I watched him, wide-eyed at his nerve, until eventually a pair of Alsatians brought him down at the end of his assault course, and the boydem bundled him away.
He was known. He was the first Older 28 I’d ever seen in action.
His name was Daggers, a fearless character, three or four years my senior, who wouldn’t hesitate to harm police if his back was against the wall. Short and light-skinned, with a strong West Indian accent, he was also, as I’d find out later, the sort of guy who doesn’t take no for an answer.
That wouldn’t be the last I’d be seeing of Daggers. More’s the pity.
“What?”
Kez was staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“You deaf, girl? I said, ‘Which top looks best with this skirt?’”
She held the sequinned boob tube up against a tight skirt, emblazoned with fake designer logos, then, like a bullfighter taunting a bull with a flag, switched it for a coathanger featuring a transparent chiffon blouse.
“Don’t like it either. Looks cheap, innit,” said Stace.
“Wasn’t asking you,” snapped her sister.
“Sour?”
Keziah and Stace were happy-go-lucky girls, don’t get me wrong. They liked likking stuff and wearing the best gear. And they had their fun. But, how can I put this? They delegated. They didn’t do the dirty stuff. They sent the other girls out to the shops to tief all their tops and skirts and shoes for them, but, end of the day, it was still just petty theft.
“Boob tube,” I muttered, unconvincingly.
I was still thinking about how that yout had managed to evade the boydem for as long as he did. Don’t care what he done – what that kid achieved was almost heroic, man.
Keziah and Stace proudly laid out the rest of their gear across the bed. Kez plucked a bandanna from the pile and pulled on a silver-spangled crop top, exposing her tight, flat midriff. She pouted in the mirror, flicking back her hair to show her gold hoops.
“You look like Aaliyah, babes!”
“We’re thinking of going to Bond Street tomorrow. You in?”
“Nah, stuff to do, innit,” I shrugged.
I was bored of shoplifting. I knew I wanted more. It wasn’t my style. I could easily go robbing the garage across the road, or into town, and come back to survey our goods with the rest of them, but it no longer held a thrill for me. If these girls wanted me to keep coming to their house, I wanted more. I needed entertainment.
I was soon to find it.
Meeting the Youngers
A new life was about to begin. The irony was that my association with the Younger 28s began nowhere near the ganglands of Angell Town or Brixton or Loughborough Junction, but the one place as close to an Eden of childhood innocence as a South London girl like me was ever going to get.
Ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking, of course, about Chessington World of Adventures.
Yeah, my first day rolling with the Man Dem was on a school trip to the distinctly non-gritty, suburban surroundings of a Surrey theme park.
Like I said, Dick Shits had many problems. One of them was its popularity with the bad boys. Despite what the papers say, despite all those London Tonight reporters in suits and ties, talking down the camera about feral kids beyond the reach of teachers, parents and police, the truth was that some of the city’s most troublesome young gangsters liked the lawless vibe of my school so much, they muscled their way through the gates and gatecrashed the lessons.
That went for school trips too – especially school trips involving Tomb Blaster laser guns and a rollercoaster called Dragon Fury.
They met us at the tube station, pushing their way on to the carriage in the same way they filed into classes.
There were lots of different rugrats running around, but these youts were different.
They were all dressed decently. Their trainers were fresh, their haircuts were fresh. Hell, even the waistbands of their boxer shorts were fresh. They looked older, though they couldn’t have been much older than us – they were just expelled a long time ago.
They weren’t hard-out established characters. Not then. They were all still young, trying to find their way and make their mark, just like the rest of us. But back then, it felt like Vinnie Jones and all his mates had just stepped on to the tube.
The loudest ones commandeered the seats in front of us, placing shining white creps on the seats and commanding the attention of the carriage.
A boy with a broad grin came up to Tyrone and knocked knuckles before exchanging a few quiet words.
“You know him?” I whispered.
“Just one of the boys from the estate, innit. Told ’em we had a trip but didn’t think they’d actually come.”
I smiled.
“I like them. Think we’re in for an interesting day.”
The moment we stepped into the park, the two-tails scurried round.
I had my own plans. I had my own delegating to do. They were ready to steal anything they could lay their hands on. I gave them a target.
“Let’s see if you’re going to hit it.” They nodded, solemnly.
“Meet me back here by the toilets at 3pm.”
The tallest of the group caught my eye. Or rather I caught his. He walked over to me and Tyrone. While he was brash and loud, the friend by his side had a quieter confidence.
“Who’s this girl telling everyone what to do?”
Tyrone answered for me.
“This’s Sour, innit.”
I glared at him. If he had taken a liking to me I wasn’t interested.
“Check you out, gyal,” he laughed.
I noticed he too had his own gang of rugrats to carry out orders. It was almost like he had a shopping list of his own. He wanted to compare.
“What you hitting today? How much you planning to make?”
“Why would I tell you that? Only just met you, man. Where do you think you’re coming from?”
Tyrone laughed.
