The Dirty South

by Alex Wheatle

  As for me I was working part-time at a garage owned by my auntie Denise’s husband Everton; my Paps’ best friend. Auntie Denise and Everton had eight-year-old girl twins, Natasha and Natalie. Auntie Denise was cool. She never lectured me. Everton and Auntie Denise shared my tastes and they dressed in all the latest garms. Auntie Denise always dyed her hair in a world of different colours and she still stepped to the latest bashment dances and performed her shit on the dance floor. She liked Tupac and watched films like Boyz in the Hood. The last DVD my mum bought was Shaft, some film where every black brother had a mad afro… Only the Lord knows when my parents will finally make it into today’s world.

  Everton always had a zoot dangling from his mouth and when one morning break I rolled my own fat-head he didn’t say shit. He just looked over with a kind of half smile. Why couldn’t Paps be like Everton?

  The job I had was a kinda compromise after Paps and myself had a serious row about me not going to college to study history or something. He had this dream of me being a university professor. Burn that dream ’cos I’ve never heard of a black university professor. We had a beef once about how many black men are in neat jobs like Managing Director of a name-brand company and shit like that. Paps couldn’t answer me when I said I bet there weren’t more than ten black professors in the country. Even if I did have the qualifications and shit they’d make it harder for me. They always make it more difficult for black people. Black sportsmen, singers, rappers and the odd token black on reality TV shows were the only fucked up role models in my world but even if there was some black history professor out there I couldn’t see the likes of me getting that goal and nor did any teachers at my school.

  Anyway Everton needed an extra pair of hands to help him out. I learned quite a few things; how to change and gap spark plugs, how to replace break pads, how to time an engine… You know, shit like that. The only problem was, I didn’t like the grime and the grease and I was always paranoid about that garage smell when I chilled in the evenings and chirpsed chicks. But the seven notes an hour did sweet up that shit.

  To further nice up my wallet on what Everton was paying me I was also shotting at youth clubs, colleges and basically anywhere else where skunk was craved. Even fifteen doors away on my very road, where this white woman lived who worked at the town hall. Her name was June Haver and she wanted her fix every Friday night. She looked so innocent in her trouser suits, pulled up hair and glasses but I reckon I even could’ve woked her if I wanted to. Anyway, Noel and myself made most of our profit at Stockwell ends. Or to be more specific, Stockwell Youth Club which was right in the middle of Stockwell Park estate.

  Most of our deals at Stockwell happened outside the youth club ’cos the white woman who ran the place was no pussy. She was different to the few white women of that age who I knew. She wasn’t afraid of black brothers… The way it went was white girls at school who had money felt at ease in black brothers’ company, laughing, joking and burning fat-heads with us and allowing us to touch their tits. It’s only after they left school for a couple of years when they started to grab their handbags more tightly when you passed them on road. White trash girls never blanked you on the road and they carried on like they were black anyway with their Croydon facelift hairstyles and their cheap gold. Anyway, Julie was the name of the woman who ran Stockwell Youth club. She ran Noel and me out of her club a few times with her cursing and shit…

  When we weren’t shotting Noel and me would play table tennis, shoot pool, log onto the internet where we entered chat sites and communicated with chicks… All the time we would check out any newcomers and kinda force them to buy our skunk. We spent a lot of our time watching the chicks, who formed the dancing group Scarman’s Children, performing their dance steps. Nuff bootys and breasts were shaking in tight-fitting leotards and brothers were proper glued to the drama of it all, dreaming of untold woks.

  It was while I was ogling Scarman’s Children when this buff girl proper-catwalked right in front of me. Fit she was with a neat tidy booty and cat-like eyes. She was a lighter skin tone to me, a browning, and she was wearing this proper-tight tracksuit and untold rings on her fingers. She had a confidence about her that I liked. She wasn’t as pretty as Akeisha Parris but I guess no-one ever will be. I’d never seen this chick before but I just had to chirps her and get her digits. She was chilling with two of her friends by a pool table. So I made steps towards her, putting on my strut. I heard Noel giggling behind me. He whispered to a bredren that she’s out of my league and Dennis doesn’t have the game to chirps them kinda chicks.

