The Dirty South (20 page)

Now working at the Ritzy bar in central Bricky and serving cocktails to wannabe cool white liberals with designer stubble, Priscilla had a bit of a moment in a hair shop in Bricky three days before the wedding. She had bought these hair extensions and Priscilla being Priscilla, when she reached home she decided she didn't like the pink, cherry and red colours. So she took the hair back. Problem was, Priscilla lost the receipt. The Asian man behind the counter was saying she couldn't claim a refund and Priscilla switched big time.

‘What do you fucking mean that
I
can't get my money back?
Don't
ignore me! I'm chatting to you. Us black sisters keep your curry backside in a nice house and your women wearing nuff lengths of satin with the amount of P's we spend in your fucking shop! And it ain't like you're smiling at the gates to greet us. No, fucking no! But you smile wide like clown when you see our dollars. We pay for your children to go to them private schools in Dulwich and it's our money you're sending back to your shit poor country in Asia where your brute ugly uncle is trying to milk a maaga cow while wearing a chi chi man dress! So don't fucking tell me this sister ain't getting her money back! See I don't burn down your fucking shop after I get some hardback brothers to loot the damn place! And don't think we don't notice your sneaky looks at our buff bodies.
Forget it
'cos I'd rather wok a white brother than your curry ass! Now where's my fucking money, you stinking grabilicious short-assed Asian spastic!'

As Noel and I backed away onto the pavement, wondering if the Feds were gonna be called, Priscilla got her money back. The shopkeeper obviously wanted to keep her quiet as other black women in the shop were pondering on what Priscilla said. I guess the moral of that little story is don't fuck with a black woman's hair and money at the same time.

I had to admit that my respect for Priscilla grew over the years. No matter what Noel did, and he done some crazy shit, she stuck by him like a dumb-assed politician's wife sticks to her lame excuse of a man. So on the few occasions she kicked off big time with her mouth, Noel allowed it. He even let her call him
My Boo
.

Noel had finally taken up my advice and got himself a job. It was only as a twilight zone shelf-filler in the same supermarket where his mum, Cara, worked. But at least if he was pulled up by the Feds he could say he paid for his ride with the P's he got from work. Even though his ride was a brand new Peugeot 206. He spent more time choosing the stereo system for the car than the car itself. He had these road jolting bass speakers in the boot and he always cranked it up if he saw any fit chick on road. Noel
wouldn't care if he held up a world of traffic behind him if he was chirpsing a chick on road. Only in Bricky.

It was all good though. Noel was giving his mum, Cara, a regular housekeeping money and she now did her shopping in Tesco's or Asda; no more Lidl shit for her. And she didn't have to beg for cigarette money any more. Also Cara now had a bit of a social life. Noel and Priscilla did the babysitting for Noel's younger brothers as Cara went to the bingo on Thursday nights. When Cara won the odd twenty or fifty pound she would spend it on name-brand garms for her younger kids. If Noel had some shotting to do then it would be just Priscilla doing the babysitting duties. Cara and Priscilla got on all good and I reckon that was because they were very similar. Well, not too similar, they just cussed and bad-mouthed with the same Brixtonite intensity. Oh, and they also burned fat-heads together with their rum cocktails and Kentucky takeaways.

At the wedding it was good to see the whole family together after such a long time. Even Great Aunt Jenny flew in from Jamaica to attend and I could see the spirits of Granny uplifted by Jenny's presence. Them two kept going on about Granny's preparations to return to Jamaica for good and she bade some goodbyes to long-time friends. It was all emotional shit. Some celebration dinner was being talked about to honour Granny but no-one could decide what Jamaican restaurant to go to.

Old Great Uncle Jacob was at the wedding too. Felt a bit sorry for him 'cos he was getting proper smashed on Appleton's Special sitting all on his own…

Paps was the best man and there were genuine tears in his eyes when he made his speech. This was all good for Paps 'cos the whole wedding thing made him feel important again. With all his old crew around him, faces that I remembered from the past like Brenton Brown, Yardman Irie, Floyd Windett and his wife Sharon, Smiley and others whose names I couldn't recall, Paps laughed and joked like I had never seen him do so before. Auntie Denise and Uncle Everton were with him and it all became a bit too much for Paps when suddenly he burst into tears. He started to tell everyone
how he loved them so much and everyone was proper shocked. Black brothers from Bricky didn't do that kinda shit in public and I thought women were supposed to do the wailing at weddings.

