He frowned then before asking, “How old are you now, lad?”
“I was twenty-five last week,”
“How many fights, all told?”
I thought about it for a moment, but I knew the answer, just as I’d known the answer to his first question – just checking to see how much attention he was really giving me. “I’ve been fighting since I was twelve and I’ve had two-hundred-and-fifty-one fights.”
“Jesus!… Not many these days have had half that, their entire career. Any idea of the tally?”
Without pause for thought I said, succinctly, “Two-hundred-and-thirty inside the distance and three draws.”
He gave a little whistle and said, “A commendable record, lad.”
“What’s your point, Mr Cross?”
“A World Title. A professional ‘World Title’… That’s what I’m talking about.”
I looked at the wily old promoter for a moment, before saying, candidly, “I’m a good boxer, Mr Cross; the best amateur in Britain, maybe? Maybe even in the world. But you and I both know there's a world of difference between the best amateur and the best professional. Besides, only black Americans win professional world titles.”
“Yes, mostly,” he agreed, “but not always, lad… not always!” and then, apparently changing the subject, “How’s the army treating you?”
“Good… as always.”
“Are you in for the long haul then?”
“I think so,” I said, but no longer feeling the conviction.
“So taking a ‘World Professional Title’ within two years, and all the money that goes with that doesn’t interest you?”
Previously, when questioned about turning pro, the answer had always been clear in my mind. I had given it some thought, in actual fact I always considered myself good enough to make it as a professional, but the Army had been my home, and the Paras my family for ten years. I was a soldier first, a boxer second. However, recent events had shaken my certainty somewhat.
“This will make the fourth year running I’ve spoken to you at these titles, and I guess what I’m saying is… this'll be the last time I’ll ask you. Next year you will have missed the bus, as far as shooting for a world title is concerned. Every man’s time comes and goes; it doesn’t matter what he’s doing, or going to do. And with a very physical pursuit, like boxing, the window of opportunity is pretty small.
“What I’m about to say won’t, I’m sure, be news to you… You are a smart fighter, but what makes you so good is that you have the quickest reflexes of anyone, bar none, that I have ever witnessed; because of that your window of opportunity has lasted longer than most. Two years hard work, John… two-million pounds and a world title… What do you say?” Previously fairly quick with my reply, I hesitated, and his eyes opened a little wider; barely perceivable but I recognised the hopeful expectancy. “Am I tempting you at last, John-lad?”
“Let me talk to my wife tonight, Mr Cross, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“Whatever you say, John,” and smiling he handed me a card. “Call me anytime… anytime.” I nodded; the smallest, enigmatic smile on my lips.
“It’s your life... You do whatever you think is best,” and she smiled, touching my face briefly, tenderly. “I’ll support you in what ever you want to do.” Of course I knew she’d say that; that was part of the reason I loved her. I had of course already made my decision. The trick now was to keep enjoying the game for as long as it took to win the title.
We bought a house in Hampstead, London, to be close to Mr Cross’ gym, and my preparation for an assault on the ‘Light-Heavyweight Boxing Championship of the World’ began. I'd been training almost like a professional boxer for the best part of six years before turning pro: the army was good with its sportsmen, particularly if you keep winning. In fact, over the next two years, as a pro, I spent less time actually in the ring than I did as an amateur: only nine fights.
The first three fights didn’t last a round, the next three fights went to the third round, then another first round knockout, the eighth fight lasted four rounds, and then a second round knockout. Mr Cross was a little concerned about my fights not lasting long enough to test my endurance.
“I’ve lined you up a Mexican: Hernandez… You heard of him?”
“Of course, Mexico doesn’t produce many light-heavyweights. Gonzáles Hernández, ‘The Mexican Devil’. One tough hombre – southpaw – and never been stopped.” I stated, as though reading off his promo sheet.
“That’s the one,” said Mr Cross.
“Then we get Foster?”
“Then we get Foster,” he confirmed.
Chapter 13: THE LION'S DEN
Not knowing Glasgow at all, no matter how hard I try to keep orientated, by the time he turns sharply into a doorway and up a set of stairs, I'm lost; that is obviously the intention. At the top of the poorly lit stairway there is a set of double doors, and I'm close behind him as he pushes through two sets of double doors; and then I stop.
