Breaking Out

by Janice Nix

  He hesitated.

  ‘Miss,’ he said suddenly, ‘I shouldn’t be here. I can’t come round these sides.’

  ‘And that’s because of gangs, is it? You involved?’

  ‘Uhhh …’ He rubbed his face nervously. ‘Look, miss, you don’t understand. This is serious.’

  ‘I take it very seriously,’ I said, ‘but you’ll have to tell me more if you want me to help you.’

  ‘My mother,’ he muttered. ‘She lives across the road. I crept up here last week late to see her. I was only there a few minutes. When she rang me up and told me, she was screaming, miss. They’d shot up her place.’

  ‘Who shot up her place?’

  ‘The SLRs. They run these sides, miss. Someone must have seen me.’

  ‘The SLRs?’

  ‘South London Rebels,’ Harrison muttered.

  ‘A gang? What exactly did they do?’

  ‘I told you, miss. They shot up her house. Fired a load of bullets in her wall. Mum’s terrified to open the front door.’

  ‘Did you report this?’

  ‘You’re not serious, miss. Call the feds? Nah.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Now on top of that, probation telling man to come here.’

  ‘You do have to come here.’

  ‘If anything happens to me, miss, you lot responsible, you know.’

  I thought quickly.

  ‘Harrison,’ I said, ‘just go and chill. Let me speak to the project supervisor.’

  I asked Harrison to tell me his mother’s address. That made him jump to his feet in alarm. I reassured him that we needed to record what was happening for his safety and for ours. We understood how dangerous the situation was. Then the supervisor and I went to find the house in the little estate across the road.

  The sun was peeping out from behind a pile of cloud. As we approached, a sunbathing cat jumped up and scampered away along the paved path between the houses. Harrison’s mother must like gardening – she’d dug out two flower beds in the small patch in front of her place and planted them. Soft green stems were starting to push through the soil.

  But right across the front wall of the house was a spattering of holes. It looked as though a giant’s fingernail had dragged along the building. Bullets had torn into the brickwork, leaving a long uneven scar. One or two had caught the downstairs front window frame, taking little bites out of the paint. Long splinters had been ripped from the fence at the side by ricocheting bullets. Gang life is real, and it’s frightening. We stood there and stared.

  ‘My God,’ the supervisor whispered. ‘When exactly did this happen?’

  ‘Eight days ago, he says. On Sunday night – well, early Monday morning.’

  ‘Did she call the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not clear what happened.’

  I thought of the deafening burst of noise in the silence of the small, sleeping hours. The flashes in the dark as the bullets bounced away. Whoever fired didn’t care about where those shots might go. Harrison’s mother must have woken in terror. So must all her neighbours. This had been a clear and brutal warning.

  ‘So – he can’t do his community service round here.’

  ‘He certainly can’t.’

  We went back across the road. Harrison was pacing up and down inside the hall. When I told him that we would send him home, and arrange his community service at a project in a different part of London, I saw his relief. Sending him further away would mean bigger travel expenses. The service was already financially stretched. But after what I’d seen, there was no doubt in my mind that it was vital.

  The morning had grown hot. As we waited for the cab to arrive, he took his cap off at last and eased his hood back very slightly. There was a skull and crossbones tattoo up the side of his neck, and more patterns on his knuckles and the backs of his hands. I was pretty sure these markings were the signs of the gang he was involved with.

  ‘Harrison,’ I said, ‘can you tell me what happened? Why are they out for you?’

  ‘It’s my little brother,’ he told me.

  Harrison’s brother was fourteen. The SLRs wanted him to join, and they were putting on the pressure. For boys, gang recruitment is often by fear and intimidation – the threat of harm to family members leaves no option but to get involved. That might mean carrying drugs, holding stolen goods, even taking part in intimidation. Girls are controlled a different way – by rape and sexual abuse, which is recorded. The video can then be used to silence her. Harrison had tried to keep his brother away from the gang. But they had made it clear who was in control. This was a warning to stay out of their business.

