Junglist

  Q grabs my phone and starts dialling like a madman.

  — You got his mobile number?

  — No, he only just got it.

  He leans over and speaks softly into the phone. His voice slipping into telephone

  manner.

  — Hello, can I speak to Craig? Sorry, can I speak to Curtis? This is Quentin, Mrs. Mackintosh… Me, I’m fine. Yeah, I haven’t spoken to you in a long time… Yes I’ll wait.

  Chewing his bottom lip as if it were bubblegum. Q’s the one who feels the most of us four. The four musketeers, all for one and all of that.

  — Yo Craig! How you been? Ain’t talk to you in a while, you know work and all dat… Nah my studies going fine, just a bit hectic at the moment, you know, unitisation and semesterisation and all that shit. But that ain’t what I phoned to talk to you about. I just heard you and Anna split. What happened? … Shit, that hard. Look I know you want to be by yourself right now, but being with people is better than being by yourself. I don’t want you to sit in your yard and make tapes… Yeah, hummmh. Don’t worry Craig I’ll come round tomorrow… Yeah I’m out. Later.

  Disconnection.

  CRAIG’S OBSESSION: TWELVE INCHES OF PLASTIC

  IN A QUASI-ROTATIONAL PLANE OF EXISTENCE

  AND A PARROT

  I put the phone down and stare out of the window.

  Mirror! mirror! On the wall

  Who’s the top choice of them all?

  Sometimes I sit and watch the storm clouds roll across the sky. Grey and dark, the sky becoming a reflection of our grimness, the insubstantiality of clouds contradicted by the force that they herald. The storm is an elemental part of nature. When the rain beats hard against the window pane, I watch my reflection and feel insignificant, the darkness of my skin no match for the darkness outside. The rain. My tears unshed. Watching myself crying, but not crying, for no tears run down my face, just my reflection’s.

  It sits there in its cardboard envelope, calling to me, whispering supplications in my ear. I take it gently in my hand, feel the slight roughened texture of the cardboard at the edges, brush my fingertips over the smoothness of the illustration. Spin it between my fingers: slight fan of wind as it turns stroking my cheek as if a caress. Read the notes on the bottom. Follow my finger, softly, inaudibly mouthing the words. Slip my hand inside and pull ever so gently. Feel the paper slide out slow and easy. Cool against my palm. Aware of the weight of it within the fragility of its protection. Tip it on its side and let gravity slide it gently onto the fleshiness that is the base of my thumb. Balance it on the ball of that fleshy digit, letting my fingers rest on the silken circle, middle finger pressed against the hole of pleasure. Blow gently on it. My possession. The darkness, the blackness that is so much like me. Ebony. Cool. Mysterious, knowing. The light catching the grooves, raised ridges that spiral, spiral, spiral. Sound encased in plastic. I stare deep into the grooves trying to see where the sound emanates from, but it is beyond my view. I can only marvel at it, wondering at the magic that transforms the grooves into sound. Sound so perfect and clear in its intensity it captures my breath and robs me of coherent thought, making me nothing but a vessel for emotion as I spin twelve inches of magnificence between my fingers.

  I sit hunched over on the edge of my bed, the arm balanced gently but surely in my fingertips, the needle fractions from the plane of existence that I desire to reside in. Let it slip quickly into the groove.

  SOUND.

  Stretch and turn the amp up, gentle increments of power until my room is throbbing with the sound. Until it blocks out all outside interference. No disturbances, no barking dogs or screaming kids: running, crying, playing, energy and vitality in every movement. No mothers pulling trolleys or pushing prams, each with a squeaky wheel and an attitude, irascible, loud, calling young kids to a halt, the hand descending, flesh reddening, tears welling. No buses, or cars, or motorbikes, thundering down the road, engines roaring, tyres straining to keep contact and grip with the tarmac, bouncing through a pot hole.

  Nothing but sound.

  I would come and tape to the small hours of the morning. Tape after tape after tape, until sleep exhausted me and I would fall backwards onto my bed, listening to the hiss of the tape as it started. The crackle of the needle in the groove. Then the sound would come, soft and deep, unyielding in its intensity. Darkness surrounding me as the full sound took me away to sleep, perchance to dream.