Although a catering company was hired, Mum busied herself in the kitchen, giving orders, bitching about something or other and I guessed she did this to keep away from Granny… Them two were still not talking much, even though Granny had already packed off some of her shit to Jamaica and was almost gone. I don't understand women sometimes. But after a few glasses of champagne, Mum relaxed with Sharon, Floyd's wife, and them two when they got going managed to get themselves proper smashed. Cara saw what was happening and she joined the entertainment, getting pissed too. I couldn't believe Mum could embarrass us like that but Paps never seemed to mind. He whispered in my ear, ‘Isn't it great that your mum's laughing again? I haven't seen her so happy, since…'

He trailed off and as I looked into his eyes, I knew that my parents marriage had had its ups and downs. I hoped he wouldn't burst into tears again and go into that
I love you shit
but now they had seemed to get over the worst. Davinia was proper upset at Mum's behaviour though, especially as Mum, Cara and Sharon sang along to some old school lovers rock tune. Pap's old crew were shouting them on. With apologies to Louisa Mark, this is what they sang.

‘
IIfff, If only you told me yourselfffff

Only, I, I, I, I, I heard it from somewhere else

Yeah, yeah

I know you're having an affair

And I know who

And I know where

It's that easy-going chick, just down there

She lives at number six, Sixth Street, yeah yeah

Why? Why just down the road from me so I could see
.'

By the time the out-of-tune trio got to the last line about thirty other old school wedding guests had joined in and as the cameras
clicked and people clapped, it was a special moment on a special day. But there had to be one person who wasn't impressed…

‘Dennis! Can't you do something with Mum,' Davinia squawked. ‘Look at her! In front of everybody! My friends! Can't you get her into the kitchen and make her drink a strong coffee?'

Baby Sis had just taken her A-Levels and she was confident that she passed them all. She was already thinking about what university to go to and secretly, I was proper proud of her. I'd never tell her of course, that'd make her head swell too much. But sometimes I wished she would stop waving her moral guardian baseball bat shit. It was bad enough with Aunt Jenny being around and funny enough, after Jenny clapped her eyes on her ex-husband, Uncle Jacob, she was going on weird.

‘Leave Mum alone, Davinia,' I said. ‘When's the last time you seen Mum happy like this?'

‘Can't you see, Dennis?' she said. ‘Maybe her consumption of alcohol is masking a real sadness. We need to talk about this as a family.'

‘Oh, Davinia! Can't you stop your psychobabble-analysis shit for a second? Why don't you go and enjoy yourself.'

‘Don't you care, Dennis?'

‘Not about your bitching, no.'

Davinia marched off to rejoin her geeky friends. I had already given the guy in her group a fucked-up don't-even-think-about-woking-my-baby-sis look. I knew the type, all polite and shit, says all the right lyrics to Paps and Mum about how he wants to be a fucking biological chemist or something. But deep down he wanted to wok Davinia. Burn him, the glasses he wears and his mum.

As for my uncle Royston he seemed well happy with his bride Joanna. She was a mix-race girl and could drink like him. As for her weight she was a bit of a salad dodger but Royston wasn't the owner of a chiselled six-pack himself. She also burned fat-heads, liked football, knew all the latest Jamaican dancehall moves and, following a serious Jamaican cooking course taught by Granny, she could cook a wicked chicken, rice and peas. Crucial for any woman entering our family. So she was an ideal choice. My only niggle
about Joanna was the cheap bling she wore. It made her look like a skettel but apart from that she was cool.

A slow jam came on the sound system and as I watched my two eleven-year-old cousins, Natasha and Natalie, take to the empty dance floor to perform some kinda waltz, I looked for Akeisha.

