In Our Mad and Furious City

by Guy Gunaratne

  Anyway, how could I explain this to Freshie Dave? He knew nothing of our high school sieges, road banter, Premier League football, or anything else that made Estate living what it was. A world away for him. I watched Dave salt my chips. I had more in common with the goons that broke his window in truth.

  Somewhere between my time growing up and this, one world had buckled into another. I used to know what the menace looked like. I’d see it on road or in a flinch from a bully. But words were never dangerous. Now suddenly everyone had stopped telling borderline jokes for fun. Now we had Paki Terrorist spray-painted on the wall outside, burning cars on the news, smashed shop windows and dead soldier-boys on road. These words like Paki, which we did our best to pacify at school, had come back sharper and took chunks out of faces like my own and Freshie Dave’s. That was how we were really linked, ennet, by the threat of smashed-up windows and pictures of our mums crying in the Guardian.

  Ahm. Here you go mate. Dave’s happy teeth pronouncing his hard Ts. Both his hands pushed the box of grease toward me.

  Three pound fifty, please mate.

  A gyp, the price had gone up by ten p. Austerity chicken, ennet. I slid over the change anyway and sidestepped the Wet Floor sign by the cardboard window. I would text Ardan on my way back to Square for footie. I stepped out, crushing the broken shards of glass and bits of flag under my feet as I left.

  NELSON

  Memory come.

  Sorta duff-duff, sorta slide. It come loose and fall out of my mind like that. Come thick. Come thick with a spongy pressure does my memory. I must touch it with a finger and see. Like a children touch. Like they do with any sorta thing, they poke it with a stick, does a child. I must do the same with my memory. Something there. Something nagging. I do not know what it means as yet, but is all I have so I must.

  At least I have Maisie, my light. She knows I am moody, she see it, she hums to calm me. I listen. But maybe she hums to hear some other sound in the house, you know. She lonely? Must be. We son does not speak to she and she husband cannot speak to nobody. Maybe she hums from a loneliness. Maybe she hums for the same reason I listen, and think, and speak to my own memory.

  She tight the scarf around my neck. We are to go outside into the light. I am awake and she smile at me, touch my scarf, and touch my cheek. She see my eyes are open and she lean in to me. Smell of lavender flower. Close enough to kiss. I want whisper I love you my dear, even after all these years. But my arm too weak, my tongue too dumb to call she name.

  Handsome man, she say.

  And she wink at me. I try smile and wink back. But I cannot. Maisie goes round my side and give a gentle kick to the wheel. I feel it go, the judder of the lock. The wheelchair tilt and I can see my legs move with it. Maisie have me out the front door and the daylight come sharp. I close my eyes and I see red. Feel the air blow past. Hear the car drive next to we. The morning bright. See the sky have a cloud and the bird sing in the tree. But something is wrong. Is too bright a morning. So bright that a muggy night is sure to follow. Lord, listen to me.

  The day only begun and I already worry what it bring.

  She push. She speak to me.

  Only a quick outing today my dear, the police have block off the road.

  The easy downslope path we normally take is off, she say. So we go around the other way. I do not like this way. Along the grubby Rabindranath Road what have all the fat pile of garbage what hang out of the side of the street. Is not straight going and I feel it on my arse and bone elbow. I would complain if I could. But it clear up once we get on the High Road. Supermarket on the far side. See them Polish, Arab faces. Filling them trolley full up with bounty. Look at all them bags full up with food. Lord, this new lot do not know how good they have it here, you know.

  Maisie have no business in them supermarket. She want go to the old grocer by the lane. The one what fill she bag for she. She acquainted with the man. In my day, the fellar what give you your weekly bag, you know him like a cousin. Nothing like that nowadays. Nowadays is all a bloody mystery unless you live a lifetime like I. Old bones like we what stick together in good times and bad.

  This outing make me tired already. Does nothing to ease me off my worry. Seeing this side of the worn-out patch only make me worry more. And my side hurts from the wheelchair. I give a moan. Maisie hear it. She touch the shoulder to let me know she hear it. She know how I feel. She know I think of him. We boy, my son.

