Junglist

  Q’s getting even more anxious, he knows he can’t do anything, stupid because they’ll pull him over quicker than spit. He starts to chew his cheek. Bad sign. I’m waiting, waiting. Watching the back of the van sway in front of us. Our lights illuminating those two blacked-out windows, staring sightlessly at us. Daring us to go for it, to try and make a break for it. Winking at us. No place to go, nowhere to hide. They’re on the same road and all we can do is follow.

  It’s a miracle to me that they catch any real criminals with the amount of time they spend harassing us. Just like buses, when you want one, not a one to be seen for miles around, then when you couldn’t care less about seeing one again they come busting down the street five at once — sitting in a Ford Transit van, travelling at exactly 30mph directly in front of you. Q’s got the radio turned up like a fucker but it ain’t doing him no good. He’s still sweating.

  I remember when he first started driving his mum’s car, he took us for a spin around Battersea Park. A clear cold winter’s day. We managed to get him to take us inside the park. Drove through the gates and sped down the lanes. We got caught on a patch of black ice and spun into this Merc. No damage to the old lady’s rusty old Cortina (we were only doing about 10 or 15mph), but we left a fucking huge great dent in the side of that Merc. Q pulled away like he’d just run over someone and was drunk at the time. He didn’t drive the old dear’s motor for a good two years. He still gets serious about it when we bring it up. You can still see that Merc parked opposite Battersea Park with the dent still in its side. I piss myself laughing every time I remember Q’s expression: his eyes big and wide, transfixed by the thought of what had happened, what he had done; his mouth open and catching flies. While we were in the back screaming for him to get going, to drive, drive, drive before someone saw us there. Pushing him into action, then Q slowly putting the car into gear and trundling away, with us looking all round, waiting in fear for some irate owner to come running out and take down our license and send it to the police. We were running scared for a good few weeks after that, waiting for the police to phone Q’s house and inform his mum about how much insurance she would be paying out.

  The memory slides out of focus, as I watch the police van slow for another set of lights — the brake lights just as malevolent as the lights that they are stopping for. I wonder when my perception of the police changed, from being happy school bobby, nice man who you ran to when you were in need of protection, to evil, soul-taking, ignorant, petty, power-hungry racists. Maybe it was when Raymond, Hugie and Johnathon got hauled up Oxford St because some white youth had got mugged and said some Black boys did it, identifying Raymond and his posse as the perpetrators, even though they’d only just got off the tube. Took them to the police station and locked them up for the rest of the day, even though they knew they hadn’t done nothing. Strip searched them and everything else. Maybe that was the turning point — or any of the other times friends would come in and recount stories of harassment and discrimination from the boys in blue. Raymond was never the same. Started hating all white people, getting into fights, kicking teachers off the bus and basically acting like a wild thing. Last thing I’d heard he was doing time for assault and battery.

  The police ain’t for shit, they ain’t doing me no favours, just putting me under pressure 24/7. I know we’re gonna get hauled over, I can feel it in my water. So I start to roll one last joint. When we do get pulled over, I’ll get done for possession, Q’ll get fucked, for driving without insurance, and Biggie’ll get done ’cause he’s in the car with both of us. My fingers are nervous and shabby as I carefully roll it, lick the gummed edge and try not to lose too much as the car moves on the road. Seal it, roll a roach and twist the open end. Put it into my mouth and hold it there as I search through my pockets for my lighter.

  — What are you doing? Take that shit out of your mouth, you’re gonna get us pulled over.

  — They’re gonna pull us over anyway. So I might as well go down fighting.

  — We won’t get pulled over if you take that shit out of your mouth.

  I ignore Q and keep searching. I find the lighter, it’s slipped between the cushions covering the back seat. As I pull it out, the van’s lights start going. Blue, swirling, rotating beacons of justice. Pointing me out, searchlight, uncovering my crime. Indicator comes on as they cut across two lanes of traffic, pulling a U-turn. As the transit slides away and behind us over on the other side of the road I almost drop the spliff in relief, but check myself, and my shaking hands manage to get the lighter to work. I light it and inhale deeply, winding down my window. I don’t want Q’s mum thinking her son’s a puffhead. I pull it down deep into my lungs and exhale.

