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 16

There are so many myths about gangs. People think there must be some kinda grisly initiation and a fucking Welcome Pack. They’re wrong. Ain’t no membership or code of honour. Ain’t no leaders or matching tattoos. There ain’t no rules.

Gangs don’t really exist, as most people imagine them. This is Brixton; it ain’t West Side Story.

Someone once said gangs only exist “in the way that chemical reactions exist: a mixture of dangerous elements that occasionally react and then disappear”.

I like that. We’re vapour. We’re the noxious gas that seeps through a city’s estates and poisons the minds of its children. My life was one messy chemical reaction after another. And “respect” was the accelerant. You hear a lot about that, “respect”. What is it? Easy. Respect is just the flip-side of fear.

Gang life has its own justice. If you show cowardice, you’re out. If you hesitate for a single second, you’ll be ridiculed. But if you were a face to be known, you’d be known. Bravery bought protection. Recklessness had its own rewards.

And don’t get me wrong. When I say “out” I don’t mean you’re free. I don’t mean that rejection by these boys sets you straight on the path to college. When you’re that far down the line, what do you think seems the safest choice? Being on the side of the ones with power? Or being on the side of those without? I didn’t pause for a second.

That was the deal I made when I met the Younger 28s. That was the world I entered. And I loved it.

Why? Because the real temptation to rolling with those boys – and they were all boys – was this: if you felt angry, you had people feeling angry with you. If you were broke, they were broke with you. If you wanted payback because you’d been short-changed by society, they had your back.

Or so I thought.

I was 15. I needed more. I needed entertainment. The Youngers gave me all the entertainment a ghetto girl could wish for.

But first, allow me to give you a bit of background. Why 28?

28s were top rank. They were the boys. They were the market leaders.

Perhaps there were 28 people originally, I don’t know. If there was a link with the South African prison gang of the same name – named after 28 black prisoners who revolted against their white guards – it was never spoken of.

All I know is that in South London there were three tiers of 28s: the originals, the Youngers, and the Younger Youngers. Like three generations.

The original 28s were British-born black boys who challenged the Jamaican Yardies’ monopoly around Brixton Hill; elders like Duffers had the endz on lock down.

When prison or bullets intervened, as they always did, that’s when younger ones like me came in to carry on the badness.

Duffers got shot up real bad. He was a real, real bad boy, who had a humorous side. If somebody ordered pizza, he would be the first one giving orders to rob the delivery guy. He wouldn’t just take his money. He’d take his helmet, his bike and his keys, and leave the poor guy with nothing but bare feet and panic attack. When Duffers ordered pizza, you knew some poor yout was leaving on foot without his trainers.

He got killed at a party, by people he thought were his friends. The rumours were they shot him up in a fight over a girl. Only God knows the real truth behind it.

I remember that funeral, and all the soul-searching it caused round our endz. That was probably the point that the Younger 28s came into their own.

After the mayhem at Chessington, I started to see the crew more and more. I saw them at school, around the estates and rolling round Brixton Hill.

Over the days and weeks that followed, I’d roll with Badman and Drex, Cyrus and Stimpy.

Their company was refreshing. Keziah and Stace and all that emotion and bitching – too much of a headache, man. I had enough emotion from my mum and all her baseball bat swinging. Emotion, darling, was the one thing I could do without.

These guys, they had bigger concerns. They were focused on making money, and I wanted in. They didn’t have time for tears and feelings and all that shit. It’s just wasn’t in their DNA. Neither did I.

If we had one thing in common, it was the stuff we didn’t speak about: our homes. Each of these youts had it hard in one way or another. I knew not to ask about their details and they knew not to ask about mine.

But when it came to the time to represent, everyone was on the same page.

No one was in charge. One form makes many. The newspapers spoke about street kids wearing different colours – purple for Angell Town; green for Myatt’s Field – or tying their laces in certain ways. Maybe outsiders would have liked that. That way, they’d know when to cross the street. But not with us, not back then. All that mattered was fresh creps and looking sharp.

How dangerous we were, you’d have to judge for yourself.

If I saw Man Dem at Morley’s, the chicken shop, I’d stop and speak. If I saw them cussing with a guy in the street, I’d jump off the bus and get involved. If a delivery boy was being relieved of his Nikes and his Moped, hell yeah, I’d go along and laugh.

Nothing was ever really pre-planned. But if I was with them, when they heard something going down, make no mistake, I’d get stuck in. I had heart.

Tyrone was bemused by the association.

“So you like these guys?” he asked one afternoon after class.

