In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have stabbed him in front of everyone. But I was having a bad day.
“Yuh remind me of your puppa. You ah get pun me nerves. Cyant wait till yuh get up and move outta me house. Come outta me house.”
“Bloodclart! Don’t come back!” she shouted after me as I’d stormed into the street.
Boiling with anger, I pushed past the neighbours coming up the stairs – “fucking rude bitch”, they shouted after me – and headed for Brixton Hill. It was a Saturday. Dick Shits was shut and Roupell Park was quiet.
Then I remembered about the dance classes. It was some summer school project run by the council. There was a dance studio where they taught street dance and hip hop and all sorts of shit. I used to like going there, dancing with the groups, before I became serious. I stormed up the street, rage thrashing around inside me. Yes, I’d go burn up some energy there.
As I pounded the pavement, the same questions bubbled to the surface. I hated that family who lived below us, the ones I’d pushed past. They seemed normal, with their normal mum and normal dad and normal pram. Why couldn’t I have a mum like that? And a normal dad?
Why was I the one who had to put up with all this shit?
I felt the threat of tears. I would not let myself cry in the streets. That’s what girls like Keziah and Stace did when they got dumped or wanted sympathy. I didn’t need sympathy from no one. What I needed was a new life. I asked Allah, God, Jah Rastafari, whoever, why things weren’t different. As usual, I got no answer.
The dance studio was open. I could see youts hanging by the revolving doors. They had gym bags slung over their shoulders and were laughing and joking. They must have just finished the earlier class. There was no one I recognised.
I walked into reception. It smelled of swimming pools, and had a sticky floor that made your trainers squeak. I heard the music booming from a distant hall, and could see the class had started beyond the glass door.
The woman behind the counter was calling me, but I ignored her and pushed on towards the turnstile barriers. The metal arm jarred against my stomach.
“– I said, you need a ticket.”
“Well, gimme a ticket then. For that class.”
“It’s already half-way through.”
“S’fine. I’m warmed up already.”
She glowered at me.
“It’s full.”
I could see her looking at my earrings and beehive. I realised I hadn’t brought any of my dancing stuff.
“I see space right there. Look.”
“I. Said. It’s. Full.”
The hard-assed bitch was in no mood to argue.
Forget it, I’d go elsewhere.
I powered through the corridor towards the social room. Maybe I’d see some of the Man Dem there.
A group of guys were standing in the corridor, by the vending machine, blocking my way.
“Move.”
Most were smart and shuffled out of the way. But the loud one. Let’s just say I didn’t like his tone. He squared up to me. Mistake.
“I didn’t hear you say ‘excuse me’.”
The truth was, if it hadn’t been him it would have been someone else.
One of his friends tried to grab me, but I fought him off. Another sprinted down the corridor, to grass me up to that battleaxe on reception. The loud boy wasn’t so loud now. He was no longer squaring up. The smirk had been wiped off his face.
He was crouched down at the side of the vending machine, staring at the blood seeping from above his knee.
I belted down the hallway and spun out of the revolving doors. I could barely remember the walk home. Why hadn’t I binned the knife? Next thing I knew, I was inside my bedroom, chest thumping, shoulders slumped against the door, wondering where the hell to put the bloodied blade.
The two policewomen bundled me into the car.
OK, I thought.
“Let’s go to the station and get on with it.”
“I suggest you admit it,” said the policewoman once we arrived.
“I hope you know this is serious.”
They were treating me like I’d killed someone! They labelled up my clothing, bagging up my stuff into evidence bags with numbers on them. Sample one, sample two …
What’s wrong with these people? I wondered. It ain’t that serious.
I toyed with telling them the trainers belonged to my brother, that if they did checks they’d find it was someone else’s blood, and that if they must know the knife I actually used was still upstairs, but thought better of it. No point now, innit.
The holding cells were no place for a woman. The toilet had no bin for sanitary products. There was no place to put the “bloodclart” that inspired the insults. You couldn’t even wash your hands.
Still, I know it sounds warped, but I liked cell time. Some bloods hated it. But I didn’t feel bored or suffocated. Outside, I felt trapped – by Mum’s illness, by sleazy stepdads, by pressure to stay Sour. But here in the cells, I felt free. It was time-out from the rest of my life.
When the cell door closed, I felt oddly relieved. Finally, I had a space that was mine. I think they deliberately stick you in there to freak you out. That made me laugh – boydem had no idea I actually liked this! It wasn’t home. It wasn’t the same claustrophobic place where Mum slapped me down and I tried to slap her back.
I made myself as comfortable as I could and took the opportunity to catch up on some sleep.
I was rudely awoken by the duty officer and led into the interview room.
I knew the drill. I would need an appropriate adult.
I really couldn’t be bothered with getting done over in the station in front of Feds by my mum.
Don’t get it twisted, Mum wasn’t afraid of getting physical with me, face straight. I wasn’t scared of her.
But my day had been bad enough. I was in no mood to have her in the corner, creating a scene. Besides, let’s face it, far as adults went, my mum had never been appropriate. So I asked the duty solicitor to stand in instead. She agreed.