  Of parrots, more than the mind can count — parrots flying. Green, red, blue, yellow, crimson, orange, vermilion, indigo: A rainbow of parrots, a cacophony of parrots wheeling and soaring, straining to touch the heavens. And me tied to the earth, feet sunk in clay, base and foul. Never able to be one of the feathered few. Only allowed to watch and know the joy in my mind but never to experience it in my heart. Parrots who were the sound made flesh, not subject to the limitations of men, not subject to any law man has created for they are above our petty laws, they are above everything and anything.

  I would wake then. Lying still and silent, listening to the faint hum coming from the amp, amplified and reaching me through the speakers. Lie and feel the tears run softly down my cheeks.

  My mother comes up with these small pearls of wisdom, ingrained in her by her mother and her mother before that. Gems like if you haven’t got horse, ride cow or don’t step over someone when they are sleeping or they won’t grow. To me they are insignificant. What do I care about cows and horses. I’m a child of my time. I know Sega, Nintendo, separate systems, Apple Macs, SL 1200s, MTV, soundbites, action replays, digital sound, interactive multimedia, virtual reality. I live in a world where science fiction is out of date because science fact is outstripping it. Where what we imagine today is reality tomorrow. But for all this I still have to live my life and know that to be an individual is essential, but that for me to feel complete I must (it is a social imperative) bond with someone else. Male or female, depending on my sexual preference. Sometimes I wish I had stayed six, then I wouldn’t have to deal with this. This heartbreak, this confusion, this pain.

  Don’t walk away boy,

  Our love won’t hurt you,

  So what you say?

  Don’t walk away boy,

  I’ll be right there for you.

  Female voices in unison, soaring, rising. Taking my heart and soul with them. The harmony frightening in its virulence, the case with which it can take me with it. The sound overwhelming, a bright light after years of darkness, blinding in its intensity. I raise the needle out of the groove and place it in its holder. Look around me as if for the first time. My room strange as if it belongs to someone else. The clutter of it, clothes thrown across the floor, trainers and worn socks lying together beside the closed door, puffer hanging over the chair. My room dominated by the four floor-standing speakers and the long rows of records against the wall. My system at the edge of the bed, dusty but constantly in use. My bed rumpled and crumpled, the quilt in a heap at the corner. The walls covered with photos and magazine covers, images cut off halfframe, quarter-frame, tickets from the cinema, an index to what I’ve seen over the years. Tickets and flyers for concerts and club nights, Jazz Cafe, Maximus, the Fridge before it went gay, Brixton Academy, Iceni, Fresh n Funky, Leave My Wife Alone, Funkin Pussy.

  I rub my eyes and scratch my bollocks, looking down at the stiffness lying against my stomach. Ignore it and head to the toilet for a slash. Mouth feels dirty and nasty and I don’t want to go anywhere, but I brush my teeth anyway and stand looking in the mirror. Staring, staring, staring, trying to see what I like about myself, what anyone would like. Try to smile. Stop, it doesn’t make me look any better. Rub my hand across my face, place my forehead against the cool surface for a moment and wonder why the world was designed the way it was. Who wins? Who loses? Who cares? I retire to my room, closing the door quietly behind me.

  The door opens quietly and I smell Anna. Soft intoxicating flower smell. I remember when it used to cover me, envelop me. When her tongue used to flic
k my nipple and I used to gasp aloud, how she would laugh deep in her throat and encircle it with her mouth. I turn over and look at her standing in my doorway. Is she uncertain? I don’t know? I let the silence stretch and stretch, just looking at her, my head resting on my arm. I sit up, pulling the quilt about my waist and still the silence stretches between us like some umbilical cord connecting us. I bend down and search briefly through the tapes at my feet, find the right one, slip it into the deck and listen to the sound boom out. Militant. Turn it down so that we can talk over it, but the silence is still there. I grow weary of it and start the conversation.

  — So. Why are you here?

  — I came to see how you were.

  — You could have phoned — you know my number.

  — You know I hate mobiles, and I can’t stand that damn message you’ve got on yours, that I always get ‘cause I can’t get through.

  — Sit down. You’re making me nervous.

