Read Online Bonded by Blood by Bernard O'Mahoney - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney
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queues, march straight to the front, walk past the door staff, cashier and those searching and, if anybody said anything , he had to say, ‘My name’s Disco Dave. I don’t pay. And I don’t give a fuck.’ Nothing more. Nothing less.
One evening, the company directors and other VIPs visited the club. They were all standing around the reception area when Disco walked in wearing trainers. One of the directors looked at Disco, then looked at me, and stood waiting for me to say something. I just shrugged. The director decided to intervene. He said to Disco, ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in wearing trainers, sir.’
Disco looked straight at him, gulped and, with the pride and arrogance of a bullfighter, stuttered out the words ‘My name’s Disco Dave. I don’t pay. And I don’t give a fuck.’ He then marched past the director and all the door staff and disappeared upstairs.
‘Who on earth is that?’ the director said.
‘Don’t ask,’ I replied. ‘He’s a fucking nightmare.’
When we went upstairs later, Disco was dancing on a raised podium with his shirt off, looking like a complete fool. Indirectly, he’d helped us rebuff the charge that we’d become too violent to customers. Indeed, the director thought we ought to impose our authority a bit more firmly. He hadn’t liked our completely hands-off approach to a stuttering, skeletal representative of the undead who’d pushed his way into the club without paying.
Since our partnership began, I had seen a lot more of Tony Tucker socially. He invited me and all the other doormen from Raquels to his birthday party at the Prince of Wales pub in South Ockendon. He also asked me to take Steve, Nathan and Thomkins along from Bristol, so that there would be a supply of drugs for him and his guests. Tucker was in a very good mood. The party was a real success. Doormen from everywhere were there. Most were out of their faces on cocaine, Special K or Ecstasy, or a cocktail of all three and more.
In the early hours of the morning, I was sitting on the floor of an upstairs room with Steve, Nathan and Debra. A man in his early 20s pushed open a door, which struck me. I looked at him, waiting for him to apologise, but he just smirked and asked me what the matter was.
‘You’ve just knocked the fucking door into me,’ I said.
‘Well, you’re a doorman, aren’t you?’ he replied.
It was a stupid thing to say because it was obviously intended to cause trouble. I got up and walked towards him. He walked out to the kitchen and I followed him. Friends of Tucker’s followed us, but before the fight could start, we were separated. It was only later I learned he was Craig Rolfe, Tucker’s closest friend. I discovered that Rolfe was possessive of his friendship. I told him that, out of respect for Tucker, he shouldn’t cause trouble at his birthday party. Rolfe seemed all right afterwards, but he still had an attitude. When I was explaining to Tucker a few days later what had gone on, he told me why Rolfe had this chip on his shoulder. On Christmas Eve 1968, a man was found dead in a van that was parked in a lay-by at the side of the A13 between Stanford le Hope and Vange in Basildon. The dead man had been found slumped in the seat of a grey Austin van. His name was Brian Rolfe, a market trader from Basildon. At the post-mortem later that day, the cause of death was determined as a fractured skull.
In less than 24 hours, the case had been solved. On Boxing Day, a 19-year-old motor fitter, John Kennedy from Basildon, was charged with the murder together with 23-year-old Lorraine Rolfe, the wife of the murdered man.
A few weeks earlier, the couple had run away together to start a new life in Birmingham, but Lorraine discovered she was expecting her husband’s child and opted to return to him rather than live with the jobless Kennedy. The affair continued, however, and Kennedy became increasingly frustrated at Lorraine’s refusal to end her marriage.
He decided
One evening, the company directors and other VIPs visited the club. They were all standing around the reception area when Disco walked in wearing trainers. One of the directors looked at Disco, then looked at me, and stood waiting for me to say something. I just shrugged. The director decided to intervene. He said to Disco, ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in wearing trainers, sir.’
Disco looked straight at him, gulped and, with the pride and arrogance of a bullfighter, stuttered out the words ‘My name’s Disco Dave. I don’t pay. And I don’t give a fuck.’ He then marched past the director and all the door staff and disappeared upstairs.
‘Who on earth is that?’ the director said.
‘Don’t ask,’ I replied. ‘He’s a fucking nightmare.’
When we went upstairs later, Disco was dancing on a raised podium with his shirt off, looking like a complete fool. Indirectly, he’d helped us rebuff the charge that we’d become too violent to customers. Indeed, the director thought we ought to impose our authority a bit more firmly. He hadn’t liked our completely hands-off approach to a stuttering, skeletal representative of the undead who’d pushed his way into the club without paying.
Since our partnership began, I had seen a lot more of Tony Tucker socially. He invited me and all the other doormen from Raquels to his birthday party at the Prince of Wales pub in South Ockendon. He also asked me to take Steve, Nathan and Thomkins along from Bristol, so that there would be a supply of drugs for him and his guests. Tucker was in a very good mood. The party was a real success. Doormen from everywhere were there. Most were out of their faces on cocaine, Special K or Ecstasy, or a cocktail of all three and more.
In the early hours of the morning, I was sitting on the floor of an upstairs room with Steve, Nathan and Debra. A man in his early 20s pushed open a door, which struck me. I looked at him, waiting for him to apologise, but he just smirked and asked me what the matter was.
‘You’ve just knocked the fucking door into me,’ I said.
‘Well, you’re a doorman, aren’t you?’ he replied.
It was a stupid thing to say because it was obviously intended to cause trouble. I got up and walked towards him. He walked out to the kitchen and I followed him. Friends of Tucker’s followed us, but before the fight could start, we were separated. It was only later I learned he was Craig Rolfe, Tucker’s closest friend. I discovered that Rolfe was possessive of his friendship. I told him that, out of respect for Tucker, he shouldn’t cause trouble at his birthday party. Rolfe seemed all right afterwards, but he still had an attitude. When I was explaining to Tucker a few days later what had gone on, he told me why Rolfe had this chip on his shoulder. On Christmas Eve 1968, a man was found dead in a van that was parked in a lay-by at the side of the A13 between Stanford le Hope and Vange in Basildon. The dead man had been found slumped in the seat of a grey Austin van. His name was Brian Rolfe, a market trader from Basildon. At the post-mortem later that day, the cause of death was determined as a fractured skull.
In less than 24 hours, the case had been solved. On Boxing Day, a 19-year-old motor fitter, John Kennedy from Basildon, was charged with the murder together with 23-year-old Lorraine Rolfe, the wife of the murdered man.
A few weeks earlier, the couple had run away together to start a new life in Birmingham, but Lorraine discovered she was expecting her husband’s child and opted to return to him rather than live with the jobless Kennedy. The affair continued, however, and Kennedy became increasingly frustrated at Lorraine’s refusal to end her marriage.
He decided
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