  We gave him a receipt for three hours’ induction at the nature garden. That time would count as part of his community service. We hoped his future travels in these dangerous streets would be safe. There was very little else that we could do for Harrison and his family.

  When I pictured his gentle, anxious face, I was flooded with anger. There was real good in the boy. I thought of how upset he was about what happened to his mother, and how he’d tried to stop his brother going down the path of gang involvement. He was out there on the streets, making bad decisions – decisions that might cost him his life – with no one around him who could help.

  I wanted to give him so much more. If only he could talk, decide what he wanted, think about another kind of future and how to make it happen. Instead, all I was doing was tinkering round the edges. I had headed off a crisis – for now. But next time, I wasn’t going to be there – and what would happen then?

  JANUARY 1979

  Face to face with Willis again. He and Shane must have spotted me early in the morning going into Fenwick’s on Bond Street. They waited, then as soon as I came out, they were onto me. Suzi Q, twenty steps behind, had time to spot them and swerve away. In my bag I had three wallets. I felt sick. I was going to be done.

  Willis gave me a grin.

  ‘So, Janice – what are you up to today?’

  He frisked me down, then went through my handbag. A few passers-by had a nice long stare.

  ‘How much is in here, Janice?’ Willis asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  On his belt, his radio crackled. He didn’t respond.

  He took a coil of notes out of my bag. The two cops looked at each other. The radio crackled again.

  Something’s not right with this, I thought.

  ‘You not calling the van?’ I enquired.

  Willis riffled through the notes, divided the bundle in two, then held out one half to Shane. Shane took it and slipped it in his pocket. Then, with a grin, Willis did the same.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I demanded.

  ‘Janice!’ said Willis mockingly. ‘That’s not very ladylike!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Anyway, Janice – it’s a pleasure to see you as always. Let’s call this an early Christmas bonus, eh? On your way.’

  Just like me, these guys were on the hustle. What a crazy game of cops and robbers it was. Willis turned on his heel and continued his patrol along Brook Street, maintaining law and order for the citizens of W1.

  One afternoon a few weeks later, I came out of C&A with Pepper just behind me. I had a big fat take in my bag – three wallets and a bundle of travellers. We knew our routine well: separate at once, get out of the store and then away. But as we emerged into the daylight, dead opposite me outside Evans, there they were again, Shane and Willis.

  Willis was looking in my direction. I turned my back and faced into C&A’s window. I stood there holding my breath.

  A few seconds later, Pepper came outside. Unfortunately, she wasn’t following procedure. Instead of walking on, she stopped.

  ‘Keep on walking!’ I muttered to her frantically. ‘Cross the road!’ I could feel two pairs of police eyes raking over us. ‘Pepper!’ I hissed. ‘Mi say crass de road!’

  ‘What’s wrong, Lamp-post?’ she asked. ‘Why are you –?’

>   ‘Police!’ I muttered.

  I fumbled in my bulging handbag, keeping my head down, managing to find my sunglasses. I was already disguised in a wig, but once I’d shoved my Versaces on my nose, I felt a little bit safer. But as I watched the policemen’s reflections in C&A’s window, Willis’s stare was chilling. Had he recognised us? We four were frozen in position, like a couple of cats staring out two mice.

  ‘Do they know it’s us?’ whispered Pepper.

  ‘I don’t know. But if that fucker Willis holds onto me now, I’m going to jail.’

  ‘Lamp-post – it’s okay. If they were sure, they wouldn’t wait. They’d come over here.’

  I realised she was right. The law said that before they could approach us, they had to have reasonable grounds for suspicion.

  No point standing waiting while they make up their minds. We need to make a move. What’s the very last thing the police would expect us to do?

  Suddenly I knew.

  ‘Pepper – come!’

  I pulled her by the arm. We crossed Oxford Street together and headed up a side street. Shane and Willis moved too. They tracked us past the Annunciation church. But when we turned the corner into Seymour Street, Pepper realised where we were going.

  ‘Uh – Lamp-post – we’re not –?’

  I didn’t reply. I walked up the steps of Marylebone police station and calmly pushed open the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Pepper. ‘We can’t go in there!’