“Slow down, man,” said his friend, flashing a beautiful smile. “Lady wants an introduction. Allow me,” he said, stepping forward. “That’s Badman. His manners ain’t so good.”
“Quit stepping on man’s territory, Drex.”
“Ain’t you got business to do?” he laughed, joining the rest of the Man Dem as they jumped the queues, slipped past the ticket booths and created havoc.
“He don’t like the rides,” Drex explained.
“Why not?”
“Paranoid. Y’know the pictures they take when you’re screaming and getting tipped over the edge? The ones they try to sell you after the ride?”
“Yeah, and?”
“Man don’t trust ’em, innit. Thinks boydem will use them as evidence against him.”
“Evidence of what? Looking shit scared?”
Drex laughed.
“Dunno. That’s a guilty conscience for you.”
“Come on,” he said. “I’m feeling lucky. Let’s go on the Mary Rose.”
I was surprised how forward he was. He clearly wasn’t used to girls hesitating.
“Just me and you?”
“Why not? Man Dem will find us later.”
I looked at the swinging galleon ship. The two-tails weren’t due back for ages. I had time.
“OK. So you’re not scared about having your picture taken?”
“Maybe my conscience ain’t so guilty.”
“Alright, let’s go,” I said. “Just remember you don’t have to scream or anything, but it may harm your defence if you don’t scream something you’ll later rely on in court.”
He laughed. “How’s a girl like you familiar with that?”
“Ain’t telling you,” I smiled. “Hurry up. I gotta be back here for 3pm.”
When the ride was over, I was heading towards the exit, windswept and dizzy, when he grabbed my hand.
“Where you going? Ride’s not finished.”
And he led me round the metal platform and back to the front of the queue to do it all again.
He disappeared for five minutes and came back with two burgers, handing me one as he sat down on the bench.
“Which part you from?” he asked, offering me the choice of a sachet of ketchup or mustard.
“Brixton Hill,” I replied, refusing both.
“No! Me too.”
We found we lived three blocks away from each other. He spotted my bracelet, which had slipped down from underneath the sleeve of my jumper, and noted the Arabic script.
“You Muslim?”
“None of your business.”
“What’s your number?”
I didn’t like all his questions.
“What do you want my number for?”
“Man wants your number, innit?”
Fat chance. The chances of my mum tolerating a call from a boy were negligible.
“She’d rather I get caught doing a crime than having a boy call my house.”
“From what man heard, she’s probably gonna get her wish,” he shrugged, rearranging the fold of his jeans. “If that’s what you want, that’s cool,” he said, jumping down off the picnic table. He had spotted Badman. I knew the two-tails would be waiting for me back at the toilets, but I was no longer interested in the crumbs they had to offer.
These new characters carried weight, and that had caught my attention.
From a distance, I watched as he and Badman greeted each other, pressing shoulders and patting each other on the back. I also saw a discreet exchange as one pressed cash into the hand of the other.
“Sour! Come, man.”
The pair of them beckoned me over to the fake wooden decking, where the rest of the Man Dem were falling over each other to get in to a photo booth, decorated like an old Wild West Saloon.
Nothing had got paid for that day. Well, nothing until that moment. Suddenly they were all willing to cough up for this.
The group of them emerged from the changing rooms, giggling like children at each other’s cravats and waistcoats and chaps and broad-brimmed hats. Each and everyone brandished a huge plastic musket. Drex arranged his false moustache, while Badman held his gun aloft.
“Here, put this on.”
He spiked some pink ostrich feathers in my hair, and fastened a black satin choker round my neck.
“Saloon girl!”
“You gotta be taking the piss.”
He found it hilarious, and swung an arm round me, pulling me into the group picture.
“Cheese.”
The flash bulb went off, illuminating the chains among the rawhide fancy dress.
The picture was sepia, in a big, flimsy frame that said WANTED above our heads. The boys loved it.
Drex dug into his pocket and bought another one for me.
“Present,” he said. The rest were laughing.
“That’s wicked, man. Look how he had his face!”
“Look at that pose!”
“Suits you, gyal.”
“That pistol suits you, man, time for an upgrade, innit.”
They laughed all the way home. It was the only thing they were willing to pay for. They stumped up their £2 no questions asked, and each boy took it home as if it were as precious as a ransom fee.
I rolled mine up and slipped it into my hoodie.
I often wonder where that picture is now. Me on my first day with the Man Dem. A few young friends posing with plastic guns – before the real weapons intervened and changed everything.
Welcome to the Younger 28s
There are so many myths about gangs. People think there must be some kinda grisly initiation and a fucking Welcome Pack. They’re wrong. Ain’t no membership or code of honour. Ain’t no leaders or matching tattoos. There ain’t no rules.
Gangs don’t really exist, as most people imagine them. This is Brixton; it ain’t West Side Story.
Someone once said gangs only exist “in the way that chemical reactions exist: a mixture of dangerous elements that occasionally react and then disappear”.