  — No I can’t, I’m not staying long.

  — If you’re not staying long, why did you bother coming?

  — I came to get my records.

  She took a deep breath before she said this. I can feel the blood rush away from my head, sense the spots at the edge of my vision, the coldness of my crown. My mind swims. It’s hard to concentrate, to think logically, my brain feels like it’s shutting down. Then it’s gone and I can see clearly again. I take in a slow juddering breath and look at her, look through her, my mind gone blank. Gone to the null place in my skull, where it is still taking in information but just isn’t using any of it. I can think on anything, everything. Set my mind free to go on any tangent, not knowing for how long it will last but enjoying it nevertheless. It always used to frighten her, unnerve her when I did this. Reminding her of when her cat died and how it stared unseeingly at her for hours, it’s head next to hers on the pillow she was sleeping on, only for her to wake and stare deep into its eyes, reach out to stroke it and find it stiff and cold.

  I blink and come back to myself. Blank experience No.72 over.

  — You came to get YOUR records?

  — Did I stutter?

  — Which ones?

  — Stop playing games, you know which ones. Mary J. Blige, Jodeci, Marvin Gaye I Want You, Aretha Franklin Young Gifted and Black, Sade, Intro, Pharoah Sanders, Donny Hathaway, Bill Withers, Anita Baker. Do I need to go on?

  The names roll around inside my head and I look at my collection, seeing all the records I’ve taken from previous girlfriends, know which columns they’re in and how many times I’ve used them to complete a tape. My hands move swiftly, going through the records I have amassed in my twenty years of life, the weight of them pressed against my knee as I crouch over them, pulling them out and laying them to one side. Shifting from column to column, repeating my actions until twenty-four records lie on the floor beside me. I tidy my collection and stand, hearing my knee joints crack, my back strain. I stand in front of her and wonder whether I should ask for my bag back, that she wears so proudly. Could I be that petty?

  As she loads the records into her bag, I watch the tattoo that she always said was a phoenix, but looked more like a parrot to me, moving as the muscle moves beneath the skin. Skin so soft that even now I desire to place my lips upon it. Touch it, know that it is mine. Possession is 9/10 of the law.

  Turn away. Watch the rain playing upon the window, try to concentrate on it as she places herself against my back, warm and soft, kissing me gently on my neck. Feel myself stiffen. Then she is gone and the rain streams down the frame, the scent of her sharp in the air and against my skin.

  The record sings to me as I ease it from its sleeve and place it down gently and begin the automatic ritual of turning on my system. Push in the power button on the amp, see the green light come on around the button as the electricity rushes into it, electrons alternating, positive-negative, positive-negative, positive-negative. The short pause as the amp powers up and the slight inrush of air as they now bring the speakers up to speed. Move my hand up to depress the switch for the tape deck, see the luminous back behind the tape light up, the LED display come to life. Open it, hear the soft whirr of motors as the door slides forward. Take out the tape and wind it on with my little finger until the dark magnetic strip is ready before putting it back and hearing the motor whirr again, pussycat soft, as it closes. Pick up the record and slip it onto the solid silver spike, letting it drop featherlite down onto the slipmat, giving it a little spin before bringing the deck up to speed. 33rpm I think. Lift the needle, bring it across, smooth, gliding, frictionless, cue it up and then let it delve into that 12-inch plane of existence.

  Sound erupts from my speakers, an overwhelming tidal wave of sonic power. Concentric circles of force move backwards and forwards, throbbing in their cases. Put the deck onto record mode, check the levels, tweak it up a bit, a bit more. Yeah that’s good. Cue the record again, let my finger tap the record button and…

  Baaaaaaaaaaabee!

  I’m hot just like an oven.

  An’

  Baaaaaaaaaaabee!

  I can’t go much longer,

  It’s getting stronger and stronger,

  ‘Cause when I get that feeling,

  I want sexuual healing.

  ORIGINAL NUTTAH

  The cold multitude of the street life comes to a dead stop in the vast concrete towers of the city. The ebb and flow of life ends in the exit of the Jungle; within that enclosed infinity the mists of human uprising flow like the locks on a dread. The flesh, the crowd, it’s all memories in the back of a car, in the streets no one cares if you scream.

