Sour

by Tracey Miller

  “Do ye want some soup?”

  Mum was shouting from the kitchen. We shouted back at her that we didn’t.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I’m glad that you’re happy, Bro.”

  He nodded and smiled. “I am. We have to be grateful to Allah for all his blessings. I know I’m going to dedicate my life to dawah.”

  I remembered that word: spreading the message.

  “But stay away from the psychos, yeah?”

  He laughed.

  “I’m not an idiot. Bye, Mum,” he shouted next door. “I gotta go. Said to Amina I’d help her with some boxes. Keep telling her there’s plenty time to get a nursery ready, but she wants it done yesterday …”

  The phone rang. “Hang on, wait a minute. Just gotta get this.”

  I jumped up the stairs two at a time, and snuck into my room.

  “Can you fix me up?”

  I had to check. I hadn’t seen Winston for a while. Stocks were running low. I pulled myself up, and looked into the shoeboxes on the top shelf of my wardrobe.

  “Nah, I’m out.”

  They hung up.

  By the time I went back downstairs, Yusuf had gone.

  The Raid

  “He’s been arrested.”

  “What’s up?”

  It was a bad phone line. David clearly hadn’t heard me.

  “I said he’s been arrested!”

  “Who has?”

  “Yusuf.”

  Not Yusuf. Not now. Not for this. Life was falling apart. My kid brother ain’t no terrorist.

  “What happened?”

  I told him what Yusuf had told me in his single phone call.

  “He said they invited him to a restaurant. He said he didn’t want to go but when a brother invites you to dinner you can’t say no.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Men from the mosque.”

  There had been around a dozen of them, he said, all sitting in the private dining room at a Chinese restaurant in Southwark.

  “Anyways, before they know it, MI5 are raiding the room, telling them all to put their hands on the table, and that everything will be explained.

  “They spun his house and found some kind of book from the mosque.”

  What were the exact words again? “He was found ‘in possession of material useful to a terrorist’ or some shit like that.”

  It was only a book. It wasn’t an instruction manual or anything like that. It was just a book. It wasn’t even his. Boydem had got it wrong – Yusuf was bad once, for real. But he was good now. He’d found peace. Why were they victimising him now? That’s not the way it should be.

  Turned out some of his new mosque friends had been under surveillance for months, thanks to a nutter in Hackney who liked to call himself Osama Bin London. He’d been brainwashing a ragtag bunch of newly recruited Jamaican boys, recent converts, former crackheads – deluded jihadis of that kind of calibre.

  The same person was accused of setting up training camps attended by some of the 21/7 bombers – remember them? The ones who tried to blow up buses and trains three weeks after the 7/7 bombings, with explosives made from hair bleach and chapati flour.

  They could have killed hundreds. Thank God they lacked the basic maths to count out the ingredients.

  “The paintballing!”

  “What you are talking about?” asked David.

  “Yusuf told me about them. Said he didn’t like the way they talked.”

  Turned out the paintballing trips he had escaped were actually al-Qaeda training sessions – albeit ones that took place inside a paintballing centre in Berkshire.

  In fact, while Yusuf was spending Saturdays working as a repair man, fixing the tumble dryers and washing machines of South London and trying to earn some legitimate money for his family, his brothers at the mosque were visiting Cumbria and the New Forest, organising secret assault courses and playing at jihad.

  Boydem even attached cameras to trees and shit, recording this band of brothers in the woods, doing forward rolls with sticks. It was like watching bloody Carry On Taleban. Or a really rubbish episode of The Krypton Factor.

  It was the discovery of that book in his house that did it for Yusuf. His biggest crime was to have the misfortune of being with them that night, tucking into a chicken chow mein.

  His lawyer advised him to plead guilty for a reduced sentence. He got two years.

  He is a good man, my brother. He’s got a good memory for the Qur’an, he understands Islam. But how shall we put it … he’s gullible.