To my surprise, we're in a boxing gym; with a training session underway. There are half a dozen heavy bags, three old punch balls on stands, two speed balls and a couple of floor-to-ceiling balls dispersed around the old wooden floored gym. In the middle, complete with badly stained canvas and corner pads, is a full sized ring. There are fighters sweating and grunting at each piece of old equipment, and a couple of guys going at it in the ring with a trainer acting as referee. I don't mean they're sparring: there's a difference between sparring and 'going at it'. There are two more trainers around the room working hand pads with fighters. The smell of antique leather mixed with old, stale sweat and the rapid smack, smack, smack of leather hitting leather, and the grunting of fighters putting in their effort reminds me, vividly, of a boxing gym I haven't been in since I was fifteen years old.
The young man with the cruel eyes reaches halfway up the gym before realising I've stopped. "This way, Mr Farrell," he says. After watching me take a few steps towards him, he turns and continues across the gym, disappearing through a door on the far side. Pushing the door open I find him waiting just inside. "Y' packin' Mr Farrell?" he asks, giving me a piercing look with those cruel eyes.
Pausing momentarily, I glance over his shoulder; there's another flight of stairs just behind him with a door at the top. I feel a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach and the steel fist that has gripped my intestines since the previous Thursday afternoon releases me. This is it! I know, intuitively, that Victor Craven is on the other side of the next door! Glancing back, into the icy depths of those eyes, I open my jacket and say evenly, "No… but I'm sure you're not going to take my word for it." If he discovers my hidden treasures I'll have to take him out, and then take my chances upstairs. I can tell he's hoping not to find anything as he steps cautiously forward and gives me a perfunctory pat down.
"Mr Farrell… we meet again."
He's sitting behind a desk on the far side of the office, looking relaxed. There are seven serious looking individuals sitting or standing in various positions around the room between us. They seem fairly at ease: as if they don't expect me to do anything… troublesome, but prepared just in case I'm stupid enough to try.
"Where's my family?" I ask bluntly.
"Safe and well," he says; a smile touches the corners of his mouth, but doesn't reach his eyes. "You're quite something aren’t you, John Farrell… You destroy my life's work and you stand there as arrogant as the first time you whispered in my ear, after breaking into my home. I could have you killed where you stand."
"Yes… well, it's fairly obvious that you want something of me before you kill me. And as far as me being arrogant is concerned… You send your thugs to kill my son, and then kill two of your own men to frame me for murder. Further to that you make sure I can't get a fair trial: condemning me to rot in jail for the rest of my life; however short you can arrange that to be. Not to mention having an old man killed for caring about me, and then fuelling a situation that killed my best friend and almost killed me. Have I missed anything?... Oh yes, to add insult to injury, you kidnap my wife and son." At this stage I'm beginning to work my self into a bit of lather so I pause and take a deep breath before saying, "You… conceited, egotistical, egoist bastard!... You sit there and call me arrogant. I could kill you right now, before any of your lackeys stopped me."
The atmosphere in the office changes somewhat during my tirade, and everyone looks ready to burst into action. Except Craven, the corners of his mouth are still affecting the semblance of a smile. "Yes, well…" he says, mimicking my own reaction to his inclination to kill me, "It's fairly obvious that you want something from me first, too. And by the way, I killed those two 'excuses for bodyguards' for falling down on the job," and his mouth definitely does make a smile as he adds, "After all… you could have killed me, quite easily."
I can't help returning his approximation of a smile and nodding, before saying "Yes, I could have… twice. Do you still have that little memento?" and involuntarily his hand goes halfway to his throat before he regains control, and instead runs his fingers through his hair; all semblance of a smile gone.
"The difference between what I want from you and what you want from me – apart from me knowing what you want, and you not having the faintest idea what I want – is that I could change my mind and just have you killed, and then kill your family anyway. Whereas if you kill me your death would follow swiftly, and again your family would die anyway." Taking back control, that annoying facade of a smile returns.
"So, what is it you want, Craven?" I say through gritted teeth.