  — Anyone want a smoke?

  CRAIG SINGS

  I believe this time around, she’s here, we kiss, we talk, we’re pushing the conversation along. I remember her kiss, I remember fucking her, I think that’s a mistake, things were just easy.

  Now I imagine I’m amongst the many women in my life — I miss you all. All the while my shit mounts, the tears will never come to my cheeks, still I can lie. I look among the smiling faces and try to remember the times when I loved you but I can’t see it, I did; I think, time’s up. Between a rock and a hard place I’ve lived and died, I take my final turn and it better be freedom. For up against Daddy (Nova Daddy), I am a bird, free to fly while animals play. I look among the smiling faces and try to remember the times when I loved her and I am not very sure. I remember you suckled me to sleep and I held my breath, then I said goodbye to the night. You used to lie next to me but you could have been lightyears away. Night slowly turns to day. Hours of talk can reverse years of pain, but you never listened, you never cared. The sting in the scorpion’s tail, the paradox, is that hate softens with the years, but the blade is warmed when the cold steel is fed fresh blood. I can see the concrete drying on my tombstone and my name is set in stone, yet still I’m all alone, ‘cause no one goes when I go. When I’m an angel I’ll spread my wings like an eagle, shield my babies from the rain, shield them from the pain, make right what’s insane.

  SHOUT OUT

  — This is the 0956, the 123, the 321. Style FM waiting for your shout outs. Come wid dem. The studio massive in full effect, this one goes out to you. Last caller call back.

  — Jason from Hammersmith don’t know what you’re chatting about. Big up your chess.

  — The 0956, the 123, the 321.

  — Big shout out to Michael in Clapham from the Boogie massive, out there in Hounslow.

  — Big shout out to Emma from Frankie and all the Pimlico massive, living large and taking charge.

  — Style FM. 105.3 FM. We ain’t going out like that… Ruff, ruff. Wheel! Wheel! My DJ. The man like Megatron on the ones and twos. Bad bwoy tune. Come again, selector. When Bad bwoy get drop, man know we have to take it from the top. Big up your chess, all the Jungle massive. Time to get hyper. Time to get hyper.

  — Big shout to Mandy from the pirate posse out there in Dalston.

  — You know the number: the 0956, the 123, the 321. Keep it locked to the Style FM. 105.3… OH GOSH!!! My god! Megatron run dat one again… Just for you London, the heavy dub plate pressure of the man like Megatron. Big up your chess.... Dis tune going out to all them likkle pussy face sound bwoy who go on like dem wear bullet proof vess, but know dem can’t tess.

  Craig. T.R.O.Y.

  I reminisce, I reminisce…

  The street lights outside glow a warm gentle tungsten orange, spilling illumination through and onto me as I lie in my bed, looking at the ceiling, wondering. Stretch my arm as it’s getting tired and cramped from being underneath my head. Weary, I turn onto my side and curl up, feel the empty space and smell Anna there. She’s been gone for three months and I can still smell her everywhere, sharp and all-pervading. I can just close my eyes and see her face. Eyes closed, mouth open, teeth showing. Lips parted as she holds me close and whispers my name in my ear. Breathing it heavy, sensuous. Her breath r
olling across my ear, as I throb and shudder.

  Open my eyes and stare at the space that she isn’t in. Drag my body upwards and run my hand over my picky afro. Want her to be here, but know she won’t be. Got to live with her not being here all the time. Know she’s gone away to do what she is happiest doing, gaining knowledge and experience, and I didn’t just want to be hanging around getting angry that I wasn’t enjoying myself, not doing what I wanted to do. Scared that just being with her wouldn’t be enough. That we’d split apart. So now I just wait for her, go through the motions of living, forgetting what I do from day to day and living life in a hazy fog, thick and cloying, softening the sensation of living.

