A short man in a suit took to the stage. He wore a flecked gray suit and a thin tie. I watched as he swapped papers in his hands and approached the microphone. I looked up at Damian and he pulled me closer to him.
Listen well lassie, he said looking down. A sharpness flickered across his eyes. His face was just as baleful, he clapped along furiously with the crowd, as the man at the microphone prepared himself to speak.
His voice came like a howl. Those next to me looked up like they were witnessing a revelation. I tried to listen close as Damian had told me. Perhaps it was the crowd behind me but it seemed like I was feeling it too. Deep in my belly. It was like a wave, the feeling. I was beginning to see what it really meant, feeling what my brothers felt. Listening to him I understood what had been drawn across those faces I watched as a wee child, those faces listening to Ma sing her song and coming to Da with their stories. This man we were listening to now, his words were pulling all our collective grief into a tide at his feet. I listened hard, my legs shaking, eyes aflame trying to decipher the things he was saying. It was like the pain of all these people, the images I had of Eily, that numb awful sadness I felt inside was being reflected in his face.
He spoke of our blood. He pointed high to the effigy on the wall, Christ our savior, the plaster heart and flaming sword, and said that this hall was Ireland and that we were the last of us.
He spoke about the bastard Prot. The ancient heritage of the streets of Belfast, the old, the sick, and the wounded. He spoke about the oppressor, the loyalists, the Brit police and the law, and the final sacrifices of martyrs. Into my mind stole yet more terrible visions of Eily, her legs and arms being dragged through the darkness. My eyes went black as I listened. Behind the blackness I saw families torn and wee boys lost to silence. I heard our story in the lilt of his voice, just as I had in those old recordings of my mother. This is what she had sung for, our ma.
Three men in Claighbro, the man shouted with his papers crushed in his white hands. Two teenage children in Neigmh, a young girl here in Belfast sullied. I got a mind to tell youse all, I’ve never been so close to hell—
The man’s face looked up toward the dark ceiling then as if he were wanting the hot tears to fall back into their pits. The anger swirled in the crowd as he raised his voice higher. We were like dogs baying. Shouts came from the back of the hall and cries shot over my head. The man held his hand over us as if in a blessing. The crowd quietened.
Upon their burials we will see our people unified! Not only in this land but in all lands. Across the European continent, together with our Irish-American brothers and sisters. By the Lord’s holy grace, the Irish people will be under one nation across seas, under our own glorious flag!
The crowd threw itself forward. The floor shuddered with it. Damian stood with his mouth open, lost to it all. We both watched as the man grasped the air, his palms long and white, his ring that glinted against the light. He then shouted something I couldn’t make out above the cheering and I stumbled with excitement. He walked offstage then as the crowd began howling themselves. They were shouting names. For Bobby. For Michael. A single chant then rippled through the crowd, the bulbs flickering overhead with every wave of anger.
Ay! Ay! IRA! Ay! Ay! IRA! Ay! Ay! IRA!
They held up photos of the dead, the starved, the dying. I saw my brother join the shouts and the horrifying freedom in his eyes as he chanted. I raised my fists too and joined the chorus. Aye, there was I. My pale, youthful arms raised with my brother’s.
ARDAN
Losing all symmetry fam. Selvon got his worn red pads up across his nose, crouching and heavy. His eyes move fast watching my gloves and bony shoulders, clocking every off-point motion. Hard punching into the fresh crease and the red toughness, hot breath and concentration dense in every pounding. I keep punching, keep beating, Selvon has me keep on.
His voice comes.
Now duck.
Heavy head banks to the right like slow meat and arcs upward, feeling the air move across my back with Selvon’s arm grazing above me. Back up now, set my feet like he told me to. Right jab. Left jab. Jab. Jab. Right. Think about the moment, the seconds and nanoseconds like a minor monster. The sweat and sounds, my skinny arms flying.
Good. Break.
Shoulder drops and tension fucks off. I bend down and give out a wail. My sight is blank at the canvas floor, powder white, and my Classics. Swear down I’m dying.
I’m dying bruv, I says.
Two minutes bruv. Come. We only been going for like twenty minutes, what you doing?
