I soon got fast-tracked to top dog status without even trying.
Sometimes an angry parent would give you grief, but I had no fear of adults. I had no fear of anything.
“Just do it,” I thought, watching the latest hard-faced mother stride across the playground, frothing at the mouth over her bullied child, demanding to know “where is the little bitch?”
I’d watch them, stroking the rabbit skin under my blazer.
“Go on,” I would dare them, in my head. “Strike me. Slap me. Do something to make me use this.”
I was eager to test it out. Was it sharp enough? Would my reflexes be quick enough? I was always disappointed when they backed down. But I knew I’d have another chance soon.
I was walking home in a boisterous mood one afternoon. I had cash in my pocket, which some of the two-tails had likked from Brixton Market over the weekend.
It took only 10 minutes to walk home, but I jumped on the bus to be with the crowd. That was always good value. Sure enough, we stormed on, out of sight of the driver, pushing past the people trying to get off, and ejected some of the smaller kids from our preferred seats at the back.
The rugrats shared my boisterous mood. In those days, buses had light bulbs you could unscrew. And no CCTV. One of the crew scampered over the seats, untwisting the bulbs, and pelting them at cars from the window.
Cars started tooting. The bus pulled over at the next stop.
“Exit!”
We muscled past the big Nigerian women, carrying shopping, and the pony-tailed pramfaces clogging the way with buggies off of the bus, and bolted off in different directions.
I was still laughing to myself when I reached the estate to find someone standing outside my mum’s door. It was a young black guy I didn’t recognise, about my age. I stopped.
“Who you waiting for?”
He spun round. He seemed agitated.
“I want my money, innit.”
“What money?”
“The money owed to me by that little shit.”
He gestured inside. He must be talking about Yusuf.
“Are you crazy in your head? What are you talking about?”
“I want paying.”
“Seems you lost your mind. What’s going on in your head? Now get off my mum’s doorstep.”
“I told you have some respect, innit. I gave him an eighth. Said he’d pay up.”
“Step aside. I’m sorting this out.”
I left him outside, ranting and raving about his resin.
Yusuf was playing his Nintendo.
I went straight past him, into the kitchen, and picked up a very large piece of knifery.
Who the hell was this character, trying to take me for some little pussy?
“Get the fuck off this estate, right now. And take your shit-ass tush weed with you.”
I chucked the bag at him, which I’d picked up from the front room table, and threw at him a sorry-looking cube of resin. It was as shrivelled as this boy’s bravado.
“Mad bitch,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry? Say that one more time? You dickhead!”
He bolted down the stairwell, darting right around the building towards the Pen.
I pretended to make chase down a couple of flights, but to be honest I ain’t never been an athlete.
Besides, he was the fearful one, so he had an unfair advantage, innit.
“Don’t ever make me catch you,” I shouted after him, watching him dash across the courtyard.
Wow, I gotta get fit, I thought to myself, as I caught my breath by the bins.
When I went back up the stairs, Peggy had come out to see what the commotion was.
“Nuttin, Peggy,” I told her, holding the bread knife tight by my arm. “Some kids just ain’t got no manners.”
She smiled, unconvincingly, and stepped back inside. I heard the chain slide against the lock.
When I went back, I took the second control, put Street Fighter on pause and shouted at Yusuf what the hell he was doing.
“You don’t even bun green.”
He shrugged. “Was gonna try to sell it.”
Then I spotted the other bags, lined up along the coffee table, alongside an empty jar.
“Yusuf, what the hell is that?”
He brightened up, eyes twinkling.
“You think I could sell it? I worked it out. You can get at least 20 wraps out of a single jar.”
The wraps looked like heroin. The powder was dark beige, the colour of sand, wrapped in scraps of cling film, which had been twisted and sealed, by burning the top off.
“Number one – what you talking about? And number two – what is in those bags?”
He smiled, looking pleased with himself. Yusuf could be a charmer when he wanted.
“It’s Horlicks, innit?”
I took a deep breath. He was 12. Horlicks was an old man’s drink. More importantly, how did he even know that’s how they wrapped heroin?
“Yusuf, last time I looked, Roupell Park didn’t have a big problem with addiction to nutritional malted milk drinks.”
Lord have mercy.
He nodded.
“Exactly. Costs £2.49 for one of the big jars. Sell 20 wraps for around £20 a pop, and you’re in the money. Good business, innit.”
“And who the fuck is going to buy it?”
“Cats are desperate, ain’t they? It’s just a one-off.”
“Well, it’ll have to be, innit, unless they’re just wanting a good night’s sleep. Because ain’t no one going to ask again.”
I felt a stab of affection for my little brother at that moment. He wanted to become a mechanic. Just as well, ’cause I knew right there and then that he wouldn’t be making it as Tony Montana.
Selling fucking Horlicks.
I went to my room and put my music up loud. That night I fell asleep wondering if maybe, just maybe, it might just work.
Steaming
I had my associates at school. But back home, at Roupell Park, my crew was made up of whoever was around. Who’s coming today? Who’s up for it?
There was no recruitment, no initiation. It ain’t no rotary club.