  Whip the quilt off me. I’m restless, too much energy. I know what I don’t want to do but not what I want to do. I don’t feel like listening to the radio or watching TV. I roam the flat searching for some ease. I sit, stand, lie. Trying to get comfortable somewhere, somehow, and in the trying just make myself more restless. Finally I come to a stop at the computer. Stare down at it for long seconds. She bought it so that we’d always be in touch, not just through speaking on the phone, but by putting our thoughts down in a slower, more thoughtful way. She knows I type faster than I write, it’s why she got it, so I wouldn’t have to spend long hours writing a letter longhand when I could just churn it out quickly typing. So it’s sat here for the past three months, unused, gathering dust except for the odd game of solitaire or Maelstrom. Pause and wonder if this is what I want to be doing. Close my eyes and see if sleep will overtake me. Lean forward and switch it on, the brightness of the screen as it lights up, causing me to blink rapidly to adjust. Plug in the modem and hunch myself forward, peering at the letters as they appear.

  one

  my fingers probe your moistness,

  your wetness,

  know your head is thrown back, mouth open

  low sounds emerging from your throat.

  my hand cups you,

  slides across, finger searching, probing.

  lips open,

  fingers spread inside, liquid opening, finger tickles.

  drag my hand through the soft moistness,

  across the tight curls up to your belly button.

  innie or outie?

  innie. my finger delves, creating a pool of fluid,

  soft, inviting, waiting.

  two

  how many times have I sat with you?

  just looking.

  watching the way you move,

  the way your weight balances on your bones, your frame.

  skin, hair, mouth — soft and fertile, moist. your eyes, liquid

  deep, knowing.

  the skin at your throat beckons. it calls me.

  siren song.

  i know to place my lips upon it will close your eyes,

  part your lips, bring your hand up to cradle my head,

  caress my nape.

  fingers trailing along my spine.

  three

  exploration,

  chance. to find the sensitive,

  touch, stroke, caress.

  strangely complicated but ultimately simple.

  fingers, lips,

  sense of touch, smell.

  hearing, seeing, being.

  talking, speaking.

  where to touch, push, rub.

  how hard, soft.

  one finger, two.

  whole hand smoothing a path. penetrate,

  flesh inside flesh.

  tongue on tongue,

  mouth across mouth.

  sitting, lying, standing.

  breathing hard across my face.

  shadows, night, no light.

  skin, flesh exposed, concealed.

  ticklish.

  your tongue across

  fingers along

  concentration,

  detachment overridden.

  passion, desire. no longer apart from,

  apart of. spasm.

  i move she moves, rhythm.

  blackout, cessation.

  until next time.

  four

  long-time no see,

  eyes soft and dark, pupils expanding,

  drinking me in.

  soft,

  so very soft. touch.

  fingers trailing down your spine.

  skin so smooth to touch.

  reach the base, slide

  gently

  down the

  crevice,

  dark unknown.

  feel your weight on me,

  feel your breath on me.

  take me in.

  hold me in.

  never let me go.

  never.

  try to deny,

  instinctively know.

  better to go,

  to leave.

  an agony of wanting,

  desire raging with reason.

  perceptions bent,

  warped,

  twisted.

  good or bad.

  in the balance. delirium.

  la lune goddess of the moon,

  lunacy. is it. 70% water.

  tide, hi or low, affect me, affect her.

  pupils always tiny,

  a

  severing, mental from emotional,

  passionless,

  emotionless, non-dilation. pregnancy.

  intoxication,

  infatuation,

  supplication.

  kneel, tongue extended, pray.

