Who They Was

by Gabriel Krauze

  Wagwan my don, long time no see, he says and spuds me. I remember his face. For a second I can see a darkness that’s buried much deeper in his eyes than the smile of recognition. I’ve seen it before. In Gotti. In others. It’s one of the faces from the balcony back in the day. Wagwan my g, I say. We step into the block and wait for the lift. He’s carrying a plastic bag heavy with shopping and the top of his boiler suit is tied around his waist; one of them orange boiler suits worn by people who work on the train tracks at night. The little girl next to him stares up at the red LED numbers counting down as the lift descends and she presses the lift button as if she might be able to make it come quicker. He says I knew I recognised you, where you been fam, I ain’t seen you in years. Yeah I’ve been living out of ends still, I say, tryna remember a name, a conversation, something. Maybe he thinks I’m someone else but I carry on anyway. Where you been staying? he asks. Fucking Brixton, I say and it’s like I try and swallow my words back down as I look at the little girl who’s bouncing her rucksack on her back, acting like she ain’t noticing us. But at the same time I remember being a child, remember having adults talking around me thinking I wouldn’t pick things up, when really my ears would do their best to tune into snatches of conversation that I could grab onto and find something to intrigue me, some mystery that I didn’t quite understand, something new to learn like a bad word or an event that I wasn’t supposed to know about. The brer says rahtid, Bricky yeah? So what you back now? I say yeah fam, I’m just doing my ting, I’m writing a book and living in SK but I’m not sure how long I’m gonna be here for. Swear down? he says. That’s good to hear my don. I say do you remember Mazey and them man? He says fam, not gonna lie, my memory’s kinda fucked you know. After I went on the run and they put me on Crimewatch, and then I done four years behind the door, I just started getting bare memory loss. I forgot bare names of mandem I used to know, it’s kinda fucked still. I say I hear you brudda, while I try and remember who it actually is that I’m talking to and I look down at the little girl. She has a beautiful golden face like a riddle and her canerows are neat and perfect.

  The lift doors open. We get in the lift and the little girl swats her father’s hand away saying no I’m pressing it, and she presses 4. So what you been dealing wid? I say and he says I’m just working now, I’m not trapping no more and he grabs one of the orange sleeves of the boiler suit wrapped around his waist as if to show me. You need to give me your number still, he says. I hand him my phone and say put your digits in, I’m gonna WhatsApp you so you have my number. He puts the number in and saves it under Pimp SK. I still can’t remember who he is. I say save my number and he says you’re – and I say Snoopz – and he says oh yeah forreal, man like Snoopz and his smile grows, warm, unexpected, and he spuds me again.

  We get out of the lift on the top floor, go through the magnetic doors to the landing and he says you gonna see Uncle T yeah? And I say that’s where I live g. Swear down? I live right next door to you then, he says as we continue down the walkway and the black wires are still hanging from the ceiling and some of the lights on the balcony are still broken, flickering, horror film like. I say so you’ve been living here since you got outta pen? And he says nah g I was banned from South Killy for three years when I got out. Feds put me on raasclart ASBO innit, but now I’m living here at my mum’s with my daughter and the twins. When they put me on Crimewatch for the straps I went on the run for like six months, it was mad still. As he’s talking it’s like I’ve dived into the deep end of a pool and everything outside is a muffled hum and I realise who he is. It’s one of them FAC man who sold straps to the undercovers. He’s one of the mandem they didn’t get in the raid. I remember seeing him on Crimewatch when he was named as a fugitive and I keep thinking to myself how does he know me though – and then I can hear him saying but I’m done with all dat now, just working and tryna look after my kids. I say do you remember Gotti? And he says yeah I remember Gotti, he shot Curtis in the head innit and I’m like what, swear down? And he says yeah g, Gotti shot Curtis in the head couple years ago, but he didn’t even killim and Curtis was looking for him for time. That brer was active still, and I say yeah I know, we used to do moves together and now myman’s doing a ten for bare armed robberies on bookies and banks in South, and he says rah and his voice trails off.

