The Dirty South (7 page)

‘You're lucky my mouth is all mash up 'cos for what you just said I would bang you up for that. Who do you think you are, coming to my gates and cussing about my mum? Take your ugly self from my eyesight and go back to your ghetto flat and eat your ghetto pilchards with the rest of your shit-poor family. And tell your mum to stop coming around our gates and begging for money.'

‘Can't take the truth, can you?' Noel went on ranting. ‘Man is crying about a little slap he got from some African brothers at Peckham ends… Well, hear this, Dennis. To keep my rep I'm gonna personally look for any of those brothers who jacked you and I'm gonna show them what it means to fuck with a Brixtonian. I can't afford for our business to fail.'

‘What you gonna do?' I asked, leaning in closer to my friend. ‘Don't resort to arms, Noel.'

Noel smiled an ugly smile, like he was thinking of some old school, bitch torture that he had seen in some old Samurai film. ‘I have a ride now,' he said. ‘A little Fiesta. Bought it at an auction for three hundred notes. And now I've got my ride, I'm going in for a little stakeout, to see if I can find that bitch who honey-trapped you. It would be good if you could come with me. You could identify any of the African brothers who jacked you. It was probably a Nigerian. I hate them motherfuckers with their scarred up faces and ugly mothers… They're all over Peckham these days with their crater-legged women and mad-coloured clothes. And then we could deal with them in medieval style. There's something I've got, two piece of long shanks. And I will use them. But if you're gonna go on like a pussy then I'll do this shit on my own. And I can remember what the bitch looks like. Man won't find her too buff by the time I'm done with her. And when I am done the phantom of the motherfucking opera will turn his back on her nigger honey-trapping ass.'

‘Give me time to think,' I said.

‘OK,' Noel replied, all casual like. ‘I will allow two weeks for
your mouth to heal, then I will come for you. If you're ready or not, I'm gonna deal with those African pussies. Believe it.'

Then he was gone. Without a goodbye.

Mum came up forty-five minutes later with a bowl of chicken soup. She didn't say nothing as she placed the tray on my lap. Instead, she just put her right palm on my forehead the way mothers do and smiled. She then sat on the bed, waiting for me to give her the verdict on the soup. Noel was right. I was spoiled.

‘Is it too hot?' she asked.

‘No, Mum. It's fine.'

‘Drink it all up, it'll do you good.'

The guilt I had returned but an idea came to me. ‘Mum, take me to Granny tonight… I'll stay there for a few days and you could go back to work. Granny is always complaining that no-one stays with her these days.'

‘You sure, Dennis?'

‘Yes, I'm sure, Mum. You go back to work.'

R
unning parallel to the Brixton Road, between Kennington and Myatt Fields, is the grimy Cowley council estate. Legend has it that in the past, way back in the '70s, this sound system operator who went by the name of King Tubby, used to test his eighteen-inch bass speakers on one of the greens within the estate. I think Paps was exaggerating when he said you could hear hardcore reggae music from the top of Brixton Hill. Anyway, Granny has lived in Cowley for over thirty-five years and obviously it was where my paps, Auntie Denise and Uncle Royston were grown. There aren't so many Jamaican and Irish families living there now as in the past and their places have been filled by skinny Eastern Africans with long foreheads and Eastern Europeans who have no garms sense and beg a lot.

Mum walked me to Granny's third floor flat and as usual, when Granny opened her door they were polite and sweet to each other as could be. But Mum never entered Granny's flat. Instead she performed an over-the-top farewell, kissing Granny on both cheeks before her name-brand heels echoed off the concrete along the balcony… ‘Hortense, if you need any money for extra shopping for Dennis then just give me a call,' Mum said casually, not looking back.

‘That's OK, Carol, me dear. Me know how to look after me grandson and me
not
broke. No worry yourself about nothing.'

Granny's home was like a time capsule. There were old black-and-white family photographs hanging up in the hallway but all this was overshadowed by a 1950s film poster that Paps had bought and framed for Granny one Christmas. It was of the film
An American in Paris
and the female lead, Leslie Caron, was looking well buff in her pose. For a white girl she had a seriously round, firm butt. I have to admit that over a time of coming to Granny's flat I kinda fell in love with that pose of Leslie Caron's and at home I had looked her up on the internet and downloaded untold images of her. It's something I told no-one about, especially Noel. He would only laugh if he found out I had a crush on an old white Hollywood musical star.