  I sit back and rub my eyes, suddenly tired, a yawn forcing itself from my mouth. I stretch and press the send button, spilling my demented ramblings down the line to her in Martinique. Teaching, reading, being. I stare at the screen for a second and try to figure out where all of the words came from. They don’t sound like me. They rise and fall with their own cadences and rhythm. She always said she loved to read what I wrote, but I stopped a while ago. Dreaming on paper’s not the same as making money. It was one or the other so I sacrificed the writing. Didn’t think it would make a difference, not in the line of work that I’m in. But I sit and feel at ease for the first time since she’s left. As if just by the mere act of writing I have placed my feelings onto paper and can now move on, past what was affecting me, worrying me. I used to do that when I was younger, write everything that was affecting me onto a sheet of paper, vent my anger through the action of writing, then screw it up and chuck it away and feel immediately better.

  I lean forward and turn off the machine, ready for sleep now. Restless no more.

  GROOVE THANG

  Alex’s place is big, lots of space. He’s left the sofa and some chairs in, and pushed them over against one of the curving walls. As Wayne says in Wayne’s World — Cool, this is the kind of place I’m gonna get when I move out of my parent’s house. It’s a roundhouse, no sharp corners anywhere to be seen, and I’ve always wondered how Alex could afford it. I think maybe he’s got rich parents, but I haven’t asked him and he hasn’t told me.

  For the short time that I was in college, Alex was my closest friend. Used to hang out all the time — play the arcades, go for drinks, sit and chat about intellectual subjects. Next to Q and Biggie, Alex is the closest thing I have to family outside of my family.

  His place is on the top floor of a round apartment block in Camden, large windows and a stainless-steel kitchen. The wooden floor is usually covered by rugs but he’s moved these out so that people can dance, without trampling them to death. Photographs that he’s taken strung across his walls printed huge, thirty by fifty. The only adornment on his walls. The lights are low and the DJ’s in the corner lit by his decks, spinning the tracks that everyone wants to hear. People are speaking as people do at parties: some quiet, some loud, but always in small knots and groups. There’s a gradual emigration to the centre of the room, the space made for the dancefloor.

  Everyone’s about their early twenties and it seems as if we’re the youngest ones here. I’m clutching my glass and speaking gently to Q about why I was smoking in his mum’s car wh
en Alex pops over. Flame-red hair, long and spiky, creating a halo around him. He’s tall and angular, lean and wolf-like as he leans over us, his eyes sparkling.

  — Meth, I didn’t think you were going to make it.

  He swallows me up into a huge hug and I’m worried about losing my drink down his back. I hold him tight to me and feel the warmth that only friends and family create. He holds me at arm’s length and laughs his heavy wheezing laugh that he’s carried with him as long as I’ve known him. The bluff Yorkshireman he used to be still visible under the surface now and then.

  — You know me Alex, undercover elephant. Let me introduce my friends, Biggie and Q.

  — Pleased to meet you. Have you got drinks? Good, let’s go and socialise.

  He drags me away on his arm and spins me into the crowd that is mingling. I feel out of my depth as Alex takes me on a whirlwind tour of all the people at the party, names and faces bleeding into a blur. A squashed mess of colour. Alex is the butterfly host, flitting from one group to another, leaving a joke here, a joke there, being at the centre of the conversation but also on the edge. Before I know it, I’m back with Q and Biggie, standing once more on the edge as Alex sails off to be Alex once more.

  — What’s with him?

  — Alex is an actor. Right now he’s playing the part of the perfect host.

  I look around and see a space become available on the sofa. I’m in like Flynn, shoving my butt onto it and pulling my gear out of my jacket pocket, while sipping on my Southern Comfort and lemonade with ice. Don’t you just love drinks with long names. I surely do. I sip at it leisurely as Q and Biggie step delicately over, standing above me nodding their heads to Flava in ya ear. Drinks held at their sides, hands in pockets, looking uncomfortable. The only thing keeping them here is me and the fact that the food and drink is free and the music is good. The big speakers he’s got are pumping out clear pure sound, but at the moment working well below capacity as Alex allows people to mingle and talk as well as dance.