I like that. We’re vapour. We’re the noxious gas that seeps through a city’s estates and poisons the minds of its children. My life was one messy chemical reaction after another. And “respect” was the accelerant. You hear a lot about that, “respect”. What is it? Easy. Respect is just the flip-side of fear.
Gang life has its own justice. If you show cowardice, you’re out. If you hesitate for a single second, you’ll be ridiculed. But if you were a face to be known, you’d be known. Bravery bought protection. Recklessness had its own rewards.
And don’t get me wrong. When I say “out” I don’t mean you’re free. I don’t mean that rejection by these boys sets you straight on the path to college. When you’re that far down the line, what do you think seems the safest choice? Being on the side of the ones with power? Or being on the side of those without? I didn’t pause for a second.
That was the deal I made when I met the Younger 28s. That was the world I entered. And I loved it.
Why? Because the real temptation to rolling with those boys – and they were all boys – was this: if you felt angry, you had people feeling angry with you. If you were broke, they were broke with you. If you wanted payback because you’d been short-changed by society, they had your back.
Or so I thought.
I was 15. I needed more. I needed entertainment. The Youngers gave me all the entertainment a ghetto girl could wish for.
But first, allow me to give you a bit of background. Why 28?
28s were top rank. They were the boys. They were the market leaders.
Perhaps there were 28 people originally, I don’t know. If there was a link with the South African prison gang of the same name – named after 28 black prisoners who revolted against their white guards – it was never spoken of.
All I know is that in South London there were three tiers of 28s: the originals, the Youngers, and the Younger Youngers. Like three generations.
The original 28s were British-born black boys who challenged the Jamaican Yardies’ monopoly around Brixton Hill; elders like Duffers had the endz on lock down.
When prison or bullets intervened, as they always did, that’s when younger ones like me came in to carry on the badness.
Duffers got shot up real bad. He was a real, real bad boy, who had a humorous side. If somebody ordered pizza, he would be the first one giving orders to rob the delivery guy. He wouldn’t just take his money. He’d take his helmet, his bike and his keys, and leave the poor guy with nothing but bare feet and panic attack. When Duffers ordered pizza, you knew some poor yout was leaving on foot without his trainers.
He got killed at a party, by people he thought were his friends. The rumours were they shot him up in a fight over a girl. Only God knows the real truth behind it.
I remember that funeral, and all the soul-searching it caused round our endz. That was probably the point that the Younger 28s came into their own.
After the mayhem at Chessington, I started to see the crew more and more. I saw them at school, around the estates and rolling round Brixton Hill.
Over the days and weeks that followed, I’d roll with Badman and Drex, Cyrus and Stimpy.
Their company was refreshing. Keziah and Stace and all that emotion and bitching – too much of a headache, man. I had enough emotion from my mum and all her baseball bat swinging. Emotion, darling, was the one thing I could do without.
These guys, they had bigger concerns. They were focused on making money, and I wanted in. They didn’t have time for tears and feelings and all that shit. It’s just wasn’t in their DNA. Neither did I.
If we had one thing in common, it was the stuff we didn’t speak about: our homes. Each of these youts had it hard in one way or another. I knew not to ask about their details and they knew not to ask about mine.
But when it came to the
time to represent, everyone was on the same page.
No one was in charge. One form makes many. The newspapers spoke about street kids wearing different colours – purple for Angell Town; green for Myatt’s Field – or tying their laces in certain ways. Maybe outsiders would have liked that. That way, they’d know when to cross the street. But not with us, not back then. All that mattered was fresh creps and looking sharp.
How dangerous we were, you’d have to judge for yourself.
If I saw Man Dem at Morley’s, the chicken shop, I’d stop and speak. If I saw them cussing with a guy in the street, I’d jump off the bus and get involved. If a delivery boy was being relieved of his Nikes and his Moped, hell yeah, I’d go along and laugh.
Nothing was ever really pre-planned. But if I was with them, when they heard something going down, make no mistake, I’d get stuck in. I had heart.
Tyrone was bemused by the association.
“So you like these guys?” he asked one afternoon after class.
“They alright,” I shrugged.
“They talk about you. You seem to have made an impression.”
I tried to play it cool.
“What?” I said, after he fell silent.
“Just saying, they’re serious characters, yeah?”
“And?”
“Just thought you should know.”
“I know.”
“They asked me if you wanted to meet up tonight.”
“We’re going to yours anyway, ain’t we?”
“Yeah, but just wanted to let you know they’ll probably be around. You in?”
“Course.”
“Cool, come round later and we’ll hang out.”
He disappeared down the corridor into his next class. I didn’t bother going into mine.
I tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. I had to keep it cool.
I didn’t often go round to Tyrone’s. He usually came round to mine, but Mum had lots of people round from the mosque tonight.
The Man Dem were not exactly his friends, just the boys he lived with. They knew he didn’t get involved with the serious shit, that he didn’t like an altercation, but they seemed to respect him all the same.
I wasn’t looking forward to going round and sitting in his flat, so it was a bit of a relief to know there would be some other activity to keep us entertained.
Sour Page 6