Kray - Reg Kray: a Man Apart

FOR REG

Acknowledgements

With special thanks to my mother for her unfailing love.

To my family and friends for all their support.

And last, but not least, to Robert Smith for his help, patience and encouragement.

It would be fair to say I had my doubts. Hurtling down the motorway in the back of a strangers car, the phrase What am I doing here? sprang to mind on more than one occasion. It was a chilly March morning in 1996 and we were on our way to Maidstone Prison.

The phone call had come a week earlier. The caller was friendly and polite. After revealing his name he asked if I would visit; he insisted there were things we needed to talk about. I wasnt quite so sure. He persisted and eventually, if rather reluctantly, I agreed. He said he had a female friend who could give me a lift. I took her number, we said goodbye and I put the phone down. What had I done? What was I doing? It all felt rather unreal. I was not to know I had just had the first conversation with my future husband.

Thats how it began. Although I suppose, in real terms, it was a little before that. Perhaps it really started several weeks earlier in a bar in North London. I was sitting with an old friend having a farewell drink. He had got a new job and was about to leave for the States. He asked if I would do him a favour; he had made someone a promise and wanted to keep it. It was an easy enough task, just some publicity for a video, a number of sheets that needed faxing to the press and to magazines. I couldnt see any problem. It sounded straightforward enough. One drink later he told me it was for Reg Kray. I laughed, thinking he was joking. Two drinks later I knew he wasnt. Three drinks later I was standing at a bus stop wondering what on earth Id agreed to.

And so I found myself in a car heading towards Maidstone. Maureen Flanagan just call me Flanagan, the female friend, was sitting in the passenger seat and her boyfriend Derek was driving. They chatted as the road slipped by and our destination approached. A part of me was still uncertain about what I was doing. It would be untrue to say I didnt have any preconceptions about the Krays but I didnt have many. My information was limited to vague memories, a few newspaper articles and the media coverage following Rons death. The only fact I was sure of was the immense amount of time they had spent in prison. Was I worried at the prospect of meeting Reg Kray? I did feel a sense of trepidation. It wasnt just to do with who he was or his reputation. It was something more. I felt uneasy. I put it down to a combination of curiosity and nerves.

The prison was surrounded by an imposing grey stone wall. From the outside it looked like a fortressed city. That is probably not a bad description for (as I was to learn) a community existed inside, a microcosm of society, with its own hierarchical structure, rules, conventions, beliefs and principles. It was a place of friendship and betrayal, loyalty and deception, hope, desperation and hypocrisy. It was a community exiled from society but in many ways not so very different from our own.

Inside, after Derek had left, we met up with another visitor there to see Reg. The bare magnolia waiting room was crowded. It was filled primarily with women and children although there were a few men too fathers, brothers and friends. Many of the women were young. Despite the cold they were minimally dressed, bare legged and high-heeled, some with a generous abundance of cleavage on view. I found myself wondering if that was better or worse for the men inside knowing they could look but not touch. Attired in a grey woollen jumper and matching grey trousers, I felt like a house sparrow in an aviary of exotic birds. The children shouted and slammed the doors of the unused lockers. The babies screamed. Who could blame them? An empathic headache spread throughout the visitors. There was a low hum of conversation. Every now and again the door opened and a number was announced. A few more people were swallowed. The crowd shuffled forward.

Eventually our number was called. We went through the door and into a small room. There were three prison guards waiting inside. We laid our coats and jackets on a table and then passed through the metal detector. One officer checked through all my pockets. Another female officer frisked me. I found myself mentally switching off. I didnt feel violated, that would be too strong a word, but I certainly felt something, perhaps simply an invasion of privacy. I knew the process was necessary but I recoiled from it. Being under suspicion is an uncomfortable feeling. It took me back to those long-gone school assemblies where one elderly and bespectacled headmistress, her face white with rage, surveyed her girls and apportioned blame. You know who you are.

From here we passed through another door into an open courtyard. Accompanied by an officer we walked across to the visitors building. Once inside we had to wait again. The room was stark. With its long rows of formica tables and chairs it had the appearance of a works canteen. From a hatch on the left-hand side, tea and chocolate bars were being sold. We chose a place and sat down. By the entrance there was a raised platform; four or five prison officers presided over us. There were barred windows to the left and right. There was plenty of light but neon strips ensured additional illumination. A few tiny windows, close to the ceiling, were open for air. There were pigeon droppings on the ledges, inside and out. Gradually the tables filled. We sat and made small talk. We glanced around.

It was at least ten minutes before a door at the back opened and the inmates started to filter out. Reg was one of the first to appear. As if unwilling to waste even a second he moved rapidly into the room, scanning the tables while he walked until he saw us and waved. He came quickly over. Introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. He was wearing jeans and the regulation blue and white striped shirt. His hair was cropped short and grey. Around his neck was a gold cross and chain. I probably had the same initial impressions as many people that he was older, smaller, fitter and less intimidating than expected.

We all sat down, Flanagan to his left, myself to his right, the other gentleman directly opposite. The visit commenced. I dont remember much of the conversation we had. I know we talked about the video and made the necessary arrangements. I know we set dates and times. I know he was cordial and humorous. He thanked me for my help. The video was Regs tribute to Ron; he had recorded his thoughts and feelings on tape and these had been incorporated into a documentary. He was not entirely satisfied with the final product but the anniversary of Rons death was approaching and there was no more time to work on it. He was pleased, he said, that hed been able to do it at all it was not the easiest of tasks from inside prison. After many months, through phone calls and visits and with the help of some good friends, he had managed to complete the project. He spoke quickly and quietly, sometimes so softly it was hard to hear him at all. He leaned in to the table and gathered us closely around, our heads almost touching as if in some grand anarchical conspiracy. At one point he turned to me and said, I talk a lot dont I? I couldnt disagree. Reg laughed. He explained how he always looked forward to visits and spent time beforehand musing about what he wanted to say or do. His thoughts and ideas, he said, built up and then just all tumbled out. There were only two hours and he didnt want to waste a minute of them. While we were talking he produced numerous notes on small pieces of paper and once the subject had been covered he tore them into pieces and threw them away. His writing, an indecipherable scrawl, lay like confetti across the table.