  ‘What’s gwarnin’,’ I introduced myself. ‘I haven’t seen you at these ends before. Is it ’cos all the men at your ends are butt ugly?’

  She chuckled and offered me one of those glances when you know a wok is a possibility. I knew I was better looking than most brothers. That might sound arrogant but timid brothers don’t get to wok fit chicks. Simple as. ‘I’m from Peckham ends,’ she replied. ‘Just chilling here with friends who live Camberwell ends.’

  ‘I don’t step to Peckham ends that much but if I knew that buff chicks like you were there I would step there more regular. You know it.’

  She laughed again and my confidence grew. ‘So what?’ I said. ‘You’re not gonna tell me your name? That’s kinda rude seeing as we’re having a proper conversation.’

  ‘You tell me your name first,’ she smiled.

  ‘Dennis.’

  ‘Ann. Ann Sheridan.’

  ‘Well, Ann,’ I said. ‘Man would like to see you again and link up so what are you saying? I need your digits kinda urgently.’

  Ann thought about it as her two friends looked me up and down. They were brute ugly. I felt a sweat coming on from my armpits and my face was warming. Finally, Ann smiled and took out her mobile phone from her tracksuit pocket. It was a brand new model… I liked that ’cos it told me she had some P’s behind her and I was tired of chirpsing ghetto chicks who couldn’t even afford to buy me a Kentucky chicken nugget and a single fry. ‘You give me your number as well,’ she asked.

  Relief…

  Not wanting to appear desperate, I called Ann a week after our first meeting. ‘So when are we gonna link up?’ I asked. ‘When are you gonna show me some love?’

  ‘How comes it’s only now that you call me?’ she said. ‘It’s been a week!’

  ‘Man is busy, innit.’

  ‘Even in the evenings?’

  ‘Yeah. Man has a little business to attend to.’

  ‘I know,’ Ann replied. ‘You’re a shotta.’

  ‘Where you learn that from?’

  ‘Word gets around on road.’

  I paused, wondering who told her. ‘Anyway, like I said, this man needs some loving. When are we gonna link up?’

  ‘Next Friday night. My parents are out that night and I have the flat to myself.’

  I closed my eyes and imagined running my hands over her bumper but I still wanted to appear calm. ‘I’m not sure about your programme,’ I said. ‘I don’t like to be taken advantage of and on first dates I like to get to know the girl first if you know what I’m saying. I’m a respectable brother!’

  Ann giggled in contempt. ‘What fuckery!’

  ‘So Friday night for real,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know where your gates is.’

  ‘My flat is difficult to find so just make you way to Peckham estate. You know the big one that is near the new library and I’ll link you at the main forecourt.’

  ‘OK, that’s all good. And make sure you have some nibbles and something to drink. Man needs food and liquor while he’s showing some love. Oh, one more thing. Make sure you have some bump and grind music on the go. For real.’

  ‘OK,’ she laughed and ended the call.

  I was proper content ’cos I didn’t have to do that dating shit like take her to a wine bar or something and waste my dollars. Burn that shit and the idiot brothers who do it. When I link with a girl I just wanna give her a wok. Simple as.

>   Next Friday evening I slapped on my deodorant big time and put on my name-brand vest and garms… I usually don’t step out with my gold rings and gold chains but what’s the point of buying that shit if you don’t wear them for occasions like this? I wanted to impress Ann to the max. I finished up dressing by pulling on my new Nikes after checking that they were spotless. Before I left I made sure I placed two condoms in my wallet; I didn’t get too much sex education at home but Mum always said to me not to trust no girl and wear a ‘jacket’ at all times. ‘I’m too young to be a grandmother and so much loose girls get themselves pregnant just to get a flat,’ she would bark as Paps would try to conceal a grin. It was embarrassing but her message struck home.

  I took a 37 bus to Peckham. There ain’t nothing looking sweet in Peckham. The place is a proper dump, well grimed, with dodgy people selling phone cards and dodgy people chilling around cheap chicken takeaways and shottas doing their shit in cab stations.

