Sour

by Tracey Miller

  “Badman’s gone down. Boydem hauled man outta his bed in a dawn raid. Man got bare years.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Man ain’t heard yet. They lifted Drex too.”

  He saw me flinch.

  “Sorry, Sour. I thought all the Man Dem knew …”

  “Course I knew,” I snapped.

  “His chick’s not taking it good.”

  This time I made no effort to conceal my shock.

  “What chick?”

  “The one he’s been dating. She’s pregnant too. Gonna pop soon. Real shame.”

  “Stop talking rubbish, man.”

  Stimpy liked his gossip, and I knew not to trust a word of it. We’d only broken up a few months ago. I laughed it off.

  “It’s true. Man seen her belly!”

  I knew Stimpy when he was joking. This didn’t feel like one of those times.

  “You serious?”

  “For real.”

  I bit my lip and tried to calm my thoughts. So much for feeling safe with me. You really can’t trust no one in this world. So be it.

  “’S alright. It’s cool. So who is she?”

  I was curious.

  He frowned. “What you asking me for? You’re the one who threatened her … She said you were going to kick the kid outta her.”

  Now this kind of fake drama angered me. Idiots trying to bring my name down was one thing; Stimpy believing it was another.

  “Stimpy, man, gimme a bit of credit.”

  He looked embarrassed.

  “When Man Dem said you were rolling on your own …” he mumbled.

  “Forget it.”

  The court was busy. The clerks hurried back and forth, looking like harassed witches in their little black cloaks, carrying files and ducking in and out of courtrooms as the tannoy called out a roll call of cases.

  I looked across the public waiting area, and noticed a guy looking over to us. He seemed pretty confident, leaning back, one foot up on the wall, arms folded low across his front.

  “Who’s that character?”

  “Cruz. He’s from Junction.”

  I’d never heard the name. There had been no trouble between Junction Boys and 28s for some time – we were cool with each other – but it meant I hadn’t had much to do with their serious characters.

  Beside him was this larger-than-life character who reminded me of Jaws from that James Bond. Quite intimidating to say the least. If you was a guy on the road, let’s just say, you would have been intimidated. He smiled a big, stupid smile. His front teeth were missing.

  “That’s Gumbo,” chirruped Stimpy. “Come on. Let’s say hello.”

  Now, as I’ve explained, Man Dem don’t just do that with anyone.

  If he got that level of respect from Stimpy, he was probably worth knowing.

  I went over with him.

  Cruz knocked knuckles with Stimpy and said hello.

  “Alright? What you doing with this blood, girl?”

  Stimpy introduced us.

  “Sour? What kind of name is that?”

  “She’s proper, blood. Serious chick.”

  He shared a mischievous grin with Gumbo.

  “How can she be serious? She looks cute.”

  “I am standing here, you know. You can speak to me straight.”

  He whistled loudly.

  “That right? Then, furthermore, why you even here?”

  “Got my own case going on, innit.”

  “Oh yeah? What you in for?”

  “Two counts of robbery.”

  “Two?” Gumbo burst out laughing and clapped his hands. “No way! I wouldn’t let no girl rob me.”

  He clearly thought he was a bit of a joker.

  “On a serious note,” I said, turning to the brick shithouse, “how the fuck you so big, man? You’re massive.”

  Cruz chipped in: “Big friendly giant, innit.” I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Anyway, what you in for?”

  “I’m here for my bredren, innit.” He gestured to the BFG, who didn’t look the least little bit worried he was the one in the docks.

  “So you’re a bit of a bad girl?”

  I shook my head.

  “Got it wrong, man. I’m in here for something I didn’t even do.”

  “That’s how it goes, eh?”

  I laughed. I liked this guy.

  “Seems so.”

  At that moment my name was called on the tannoy. My solicitor, an awkward Bangladeshi guy who didn’t look much older than the rest of us, picked up his briefcase and beckoned me over.

  “That’s me.”

  “Thought you said your name was Sour?” asked Cruz.

