Chapter 13 — Nab and the Security Work

In London, following the 'Black Monday' of 1987, construction work was getting really tight, and often you would only make enough in the week to pay for your lodgings and that was it. With the help of a friend, I'd secured some security work from a local mobster, Nab, in Ruislip, who kept a shotgun under his bed and a beautiful wife called Maureen on top of the bed. I don't know why but I couldn't seem to do anything wrong, and Nab and Maureen took a shine to me.

'Right, Karl, all you have to do is stand on this door in Wembley Arena and make sure no one gets in or out without a pass.'

It was the Horse of the Year Show and all the people sat watching the show were exceedingly posh. All day long, all I had to do was stand and watch these horses and their riders jump endless fences. It was excruciating, but the day ended unexpectedly short.

'You seem bored? Don't you like show jumping?' asked a middle aged woman with another woman in tow, showing their passes as they were leaving.

'Not really, as I don't really understand it much,' I replied.

The two women left the Arena but soon arrived back, and one handed me a very large glass of champagne, saying, 'Here, this should cheer you up.'

I knew I wasn't supposed to drink, but what the hell, it was the eighties, and no one was going to know, and I raised the glass to the two women.

I'd only ever had champagne once before, and I found the bubbles quite intoxicating. I'd no sooner finished the glass when an elderly gentleman from the same group as that of the women returned from the bar and handed me a double shot of vodka.

'Tar very much!' and down it went.

Another person from the group went to the bar and another drink was presented. At the time, I wasn't conscious of any trickery, but afterwards, they must have taken me for some right idiot. I don't know how long their game would have gone on for, because it was ended as quickly as it had begun. Someone from another group, noticing the scene, had gone and complained – I was told about this afterwards – and Nab turned up with an almighty growl on his scarred face. That was the first time he sacked me.

'Right, Karl, you can't go wrong this time; all you have to do is walk around the Conference Centre during the night and make sure no one is breaking in. Don't fall asleep, as they come round and check sometimes to see if you're doing your job.'

'Don't worry, Nab, I won't mess up this time. I’ve brought a book and a chess set to keep me occupied.'

'Good. See you in the morning.'

In the morning when Nab turned up, there was another almighty growl on his scarred face. 'You fucking dopey cunt. You couldn't keep awake, could you? I'll be lucky to keep the contract for this job.'

He kept the contract, but I never saw the Conference Centre again.

Nab put me occasionally on Wembley Stadium or in the Arena when there was a concert or some such event, but that was all. 'You're not big enough to work on the doors, Karl, and you'd get banged out the first night I'd put you on one,' he'd say.

The last time I saw Nab was in 1988 at Destination Docklands, a concert with lasers and Jean Michel Jarre. Nab had the contract to provide security for protecting the money. Thousands were due to be there, and when they paid for something from off the stalls, the money was to be transferred to a security van with a bloke inside.

It was a Sunday morning when we set off from Ruislip, and nearing the venue, we all stopped off at a roadside café. Normally, Nab and his crew were quite animated, but that Sunday morning, I remember, there was edginess about them all. No one spoke over their greasy breakfast, and most of the men didn't even bother eating theirs.

When we arrived at the event, it had already started to rain heavily. Nab pulled me to one side. 'Listen, Karl, I'm going to put you outside the van,' which he pointed to. 'There'll be blokes bringing money to put into that van at different times during the evening. All you have to do is stand there and show a presence, that's all. I don't expect any trouble, but listen very carefully, and if there is, you must lie down on the floor and don't move. Do you hear? This is important: just lie down, and don't try to be the hero.'

I assured him I would, and off he went, looking extremely agitated.

I went for a cup of tea at one of the vendors thinking – knowing – that something was afoot, and wondering whether or not to simply fuck off there and then. The rain began to fall down in torrents, and I decided to stay a while longer.

As the day moved on, the rain didn't relent, and even became heavier. The expected crowds didn't show up because of the weather, and the day's event was a complete washout.

Towards the end, Nab looked quite calm. He paid me for the day, and I never set eyes on him again, or London for that matter.

Some years afterwards I read that many thousands of pounds had gone missing from the event.