  As I made my way to Ann’s estate, I said to myself that if she wanted a regular wok she’d have to step down to my ends. The estate reminded me of Stockwell Park with its dirty yellow, brownish brickwork and its long walkways and little squares. I gave Ann a ring when I arrived at a forecourt where nuff cars were parked.

  ‘Ann! Yeah, I just reach. I’m just standing near this big car park next to a kind of square.’

  ‘OK, babes. I know where you are. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.’

  I had a half-smoked fat-head in my inside jacket pocket so I took it out and lit it. I had taken three tokes when this African brother appeared on a balcony in front of me. He was about sixteen so I didn’t really pay him any mind. Then this other brother got out of a car. He was walking slowly with his hands in his pockets and he was watching me, following my every move. He looked African too. One of the rules of the ghetto is that if a brother starts to stare you out you must return his gaze until he looks away.

  Maintaining my own stare at this brother who was walking towards me, I heard footsteps coming from my left. There were now three of them. I spat out my spliff. Footsteps were now coming from behind me. I spun around and saw the shit was up to my neck… A guy running towards me with serious intent. For a short second it all seemed so comical ’cos this brother was rushing towards me with his baggy jeans falling below his hips showing his Calvin Klein boxer shorts. It was after that when a cold fear struck me. It’s a horrible feeling… It starts with a cramping sensation in the stomach, then it spreads throughout your body until it gets to your brain. Your brain is trying to force you to make a choice. Run or fight. I didn’t do either. I still don’t know why to this day. So I just stood there, fucked up with fear. Rooted to the spot. The brothers rushing me seemed to get bigger and bigger. Their faces had a hungry look about them. Desperate. I couldn’t move.

  Reality hit me when I felt a punch behind my right ear. It dazed me because I didn’t see it coming. I was surrounded by four of them. I only had time to notice that they were all Africans before the kicks and punches pounded my black ass. I felt jolts of pain all over my body and it took me a couple of moments to realize I was on the ground. I opened my eyes and saw a Nike-covered foot aimed for my face. It struck me on the right side of my mouth and I felt the crunching of a few teeth and a splitting sensation. I spat out blood before I choked and then I remember one of the Africans yelling, ‘Peel him!’

  My rings were wrenched off my fingers and they took my wallet. My Nikes were pulled off as well. Then they took off my gold chains and thieved my mobile. They had found my little bag of skunk in my inside jacket pocket and they even took my ultra-thin Rizla papers and my lighter. The only other thing I remember is that one of them said, ‘Who’s he think he is? A Brixton shotta coming down our ends and he wasn’t even packed. Man, that was a proper easy jack.’

  For one bitch of a long time I laid fucked up on my back looking up to this bright sky. The sun was hurting my eyes but I didn’t have the strength to lift my hands up to shield them. I felt the warm blood dripping over my jawbone and I remember thinking it was surprising how quickly it cools. With a big effort I managed to roll on to my side and I spat out more blood that was clogging up my throat. Half a tooth came out as well. Everywhere was hurting but the thing that pained me the most was knowing that Ann must have set me up. That motherfucking bitch.

  A crying baby stopped me from falling into unconsciousness. I opened my eyes and saw a white trash girl, no older than seventeen, standing beside me with her baby buggy. She had a Croydon facelift, earrings too big for her head and a market bargain denim skirt. I remember her taking out her mobile and making a call. For the next ten minutes or so she stood beside me, saying, ‘Don’t try to move.’ Then an ambulance turned up. I managed to tell the medics my name and address and I also told them that the pussies had nicked my Nike One Tens. My precious Nike One Tens! I don’t remember much after that.

  Chapter Six

  MUM

  I was in hospital for three days, spending most of my time staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of what happened. How could I allow some bitch honey-trap me? Even though I was on some serious painkillers my whole jaw just pounded in agony. And I was hungry. At this point I would’ve eaten pilchards and rice and felt no shame. I just wanted to eat a meal, any meal.

