Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story

by Foreman, Jamie

  As soon as Dad had been charged, we were surrounded with people who wanted to help and protect us. His network of family, friends, allies and those who owed ‘favours’ went into full swing. They needed to put their heads together. They needed to get him out of this. In my experience, there really is honour among thieves.

  I knew I had to be strong and stand tall for my mum. It’s what Dad would have expected. I hated seeing her crying all the time. I wanted to be there for her. But it was decided, rightly, that I should return to school for the time being.

  The school’s reaction was fantastic. An ‘old boy’ network similar to ours: ‘You always look after your own.’ I’ll never forget how the headmaster, Mr Furby, sat me down on my return. He was surprisingly gentle and kind, and spoke with reassuring calmness: ‘You’re not to worry about anything, Jamie. You mustn’t talk to anyone outside of school. And don’t worry, we’re all going to look after you and protect you from this.’

  Those words encapsulated the beauty of my boarding school. Whatever was going on, I would not be shunned by the place to which I had grown so attached; nor would I be exposed to the gossip and hearsay that would be circulating in the outside world. I wouldn’t be drawn into the chaos surrounding the biggest criminal trial in British legal history to date.

  Looking back, it seems incredible that those around me managed to shield me from everything so well, yet they did. We didn’t have access to newspapers at school, and I was kept well away from the press who circled the place like vultures. As far as school gossip went, it was ‘Woe betide any boy who dares whisper whatever they may hear on the grapevine.’ I was safe.

  Like I said, the stress the episode placed me under – the way it felt like a surreal, terrible dream – means I can’t tell it all exactly as it happened. All I know is that at some point I was back at home before Dad went to trial. The atmosphere at the pub was so different. Dad wasn’t there, of course, but the rooms upstairs were constantly buzzing with activity. A lot of my ‘uncles’ – members of Dad’s firm and other associates – were always around. They were there to reassure us, and constantly told us that it was all going to be OK.

  They would also huddle in the living room and talk for hours in hushed tones. I wasn’t privy to their conversations, but every time I ferried in tea and sandwiches for them I was aware that whatever they were discussing was focused on helping Dad. It wasn’t a happy time, but to know that everything possible was being done gave me the focus I needed to stay positive, keep making the tea and feel that I too was doing my bit.

  From my experiences at similar meetings later in life – and there have been a few – I know that what seemed mysterious to me then was nothing but my dad’s closest, most trusted friends putting their heads together and exploring every possibility on the road to building his defence case. It’s quite a formidable thing to witness men who plan crimes with professional precision employing the same attention to detail when trying to get out of them. The atmosphere of intensity and focus is something to behold.

  The first charge Dad faced was for the murder of Frank Mitchell. Mitchell was known as ‘The Mad Axeman’ – you don’t get a nickname like that for nothing, do you? Anyway, the charge came about on the evidence of a man called Albert Donahue, who claimed he was an eyewitness to Mitchell’s shooting. Donahue was one of the Kray firm who’d turned supergrass and gave evidence for the prosecution. Perhaps he had his reasons, but Donahue broke one of the fundamental rules of the underworld – never grass. Once you cross that line, you never live it down. The act of snitching comes to define you in the eyes of many. Including yours truly. Donahue is the lowest of the low. He’ll never escape it and he will die a grass.

  Yet Donahue’s uncorroborated testimony didn’t get the result he and the authorities were after. Dad was found not guilty. He’d avoided the biggie – a life sentence. It was no time to celebrate, though. Once he had been acquitted of murder, Dad had to face the charge of being an accessory in the murder of Jack McVitie. Jack ‘The Hat’ was an associate of the Krays who, like Mitchell, had become a liability to them. The Krays had killed him, and my father was accused of disposing of the body.

  GUILTY

  I can’t recall the moment when I learned my dad had been found guilty. Perhaps I didn’t know what ‘accessory to murder’ meant – perhaps I didn’t want to know – but what I did know was that Dad had been found guilty of that charge. He had been taken away and wouldn’t be back for a very long time. The sentence was ten years – as long as I’d been alive. I was devastated.