Palms on kneecaps and chest backing in. Myman’s fruit-loops if he reckons I’ll keep going. I stand up and head to the corner, white towel hanging on the first rope. Allow this.
What you doing blood? he calls after me but I’m out mate.
I’m done bruv.
What?
I’m done, I’m done.
I pick up the towel and wipe my face, mop the ring of sweat from my neck. My arse crashes to the floor, elbow hanging against ropes, and I swipe a water. Selvon shrugs and begins to work on his feet and starts sniffing jabs into the air. Close my eyes and open them. I’m sat here, bottle to my lips like I’ve just done a round with Tyson. And there Selvon is ghosting his shadow like he’s Raging Bull. I’m alert to my own aggy breathing and think about how Selvon just goes on, set to his own natural rhythm. I swallow my water looking at my pale arms, red now in patches. This shit ain’t for me fam. I look about the gym and see bare hench breddas at it. Man are skipping, pressing, benching. It’s like an army troop. I look back at Selvon dancing around the ring, head low and playing a phantom.
Ey-yo Selvon, I call out to him.
Yeah, what?
He keeps licking the air around him with his gloves. I keep going, calling out from the corner.
I don’t get it bruv.
What you mean?
Ahnt know. You run, you box, you bench. What the hell for?
Selvon’s arms relax and legs loose. He turns now and starts clubbing at his Velcro. He walks over to me, his long black shorts shining, catching the reflection of the mirrors as he walks. He dashes a glove to the side by my feet and takes the bottle from my hand. I watch him inhale nearly half the water that’s left.
Why you on it so much nowadays? Running and boxing and that? I ask him.
He looks about the gym and shrugs.
I’m on it because I’m on it, ennet.
I look left past the ropes, my breathing back to a shallower setting.
Fuck that mean?
Selvon sits down by me. He sits in slo-mo like most big guys, leaning into his weight, allowing gravity to pull the last inch.
Yeah I’m going Brunel. So I’m training.
Rah, Brunel? That’s a good one, ennet?
Good track and field. Good footie team. Went borough finals last summer, summer before that they come second.
Got bare Olympians up there in Brunel?
Yeah.
I smile at that. Thoughts of myman up in Olympics repping, making all this time here worth it. See how every day he’s running and boxing. Proper blessed. He’s boxing us, ennet. Fighting his way out of this place. Selvon’s always been smart, still.
It would be sick to see you in Olympics one day fam. Ain’t gone lie.
He smiles and looks at me, breathes in.
What about you? You going uni? You apply?
Shrug the question off, as if. These are new rules now, ennet. During school term no one ever spoke nuttan about no uni. Everybody was trying to bunk off school, not long it out. Now I’m left feeling like a BTEC dickhead just because I ain’t going uni and everyone else is. As if it was even my choice in the first place.
How am I going uni fam?
Didn’t you get the grades?
Blood, I did all right in mocks. But I dunced my GCSEs. I never got proper marks for sixth form. But they let me off, ennet. Mum’s on benefits and that, so.
Selvon looks away and I watch him
think about it.
What you gonna do then?
Minimum wage, ennet.
I say it and give a laugh like fuck it. Top boys like Selvon? It’s his time, not mine. Anyway. Selvon gets up off the ring floor and rubs his face. Looks down at me and then two-fingers turning, calls me up.
Come here, check this.
I pull myself up with the ropes and dash the gloves, which bounce and settle in the center of the ring for the next lot. I reach Selvon leaning on a rope.
Check that bredda there.
He pecks his chin toward a black dude at the far end of the gym. Mike Akers. Dude is stacked beyond belief, looking like Arnie’s shadow doing tonnage in barbells. He’s surrounded by a crew of other youngers. I recognize them as badman faces from Estate and the shotter’s market near Stonebridge. Seen them around school, slingers most of them, big men. Known.
Yeah, what about him? I say, knowing not to look their way for too long.
You know who that is?
Course I do. Everybody knows that Mike.
Yeah exactly. Everyone knows that Mike. Like Mike is a big man for selling drugs around the Ends, ennet. I see this guy here every day doing his ting. Drinking on his Nourishment and pressing his weights, acting like a king.