  Inside the station, a queue of people waited at the desk to see the duty sergeant. I joined the line, with Pepper alongside me. She kept on nervously rubbing her nose with the back of her hand as a disguise. We stood there for several minutes, but the progress of the queue was very slow. After a while I wandered back to the entrance. I glanced outside as someone else came in.

  Shane and Willis were deep in conversation on the far side of the road. There seemed to be some sort of disagreement going on. Then Shane threw his hands in the air – and they both walked away. They couldn’t believe that the two of us would dare to come in here. We’d outwitted them! I drew a deep breath of relief.

  Pepper and I stood in the line for five more minutes. We still hadn’t got to the desk. No one was paying us attention – so with no fuss or bother, we could leave.

  ‘My God, Lamp-post – you’ve got a nerve! We could have gone to jail!’ hissed Pepper as soon as we were far enough away from the station to speak. I looked at her and grinned.

  ‘No jail today, baby,’ I answered her. ‘Not this girl.’

  When I found out I was pregnant, I was overjoyed. Sabrina had two little daughters already, and she was happy for me too. We sat in her back garden one spring day, watching her children run around. Soon, I thought, I’ll be bringing my new baby here to play.

  ‘You’re quiet today, JanJan. Something on your mind?’ Sabrina said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah – there is. I’ve got problems, Sab. Bad problems. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s Emmanuel.’

  ‘Isn’t he pleased about the baby?’

  ‘Oh – he is. He really is. But – the baby won’t fix it.’

  ‘Won’t fix what?’

  ‘Won’t fix anything! It doesn’t work anymore with me and him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure. We’re walking round on eggshells all the time. We don’t argue – but that’s because we never really talk.’

  ‘Is it about – you know – your business?’

  ‘Yes. He won’t accept it. Ever. He hates how I work.’

  Sabrina sighed.

  ‘Don’t tell me to stop,’ I said her. ‘I’m not ready to do that. And anyway – what else would I do?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you anything, JanJan.’

  ‘It’s over between us.’ I felt tears fill my eyes. ‘The baby doesn’t change that. I have to decide what to do.’

  Sabrina squeezed my hand.

  ‘Maybe you don’t,’ she said. ‘Not just yet. Maybe for now you can just wait. This isn’t a good time to decide. See what it’s like when the baby comes.’

  ‘And there’s something else,’ I told her. ‘There’s a problem with Lucy.’

  ‘Lucy? What did she do?’

  ‘When we’re out working, you know, she doesn’t share the money out right.’

  ‘What d’you mean – she doesn’t share it right?’

  ‘She doesn’t split it equally. First she hides half of it, and then she shares the rest.’

  ‘How come she can do that?’

  ‘When we split the take, it’s always very quick. It’s on the move – in a cab, in a bus. She tries to distract me. The first few times, it worked. She still thinks I’ve not noticed. But she definitely doesn’t share it right.’

  Sabrina’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘That’s not fair, Jan.’

  ‘No, it’s not. She treats me like a kid. She doesn’t show me respect.’

  Sabrina gently laid her hand on my arm.

  ‘Perhaps she won’t respect you,’ she told me very quietly, ‘until you don’t give her any choice.’

  It was autumn, close to the time that my baby was due. Lucy and I were up West. Already the shops were extra-crowded with Christmas shoppers. My pregnancy was perfect for cover.

  But that day, things went badly. Twice in a row we lined up a take and I was ready – then the mark moved away. It happened sometimes – their instincts kicked in and all at once they were on guard. The first was an elderly man who was suddenly joined by his wife. She glared at me suspiciously, and guided her husband out of the department. I was sure that I’d given her no cause for alarm.

  Twenty minutes later, I was shadowing a woman on the first floor, in one of the designer rooms. I got close enough to check out the contents of her lush leather handbag. ‘Aye aye, dick eye’ – and Lucy and I were set to go. Then all at once the woman seemed to grow more alert. She looked around. She spotted that her handbag was wide open. Looking puzzled, she closed the clasp hastily and left.