  Mum had held it together for so long, but once Dad was sentenced she went to pieces for a while. She took to her room for days, and kept the lights off. The atmosphere in the pub was dead and a sort of silence descended on our lives. Mum couldn’t face anyone. I didn’t feel much like it either.

  The news was a total bombshell, but young as I was I knew I had to protect myself so that I could be there for Mum. I didn’t go into denial about what was happening, but I did my best not to let the pain get hold of me. I had to shield myself from my own emotions and be strong. When I look back at the little boy I was, I’ve got a lot of respect for him. He took on a lot and coped with a lot and I don’t know how he did it, I really don’t.

  A man’s prison sentence is also a sentence on his family, and it’s always devastating, especially at first. There wasn’t a lot I could do for Mum apart from just be there for her, bring her cups of coffee, tell her I love her, and let her know it was OK to be upset. Sure enough, Mum slowly came round. She was dealing with something momentous, and she dealt with it well. When the chips are down, my mum’s a very strong woman.

  I hadn’t spent time with Dad for a long while – ever since he had been arrested – and I was absolutely desperate to see him. But my mum told me that we would have to wait as people who received long sentences weren’t allowed visits straight away. Eventually, the chance came to visit Dad in Leicester Prison.

  I’d never been to Leicester before. We arrived on a foggy winter’s day and the place was a shock, to put it mildly. It looked like a horrible city, or at least that’s how it seemed to me, if only because I knew that my father was incarcerated there. I’ll never forget how cold it was the day me and Mum first set eyes on the jail, which sits on a big, bleak common. I remember thinking it looked like a medieval castle.

  We were taken through the huge wooden gates and ushered into a waiting room. Suddenly we were in a different world. A world of slamming doors, of echoes, the sound of men’s voices filling the hallways, the clanging of metal on metal. It was my first time inside a prison and it was even more horrible than I expected. I’d never seen so many uniforms and sets of keys in one place. The screws had a terrible habit of swinging their great big bunches of keys in a way that was both menacing and annoying.

  I took it all in as we were processed, then taken through door after door, and all the time there was a knot in my stomach. I just wanted to see my dad, but first we had to wait. The feeling of being in that waiting room that day will never leave me. Immediately I became aware of other visitors looking at us and whispering. They knew who we were, and why we were there. Once again it struck me what a reputation Dad had.

  They could whisper all they wanted, it didn’t bother me. Mum looked so beautiful – dressed immaculately as always, wearing her best jewellery. I felt so proud to be next to her, her head held high and me on my best behaviour. We waited in one corner of the room until a prison guard told everyone to move to another door. ‘Could you just wait here, Mrs Foreman,’ he said as everybody else filed out.

  It looked as if we were getting special treatment, but there was nothing special about it – we had to wait because we were destined for a different part of the prison. After a few minutes, we were taken off through another set of gates that led into the main yard. I looked up and saw this dark tower – it looked like a castle within a castle – surrounded by an empty moat. It was daunting, ominous and obviously special. Dad was be
ing kept in an inner sanctum, I thought. I was right. At the time it was the highest-security prison unit in England.

  We moved towards the building, following a guard. We descended a stone staircase. It was as if we were heading to the dungeons. The guard tapped on a door and a hatch slid open. Two eyes – another screw. The door unlocked and swung open. We passed through and the door slammed shut behind us. The new screw ushered us down a long corridor to another door. Another hatch. More eyes. Countless doors, countless corridors. Hatch after hatch, screw after screw, it seemed endless. What is this place? I thought. I felt like we were descending into hell or something, travelling towards a dark place a million miles from the outside world. Was my dad really in here somewhere?

  Then, suddenly, we walked through a door into a carpeted room with no windows. As I entered I saw two screws sitting behind a desk. I looked around the room, and there he was.

