Who They Was

by Gabriel Krauze

  We pull our ballys off and Gotti turns around and says you’re sick fam, I seen how you managed to get that ring which I couldn’t pull off her finger, I love you for dat and I say dun know my brudda, I wasn’t gonna leave without dat, I had to take suttin and he says you got mad heart Snoopz, mad heart. Then the phone rings and he tells Big D how we got the belly and we’re heading back now.

  Driving through the city, the world blurs. City lights like scattered jewels, glow and splash into the night around us. I wonder what my mother is doing at this point in time, what my father is doing. It’s after seven in the evening, more like eight, so they’re probably sitting down to eat – maybe it’s boiled rice and chicken thighs dripping in gravy or cold Russian salad and red wine for him and white wine for her and Daniel my twin brother is probably practising his violin somewhere and – and I’ve done what I had to. I feel good. Really good. No. I feel amazing. If we get caught, we’re getting six years each for this shit at least. What a way to feel alive; the possibility of that downfall. But I’ve embraced it now. I’m feeling a stillness within me that I can’t even describe. Whatever. Pulling up at a red traffic light on Edgware Road, Quincy says yeah you man are shower still. You did dat nicely, what kettle did you get? It’s a stainless steel Carti with a gold bezel, says Gotti. Then he says show me that ring Snoopz and I give him the ring and he says rah this is like three carats at least, we’re gonna get a nice p for this. You got the belly Snoopz, he says and I just sit on the backseat and nod like it’s nuttin.

  Later, Big D gives me and Gotti three bags as our cut from the Cartier watch, so we get a grand and a half each, and he says he’ll go with Gotti to sell the rings in Hatton Garden the next day. I’ve got uni tomorrow afternoon. Don’t watch dat brudda, I’ll deal with it, says Gotti. Anyway, I’m holding these rings for now he says to Big D. Say no more, say no more; tomorrow we link up and take it to the Jewish man in Hatton, says Big D. I tell Big D I wanna do this again, but I wanna do this to get rich, like I wanna make at least thirty bags off this ting in the next few months, and he’s like truss me Snoopz, if you’re on this ting, we’ll do more of these eats and by February next year, three four months and you’ll have your thirty bags to rahtid. Ghost says bloodclart my man’s on this ting forreal.

  I go to Bimz’s yard, pick up my backpack with my uni books and my Avirex jacket and follow Gotti to his mum’s yard in D-block. As we walk through the groaning darkness of the park, I remember a book that my father used to read to me and my brother in Polish before bedtime when we were little. It’s a story about these two brothers who decided to steal the moon. People said they wouldn’t ever amount to anything and they refused to submit to a life of back-breaking work and responsibilities, so they made up their minds to steal the moon and sell it to get rich quick. They ran away from home and had loads of adventures, eventually realising that they’re never gonna be able to steal the moon and how their greed is empty and meaningless or some shit like that, so they decided to return home. But when they got home they found their mother had died because she worked and worked and waited and waited for her sons to return and in the end she worked herself to death. So in the end, all they could do was bury their mother.

  OUTLAW TATTOOS

  WE DECIDE TO get Outlaw tattoos so one morning, Gotti and I go up to Harlesden to a tattoo shop called Krazy Needles. We get mad high beforehand, bun like two zoots of ammi back to back until our eyes are redup and quickly yam a chicken patty each before leaving. When Gotti starts getting Outlaw tattooed on his neck, he frasses out in the chair and the tattooist has to wake him up. He must’ve passed out a second time as well, coz when he opens his eyes again he says once the ‘O’ is done that’s the worst bit over, but the tattoo is basically finished by then, the tattooist filling in the last curve of the ‘w’. I get Outlaw tattooed on my left arm in one gothic type script which I sketch out for the tattooist and then watch my blood, turned black by the ink, dribbling down my arm as the needle buzzes away. Afterwards we go back to Bimz’s yard and Gotti says he needs to go to his mum’s to pick something up, so I say cool, lickle more brudda.

  Blood you need to slow down you know, says Bimz. He is drizzling Maggi Spicy Liquid Seasoning onto a bowl of rice with chopped tomatoes and onions. Bimz is that guy who can turn a packet of ramen noodles and an onion into a banging meal that will fill your belly for the rest of the day. As long as he’s got some Maggi Spicy Liquid Seasoning.