  With all the upset and strife in this place. See it in the paper, on the telly. The city burn again. See it on the road, full up, teeming with rab and ruin. What sorta man my son become under this sorta tide? I know is all my fault. That the boy is out there now because of my pride. I wanted the boy to grow up in a home we own, a property proper, to raise him right, so we waited. But it was too many years too late. The boy is growing up now in a city we barely recognize, road what feel familiar in only the worse ways. And me, the infirm father. How I can raise the boy when I cannot raise my own arm?

  Grocer man take out a brown bag. He fill it with a fresh cucumber, some bread, and green tomato. The man look a Indian. Short, round with a puffed pouch under him eye. Like sleep is a stranger to him. He have a red teeth. Chewing on a red fruit, make him own language mix with the juice when he speak to she.

  It is terrible, madam. I shall have to close early the shop, just in case.

  Lord, they come through this way too?

  Well, you never know, now. The week just gone, these bloody racists were all marching across the park, you know. Near the Neasden mandir? This is the place my family go to pray, madam. Go to find peace.

  Lord, hear it.

  And with that kind of mosque nearby? That is the thing that is very worrisome.

  The man shake the head like they do. He talk weary about the racist mob. That lot behind Tobin Road who make a howl over the Muslim man. I feel worked up about it. Like a bell go off when I hear him talk about it. A ringing in the ear. Some memory, is it? A memory nag at me, come slow and heavy like the others come, tumbling into my tired head. I try listen. Try feel my memory so I can make sense of it. Listen to them.

  You see it on the news, no? They break shop windows and burn the cars?

  Yes, I seen it. Is all over the papers, my husband and I watch it.

  Madam, I am here only three years. How can people be so cruel?

  I seen it before, I want say to him, I have. The paper, the flame. But this Indian fellar is too recent here. He cannot understand. Back, back. Before I learn how this city brush you aside. How I learn that if your heart not steady, you out. I want tell him that. Tell him all of this is nothing new. All this tension, all this low tide. Even if the road here change, the people is the damn same forever.

  The door open wide. It makes a sound like many bells.

  A pack of black and white boys enter. One boy brush my knee as they come through. Who is this new generation? They walk like crabs with them backpack and long limbs. And do they know my son? Do they attend the same school as he? They stand there choosing a color drink from the counter. Loud and lairy with them bop-bop head patter. Them backs arched like a hook. They are like small catastrophes to me. I watch the boys while Maisie pay for the brown bag.

  And see. One of the black boys look like my son. But small, thin with a shave head. No, wait. Is not my son he remind me of, is me. He look like I did at that age. Back when I was a young fool like that, how I drag my feet the same way, him brash cut, the way he hold himself up. Broad and angry and proud. I was angry at the world, was I. When I was young. Have cause to be. All the swirling mood of rebellion around me. That summer what have London thrown into stupid madness. I feel my hand shake as the memory take me. Come thick. I see the faces of my old friends—but it goes. The memory gone. I feel anxious and flustered by it, my mouth dry. I see Maisie. She come carrying the brown paper bag. She see that I am upset. She touch my scarf, touch my cheek. How them memories come, I want tell her.

  Come my dear, we’ll go home now, sh
e say. She hums for me as we leave the shop. We will go home now. She will put me to bed.

  We outside again. The air make me feel better. Is all right. My heart ease as she wheel me free. We exit the shop and we turn right. We do not head back the same way we come. We go past the Stones Estate. Four tower block what blot out the sky. And there look, see more youngster crabs running about that brick square. This gray, miserable place what hold the young in like a pigpen. Is this where he is, my son? I cannot see him. The boy’s face come to me now, to mind, him face like my own. Lord, I wish I could tell my son what I know. All that I know about how the city raise a young man’s fury. How it bend him back, beat him down with so much hard rain he want shelter with whoever will carry him. Boy, I want say, you make one or two big choice what determine your little life. Rest of the mess, you leave it. You pay no mind to the tide. You go on and prosper, go on despite it. I want say so much. But I cannot. My heart too weak. Arms not strong, not enough to keep him from running into it. Just like I had when I was young, I ran into it faithless and bound. All I have now is Maisie, and these surging, fearsome memories what come and go, sending me back like a echo.