Selvon shakes his head, he turns. I turn with him. He looks around the gym. The worn and patched-up ring, bare faded and molded walls. The faces of sorry mandem doing the same shit in the same tracksuit combo, making the same moves. He continues in a kind of focused high like it’s a scene he’s clocked for far too long.
King of what tho, you get me? Look at this shithole blood. Place is done. Same as Estate, same as this city. I see it every day fam and I’m like, this is a trap tho. London is a perpetual fuckery blood, at least our part of it is. Need to look beyond it, get me?
He kisses his teeth and nudges me with his elbow and nods.
So what about you bruv? Why you so scared to do your music ting?
He catches me off guard and I shoot him a look like, what?
How am I scared blood? Shut up.
Bruv, you know half of that Mike’s sidemen are slinging more than drugs. Every baggy comes with a mixtape now.
Yeah, shit mixtapes that don’t no one listen to.
Yeah, exactly tho, right? You know you got bare better bars than them man. So why ain’t it you I’m hearing instead of them?
I glance over to Mike Akers and his crew by the barbells. Most of them olders went to St. Mary’s, same as Selvon and me. Some were in our year. They were never about when grime first popped tho. They co-opted it later and started pushing out weak bars with no fucks given. Paigons. We’re the ones that started it, the music. Molded it, not them. Grime is our own thing. Images of the school corridors rush me now. I see us lot, back in the day, spitting rhymes, dreaming of CDs and stages. Phones out, hoodies down, filming war dubs during breaks, all fired up with our own parlance. Selvon is right, how did those dickheads become the ones to carry it out? They rap about drugs, guns, and arms and how they merk on the regular, like they’re made men. Like they gangstas. As if anyone on road has ever actually seen an AK in passing. Seriously. An AK? Not ever. I screw my face at them and turn to Selvon, who’s measured, waiting for me to say suttan. What do I say other than bunn them.
I shrug and scratch my jaw, looking away toward the entrance, where Max sits, sniffing at some next man’s leg.
Blood, I got mixtapes too. I just never released them, ennet. Plus my phones bruk, because of them Muslim man.
Selvon shakes his head and smiles, turning away.
Minimum wage it is then, ennet, he says.
* * *
When we leave finally I stay schtum. We head toward bus stop and my hair feels like a Brillo pad and I smell like pink soap. Always hated showers in public places. I hold the Tesco bag that Marc gave me for my clothes. Selvon has his phone in his hand next to me. He’s reading a text and smiling. Probably some girl he’s on. I don’t ask him tho, I place an earbud in, though it ain’t connected to nuttan. Max is walking slow beside me. My eyes are shifting around the street where I find some latent feeling of earlier today. Road danger. I recite some Ghetts lyrics and try and dash the dumb funk of feeling sorry for myself.
We reach the bus stop and I take a spot next to some old, wiry-headed Chinese woman. Her pram filled with shopping bags and Pampers and toilet roll. Selvon stands, his back to me against the window. I vacantly read the graffiti on it. A name written in white pen on Perspex: RIP Michael, Lost But Not Forgotten. Beyond it police ribbons tapered around a shattered traffic light. Thoughts mingle with rhymes like they always do. Rhymes mingle with the scene I see in front of me and the words emerge on my lips like fresh blood. Fingers come alive and now I’m whispering light bars against the imaginary sound of a breakbeat in my left ear and the noise of the real world in my right.
Youth done bodied
We living now creep
Feds on peak
Cuh’ their words can’t preach
I see our bus ease to a stop in front of us. I fish out my Oyster card as Selvon turns and finds his own. The old dear gets tangled in her own bags. We allow her and get on. Tap in and scan for any faces we’d know. Anyone we’d know wouldn’t be on the lower deck tho. We climb up the steps to the upper deck as the bus moves off. Immigrant passengers dotted around going about their lonely lives. We walk down to the back where Selvon sees a boy from Estate. He’s surrounded by other breddas, hoodies up, cotching along the back seats getting rowdy. We join them and I give a casual nod to the crew. Don’t make no eye contact for long tho. I put the other earbud in, sit, and look out the window. I see Shooters Hill and the leafy trees lining Wembley pavement. Families hauling bare ASDA shopping bags past Chinese shops and Polish newsagents. We come to the next stop and a group of black yout stare up at me. We push off past them. I glance at the back seats with my head rested against the window. Faces cowled, grinning, getting hype. They shuffling around their seats. A battle is popping off, ennet. Take my earbuds out to cop it. Should be good.