  What d’you mean? I say, putting a bud of amnesia into the plastic red crusher.

  He’s right you know, says Ki, staring at the TV screen and he laughs in that way people laugh when they think they know something’s gonna happen regardless of what anyone tries to do. He says it out of the side of his mouth because he’s bunning a zoot at the same time as playing Soulcalibur on the Xbox with Mazey. We’re all sitting around the edge of Bimz’s bed and the air is hazy thick with smoke from all the cro; a living cloud contracting and expanding around us like a pulse.

  You pussy. Pussy. PUSSY, says Mazey as Ki’s character does a nine-hit combo on Mazey’s character and ko’s him.

  I told you Mazey, you ain’t gonna stand a chance against myman with that spear, says Ki as he puts the control pad to one side and sparks his zoot. We’re always doing Soulcalibur tournaments and everyone’s got their favourite character, mine being Raphael with the rapier. I swear I got that swordplay shit on smash. But my favourite game without a doubt is GTA: San Andreas since you can just roam the city and beat the fuck outta people, blow cars up, have shootouts with feds and gang members and whoever. It’s like real life – real g shit – on steroids, living out some badman fantasy on screen where forreal there’s no limits to what you do, and when you die you just pass the control pad and wait for your next turn.

  I ain’t tryna preach, man’s just tryna look out for you. Remember you’re not Gotti bro, says Bimz, raising his eyebrows, slices shaved into them on some pretty boy shit.

  I laugh while I’m emptying the crusher onto the Soulcalibur case and go what d’you mean fam?

  Blood do you know how many enemies Gotti has? says Bimz. How many man are looking to do him suttin? Don’t get it twisted Snoopz, mandem ain’t forgot how Gotti robbed them you know. He shovels a forkful of rice into his mouth.

  I go yeah, so what? Oi who’s got the blue slims?

  Ki passes me the packet of Rizla and I take out a sheet and rip a bit of card off the packet to make a roach.

  Bimz chews and goes so if one day someone rolls up on Gotti to lick him down, they’re gonna see you rolling with him and they ain’t gonna leave you out of it you know.

  Fuck it, man will just deal with it when it happens, I say.

  Ah this guy, says Bimz, laughing bitter as he puts his empty bowl on the floor. Then he turns to Ki whose eyes are glued to the screen, fingers clicking away on the Xbox pad and says big man ting, I’m tryna save him from himself and he says man will just deal with it.

  Yeah fam, I say, licking the edge of the sheet before rolling it. Them man ain’t ready for me and Gotti anyway. Ride or die.

  Straight up, says Mazey.

  You’re not listening to me though, says Bimz. I know you man are moving raw and alladat but if next man roll up on you to beat shots at you, you ain’t gonna suddenly be bulletproof blood, you get me. Do your ting innit, man’s just tryna help you, like you don’t need to be taking them risks just coz he’s your bredrin.

  It is what it is fam, I say as I spark my zoot and feel the burning ammi heat up the back of my throat and fill my eyes.

  Oi that smells piff fam, pass me the crusher, says Bimz, taking out his draw and spreading a sheet of Rizla on his knee.

  An hour later I’m in Mazey’s room. We’ve just come back from the shop in Precinct. Mazey is eating Skittles, I’ve got a can of KA Black Grape and I’ve started billing another zoot when Gotti comes back.

  Timmy just put a strap to my head on the block you know, he says as he walks into the room and drops himself on
to the sofa next to me.

  Mazey and I go whatdafuck?