  SQUARE

  SELVON

  Football is on. But first one here as usual. Kiss my teeth. I step over to the side of the gate and scope out the Square. We’ll play longways today, ennet. Longways and narrow like Highbury. Feeling it today. Yes, proper on it today. I swing my bag around to the front of my chest and pull out the football. Attacker’s choice, ennet. Slick. This one gives that extra dip. Ain’t no better ball for worldies.

  Dash my bag to the side and hold it up. I brush over the panels with my palms. I let the ball drop and it springs back high. I chest it. Touch it left with my right boot, making space. I take shape, watching the top corner of the goal underneath the basketball board. I wrap my foot around it and the ball flies, spanking the grid, top corner. The sound echoes around the Square like applause and I take it.

  I hear the gate open then. I turn to see Yusuf step into the court. Yusuf with his small frame and his bomber jacket and bag.

  Yes, Yoos, I say. I walk up to the bredda and give him a side-hug and a palm on the back. Yoos nods, drops his shoulder, and lets his bag slip to the ground.

  How come nobody’s here yet? he says, his skin like ash.

  Dunno man, you the one that said footie was on.

  Yeah, we’ll see.

  Looks bare tired does Yoos, like he’s been up nights.

  I tried phoning Ardan early but he never picked up.

  Seen, he says and nods.

  Yoos has a habit of nodding his head when he speaks, ennet. Always looks cold as well, always with his hands in his pockets using his elbows to point. He’s safe tho, still. I shrug and shift my weight to my right foot, feeling the sting of the previous shot. He nods at me again to begin a new sentence.

  Where you been man? Ain’t seen you in time, he goes.

  Just gym and that, ennet, I say.

  Seen.

  I look at his face. For real tho, how is myman looking so rough? His face is all creased up and looks wasted. Looks more like his older brother now. That vampire-bredda Irfan. I ain’t even gone ask about how his exams went, boy. This bredda was a missing man most of last term.

  You on that athletics track, ennet, he asks.

  Yeah, I say and look away.

  That’s fucking sick man. Imagine that, Olympics yuno.

  Yeah, we’ll see.

  Yoos heads over to the goal to collect the ball. It’s settled in the bottom corner.

  What you been on since term ended? I call after him, making space for myself.

  Yoos zips off his jacket, see how he’s wearing two more layers underneath. Yoos always has bare layers on, even in summer. He takes space on the other side of the court creating a one-two position for himself.

  Nah, longness to be honest. He sends it to my feet. One touch.

  Is it? I side-foot the ball ahead of him. Two touch.

  Yeah, nuttan. Just family bullshit, ennet.

  Yoos takes a step and lashes the ball toward goal. It smacks the white post adding to the hundred black marks from a hundred shots previous. Missed.

  Nearly! I say and go to collect the spinning ball.

  Slippage, man, he says, giving a grin and clears his throat, nodding.

  I roll the ball back to him.

  I remember that second-set maths class where I first met Yoos. Ardan wasn’t in that set, he was in third-set because he was dopey with maths. Yoos and me was all about numbers tho, PE too, and chemistry. Them teachers were harsher in the upper sets, still, but with Yoos it was bare jokes. He was a good cusser. I remember once Yoos made a lower-year boy cry because he scuffed one of his shins during football. It was during some playground tackle. Yoos cussed him out, cussed his mum and his weight, which was comical anyway, calling him a sumo wrestler. Called him E. Honda or suttan. Apparently it’d been overly harsh, ennet, proper made him cry. Yoos had a rep after that. Everyone would say Yoos was a good cusser. But I always noticed that anytime one of the others mentioned that fat younger, Yoos always shied away, like. Most others would have enjoyed the rep. Yoos, though, looked like he felt ashamed. As if he never wanted to cuss him out in the first place and was sorry he did it. Even though that younger never mattered anyhow.