  Frustrated, we headed down the escalators into the perfume halls, then out into the clatter and jostle of Oxford Street. We didn’t speak till we were fifty yards away – and then Lucy started to cuss me.

  ‘What’s wrong with you today, Jan? That was twice in a row you fucked things up!’

  Enough already, I thought. I’m not listening to this.

  ‘Hey!’ I said to her. ‘Just stop right there! Why’re you blaming me?’

  Lucy looked startled. I’d never talked back to her before.

  ‘Because you set her off! She was onto you!’ she said angrily.

  ‘No, I didn’t. I don’t know what set her off.’

  ‘Same with the old guy’s wife – you set her off too. What’s wrong with you today?’

  I thought of what Pepper had once told me. Just be warned. Get ready for the day you have to tell her you won’t take it anymore.

  I stopped and turned to face her.

  ‘That’s right, Lucy,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Blame the bloodclart cover.’

  ‘I’m blaming the cover because it was your fault! Today’s a total waste of time. If you want money – do your job properly.’

  She talkin’ to me like she’s the boss. Time to unzip my lip.

  ‘Money, Lucy?’ My voice was level. ‘You want to talk about money?’

  She instantly flushed guilty bright red. I’d never seen her flustered before.

  ‘You sure you want to go there?’ I asked.

  But she was one tough cookie. In seconds she’d pulled herself together.

  ‘The only place I’m going is back to work!’ she said sharply. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like some decent fucking cover.’

  But I’d seen that guilty smear across her cheeks when I’d mentioned the money. She knows I know.

  ‘So let’s talk about the share-out,�
� I said to her. ‘I’m not sure “share” is the right word to use. What do you think?’

  She looked as though I’d put my foot up her arse.

  ‘Do you think I’m blind?’ I demanded. ‘You think I never noticed you put half the take away for yourself? You’ve got me risking my freedom – and you’re cheating me!’

  We looked each other straight in the eye. I remembered that no matter how angry I was feeling, or how much pressure I was under, I must never let my anger go wild.

  ‘Understand me now.’ I spoke in a calm and steady voice. ‘When I work with you – when I run risk – I will get an equal share.’

  There was a very long silence. She gave a little nod, then drew a breath as though she wanted to start speaking. I put my finger to my lips.

  Dis gyal ah tek mi fi fool. Not nuh more.

  ‘Lucy,’ I said to her, ‘mi done talk. Let’s go back to work.’

  I pointed down the road, back to the bright lights of Selfridges shining through the early autumn twilight.

  6

  If a woman runs the country – why can’t we do this?

  MARCH 2015

  IZZIE’S DOCTOR HAD PUT her on methadone. It would help, but it wasn’t a fix for her problems.

  She had to take her prescription every day, picking it up from the medical centre and drinking it right there in front of the staff. It’s a dark green sticky drink that tastes cloyingly sweet. She grumbled about how embarrassing it was to have to drink it in public.

  Methadone wouldn’t stop her wanting to use. Until she’d filled the space in her life where using had been, the craving was going to stick around. But at least it would ease the daily sickness when she didn’t take drugs, and help her feel more normal.

  Some days she was full of bravado. ‘I’ve got it under control, Jan – I have,’ she would say to me. When she said this, I’d just listen, knowing she had no kind of control. Underneath, she was a girl in a void. Her life had been hollowed out by drugs.

  The only purpose of her day – every day – was to get herself a fix. She told me once it was a feeling of doom hanging over her. The doom only lifted when she’d managed to work out where each day’s score would come from. Perhaps it would be shoplifting alcohol from a supermarket, then selling it. Perhaps it would be people she knew – not friends, because she had none, just addicts with the same kinds of problems – pooling their cash then gathering together round the pipe, watching each other’s every movement with suspicion in case anyone did better than anybody else. Afterwards they’d sit there for hours, smoking endless rollies. No one had anywhere to go. Or perhaps she’d do a blowjob for Karim. All these things left her numb – but they all got her the money she needed. The only happiness she knew how to feel was when the drugs were on the way.