We now had been tight for a sweet two and a half years and now I was spending my weekends at her place. Her parents didn't seem to mind and they were away most weekends anyway. She was working in the accounts department for some aerospace firm and was quietly saving up and dreaming to get her own place. I offered to help save with her but she was determined to do that shit on her own. Twice she was offered a flat by Lambeth Council but Akeisha turned them down, not liking the locations or the tower blocks that were offered. ‘What's the damn point of moving from one ghetto to another?' she said at the time…

We didn't really go out much, preferring to stay indoors at weekends, playing strip chess, watching DVDs, chilling with music as she sipped red wine and I burned a fat-head, making love to music.

Any board games we played were serious events and Akeisha would sulk for ages if she lost at Monopoly, Ludo, Draughts, Connect Four or something. If she caught me cheating she would punch me like a man in my chest and even sometimes on the forehead. I guess it was down to her competitive spirit.

Because of spending so much time with Akeisha I started to get into jazz musicians like Miles Davis and John Coltrane. Whenever I tried to play their CDs in Noel's ride he would press the eject button, fling them over his shoulder and say, ‘Don't pollute my car stereo with your ancient school shit, bruv! That's chi chi man music.'

‘Yeah,' Priscilla would nod. ‘What kinda fucked-up weird shit is that? You're getting ancient before your time, Dennis.'

Unable to tolerate that kinda humiliation, I bought my own ride. Even though I didn't need their P's, Mum and Paps helped me pay for my little Vauxhall Corsa. I put a nice stereo in it, Jamaican boxing gloves that hung from my rear-view mirror and I banned
any brother from smoking cigarette in my ride. I allowed the occasional fat-head but no cancer sticks. Fuck that. I didn't want Akeisha or Curtis sniffing in that shit when they were in my ride.

I was still shotting, making around four hundred P's a week. Noel and me had about fifty, sixty regular clients and we paid people like security guards at the Brixton Academy to give us a spot outside the place so we could sell our shit. Things were rolling neatly. My only little worry was that Courtney Thompson and his fucked-up beard crew started to run a few things in Bricky. They had protection shit going on with a number of shops and businesses and word on road was they wanted to control some of the Bricky drugs market. It was kinda lucrative 'cos anybody who wanted to score in the Dirty South immediately thought of stepping to Bricky. Some shottas left Bricky because of Courtney's crew but fuck if Noel and me are gonna run like pussies. Why the fuck should we run from Courtney Thompson? The man got jacked for his packed lunch at school!

My parents were now happy with me 'cos I was still working at Everton's garage and I started to go college on a day release course to study mechanics. I found it interesting but I wasn't loving it. In bored moments I would take out a book about Caribbean history and study that.
The Iron Thorn
, a book about the Jamaican maroon wars that Akeisha bought me, was a favourite of mine. Akeisha encouraged me to read more but I don't think she meant to read in class and there was absolutely no fucking way I could read with her in bed beside me. Impossible.

If the weather was sweet on Sundays or a bank holiday I'd drive Akeisha and Curtis to the south coast or somewhere, usually leaving about six in the morning to beat all the traffic. It felt good playing Paps and on a few occasions I brought up the idea of Akeisha and I bringing another baby into the world. I felt old enough at twenty but she trampled the idea saying she wanted to get settled first in her own place and shit. But it was an education watching her raise Curtis. He wasn't allowed to watch any TV. Talk radio was OK, for according to Akeisha and her mum it made him pay attention to what was being said.
Working Curtis's attention span
became a
familiar phrase for me. We talked and read to him constantly and all this seemed to be working 'cos Curtis was another Davinia in the making. He was way ahead of any other kid of his age I knew. Scary shit.

So as I took Akeisha in my arms for the last dance at my uncle Royston's wedding, I was well content. I closed my eyes, thinking to myself life don't get much better than the shit I had. But I was interrupted by Noel.

‘Hey, Dennis,' he nudged.

‘What is it? Can't you see man's dancing with his chick?'

‘It's important, bruv. Trust me.'

‘I don't care what it is! Bin Laden could be outside with his brothers and his fucked-up beard. But I'm still gonna finish my dance with Akeisha…'

‘Yeah but you two can finish that off tonight. Man needs to talk.'

‘Man needs to dance! You know how it's been fucked up today, Noel. With all the family and shit, doing introductions and shit. I haven't had no time with my chick.'