Gender: Male
Status: In a Relationship
Age: 102
Sign: Capricorn
City: London
Country: UK
Signup Date: 8/7/2006
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Saturday, November 07, 2009
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Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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"...I dream of hell. I am Jesus on the day of his crucifixion. Whips lash my back as I bear my cross through the Hackney streets, the hill of Springfield Park my Calvary. Demons flit in and out of the fiery darkness as crowds heave and buildings burn. I reach the gates of the park, local Hasids screaming psalms, gang kids firing guns. I climb the mount. I am nailed to the wood, risen high on my cross. The rabble frenzied in celebration. I spot the faces of Kym and Greg; then they are lost in the swell. Slowly I pan from the scene. See myself revolving on a swastika cross. Hackney raging in a furnace. I long to die, for the pain to end. But it never will. My pain is eternal..."
Read my new story 'Cocaine Eyes' up on Sean "the beat" McGahey's new website 'Dissolution Word' HERE...
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Tuesday, September 01, 2009
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Early one morning they burst in and got me, trashed the place, found nothing more than a bit of blow I was selling on the side. After twenty minutes on the ground I was hauled up, enduring the stinking breath of some fat copper with a grudge. This bastard thought he knew me well.
"You were there at the Farm that night, you black piece of shit. I've been reading up on you, right into your history, mate - you've been keeping your nose clean for quite a while, haven't you, you lowlife cunt."
It was 2005. The police had reopened the case. And here they were, raiding my flat on a supposed drugs bust. Maybe I'd been grassed up for selling a bit of blow, who knows, but in reality this had nothing to do with drugs and everything to do with Tottenham twenty years ago.
Broadwater Farm Estate, '85. The original investigation into the riot and PC Blakelock's murder had been a shambles. Like dozens of other teenagers, I'd been pulled in, stuck in a cell for three nights, taking slaps and threats, no lawyer. They couldn't prove anything - I was released without charge. I'd thrown a few bricks, ran a bit wild, but so had the police. Ammo was coming in from both sides.
Tension had been running high after a woman was killed in a raid. On the evening, the coppers were hemming us into the estate - Get back into your farm you fucking animals - swinging their batons, going mental. Pure provocation. As night fell we responded with our own violence. Shotguns, firebombs, craziness. Even murder. It was worse than Handsworth, Brixton, anywhere. Blakelock was chased and hacked to death with machetes.
The copper thumps me in the belly, hard, and the cunt holding me let's me spill to the floor. His boot starts hitting the back of my head and doesn't stop. I'm concussed and hear him telling me that Keith Blakelock was a friend of his, and though it might be twenty years since the riots he's going to see the murdering bastards locked up and rotting away if it's the last fucking thing he ever does.
A couple others pull him off. "Get this lump of shit out to the van before I kill the bastard!"
He'd been right about keeping my nose clean. I hadn't been arrested in years. They drove me from my flat in Ponders End down to Tottenham nick. These days I hated Tottenham. Too many bad memories, too much shit. The manor had gone to pot. Pubs boarded up, rotting away. Dereliction and waste. I'd tried to avoid the fucking place as much as possible for years. Here they were rubbing it right back in my face.
I grew up in Northumberland Park, a good mile from Broadwater Farm. I was into football, knocked around with a Spurs firm. Most of my mates were white. But my connection with the Farm was my mate Dwayne. He couldn't care less about football, saw all the violence at the matches as a waste of energy, white dicks acting like idiots. He was more interested in the benefits of crime. Making money. He'd been through care homes, done borstal, the lot. Dwayne was pretty reckless. My bad influence, you could say.
Once at a party Dwayne was building a spliff and this Jamaican started giving it large. "Hand over the ganja, English boy!" Around this time there was a lot of Jamaicans coming over, strutting about like they were something to be feared. They thought British blacks were soft. Dwayne whipped out a gun and put it right in the guy's face. "Who the fuck are you calling English boy, you banana boat nigger!" The yardie had been all mouth and shat it.
But pretty soon the yardies gathered their numbers and became quite a force. Soon everyone was picking up the lingo, trying to speak like them, including Dwayne. Ever since, the accent has completely taken over.
It was a dark era. Thatcher's Britain. Everyone I knew was unemployed. That government couldn't give a fuck. Some blokes thought they had won the pools if they managed to get a job plucking chickens or packing meat in a factory. Fuck that. The best thing about the 80s was the IRA nearly doing Thatcher in Brighton. If they'd hit their target there would have been parties in the streets. There was nothing but hate for Thatcher.
The evening of the riot, we went up to Dwayne's flat and took a load of sulph. It was the first time I'd tried it. Things were revving up, little clashes sparking off across the estate. I remember feeling out of it, charged up for anything, kicking the walls as we headed out into the night. We were fuelled up on news footage, Handsworth, Moss Side, Brixton. Endless war in Northern Ireland. People were coming up from further afield, Stoke Newington, Hackney, even south of the river. Lots of strange faces. Quite a few whites. One paper even said the Russians were behind it. That was bullshit, but I do remember a skinhead bloke instructing some kids on how to make a petrol bomb; sounded like he'd been in the army. Everyone wanted a pop at the police, black, white, you name it.
The whole estate erupted. The Farm is like a maze, a self-contained closed-in world, not open streets like Brixton. Its layout certainly didn't help the police. Everybody seemed to go berserk. Anything I'd seen at the football seemed like kids' stuff. I've see coppers on the telly visibly cry just talking about it. They took one fucking battering that night.
A year later I did eighteen months for stashing stolen goods. Nothing could have prepared me for prison. At home it was just me and my mum. I had my own bedroom, own space. Suddenly I was bunking up four to a cell with frequent 23-hour lock up. I grew up fast.
I did most of my time in Wandsworth, the biggest shithole ever. The screws were brutal bastards, always barking like dogs, going mental over the slightest thing. In those days, screws were mostly ex-forces, rejects unfit for the field and fucked in the head.
One screw was known as The Butcher. I hadn't asked why. I should have. He frequently boasted about his two suspensions for brutality and was rumoured to have murdered men in the punishment block.
I was a new boy when he batted me across the head for not having my shirt tucked in. He started telling me what he thought should be done to niggers like me, the lowest form of life, ranting and raving about Jews and Hitler and mass-extermination. Frothing at the mouth saying he'd like to round up every pisstaking black bastard and white nigger-loving bitch and bury them all in the dirt where they belong. He said there was nothing worse than a half-a-nigger like me and my mum should be hung, drawn and fucking quartered. I butted him in the face with force. A broken nose can be a great leveller. And if anyone deserved it, this cunt did. But I came to regret it.
They dragged me down to the punishment block. It was like a dungeon, reminded me of a concentration camp. I was stripped naked, beaten to an inch of my life, tortured for weeks. My head filled up with so much hate I thought I'd explode. It changed me.
Back in the wing I became a bit of a nutter. I was game for any violence going. It felt good beating the living hell out of somebody, passing on the hate. There was this nonce that we had the eye on. He'd been arrogant enough to choose integration instead of the perverts' wing. He made out he was this big violent geezer not to be fucked with, playing out a fantasy, when really he'd been raping little boys. Three of us grabbed him, ripped his trousers down and threw boiling water over his bollocks. He was writhing round with his privates on fire when by surprise this Hell's Angel walks in and castrates the bastard. There was blood all over the walls. The biker had been missing his kids and apparently worked in the meat trade. Quiet bloke, never said much. Those are the ones to watch for, I suppose. The nonce was taken away, treated as an attempted suicide. He knew not to grass, even without a dick. The screws couldn't give a shit.
Something else that blew my mind in prison was hearing my mum had been mugged. She was set upon by three black kids on her way home from a cleaning job. Another implosion.
The first thing I did on release was head to the part of Edmonton where she was attacked. I prowled around the streets looking for revenge. After being locked away the outside world felt like it was on fast-forward. Edmonton was a mostly white manor in those days, hardly any black faces at all. But one thing was for sure, I wasn't leaving until I'd bashed fuck out of someone.
On a bench round the back of some flats, three black kids were passing a joint. They were slouching about, looked well stoned. One of them nodded at me as if to say Alright. I slipped out the baseball bat, didn't ask questions, couldn't really give a fuck. Two went down without a hitch, the other one had enough of his marbles to start waving a knife about, trying to stab me in the face. I laid into him hell for leather, carried on even when he was out cold, couldn't care less if I killed him.
Soon afterwards, my mum was diagnosed with cancer. She passed away before I knew it. I found it hard to accept, starting losing my mind. Prison was nothing compared to this. Friends would knock around, and I'd tell them to piss off, throw punches. I was ripping cupboards off the wall, carving slices up my arm. I hardly left the house.
Then one day I snapped out of it. Carried on as if nothing had happened. Thankfully nobody mentioned anything. I appreciated that. I started going back to the football, getting hammered, being stupid. But it wasn't the same. It seemed more like an act, going through the motions. Underneath were a lot of dormant demons. Nobody had to remind me: I'd become a different person.
Leafing through my mum's old stuff I found pictures of my dad. I'd never seen him, hadn't even thought much about him. I couldn't miss what I never had. The pictures intrigued me. He was a sharp dresser, confident-looking. I stared at his face trying to read into his thoughts, his life, what he was about. My mum's line had been that sometimes people just don't get on, so it's better for everyone to split. You can't argue with that. I wouldn't want some bastard hanging around the house slapping her about. Some of my mate's dads were right arseholes, gamblers and drinkers that were nightmares to live with. Sometimes I'd counted myself lucky.