  Yoos lays the ball off to me and I do a few kick-ups before tapping it to my left side readying a shot. I see Darren, Omar, and a few others filter in through the gate. Word has got out for the match, looks like. Good. I look over toward West Block and see them Serbian kids from down Cricklewood are coming too. And there’s Ardan, in the distance, walking in from under the block arches. Good enough for a game. I look back at Yoos watching my feet. I spin the ball over to him with the outside of my boot. Yoos rubs his face with his sleeve and spits to his side. He ain’t in a good way, I can tell.

  I glance up at his block and see them Muslim breddas all leaning on the banister looking out across the Square. Yoos is surrounded by them religious nutters. No wonder he’s standing there looking haunted.

  And I know about them lot, ennet.

  That one time I had a run-in with one of them Muslims told me all I needed to know about that madness. It was when Yoos’s dad died. I heard about it from Zain. I recognized that Zain bredda since he worked at the Nando’s in Finchley. He used to sort out a free plate of chips for me and that Simone girl because he knew I was on budget and was trying to bang that Simone girl. He knew I knew Yoos, ennet, that’s why. Yoos had bare vague cousins like that down August Road.

  Wa-gwan, I said to Zain as I passed him.

  Yes bruv. You all right, yeah?

  Zain’s face was set down and hooded that day. I gave him a spud and mentioned I was headed down to Yoos’s yard to play feefa. He looked at me as if he remembered I was off-Estate, like I wouldn’t know.

  Ah, you ain’t heard, ennet. He goes, Yusuf’s dad died, ennet. Car crash, like two days ago. He’s at mosque now, Yoos is. You won’t find him at home bruv.

  I couldn’t say nuttan and looked up at Estate. I repeated it in my head. Yusuf’s dad died. Rah. All my mind gave me were images of my own dad when we had to deal with his stroke and coming home to a chair and my marge crying. Then I thought of Yoos and his mums and his bro. Car crash yuno.

  You’ll find Yoos at mosque bruv. Praying.

  Zain said peace and went on his way.

  I knew Yoos’s dad was like some leader at that mosque or suttan. And that Yoos’s fam was important inside the community. It was obvious after a while when like, Yoos and Ardan and me would be bopping down High Road or suttan and some old Muslim man would start chatting Urdu to him. It was the same with that Saleem guy at Poundshop. Anytime we’d go in there to buy crisps, he’d be chatting away as if Yoos was special. Yoos would act casual around us but Muslims on road would treat him different because of who his pops was. Not that we gave a shit. Yoos was just Yoos to us, ennet.

  My marge would always be wary
around him tho, boy. When he was over at my yard, she’d act like Yoos was on some Islamic recruitment hype or suttan. She’d get so screw-faced. I was like, ugh, even if he was trying to convert me, I got my own mind anyway. My mind is strong. Even my old marge with her church would never touch me. Allow that.

  Anyway.

  That Muslim lot were always safe to me tho, at least early on. There was always suttan kind and well-meaning about the older ones you met on road. A lot of them lived in Estate, South Block near Yoos. Even more of them on August Road around that mosque.

  It was only when Yoos’s dad died that I noticed all the changes. Lot of them youngers around Estate started wearing them dark colors. Red-brown Muslim dress and that same skull cap. Kept carrying around books and leaflets and that. Started bopping around in twos and threes, calling themselves Muhajiroun or suttan. A few of them Arab olders even stopped turning up for footie yuno. That’s when you knew it was serious. Them Muslim olders were the ones that started footie in Square. That’s why it was proper weird.

  Walking past August Road you started seeing bare of them after that. All geared up in the same colors, standing on corners handing out them flyers. Suttan changed outright. Either way the only thing that didn’t change was Yoos. He just wanted to play a bit of footie, chat breeze, and get his mind off his dad. Fair enough, ennet.

  That day when I found out about the car crash I went down there to check on Yoos, give my condolences and that. Saw bare of them on road carrying mats rolled up and under arms. Full families with kids, all walking toward mosque. It was the funeral.

  I saw a crowd outside the mosque gates, standing on squares of cloth. People were wearing all white and every Muslim house on road seemed to be outside that day. Cars would be driving around the crowd on silent mode as if they were trying to pay respects too.