"That's better Farrell," he says, and the atmosphere in the room relaxes somewhat again. "All I want is for you to do what you're good at." My face must be mirroring my bewilderment because he says, "Oh come on, Farrell! Don't be so modest… You were one of the infamous Red Devils and were awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for single-handedly killing thirty-odd rebels. You were also, at one time, arguably the best, pound for pound, boxer in the world, and killed Gonzalez 'The Mexican Devil" Hernandez in the first few seconds of the fight. You heroically came to the aid of a victim of a gang rape and, in one foul swoop, snapped the neck of one of the assailants, killing him instantly. Thr-"
"Where's this going, Craven?" I say attempting to cut him off, shifting uncomfortably as all eyes in the room burn into me.
"Hold on John, I'm just getting to the best bit… Three men armed with guns attacked you, and according to the one who ran away, you killed two of them in the blink of an eye – with kitchen knives. And last but certainly not least: you were one of eleven men to enter a gymnasium in Wormwood Scrubs and the only one who came out alive."
"Two." I correct. "Ah, yes… but I don't consider being a vegetable actually living."
"The point, Craven; get to the point?" My patience is totally exhausted by now as I add, "And before you do get to it… I might as well tell you now: there's nothing you can say or do to me, or my family, that would induce me to kill for you." A little worked up by this point, I'm trying not to alert the villains in the room to the fact that I'm getting ready to kill Craven and take as many of them out as I can. Connie and James will have to take their chances; I send up a silent prayer for them.
"No, Farrell. I think I know you a little better than that by now: I've studied you for two-and-a-half years," and shaking his head he goes on. "No… when I want someone killed I've got plenty to choose from," he says gesturing around the room. "And there's plenty more. No, Farrell… I want you to fight!... Mind you, you may, inadvertently, kill someone. Because, believe me, they'll be trying to kill you."
"What are you talking about, Craven?" and while trying to appear as compliant as possible: my movements slow and deliberate, I reach for a spare chair; stepping forward, I place it a couple of metres in front of his desk and slowly sit down, folding my arms with my hands inside my jacket. Inwardly coiling, I fill my fists with gun and knife; my mind calm before the storm. 'You don't know me as well as you think'.
"It's known as 'The Real World Championship', and eliminations are fought throughout the globe," says Craven, watching me intently. "It takes place over a period of eight weeks. The district title, which in our case is the UK Championships, is held here in Glasgow; the regional title, the European Championships, is held in Berlin; and the finals take place in Bangkok."
Relaxing, emptying my hands, unfolding my arms, I rest them on my thighs. I have heard of this competition. It's ludicrous that he should consider a man of my years for such a contest, but I have no doubt that during the course of preparing for such an event I will get a better opportunity to save my family, and stop Craven once and for all.
"You do this, and you take your family and get on with your life. If you don't do this however, you, your wife and son all die… it's that simple."
"So… I enter this competition and you let us go… just like that?"
"Oh… no, John. You misunderstand. No wonder you sound sceptical," and he actually chuckles. "You win this competition, and then I let you go."
I think 'This person is mentally unhinged', but I give no outward sign that I'm thinking anything. "So… just to clear up any possible misunderstandings…" I say slowly, and I'm folding my arms again. "If I don't win this competition, outright, we all die?"
"I'd like to think I'm just a bit more humane than that." He says, attempting to sound benevolent. "No, John, not quite. But the only way your family lives if you loose: is if you die trying."
Relaxing again, I empty my hands and rest them on my thighs once more. "When is the first stage of the competition?" "That's the spirit… tremendous. You've got a little under three weeks to get ready; I know you've been keeping in shape, so that should be plenty of time to familiarise with the rules of combat…" and he chuckles before adding, "there aren't any!" and he chuckles a little more at his own joke before, motioning to one of the assembled group of thugs. "This is MacGreggor…" and a stocky, slightly overweight, thirty-something man steps forward; by his scarred face, broken nose and cauliflower ears he is obviously an ex-pugilist. "He'll be your trainer."
"What are his qualifications?" I ask and before Craven can answer MacGreggor speaks up; his rapid fire Glaswegian accent made even more obscure by a badly broken nose, and a gap where his two front teeth should be.
"A've been init three times," he says.
"Did you win?" I asked reasonably. His facial reactions are enough that I don't need to hear his answer. "Well… I'd hardly say that qualifies you to train me, then."
"That's not fair, John," Craven speaks up in his defence, "he did get through to the district finals all three times, winning them once to go on to the first round in Berlin."
