by Ezekiel King
Perfectly folded T-shirts presented on angled, individual, square wooden blocks. All of the hanging rails were organised perfectly—jeans in one section, jumpers in another and a little section dedicated just to footwear. Everything in the shop was designer and top of the range. “Do you want some help, mate?” one of the two lads asked. He had a head full of gel and a face full of spots. His skin was tanned, like he had been over using sunbeds.
“Yes, mate, I’m looking for a pair of dark blue Italian jeans, and a grey, designer, German polo T-shirt,” I said calmly and confidently to disguise the fact that I had never shopped in a shop of this quality before. Chris looked at me with a facial expression that told me he wasn’t expecting me to say what I had said to the shop assistant. Yes, I was a chubby, mixed-raced kid from a shit-hole council estate, but I didn’t have a little chubby, mixed-raced kid from a shitty council estates mentality. The quicker people started to realise that, the quicker they would save themselves the shock of my unexpected endeavours.
“The jeans are over there, mate,” the half-spotty, smartly dressed assistant said showing me a table with six different designs and colours of jeans, all donning little metal badges on the back. I saw the pair Jason had worn.
“Them one’s, mate,” I said as I pointed at the ones I wanted.
“What size are you, mate?” The shop assistant asked. Shit, I thought; now he was going to know I don’t shop in a place like this.
“Can I try some on, please?” I said as this was the best I could say given the circumstances.
“Yes, of course, mate. I will give you a 32” and 34“. I think the 32” will fit you but try them both on," the assistant said as he passed me two pairs of the designer jeans and pointed towards the changing rooms.
“Could you bring me some T-shirts to try on at the same time, so I can see what they look like together?” I asked not wanting to have to try things on twice.
“Okay. They are just over here.” I followed the slim assistant over to the T-shirts hanging on the rails. I looked through the different designs. I quickly spotted the one Jabber had worn to lunch, but there were much better designs here. I chose two before heading to the changing rooms.
I picked up the jeans to try them on and read the tiny tag hanging from the belt fixtures, ‘£185’. Shit, I thought. £185! For a pair of jeans? I unfolded the size 32 and tried them on, and they fit perfectly. They sat snug just below my waistline. Then I tried on one of the medium-sized T-shirts, which fit perfectly too and made my shoulders look broader. Sliding the curtain on the dressing room to the side, I looked in the full-length mirror on the wall. This is how I need to dress from now on! I told myself as I looked back at my reflection. I looked like a proper boss in the drug game now. I was out of my tracksuit.
My appearance had changed completely. I looked older, I looked more accomplished and more importantly to me. I looked more dangerous. Looking down at the bottom of my jeans, my trainers looked out of place. They were only just over a month old but looked grubby at the bottom of the immaculately cleaned and ironed Italian jeans. I had loved my trainers when my mum had brought them for me, but now they were an eyesore. They ruined my outfit; they were good trainers, and they cost nearly a £120, but they weren’t in the same league as the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing. After putting my tracksuit back on, I found the spotty, 20-something-year-old just outside the changing rooms, standing near the till.
“Mate, I’ll have the 32” jeans and these two T-shirts, but have you got any trainers to go with this outfit?" The assistant took the clothes I wanted and placed them on the counter near the till. There was an older man behind the till. He was short and in his early 40s. He looked like he had a lot of money; tanned with a short-sleeve shirt on and a very expensive-looking gold watch, it was plain to see this man cared about his appearance.
I chose some navy-blue trainers that the shop assistant had suggested. They matched my outfit perfectly, and I was very happy. I had chosen my outfit so that I would be wearing all my clothes made by the same designer. Chris was at the till buying a T-shirt and some shorts as I stood next to him to wait for the assistant to bring the trainers I wanted from the storeroom; he returned after a minute or two.
“Jeans, trainers and shirts,” the assistant said to the older-looking guy behind the till as he passed him the box containing the trainers.
The older man looked at me a little confused as he said, “You all right?” As he started scanning little tags that were handing or stuck to the items of clothing. “That will be £610, please, mate,” the older man had said when he finished tallying up the clothes I wanted.