Granny still had flock wallpaper in her lounge and neat little white doilies upon the arm-rests of her furniture. The multicoloured carpet mirrored the flower shit from the walls and the television was seriously small; I suddenly remembered that Granny didn't have cable or Sky TV so it was a good job I had a couple of books and a hip hop magazine with me. The mantelpiece was crammed with photos of Paps, Auntie Denise and Uncle Royston and the mahogany coffee table, the only thing of class in the room, was reserved for framed photographs of Granny and her long dead husband Cilbert. Granny always said I looked like Granpa Cilbert and I didn't argue 'cos he looked very cool in his single-breasted suits, skinny ties and angled hats. He looked really hench and must have been a proper player. Maybe I came from a long line of shottas? Granny was quite a looker herself and she seemed full of energy and attitude in the photos she had taken when she was young. She was always talking about that she used to dance a lot back in the day and I could believe it looking at her photos.

That evening, as I flicked through Granny's photo album, I asked her, ‘What advice would you give to a hench-looking young brother today, Gran?'

She smiled as if reliving some sweet memory and then she replied, ‘Enjoy every day if you can. Life is precious and it must be
lived. Because when you get to my age all you have left is pleasant memories. So get busy living and store those memories up. Tomorrow isn't promised to anyone.' She then looked at the framed photo of her husband Cilbert on her wedding day. She smiled at him as if she was greeting him after a long absence. ‘Yes, Dennis. Live hard, play hard and most of all, love hard.'

‘I will try, Gran.'

She then turned to me and stroked my left cheek with the back of her fingers. They were unusually broad for a woman, like fat, creased sausages. She must have got them from that tough, hard knock childhood in the Jamaican bush. ‘When me go me will miss you, Dennis.'

‘What are you talking about, Gran? There is nuff life in you.'

‘No, no,' she laughed. ‘Me don't mean passing away. Lord have mercy! Me mean going home.'

‘Home to Jamaica?'

‘Yes, Dennis. Where you think home is? Greenland? Me thought me would never say it out aloud but me miss my cantankerous, argumentive, know-it-all sister. And the hot sun on my cheeks. And a nice ripe mango!'

‘I could never understand you and Great Auntie Jenny. You two were always arguing…'

‘Nor do I understand!' Granny laughed. ‘But me miss her same way… I have been fortunate, Dennis. I have seen me children and me grandchildren grow. It'll be soon time to let go. Time to let your mother care for your father without me interfering. It's another reason why you must try to enjoy every day the Most High gives you. No-one knows what tomorrow brings. Your father never knew that from running one day the next he would be a cripple.'

I went to my bed that night thinking on Granny's words. I guess she meant follow my heart's desire. And my heart's desire wasn't to be known as some fake wanksta or a spoilt little rich kid. Live hard, Granny said… I'm gonna have to if I'm gonna change my image.

The following Sunday morning, along with my sister Davinia, Uncle Royston, Auntie Denise and her twins, Natalie and Natasha, I escorted Granny to church. Mum had pussied out saying she had
too much work at home to do and Paps was never a regular church goer; Paps once told me why should he praise God when all he got from Him was twisted legs? No-one save Granny and Davinia looked too keen about the service and I guess that once Granny is feeling the Jamaican sun on her cheeks, the tradition of the Huggins family attending church will die. Well, perhaps not 'cos Davinia will probably continue when she has a family. She even gets ratings in church for her singing! Can't she be shit for at least one thing in her perfect life?

As for myself I didn't have to attend church and my family didn't expect me to. But I guess I was looking for a counter argument to my messed up path to revenge and violence. And all throughout the service, Noel's words echoed in my head. ‘Everyone knows you're a spoilt little rich kid.' I looked around the church to see if there was any nice chicks around… Perhaps after the service I could chirps a chick or two to take my mind off this revenge thing. But there were only three wokable chicks in the house and they were with their men. Burn them. In fact there weren't many young faces in the place at all. A disappointment I know Granny felt 'cos Great Auntie Jenny's husband, Jacob, set up the very first black church in South London… For the life of me I cannot remember what the preacher was preaching about on that Sunday morning.

