It wasn’t that I had been officially accepted as one of the Man Dem; but when word went round that I was rolling with the Youngers now, no one ever corrected them. I saw Tyrone less and less. I had a new crew. Besides, he was busy studying for his exams.
Who was going to the function in Streatham? Who was in for the Clapham fair? How were we going to get there? More importantly, how were we going to get there without paying?
Usually the solution was to take buses hostage. Anyone who takes public transport regularly in London has seen this happening. It’s normal practice for crews to slip through the back doors when people were getting off. The drivers with half a brain usually just ignore us, but occasionally the nuisance ones would stop and invite a stand-off.
It usually begins with “Shuddup Granddad, we ain’t going nowhere,” and usually ends with Granddad the driver caving under the impatient cries of all the other passengers on the bus who just want to get moving.
I looked forward to the social occasions at Myatt’s Fields. The Mostyn Club did regular all-dayers for under-18s. It was a Jamaican guy who put these things on. He’d serve plastic cups with shots of brandy, and had an old Rasta soundman playing the music.
Kids from all over came to see and be seen, or at least those who were brave enough. That was where I learned the intricacies and contradictions of postcode rivalry.
There were Younger 28s, of course, the Bellefield Rd Man Dem, and the rest of the Brixton lot who weren’t 28s but still thought they were Charlie Potatoes. It would still be daylight, and you’d have all these kids with attitude in their best clubbing gear, pushing through the doors, trying to get into the best positions inside.
We were standing in our usual corner. Everyone knew that this was the Youngers’ corner. There was always a stream of girls trying to filter through and get the guys’ attention. Gadget was in a particularly hyperactive mood. He was wearing all his new designer threads, and clearly feeling pleased with himself. He seemed to be bouncing with nervous energy.
“Did you hear what Shimmer done?” he shouted over the bass.
Badman, Drex and Stimpy weren’t paying attention to them. They were all staring at Gadget, waiting to find out.
“He drummed someone’s yard, then shanked the hero who tried to stop him. Shanked the dude while he still had a TV in his arms!”
Badman looked impressed. Stimpy laughed and shook his head.
“Some of that older lot,” said Stimpy, “they have no morals, man.”
I had met Shimmer a couple times. He used to play-punch me all the time, like a big brother would.
He said I was going off the rails and turning out to be a proper little bad girl so I needed to learn how to handle pain. I’d flex my muscles and challenge him to punch me as hard as he could. He was big and muscular. When he punched you, you knew about it. It would hurt, but I liked it. I saw it as some kind of training.
“Toughen you up, innit?” he’d say.
I would go home with a dead arm, feeling proud and thinking I was a tough cookie because I had the knuckle marks of one of the Olders imprinted on my tender, bruised flesh.
When I heard he’d stabbed someone it didn’t sound real, I felt a pang of disgust. I left it for the others to dissect.
Our corner was filling up. It only took a few of the Man Dem to go somewhere, before the rest followed.
I cast my eye around the club, looking out for faces that might cause trouble.
We didn’t have no grievance with the Junction Boys, they were usually cool. Ghetto Boys, yeah, they were on the map but nobody was scared of them. Not really. They had a few serious characters but if you went down to Lewisham, Deptford, those parts, there was nobody really stood out for me.
Still, that didn’t mean there wasn’t going to be trouble.
The scanners at the door meant I had to leave my knives at home. My hand instinctively reached for my hip, forgetting that it wasn’t there. Its absence made me nervous.
Gadget was trying to say something else, but was drowned out over the bass.
“I said that ain’t all.”
“Batty Boy Day, innit?” he laughed. “A few of the Man Dem took the bus to slap down some batty man.”
Of course, Gay Pride. Jamaican boys like Gadget liked gay boys like gay boys like cricket. Anyone carrying a rainbow flag was regarded as target practice and a good way to test out your right-hand hooks.
Stimpy punched Gadget’s chest approvingly and Badman knocked knuckles. I caught a smile lingering on Drex’s lips.