  Confined to drinking soup from a straw, I wasn’t a good patient and when Mum drove me home from the hospital the first seeds of revenge planted itself in my mind. I still had visits to the dentist to look forward to. Bitch! I thought, it’s ’cos of Ann why I can’t eat a Kentucky Zinger Tower. Then some part of my brain blamed me. You dumb pussy, it said. This is all because of your shotting. Simple as. It was your decision to get involved in it, you alone. You’re intelligent enough to make good choices and you made a wrong one. Deal with it!

  Stepping out of the car all groggy-like and feeling confused, I was led to my bedroom by Mum. While I’d been away she had cleaned up my room a bit. My carpet had been hoovered, my games for my PlayStation all put in a neat pile, my CDs no longer littered the floor and had found a new home on a new shelf. Even my computer desk and stereo had been wiped clean. It was nice to see my life-size poster of Aaliyah still pouting over my bed and under the bed my hidden dirty plates, mugs and takeaway drink cartons had been cleared away. I felt a little humiliated by all this but Mum said nothing. She was in a strange, subdued mood.

  As I sat on the bed, Mum closed the door. She then sat beside me and gently cradled my jaw with her palms. Compassion was in her eyes and although I hate to admit it, her motherly touch felt good. She had taken the week off to look after me so I was feeling a little guilty. I know how she is about missing days from work. She then patted my pillow and said, ‘Lie down.’

  I did as I was told and I tried not to reveal how helpless I was. When my head hit the pillow Mum asked, ‘Dennis, are you dealing?’

  The question took me by surprise and it took me a few seconds to prepare my response. I didn’t meet her eyes. ‘What do you mean dealing, Mum?’ Every word I spoke was uncomfortable.

  ‘Dennis, look at me. Are you selling weed, Dennis?’

  ‘Selling weed! Course not. I’m not on that.’

  ‘Are you sure, Dennis?’

  ‘I ain’t lying, Mum. No.’

  ‘If I find out you’re lying to me don’t think that you ain’t too damn big for me to box you! I‘ll ask you again. Look at me, Dennis. Are you dealing?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  I feigned tiredness by half closing my eyes. Maybe she would go away if she could see how sleepy I was. I didn’t wanna talk. My fucking mouth!

  ‘I’m just trying to think why these bad-breed boys attacked you,’ she reasoned. ‘You’re not a member of the gang, are you?’

  ‘No, Mum!’ Raising my voice pained my jaw. ‘I was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time… Simple as. It was a jack, Mum. Simple as. It happens. That’s life on road nowadays. We live in South London, not south Berkshire.’
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  Mum stood up, folded her arms, took a couple of paces and looked out of the window. At that moment she might have questioned why she didn’t move away from South London when she had the chance. ‘You know, Dennis, back in my day it was violent enough. But badmen would generally harm other badmen. People who weren’t involved in drugs and crime were more or less left alone. If you minded your business no trouble would come to your door and you were free to enjoy being young.’

  She now had her back to me and I sensed some kinda deep messed-up memory or something that was fucking up her head for many years. Maybe she was thinking about Paps. Obviously she doesn’t know that I know how Paps became a cripple: that he was a shotta. Maybe I shoulda told her.

  She finally turned around and forced a half smile. ‘You just concentrate on getting better. Everyone’s been asking for you, Uncle Royston, Grandma, Auntie Denise, Everton and even your great aunt Jenny called from Jamaica last night. I guess Grandma must have told her about your bad news.’

  It was kinda nice that the family were thinking about my black ass but that ho Ann was in my head. Burn her! Mum sat back down on my bed. ‘You know,’ she opened with, ‘in many ways things are more difficult with your generation. So many distractions. So many things that demand your attention.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mum?’

  ‘Everything is in your face. You can’t watch the damn TV without some friggin’ advert trying to hustle their crap. Remember those trainers you wanted, Dennis? You was about seven. Screamed the friggin’ house down ’cos I refused to buy them.’

  This was weird. Mum was turning into Paps. I’ve never heard her talk like this before.