“Yes, okay great, mate,” I replied calmly as I pulled out the wad of cash that was so thick that it was a struggle to manoeuvre out my tracksuit trouser pocket. I watched the older man’s face change behind the till as his eyes opened wide at the sight of my thick wad of cash.
“Have you got enough money there, mate?” he joked as I started to count the £610 he had asked for.
“Yes, I’ve just got a little bit of my pocket money here,” I joked back as I glanced up at him from counting with a smile.
“Here you go, mate,” I said as I gave him a small wedge in comparison to what I had left after paying.
Back in the shopping centre precinct, but now holding several bags of designer clobber, Chris and I stopped at the food court to eat. The food court was a big open area that had 10 to 12 places selling food. It had a big section in the middle to sit down and eat with all of the major fast food chains available as well as healthy options like baguettes and so forth.
After Chris and I had eaten our fast food and had our fill of unhealthy E numbers, we returned to find the car in the multi-storey car park. “How much did you spend in that shop?” Chris asked as he turned to observe my shopping bags I had thrown on the back seat.
“Just over £600,” I said acting like it wasn’t a significant amount of money.
“Big spender!” Chris joked as he started the car.
“I’d like to spend £5,000 in there if I could afford it,” I said very seriously. I had no intention of doing that, but I would have liked to. The reflection I had seen of myself in the full-length mirror did something to me. It was the same thing that happened to me when I had looked inside the first carrier bag full of money I had ever had in my possession. It stimulated my ego, leaving me feeling content for a brief moment.
We stopped at my barbershop. It was the only place I liked to get my haircut. A short, dark-skinned Jamaican man who was usually high as a kite but an absolute artist when it comes to performing the only haircut I would have—‘a skin fade’. He would make sure the sides and the back was as bold as a baby’s bottom. He would perfectly blend it in to the hair on the top of my head while singing and even doing a few dance moves! My barber would shake his head to his music as he would step back to look at his progress before continuing. He was a character, but as I said, an artist with a set of hair clippers and a cutthroat razor.
“Hi, Mum,” I said as we started our journey back towards my house from the barbershop. I wondered what she wanted now.
“Cyrus, will you sell 128 sleeves for £5,000? It’s the same guy as earlier; you will just be giving him one extra sleeve for free,” my mother asked.
“Yes, of course, but tell him to stop trying to bump up the freebies,” I said, only half-seriously.
“Okay,” my mother replied, about to hang up.
“Wait, Mum, have I got many sleeves of cigarettes left?” I asked as I realised I had sold £10,000 worth already. If I’m honest although, my brother had guessed that there was a lot of value in the boxes I had stolen. It was still just a load of boxes of cigarettes to me, plus I had earned it by unscrewing a garage door and carrying boxes that weren’t even ridiculously heavy, so £10,000 for what I had done meant in my mind I had already had a major success.
“Cyrus, you are fucking joking. The two loads I’ve sold when this guy comes to pick this second load up
has not even touched the surface! We haven’t even hardly sold any!” my mother explained as she came to the realisation that I had no idea of the amount of money I had stolen.
“Okay, that’s good, tell that guy to buy more then,” I suggested.
“Bye, Cyrus,” my mum said before hanging up.
I sat looking out the window, looking at the passing cars as I added another £5,000 to my personal bank balance in my head.
“What was that about, Cyrus?” Chris asked hearing half of my conversation. I chuckled to myself realising he had no clue what I had done. Then I proceeded to tell Chris everything that had happened. Chris drove with his jaw practically on his lap hearing how audacious I had been. Wide-eyed and opened-mouth, listening to my every word. “You jammy bastard, no wonder you’re spending £600 on clothes like it’s 50p, you lucky bastard. Why didn’t you call me?” Chris asked feeling as though he had missed the boat.
“I would have, but I wasn’t even sure if anything was going to be in there, it was a spur of the moment thing, plus, you were at your family meal, remember?” I explained.