I strained to listen as he told us how he and Cyrus had seen a young man on the bus and waited till he got off at a quiet stop to kick him down. As he was reciting his story, he pulled out a can of cider and topped up his plastic cup.
“Left him crying,” he said proudly, doing another celebratory fist pump with the rest.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve stabbed someone for less than being gay. I’ve stabbed someone for speaking to me the wrong way, but anyone that I harmed was harmed because I was in an angry state, or felt my life was being threatened.
I wasn’t just clear-headed going out and stabbing people. It wasn’t premeditated. Injuries were just the debris you left behind, the collateral damage – they weren’t the … objective.
“I feel sorry for the batty boy.”
Badman looked up at me, sharply. Stimpy seemed puzzled.
Truth was, I did have morals. They might have been warped, but they were there. What was the point in risking jail just because you didn’t like batty boys?
“Live and let live, man. Fuck ’em. Or rather, don’t. What did he do to you?”
Gadget’s expression hardened.
“What’s going on in your head?”
Drex stepped in, sensing trouble.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he shrugged. “Anyway,” he said, steering Gadget’s sightline towards the dance floor, where more girls were dancing, flicking their hair and copying the dirtiest dancehall moves. “What’s man on for tonight?”
Fuck ’em. It wasn’t worth an argument. I poured my own cider. The club was filling up now. Man Dem don’t dance. They head nod, from a distance. Even at the best club nights, it’s never more than bare nods from the edge of the dance floor. Any more, and you’re seen to look weak, vulnerable.
The club was now filled with kids with attitude, with people who weren’t in any kind of crew; admirers, haters, people who didn’t like you but didn’t have the balls to do anything about it.
But we had to stay vigilant. I could see the rest of the Man Dem were distracted. They were looking out for girls. I didn’t want to be caught off guard. I knew we had strength in numbers. If a rival walked through, looking for trouble, may God help them.
I felt bolder than before – these days, I had back-up.
Some faces glared over, cutting an eye at us, from across the club.
Stimpy had seen them too. Noting our body language, the rest of the Man Dem pulled their gaze from the chicks whining on the dance floor and looked up.
“Let Stimpy handle it,” said Badman.
“What?” I thought. Really?
Before I knew it, Brixton’s own Sherman Klump was winding his way through the crowd towards them.
“I’m going to have his back, he’s on his own.”
“Leave it,” ordered Cyrus, who had appeared from nowhere.
Turned out Stimpy was friends with one of the top heads of the crew. I watched them greet each other, and knew that we would have no problem with them that night. I learned that if you’ve got two characters from different crews who respect each other like that, you don’t need to take any action unless it’s absolutely necessary.
There weren’t many problems when the Junction Boys came into our territory. It was only when we went to theirs that you knew the Junction Boys would come out and there would be an altercation.
As long as the Junction Boys didn’t turn up tonight, it would be a quiet night.
I took a sip of cider and went back to laughing quietly at the girls on the dance floor below, performing like lapdancers. Why were they all trying so hard to get to where I was standing now? I congratulated myself. I hadn’t done any of that shit. I hadn’t whined for no one, and yet they were out there and I was standing here, right in the centre of things.
I was already one of the boys. I already rolled with the Man Dem they were all so desperate to impress. And I was much more comfortable in my baggy jeans and loose top.
I laughed at their desperation.
Sure, I had my eyeliner and my hair was always did nice, in a smooth golden beehive. But I didn’t feel the need to go out half-naked. My face was enough, darling. Besides, it’s pretty hard to hide a baseball bat or a rabbit-foot belt when you’re grinding away in a spandex mini-dress.
I knew I was respected. I didn’t need no Perspex stripper heels. And yet, for the first time, looking at these girls just a little older than me, in their footless tights and denim hotpants and tight tops, I had a split second of doubt. A niggling voice in the back of my head was trying to say something, something about standing there, the only girl in the club in baggy jeans and a hoodie. I ignored it, and put it to the back of my mind.
