The Dirty South

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘But I spoiled your black behind anyway,’ she went on. ‘Buying you name-brand crap that you didn’t need and in some cases you grew out of the friggin’ clothes in a few months. Your paps was always cussing about it but no, my children had to looked neat and sweet on the road. I spoiled your black behind. Maybe it’s because of that you want things so quick. Maybe you didn’t have the money for what you wanted. So you decided to deal. Is that how it went, Dennis? Because you wanted to look better than the other ghetto kids? I’ve heard the way you chat with your friends. I ain’t stupid, Dennis. Is that how it go? You better tell me the bloodclaat truth, Dennis.’

  Mum could cuss with the best of them, including Grandma but she’s never sworn in front of me. I looked at her in disbelief wondering how long she had been angry and why. She had a good job, strong marriage, nice house, fat wardrobe and at least one of her children had great potential. She wants to try and be Cara, Noel’s Mum, for a day. Then she’s got a right to be vexed. ‘I ain’t lying, Mum! Brothers I went to school with are on that but not me.’

  ‘You better not be lying, Dennis. Selling weed can lead you to all kinds of crap you’d never believe. I still don’t understand why these boys attacked you. Were you teasing them, Dennis? You know I never liked you teasing other kids at school. I taught you to appreciate good clothes if you have them but not to go on like a puppy show in a sufferer’s face. Didn’t I tell you that, Dennis?’

  ‘Yeah you did tell me. I don’t do them things anymore, Mum.’

  She then caught me in a fierce gaze, searching my eyes for any clues of insincerity. The intensity of her stare forced the back of my head deeper into my pillow. ‘I’ll ask you again, Dennis. Are you dealing?’

  ‘No, Mum. It’s like I said, I’m not on that.’

  Suddenly she got up and went towards the door. ‘I’ll check on you in about an hour. Try to get some rest.’

  I let out a long sigh. Then I worked my mind over to see if I had left any incriminating evidence in my room. Rizla papers, half cigarettes and little bags of skunk weed for my private use. I’m sure I had been careful. I didn’t even dare smoke fat-heads in my room when everybody was in bed. Maybe Davinia said something. She once caught me smoking a zoot in the park when I was with Noel. No, she wouldn’t say anything. She knows what’s good for her.

  For the next few days I was expecting Mum to burst into my room with an oz of weed in her hand and my fingerprints all over it. She never did but my suspicion of her knowing something deepened because she was being extra-nice to me. She even bought me a new mobile! It was much better than the old one. It was slim and cool and didn’t look like a brick. I wasted no time in showing Davinia my new toy and she went off in a sulk chatting something about I didn’t deserve it. I couldn’t wait to show it off to the poor-assed ghetto kids in youth clubs.

  That same day, Noel came around in the evening. As Mum showed him in she was being over-polite to him, asking how Cara was and the rest of the family and all that shit. Mum was always extra-polite when she didn’t like someone. As for Noel he looked like someone had just farted in his face. Brooding was an understatement… I took him upstairs to the privacy of my room ’cos it was obvious he had some shit on his mind.

  As I closed the door behind me, Noel took two hundred and fifty pounds out of his back jeans pocket and threw it on my bed. It was wrapped neatly in an elastic band. ‘Your share,’ he said. ‘While you’ve been honey-trapped I’ve still been on road making dollars.’

  ‘Thanks for that, bruv,’ I said. ‘Appreciate it.’

  Refusing to sit down as he usually did in the chair by my bed, Noel kinda fidgeted on the spot, looking uneasy. ‘Spill it out, bruv,’ I urged. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  He pointed a finger at me, stopped shuffling his feet and said, ‘You!’

  ‘What do you mean, me?’

  ‘People been chatting,’ he explained. ‘How you got honey-trapped by some bitch from Peckham ends. It’s not good for our rep, bruv. Some brothers been laughing about it, saying that you and me are pussies. I ain’t tolerating that.’

  ‘Let them chat, bruv,’ I said. ‘What do they know?’

  ‘Is that all you can say? Let them chat? Do you think we’re gonna have any mileage in the skunk game if man on road thinks we’re pussies? Every Tom, Dick and Jezebel are gonna test us, gonna try and jack us. And I ain’t stepping on road with that shit over us. I want my rep back.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, bruv,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s time for me to get out of this business. We’ve had a good run.’