  “Gyal gotta have a few.”

  “Go and do what you’re doing, gyal,” he said. “When you come out, we’ll finish chatting.”

  Yeah, I thought. I’d like that.

  The courtroom was new to me.

  The clerk showed us to our seats. Sitting straight ahead of us, higher up than everyone else, was the judge. Everyone was in suits. What is it with 9–5s, man? Why ain’t none of them got no style?

  I’d worn my favourite trainers and my normal clothes. No one told me you had to dress smart.

  I sat down, behind the wooden panel. My co-defendant was none other than Styles, one of the crew who’d been on the road that day. He was good value, Styles, a bit of a joker. I was glad he was there to keep me entertained. I didn’t blame him for me being here. That was boydem’s fault, not his.

  The charge sheet was read out.

  I had been charged with two counts of robbery.

  The first alleged that that Saturday morning, just before I met Tyrone to go to the market, I was among the teenagers who surrounded a young brother and sister and robbed them of their cash, trainers and jewellery, just a few minutes’ walk from Roupell Park.

  The second charge alleged that, later on that afternoon, I was part of the same group who went on to relieve a young woman of her newly purchased television outside Brixton Market.

  While I happened to be merely a witness, in the wrong place at the wrong time for the second charge, it just so happened that I was present at the first robbery. The kids lived on the same estate. They were a few years younger – maybe 12, 13.

  I knew them and they knew me. That morning there were pure youts on the road, all bored, all looking for entertainment. They weren’t my usual crowd, but they were eager and willing, and what else was I gonna do? Stay at home?

  It was a big entourage that day. And yes, I’m not gonna lie, that afternoon those kids got swarmed like a big bunch of bees, relieved of their cash and the gold chains around their necks, not to mention the chicken and chips they’d been sent to buy from the shop.

  Now, I’m not saying I wasn’t aware they was getting robbed. All I’m saying is that they wasn’t my hands doing the robbing.

  Bloody hell, all the inconvenience they were causing me now made me wish I had tiefed their stuff off them after all. Bloody rugrats.

  As the lawyers droned on, I found myself getting drowsy. The suits talked and talked and talked. I struggled to stay awake.

  Lord have mercy, court was dull. Until, that was, Styles took the stand. Big mistake.

  The judge was a dour white lady.

  Styles stood up to confirm his name and address. Then he started to speak. I snorted with laughter, prompting a dirty look from the clerk. The judge’s face started to wrinkle up with confusion. I could see her straining to hear. She didn’t understand a word he was saying.

  “’Mon man, how can man be robbing kids of their tings while man’s on mobile phone? Man’s not an octopus, innit.”

  The judge pushed her spectacles up her nose, and addressed the clerk.

  “Should we have an interpreter here?”

  I snorted again.

  “No, Ma’am,” came the whisper.

  Styles was affronted.

  “Man speaking English, innit!”

  “Well, Mr Belmon
t, could you please speak more clearly so the court can understand you? Thank you.”

  “These trampy kids have got it wrong, Mrs Judge, swear to God. They’re confused, man. They’re looking for someone to blame. Man didn’t want none of their cheap shit.”

  It wasn’t the strongest legal argument.

  My mind started wandering. It occurred to me I hadn’t asked what Stimpy was in for. I looked at the clock, and wondered whether Cruz and his crew were still hanging around.

  The suits talked some more, and I struggled to stay awake, until eventually a clerk stood up.

  “Court adjourned.”

  What?

  But they hadn’t even heard my story yet.

  “Don’t worry,” the lawyer explained as he shuffled out with his suitcase. “There were delays today, so they’ll hear the rest tomorrow. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  He nodded goodbye.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Happy days. It wasn’t even 4pm.

  “Sour!”

  It was Cruz. He had been waiting.

  “We’re going to bounce now. Let me drop you home now, innit.”

  Perfect. I even get a lift.

  “Gotta do a few things first.”