  He pulls his door keys out and I notice faded tattoos crawling down his bicep. Then he says if you’re writing a book man could tell you some serious stories like you won’t believe them you know. I had to get my twin sons off heroin when they were born coz their mother was smoking b all through her pregnancy and I had to take her to raasclart court to get them off her. She was crazy, fucking bare next man, sniffing coke, smoking b, fucking her sister’s husband for four years – and every time he says fucking, he kind of rolls it under his lip, quieter than the rest of the words coming out his mouth, as if he thinks he can hide the word from his daughter. As if she won’t catch it like that. She’s turned away from us, looking across from the balcony at the little park that sits in the centre of the estate, overshadowed on either side by the two huge blocks that are still standing, and I say that’s mad stress you got fam, I feel it for you. He says truss me fam, I got stories you won’t even believe. Anyway shout me g, he says as he unlocks his door and I spud him and say good to see you after all these years g, even though I don’t remember the last time we spoke to each other and I turn and go to Uncle T’s door.

  Yo yo yo I hear behind me, urgent, and I turn around and my neighbour says yo she’s saying goodbye to you, and he’s pointing towards his daughter and I see the little girl halfway through the door, sticking her head out and I see her smile for the first time, couple baby teeth missing in the bottom row, eyes full of brightness like pieces of the sun and she’s waving at me. I hesitate, taken aback, and then I say bye-bye and wave back at her before turning around and unlocking the door to Uncle T’s. I step in and an incredible sadness fills my stomach and I go upstairs and say to Uncle T yo pops I need to bill a zoot.

  Night unfolds itself in the sky. I go to the shop to get a packet of M&M’s and a bottle of Magnum. When I walk back, I look up and see the moon all big and white, spilling over Blake Court like it’s washing the concrete down and for a second I think about how this is the same moon our ancestors have looked at, the same moon that’s always been there, that every human has ever looked at while thinking about life and the world around them. As I get to the block I see silhouettes on the balcony as if there’s mandem jamming there like back in the day and now the moon looks swollen and heavy like it’s weighing down the net of clouds holding it up in the sky and I feel sick of this place. But when I get onto the balcony there’s no one there, just one of the neighbours smoking a cigarette before going to bed.

  Walking down the balcony I see a moth hovering beneath a light, not moving crazy, bouncing off the light like how I normally see them, just hovering beneath it. There’s this thing I once heard about moths, how in reality they’re tryna to get to the moon and how electric light always fools them so they end up crashing themselves against lightbulbs, burning their wings, tiring themselves out until they go into some confused sleep, attached to a wall or ceiling near the light, or until they die. But this one is different. It’s as if the moth has realised it’s never gonna make it to the moon and that this light, right here on the balcony of Blake Court, is good enough for it – as long as there’s some light it will be good enough. As I open the door to let myself in I hear an argument breaking out somewhere between the blocks and as I close the door, I can hear one voice shouting loud and clear across the emptiness of the estate, shutuppussygogetyourgun. I go upstairs, feeling like something heavy is pressing down on my shoulders, like the ghosts of all my memories and everyone who used to be here left behind a scream and

  Acknowledgements

  To Mama and Tata, I hope it hurts less now.

  To my brothers who’ve been down for me from day dot: Craig Narcisse, Sebastian Bennett, Tyrow
n Walker-Dawkins, Dario Carter, Travis Carter, Sahr Kaimakiende, Abimbola Mahoney, Ileki Scarlett, Elliott Balogun, Benjamin Oluonye, Khalid Alleyne, Ahmed Elfatih Elmardi. Our stories will live forever.

  To Richard Adams for believing from the beginning. My big brother Kola Krauze, my twin Daniel Pióro. My cousins Daniel Slavinsky and Michael Slavinsky. My godfathers Adam Low and Patrick Wright. Janet and Cliff. To JB, W&N.

  To Joel Golby for giving me the first eyes for my short stories. To Jacob Press, Claire Sparks, Jamilea Wisdom-Baako and Shani Gordon for all the discussions. To Nicholas Kaye for everything. To Harry Grayson, bussin cases.

  Mad love to Anthony Bryan and Yassmin Foster. Family tree.

  To my editor Helen Garnons-Williams and publicist Michelle Kane at 4th Estate, and my agent Jo Unwin for not being afraid.

  To South Killy and all the ghosts. This is the echo, trapped on the page before it fades.

  RIP Zeus, Tank, Jim Jones, Antoni Krauze, Mateusz Krauze. Free Rayla. Free the mandem.

  About the Author

  Gabriel Krauze grew up in London in a Polish family and was drawn to a life of crime and gangs from an early age. Now in his thirties he has left that world behind and is recapturing his life through writing. He has published short stories in Vice. Who They Was is his first novel.

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