  I looked up at Noel and I could see frustration brewing in his face. ‘What do you mean, get out of the business!’

  ‘Keep your voice down, bruv. My mum might hear you.’

  ‘And if we stop our so-called business,’ Noel went on, dropping his tone, ‘what am I supposed to do? I’m never gonna get a good job. I ain’t got shit qualifications. What are people on road gonna respect me for? How am I gonna get a decent ride to drive? I ain’t gonna be like my mum, working in some shit supermarket and getting brushed by some pussy white man ’cos I’m five minutes late. You know she was passed over for promotion by this white lady who had only been working at Mum’s store for a few months. Mum’s racist boss told her the reason she didn’t get the promotion was ’cos she needs to improve her customer relations. Burn that! If I see this pussy on road I’m gonna pound him… I’m not gonna struggle like that. I’m not gonna be a good nigger boy only for some white pussy to tell me I can’t get promotion. All for an extra fifty fucking p an hour! Fuck that! You know what my mum does? She counts two pences and five pences to see if she’s got enough money for the electric key. Burn that! No way I’m gonna do that shit. And I ain’t gonna shop in no deadbeat stack-them-high supermarket looking for bargains. Burn that shit too. I’m gonna hustle for what I can get in this fucked up racist world and fuck anybody who don’t like it! Including you. Do you know how it feels to walk with your mum when she’s carrying Lidl bags?’

  I didn’t know how to answer so I switched the attention back on myself. ‘Them African brothers wanted to kill me,’ I muttered.

  ‘Wanted to kill you? They just slapped you around a little bit. You’re walking and talking now, right? My mum used to beat me much worse than the shit you got. But then you was always a spoilt little rich kid.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘You know I’m right,’ Noel added… ‘Look at you bitching about a little beating you got. Wow! You lost one tooth! I see your mum tucked you up in bed alright when I knocked on your gates yesterday. She didn’t want you disturbed. She’s making your soup in an hour’s time. I’m surprised you haven’t got no bell to ding her. Always a mummy’s boy. What do you know about a hard knock life? It’s always been easy for you. You’re a pretend badman, Dennis. Everyone knows it. A motherfucking wannabe. You ain’t too different from those white and Asian people who try to talk black. You’re a motherfucking pimp! Pimping from street culture.’

  ‘You’re lucky my mouth is all mash up ’cos for what you just said I would bang you up for that. Who do you think you are, coming to my gates and cussing about my mum? Take your ugly self from my eyesight and go back to your ghetto flat and eat your ghetto pilchards with the rest of your shit-poor family. And tell your mum to stop coming around our gates and begging for money.’

  ‘Can’t take the truth, can you?’ Noel went on ranting. ‘Man is crying about a little slap he got from some African brothers at Peckham ends… Well, hear this, Dennis. To keep my rep I’m gonna personally look for any of those brothers who jacked you and I’m gonna show them what it means to fuck with a Brixtonian. I can’t afford for our business to fail.’

  ‘What you gonna do?’ I asked, leaning in closer to my friend. ‘Don’t resort to arms, Noel.’

  Noel smiled an ugly smile, like he was thinking of some old school, bitch torture that he had seen in some old Samurai film. ‘I have a ride now,’ he said. ‘A little Fiesta. Bought it at an
auction for three hundred notes. And now I’ve got my ride, I’m going in for a little stakeout, to see if I can find that bitch who honey-trapped you. It would be good if you could come with me. You could identify any of the African brothers who jacked you. It was probably a Nigerian. I hate them motherfuckers with their scarred up faces and ugly mothers… They’re all over Peckham these days with their crater-legged women and mad-coloured clothes. And then we could deal with them in medieval style. There’s something I’ve got, two piece of long shanks. And I will use them. But if you’re gonna go on like a pussy then I’ll do this shit on my own. And I can remember what the bitch looks like. Man won’t find her too buff by the time I’m done with her. And when I am done the phantom of the motherfucking opera will turn his back on her nigger honey-trapping ass.’

  ‘Give me time to think,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ Noel replied, all casual like. ‘I will allow two weeks for your mouth to heal, then I will come for you. If you’re ready or not, I’m gonna deal with those African pussies. Believe it.’

  Then he was gone. Without a goodbye.