But these photos drew me in. I found the divorce papers. When they broke up he'd moved to Willesden. I wanted to find him.
I went to the address, a decrepit looking place near Willesden Junction. Looked like it had turned into a squat. It was no surprise that he wasn't there. I knocked on every neighbour's door. One old woman actually invited me in for a cup of tea, must have needed the company. She remembered him, said he was a big drinker, used the pubs in the area, but had moved years ago.
The pubs were all black and Irish. I was relentless, asking around with my photographs, buying people drinks. Some remembered him, but it was as though he had disappeared. I started checking dosshouses, spread the search over a wider area. I'd go up to down-and-outs around Notting Hill, Camden Town, give them a can of Tennents and a bit of change, get them talking.
Finding the old man wasn't even difficult. I followed all the predictable routes and it paid off. I first met him in a drinking den in Kings Cross. It was full of crims and alkies, cards and dominoes going. It smelt of prison. I was shocked when I seen him. He was standing at the makeshift bar with a wasted thousand yard stare. A million miles from the suave Jamaican in the pictures. I had imagined him to be fairly big bloke, tall like me. But here he was in the flesh, small and frail, haunted-looking. He looked like he needed a wash. Some self-respect. I was embarrassed. I instantly wondered what my mum had ever saw in this wreck.
For a second I considered maybe leaving things be, walking away, leaving history alone. What's done is done. Move on. Instead I walked up and blurted out those words. I'm your son. He looked directly at me, then started laughing, slapping my back. I joined in, my arms around him. Then suddenly he went deadly serious, basically told me to stop having him on. I think he told me to fuck off. It took me quite a while to get it through to him. He went all quiet and I felt like I was dragging up something horrible from the past. I suppose it was the shock. We mostly stood drinking and watching the cards, meditating over the situation. Didn't say much. For me, the anti-climax set in fast, almost immediately. Finding the man had been a little obsession of mine, and now that I had I could see only a vast empty space before me. Looking back, I know that at this period I filled in this space with booze. Like father, like son.
After that I'd meet him fairly regularly. Kings Cross, Camden Town, anywhere. We'd sit in the quiet corner of a pub, the drinks on me. To get to know the man somehow seemed necessary. A shrink would have said I was trying to get to the root of myself - find out who I am. They would have been right. But I wasn't thinking about all that. I just got on with it, did what I had to do. My head was in a mess.
It was hard getting anything out of my dad. His mind seemed half stewed, he was always pissed, and on medication. I learnt he'd been in and out of jail. Minor stuff. Making a nuisance of himself mainly. He told me his cellmate, an IRA guy, had been battered to death by screws in front of him in Brixton Prison. My dad had jumped in. It explained his broken teeth and lazy eye. I wondered had they beaten the senses out of him as well, left him mentally ill.
He'd never asked about my mum once. One night I showed him some photos, told him how I felt now she wasn't around, the only person I had. His reaction wasn't what I wanted. He'd seemed more pissed off about his IRA mate. I felt like shaking some emotion, some response out of him. She's dead, you bastard, dead. But I left him sitting there, staring into space, headed out into the night.
I remember kicking over a load of bins, a tart asking did I want business, telling her to fuck off, and doing the same to some geezer asking did I want drugs. I heard him mutter something back; I lunged in, fists flying. A knife appeared, but I got it off him, slashed him across the face - one, two, three. He clutched his face, blood everywhere, screaming in shock. Suddenly I thought, What have I done? I almost felt like putting my arms around him and saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, mate, I didn't mean it. Instead I ran off, headed back to Tottenham.
I saw my dad one more time. He was dossing in a squat down the end of the Cally. The place was a mess, uninhabitable. We were playing cards, working through a bottle of whisky, heavily pissed. An argument started. I can't even remember what it was about. But the subject lead on to my mother.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He started slagging her off, cursing her name, saying how that bitch had ruined his life etc. I was stunned, knew the marraige had ended in a bad way, but he was taking the piss. I knocked the hat off his head, told him to shut the fuck up. He was bald as a bastard, a big scar across his scalp like somebody had tried to lobotomize him. He went crazy, mouthing off in thick patois I could hardly understand. If I'd been smart I would have walked away, laughed it off, some old waster that had lost his marbles years ago.
But I didn't. I stayed right where I was, gripping his lapels, glaring into his mad eyes as he told me I wasn't his son, he didn't have a son, he was sterile, my mum had ran around with other men, every fucking man in Tottenham and beyond, got herself pregnant, made a fool of him, he'd left and hit the bottle, turned into a wreck, she'd ruined his life, he should have killed the raas claat bitch long before the cancer had. I nutted him straight on the nose, felt the sickening crunch.
I went for him again but he was fast, grabbed the bottle and smashed it across my head. When I shook offf the shock he was swinging a knife and I could tell from his eyes his intention was to kill me. I managed to get it off him and we grappled across to the open window. I was surprised at his strength, fuelled up on pure hate, but it wasn't enough. He was hanging out, his back over the window-sill, my hands around his neck, three floors down to the back-yard below. With one hand I grabbed his legs and flipped him overboard. The last thing I heard him call me was a fatherless bastard. He disappeared into the black. I can't even remember how I got home.
Life carried on. Kings Cross was a rough old place, and I figured the death of a dosser wouldn't exactly be anything unusual, foul play or not. I convinced myself it had been self-defence, tried blotting it all out. Woke up in cold sweats. Lived in denial.
The council kicked me out of the flat I'd grown up in, and I moved to a dingy bedsit in Seven Sisters. I'd stopped going to the football, and was on strong anti-depressants, smoking alot of grass. I spent a lot of time walking the streets in a daze. Sometimes, in my paranoia, I imagined the police were watching my every move, waiting for their moment. I was wrong. It didn't happen.
I was lost, needed direction fast. Around now the Acid House thing was kicking off. For me it was a godsend. E cleared my head, brought me back to the land of the living. My depression lifted. I put a lot of shit behind me. I'd found a scene where I belonged.
I made some good friends and eventually had the amazing break of being taken on as a roadie with a soundsystem. We'd do all the illegal raves around the M25 but were soon getting bookings up and down the country. It was like I'd been rescued, like somebody up there was watching over me. These guys became big players on the scene and in the early 90s I was touring all over Europe. I was off my head every night and loving it. Best days of my life.
When it came to an end it was no surprise. On a lot of people drugs were taking their toll. Casualties left right and centre. People turning to the hard stuff. One of the main players had some dodgy dealings with an Essex firm and ended up buried in a gravel pit by the A13. For me the party ended there. It had been a dream.
Back in the real world I got out of London, didn't need the shit, moved out to Stevenage. I took up painting and decorating.
I had a decent run of work, nice car, a little flat. I met Siobhan, fell in love, and things were looking perfect. Her family were a Dublin crowd from Luton. Good people. Siobhan and I moved in together, had a daughter, Charlene. It was the perfect set-up.
But things took a turn for the worse. The old demons playing up, wreaking havoc in my head. The rows would be phenomenal. She'd insist on seeing her old mates for girls' nights out and I'd be playing the jealous boyfriend, spying on her through the pub window, barging in throwing my fists at any bloke that had even looked her way. Also I started knocking her about at home. It was like I couldn't allow myself any happiness.
One day when I came back from work there were suitcases in the hall. Siobhan's old man was standing in front of her. "You ever lay a hand on my daughter again, I'll fucking murder you". He was raging, looking like he was going to burst. Siobhan's face was a mess. I hated myself. Hated my mad state of mind, the demons that haunted me. I watched them go. I didn't see my daughter for quite a while, didn't push it. When it all calmed down, I became a Sunday dad. A few hours doing McDonalds, the park, the cinema. It was all I deserved. As for getting back with Siobhan, I just hoped that one day it would happen.
When the decorating got slack I tried mini-cabbing. You could make money but only if you really put in the hours. I got a job on the door of a club in Luton. It seemed easy work, most of the punters friendly. Regular faces out for a good time. One night we had to throw out a couple of Asian kids that were being a nuisance. On the street one of them starts giving me attitude. I give him a smack and tell him to fuck off. They go, that's the end of that.
Half hour later a car pulls up, the same guy strutting out, his jaws grinding away like he's snorted up a gramful of dutch courage. I go to belt him again, pissed off now, but he pulls out a gun, points it in my face. At times like that, the world just stands still. I fought an urge to lunge at the bastard, what the hell. A part of me told me it was worth it, whatever the outcome. But instead I just stood there, unsure, as he played his power game. He dished out some verbal - nigger this, nigger that, don't fuck with the Pakis etc - and thankfully that was that, him and his mates driving off laughing.
But that was the end of bouncing for me. Wasn't worth it. All it took was one skinny little cunt out to earn himself some kudos and you were a goner. I walked away. And I was lucky. A couple weeks later one of the doormen took a bullet to the head, survived but was left with brain damage. I'd left London for a quieter life but it seemed as if the city's bad influence was following me.
Around this time, the black-on-black killing thing in London had reached a frenzy. I picked up The Voice once and saw my old mate Dwayne staring back at me. He'd been blasted away six months before and I hadn't even known, alot of the murders getting hardly any media. He was one in a gallery of victims. Something like: The Shooting Must Stop.
