Free Against All Odds: The Most Amazing True Life Story You'll Ever Read by Paul Connolly Page B

come down to visit one evening and they were outside in the drive making loads of noise and keeping the little ones awake. I went outside to tell them to shut up. I pretty much felt like the little ones’ big brother, so that was where I was coming from. I wasn’t particularly looking to get into trouble, but I was prepared to do whatever it took to make the East End boys go away. Uncle Bill and Coral were cowering inside, too scared to go out. Like most bullies, they couldn’t cope when there was a risk that they themselves might be confronted.
    ‘What the hell is going on here?’ I roared. ‘Do yourselves a favour and fuck off home.’
    ‘Says who?’ It was a tall black boy, swaggering about with an air of bravado.
    ‘Says me. Fuck off.’
    ‘Are you going to make me?’
    ‘Yeah, I fucking am.’
    We squared up against each other for what I assumed was going to be a fist fight. I wasn’t afraid of being hit; I was a boxer, after all. The kid struck me a blow and I retaliated by punching him in the head and knocking him to the ground. He fell quickly with a heavy thud. I looked down at him on the floor. He didn’t look as though he was going anywhere soon. He groaned and rolled his eyes. I poked him with my foot, but he didn’t react.
    That’s you sorted then, I thought. Good night! I turned and started to walk away. Then, I felt a sensation of warmth spreading across my belly. I looked down. A huge red stain was extending across my midriff. I had thought that I had received a light blow to the stomach, but I had been sliced with a Stanley knife. It wasn’t a deep cut, but any stomach wound tends to bleed profusely and this one was no exception. An ambulance was called, and I had to go to hospital to get five or six stitches. Fortunately, the wielder of the Stanley knife had slashed rather than stabbed, so I had not suffered any internal damage. Of course, I went to the hospital on my own as I had on various occasions in the past, clutching a rolled-up towel to my midriff to absorb the blood.
    While I waited to be treated in A&E, the police came to take a statement. They acted tough and mean: ‘We’re not letting a doctor see you until you tell us who it was.’
    ‘I’m not fucking telling you. None of your fucking business. I’m not making any complaints, so why do you need to know?’
    ‘Fine then. You’re a tough guy, are you? Then you can just stand there and bleed until you are ready to tell us.’
    ‘Fine.’
    I was full of bravado, but I was still bleeding heavily and I was starting to feel woozy. I stood my ground and tried to look as defiant as possible.
    Just then, Lindsey’s dad, Sergeant White, walked in. Sergeant White was an officer at Barkingside nick in North East London and senior to the policemen who were hassling me. He was outraged by what he saw. Even if I had done something wrong, there was no excuse for not letting me get medical treatment – and in this particular case I hadn’t done anything wrong.
    ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he roared. ‘This boy is the victim in this situation. Leave him alone. Let him see the doctor. You’re a disgrace to the uniform!’
    I got stitched up and Sergeant White took me back to his house to spend the night. He could not have been kinder, but shortly afterwards Lindsey broke up with me by means of a ‘Dear John’ on her dad’s advice. Even then, I didn’t blame him, although my heart was broken and it would take me a very long time to recover. I knew that Lindsey was a sweet girl who didn’t deserve to be with a thug like me.
    On another occasion, I was hanging about in the street with a bunch of kids while one of the black boys started teasing a couple of geezers at the bus stop. This was in Hornchurch, where the only black kids to be seen were from the home, and everyone knew it.
    One of the men turned to me with a grimace. ‘You’re a nice white kid,’ he said. ‘What are you doing hanging around with these black