I was still sleepy when the senior policewoman came in and introduced herself. She had short, mousy grey hair and her face was red and ruddy. The glare of the artificial lights was unkind to the spider veins that cobwebbed her cheeks.
She was bloody meticulous, though. You could see she was in charge. Pretty much like every woman cop you’ve seen on TV. Tough, humourless. Her tone was serious. Very Scott and Bailey. Insisted on a lot of eye contact.
This woman was a grumpy old bitch, no doubt about it, but she impressed me. She was treating me like an adult. But if she wanted to scare or intimidate me, it wasn’t working.
“You’re looking at GBH section 18, wounding with intent … minimum seven years.”
I shrugged.
“Yeah, so what? I did it.”
I wasn’t getting any thrills from being here this time. There was no trauma, no fear. I just felt like … an inconvenience.
If she wanted remorse, she wasn’t going to get it.
I’d already put my hands up straight away. What else did she want from me?
Had I tried playing hardball, I could tell she would have ripped chunks out of me. She was the type who wouldn’t think twice about keeping you up until 3am, asking the same questions over and over again. Yeah, she looked that type. This one goes the extra mile.
She didn’t like me. That was fine. Why should she?
As she droned on, I wondered who’d identified me. No one had dared mentioned my name before – they were too scared. Not this time, and that niggled.
Fair enough, the gold beehive was pretty distinctive. I was never going to be hiding long. Once that description got to police, it was always going to be difficult, but I didn’t alter my hair for no one.
I realised my mistake. I’d crossed the barrier, innit. People inside gangs don’t call the Feds when they get hurt. I’d hurt someone outside the circle. Fool.
She looked down at her notes.
“I see you’re soon to be 16. You can say goodbye to the Youth Courts. Inner London Crown Court, more than likely. I hope you know the Crown Court has great sentencing powers.”
“Whatever.”
Did she think I was some sort of idiot?
Still, her words struck a nerve though I tried not to show it. Age had always been our friend. That had been the mantra among the Man Dem. If you’re not 16, they can’t put you in prison. Everyone knew that. If you’re younger than 16, you’re alright. It was the golden rule that kept everything innocent.
No one ever talked about what happened after.
A panicked thought flashed across my mind. I thought about my mum. How would she cope if I went down? Who would look after her?
“… you were lucky he wasn’t more seriously injured.”
Bail or no bail, what difference did it make? I stepped back out into daylight.
I took my time walking back to Roupell Park. I needed quiet. I needed calm. I knew it wouldn’t be waiting for me back home.
Speaking to no one, I stepped through the broken door frame, went up the stairs and collapsed on my bed.
When I woke, I thought I was still dreaming. I heard a voice I recognised in the other room. I rolled over. The door had creaked open. The figure of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was still silhouetted as my eyes adjusted to the dark.
“Hello, Salwa.”
He was standing over me now. In shock, I could barely breathe. I leapt to the edge of the bed.
“What the fuck? Get the fuck out of my room or I swear to god, man, I’ll hurt you.”
It was Derek.
He was taken aback. He left behind a little girl. What he failed to understand was that I was a big fucking person now.
He didn’t move. He’d put on weight, though he was still wearing a T-shirt I recognised. It was stained yellow at the armpits. He stood there and smiled.
Which part of fuck off did he not understand?
“I said … get the fuck out of my room or I’ll kill you.”
I reached for my knife, and let him see it glint.
“If my bedroom door is shut, why do you think you can walk in? Think you can stand over me, like a fucking pervert?”
I was proper angry.
“Calm down,” he laughed, nervously. “Just saying hello.”
He stepped closer.
“Face straight, if you take one more step towards me you’re gonna get hurt, and I’m packing a bag right now to stay on Her Majesty Service.”
Mum ran in, waving a chicken leg.
“What’s wrong wit choo? Being disrecpectful to the big man? Ain’t seen him for years. He’s fixing the door, innit. Have some manners.”
As soon as I heard her stick up for him, I wanted to bad her up too. I switched on her.
My mum saw Sour for the first time. All that fear as a kid, all the nights I went to bed locking my door, sleeping with a knife under my pillow, suddenly rose back up to the surface.
“Take your friend out my space. Don’t make me turn over this whole yard.”
“Ah who da bloodclart yuh ah chat to? Don’t make mi haffi strike yuh.”
Derek stood there, with his stupid, vacant face. I noticed the greasy hair poking from the collar of the T-shirt, stretched too tight over his man boobs.
“Leave her, Ruqqayah. Girl’s probably drunk or on drugs …”
Had Mum not walked in, I would have easily got up and stabbed him in the neck or the heart right there and then. No arms or legs this time. No messing.
“Althea! You sister gaarn mad, lost her mind. Come down and speak to her. She got my illness!”
Derek took Mum’s arm and pulled her back to the kitchen.
Althea had come to pick up Cheenie. We’d been getting on better, me and her. She walked in.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something I’ve never told you, but I’m telling you now coz I’m old enough and angry enough.”
“What?” She looked panicked. “Tell me.”
“See that fucker?”
She didn’t need clarification. She rolled her eyes.
“Yeah?”