  Fine by me. I had nothing to do. Furthermore, I was intrigued. I could tell this boy had this level of respect. I wanted to know this guy. I forgot to wait on Stimpy.

  We jumped in his car. Ford Escort Convertible. Low suspension. Tinted windows. Clean interior. No souped-up boy-racer shit. This was the car of a serious player. He drove fast. But you didn’t fear for your life – he was a better driver than Badman. Which wasn’t hard.

  “Shame about Stimpy.”

  “He’ll get the bus. Or he’s probably still there, socialising.”

  “You’re funny, girl.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stimpy ain’t going nowhere. But he’ll have bare time for socialising. They say Feltham’s a friendly place.”

  “What?”

  “He went down, man. Likking one tek? No way he was getting away with any of that shit.”

  Oh.

  “Like I say,” covering my tracks, “Man Dem do their ting, I do mine.”

  He smiled.

  I felt comfortable in Cruz’s presence. He wasn’t flirting. He just treated me like one of the boys. The way I liked it.

  I didn’t recognise the route he was taking. We seemed to be going nowhere near Brixton Hill.

  “Want to come round my endz? Can introduce you to some people.”

  “Yeah, sure. I ain’t in no rush.”

  He swung right across the bus lane, no indicator, towards Clapham.

  “Hungry?”

  Now that he mentioned it, I was. The Golden Arches glowed up ahead, like a big, yellow smile.

  We pulled into the drive-thru and ordered two extra-value meal deals – Big Mac, fries and Coke. All I used to eat. He paid.

  As we unwrapped our burgers, he told me about Gumbo’s performance in court, and chatted about bloods we knew in common. Turned out we were better connected than we realised.

  He let me polish off the rest of his chips, which I did happily, and said he wanted to take me to the Badric Court estate, where he grew up. The kids he rolled with would later gain fame as the So Solid Crew, but even back then I could see he was a guy with connections.

  I’d heard about this estate, but never gone down there. That was the frying pan. Go there and expect trouble. You’d be a Younger blatantly raving on their endz. That was asking for it.

  As we cruised up Battersea Park Road, heading deeper into SW11, he chatted about the pirate radio stations he was involved with, and how he was friends with some of the DJs.

  In my head, I quickly calculated up the risks. I was crossing enemy lines. Did he know I was a Younger? Stimpy introduced us, but it was never spelled out I was actually one of the Man Dem. What if someone recognised me? I was fresh meat. It was too late now. Any excuse I gave now would raise more suspicions.

  “Alright?”

  He’d noticed I’d gone quiet.

  “Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?”

  Number one, it was still daytime. That was in my favour. Number two, I wasn’t on foot, I was rolling in a vehicle. And not just any vehicle; one being driven by a serious character.

  Nah, I told myself. This was going to be fine. I was getting a sneak peak behind enemy lines. Smart thing to do was just relax, and take it all in. It wasn’t yet dark. Seeing this place in the daytime would be a whole different vibe.

  “Yeah, you shoulda tuned in last Sunday. Man was spitting some bars.”

  He seemed smart, switched on. I imagined he would be quite a good rapper.

  Postcode rivalry was a funny thing. The personal didn’t really come into it. It’s your crew and their crew. Dem and us. Simple as that.

  Sometimes I’d forget they were individuals with their own names and faces. Now here I was meeting bloods just like me. No aggro, no reputations, just banter with someone else’s friends.

  Rolling with the Man Dem, often you don’t even get to hear what triggered the argument. No one cares how it begins, only that an injustice has been served. It’s a matter of honour, of respect. You just get drawn in on this wave, as everyone else joins in for the ride.

  Don’t get me wrong, that’s the point. That ride is really what it’s all about. That’s the naughtiness that draws us all in like a magnet.

  At the same time, you’re doing something noble. You’ve got your peer’s back. If your peer is in trouble, you know you’re defending him. No one ever stops to ask whether your peer is right or wrong. No, that would threaten your ride. So you just jump in. And before you know it, your face has been blacklisted and there’s a mob of knife-happy youts after your skin.