  Mum came up forty-five minutes later with a bowl of chicken soup. She didn’t say nothing as she placed the tray on my lap. Instead, she just put her right palm on my forehead the way mothers do and smiled. She then sat on the bed, waiting for me to give her the verdict on the soup. Noel was right. I was spoiled.

  ‘Is it too hot?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Mum. It’s fine.’

  ‘Drink it all up, it’ll do you good.’

  The guilt I had returned but an idea came to me. ‘Mum, take me to Granny tonight… I’ll stay there for a few days and you could go back to work. Granny is always complaining that no-one stays with her these days.’

  ‘You sure, Dennis?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure, Mum. You go back to work.’

  Chapter Seven

  GRANNY

  Running parallel to the Brixton Road, between Kennington and Myatt Fields, is the grimy Cowley council estate. Legend has it that in the past, way back in the ’70s, this sound system operator who went by the name of King Tubby, used to test his eighteen-inch bass speakers on one of the greens within the estate. I think Paps was exaggerating when he said you could hear hardcore reggae music from the top of Brixton Hill. Anyway, Granny has lived in Cowley for over thirty-five years and obviously it was where my paps, Auntie Denise and Uncle Royston were grown. There aren’t so many Jamaican and Irish families living there now as in the past and their places have been filled by skinny Eastern Africans with long foreheads and Eastern Europeans who have no garms sense and beg a lot.

  Mum walked me to Granny’s third floor flat and as usual, when Granny opened her door they were polite and sweet to each other as could be. But Mum never entered Granny’s flat. Instead she performed an over-the-top farewell, kissing Granny on both cheeks before her name-brand heels echoed off the concrete along the balcony… ‘Hortense, if you need any money for extra shopping for Dennis then just give me a call,’ Mum said casually, not looking back.

  ‘That’s OK, Carol, me dear. Me know how to look after me grandson and me not broke. No worry yourself about nothing.’

  Granny’s home was like a time capsule. There were old black-and-white family photographs hanging up in the hallway but all this was overshadowed by a 1950s film poster that Paps had bought and framed for Granny one Christmas. It was of the film An American in Paris and the female lead, Leslie Caron, was looking well buff in her pose. For a white girl she had a seriously round, firm butt. I have to admit that over a time of coming to Granny’s flat I kinda fell in love with that pose of Leslie Caron’s and at home I had looked her up on the internet and downloaded untold images of her. It’s something I told no-one about, especially Noel. He would only laugh if he found out I had a crush on an old white Hollywood musical star.

  Granny still had flock wallpaper in her lounge and neat little white doilies upon the arm-rests of her furniture. The multicoloured carpet mirrored the flower shit from the walls and the television was seriously small; I suddenly remembered that Granny didn’t have cable or Sky TV so it was a good job I had a couple of books and a hip hop magazine with me. The mantelpiece was crammed with photos of Paps, Auntie Denise and Uncle Royston and the mahogany coffee table, the only thing of class in the room, was reserved for framed photographs of Granny and her long dead husband Cilbert. Granny always said I looked like Granpa Cilbert and I didn’t argue ’cos he looked very cool in his single-breasted suits, skinny ties and angled hats. He looked really hench and must have been a proper player. Maybe I came from a long line of shottas? Granny was quite a looker herself and she seemed full of energy and attitude in the photos she had taken when she was young. She was always talking about that she used to dance a lot back in the day and I could believe it looking at her photos.

  That evening, as I flicked through Granny’s photo album, I asked her, ‘What advice would you give to a hench-looking young brother today, Gran?’

  She smiled as if reliving some sweet memory and then she replied, ‘Enjoy every day if you can. Life is precious and it must be lived. Because when you get to my age all you have left is pleasant memories. So get busy living and store those memories up. Tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone.’ She then looked at the framed photo of her husband Cilbert on her wedding day. She smiled at him as if she was greeting him after a long absence. ‘Yes, Dennis. Live hard, play hard and most of all, love hard.’

  ‘I will try, Gran.’

  She then turned to me and stroked my left cheek with the back of her fingers. They were unusually broad for a woman, like fat, creased sausages. She must have got them from that tough, hard knock childhood in the Jamaican bush. ‘When me go me will miss you, Dennis.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Gran? There is nuff life in you.’

  ‘No, no,’ she laughed. ‘Me don’t mean passing away. Lord have mercy! Me mean going home.’