Badman and Cyrus were deep in conversation. Swelled with bravado, Gadget was chatting up two girls. I scanned the club, wondering where Drex was, until I spotted him down by the bar.
Getting involved as one of the Man Dem’s chicks was the first way of getting sidelined. I wasn’t falling for that shit. I would roll with them on my own terms.
Which was why I’d ignored his calls.
So why did I feel so bad when I saw him, nodding his head, hands in his pockets, with a big grin on his face as some bloody chick was bent over, whining against him?
His eyes snagged on mine, and I looked away, embarrassed that he had caught me scowling at them.
No one else dared speak to me that night. I left early. I didn’t feel like waiting to see who would throw the first bottle to start a brawl. I wasn’t in the mood.
When I got home, Mum was waiting in the front room. The windows were bare. She was taking down the curtains to be washed. Late night spring clean. I didn’t have the energy to care.
“Where you been?”
“Out.”
“Out? Till crazy hours of de morning? You been out with who? Ah what bloodclart time ah mornin yuh call dis? Yuh nah pay rent roun yah so fi walk in whenever you feel like it! You likkle slut!”
“That’s rich, coming from someone with four different kids to different men! You know what they call women like you? Four by fours.”
She delivered a heavy slap across the face.
I wished I could have grabbed her by the neck and thrown her down on the floor, but I knew she was heavier and stronger than me. I ran up the stairs, locked my door and put my music up as loud as it would go.
It didn’t matter how long I went out, or who I went with. I always knew I had a war waiting with my mum.
Yusuf’s door was open. Inside his room, I could see him doing his hair. He looked like he was getting ready to go out.
“Where you going at this time?” I asked.
“Out, innit,” he said, smoothing his spongy Afro into a new sweet-boy style. Some girls had perm kits, Yusuf had started using S-Curl to texturise his hair into curls.
“Looks nice,” I said, noting his new Iceberg jacket and fresh trainers that I knew cost £110 a pop. They were high-end garmz.
“When you gonna be back?”
I was suddenly annoyed – he could go out all hours and Mum wouldn’t say a word. It was only me she had a problem with.
“Dunno,” he said.
He flashed a smile.
“Don’t wait up.”
High Life
“Bloodclart!” Mum had slammed down the phone again. “Salwa, who’s this boy on the phone, ringin ma house?”
I smiled to myself. Drex had met his match in the old Muslim chick formerly known as Eleanor Raynor. That had been the fifth time he’d tried to call this week.
He continued trying to pass messages to me at school, asking to meet up. Hell no. Tyrone would scurry back, shaking his head. “She’s in her lesson.”
Yep, he might have been able to get any other chick he wanted, but Drex always got a frosty reception from me. I never turned up at the time or place he wanted.
I wasn’t interested. Or at least, not enough to jeopardise my position in the Man Dem. The minute I got with him, I would only be seen as Drex’s girlfriend. No. I wanted in on my own terms. I didn’t want no boyfriend to vouch for me.
Mum didn’t like any boys being in my mile zone, least of all ones she didn’t know from the endz.
“I’m going out,” I shouted.
“Bring some cigarettes back witchoo,” she called. “And tell that boy no call back ma home.”
It was the day of the Lambeth Country Show, one of the highpoints of the South London summer calendar. Over the next two days 100,000 people would visit Brockwell Park for the music on the main stage, a family funfair and a whole heap of nonsense, with farmers’ markets, donkey rides, flower shows and blacksmith demonstrations on the village green.
Local families loved it. Man Dem came from all over London. Everyone would be there. For youts like us, it meant serious entertainment.
I had an idea. The young family a couple of doors down had this big-arsed dog, a beautiful Great Dane called Maverick. Now I happened to know, because I noticed these things, that Maverick didn’t get out much. The dad used to let him jump over the greenery and piss around the Pen, but poor Maverick spent most of his miserable life cooped up in their small front room.