  I don’t believe for a second Yusuf was taken in by that psycho shit. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I thought of him back in a police cell, and wanted to give him a hug and a good talking to. I wanted him to look very closely at the friends he had around him. I wanted him to realise that not everyone was as innocent and pious as he was.

  Islam had been good for Yusuf.

  Me personally, well, I’d jumped out of it as soon as I could. I felt something I didn’t understand, or want to understand, was being forced on me against my wishes. What was the point of being bound by a religion, but not understanding its terms? The most troubling part for me was that the people forcing it on me didn’t seem to care whether I understood it or not. All I had to do was accept it. That ain’t good enough for me.

  God had looked out for me. I realised that now. There had been times I should have been dead. But Islam had never given me peace in the way it had Yusuf.

  He was a peaceful Muslim. It had changed his life – for the better. And now he was being punished for it. I knew he had done nothing wrong. I couldn’t take it in. It made no sense.

  As I kept saying down the phone, “It was only a book.”

  I answered David’s questions – about where he was being held, when he’d go to court, and what kind of sentence he was facing – until I could answer no more. How could he possibly understand? His brother was a dentist.

  Our relationship had changed since David found out about my past. Yeah, sure, he’d stuck around, which was more than some boys woulda done, but I wasn’t sure it was for the right reasons.

  Now I wondered whether he was with me just for the thrill. A dark thought niggled. Maybe being with me gave him some street cred. Maybe I was his rebellion against a nice, happy home life of Tupperware and fridges that are always full?

  I started to worry he was getting a kick out of having a girlfriend from the wrong side of the tracks. I had given him Sweet. That was the deal. What if he wanted Sour?

  I told him I’d call him later. I needed some time alone. I whipped on my poncho, grabbed the house keys and cash, and went out the door.

  I walked for hours. Past the empty Pen, where the net-less basketball court stood empty and me and Ty used to hang, past the kids queuing for Chinese chips at Tens takeaway, past the Quaker meeting house, until I reached Brixton Hill.

  At the Man Dem meeting spot outside the police station, an old woman was having a rest under the tree, leaning on her tartan trolley while having a fag. Wilting bouquets of flowers had been strung around the trunk, tributes to various dead youngsters whose fading pictures were pinned to the trunk in plastic pocket folders. One included a long, handwritten note, but the words had been long since ruined by rain.

  The Man Dem were nowhere to be seen. I wondered who was left. It was a warm summer evening, the kinda evening when the Youngers would hang around the open doors of parked cars, playing music, smoking weed, boasting about the chicks they’d banged and planning the next altercation. There was no one I recognised in Morley’s either, or any of the usual Brixton Hill haunts.

  Down the hill, the concrete blocks of Angell Town loomed large. I considered heading down there to see Keziah and find out how she was doing and ask after Tyrone’s family, but I couldn’t face it. The funeral was still too fresh, the suspicious looks from relatives I’d never met still seared on to my memory. You brought this on, they seemed to say. The stench from bad
kids like you, their stares said, you are the ones to blame.

  I left early, having slipped in silently once the service began. I lingered long enough to see his mum, brother and sisters kiss the coffin, listened to the speech his mum gave from underneath a broad black hat, and watched Keziah sobbing in the front row.

  “Don’t let the haters get you down.” Was that not what Tyrone had said the last night I saw him? Easier said than done.

  I turned my back on Angell Town, and headed north. Red buses rumbled along, brakes exhaling like large, metal lungs. Groups of girls in short skirts and heels they could barely walk in giggled out of off-licences, armed with bottles of wine to drink while doing their make-up. Big Issue sellers hawked their last copies. Past kebab shops and KFCs, past Ladbrokes and the loan shops. At Windrush Square I turned right, back up Coldharbour Lane. It was the same walk I’d done with Tyrone a thousand times, up to Myatt’s Fields.