  Gotti tells us how he’d gone to his mum’s yard to pick up some things. When he got onto the landing he saw Timmy and couple next man jamming there, probably waiting for nittys. Timmy saw Gotti and said I know you teefed my food blood. At first Gotti tried to play dumb like he didn’t know Timmy was talking about the b and work that we’d found wrapped up in the gutter on the landing the first time I’d come to stay the night at Gotti’s mum’s. Gotti made around a bag, a bag and a half, shotting that food, so it wasn’t even some minor loss for Timmy to ignore. The way Gotti played it, he knew them man were shook to try and swing on him for that p so he stood there acting like he didn’t know what Timmy was on about. Timmy said you need to run me my p’s blood. So Gotti told Timmy to suck his mum. But he didn’t expect what Timmy did next. It was pressure for Timmy, getting boyed off in front of the mandem who were there on the balcony, and reputation – well it’s like your face around here and if you lose it you can’t show yourself no more since what’s there for people to look at if you ain’t got your face? Maybe he didn’t really wanna do anything but it musta bunned him inside. Bunned him for Gotti to just stare back and not move, not showing any sign of shookness. Bunned him to see the emptiness in Gotti’s eyes that fully knew wagwan about the food. Bunned him – wait this brer just told me to go suck my mum, is he dumb? Timmy pulled a strap out of his waistband, cocked it, walked up to Gotti and put it to Gotti’s head; stuck it right between his eyes. I ain’t gonna lie, my heart started beating then, like I thought this might be it, says Gotti.

  So what did you do? says Mazey.

  I turned around.

  Gotti turned around and opened the door to his mother’s flat because he didn’t have time to wait for his own death. I mean at the end of the day, life is only life.

  I could feel him right behind me, still pointing the burner at my head, says Gotti. So I opened the door, walked into my mum’s yard and thought whatever happens happens, I won’t even feel it if he pops me anyway. But nothing happened. I think my sister came downstairs and closed the door while I was upstairs. Then he turns to me all calm and says don’t worry Snoopz, your p’s are still there.

  I guess we’ll be staying somewhere else from now on. Lucky I took my strap back to my mum’s, I say and spark my zoot.

  RITES OF PASSAGE

  At the end of the small hours: life flat on its face, miscarried dreams and nowhere to put them, the river of life listless in its hopeless bed.

  Aimé Césaire, Return to My Native Land

  I MUST NOT have bunned enough cro last night.

  These brers in black puffer jackets, solid black woollen masks covering their entire faces, keep tryna soak me up with zombie knives on the top deck of a double-decker bus and I can’t throw a single punch. It’s like my arms are paralysed while I strain to break through the thickness of the air. But instead I just slowly slooowly stroke my fist over this one brer’s head as he goes to shank me and it proper hurts when the blade goes in and then I wake up because my phone is vibrating and I see it’s my mother calling.

  Hello Mama.

  Gabriel?

  Yes.

  Gabriel, detectives from the robbery squad came to the flat this morning looking for you.

  Oh swear? What did they want?

  They were looking for you, they want to talk to you.

  About what?

  I don’t know, they wouldn’t say. But they said you’re wanted and there’s a warrant out for your arrest.

  Did you tell them where I am?

  I don’t even know where you are. Where are you?

  I can’t even think why they’d want to chat to me though.

  I don’t know, but it’s the third time this month that they’ve come to the flat looking for you. We can’t have the police coming to our house at six in the morning trying to find you, going through your old room when we don’t even know where you are. You need to hand yourself in at Notting Hill Gate police station. That’s what they said.

  I’m in east London staying with uni friends in their flat.

  Please hand yourself in.

  I will. I’m just gonna go to a lecture at nine and a seminar right after and then I’ll hand myself in.

  Please hand yourself in.

  I will, I promise Mama.

  Make sure.

  Bye Mama.

  Bye Gabriel, she says while I’m putting the phone down.

  I’m itched up on the sofa at Capo’s yard in Mile End. I’ve been staying here most nights since Timmy put the strap to Gotti’s head in D-block. Gotti is asleep on the other sofa. Before leaving to get to my lecture on time, I wake him up and tell him I have to hand myself in for questioning at Notting Hill police station.

  After my seminar, I jump on the Central line at Mile End with Gotti, headed for West, but I never even get to Notting Hill Gate. Lemme tell you—

  The train stops at Liverpool Street. It is ram up with people who will never remember each other. Travelling on the tube is just brief bits of lives getting shared by strangers who don’t even notice. Everyone like the background of each other’s dreams. I’m at the end of the carriage with Gotti and everyone is close, close, close together.

  The doors open. There’s no space to get on but this man in a suit presses himself into the crowd and his backpack clips my face as he pushes past.

  I go you could fucking say excuse me.

  He turns round, looks at me and says what?

  Dafuck is wrong with you, didn’t your mother teach you no fucking manners?