Dwayne had got into big-time dealing, all the usual shit. After the Carnival he went to a party in Kilburn. A Harlesden crew walked in and blasted him over the balcony. Down on the concrete, he was still alive. The gunman calmly walked downstairs, pumped four more bullets into his head.
When I thought about it I was surprised he'd lasted as long as he did. I was glad to be out of Tottenham. Away from all that shit. In London you had three-year-old kids talking like Kingston gangstas, the cockney thing I'd always known well out the window. I couldn't feel any real sympathy for Dwayne. He'd chosen that path. I had my own fucking problems.
The only good thing about the 90s was that I kept straight, worked like a horse, six, seven days a week. I needed my mind occupied, needed to keep moving on. The only thing near to illegal I did was sometimes sell a bit of puff to my mates down the pub.
In 2004 I moved to Ponders End. It was the wrong side of the M25 if you ask me, way too close in, but it was temporary, near to work. Maybe soon I'd move to Milton Keynes or somewhere. A year on I was still there. That's when the police burst in. That's when my life changed.
Sitting in the cell in Tottenham I thought I would face a petty drugs charge. But when I was DNA'd the National Database revealed I was wanted for the death of the man I'd thought was my father. The police on the new Blakelock case were over the moon, amazed they'd got me on something so major. I was eventually charged with murder. Technology had given my demons free reign to finally laugh in my face. With the new swabbing, people were getting busted for stuff they'd done lifetimes ago. Pulled in for that girl hitch-hiker they'd picked up and raped twenty years ago. Pulled up on that bloke they'd thrown out the window and tried to forget.
I'm now back in HMP Wandsworth after all these years. I've been offered a sum for a book. The ghostwriter has given me a tape recorder, told me to get lots of stuff down. Apparently there's a big market for this sort of thing. He tells me I have a lot to sell: the football hooliganism, early crime, the riots, acid house, the death of my dad. Tells me I could be publicized as an anti-hero. He could be right. I've certainly never done anything heroic. My life seems to have been anti-everything. It's landed me where I am today. But people love a story. Me, though, I'm the bastard who's had to live it.
As I try to piece my life together, separate the fact and fiction, it tends to blur into one. For years I've been kidding myself, living in denial, convincing myself that I've simply been unlucky. But underneath I wonder is there a psychopath deep inside me. I wonder if I'm actually evil. Maybe this book is my chance to confront the truth. The horrible reality that lies within the fog of my fucked-up skull.
My father never came at me with a knife atall. In court I had the audacity to claim self-defence. The judge called me "a wicked, despicable man". Maybe he was right. I simply beat the bastard and threw him out the window. It's amazing they never got me right away. Shows how far they were bothered to look investigating the death of a black dosser. As for Broadwater Farm, in reality I did more than throw a few bricks. I was in the posse lead by Dwayne that chased that copper out of the car park and descended on him like a pack of wolves. We ploughed into him, hacking away. He didn't have a chance.
Yet I tell myself it isn't true. It's all a bad dream. I'm just a normal bloke. I should be with my Mrs and kid, a regular Joe with a job, a car, an ordinary life. Yet I'm caged away and forced to stare at the walls. Forced to wonder what sort of person I really am. It fucking scares me.
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Wednesday, April 15, 2009
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I get up and head down to the kitchen, and my dad is there. He must be off work today, which is rare, means we’ll have to spend more than a passing moment together. He’s cutting himself a ham sandwich, his lunch, and I’m pouring myself some corn flakes, my breakfast, and within seconds we’re arguing over literal spilt milk. I get a cloth and clean it up, clean up the surround also, ask him is he satisfied, but he isn’t, starts firing off, telling me I’m a fucking dosser and he’s sick of the sight of me and to get out of his fucking house and get a job right now. I get my jacket and make for the front door, the bloke still ranting and raving in the background. Fuck you, I say under my breath, slamming the door behind me. Prick.
On Turnpike Lane I go into a shop to buy the NME. I’m in a queue of three or four people and after a while I’m slowly moving the paper inside my jacket. The man isn’t looking and I might just get away with it. It’s in. I look at my watch and casually walk out. I’m chuffed. The bastard conned me out of a quid last week so it serves him right. I head into the common opposite the tube and the cinema, sit on a bench. There’s a group of crusties further up, flat out on the grass with their cider and their dogs; a woman closer in chucking bread for the pigeons, the birds fluttering in the air, fighting for scraps, a dog running in, parting the waves.
I pull out the NME. I used to be into football more than music, but since leaving school it’s become the other way round. The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, a ton of indie stuff, Es, gigs, raves. So much stuff happening. But never when you’re skint. When you’re skint you’re at a standstill. It’s like all the doors have slammed shut. You can hear the party but you’re not invited. I turn the first page, Richey Manic staring back at me with defiance. He’s holding his arm out, the words 4 REAL cut deep into the flesh, the wounds open and severe. I read the article. Apparently he took out a razor during an interview, did it there and then, had to be hospitalised, the interviewer said to be shocked and disturbed. It’s a powerful shot. A real fuck-you. I stare at it, and it cheers me up for a while. I work through the rest of the paper. There’s plenty gigs coming up I wouldn’t mind, but it all depends on the money situation. At the moment it’s hard trying to find even a few days’ labouring. I smoke a fag for a bit then toss the paper in the bin and move on. I should have probably kept the Richey shot, put it up on my wall or something, but I can’t be bothered.
I pace the streets, one foot in front of the other, don’t even know where I’m going. I walk through Hornsey and Crouch End, Archway and Tufnell Park. I’m miles away now, crossing Camden Road into York Way, past the tower-blocks, a no man’s land of crumbling warehouses and soot-blackened walls, lorries rolling by blowing dust, a spread of rail-yards and gasholders stretching into the haze.
I carry on to King’s Cross. I stop by the railings outside the station and watch the world go by. I’ve got eighty seven pence in my pocket and I’m down to my last cigarette. I watch the down-and-outs shuffling slow among the fast moving crowds; shell-suited beggars, barely in their teens, sitting by the station doors; a group of prostitutes outside WH Smith’s, loud and raucous, all cuts and bruises, cans of Tennent’s. I’m standing there leaning by the rail, wondering what I’m doing, where my life is heading, when I notice a man next to me asking a question. He’s in his late thirties, slightly shorter than me, looks like an office worker. He’s holding an unlit cigarette and I realize he wants a light. Sure. I light him up. Then he’s talking about something else, getting a conversation going, telling me he works just up the road and he’s got off work early today, asking if I want to go for a drink.
We’re heading off to a bar somewhere and I can’t believe I’ve just said okay. The adrenaline is pumping in my chest and I can hardly feel my legs. It feels like I’m floating. I know what the man wants, but I’ve never done this kind of thing before. It feels dangerous. Like I’m being led into some kind of trap. We turn down a backstreet, the man pointing up ahead to a pub. But I’m being paranoid. I can do what I like. Walk away whenever I feel like it. We head into the pub. It’s dark, the windows blacked-out, the music loud. It’s pretty empty, seems more of a night place. He asks what I want and for some reason I say whisky. I move to a seat away from the bar and watch him order.
He comes over with the whiskies, and he’s bought two bottles of beer as well. He sits opposite, hands me my drinks. He’s doing most of the talking, but when he asks me if I have any kind of proper job I hear myself telling him that after leaving school I started a plumbing apprenticeship but it didn’t work out, so what with the recession and everything I’ve just been doing different things really, whatever I can find, temporary stuff… I’m picking with the label of my beer, hearing myself tell the truth and it doesn’t feel right. Feels belittling. The man’s a stranger. It’s got nothing to do with him. I ask him what he does. Advertising, he says. He passes me a cigarette. Lights it up. Then he leans in. Tells me I’m a very good-looking boy. That I must be in high demand. He’s staring at me, and I feel his hand on my knee, and it’s making me uncomfortable. But I feel myself shrug, smile, say thanks. His eyes burning like he’s already been on the drink today.
You’re not nervous are you? he asks.
No, of course not, I tell him, lifting my bottle, realizing it’s empty.
He gets two more beers in. I feel the lager mixing with the whisky, going straight to my head, don’t know if it’s doing me good or bad. I hear him tell me he’s got some cocaine on him. That he wants to spend a couple of hours with me. That there are some hotels around the corner and to drink up because that’s where we’re heading right now.
I know the places he’s talking about. Grotty little b&bs full of prostitutes and junkies and I’m not going anywhere near those places. He’s on his feet now expecting to go but I’m shaking my head. We’ll do it in here, I tell him, nodding to the toilets. In here or nothing. He sits back down again, seems amused but slightly miffed. I’ve spoken out and things have changed now. Okay. If you insist. I demand the money first. Forty quid.
He laughs. He sounds arrogant now. What, for getting sucked off in a fucking toilet? He’s talking down to me now like I’m shit from the gutter, yet it feels more normal somehow, easier, the pretence over. Twenty then, I say. He takes out his wallet, peels out a twenty.
I head across the pub, tell him to follow in a minute, Madonna’s ‘Justify my Love’ thumping out of the speakers. There’s one urinal, one cubicle. The whole place stinks, floor covered in piss, bowl blocked up to the rim with crap and tissue. I look at my face in the mirror. I look pale, drained. Look like a fucking ghost. I want this done fast. Where is the bastard? Hurry up.