Performing all the duties that a good grandson is supposed to do, like listening to Granny's tales and not looking bored, massaging her shoulders after she finished the washing-up and taking out the rubbish, I felt a proper sadness for her. The modern world doesn't cater for someone like her. Auntie Denise had bought Granny a computer two years ago, mainly to keep in touch with the family in Jamaica via e-mail, especially Great Aunt Jenny and save on phone bills. But she just couldn't get the hang of it. So the computer just gathered dust in Granny's bedroom. A waste. She was happiest when she was shopping in Brixton market for groceries. It's the only time she came alive, apart from when she watched her old school Hollywood musicals with Leslie Caron, Eleanor Powell, Vera Ellen, Rita Moreno, Cyd Charisse, Ginger Rogers, Bojangles and the Nicholas brothers. And she even loved films that starred
that little brat of American goodness, cuteness and whiteness, Shirley Temple. Burn her!

I can't believe I can remember all those names but that's what you get spending most of your Sunday afternoons as a child with Granny.

In the market Granny would inspect fruits with her eyes and fingers and if the food didn't come up to her ratings she wasn't afraid of saying so in her raw patois and that exaggerated Jamaican body language. It was so cool to watch…

I wish I could have been as blatant with Noel as Granny was with the market traders. I wanted to tell him, ‘Burn you with your shotting! I'm not on it no more. Find a new partner.' That would have been the right thing to say. But my ego and vanity got in the way. I knew going down the vengeance route was wrong and it could lead to all kinda bad shit. But I just couldn't stand the fact that some brothers were calling me a pussy and a spoilt little rich kid behind my back. So when Noel arrived outside my gates in his Fiesta tooting his horn, two weeks after he gave me that ultimatum, I filled the passenger seat… It was a cool Friday night in late September. Noel looked at me hard and then broke out in a half smile. ‘Shizzle me nizzle,' he said, another way of saying everything is cool with the world. He started the car and as he shifted through the gears I closed my eyes and I could feel my heartbeat.

‘Are you ready?' Noel asked, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Ready like a Wu Tang rap?'

‘Would I be sitting in your ride if I wasn't?'

‘Then it's all good,' Noel replied. ‘Anyway, we might not see any of them African brothers who jacked you. It might be a patience thing we have to deal with.'

That remark relaxed me a bit and as we drove along Camberwell New Road, I inspected the inside of the car. ‘You could have least taken out the Kentucky boxes from the back seat, Noel. And the fat-head butts. And is that what I think it is on the floor in the corner? Your ride stinks!'

‘Yeah. My mother's always telling me that I better not catch no
dose from no ho so I'd better wear protection. Anyway, the car gets me from A to B and I have already woked a girl in here; a slim portable bitch but too loud. I just haven't tidied up after it yet.'

‘What girl?'

‘Some junz called Nisha. She didn't care the ride wasn't clean… She's got a buff body but the face ain't saying too much. It's only good for a BJ, not a kiss. And unlike you, I go for local chicks… She lives in those flats off Upper Tulse Hill. She's got this best friend that I wanna wok too. She's prettier.'

‘Is your ride insured?' I asked, purposefully changing the subject 'cos I didn't want to get involved with the morals of Noel's love life.

‘Nope, you know I haven't passed my test yet.'

‘Then how did you get the tax disc?'

‘Hassan. He's gonna deal with my insurance thing too.'

‘Who the fuck is Hassan?'

‘Hassan. This Asian brother. You've seen him. He's got bandy legs and a Gonzo-like nose. You know him, Dennis, from playing football in the park. He's shit at football like all Asians but his older brother's got an
ill
ride. A Mercedes sports! He goes out with that Spanish-looking chick Ida Lupino and he lives in those flats off Denmark Road, near Flaxman sports centre. His mum wears them garments that only let you see the eyes. You know, she probably wears that shit 'cos Hassan's paps doesn't want other brothers to know how buff she is. His family, or I should say his brothers, are in dodgy passports, fake documents and shit. They even do positive HIV test results. That shit is really popular with the Africans. Anyway, I just had to give him four pinkies and he just dealt with everything. Insurance, car tax, MOT. The deal was sweet so I gave him an eighth of skunk to show my appreciation… I'm telling you that Hassan is an artist. It was all good and Dennis when you find yourself a ride Hassan will deal with you too.'