  He frowns, moves up close to me, sticks his face in front of mine and says don’t talk to me like that boy.

  I headbutt him. Nothing happens so I headbutt him again. Everyone around us is trapped in the moment. Flies in amber. His left eyebrow swells. He grabs me by my throat and tries to pull me out of the open carriage door. I bang him in the face. A wave crashes through my body and it’s like I’m watching myself, banging him in the top of his head as he starts to go down whack whack whack and I can hear voices all distant like oi oi stop stop and his hand lets go of my neck as he staggers onto the platform. Tries to grab me around my waist so I give him a bang to the side of his head and he stumbles against the train and his leg drops into the gap between the train and the platform and he tries to push himself out so I knee him in the face and I see heads poking out of carriage doors all the way down the length of the train.

  He pushes himself out of the gap and shouts pull the emergency stop and a voice in the carriage says we already have. Then he moves towards me and I say are you mad? Bang him in the face again and someone jumps onto my back and I bend forward under the weight – almost buckle – and the man in the suit backs away and I hear Gotti behind me shout get dafuck off him and I hear a punch connect with someone’s head and then the weight on my back is gone and I turn around and see that Gotti’s jumped off the tube and banged some brer in the face who tried to clamp me up. The brer backs away from Gotti and runs down the platform. Gotti gets back onto the packed carriage and then I see bare London Underground staff in orange hi-vis vests and blue caps, running towards us. The man in the suit points at me – he assaulted me he assaulted me. A London Underground worker steps into the space between us and says to me calm down mate calm down and I shout at the man in the suit you fucking pussyole go suck your mum starting shit you can’t finish you dickhead – calm down mate calm down – he assaulted me he assaulted me. Then I see police officers in white shirts and black stab-proof vests coming down the platform.

  No one listens to me. The feds surround me and the man in the suit says he headbutted me he punched me he assaulted me and two of them grab my arms, pull them behind me and one snaps handcuffs onto my wrists while giving me the usual that I’ve heard so many times: I am arresting you on suspicion of committing ABH, you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence – all that bullshit – anything you do say may be given in evidence, do you u
nderstand? I look away and say fuckssake and the fed says suspect made no reply and another one writes something in his notebook.

  They walk me down the platform and the man I just banged up points at Gotti and says he was with him he was with him and at the same time Gotti and I go I don’t even fucking know him and we make eye contact and look away quick coz this would be the wrong moment to start laughing and the feds carry on walking me down the platform. Up the escalator, people staring as if all of a sudden this moment of my life is being shared with them. The feds take me out of the station and walk me across the road to Bishopsgate police station.

  Then starts the process. I’ve been through it so many times already that I’m resigned to it; motions, beats, stages. First: custody suite. Uncuffed in front of the sergeant who sits behind a desk, grey skin, looks at you like you’re an empty box on a form he has to fill in. Pockets emptied. Blue rubber gloves go pat pat grab grab from head to toe. Shoes off, shaken out. All property taken, noted down and bagged up. Black doggy-ear cap with grey fleece lining and voodoo skull on the front bagged up. Keys, phone, pen, a list of books I have to get for one of my uni modules – Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, other titles. Scraps of paper with writing on them – lyrics, ideas, plans, moments I don’t wanna forget; isn’t that what we’re all made of? Avirex jacket bagged up. I don’t like the way they fold it up. Shoelaces removed so I can’t strangle myself in the cell. Name, address, date of birth typed into a computer – tick. No suicidal thoughts – tick. Says you’re a violent offender on here, you’re not going to give us any trouble are you says the custody sergeant staring at his computer screen – not a question. Taken to another room where a next fed grabs your hands as if they don’t belong to you and rolls finger after finger over a scanner; fingerprints, thumbprints, palm prints, edge of palms. Sit down on a chair in front of a camera. Look this way – flash. Turn to your side and look ahead – flash. Photo done. Back down corridor of plastic white light that feels like it will never go out, even after every man in here is dead. Chemical smell. Taken to cell number whatever. Heavy slam, thick steel door, shutting out the last shreds of time. No answer to when you’ll get interviewed or how long you’re gonna be held. Echoes of someone banging their cell door down the corridor, echoes of someone shouting, screaming, cursing the feds and God. Echoes of silence.