  My dad.

  Arms wide open and a big smile on his face, he was beaming: ‘Well, come here and give us a cuddle then.’

  I rushed into his arms. It was absolutely glorious. Being with Dad again was like reaching the promised land after floundering so long in the wilderness. We all forgot about the depressing surroundings because Dad looked so strong, so normal, that he made me feel nothing but happiness.

  ‘This is how it is going to be, Jamie,’ he said, gesturing to our surroundings, ‘but it doesn’t matter to us as long as we make the most of this time together.’ Beautiful words I’ll never forget.

  It was a wonderful visit. Dad was Dad, exactly as he’d always been. Circumstances had changed, but he didn’t seem fazed by any of it. During those moments, seeing my father being so strong for us, I felt such respect and awe for him. His dignity was something to aspire to.

  There was so much love in that room I could have stayed there with him for all eternity. But we were soon reminded that only one person would be staying. Hearing ‘time’s up’ was like a punch in the stomach, but Dad was ready to buoy us up a little. ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he said, holding me tight. ‘You’ll see me again soon. And look after your mother for me.’

  I knew I had to be strong, and I had to believe in the future. If Dad could do it, I could too. To him prison was the price you pay for living the life he led – if you can’t do the time…

  I was his son. In many ways I had benefited from the things he had done and now things were difficult I was prepared to suffer the consequences with him.

  Saying goodbye was awful, though ‘awful’ is hardly the word. It was heartbreaking. Worse still was all those doors slamming shut behind us – another sharp reminder of where we were and that my dad had been snatched away from me. It hit me like a ton of bricks. An hour earlier I’d walked down the same corridors and through the same doors, yet I’d been heading somewhere I wanted to go. Now I was going through the same, painfully slow process, but I was being dragged away. Each slamming door confirmed I was getting further away from who I wanted to be with.

  Once outside, I didn’t look back. There was no point. All I wanted to do was get away from the prison, away from grey, horrible Leicester and back to London. A cab took us to the station and we boarded the train. Leaving my dad behind in that place was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It made me feel somehow guilty. I felt like I was deserting him. That painful memory has stayed with me all my life.

  Mum always gave us a treat after our visits. Once back in London, she’d help revive my flagging spirits and help me wash away some of the pain I felt leaving Dad. ‘Let’s go out for dinner,’ she would say, and then take me to this lovely Italian place in the Strand, or to the Spaghetti House. I’ll always love her for that, and for the strength she showed in those moments when she realised the pain of not having Dad around was overwhelming me.

  Coming to terms with Dad being away was a journey that took quite some time. There were always little reminders that he wasn’t around, and each one made the situation feel sadder. You always tried to stay positive, and always held on to the promise that it wasn’t going be this way for ever, but some moments really brought home the nightmare of the whole thing.

  Before he went away, Dad always used to come and pick me up from school for the holidays. He never missed one end of term. I remember standing at the dorm window and looking out across Blackheath until I spotted his car, a beautiful postbox-red Mercedes 220SE. It was a real tool, that car – beautiful black leather seats, chrome hubs, eight-track stereo, tail wings at the back – and I loved watching it arc over the hill and down towards me.

  It was Christmas, and the first end of term since Dad had been locked up. My uncle John Fitzgerald, Nellie’s husband, was due to pick me up. I was fine with that, but what I didn’t know was that he’d be driving Dad’s red Mercedes. Much as I loved my uncle Fitzy, it was a tough pill to swallow seeing that car speed towards the school without my dad at the wheel.

  Until that moment it hadn’t quite hit me that my dad wasn’t going to come back to us for a long, long time. A few months had already felt like an age, but it hurt seeing that wonderful car again and knowing I’d be able to drive it myself by the time Dad became a free man again. A sense of how long ten years really was began to dawn on me, and it was nauseating. The previous Christmas, Dad had whisked me and the family off to the Bahamas. This Christmas was going to be the worst we ever had. The first of many hollow, empty holidays. How times had changed.

