by Paolo Hewitt
‘Look,’ I said slowly, ‘I know now that I haven’t been up to much where you and Kimberley have been concerned. I’d just like to come over and spend some time with you both. I’ll understand if you say no.’
‘I don’t know,’ she warily replied. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Well, call me as soon as you decide. If I’m not here, leave a message. Okay?’
‘Alright, come over. But you let me down on this and I swear you’ll never get another chance. You know I don’t joke when it comes to my baby.’
I swallowed the words ‘our baby’, and instead said ‘I’ll be there. I promise. Check you then, alright?’
‘I suppose so. I got to go now. Kimberley needs washing and feeding. No doubt she’ll get me up at four tomorrow screaming her head off so don’t expect peace and chocolate when you get here, if you get here, alright?’
‘Alright.’
That night, I have to report, I slept better than I had done in days, the idea that I had finally started to get on top of events, no matter how small the progress, acting as a welcome sedative and seducing me into the darkness. It was then that I found my solar system unexpectedly whisking me back to teenage memories, the most specific being the day that my father made clear his intent to join a picket outside a local factory. He had decided on this action, God bless him, as it was heavily rumoured that a group of strike breakers, paid off by their bosses and protected by the boys in blue, were planning to drive their lorries through the line on this day. My mother had other ideas.
‘You can’t down go down there in your condition,’ she firmly stated. ‘You know what will happen. There will be bloodshed and violence and you’ll end up in hospital.’
‘You’re never too old to fight those bastards,’ he roared back but my mum knew better.
‘If you go down to the picket line today then I’m off. I’m not going to wait around for you to come home in a coffin. Simple as that.’ They had no idea that I was standing in the kitchen catching their every word.
‘You have to face facts. You’re too old for this kind of thing.’
‘I’ll be alright.’
‘You won’t and you know it.’
My father sat brooding in his chair all day, defeated by the passing of his years and his subsequent failing strength and, in my dream, I went to him and sat by his side in silence, holding onto his arm as if I could freeze him in time. I had been with him for what seemed like a minute when the alarm bell by my bed sprung into life and, in an instant, whisked me back to reality. I tried to close my eyes and re enter the dream but it was gone forever, and now it was 10. 30 a.m and time to rise up and head down to Riversdown.
As I dressed and prepared myself for the march, I tried to keep the thought of the day’s threatened violence firmly at the back of my mind, for if I really considered the odds, then it was pretty certain that the cavemen would be out in force, blocking our every move.
To fire me up I put on ‘Fight The Power’ four times as I got my shit together and, taking one last look around my yard, I headed out and onto the Stroud Green Road. The sun was. well up by now and was strong enough to have allowed Digger, who sat on a pub doorstep, to strip down to just his grimy, cotton shirt, his overcoat laying across his lap, drops of beer dripping off the arm sleeve, as he pulled on a can of lager. As I passed, he raised his can in the air and gave me a salute and, I have to say, such a gesture considerably lightened my mood and, in an up frame of mind, I took the train to Riversdown.
As I had previously arranged, I met up with Brother P. outside the station and we made the short journey down to the estate.
‘I think we’ll get a good turn out today,’ Brother P. surmised, ‘we’ve had a good response. Now let’s see if the words will be turned into action.’
‘Did you leaflet The Unity?’
‘Yeah, I did an hour there and then I went to some other clubs, Legends, Astoria, and ha nded them out there. Most people thought I was handing out flyers for a dub.’
‘Your reputation precedes you. Do you think there’ll be trouble today?’
‘Could be. I know the boys in blue will be turning out in full force. I brought you this.’
He fished in his pocket and pulled out a small length of iron and then quickly passed it over before anyone could see.
‘Is this necessary?’
