Читать книгу Sour: My Story: A troubled girl from a broken home. The Brixton gang she nearly died for. The baby she fought to live for. - Tracey Miller - Страница 14

Now you might consider all this to be the behaviour of a gang. Truth was, I hadn’t even begun gang life. That was small fry. The real gangs of south London still hovered around the shadows. As for the Man Dem who rolled inside them, I had yet to make their acquaintance.

I had heard of them, of course. Tall tales and whispers loitered round the estates. Many of the darkest rumours led back to the worst estate of them all: Angell Town, less than two miles away.

That’s where Keziah and Stacey lived, and visits to the house enthralled me. They were nice girls, brought up by a single mum, who worked long shifts as a caterer. She wasn’t one of those layabout mums, but she was surrounded by plenty who were.

They lived in a dark labyrinth of walkways and derelict basement garages. The architect’s grand intention behind this concrete maze of high-density council blocks was to create “a community spirit”.

Oh yeah? Wonder where that architect is now? Enjoying community spirit somewhere else, that’s for sure. By the time I learned my way around that labyrinth, the papers were calling it Hell’s Gate. The garages designed for all those aspirational families proved to be nothing more than dark, dingy backdrops for drug deals and worse. The walkways were badly lit and the police presence was heavy and unnerving. Pass by during the day, you’d think the only people living there were thugs and dogs. After dark, it became a riot of sirens and stand-offs. Trust me, there was nothing angelic about this part of town.

Yeah, Angell Town was proper scary. Yet, for all the reputation it had, and the hype it attracted, I remember being disappointed first time I went. After all, I was an aspiring community leader myself.

The Man Dem of Angell Town were untouchable. Everyone knew that. They had fast cars, drug rackets and guns. They answered to no one.

They were the big league, so I’d been expecting something bigger, better, flasher than tame old Roupell Park.

Anyone who was anyone wanted to hang out there. So why did it seem so … poor?

I had taken the 133 bus to Keziah and Stacey’s after school to find a huge commotion raging around their house.

“Over there, innit,” Kez shrugged. Someone was getting chased. She didn’t show much interest.

I opened her bedroom window to get a better look.

I’d spent enough time watching Tiefing Timmy to know that a police chase was hardly rare in SW2.

No, what amazed me about this guy was that he was literally jumping from walkway to walkway.

This was better than watching EastEnders.

I followed the dark shadow race towards the stairwell. He was a black boy in dark clothing and so was difficult to see, despite the flashing lights. But there was no doubt about it. He was putting his life at risk. For a moment the lights lost him, but I could see him. He had ducked, and was now climbing on to the ledge of the stairwell, preparing to jump. I held my breath. There were three storeys between him and the concrete plane below. He swung his arms big and took off.

“Shut the window, Sour, it’s freezing,” complained Kez, who was sizing up her latest “purchases” in the bedroom mirror, to see which would fit, and which to sell.

“What’s the problem? Just seeing wha gwarn …”

“Why you interested in dem man dere anyway?”

I wasn’t listening to her. The boy had just jumped down to the stairwell below and was now hanging off a balcony. Respect.

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.