“He used to try to move to me. I don’t care if you don’t believe me. He used to –”
I stopped in my tracks. Althea was nodding.
“I believe you.”
I was surprised.
“You do?”
“He used to try it with me too.”
I didn’t feel reassured. All I felt was pure rage. I pushed myself off the bed, towards the door.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Althea pulled me down again.
“No, no, that’s not the way to do it. Think about it.”
She was right. I sat back down, and pulled my knees to my chest, while I was thinking of the next move.
“I know about Suzanne too.”
Now it was Althea’s turn to look startled.
“I heard her telling you one night.”
She said nothing.
“You know,” I said, “I used to be scared to tell Mum. Thought she’d kill him, no questions asked, then we’d have no mum, but it’s different now. She needs to know.”
“Nah, I’m not sure. You know what she’s been like recently.”
Her cowardice suddenly made me angry.
“Allow being dumb! What about Cheenie? You want that man in the same house as your daughter? What if he tries the same with her?”
We both looked out the door, towards the sounds of him and Mum in the kitchen.
“Is he with her now?”
Althea stood up, anxiously.
She knew I was right.
“Let’s go and tell her. Now. As soon as he’s gone.”
“OK.”
Althea went to check on Cheenie, who was watching cartoons in Yusuf’s room. By the time she emerged, Derek had left.
“Come on,” I said. “We shoulda done this a long time ago.”
Mum was sitting on the sofa in her dressing gown, sucking on a menthol Superking. Her hand was trembling. I turned down the stereo and told her to sit down.
“Ain’t seen the man in years,” she mumbled. “Allah brought man back to me and you freak him out, like a little banshee.”
After a while, her tone softened. We waited for her to calm down.
She shouted through to Althea in the kitchen.
“Babes, gonna fetch me some peanut punch from the fridge?”
Althea handed her the drink and she stubbed out the cigarette, mumbling about a gift from Allah.
“Mum, we got something to tell you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you ain’t done nuttin wrong, I know. I told boydem I’m gonna sue them for that door.”
“No, no, Mum, it’s got nothing to do with that.”
She looked confused.
“What’s it to do wit?”
“Derek can’t come back here.”
Althea nodded.
“Man’s a good man. I don’t want no disrespecting, hear? He’s a good man.”
“No, Mum, you’re not understanding.”
I was getting impatient.
“… he used to try and move to me when we was younger.” I looked at Althea. “Both of us. Man’s a pervert. We can’t let him near Cheenie.”
Mum’s face dropped. “What you talking bout?”
She started shaking her head, and lit up another Superking. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Was worried how you’d take it, innit.”
She sucked on her cigarette, still shaking, then pressed the stub into the ashtray.
“Yuh want chicken? Me ago make some soup. Yuh want some soup?”
“Do you hear me? He can’t come back here again, understand? Derek IS NOT ALLOWED IN THIS HOUSE. OK?”
She looked confused, frightened almost, wrapping her headscarf securely. She straightened up her gown and applied Vaseline to her lips.
“Not allowed in,” she repeated, reaching for he
r prayer beads. “He’s not coming back …”
That night she fell fast asleep on the sofa. Her scarf had loosened and had fallen open and she was shivering in nothing but a Muslim gown.
As I stood over her, ready to help her to bed, I paused. I glanced at the young woman in the black and white picture on top of the TV. The smooth beehive was gone, so too had the smooth, straight line of her nose, and that bright, eager smile. But her skin was still fresh. The girls in our family, we all had good skin. Yeah, my mum had had it tough, you know, but she could still look beautiful.
I shook her shoulder gently, and levered her up off the sofa by the elbow, as she muttered and grunted to herself, half asleep. I slipped her feet into her sheepskin slippers and guided her up the stairs.
“You’re a good girl,” she muttered, as I lowered her into bed. “You know I love you, don’t you?”
She stroked my hair.
“My family is all I care about. I love you all …”
I wanted to reply. I wanted to say lots of things, but the words got stuck. Within minutes she was fast asleep. I tucked the covers round her shoulders, switched off the light and softly closed the door behind me.
A few weeks later, after I finished breakfast, I saw Derek laid back on the sofa in the lounge drinking a cup of tea.
From that day on, I swore to myself I ain’t got no mum no more.
Yout Club
Considering the crazy life that I had, you had to laugh that my first court hearing would be for the one crime I didn’t actually commit. But that’s karma, innit?
That afternoon at Balham Youth Court was like a social occasion. I’d got lucky – Crown Court could wait another day. This was like a community centre for kids. I clocked a few familiar faces milling around, waiting for their cases to be called. There were some Junction Boys, and a few of the Youngers. The benches were crammed with youts, laughing and joking. I cast my eye across the crowd, looking for the Man Dem.
Stimpy saw me before I saw him. I was surprised how happy I was to see him. Daggers seemed a long time ago.
“What’s gwarning, girl? Man ain’t seen you around.”
“Been busy, innit.”
A few months had passed since the Daggers incident. I’d been on the road, doing my ting. They’d been doing theirs – some, it turned out, with considerably less success. I hadn’t heard from Drex, and he hadn’t heard from me. Which was fine by me.
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