‘Better safe than sorry. And, anyway, the harder they come...’ Uneasily, I slipped the weapon into my inside jacket pocket and we made our way into the sprawling estate where the march was due to wind through, ending up outside the BNP bookshop in a mass protest. At the meeting point, a full crowd of about 700 had already gathered, containing a lot of familiar faces and numbers, such as the MP Bernie Grant who I always have a soft spot for, primarily due to his insistence on turning up at the opening day of Parliament, decked out in full African gears, the sight of which pisses off a lot of people, including most of his work mates.
To the left of him, I was surprised to check Daddy Cecil and his posse dressed up like the Black Panthers, sporting jeans, leather jackets, dark tops, berets and glasses, and there they stood in a rigid formation, impassively eye balling the assembled crowd of all shapes and sizes.
To their right stood members of the SWP, selling their weekly paper, rattling their cashola boxes in search of donations and filling the air with anti Government slogans. There was a palpable sense of excitement all around that you couldn’t help get caught up in and as I was savouring the atmosphere, Brother P. called out, ‘Amanda, over here,’ and his sister made her way through the numbers.
‘Hi everyone,’ she greeted us with and what a difference a few days make, for here she was looking alive and fresh, a sharp contrast to our last meet.
‘Good turn out, eh?’ she said to no one in particular, scanning the growing crowd. Unlike her brother, Amanda was tall for her age and thin with it, although sometimes, when she turned her head a certain way you would catch her brother’s features.
‘I spoke to mum this morning,’ she said, ‘she called just after you left the flat. She says dad is making plans to go back to JA for good.’
‘Really? He hasn’t said anything to me.’
‘Would you go?’
Brother P. shook his head. ‘You’re joking. This is my home.’
‘Same as that,’ Amanda replied.
‘Has anyone seen the animals that attacked you?’ I enquired. ‘No, and nor have the police despite a name and three descriptions.’
‘Yeah, funny that,’ Brother P. put in. There was a shout from behind and we all turned to see none other than The Sheriff and Jasmine, holding hands, and making a path to us.
‘Alright?’ they both breezily enquired. ‘Good to see you both,’ said Brother P.
‘So, come on then,’ Jasmine half shouted, ‘let’s get moving and sort these wankers out. I want to get down The Unity tonight. It’s your last night isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, until Costello finds another club. They’re bringing in a load of special DJ’s for the last night and for once in my life I want to enjoy myself there instead of having to work.’
A voice, belonging to one of the women residents, and comically distorted by a loudspeaker, interrupted, informing us all to gather up as the march was about to commence.
By now, the numbers had swelled to about a thousand and banners, carrying slogans such as Black Under Attack and Stop The Fascists, shot up towards the sky as we started our journey, all of us knowing, deep down, that trouble was not far away. You could smell it in the air.
Two minutes into the march and it became reality. With the boys in blue marching alongside us, impassive to the shouts from the crowd that taunted them, we had walked along the estate’s main thoroughway, hemmed in by the flats on either side.
It was just as the first marcher turned to go right that it happened; from out of nowhere the sky above went from blue to black and suddenly all manner of debris, picked like flowers, from the surrounding wasteland,
was raining down upon us. The attack, I hate and have to admit, was brilliantly executed because not only did it send us into a whirlpool of panic, splitting up the bulk of the crowd, but it totally wrong footed the coppers, who now couldn’t work out whether to leave their positions or not.
Some of the helmets made for the stairs to the building on the left, where, on the fifth floor, some twenty cavemen were hurling down their weapons of hate, and as they did, from behind us came a roar, and then there were 50 of them, piling into the crowd, scattering everyone to the side as they cut through the crowd, kicking out in all directions like Olympic sprinters gone crazy.
I quickly reached for my weapon just as a flying body stumbled into my back and sent us both to the floor. Luckily, I was the first to scramble up and without thinking, lashed out at the guy with my foot, just catching the side of his shaven tattooed head.
I moved off quickly while the women and their screaming kiddiwinks made for the relative safety of the flat entrances, to huddle up in inside. Tightening my grip on my weapon, the next thing I knew Daddy Cecil and his posse were rushing past me to attack the oncoming rush of caveman, smashing into them like surfers attacking monstrous waves.