The ones from good homes kept riding with you till their mums or dads shut them down. The rest of us were just along for the ride.
Most days, we were just a loose collective of bored kids from the estate. Jamal, a big-built Ethiopian guy who was only our age, but looked bloody 18; Eddie, another black boy in the same block; and Sizz, the cousin of a friend. Other two-tails would come and go, but these were the main bloods.
They were up for anything. I was the only girl, and as such I occupied a role all to myself.
The trouble with being a brand-name, as I soon learned, was that once you start you can’t back down. It’s like grasping for the rope of a runaway balloon, innit. Your feet leave the ground, and suddenly you’re stoked by the thrill of soaring high above the rest.
By the time you look down, it’s too late to let go. Part-time wasn’t an option.
No, if I was going to be Sour, sour I had to stay.
I wanted to see who could prove themselves. If I was going to have their back, I needed to know who was just talking the talk and who would take a risk. I told them what they could achieve, and I wanted to see who could achieve it.
I was a very callous young woman. Really, it was just that simple.
Besides, shoplifting was getting boring. That was for rugrats. I was 15. I needed to step up. Tiefing threads and popping tags just weren’t my ting. Too quiet, too sneaky. That was low-level stealing. Kids’ stuff. Robbing, though – robbing was different.
I had some rules. Likking a tek, y’know a punter, on the street, or drumming the yard of private houses was not on. My focus was businesses. They had insurance. That was victimless crime, innit.
We called it steaming – rushing a shop en masse, storming the aisles and clearing out the till, likking the shelves for anything we could get our hands on. The key to success wa
s strength in numbers. One form makes many.
My crew knew I would have their back.
Targets were never mapped out. It wasn’t planned like that. Steaming is about being a chancer: you’re either going to get away with it or you’re not. On some level, yeah, I knew that prison could beckon, but how could I be fearful of that? I hadn’t been there yet.
You do the crime, you do the time. The secret was not getting caught. That was what was at stake.
We jumped off the bus a few stops early. Me, Jamal, Eddie and Sizz. Sizz had brought a friend, a short, stocky guy with a shaved eyebrow. When he pushed back his hoodie, I could see a scar running down his temple. He knocked knuckles with the boys. When it came to me, he looked me up and down and grunted hello.
Maybe not a charmer, but I was glad Sizz had brought him along. He looked broader and stronger than the rest. We needed him.
We sauntered along the pavement, not saying much. Sizz and Eddie kicked a chicken bone between them, dribbling it along the pavement, before shooting it across the road, narrowly avoiding a granny on her shopping scooter. The front wheel underneath the basket crunched over the bone as she trundled on, oblivious.
We loitered for a moment by the sandwich board outside, advertising low-cost money transfers to Nigeria. It squeaked with rust.
The automatic doors opened and a tired-looking mum dragged a moaning child behind her.
“You’re getting no more till we get home,” she barked at the little girl, who eventually admitted defeat and sulked along behind her.
I felt my stomach tighten with nerves.
I reminded the boys of the task at hand.
“The focus is to get the money out of the till.” They nodded. “That’s the job, get it done.”
My right arm hung straight and heavy by my side. I liked that feeling. It gave me confidence.
Holding the collar between my teeth, I managed to zip my hoodie up to my neck, one-handed.
I took a deep breath and walked in first, face-straight.
There were no customers. I glanced up, looking for the CCTV cameras, but could see none. It was clean.
I turned to the door, and gave them the sign. We were on. The boys steamed in behind me.
“Get down!”
Jamal was shouting at the shopkeeper. He was big, much bigger than Jamal.
The barrel-chested man behind the counter didn’t look scared. He looked angry. Eddie and the stocky friend jumped over the counter, toppling over the plastic lollipop stand and the lottery ticket board. Nimble hands and trainers vaulted over the confectionary shelves, kicking Tic Tacs and Twixes all over the floor.
They were going for the till.
The shopkeeper ducked down, yelling to a young boy, a son, perhaps, who emerged from the back room.
“Call the police!” he yelped.
The gangly lad stood open-mouthed for a moment before disappearing and locking the door.
Glancing over my shoulder, I did what I was meant to do, and maintained a look-out. No one was coming in. That was good.
Eddie and the cousin had turned their backs on the cowering shopkeeper and opened the till, stuffing their pockets with notes. We would be out of here in a second. The excitement pulsed through every vein in my body.
Jamal and Sizz ransacked the rest of the shop, clearing DVDs from the shelves.
What none of us had anticipated was that, of all the shops we could have picked, we had to pick the one run by a have-a-go hero. Most of the shop-owner Asian guys did the smart thing when they saw youngsters steaming their shops. Most times they let them have the run of it. But this guy, this guy was different.
The till was empty.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Jamal and Sizz were still steaming the back of the shop.
With their pockets full, and hot breath searing their faces beneath their scarves, Eddie and the cousin spun round, ready to make a run for it.
I felt the cold sweat of distant sirens. Were they coming? Was I imagining it? My legs were shaking. “Come on,” I muttered, willing them to leap over the counter as nimbly as they entered. “Come on …”
But the shopkeeper has risen up, shouting something in a language I didn’t understand.