The door opens and he walks in. I lower my face, look all humble for a second, then suddenly charge at him, punch him hard in the face. He staggers against the door, shocked, raising his arm slightly. I lay into him, face and stomach, hear myself rasp as I grab him by the hair and slam his head into the wall, two sickening thuds, blood on the tiles and he crumples to the floor. I’m rushing from the whole thing, kicking him in the face and chest, Give me your fucking money, blood flowing from his nose and head, nobody to pull me off, pull me away like those fights in school, people jumping in, enough, leave it, never knowing when to stop, and I pull back, hope I haven’t gone too far, realize I’ve never done this before, exploded on someone out of the blue like that, and it doesn’t feel good, feels wrong somehow. But there’s no time for all that now, and I tear through his pockets, grab his wallet and rip out the cash, tens, twenties, a ton there at least. I stand over him for a moment, heart thumping, hesitating, but the door could open any second and I’ve got to move.
I head fast through the pub, Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ blaring loud, barman polishing a glass, drinkers shadowed in the dim light. I hit the daylight, move along the street until the adrenaline heaves up my neck and I puke between two parked cars.
I turn a corner, out onto the main road and I’m heading down the tube, moving with the masses, faceless in the crowd, unable to believe what I’ve just done. A train blows in and I squeeze onto a seat. Caledonian Road, Holloway, Finsbury Park. One stop to the next. Feeling myself coming down now. Exhausted. Like I could sleep. The whole thing a bad dream.
I get off at Turnpike Lane and halfway up my street I stop for a moment, remember the argument earlier. My dad will still be in a strop for definite. Maybe I should stay at a mate’s house tonight. Or maybe go to a pub for a few hours, til he’s gone to bed. I’ve got money now, I can go anywhere, do anything. But I don’t feel like it. I just want to go home.
When I get in my dad is on his seat in front of the telly, and he turns when he sees me, asks if I’m going to watch the match, Arsenal are playing, and if you are you’d better hurry up. I head upstairs. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.
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Monday, February 02, 2009
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I pause outside the house and look around. It's two o'clock in the afternoon, grey and raining. Not a soul. I walk up the path and ring the bell; wait. The smell of smoke from the factories; dual carriageway whooshing at the end of the cul-de-sac. No answer. I thump on the door. Open up, Mr Crupp - It's the council - Important news. Figure slowly approaching through the mottled glass. Door opens. Eyes squinting like I've woken him from an afternoon nap, a quiet dream... What do you want? Who are you? Go away... trying to close the door in my face. Door flying backwards, hand grabbing him by the throat, pushing him inside. Door kicked shut.
Front room. The smell of dust, rot, age. The smell of the past. He's on the floor, hands and feet bound, staring up at me. Please. Don't do this. Please. I take a last gulp of whisky, pour the remains over his face. Smash the bottle against the wall; the jagged neck in my hand. I get down on my knees. Listening to the begging. Listening to the screams as I gouge the glass into his face - howls, hisses, screams. Leave him shaking on the floor as I tear through the house. Ripping open cupboards, pulling out drawers. Sounds popping off in my head. The rush and flow of blood. Planets bursting, forming. Alive atlast. Wired up to the mains. Wired up to fucking orbit. Felt like I was doing acid again. Speed, alcohol, valium. The crazy Eighties. Tripping down memory lane. Bus into the centre of town. Under the Dilly lights. The rack outside Boots. Colours blazing. Heaven and hell. Life and fucking death. Rooting beneath the stairs and pulling out a toolbox.
"...a murder hunt is underway after a 71-year-old man was found dead at his home. Harold Crupp was discovered by police after a neighbour reported no sightings of him. He is thought to have suffered multiple stab wounds in what may have been an aggravated burglary. Police are conducting house-to-house inquiries..."
I'd take the train out there. Twenty miles east outside London. Green/grey landscapes. A power plant towering into the sky. I'd watch him leave the house. Get to know his routine. Morning paper. Breakfast in the cafe. Slow walks in the park. Watched him once with the drizzle falling as he stared out at the lake. A moment of contemplation; too dignified a scene. Felt like offing him right there. Twisting his neck in my hands. Execution among the ducks and geese, mums wheeling prams. But instead I watched him turn as I passed. Lifting the roll-up to his lips, eyes looking right through me. No recognition. Just a ghost floating by. A figment of the past. Blink and it disappears.
Back, back, back through the years... under the Eastway... Hackney Wick... litter blowing in the breeze... out from the wastes... the empty spaces... up against hard concrete... the towerblocks of Trowbridge... washing fluttering in the breeze... the sound of children... barking dogs... and along the streets... along the corrugated iron fences... WORKING CLASS RISE UP AND REVOLT... VOTE NF... and across the wastegrounds... empty factories, warehouses... kids with stones... and out by the Rec... the public toilets... the smell of bleach... SUCK MY MEAT FOR CASH... men lined up by the urinal... not pissing, not doing anything but holding onto their pricks... and little Tom was down there once and got chased... chased by a man... and he caught him out by the canal... dragged him into the bushes... no-one quite sure what happened... but the police were around and his mum wouldn't let him out after that... and we hardly ever seen him... and he soon moved away... and we'd be playing-out around the marshes... the wastelands... the pylons and waterways and gas-works... hide and seek among the ruins... and once with two older kids we heard a noise through the bushes... saw this couple fucking by the old leather factory... man thumping in and out... woman bent forward like a dog... watching in fascination... fear almost... Gary whispering the man must be giving it to her up the arse... Mark saying nah, they're just doing it back to front, you spaz... no way, what do you know... the two of them bickering away, and sure enough the bloke turns round - shit! - and we run for it... out across the waste... he's coming!... no he's not... he fucking is!... tearing on through the rubble and weeds... on through a gap in a fence but I've lost them now and I'm on my own... out by the canal... hiding in a recess under the bridge... in the shadows... heart thumping... terrified of what would happen if I was caught... come here you cunt, I'll teach you... thinking of Tom kicking and screaming... or maybe saying nothing... too petrified... wondering if what happened to him was what used to happen to me... mum and all the men she'd bring home... mum drunk, out for the count... and the bedroom door slowly opening in the dead of night... a spirit... a stranger... coming in and sitting at the side of your bed... don't be scared son... I'm a friend of your mum's... hand reaching under the sheets... you don't want to upset your mother now do you... and afterwards, lying there frozen... waiting for the morning... the light of day when it could all be swept back into the black night... a bad dream... a nightmare... and sometimes mum would be smiling and happy and she'd hug you... come here... tell you things would be better from now on... maybe a trip to Southend, Margate... other times you'd come home and she'd be slumped on the chair, a bottle in front of her, eyes red from crying, red from drink... telling you she wished you were never born... should have had you aborted you little cunt... ripped you out like I ripped out all the others... all the other little bastards... staggering towards you with a knife... eyes flashing with demons... demented... pure hate... and you'd run... run, run, run... out past the canal, the factories... out to where it was wide and lonely... a wilderness... lying in the long grass and blinking at the sky... watching the rainclouds come... and running to a shack to hide... a ruin... the rain belting down with force... thunder breaking... fork-lightning battering against the pylons... loud and terrifying... a million miles from home... million miles from anywhere...and in the night you'd be shivering... screaming through a tunnel... a black hole leading deeper and deeper into the earth... deeper into hell... and you'd curl tight into a ball... wish you were fucking dead.
"...the community is this week in shock after reports that the local OAP murdered in his home was a convicted paedophile with offences dating back to the 1970s. Harold Crupp, 71, who moved to the area three years ago, is believed to have been tortured before his death. Police have refused to confirm if the killing was a vigilante attack and insist they are keeping an open mind..."
The day of the kill. Sitting in the playing field opposite. Hood up in the drizzle. Power station draped in mist, grey smoke drifting into the sky. Houses still. Only the sound of the gulls swooping over the wet grass; the whoosh of the dual carriageway. Not a human soul. Just the voice in my head saying: now, now, now...
The past... fourteen years of age... into the centre of town... the lights... the life... money... freedom for the first time in your fucking life... and friends... people like you... running away... full of dreams, hopes... the arcades, cafes, burger bars... and at night the pubs... Wardour, Rupert, Old Compton... the Golden Lion on Dean Street... always getting thrown out for being too young... a compliment really... younger the better... more cash... better punters... rich punters... and you're staying away for days at a time, then you're not coming home atall... and who knows, maybe you'll be taken on, whisked around the whole world... knock a couple years off and you're laughing... invincible... in control... laughing in a haze of acid, alcohol, speed...