“They alright,” I shrugged.

“They talk about you. You seem to have made an impression.”

I tried to play it cool.

“What?” I said, after he fell silent.

“Just saying, they’re serious characters, yeah?”

“And?”

“Just thought you should know.”

“I know.”

“They asked me if you wanted to meet up tonight.”

“We’re going to yours anyway, ain’t we?”

“Yeah, but just wanted to let you know they’ll probably be around. You in?”

“Course.”

“Cool, come round later and we’ll hang out.”

He disappeared down the corridor into his next class. I didn’t bother going into mine.

I tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. I had to keep it cool.

I didn’t often go round to Tyrone’s. He usually came round to mine, but Mum had lots of people round from the mosque tonight.

The Man Dem were not exactly his friends, just the boys he lived with. They knew he didn’t get involved with the serious shit, that he didn’t like an altercation, but they seemed to respect him all the same.

I wasn’t looking forward to going round and sitting in his flat, so it was a bit of a relief to know there would be some other activity to keep us entertained.

His flat had no furniture for starters, or not much anyway. You know you’ve got some mums who are house proud and some who ain’t? Well, this one just didn’t have no style, man. No ornaments, no cushions, no carpet. Not much. I don’t even think he had a fridge.

That night, we went together to see the crew. Tyrone acted as The Introducer.

It was the end of the summer term – my last term – and the nights were warm and long. The heatwave had boiled over, and the sky glowed pink beyond the jet trails leading to Heathrow.

Hanging on Tyrone’s estate meant interacting with a whole new hierarchy of characters who lived in his blocks. Cars would pull up, business would be done.

That hot evening, it had an LA vibe. Man Dem leaned on their cars, rolling down the windows, and pumping up the stereos. I’m not gonna lie. It was exciting. I felt like I was stepping into a scene from 2 Fast 2 Furious.

Lot of conversations were going, Olders talking transactions, Youngers making deals.

And lots of them were interested in this pretty new face.

“What have you been on for the day then, blood? What you been doing today?”

I recognised Badman. I’d soon learn there was little mystery to the name. Bad influence, bad man. He was the one who had to be talked out of stuff. If ever a yout was going to get you chased unnecessarily across Clapham Common for fear of your life, it was him.

He was brash, abrasive, but I was beginning to like him.

“Ain’t done much, bruv,” replied Tyrone.

“You remember Sour?”

Of course he remembered me, he said, looking me up and down. “Girl got her tings going on. Alright?”

I nodded and smiled. Enough to be friendly, not too much to give him the wrong idea.

Another yout, a good few inches shorter than me, rocked up, knocking knuckles with Badman and pulling Tyrone into an enthusiastic chest hug – though their chests were barely level.

His brand-name was Stimpy.

“Man made some loot today, still,” Badman told him. It felt like he was trying to wind him up. If he was, it worked.

“What? And you couldn’t bring man in? Why couldn’t I get part of it?”

I couldn’t work out whether he was joking or challenging him. Either way, this guy had balls of steel for someone so fat. He was speaking as if, when he looked in the mirror, he saw a 6 ft 3 hunk stare back at him.

“Move, man! Get outta here.”

Badman laughed and shook his head, like a lion batting away the cubs that bit at his ankles. Stimpy was having none of it.

“Nah, come on seriously, bring man in. Give me some.”

Badman moved to him slowly, then, grinning broadly, fastened him in a headlock.

Stimpy fought back – he was tough for a fat motherfucker – and the rest laughed out loud, enjoying the mock scuffle.

The jeering prompted a window to be unlocked two floors above. A woman leaned out.

“What ye boys doing? Wanna keep down the noise?”

Stimpy released his head from the crook of Badman’s arm and wriggled free.

“Sorry, Mum,” he called up.

“That’s his mum?” I whispered to Tyrone. Tyrone shook his head.

“No, Stimpy ain’t got no mum.”

He explained that Man Dem called all the older women on the estate “Mum”. “Sign of respect.”

“Ye alright?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, softening. “Be better if youts were quiet, innit.”

“Man be good, Mum,” Stimpy winked.

She rolled her eyes and closed the window. That was why Stimpy was needed by the Man Dem. As I’d find out, he was just as capable of meanness as any of them, and sneaky with it too, but he didn’t look like no hardass gangster. Better than any of them, Stimpy could win people’s trust. He could go unnoticed better than all the rest. He was the best look-out they had.

Another yout came over to join us. Cyrus didn’t say much, and got on with transactions, counting cash and handing it over to Badman. I recognised him from the saloon photo. He’d been standing at the back, with a cowboy hat on. He was the only one who wasn’t smiling in it.