  The park was closed when I arrived, the gates were shut, the bandstand out of bounds. I didn’t care. I just needed to keep on moving. The city had that summer buzz. You could feel it, that delicious freedom that comes from week upon week of glorious, hot weather. That up-for-anything vibe that comes from sunbathing in parks, paddling in fountains and drinking outside.

  These were my endz. These were my streets. This was my postcode. For better or worse, this was my home, and I belonged here. I didn’t want to go anywhere else. Just as well. There was nowhere else to go.

  Riots

  I’d always been a follower of news. But when I heard the name Wayne Douglas, it almost passed me by. I was about to change channels when his picture flashed up on screen.

  “It’s Blobby!” I said to myself. The boy I’d met that night on the way home. “No way.”

  I called Mum through from the kitchen. She knew his family.

  “Oh my. What a loss dat is, what a loss,” she said, shaking her head. “That poor woman.”

  Blobby was 26. He had died in police custody. People were angry.

  The news reporter was standing outside the police station, just beside our tree. He said there was going to be a march this evening. I had no plans that day. I considered going to join them, on a cause I supported, but thought better of it.

  I said a prayer for him, and for his parents. Hope the march goes well, I thought, but I’m going to sit this one out. The Feds are going to be busy tonight.

  By the time the 6pm news came on ITV, it had all kicked off.

  The Feds were out in their riot gear. Witnesses were telling the news cameras they had heard shots being fired down by the Ritzy cinema. Hundreds of youts, black and white, had taken to the streets, attacking police, ransacking shops and burning cars.

  They were pulling police officers from motorbikes and hurling petrol bombs.

  Hearing something, I pulled aside the curtains. A police helicopter was buzzing overhead.

  The news reporter was no longer standing in Windrush Square. Now the cameras were on the shops. They showed moneybags hanging out the banks. Places were getting looted big-time. There was a stand-off between people and the police. It was chaos. My eyes started to open up out of my head.

  Moneybags. Mmm. Easy pickings.

  They’re reporting this now, I thought, but it won’t be live footage.

  Mum came through and recognised the shops.

  “Oh wha’ gwarn in Brixton?” she exclaimed. “Oh my! Riots in Brixton? That’s crazy.”

  “But Mum, look at what’s happening.”

  She could read what was going through my mind.

  “Listen, child, don’t you leave this house. Don’t go near fucking Brixton! When riot go aff in dis place, oh,” she shuddered.

  “Why am I going to Brixton? What’s wrong with you?” I snapped. “Chill.”

  Yeah, Brixton could do riots, I knew that much.

  I went to my room and tried to listen to some music. I watched some TV, flicking from sitcom to quiz show. I fiddled with my hair, and tidied up my room.

  Brixton was calling me.

  In the back of my head, all I could think of was the free money. It was all kicking off. It was hardly any work. What’s stopping you?

  I wanted part of this. David and I had been fighting again and I needed some light relief.

  I could hear Mum watching the news downstairs. More police helicopters zipped over the estate.

  I couldn’t handle this no more. I was going out.

  Let me get dark clothes. I flicked through my wardrobe. They had to be unremarkable, but not too bait.

  I went for a black jacket, with two leather panels on the front and back, with dark, woollen sleeves. I put on cream jeans, a tight white top, some trainers and looked in the mirror. Perfect. I looked girly, but if I did happen to get involved in anything, shall we say, unforeseen, I had a black jacket to cover me. I was ready.

  My plan was simple. Keep your eyes on the prize. If I happened to pass something that was just there for the taking, well, I would just take it – before somebody else did.

  As soon as Mum saw me coming down the stairs, she started shouting.

  “I told you not to go anywhere. Hard ears pickney will always feel.”

  That was Jamaican for: “If you don’t listen, you’re going to learn the hard way.”

  “Chill out. Just going to see my friend in Tulse Hill.”

  “Girl, you ain’t got no friends.”

  I ignored her, took my keys and walked out the door.

  “Where you going?” she shouted after me. “Come back here.”