But happiness is only a dream... only lasts so long... and suddenly there's a knife at your neck and you're being driven out to the docks... three men pulling you out of the car... you dirty little bastard... raped repeatedly up against a wall... head smashed against hard concrete... smack-back to reality amid the dereliction and waste... used and tossed onto the rubbish... the kicks raining down... you dirty fucking cunt... stamping you into the shit... pissing over your curled-up body... laughing... car driving away.... gone... the sound in your head rising... deafening... wheels screaming through a tunnel... the sound of hell... waiting for it to go away... minutes, hours... slowly fade... until the only sound is the lapping of the waves... and you're picking yourself up... staggering upriver to Waterloo... staring over the bridge... down at the river... the black dirty waves... and down at the marks on your arms where you've been cutting yourself for years... ripping out the pain... the darkness... always there... deep inside... should have had you aborted you cunt... drowned in the fucking river... and somebody calling your name... another illusion, another lie... the world riddled with them... and down you go... over the edge... slipping through the sky... and bursting into the dark... ice-cold death... ice-cold hell... crashing back to the open air... gasping for breath, struggling with the waves... and you can't swim... this is it... but suddenly there are arms around you... carrying you through the cold hard sea... your best friend pulling you to shore... and you're coughing out the water... the slime, the shit... slowly getting your breath back... the two of you sitting shivering on the bank... listening to the trains rattling by on Hungerford Bridge... buildings lit up across on the Embankment... a boat going by full of music, voices, laughter... the water near-still now... glimmering in the lights of night...
But things were turning dark... desperate... and weeks later your mate got pulled in by the police who worked him over so bad he was never the same again... and he got into smack... and I saw less of him... he'd got in with a different crowd... was sleeping in the Bullring... once cheeky, brash, loud... a boy into sports, swimming who'd run away from a broken home in Aberdeen, down to the city and on the game... now haunted... fucked... down there with the cardboard, the fights, the stench of piss... and one night he was surrounded... kicked to death... head stamped into the concrete... and I wasn't there to help... wasn't there to even try...
And I was sinking... drowning alive... needed more money, more drugs... somebody to whisk me away, show me life, culture, the world... old dreams now... dying fast... slipping into the gutter with the rain, the filth, the used rubbers, used betting slips... nothing free... a price on everything... ended up with an old cunt from Hackney... a regular face... I'd see him around, Soho, the Dilly, Victoria... taking you back to Kingsmead... ten minutes walk from home... renting you out... feeding you promises... better things... and he knew so many people... contacts everywhere... in London, along the coast... a whole circle... but no-one of any worth... just cunts that ran small shops, worked in fairgrounds... cunts living in filth... but sometimes he'd be kind to you... hug you... be like the father you never had... and for those few weeks you listened to him... believed him... even loved him... somewhere... somewhere deep inside... and on the Mead there were several flats on the go... other kids in and out... some young... some too fucking young... and sometimes you'd look across the green towards the blocks of Trowbridge... wonder how your mum was getting on... if she was worrying about you... wondering where you were... if she really cared... if she really gave a shit... of course not... fuck her... fuck everyone... another party... ten, twelve, fifteen men... holding you down... face buried in the sofa... drugged, limbs weak... and Harry... Harry not so kind now... Harry with his hands around your neck... tighter... tighter... Harry almost strangling the fucking life out of you... that's right, throttle the life out of the little cunt... too heavy... too fucking much... and it was back on the bus... back to the West End... but things different now... the colours not so vivid, not so alive... and you'd lost your swagger... your smile... a washed-up fucking drug-addict in and out of hostels... in doorways under blankets... what happened to the dreams... the dreams... where were they now...
And that Summer it all came out... the Hackney crowd... missing kids... the parties... boys drugged... strangled... dumped in the ground... but perhaps all along I'd known... of course I did... somewhere... somewhere deep inside... did nothing, said nothing... voiceless... but knew... knew...
And he's down on the floor and I'm tearing a broken bottle across his face. The room awash in gasps and hisses and screams. The mad orchestra in my head blasting a discordant wail. Bursts of hell. Light flaring from the wounds. Demons. Devils. The past. Into the centre of town. Down into the gutters and drains and sewers. Out to the wilderness. The desert. Wandering the earth alone. Quietly suffering. In and out of prison. Years of drifting. Years of hate. Cutting open my arms, my chest. Cutting open his fucking face. Ripping him to shreds. Purging the past and making him pay. Pay for everything. The days, the months, the years. Every wrong. Hands nailed to the floor. Stabbing his chest with a screwdriver. Hammering his skull into the carpet. On and on and on. Body reduced to meat, blood, bone. Finally exhausted. Cacophony fading to a one-note hum; poison drained. Sitting back and letting the dusk come. Amber streetlight across the wall. Rain shimmering in the glow. Sitting in the silence. Staring at the body for hours.
"...Harold Crupp, 71, murdered last week in a suspected vigilante attack, had links to the notorious 1980s paedophile ring led by sex-killer Sidney Cooke, it has been revealed. Twenty years ago, four key members of the gang were jailed after the deaths of three children, but many more of those involved were believed to have slipped through the net to continue offending. Operating from the run-down Kingsmead Estate, Hackney, East London, the gang would befriend rent boys or simply snatch children off the streets and subject them to horrific sexual torture. They were suspected of being responsible for the killing of up to nine boys during sadistic sex orgies where they would routinely charge £5 on the door. Police at the time said "The children abused by Cooke and his cohorts suffered some of the vilest and cruellest sexual offences imaginable." Harold Crupp, who lived on the Kingsmead Estate at the height of the gang's reign in 1985, was questioned as a suspect but never charged. He soon moved off the estate and later served eight years in prison for separate sexual offences against boys and was released three years ago. He was then relocated to a council house in Essex where locals were not aware of his past. And last week after answering his door he was dragged inside and brutally murdered. Police have now confirmed that vigilantism is their sole line of inquiry. Residents are furious that a convicted paedophile was placed in their area and have accused the police of witholding information in order to gain their help. "But at the end of the day we're just glad he's dead," said one neighbour. Since details of Crupp's past were revealed in a national newspaper, police say witnesses have taken a U-turn and admit their investigation has been met with a wall of silence..."
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Monday, March 03, 2008
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Rocko could stand staring at the scene for no longer. He stood up. No, this shit's too fucked-up, man, I'm outta here. He made for the door but Monsta put a heavily-bicepped arm out to stop him. You ain't goin nowhere bro. Start all dat runnin away pussy shit an I slap you, you hear me?
Rocko kissed his lips and slumped back onto the sofa next to Natmare and Phatman; D-man over on the other seat puffing on a stick of weed. And dat goes for da lotta you, man, Monsta continued, eyeballing each of them with the mean stare of a gangsta who'd just killed a man stone dead on the floor. We're all in dis shit togedda, you get me? And till we find a solution to dis little matter dat's da way things stand. You hear what I'm sayin! - crunching his knuckles - So start exercisin dose brain cells or I'm gonna start getting fucking angry round here ... Rocko swallowed hard as Monsta's killer eyes lazered into his. I'm already pissed-off with one fucker here... yeah... but I deal wid dat pussy later - kissing his lips as he walked to the window.
Oh shit man... what did he mean by that? Bein on bad terms with that fucker was something he didn't need. God... Rocko wished he'd just stayed in tonight. Played his X-box. Watched DVDs. Stayed in with his mum and his sister listening to their nagging. Anything. Fuck... the body spread out on the floor before them.
Ten minutes later Monsta sent D-man out to jack a car; which he did promptly. He parked it outside the block and mobiled up. And guess what: a spankin new Beemer. Can you believe dis shit? That new yuppie estate was becoming like a fuckin free supermarket. Go in there and take your pick, nuff wealth bein spread round the community, you know what I'm sayin? Problem was though, they had to get the body twenty floors down without anybody noticin. Anybody clocked them and gossip would spread like a dose a crabs, y'get me?
Hey blads, Natmare said, If da Feds catch a whiff a dis shit we'll be heading down Feltham way quicktime, fucking lifers, you get me - laughing as he passed the skunk to Rocks. But Rocko wasn't even smiling. Didn't want to hear shit like that. Locked up? Nuff gangstas couldn't wait to get in there, notch up some points... But for years on end? He inhaled deep, held it there. Nah, that wasn't his path, man. No way. It'd fucking destroy him. And he thought of his mum, for years threatening to move the family out of London, out to some nothin-town somewhere, the fuckin sticks, and how he'd always object, tell her she was getting well carried away, readin too much papers and shit, things weren't as bad as all that...
But now he felt like running to her, man. Weeping like a child. He wished he'd never gotten into any of this shit. He passed the weed along to Phatman. Cheers bruv. Monsta was right. He really was just a little pussy. Wasn't made for this hardcore shit atall. Monsta prancing about in his element and everyone else sitting back in awe, feeling privileged almost. The Smally-Bigz guy just lying there, face down in his own blood.
Why did Monsta have to hit him so hard, man - bam bam, whacking him like that? Shouting at him to get his pussy arse off the floor and fight, but the guy wasn't moving. Blood appearing around his head. He'd cracked it against the edge of the TV as he'd fell. And now - a fucking murder scene, man.
But Rocko didn't even know the guy. He'd never been round this yard before in his life. Had nothing to do with this. Monsta just said he had some business to sort, needed to see the guy and wanted some of the crew with him for the show. Said he had minor beef with him but it was nothing, just routine. But now this...
Yo! Coming out of the bedroom Monsta ordered all three of them to their feet. Got them to roll the body into a duvet. Come on, get busy man, let's see some work done round here! The three of them struggling with the corpse. Fuck - this was sick. Natmare got some blood drips on his new Nikes and started cursing. Rocko looked at his hands. Fucking covered. He ran to the bathroom to wash up; Monsta shouldering him on his way - Pussy, he tutted. But he wasn't the one getting dirty, was he?