He was brandishing a stepladder he’d been using to stock up. Eddie and his cousin tried to jump back over the counter, but it was much deeper on the other side, with much less room. The shopkeeper had blocked them in. My crew were in trouble.
I knew I needed to do something. He was attacking them.
“Shut your mouf, old man!”
I was the only one left. I had to protect them.
No one had ever tried to fight back before. I felt disrespected. He had disrespected all of us. But more than that, I felt responsible. I had these guys here to do something, and because of this have-a-go hero it’s all gone crazy.
I kept on shouting, until Jamal and Sizz had legged it out the double doors, and Eddie and the cousin had clambered back over the disarray of Snickers and cigarettes and out of the shop.
I kept on throwing cans till all the rest were sprinting down the road, and the street fizzed blue and red with sirens. A bitter, metallic taste flooded my mouth. My lip had been burst in the fight-back. I tripped and fell on to the crumpled man, who was groaning as he pushed himself up off the floor.
The shop fell silent, save for the heaving man on his hands and knees. I dropped the last can and fled.
The boys had bolted. I wanted so desperately to do the same but remembered: I had one advantage they didn’t. Crouching behind some bins, I discarded the baseball cap that had concealed my braids, and rearranged the scarf obscuring my face into a fashionable knot at my neck.
I freed my hands from my gloves, and the bracelets from my sleeves, before unzipping my hoodie and pushing up my bra beneath my vest top.
Then, ignoring every instinct telling me to follow the rest of the crew, I took one step after another and forced myself to walk calmly round the corner and slowly, brazenly down the street.
When the boydem arrived moments later, all they saw was a cute black girl, like any other. Checking my make-up in a hand-mirror, I caught the reflection of the angry shopkeeper waving his hands around for the benefit of two police officers, who nodded into their notepads. Nobody seemed to notice me.
Yeah, in those days I worried my own self. I thought I was invincible. Sometimes, I worried I was actually possessed by the devil.
The boydem caught up with most of the crew eventually. Only Eddie made it back to Dick Shits to tell everyone what happened.
After the glory of that afternoon, my brand-name was bigger than ever. I didn’t have to go recruiting no more. Man Dem came to me. Who was I to argue with that?
Real Gangs
Now you might consider all this to be the behaviour of a gang. Truth was, I hadn’t even begun gang life. That was small fry. The real gangs of south London still hovered around the shadows. As for the Man Dem who rolled inside them, I had yet to make their acquaintance.
I had heard of them, of course. Tall tales and whispers loitered round the estates. Many of the darkest rumours led back to the worst estate of them all: Angell Town, less than two miles away.
That’s where Keziah and Stacey lived, and visits to the house enthralled me. They were nice girls, brought up by a single mum, who worked long shifts as a caterer. She wasn’t one of those layabout mums, but she was surrounded by plenty who were.
They lived in a dark labyrinth of walkways and derelict basement garages. The architect’s grand intention behind this concrete maze of high-density council blocks was to create “a community spirit”.
Oh yeah? Wonder where that architect is now? Enjoying community spirit somewhere else, that’s for sure. By the time I learned my way around that labyrinth, the papers were calling it Hell’s Gate. The garages designed for all those aspirational families proved to be nothing more than dark, dingy backdrops for drug deals and worse. The walkways were badly lit and the p
olice presence was heavy and unnerving. Pass by during the day, you’d think the only people living there were thugs and dogs. After dark, it became a riot of sirens and stand-offs. Trust me, there was nothing angelic about this part of town.
Yeah, Angell Town was proper scary. Yet, for all the reputation it had, and the hype it attracted, I remember being disappointed first time I went. After all, I was an aspiring community leader myself.
The Man Dem of Angell Town were untouchable. Everyone knew that. They had fast cars, drug rackets and guns. They answered to no one.
They were the big league, so I’d been expecting something bigger, better, flasher than tame old Roupell Park.
Anyone who was anyone wanted to hang out there. So why did it seem so … poor?
I had taken the 133 bus to Keziah and Stacey’s after school to find a huge commotion raging around their house.
“Over there, innit,” Kez shrugged. Someone was getting chased. She didn’t show much interest.
I opened her bedroom window to get a better look.
I’d spent enough time watching Tiefing Timmy to know that a police chase was hardly rare in SW2.
No, what amazed me about this guy was that he was literally jumping from walkway to walkway.
This was better than watching EastEnders.
I followed the dark shadow race towards the stairwell. He was a black boy in dark clothing and so was difficult to see, despite the flashing lights. But there was no doubt about it. He was putting his life at risk. For a moment the lights lost him, but I could see him. He had ducked, and was now climbing on to the ledge of the stairwell, preparing to jump. I held my breath. There were three storeys between him and the concrete plane below. He swung his arms big and took off.
“Shut the window, Sour, it’s freezing,” complained Kez, who was sizing up her latest “purchases” in the bedroom mirror, to see which would fit, and which to sell.
“What’s the problem? Just seeing wha gwarn …”
“Why you interested in dem man dere anyway?”
I wasn’t listening to her. The boy had just jumped down to the stairwell below and was now hanging off a balcony. Respect.
Sour Page 5