Looking from Craven to MacGreggor, I'm silent for a moment, thinking. "I mean you no disrespect Mr MacGreggor, but my life and, more importantly, the life of my family hangs in the balance here… I will be happy to have you as part of a support team: your insight into the rules of this competition might prove invaluable." I then turn my attention back to Craven. "But to have a fighting chance, I'm going to need a certain trainer."
Craven's eyes narrow to black slits before he asks, suspiciously, "And who might that be?"
"A local man, actually. Hamish Duncan."
Before Craven can respond, the young man with the cruel eyes speaks up. "A know 'im, Mr Craven," and all eyes swivel in his direction.
"You know him?" Craven says, incredulously.
"Well… A don't actually know 'im, personally. He's the highest gradit karate master in Scotland. He's refereed m' fights a few times. A have a noddin'… or, should A say, a bowing acquaintance wi' 'im."
"In other words… you know who he is, but he wouldn't know you from a piece of dog shit?" says Craven sarcastically.
"Aye… a suppose so," says the young man sullenly, eyes downcast. But as Craven turns his attention toward me, the young man shoots Craven a withering, sidelong glance – focusing those cruel eyes, momentarily, on him – and if looks could kill…
"And what makes you think this Hamish…"
"Duncan." I offer.
"…Hamish Duncan will train you for this… competition?"
"He'll train me."
Craven lifts an eyebrow. "Old friends, are you?"
"We knew each other… a long time ago." I say evasively.
"Just don't get any ideas, John." He says in a warning tone, eyes narrowed.
"Look, Craven… you obviously want to win this competition, and for some reason you believe I can take it out for you. And while I'm flattered at your confidence; I for one – particularly as, thanks to you, I have my own vested interests – feel I need as much edge as possible. Hamish Duncan can give me that edge." There follows a moments silence as he blatantly evaluates me.
"Very well… take MacGreggor, and young Dinga here, and let them know exactly what you need for your training purposes; you might as well get started. But before you go…" and he picks up the phone and dials enquiries. "Hamish Duncan, please." A couple of seconds pass. "No… Yes, that's right. I understand he's connected with karate… Yes, that's him," and after picking up a pen and scribbling down a number, "Thank you." Hitting the receiver, he dials another number. "Mr Duncan?... My name's Victor Craven, I understand that you are acquainted with an associate of mine: John Farrell?..." and he listens thoughtfully for a couple of seconds. "Well… he assures me that you know each other."
"Tell him twenty-five years ago, C Company, 2 Para." I call out.
"Hello, Mr Duncan… I'm told to remind you: twenty-five years ago, C Company 2 Para… Yes, that John Farrell… Ah, good." Craven is now wearing his in-control smile. "I wonder… could you meet with me to discuss training him for a competition?…" and after listening for another moment. "Yes I am aware of how old he is, but I can assure you he is still in excellent condition…" another pause. "Good, I'll be along at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," and he puts the phone down.
"Pay him what ever you need to… he'll be worth every penny," I say standing to leave. "Farrell?" he says looking at me suspiciously.
"You're holding all the aces, Craven," and I turn my back on him. Making my way to the door I acquire two new shadows.
We shop for some training shoes, shorts, vests, and a tracksuit, but as it's late, anything more specific to fight training will have to wait until tomorrow. Alec MacGreggor gives me a rundown of all the competition procedures while we eat a late meal at the hotel; he and young Dinga Bell are booked into rooms on the same floor. After dinner, as they head for the bar, I return to my room for an early night; it's been a long day.
Before turning in, I check again for monitoring devices, and then phone Bobby from the toilet. "Hi, Bobby. Any news?"
"Only that I'm up to speed with what's happening with you and Hamish. How did you manage to pull that one off? And what competition has Craven got you involved in?"
After briefly filling in the blanks, I say, "We have less than three weeks to find out where he's keeping Connie and James, or I'll have to fight in, and win, this bloody tournament."
"And it's no rules, you say?"
"That's right… we fight in a cage." "Don't worry, John, with Hamish on the inside now – that was a stroke of genius, by the way – we'll track them down in no time."
"I sincerely hope so." I suddenly feel very old. "It's been a pretty full five days… I'm going to have a shower and get some sleep… goodnight, and good luck!"
"And the same to you, my friend."
"Oh, by the way…" I say before he hangs up, "tell Hamish to demand a large fee; Craven will pay it."
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