Free Fighting to the Death by Carl Merritt Page B

life. It wasn’t going to be easy. There’d been too many knockdowns already and I didn’t honestly know if I was up to the challenge.
    I jumped at the chance of working the door at a club with Uncle Pete and his crew because I desperately needed to start earning a wedge. Mum turned a blind eye to the fact I was missing school – she just wanted me off the streets, where I might get up to no good. I assured Pete I was fighting fit and ready for work. I was fifteen and about to get a taste of the real world.

CHAPTER SIX
Money in my Pocket
    I always reckoned that not much of the old man ever rubbed off on me, but now I know that’s not completely true. He was always a diplomat if ever there was any aggro. He never just steamed in and caused trouble. He liked to talk about things first and then, if someone ignored him, whack , he’d go in with all fists blazing. His brother – my Uncle Peter – was the opposite. He always told me: ‘Don’t give up. Don’t lose. You ain’t gonna lose as long as you think you ain’t gonna lose.’ Uncle Pete certainly wasn’t shy about knocking a few heads together if he felt the need. He went in hard and fast and took no prisoners.
    It was Uncle Pete who really taught me much of what I know today. He taught me self-respect and he also showed me the importance of manners. Not having my dad at home meant that was doubly important. And Uncle Pete was certainly quite a character. He was so into heavy rock that he used to drag me topop concerts in fields and events like that. He especially loved the Eagles and the Rolling Stones.
    My first door job with Uncle Pete was at a Croydon night-club called Scamps. Me and all the other doormen had to wear a red shirt, black bowtie (clip-on, naturally) and a black jacket. I was still just fifteen years old, but no one back at school in Forest Gate even bothered to come after me. I already weighed in at nearly fifteen stone with a seventeen-inch neck and well-toned biceps to match. No one there (apart from Uncle Pete) had a clue how young I was. If they had, then I’d probably have had a lot more trouble with the customers.
    But it didn’t take more than a few days on the door at Scamps for some aggro to flare up. ‘Get your arse down here,’ screamed Uncle Pete over the walkie-talkie, seconds after a punter outside the club had tried to smash a bottle over his head. I sorted out the assailant and we made sure he never came back to Scamps again.
    I worked three full nights a week at Scamps and stood in for many of the other doormen if they were off sick. There were seven doormen in total working at the club at any one time. One night a few weeks after I’d started, I was walking up the stairs to the club entrance when a familiar-looking figure walked down the other way, right past me. I blinked twice to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. It was my dad. I hadn’t seen him in years.
    He turned back. ‘Heard you was here,’ he said to me as our eyes met. I was well annoyed to find I was working at the same club as the old man, who had worked as a doorman at loads of clubs over the years. I suppose I should have known better since it was his brother Pete who was running the door. But I still couldn’t get that clash between him and my mum out of my mind. I knew he’dbeen given quite an ear-bashing by my mum, but nothing gave him the excuse for tearing into her the way he did.
    I said nothing at first and just gave him a kind of steely look, right into his eyes. I suppose I was waiting for him to say sorry for fucking up the lives of his four kids and wife. But instead he just grinned at me as if nothing was the matter. That really grated with me at the time. I wanted him to grovel for what he’d done to us.
    ‘Ain’t you even goin’ to say hello to your old man?’ he said, trying desperately to break the ice.
    ‘Fuck off,’ I said, surprised at my own coldness.
    Just then Uncle Peter appeared on the stairs. He must have sensed the