He looked fierce as hell, but I knew from speaking with the kids that he was a big softie.
I went round for a chat. I was in luck. Only the kids were in.
“Can I walk him?”
The sister scowled.
“Are you strong enough?”
“Damn straight! Seen these muscles, girl?”
“OK, but don’t let him off the lead.”
She disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with bloody Scooby doo, on a fluorescent pink rope. Wow. Even I had forgotten how big he was. She handed over the rope.
“Wait.” Her brother appeared at the door. He must have been about seven. He had sticky-out ears and a pudding-bowl haircut. “He needs his treats.”
Maverick’s ears pricked up. He and the boy clearly got on.
“Have you got them there?”
The boy nodded.
“Good. Now go get your shoes on. You’re coming too.”
The boy’s face lit up.
This was going to look a bit random, but Maverick knew him and he could come in handy. I needed a wingman. The seven-year-old was going to have to do.
As we walked into the park, it felt as if the crowds were parting. We’d created quite a stir, just as I’d hoped. Suddenly, the knife underneath my hoodie seemed redundant. I had the best weapon of all. If reputation of power is power, then I was on fire.
For the Man Dem, the Lambeth Country Show wasn’t about picnics and coconut shies. It was about war.
I’d arranged to meet the rest by the funfair. I wanted to take my time, taking the crowds in, and checking for potential trouble in my peripheral view, but Maverick was impatient, striding up ahead, tugging us along.
I steered away from the livestock and sheep-shearing – he’d probably eat them alive – and let him tug us through the kiddies’ zone instead. The boy trotted along beside us.
The park was huge. You needed eyes in the back of your head. Trouble could come from anywhere. No guerrilla street-fighting here. It was an open battlefield. Anybody could move to you at any time. You’re vulnerable – unless of course, your companion is 10 stone of slobbering dogmeat. I had the kind of protection none of the rest of the Man Dem could boast – a dog no one would fuck with, a child no one would hurt and breasts no one would suspect of belo
nging to a troublemaker.
Maverick dragged us past the entertainers on the village green, behind the main stage.
Of course, the first people you’re usually on the lookout for – local rivals who’ve got a beef with you for some reason, other youts with old grievances – they’re not the ones posing the greatest danger. Not this time.
No, big events like Lambeth leave it wide open. The show was a magnet for unfamiliars who didn’t know the territory but wanted to make their mark, and create some trouble. Youts from Tottenham, Hackney and beyond. This was their away day.
It’s ironic, innit, but on days like this usual rivals like the Peckham Boys, the Ghetto Boys and the rest are the ones you can count on to keep their distance. Familiars didn’t bother each other. We all knew our own role. We respected each other’s space. There would be no trouble from them today.
Gadget spotted me first.
“What the fuck is that?!”
“Calm down,” I laughed. “He’s got one too,” pointing over to one of the rugrat’s dogs, tugging on its lead, growling angrily at Maverick.
“That’s a Staffie,” spluttered Gadget. “You’ve brought a fucking horse!”
“And who’s the kid? Its fucking jockey?”
“Aidan here is helping me keep Maverick happy, ain’tcha Aidan?”
The boy smiled absently, distracted by all the fun of the fair.
“Anything kicked off?” I asked.
“Not yet,” said Gadget, sucking on a strawberry lace, surveying the park. “There’s talk some London Boys are on the rampage. Ain’t seen none yet.”
I spotted a burger van. “Here, watch him, OK?” I tied Maverick’s lead around some fencing, outta sight of any stewards, and ordered Aidan to stand guard. He did as he was told.
“Want anything?”
He whispered something shyly.
“What?”
He pointed behind me.
He whispered it again.
“I want to go on the donkeys.”
“You’re shitting me? But you’re just going around in circles. Looks bloody boring.”
Aidan’s little face looked embarrassed. He cast his eyes to the ground and fell quiet.
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