All gathered by the front door, Monsta checked the corridor left and right. Okay - quick. They carried him out to the lift... God, the weight of him, man. Guy was breaking Rocko's back. They got in; blood dripping through onto the floor; a total mess. Counting the flights...comeon, comeon... until halfway down the lift suddenly stopped and the doors flew open - What the fuck? - an old foriegn guy standing there expecting to step in. Monsta pushed him back: Use the fuckin stairs! - But I have bad leg! - I said use the fuckin stairs or you'll have two bad legs! Tsss... They continued on. Okay. All clear. They carried the bag to where D-Man stood in a pose next to the open boot. Right - they slung it in. Let's roll. Phatman stood running his hands over the bodywork entranced, Wow, this Beemer's the dog's knob bruvs... Yeah yeah, get in, Monsta said, sitting in the front with D-Man at the wheel. Off they went.
So where are we dumpin him? Phatman asked. - We ain't dumpin him, thickshit, we're buryin him. - Oh right... But lak, where? - Epping Forest, Monsta said. Nuff dead bodies up dat way. Now dere's gonna be one extra, you get me.
A few minutes later Monsta said, Yo, pull into dose streets dere. - But this ain't da forest, D-man looking confused. - Don't care, pull in. And they drove along a set of quiet semi-detatched houses. Here, blad, stop da car. Then he said: Rocko. Out. - Me? - Yeah you. Get your arse into a garage or shed or someshit, we'll be needin tools for dis job, shovels an dat. Phatboy, you go wid him. Rocko kissed his lips: Fucking hell. They got out, moving fast up somedody's drive. Where we going? Phatman said. Don't know. Let's just get this shit done quick. Phatman was looking up at the houses: Man, look at these cribs bruv. Nuff wealth. One day I'm gonna live like dis man. Yeah well, come on, Rocko said, helping him over the fence and into the back garden. They hurried down to the shed. Now keep watch - Rocko working on the lock... Atlast; the door creaking open. Right, let's grab and go - feeling their way around in the dark. A few gardens away a dog started barking... Not good, not good atall... Where is this shit?... Here, found them! He passed a spade to Phats and took a fork for himself. This'll do - Let's Go! They ran. Phatman struggling over the fence and suddenly the whole thing crashing to the ground. Shit!!! Lights went on. Somebody shining a torch from one of the windows. Fuck! Rocko pulled him up and grabbed the tools. They dashed for the car. Quick! Move! Slamming the doors and D-Man screeching off and burning rubber. Man... Both leaning back out of breath and Monsta laughing away: You two crack me up, man. Fuckin Laurel an Hardy innit. He put his fist out to them. Nah, safe breds, you got da job done innit. Safe....
They journeyed on. By some lights Monsta eased down his window and smiled at some girls hanging outside a chip shop. The girls all smiling back and blushin an shit: Monsta showing teeth and nodding away... Yeah man, check dis, dey well impressed...
Hey D, he said as the car cruised on, You remember dis spot yeah, cos once we're done I be stoppin off here to collect me one of dose bitches, you hear... so, yo, you pricks in da back dere'll havta budge up or hit da road cos I'll be spread out back dere, you listenin?... yeah man, have one of dose bitches suckin on de enda ma dick.... buff up ma bone, you get me - one hand tokin on a spliff, the other adjusting his crotch - yeah... dat's right... ram it down her white fuckin throat...
He passed the weed to D but he shook his head: Nah, not when I'm drivin, man. Monsta kissed his teeth, You fuckin pussy! You take it when I give it you or I fuck you up, you hear! - Okay, okay - D-man quickly taking the joint. And one ting more, hit dat mileage man, we be going way too slow -Tsssss - C'mon, nigga, I want to see some speed outta dis ting!
D-man hit the pedal. Yeah...Monsta said - the car swerving and overtaking - Now dat's more like it, man - D-man exhaling and passing the spliff back to Rocko as he worked the wheel - face a mix of concentration and dread. Rocko held it but didn't want any, passed it to Phatman. No way, this kind of speed was crazy. Monsta going, Yeah man, yeah! ...Some kind of kamikazi ride. Rocko leaned up to D: Blud, enough, we'll only be attracing attention, you know, we don't need that right now. Tsss, Monsta cut in, Shut da fuck up, man! But luckily they hit some traffic lights...
Shit! D-Man said, Feds! And they looked left: a cop car stalled right there next to them, two po-pos staring straight in. Where da fuck dey come from?
Monsta smiled, did a little wave... No! Don't! everyone stressed. Monsta turned: Shut your teef, I just bein friendly innit. Act all bad an dese racist fucks'll definitely wanna pull us. Chill! But Rocko could see their faces and was awaiting the dreaded signal any second. No way man, this was too much, they'd be fucked. But suddenly the cops turned away - a miracle - put up their siren and they were off.
See! Monsta said. You big fucking wusses. Pussies da lot a you. It's not like we be de only gangstas in town innit? Nuff thugz on da prowl, even up in dese pussy ends. Tssss, I'm so sick of you fucks, man... Gimme dat! - grabbing the spliff off Natmare - ... Should be in da schoolyard wid your skipping ropes an shit... vexin me up to da hilt, ya get me? I bring you lot wid me tonight to teach you some educations and what do I get? Batty-ass bullshit from da lot of you... Man... I'm feelin venom now boy... Tssss... when I'm done wid dis shit I'm gonna bang me a Beemer full of bitches for real, one after da next, an you lot can all go home and suck on your mutha's titties, you hearin me...
Passing an accident site they were forced to slow down, a cop standing in the road directing traffic. Monsta kissed his teeth. Look at dat, he said, pointing to the cop. Beastbwai's a fuckin blood, man. Well, half a blood anyway - shaking his head in disgust. Fed should be fuckin capped, man, you get me, blaze the fucker away, boom. Then Monsta's eyes met Rocko's in the mirror. Rocko flinched. Those eyes man: cold.
Hey Rocko, he said as the car moved on, You only half-black innit. Fuckin halfie, ain't dat right? White blood runnin tru your veins, dat's why you be a pussy innit?
Rocko turned away and looked out the window. Why couldn't he ever just leave him alone? He hated the fucker. Had enough of his shit for one night. Phats spoke out. That's out of order man, he muttered. But somehow in the silence it sounded loud. Too loud.
FUCK YOU, YOU FAT FUCKER, I BE TALKING TO ROCKS INNIT SO SHUT YOU MOUTH OR I MASH IT UP FA YOU! - swiping for his face but Phats moving back. Tssss. Then he turned to Rocko... Hey, Rocks. Now what was I sayin?... Oh yeah... You might be a pussy but your sister's not bad tho. Yeah. I seen her de other day. Carryin her books an shit. She a right goody two shoes. Don't lak to talk to the bad bwais innit. But she got da looks, man. Yeah. And I lakk my coffee dat way, you get me. Lots of cream an ting... Rocko gritting his teeth, his face burning away. He wanted to strangle the cunt. Saw himself flinging him off a tall building. Laughing down at him as he screamed to his death. Would serve the fucker right. Knew to keep silent though. Had to. Guy was a fucking maniac.
Then Monsta started laughing... Hey, blud, I'm only jokin, man! Jestin an shit! You thought I was serious? Nah... I just be testing you, blud.... But you know what? You just came out on top. For real. I watched you innit... you kept it all inside. And dat's charismatic, man. I like dat. Not flyin off da handle an shit. Shows you wearin a real coat of armour, you know what I'm sayin? Strength, man, strength - tapping the side of his head - Internally. And you need dat for dis life, believe me... He held out his fist. Respeck, blad, respeck. Rocko tapped it, but whatever, still didn't mean he liked the fucker.
Now listen alla you niggas, yo, Monsta announced. I might say shit, but I don't always mean shit, you get me? I jus be talkin shit. Remember dat. I jus be hardening you up for the street. Just lak the marines an shit. Dat's my duty as an elder, you get me? If you want to be real souljas you gotta take the rough to get tough - Aiight? You'll thank me one day, believe me. Make proper niggas outta you. Everyone nodding their heads... For real, For real. Except for Rocko, that is. He just kept staring out the window. Guy talked nothing but bull.
Look at dat, man! Natmare said, pointing out a group of Essex girls on the razzle, staggering along, all short skirts and Bicardi Breezers. Rocko thought they looked a bit rough but Natmare and Phatman were all hangdog... Yeah man, naaiice... Look at dose titties boy, I'd suck on dem all night... Oh yeah, dere hot bwai, I laaak dat... Yeah, I'd bang alla dem in one go man, line em up, bang bang bang...
Listen to dem wankin pricks back dere, Monsta tutted, Dreamin, man. Dose two have never even HAD any pussy. And I'm talkin ever. Only ever sucked dick, ain't dat be right, Natmare and Fatty Boy?... Maybe me and Rocky go get ourselves some bitches togedda later, fuck all dese wannabes. Yeh - me, D and Rocks go have gang-bang innit. Cos no way dose two fools down for dat shit, you know what I'm sayin? - tapping D's arm - Would run a mile if dey even seen sight of a real pussy. Only ever seen da ones in da magazines when dere wankin together lak two little batties. Ain't dat for real?