  And how times were changing. Going home wasn’t the same any more. The pub was still busy – business was even brisker for a while, thanks to a bit of post-trial notoriety – and our family was surrounded by good people who rallied around and looked after us. It helped, of course, but Dad had been such a momentous presence that his absence was always gnawing away.

  Nobody’s life got easier once Dad went away. It was the end of an era for many of his firm as well. It was as if they’d all run out of time. So many were nicked for one thing or another. The sixties had been a momentous, special time for them, then suddenly it all felt like it was over and everything seemed miserable.

  Yet, despite everything, I was holding it together. So far.

  IN PIECES AND BACK TOGETHER

  There was a German with a bomb and he was waiting to jump out and kill me. I was convinced of it. He was hiding behind a lorry near the pub. In a few seconds, I was going to be blown to smithereens. I couldn’t move – fear had rooted me to the spot – and, boy, did I need to get out of there. But it was no good: I was stuck. Panic gripped me and I began to scream, and as I screamed I found I could run, but instead of retreating I leaped forwards and dashed past the lorry towards the pub. Yelling, I collapsed at the door.

  A couple of regulars scooped me up and took me inside to safety. My mum was beside herself. ‘Where have you been, Jamie? What’s happened to you?’

  I didn’t have an answer. I was delirious, deranged even. There’d been a German outside, I’d panicked and now I was in the pub wearing my pyjamas and crying with confusion and fear. That was all I knew.

  The episode was a bit of a mystery. I’d been outside, that’s for sure, but there had been no German, and there was no explanation as to how and why I was out on the street in my pyjamas. Minutes before everything went off, I’d been snuggled up in a chair watching a war documentary on telly in the lounge above the pub, and I remember I had a bit of flu coming on. Next thing I knew, I was a block or two away from the pub, waiting for the traffic on Marshalsea Road to pass so I could cross and get home. Then I’d seen the lorry and wound up in a terrible state.

  The weird thing is, nobody could work out how I’d managed to leave the pub unnoticed. There was no way I could have gone through the bar without raising eyebrows. The only likely explanation was that I’d fallen asleep and then somehow dropped myself out of the first-floor window. If that’s what happened, never mind the German: I was lucky I hadn’t done myself some serious damage.

  The family doctor, Leo Barry, was called. I can’t remem
ber what he asked me, but I now know that during his hushed conversation with Mum he told her he thought I was having a bit of a breakdown. Things had obviously got to me, he said, and what I needed was some rest and a bit of TLC. Looking back, I can see how right he was.

  Around the time of this incident, my mum had started to really get herself together, and I’d been so relieved to see her getting back to somewhere near her best again. Her condition had been very, very worrying. I felt such admiration for her – to go through what she’d gone through and to come out the other side had required real strength. I’d done as much as I could to support her, and now that the pressure was off a little I was left with feelings I’d put aside for Mum and Danielle’s sake.

  Confusing states of sadness and anger left me pretty emotionally vulnerable, I suppose, and in the end I wasn’t equipped to deal with them at my age. It was as if I’d been in an emotional strait-jacket until that night, and the delirium outside the pub was my feelings wrestling free. My safety valve blew and I was left in a tangle of upset about everything that we’d been through after losing Dad.

  Mum followed the doctor’s orders, making sure I got the rest and care I needed. I was off school for a while and I remember spending a lot of time just crying and crying. Letting it all out was a positive thing, a cathartic process that did me a lot of good. For so long I’d hindered my acceptance of the situation by trying to stay strong, but now it was time to cut myself some slack and allow myself a bit of natural, human weakness. It was a case of having to hit rock bottom before picking yourself up and really taking control of things.

  My dad was gone, but he was coming back. That was the thing I needed to keep hold of – I had to accept a positive and a negative at the same time. I’d get to see him on visits, but otherwise I just had to get on with it. End of story.