I looked around for my friends but they had disappeared and now a surge of adrenalin was pumping hard into my heart, swarming into my bloodstream and taking away all fear. I moved as if I was on auto pilot, not even concerned for my safety, as I went to help Daddy Cecil and his crew. One of his men had been wrestled to the ground and was covering up his body as the caveman rained in kicks on his body.
I jumped the guy from behind and pulled him down, allowing the beaten guy to crawl to safety while I held him down. My opponent could not have been more than 16 years old but his face was creased up with such wild fury, that he become a human Rottweiler, a crazy fearless dog of war, and for a couple of seconds, I was totally transfixed by his terrible appearance. It was then that The Sheriff intervened, pulling me away, and delivering a kick to the bollocks that had the young caveman squirming in agony.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re all over here.’
I made to follow him but realised in a flash that I had dropped my weapon and, checking the ground around me, I had no chance to see the brick that came flying out of nowhere and which smashed into the back of my neck, sending vicious shots of pain up my head and knocking me into a pool of darkness.
When I came to, I don’t know when, I was being carried by two boys in blue who gently laid me down inside the entrance to the flats. Outside, all I could hear was sirens merging with the loud and ugly noise of street violence and I felt sick. The adrenalin inside had turned to poison and what scared me further was that I could not raise my head.
‘Right, what’s wrong with you son?’ I heard someone ask and, before I knew it, two St. John’s Ambulance numbers were beside me, placing a thick pad of cotton wool under my neck and then lifting me onto a stretcher. They carried me into the lift and then along a balcony before turning into a flat that was now acting as a makeshift hospital.
‘Put him down there,’ I heard a voice say. I looked up to see a thin faced Indian women approaching me.
‘It’s just slight concussion,’ one of the ambulance numbers said, ‘and we’ve stopped the bleeding. Just keep him still and he should be alright.’ There in the room, a young man sat on the sofa holding a wad of tissues to his nose, his head bowed in pain. On the chair opposite sat little Sieta, looking at us both, one to the other, with a frightened wonderment. Her mother came into the room with a new swab of cotton wool that had been dripped in something.
She came to me, lifted my head up slowly, moved away my original bandage, and placed the swab on my wound, causing a fiery sensation to spring up in my neck which quickly and mercifully disappeared.
‘How man y fingers can you see?’ she unexpectedly asked, placing three, elegant long fingers in front of me, and it brought a smile to my face because it’s the kind of thing you see in those dumb cop shows on TV, and you never think for one minute that one day you’ll be going through the routine.
‘Three,’ I replied. ‘Where are you?’
‘In your flat.’ Mrs. Punwabi smiled. ‘I think you’ll be okay.’
‘I still feel a little sick.’
‘I’ll get you a pillow and you can rest up.’ Once I was slightly propped up I could take in more of the small living room where photographs of Sieta adorned the walls and surfaces, documenting the child from birth to now, providing a personal history of time and beauty. Outside, the noise had thankfully started to die down and reasoning that at any second there might be more urgent casualties than myself, I pulled myself up feeling a lot of better than I figured I would. The guy on the sofa still had his head bowed down low.
‘You alright, mate?’ I asked him.
He didn’t look up but said, in a low voice, ‘I wish I had never got involved.’
It was then that he looked up at me and my heart went into a minor shock. 14 years old, if that, with his hair cropped close, he was, unbelievably, one of the enemy and here was Mrs Punwabi attending to his wounds.
‘I wish I had never got involved,’ he repeated and then he bowed his head again and gave out a little sob. I moved into the kitchen where Mrs. Punwabi, and two other women, who I didn’t recognise, were standing.
‘You shouldn’t be up,’ Mrs. Punwabi remonstrated. ‘I’m okay. Really I am. That guy you’ve got in there...’
‘We know,’ said one of the women, ‘but he’s just a baby. There’s no problem.’