Light-skinned kid and a fat boy take their place in front of each other. Both their elbows are in, no room except the space between bus seats and the aisle. The rest of them boys go on goading, bringing their fists up and two-finger salutes. One of them starts playing a familiar beat on their phone and then the fat boy starts rapping with a yeah, yeah. His flow is fast and he spits down into his chest with his fingers up making swirling circles by his face. He’s okay but nuttan special. I watch the other lad nodding to the beat and wait his turn. Fat boy ends his verse with a cheap line about the light-skinned boy, calling him a bean-head. It’s received well and the others laugh along. Now the light-skinned lad sits up and tugs at his hoodie, smiling like, okay, okay. The beat stops and starts again from the same snare. I lean in to listen. Lad gets into his verse right away, louder, a garage voice, more aggressive and his face is snarling. His bars are on point and gets attention. A proper build with a good, grimy flow. I like it and I nod on. The fat boy is nervous, watching his opponent go in hard on the beat. The rest are silent, watching for the crescendo. When it comes he uses the drop to merk the other kid with a bar about how his family is a family of fatties. He stops dead and the crew ignite into raucous, rolling laughter. The fat boy is cracking up too, no response. Selvon laughs and I laugh. Standard jokes.
Ey-yo! shouts Selvon.
The back-seat crew shoot their still laughing faces at Selvon who is sitting, holding up his phone in front of me.
Ey-yo, myman is next. Selvon points at me.
He looks back and my breath drops and freezes as he juts his phone at my face.
Ey-yo, get myman on that, ennet, he spits too.
My eyes squint at Selvon and I think, fuck he say? All eyes are on me and the bus is silent like an assembly except for the low hum of the engine and chatter from the front seats a world away. A bredda from the corner seat sits up and takes a look at me. Sees Max at my legs trying to sleep on the floor.
Come then. Leave the dog tho, ennet.
That next boy’s voice jabs out at me and I’m straight sinking into my seat like, nah, nah, nah, nah. My one finger up, shaking it fiercely at Selvon’s head. Selvon turns and marks me with a look like he sees I’m buoying it but he won’t let me.
Don’t be a pussyo blood, battle the bredda.
A fuckery. Swear down. How is he going to call me a pussyo in front of everyone? Right bastard. My eyes protest violently while my mouth stays zipped. Selvon kisses his teeth and gestures for me to duss and take my place. I look at the back seats and the fat boy steps out the way leaving the seat vacant. I feel my blood thicken and rush to my face. My ears hot, eyes down. Slowly I rise to my feet, my hands in my pockets like that’s where I keep my courage like. I use my shoulders to keep balance with the veering bus. I sit slow between them and I feel them watching me like Predator yuno. Like I’m shook.
I look up at the light-skinned boy, who’s eyeing me up searching for suttan to hang his confidence on, my clothes, my hair, my trainers. Suttan he could use to body me. I look over to Selvon who looks as nervous as I am. As if he’s about to see bredda get boxed up for real. I allow him and keep focus on my opponent. Fine, fuck it. Let’s do it, ennet, I tell myself. I swallow and stare down at my hands pressed against my knees, feet fixed to the gum-blotched floor. I look up and see some next black boy lean over and whisper something in the lad’s ear. The lad grins and nods at me.
Oy blood. Ain’t you the one that pissed himself in Square earlier? When them Muslim boys bullied you?
My tongue boils and my ears mute the laughter around me. Lies. I fix my eyes on this cunt and I switch over to the boy in the corner. He’s holding his phone to his mouth and I’m about to shoot him a cuss. Instead I say clearly:
In Our Mad and Furious City Page 12