“Oh, yes, shit,” Chris said realising I had a valid reason for not involving him. “Cyrus, let me see if my uncle will buy some. If he does, give me a nice sorter for getting you the sale,” Chris pleaded.
“Yes, of course, mate,” I said without a second thought.
We parked outside the back of my house, facing the concrete stumps. We arranged to meet back up in an hour-and-a-half to go meet the girls that Chris had arranged for us to meet.
“Grab me a sleeve of them cigarettes, Cyrus, so I can go and show my uncle before I come back,” Chris suggested. I nodded to say yes as I got my designer clothes bags from the back seat of the car and walked past my house to Trish’s, knocking the big square piece of glass in Trish’s front door to get her attention she let me in. My mum was right was my first thought as I looked at the living room full of cigarettes. Whatever they had sold had made the amount look untouched.
“Chris is going to ask his uncle if he wants any cigarettes. I’m trying to get them sold as quick as possible,” I said to Trish as she picked up a sleeve and threw them into one of my designer clothes bags. “Where’s my mum?” I asked Trish before leaving.
“Over the road, at your house,” Trish replied as she sat smoking a cigarette, watching TV as normal. Trish’s living room looked like someone had put the TV and a sofa in a cigarette warehouse. I left Trish’s house to take the sleeve of cigarettes ’round to Chris who was waiting parked behind my house. I knew there was a chance someone could break in and steal my stolen stash, or the kids could have been seen stealing them with me and gave up the location of the cigarettes, or somehow the Kosovo/Turks could find the stash. I didn’t care about Trish’s well-being; my main concern was selling the stolen stash and getting paid. I just hoped I finish the job of turning the cigarettes into money and carrying on my life hassle-free.
“Here, mate, I’ve been selling them for £40 per sleeve, no cheaper, I’ve got about 1,000 sleeves left,” I told Chris as I threw the sleeve of cigarettes onto the passenger side floor and closed the door.
“Hi, Dad,” I said as I walked past my dad in the kitchen. I had made it almost through the kitchen to the door that led to the staircase before he stopped me.
“Cyrus, your mum has told me what you have done. Watch what you are doing. If somebody catches you stealing from them, they could kill you.” My dad said firmly, but not angrily. It was a warning more than anything else. That could have been a lot worse, I thought as I walked upstairs towards my room.
“The last 24 hours has been hectic,” I said to myself as I took my phone out to call Jason. “Yes, mate, I’ve got £7,500 here for you and Jabber,” I told Jason before he could even say hello.
“Okay great, are you going to drop it to mine?” Jason asked.
“I will call my Auntie Delma and ask her if I can give it to her. She could come to my house and collect the money and then bring it to you,” I suggested after trying to think of a solution.
“Yes, okay, let me know what she says then, mate,” Jason said.
“Oh, shit, I forgot to tell you. I’ve got £10,000 worth of cigarettes. Ask your uncle if he wants to buy them. I’ve got every make of cigarettes for sale,” I told Jason remembering I had a new business venture I should be promoting.
“What? Where did you get £10,000 worth of cigarettes from?” Jason asked sounding intrigued.
“I’ve just got them. I can’t say where they’ve come from. But try to help me sell them, please, I will call you later, okay mate,” I said before hanging up.
It was at that precise moment that I finally understood the all well to known saying…‘there is no rest for the wicked’. Since my eyes had opened in the morning, I had been on the go all day. “Hi, Delma, I’ve got £7,500 here for Jason. If I give you £20, could you come and get it from me and then drop it to him, please?” I asked sounding as though I was pleading for her to provide a quick and easy solution to my problem.
“Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be at yours in 20 minutes. I’m going to come to see your mum, so just bring it downstairs to me,” Delma replied. I loved Delma, always prepared to help me when I needed her.
“Okay, thanks, Delma,” I said before hanging up to tell Jason she would be dropping money.
“Yes, Cyrus, my uncle said drop a sleeve off; and if the cigarettes are proper, he would buy the lot,” Jason said before I had chance to explain what I had called him for.