  As the Mercedes glides through the city from Elephant and Castle towards Dalston, the Irish boyz rest themselves, staring at the spotless streets of barriers, the stars, the cleaners getting off night buses, the police on the lookout for terrorists and Black kids riding from one ghetto to another. Up through Bank, past Liverpool Street, past radication packed like dogs, ready to beat up and kick up the yout in their vans. In the hope of reaching sanctuary soon, they speed through the city. Coming up to the traffic lights at the top of Old Street, they speed a red light turning amber.

  Now, four boys in a Mercedes estate, smoked-up windows pumping deep Hardcore was enough to make them pounce. By the time they reached Dalston, time was up. It was hello like before.

  As the policeman calmly walked up to the car, the boy they called Shawn lost it. Too much speed, frustration, fear, whatever — he just blew. As raddie leaned into the window Shawn said, as thick and as fast as his accent could spit:

  — Get the fuck outer here and gimme a ticket.

  — Excuse me.

  — I didn’t do nothing wrong, I know what’s goin on your fuckin with me cause I’m Irish.

  By this time everyone was in shock and was trying to sneak out of the car.

  — I know I was speeding but I had to get my dog some food.

  The policeman’s reaction was to stay calm and not react. He slowly pulled out his notebook and began to take notes. Shawn was wired like a bulb, buzzing hard, but the policemen didn’t seem to respond.

  — Go fuckin’ pick up some criminals and stop working people driving like myself. I was only doing 55 in a 60 zone and I saw a sign saying 40.

  Everyone in the car began to panic; they were carrying weed, pills, H, rock, uppers, downers, the works and Shawn was babbling to a policeman. One of them began to explain

  — Sir we’re sorry, if you can…

  Shawn began the engine

  — What the fuck ya doin, Shawn?

  — I know, I know, I’ve been done for speeding before. You do it, you get caught, you get the fine and you hope you don’t get caught and I was doing fine till I met him.

  — Ah fuck off Shawn and shut up.

  The policeman interrupted.

  — Excuse me, sir, let me explain.

  At this point it was amazing how the policeman was still calm, sounding like some nonce in playschool.

  — Aright
then. The green copy is for your records sir, the blank spaces you fill in and return within twenty-eight days; read the instructions on the back, attached is an envelope, I hope you can afford the stamp because the fines probably goin’ to be a £1000.

  This caused an epileptic reaction, Shawn began to scream.

  — Are you fucking crazy? You fucking mother cunt! Jesus cunt Christ! OH… OH… OH… My dad’s car.

  By now everyone was holding Shawn down.

  — You fucking Crazy? £1000? I wasn’t speeding. I’ve never heard of a fine like that, you fucking imbecile.

  He began to tear up the piece of paper and threw it on the floor.

  — Excuse me, sir, if you don’t pick up this litter you’ve made I’ll fine you for littering.

  — You fuckin’ cunt!

  And he jumped out, picked up the papers. As the boyz watched in disbelief the officer told them to move on. Shawn still screaming and cursing. Then he reversed the car, put it into drive and ran the policeman into the ground. This had the effect of shooting the pope. Out of every nook and cranny came every assortment of policeman on Earth; out of nowhere came sirens and the beast.

  RED EYE

  M— e— t— h— o— d Man… Here I am,

  Mr Meth, the Method Man.

  It’s not until I’m in the car and strapped in with Q pulling Gs, trying to take his mum’s beat-up Cortina into the stratosphere and from there to the farthest reaches of space, and I sit there like Picard from Star Trek feeling like saying Engage (but Q ain’t into Star Trek so he wouldn’t get the association) that I remember that I’m out of blow. The yell’s ripping out of my throat and I’m screaming like a demented child whose been denied his ice cream. Yelling and kicking, cursing heaven and hell. Q’s seen me like this before and he doesn’t bat an eyelid. I’ve got my Rizlas, my lighter, some Silks in my pocket, but no fucking gear. Shit! How could I be so stupid? I knew I should have bought some more. Q won’t have none, his body’s a temple and my irrational, transparent desire for the dreaded weed comes under his continued contempt. But he lets it slide as long as I don’t blow smoke in his face.