“Y’alright? What you doing here?”

“Free world, innit.”

Yeah, Drex was one of the names of the Youngers, and right there and then, from the way he spoke to me, I could see he did what it said on the tin: Drex was short for Durex. He was eye candy for sure. I just knew he had the pick of many. Every girl liked this fly boy.

“What’s he doing?” I asked.

Cyrus had broken off from the rest of the group, and had gone along the walkway, to knock at one of the flats. He was waiting on the doorstep. The door didn’t open. Instead, he was speaking with someone through the window.

Drex laughed.

“No one knows what Cyrus is doing,” he said. “Doing business of some sort. He ain’t trying to tell no one what he’s trying to do. No point. Before you know, he’s gone with it, and be seeing you later at home. He’s just off.”

Cyrus was a serious character. Bit of a lone wolf. He got a lot of stuff done. Too much, at times. He would be the one, I’d learn, who would be getting chased, with no warning, because of something he’s done that you’re not even aware of. If you suddenly heard the Junction Boys wanted to tear your head off, the reason usually had something to do with Cyrus.

Cyrus looked over, and nodded hello to us, as he rolled up a spliff. I rarely saw him without some weed. He was high most of the time. Maybe that’s why he didn’t talk much. But even without going into his background or having a conversation, you understood he came from something. That boy had demons. Of them all, he carried the greatest darkness.

Another guy who joined the group got a bigger welcome than the rest. I realised I recognised him. It was Daggers, the boy who’d scaled balconies on the run from the boydem.

“Where’ve you been, man? Ain’t seen you for a while,” said Stimpy, pleased to see him.

“Got nicked, innit. Feds had me down to station for a week, took all my clothes, spun the house …”

Cyrus passed him a spliff.

“Thanks, man. So what did I miss?”

At that moment their attention was turned to two girls, Tyrone’s sister and her friend, who had come down to enjoy the vibe. They didn’t stay long, passing from car to car, talking to some of the guys.

They were both in their slippers, wearing denim shorts and vest tops. One of them had her hair half-combed, with a comb still poking out her braids. The other half of her hair was wild. In her hand she carried a can of coke.

“Mum wants you to go and help,” she told her little brother, before taking note of me.

“Hi Sour,” she said. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah, good, Chantal. You?”

“Fine.”

She clearly wasn’t interested in having a chat.

Stimpy rolled up behind her and put an arm round her waist.

“Looking fine tonight, girl.”

She rolled her eyes, and peeled his arm away.

“Is it not past your bedtime?” she said. Her friend giggled.

“Is that an offer?” he replied. “You offering to take man? You can tuck me up real nice.”

She ignored him. He caught my eye and I supressed a smile.

“Ty, come on. Mum needs you for something.”

She seemed irritated, impatient. I realised she didn’t like him being out here.

He looked at me apologetically.

“Wanna come up and get some food?”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m going to hang here for a while.”

He looked surprised.

“Sure?”

“There’s chips and …”

“Ty,” I said, more forcefully this time. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“OK,” he shrugged. His sister spun on her heel and went back up the stairwell, with Tyrone falling behind.

I spent the rest of the evening drifting through this new crowd. By the time darkness finally fell I had taken so much in, watching different characters from different tiers exchanging cash and talking business. I watched who made the most money, who felt they were smartest, who commanded the most respect.

It was all so different from home at Roupell Park where the only diversions were ball games in the Pen and relieving the shops of stock.

All of a sudden there were all these guys, smoking weed, eating food, playing music. These goings-on felt good.

I listened a lot and just took it all in, getting the feel of this new crew. Some responded when I spoke to them, others didn’t. Drex made a few introductions with the rest of them, talking over me as if I was dumb and mute.

“Is she your chick, blood? You banging her?”

His name was Gadget. He wasn’t known for his charm.

I smoothed the slick of hair that hung over my eyebrow and tried to look – what’s the word? – disdainful.

“Nah, she’s down with it, man. Even if I wanted to, she’s not going to have that,” he joked.

“Damn right,” I said.

“Well, then how come she’s around?”

“How come you got two phones?” I asked, pointing to the one in his hand and the other brick in his pocket.

“Ringtones, innit. Stereo surround sound.”

He pulled them both out.

“Listen to this,” and he held one up to each ear, and started dancing to the grimey tracks together, which were beeping and bleeping in strange sychronicity. He looked ridiculous in his loud clothes and designer labels. I couldn’t help but laugh.