  God forbid if one of your friends stabs one of their friends. Then your name is getting called up too. If someone asks what started it all, you have no idea.

  But what do you do? You can’t go to police. What would you say? That’s a whole can of worms that best stays shut. Boydem like to get to the bottom of stuff, Man Dem like to glide across the top. Feds like evidence and allegations. That’s a risky strategy. People in glass houses, know what I’m saying?

  Bottom line is if your name has been called up, you just got to know you’ve got to protect yourself. Knowing who started it and why doesn’t help no one.

  We parked up. I took a deep breath, checked out my hair in the wing mirror and stepped outside.

  Junction isn’t a big place. If Roupell Park was claustrophobic, this estate was even smaller.

  Their estate looked glum and grey, lots of buildings made of concrete slabs, all crowded together. I noticed immediately how all the blocks faced each other. They didn’t have no Pen or big green space like we did. Roupell Park felt more like a garden. This felt like a proper project.

  As Cruz walked through the estate, young guys came up, squeezing him on the shoulder and knocking knuckles. He seemed to know everyone.

  Yeah, he had decent jewellery, fresh skin, a flash car. I didn’t fancy him, but I imagined there would be many a girl who did.

  He was warm and friendly, but made sure to talk business out of earshot. Had one of the Man Dem done this, I’d have been offended. But this was our first day of being in each other’s company, and he didn’t know how much to trust me. Even if he’s got big deals going on, he doesn’t know who I am. I respected him for that.

  Instead, we kept conversation on the straight and narrow. Surface level. It was refreshing.

  People were friendly. There was no deep conversation. They were just hanging. They didn’t ask too many questions.

  Almost, for a moment, I didn’t have to be Sour. I could have been Ama, the shop assistant, or Eva, the beauty therapist. I could have been anyone. Everyone I spoke to was taking me for face value. I liked it.

  And yet, I felt something I hadn’t expected to feel. I felt sorry for some of them. I mean, it was all a bit
shabby down here. How did these guys do it? In my crew, not everyone was attractive, but they were cute. These characters, Cruz excepted, just seemed so ordinary …

  Junction Boys, I thought. What was all the fuss about?

  Gumbo arrived to join us. He clearly had his fans too. Youts were coming up and slamming shoulders with him. Girls shouted over congratulations. He’d been cleared. They seemed pleased he would be hanging around a little longer.

  He started rapping, showing off his MC-ing skills, spitting rhymes and acting the clown. Soon everyone was having a go, the next guy trying to beat the one before.

  I laughed at their antics until it started to get dark.

  I hadn’t even noticed the time, until Cruz came over and said he was going to take me home.

  “OK, cool.” I’d had a fun day but it was getting late. I needed a ride outta here, or else I’d be stranded, South London Cinderella, with my pumpkin in the wrong postcode, and a coachman who could switch from friend to foe at any moment.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Brixton Hill.”

  “Good,” he smiled. “I’ve got some business to do in Brixton. Then I’ll drop you off.”

  That suited me fine.

  “You know the Bellefield Man Dem?”

  We had pulled up on Bellefield Rd, a few minutes’ walk from Brixton Tube. I’d known the guys from Bellefield Man Dem from the early days at Roupell Park. Hadn’t seen them for a while. It would be nice to hang with some familiar faces.

  We’d parked but he showed no sign of getting out. Cruz, it appeared, had other ideas.

  Instead, he was staring at the house where we had pulled up.

  I recognised the yout who opened the door. He’d join us on occasion hanging at Morley’s or outside the police station. He had a few kids to different girls.

  Cruz sat behind the driver’s wheel, staring this character down. He made no attempt to get out the car. The boy shouted to people inside, and more youts came to the window. They looked as if they had seen a ghost.

  Still, Cruz sat there, giving them this grimacing look. I suddenly clocked what was going on. I knew exactly what that look said.

  It said: “I know where you live. And when I’m in the mood, I’m going to catch you.”

  They had seen me in the passenger seat.