I ain't no fuckin virgin! Natmare tutted, Nuff pussy been round my dick and nuff times, man! Monsta turned quicksharp. YOU FUCKIN BEIN FACETY, YOU BITCH-ASS FUCK! - kissing his teeth - Tssss - Little prick still livin with your rents. You're talking to an elder here, man! I be experienced in da world, livin on my wits alone, livin on da edge, you hear me! You lot are fuckin lucky to be wid me tonight. Privileged getting education like dis. Should be callin me Sir on dis job. Yes Sir, No sir. You hear me!... Tssss...
For a while they watched the world going by. Checking the female scenery. Checking the alien terrain for other man dems an dat. Eyeballing a couple a bros in a GTI trying to look all badass until dey caught sight a da Beemer full of niggas an Monsta's demon eyes. Suddenly they turned away and kept their eyes to the road. Total shitters. Then they slipped off down a sidestreet. See dat! Monsta said, perking up, Bruthas know not to fuck, man! Fuck wid us an you end up in da boot wid dat other pusswad! Tsss.....
Yo bredrins, check dat - a slim brunette clicking head-high in a business suit. Asian, Oriental or something. Looked moneyed.
Dat's my kinda ting, man, Monsta stated, eyeing her up and down. See dat y'all an take note. Real laydee, you get me... not lak you lot, always chasin around cheap little skanks on de estate an dat. Not me, man. Me have class, you know. Sophisticated. Man of da world, innit. Eclectic taste an dat. - Rocko looking at Phatman and shaking his head - Yeah... different flavas, man...I like to multiculturalize in da sack - toking hard on a spliff and thought threading fast - Taste da whole menu, you get me. International innit. I'm global, man. World playa. Peace an harmony between da sheets an ting...
Until I get my dick out dat is. Cos den da bitch always screams out in fear cos it's so fuckin big, you get me. Yeah... Dat's why dey call me da Monsterman innit. Cos I make em screech!... AAAHHH!!!... ha ha ha...... But, listen up bred, what dey should call me is da Snakeman, cos when I be pumping some bitch in da pussy it goes up so far I be surprised it don't come right out her mouth innit...Yeah! ha ha ha - pleased with himself and clicking his fingers in the air - Ain't dat for real my bredjrins!! - other voices laughing along: Yeah yeah for real, man, for real....
They journeyed on. Not too far now, bluds, D-Man said, swerving the car off the main drag and on towards the forest: Nearly dere. And MC Natmare started getting the mood goin freestylin about badass muthafuckas on da rampage an dead dissin niggas in da boot - and even Monsta was nodding his head an appreciatin da vibe a da blud's rhymin... and, y'know, bein Monsta wid his vexed-up skitzo attitude an mean motherfuckin ways an shit, dat's sayin sumfin, you get me?
They pulled up deep in the woods. Stepped out of the car. Misty air, full moon, the whole deal. It was fucking creepin Rocko out... And Phatman too, he didn't like it neither, no way. Countryside, forests an dat. Looking round at all the trees an shit. Kinda brought all dem horror films to mind. Werewolves an dat. Fuckin creepy....
Right, bluds, you got your tools, now dig. Monsta and D-Man leaning by the headlit bonnet smoking blow, while the other three took turns with the spade and fork getting stuck in...
Look at you unfit fucks, Monsta said. Dig! I wanna see six feet atleast. In fact, yo, make dat ten. I want dis dissin mutha buried deep, y'hear me - Deep! Want all da worms an maggots to have a feast down dere tonight... Come on!... Want to see you working off all dat lard and grease your mothers serve up to you innit. Cos you lot still clutching dose apron strings for real, get me. Specially you Phats, work off dose man-tits! Laughing as he passed the spliff to D: I should have brought a whip wid me man, get sum progress outta dese three.
Yeah I know... D-man said, joining in the ridicule - shouting over: C'mon, work dat ting, y'hear! Fucking pussies... thinking he was well in with the Monstaman, top Gs together an dat, looking down at the little minions sweating away. But Monsta turned and looked at him hard. What, blud? D said, suddenly worrying. Monsta looking him up and down an creasin his eyes. You be restin enough. Now get dat body out of the boot and help dese fuckers.
Yeah, sure man, no probs, handing back the spliff and heading round to the back of the car...
D-man lifted up the boot. Then something inside grabbed him around the neck...
Monsta heard the boot slam down. Hurry up, bring dat body here you pussy... Seconds passing... D-Man! I said bring dat pussy body round here! - kissing his teeth. He turned - You not answerin me you fu..? Suddenly screaming in shock: AAHHH!! it was Smally Bigz. He was standing there. Alive. Pointing a gun at him. An open gash on his forehead and his whole face smudged in blood. A zombie! No... Monsta putting out his hands... No man, no...
Shut up nigga! And by the grave all three diggers turned - and were stunned motionless. You three, carry on workin! Smally shouted, not taking his eyes off Monsta; quivering at the mouth, his hands in the air now: I don't get it man, you're d-d-d-dead!!!
Smally Bigz smiled and widened his eyes: I know I am. I be da LIVIN dead, star. Your LIVIN NIGHTMARE innit.... Laughing.
You tried ta waste me man, he continued... Well let me tell you, nu'in can kill me, no-one, nu'in, you listenin! Plenty manz have tried, but I be lak a messiah innit... I rise, blood, rise! NO FUCKER ON DIS EARTH CAN KILL ME!!... now as for you bwai, he continued, it be your lucky day, you hear... cos you gonna take my place in da grave innit... I'm buryin you alive nigga!
Rocko, Phatman and Natmare were digging more frantically than ever; Rocko without a tool and shovelling dirt with his hands, all of them panicking, man, knowing this grave was likely to be the first of several. Rocko noticed Natmare's face twisted in a pained grimace and Phatman breaking into full tears as he worked his fork - I don't want to die like dis man - sobbing away - I don't want to die... Look, Rocko tried, keep it together man, you never know there might be a way out of this. But Phat was unconsolable, choking on his tears: What are you on about, we're gonna die innit, we're digging our own graves man....
Dat's deep enough! Smally called over, Now get out of dere!... Right... now stand in a line, you buncha battys. I deal wid you fucks in a minute.... Now, he said, turning back to Monsta and pointing his gun - You fucked wid da wrong mutha tonight man... da wrong fuckin mutha...NOW GET IN!!!
No man...no.... Monsta's arms out, pleading.
I SAID GET DA FUCK IN!!! - pistol-whipping him round the face and pushing him towards the grave - YOU GETTIN BURIED ALIVE I SWEAR IT!
No man, please.... please.... Monsta clutching his mashed-up face - I never meant it man... It was dose pussies, man, it was dem!!!
SHUT DA FUCK UP! - kicking him down into the hole and Monsta landing in a twisted heap.... Now fuckers, get to work - bury dis shit! Phatman and Natmare using the tools and Rocko using his hands, feet, anything, wanting to look busy, and Monsta all the while clutching a twisted ankle and crying and pleading, No!... No!... Don't do this man, no way... No - the soil filling fast - You fuckers, how can you do this to me... I'll kill you. All of you! I'll fucking haunt you..! Ahhhhhhhh......!
Bigz standing over him smiling and waving - Bye bye - as Monsta's face disappeared.
After levelling the earth for an age for fear of what was next, Smally yelled: Dat's enough! Now down dem fuckin tools! He was leaning against the car bonnet. Right... now stand in a line so I can see you all. Smally looked ill. Every now and then clutching the side of his head and twisting his face like he had a lethal headache. Which with a gash like that he no doubt had. He stood silhoutted in the car lights staring them out. Natmare starting to ramble like a geriatric and Phatman shaking his head blubbing tears.
Suddenly a knocking sound was coming from the boot. Wait there, Bigzy said, going around to the boot and opening it.... BAM!!!!!! - birds suddenly squawking and flying out of trees - and Bigz slamming the boot back down again. Sorry bout dat, he smirked, walking back to the bonnet, Little interruption dere - wiping D-Man's blood off his gun. Shit... Natmare and Phatman looking to Rocko as if for an answer. But what could he say? Now, Smally said, Which one of you pussies wants to die next?
Me! Phatman suddenly said. Me! Just do it! Get it fucking over with!
Oh... Smally said, Right - nodding his head as if impressed. Then he said: Well you die last den. I make sure a dat - wide-eyed and smiling and Phatman bursting into a fit of sobs.
How about you? - pointing the gun at Rocko - What you got to say on da matter?
Rocko looked at him. Found himself summoning up some front. Where from he didn't know. Must have been the adrenaline. He'd never felt anything like it. A sudden fearlessness. Staring the guy in the eye: Do what you fucking have to do innit, he shrugged, like he couldn't give a shit.
Smally nodded, looking him up and down. I like dat, he said, I like that... What be your name den, soulja? - Rocko - ...Aiight, aiight, nodding his head.
Then he moved on... How bout you, pussy? - gun trained on Natmare - Natmare flinching and shaking his head, speechless. I seen you before, yo... yeah... you're da one dey call da Nightmare boy. Ain't dat da truth?... Well, ha ha ha, now you know what a real one is like... suddenly firing the gun - BAM!!! - taking off the top of his head, brains spraying everywhere. His body dropped backwards like a dummy.
Ha ha ha! You see dat....ha ha ha... fucking pricks. I'm lovin dis, man, lovin it!... Man!... Now who's next... Come on, which batty going next huh?
Phatman was wailing away, wiping Natmare's brains out of his eyes, his whole body rippling like jelly... No... No... spare us, man, please...