  I kept walking till I couldn’t hear her no more. Then I headed straight for Brixton.

  I had barely left the estate when I saw them coming. They were like a pack of zombies, walking slowly down Brixton Hill, coming this direction.

  A huge wave of people.

  “Killers! Killers!” chanted the mob, as they swept down the hill towards our estate.

  I got over-excited. I’d never seen people unite in such a way, in such a number. There were so many! One form makes many. Imagine what we could accomplish.

  I guessed they were about five minutes away from where I was standing. I stood still, overwhelmed with anticipation of being swept up with them.

  It didn’t make sense to go back down to Brixton. Those moneybags will have long gone. These guys were where the action was. That much was clear. They were on a mission. What was to come, I had no idea. The long, hot day was dying. The summer sky was violently pink.

  This was going to be quite a night.

  All I remember was the sound of feet, sweeping me up. Beyond the chants, there was not even much talking. A lot of noise and chaos but this was no place to chat.

  I thought of I, Robot. No one was smiling, just a stern, straight-faced, wild-eyed mob.

  I knew there were shops that lay ahead. I even knew the shopkeepers. These were the local shops I’d never be naughty in. I’d made it a policy to only ever steam other people’s locals. Just like these guys, probably. I hoped Jay had been smart enough to bring down the shutters of his mini-mart early.

  We were getting closer. Soon we’d hit the electrical shops, barber shop and fish bar. Further down was the Co-op and a pizza place. You knew there would be money. As soon as the mob hit the parade, so it began. I was in awe. Suddenly, it felt like there were hundreds, ripping off shutters, smashing windows, breaking glass and stealing whatever they could. This was new to me.

  Before you knew it, people were ducking out with grins and PlayStations under their arms. The electrical goods shop took the biggest battering, haemorrhaging TVs and radios and consoles until its shelves were empty.

  This was steaming but without the aggression. There was no one around to put up a resistance against the mass.

  I was no stranger to badness, but I was used to a ticking clock, counting the seconds from the first smash of glass till the arrival of sirens a few minutes later.

  But there was no police.

  What the fuck is going on?
>
  People smashed and grabbed, but still no police. They didn’t come. Then it dawned. This was just a splinter group. The Feds must be tied up elsewhere. This was a free-for-all!

  I was beside myself. You felt like you had some control. When people are in numbers, man, it’s amazing what they can do. That vibe, that mass, one form makes many. It was powerful.

  And if you can’t beat ’em, you join them, right? So who was I not to join in? I didn’t know where to start.

  Still, I hesitated. This was my territory. I used these shops. Oh nah, this ain’t right. I felt like I was betraying them.

  But no one was listening. If I said, “Come on, leave that shop alone, that guy’s cool, go for that one instead,” I knew no one would care. On the other hand, I also understood shops were insured.

  I liked that fish shop, I use that Indian restaurant, I thought, wincing as they ripped off the shutters and smashed through the doors, chucking a sandwich board advertising meal deals right through the window, scattering the red tablecloths with glass. Fuck, move on, Sour, I told myself, there’s nothing I can do here.

  Out of the chaos, I saw this guy running towards me.

  “Sour!” he shouted. It was a Jamaican lad from Myatt’s Field. We called him Stone.

  He hi-fived me.

  “You never believe what happened.” His nose was burst, with blood spattered over his collar. He was as jittery as a Mexican jumping bean.

  “Brandon, innit. He took my console. Just headbutted me and took it away. It’s war, man.”

  I knew Brandon. He lived on Roupell Park. He was a bad boy with a boxer’s build. He looked the part – the kind of Asian guy black guys did work with. He had heart. That’s why Stone was so shocked. He knew him too. He did business with his uncle. It must have felt like he was turning on his own. Even while chaos reigned, disloyalty would not be tolerated.

  “You for real?”

  Now I’m angry. I liked Stone. He was a smart kid. Brandon lived just a few blocks away on the other side of the Pen. This was a crime in my jurisdiction.