‘Thanks for all you’ve done,’ I said to Mrs Punwabi. Indeed, I wanted to tell her that this country and town was so much better off with the likes of her around but such speeches are best left unspoken, so I gave her a small hug, bade her friends goodbye and wandered out onto the balcony to survey the scene below. It was obvious that the boys in blue had now seized control of the situation. Large pockets of them roamed up and down the mainway, a blue caterpillar scouring the ground for suspects.
I ventured upstairs to Amanda’s flat hoping to catch up with my links, praying that they had not been damaged, but as there was no answer there, I caught the lift down to the ground floor and made my exit out of the back door, not wanting to meet up with any boys in blue.
As I made my way to the train station, furiously debating as to the location of my friends, I decided a cab would be the best way of transport, and, as I had previously noticed a mini cab office nearby, I set sail for there, reaching within two minutes. I walked into the small, shabby office and there, sitting anxiously on a small wooden bench was a gal who I vaguely recognised. I looked at her for just a little too long and so had to say something as she was now looking at me with great inquisitiveness.
‘I know you don’t I?’ I asked her. ‘Were you just on the march?’
‘Yes, I was. Now I’m trying to get to the hospital but they say they haven’t got any cars.’
As if on cue, a driver unexpectedly walked in and bade her come with him. ‘Look,’ I said, having not thought at all about this option, ‘can I come with you? I’ve lost my friends and they may be up there.’
‘Sure.’ She motioned to the swab I was still holding to my head. ‘You look like you need treatment yourself.’
‘It’s nothing. Looks worse than what it is.’
‘Let’s go then.’
On the way there, I asked after her boyfriend. ‘Do you know if he’s badly injured?’
She shook her head.
‘I wasn’t meant to come here today, he asked me not to as he said there would be trouble. But I had to. I woke up this morning with a horrible feeling that something would go wrong, and now it has. I hope to God he’s okay. I saw him being taken into an ambulance just as I got to the estate and so I dashed up here.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. A lot of the time injuries look a lot worse than they actually are,’ I lied. ‘What do you do, by the way?’
‘I’m a journalist,’ and when she said it, everyth
ing just clicked into place. No doubt about it, this was the gal that had turned up to interview Daddy Cecil in the Portobello cafe all those months ago. Just to make sure I asked,
‘What kind of things you scribble on?’
‘Lifestyle stuff basically but my main thing is a book on the history of West Indian politics in Britain. My boyfriend is helping me out with it.’
I kept my silence but inside I couldn’t help but smile. It would be the perfect ammo next time the Daddy man started in on me.
‘What about yourself?’ she said but so anxiously was she scanning the road ahead, impatient to reach her loved one, that I knew she was just making small talk.
‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘I wish to become a missionary and realise Heaven’s promise. That’s all.’
‘Sounds nice,’ she said, still staring ahead.
A minute later we were in front of the hospital desk, where a nurse informed us that a Cecil Smith had been admitted but it was nothing too serious, and as for the names I had handed over, only one was present and correct. I found The Sheriff and Jasmine sitting in the casualty waiting room. He wore a bandage around his head and Jasmine clasped his hand tightly. They made for the perfect couple.
‘Hey,’ shouted The Sheriff as I came in, ‘another accident of war.’
‘How you doing?’
‘He’s doing fine,’ Jasmine said, ‘aren’t you, petal? We’re going to get you nicely bandaged up and then you’ll be fit for action, once more, if you know what I’m saying.’
She laughed loud, so did The Sheriff and so did I. It felt like the first time in ages that I had cracked open a smile.
‘You going to be alright for tonight?’ The Sheriff asked me. ‘You don’t want blood dripping all over your tunes.’
‘I’ll be cool. And you?’ The Sheriff winked at me.
‘Raring to go, my friend, raring to go. Nothing like a decent afternoon’s rumble with scumbags to set you up for the night.’
‘Where’s P. or Amanda? I haven’t checked them yet.’
‘The cops pulled Amanda and P. went down there to bail her out. He told me to tell you that he’ll check you down the club.’