Ah... Smally said, coming close and cocking his head. Dat's funny... You change your tune boy. One minute you want me to blaze you, next you don't.... Look at you man - getting angrier - you're lak a big baby, innit. You hearin me! Big fuckin batty baby!... But earlier you thought you were a big man. Wannin to bury me in da shit... ME? DA FUCKING BIGZ!!! He fired the gun, opened up Phat's arm, Phat screaming away, AHHH! NO! AHHH! -
Look at you! Bigz continued. Call yourself a gangsta? Call your bunch of pussies a crew?... No-one even had da brains to frisk me, man, and da Bigz carries his strap 24/7, you get me pussy, you get me!... walking towards him - Fat lumpa shit - Shooting him straight in the crotch - AHHHHHH! Phat's doubled over, turned to Rocks with his face scrunched in pain... then another one - BAM! - straight in the skull and, Jesus, it blew his fucking face away...
NO!!! Rocko couldn't bear that. He'd known Phats for time, man, time. Grew up together, everything. The only fucker in the crew he gave a shit about... No, this was pure sickness man... too much...
Ha ha ha... see dat?... How many slugs did it take to kill dat fucker? - Laughing as he blew the tip of the gun... But kill him I did. No mistake dere...Then he put the gun to Rocko's forehead.
I got da taste for killin now bwai... Yeah... Maybe I get you to ride me up to your yard, lak, so I can rape ya mudda an put a cap in her skull. How dat sound? Maybe you got some sistas down dere. I get dem to suck on my dick den I blaze dem into pieces innit. Blow ya fuckin yard apart! You hearin me ya pussy-ass fucker! - cracking Rocko round the face hard, and - Ah man! - that fucking hurt. But Rocko held it in, even with blood dripping into his mouth. Didn't want to give the cunt the pleasure.
I don't like da look a you, bwai. Tink your something special. Smarter than da rest, innit. Man, well I'll teach you a ting or two bout dat, nigga... Now pick up dat shovel an dig! A grave for each a you... Now fuckin dig!!! - pushing him over to the gravesite.
Rocko picked up the shovel. Started digging. What else could he do? He was fucked. Dat's right, bwai, four graves you hear - gun pointing straight at him - And your one I finish myself... yeah, and that's gonna be fuckin fun man cos you're goin in alive innit, just like dat pussy leader a yours...
Rocko was digging away, spading up one pile of earth after the next, death staring him in the face, when he noticed Smally clutching his head again, the guy looking almost dizzy. This was it. Rocko took his chance. He swung the shovel and batted him in the face as hard as he could; Smally flying to the ground and a shot cracking into the air. Rocko ran. Dashed into the trees and tore through the woods. Smally was floored but firing shots into the dark and screaming away - I'LL FIND YOU, MAN!!! FUCKIN TORTURE YOU!!! RIP YOUR FUCKIN THROAT OUT!!! BURN YOU'RE WHOLE FAMILY!!! YOU'LL NEVER GET AWAY WID DIS!!! NEVER, BWAI, NEVER!!!!!!!!!.......
But Rocko wasn't listening. Rocko was gone.
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Sunday, February 18, 2007
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Hello, Ruth.
You're surprised, aren't you. Me, putting it in writing. Perhaps you thought I wouldn't contact you atall, I'd stay way, crawl under a rock and die maybe. But come on, you know me, I'm not like that. London might be a big place, easy to disappear in, vanish like a ghost, but let's be realistic now, I'm not going anywhere. I mean, where would I go for a start? There's nothing else out there for me, no other life, you know that.
You're just trying to teach me a lesson. Punish me. And fair enough, I see your point. I was wrong. I admit that, shouldn't have done what I did. Violence is unacceptable, of course it is. I'm not disputing that. But I'm fine now. I've seen to it, I've did what you said. Ruth, you were right: I did need help. Stress, my God, it's like a mind-bending drug. But that's sorted now. It was just a blip. I'm not perfect, I admit that, but come on, we're all human, you're not averse to the odd tantrum yourself, we all are. But no, there's no excuses. None atall.
I just want to say sorry. I've had a lot of time to think about it all. Three months now. That one night flashing through my head like a nightmare. That person, Ruth, that monster, it wasn't me. Something clicking in my mind, sending me crazy. Wrong, so wrong. I see you lying there in the state I left you… and I just want to hug you and nurse you and soothe you. Kill the person that did it.
Well, Ruth, listen: I think I finally have. This last week I feel like I've woken up and seen the light. I'm ready to put it all behind me. I think we both should. I'm ready for things to be normal again now. As they were. I mean, of course you're still angry, I understand that. But let's call a truce. No more games. No more sadism, Ruth.
Fuck this. This isn't sounding right. Got to get the words right, tell you how I feel. Can't fuck this up. Because I know what you're doing, Ruth. You're torturing me. That's what you're doing. Your little game. Torture.
But listen. I'm close to you, you know. Even now, so close, sitting in our cafe, that place on Kingsland Road; you know, just around from the flat. Our flat, Ruth. You might be at work now - 1.30pm, definitely - but I still feel close to you. This is our place. Where we used to go. All those Sunday mornings here, having breakfast, reading the papers, no rush, just being together. Then maybe we'd have a browse around Brick Lane, the markets, go to a pub, or who knows, maybe go back home, back to bed, the two of us, together.
That's the way things are meant to be, Ruth. This - life now - it isn't normal. I'm living in a single room, shared bathroom, shared kitchen, hate the place, hate the people. It's nowhere near here but you gave me no time, nothing, it was all I could find. But don't worry, I'm not there much. I've even started taking days off work. Without you I just can't concentrate. They keep calling me in, saying they're concerned, that I've become quiet, remote, telling me they care about me, just want to help me. But I'm not stupid. I know all they care about. Performance. That I'm not buckling down, bringing the clients in. They don't give a fuck about me. I'll be out of there soon, I just know it. Who cares.
But it's all wrong, all so unnatural. Like the world has shifted balance, thrown me aside. Laying out your photographs on the bed each night, making a shrine, masturbating for hours, trying to draw you near, will you to me. It's not normal, Ruth, not normal. It shouldn't be that way. I shouldn't be living like this. Now, for example, hours to kill and I'm waiting for you, waiting for that glimpse. I've started watching you, you know. Did you know that? Every day. Watching you get out of the taxi and walk into the flat.
You don't get the bus anymore. Why not? And you've changed your email, phone number, even changed the locks. Too extreme, Ruth, too extreme. There's no need for that. I hide across in the bushes of the park, or sometimes up close, in the side alley, and I see you, pulling the blinds, see the lights go on and off, see it all. Do you think I enjoy that, Ruth, out there in the cold each evening, on my own, creeping about in the bushes in the shadows like a nonce? Of course I don't. I hate it.
But I can't believe what you're doing, Ruth. Never thought you'd take things this far.
Even to broach the subject fucking disturbs me, makes me want to tell myself it's all a mistake, it isn't true.
Ruth. Listen. I know about him. I've seen him. He visits, two, three times a week, climbs out of a cab, just like you. Or sometimes - and this really gets me - the two of you come out of a cab. Who is this man, Ruth? Do you work with him. Is he a work colleague? But you've changed your workplace too, something else to throw me off, so who knows. Maybe you met him in a bar or a club. He walked up to you, a stranger, and you said yes straight away just to try and hurt me. That makes you a slag, Ruth, you know that don't you? And you know what happens to slags. They end up slaves, beaten black and blue by these bastards day in day out every single fucking time. Look at the statistics, Ruth: one slag dies a week at the hands of a violent partner, violent bastard; I don't agree with it, you know, but real life, it happens.
We've had our ups and downs - fair enough - but we're different, we care for each other, love each other. Nobody else loves you, Ruth. You know that. He probably thinks you're overweight, ugly, feels repulsed every time he touches your skin, but he's just using you for sex, using you like a piece of meat. Believe me, Ruth. I'm right about this. Because you know you're ugly, don't you. Know you're fat. I might not think so - I don't see you that way atall - but everybody else does. They see the truth. Fat, ugly, repulsive.
And that stranger, I've seen him, the cockiness of him, paying off the driver and heading along the path, up the steps. And you, letting this bastard into our home, our bed. Do you honestly think I'm going to let this impostor get between us this way, destroy everything we've got? No way, Ruth, never.
Don't worry. I know what I'm going to do. I've thought about it quite alot. It seems the only way - because I know how things go, these kind of people get possessive, don't want to let go. I know what type of person we're dealing with here. First possessiveness, then violence, you wait and see. It's true, men are all the same; most of them anyway. You don't know what you're getting into.
There's only one way. He's going to have an accident. Walking along the path before he gets to the steps. Prick. Cabs everywhere, frightened to walk the streets of Hackney, I'll show him. Get him right on the garden path. Instrument to the back of the head - whack, bash the fucker's brains out. Or maybe use a knife, again from behind. No, fuck that: let him see who he's dealing with - he won't be getting up again, will he. There you go: straight in the heart. Grab his phone, wallet, go. It's those youths again, those gangs, seeping out of the estates and bringing terror to the residential streets. Terrible. Man dead. Another Hackney statistic.
I'll fucking do it, Ruth. I'm not joking. I'm thinking about it right now. Relishing the fucking thought. You'll see.
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