“Okay, I will give a sleeve of cigarettes to my auntie, and she will give them to you when she brings you your money. She will be at your house in the next hour, I should imagine,” I explained.
“Okay, make sure she brings the cigarettes, please,” Jason stressed.
“I won’t forget, mate,” I said before putting the phone down. Before I even had chance to take my new clothes out of their bags, ‘Chris’ was flashing on my phone screen as I looked at my phone that had been sitting on my bed less than ten seconds.
“What’s up now, mate?” I said as I answered my phone.
“Cyrus, my uncle said how many sleeves would you sell for £15,000?” Chris asked. I had no idea where to begin calculating how many sleeves I would give for £15,000 while on the phone.
“I’ll give him £15,000 worth at £40 per sleeve. Obviously, I will give him a few extra because he’s your uncle, Chris, maybe ten for free or something like that?” I replied.
“Okay, work out exactly how many, and he will buy them tomorrow. I’m coming to pick you up in 40 minutes anyway,” Chris said. “If he does buy £15,000 worth, I want a nice sorter!” Chris added.
“Don’t worry, I will give you a nice sorter, mate; see you soon,” I reassured him and put the phone down. The phone calls I received had increased tenfold, in a way I didn’t mind, as it made me feel important—I had a purpose. The receiving of so many calls and the need to make so many calls made me feel important, especially because the majority of my phone calls were related to money.
I put the change that I had left from the money my brother and his friend, Lee, had given me on the bed next to my phone. I started to take out my new clothes from their bags. They looked out of place in my room, almost like they were lost. Everything in my room was of poor quality and old; everything apart from some of Italy’s and Germany’s top-line designer clothes that were just laying on my bed next to £1,000 cash and my £20 burner phone. I looked around at the rest of my room and told myself, “It’s me that is lost.” The clothes are in the right place, it’s me that should be somewhere else.
I needed to upgrade my surroundings. I decided to get a shower to wash off all the tiny hair that were starting to irritate my neck on my collar line from getting my haircut; plus, I didn’t want to get hair on my new expensive clothes. While in the shower, I heard the elevated female voices laughing and talking, which told me that my Auntie Delma had arrived. When I had washed the soap off my almost bald head, I got out the show
er and started getting ready. I de-tagged the clothes to put them on. My jeans felt rigid and stiff as though they wanted to keep their shape. Even though I now had them on, I took my trainers out of their smartly presented blue box and put them on.
I didn’t even know expensive jeans needed to be broken in. Feeling like a thousand dollars, I joined my mum and Auntie Delma downstairs. “Look at you!” my Auntie Delma said as her face lit up in surprise at the transformation designer clothes had made to my appearance. The smile on her face remained as she scanned my body from top to bottom.
“You like these,” I said showing her the sides of my trainers with tiny letters displaying the designer’s logo.
“Yes, Cyrus, you look great and all grown up,” Delma said still smiling and admiring my attire. My mum’s face was full of shock. I think the realisation that her baby boy had come of age had left her almost speechless.
“Where are you going, Cyrus?” My mother finally asked when she had picked her jaw up from the kitchen floor and reattached it to her face.
“Oh, Chris and I are going to meet some girls,” I replied smiling and feeling awfully proud of myself. My mum tutted and shook her head. Nothing I could say or do would surprise my mum, especially after the day she’d had. “Mum, could you do me a favour, please?” And grabbed two sleeves of cigarettes to give to Delma. I asked with the facial expression I always used, which was slightly frowning but with an element of pleading. I needed it doing, which from experience usually achieved the results I was looking for.
“Yes, okay, I will grab them in a minute and give them to her before she goes,” my mother replied as she sighed in defeat of always giving into my every need.
“Delma, could you come with me for a minute, I want to show you something,” I said as I used my hand to gesture that I wanted my auntie to follow me out of the living room. I walked up the stairs and into my room with my Auntie Delma following me. “Have a seat,” I said to her as I pointed to my bed as that was the only place to sit down in my room.