  ‘Home to Jamaica?’

  ‘Yes, Dennis. Where you think home is? Greenland? Me thought me would never say it out aloud but me miss my cantankerous, argumentive, know-it-all sister. And the hot sun on my cheeks. And a nice ripe mango!’

  ‘I could never understand you and Great Auntie Jenny. You two were always arguing…’

  ‘Nor do I understand!’ Granny laughed. ‘But me miss her same way… I have been fortunate, Dennis. I have seen me children and me grandchildren grow. It’ll be soon time to let go. Time to let your mother care for your father without me interfering. It’s another reason why you must try to enjoy every day the Most High gives you. No-one knows what tomorrow brings. Your father never knew that from running one day the next he would be a cripple.’

  I went to my bed that night thinking on Granny’s words. I guess she meant follow my heart’s desire. And my heart’s desire wasn’t to be known as some fake wanksta or a spoilt little rich kid. Live hard, Granny said… I’m gonna have to if I’m gonna change my image.

  The following Sunday morning, along with my sister Davinia, Uncle Royston, Auntie Denise and her twins, Natalie and Natasha, I escorted Granny to church. Mum had pussied out saying she had too much work at home to do and Paps was never a regular church goer; Paps once told me why should he praise God when all he got from Him was twisted legs? No-one save Granny and Davinia looked too keen about the service and I guess that once Granny is feeling the Jamaican sun on her cheeks, the tradition of the Huggins family attending church will die. Well, perhaps not ’cos Davinia will probably continue when she has a family. She even gets ratings in church for her singing! Can’t she be shit for at least one thing in her perfect life?

  As for myself I didn’t have to attend church and my family didn’t expect me to. But I guess I was looking for a counter argument to my messed up path to revenge and violence. And all throughout the service, Noel’s words echoed in my head. ‘Everyone knows you’re a spoilt little rich kid.’ I looked around the church to see if there was any nice chicks around… Perhaps after the servi
ce I could chirps a chick or two to take my mind off this revenge thing. But there were only three wokable chicks in the house and they were with their men. Burn them. In fact there weren’t many young faces in the place at all. A disappointment I know Granny felt ’cos Great Auntie Jenny’s husband, Jacob, set up the very first black church in South London… For the life of me I cannot remember what the preacher was preaching about on that Sunday morning.

  Performing all the duties that a good grandson is supposed to do, like listening to Granny’s tales and not looking bored, massaging her shoulders after she finished the washing-up and taking out the rubbish, I felt a proper sadness for her. The modern world doesn’t cater for someone like her. Auntie Denise had bought Granny a computer two years ago, mainly to keep in touch with the family in Jamaica via e-mail, especially Great Aunt Jenny and save on phone bills. But she just couldn’t get the hang of it. So the computer just gathered dust in Granny’s bedroom. A waste. She was happiest when she was shopping in Brixton market for groceries. It’s the only time she came alive, apart from when she watched her old school Hollywood musicals with Leslie Caron, Eleanor Powell, Vera Ellen, Rita Moreno, Cyd Charisse, Ginger Rogers, Bojangles and the Nicholas brothers. And she even loved films that starred that little brat of American goodness, cuteness and whiteness, Shirley Temple. Burn her!

  I can’t believe I can remember all those names but that’s what you get spending most of your Sunday afternoons as a child with Granny.

  In the market Granny would inspect fruits with her eyes and fingers and if the food didn’t come up to her ratings she wasn’t afraid of saying so in her raw patois and that exaggerated Jamaican body language. It was so cool to watch…

  I wish I could have been as blatant with Noel as Granny was with the market traders. I wanted to tell him, ‘Burn you with your shotting! I’m not on it no more. Find a new partner.’ That would have been the right thing to say. But my ego and vanity got in the way. I knew going down the vengeance route was wrong and it could lead to all kinda bad shit. But I just couldn’t stand the fact that some brothers were calling me a pussy and a spoilt little rich kid behind my back. So when Noel arrived outside my gates in his Fiesta tooting his horn, two weeks after he gave me that ultimatum, I filled the passenger seat… It was a cool Friday night in late September. Noel looked at me hard and then broke out in a half smile. ‘Shizzle me nizzle,’ he said, another way of saying everything is cool with the world. He started the car and as he shifted through the gears I closed my eyes and I could feel my heartbeat.