The Dirty South

by Alex Wheatle

  Alex Wheatle was born in 1963 to Jamaican parents living in London. He spent most of his childhood in a children’s home, which he left at fourteen to live in a hostel in Brixton. At eighteen, he was involved in the Brixton uprising and went to prison for three months. On his release, he continued to perform as a DJ and MC under the name Yardman Irie, moving in the early ’90s on to the performance poetry circuit as The Brixton Bard. His second novel, East of Acre Lane, won the London New Writers Award (2000). The Dirty South is his sixth novel.

  THE DIRTY SOUTH

  ALEX WHEATLE

  A complete catalogue record for this book can

  be obtained from the British Library on request

  The right of Alex Wheatle to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by him in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Copyright ©2008 Alex Wheatle

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is

  coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by

  any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or

  otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First published in 2008 by Serpent’s Tail,

  an imprint of Profile Books Ltd

  3A Exmouth House

  Pine Street

  London EC1R OJH

  website: www.serpentstail.com

  ISBN 978 1 85242 985 0

  Designed and typeset at Neuadd Bwll, Llanwrtyd Wells

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays, Bungay, Suffolk

  The paper this book is printed on is certified

  by the © 1996 Forest Stewardship Council

  A.C. (FSC). It is ancient-forest friendly.

  The printer holds FSC chain of custody SGS-COC-2061

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To all those who have suffered the ultimate loss

  Acknowledgements

  Shout outs to Laura Susijn, Nicola Barr and to Pete Ayrton and all at Serpent’s Tail for believing in me and venturing where others feared to tread. Honourable mentions to Kolton Lee, Clint Dyer (let’s make that bloody film!), Catherine Wearing, Jonte Richardson, Courttia Newland, Stephen Thompson, Anjela Lauren Smith, Simone Pennant, Clyde Minott. Respect to Raymond Stevenson, Lucia and the rest of the crew working on the Don’t Trigger Campaign. Salutes to Blacker Dread and the other organisers of the Brixton Summer Splash. Polite bows to all those people, including the police, who work hard to make Brixton a safer place. Shake of the hand to all at the Streatham Youth Community Trust. Big respect to Charlie and the rest of the Burru drummers who backed me at that memorable night at Brixton Library. Respectful nods to Henry Bonsu, Devon Thomas, Tim O’Dell, Michael Groce, Julia Jacobs, Mark Norfolk, Vanessa Walters, Dreda Say Mitchell and to so many others.

  Last but not least a special thank you to Veraldo Barnett, DJ of Radio Mona 93fm, located at University of the West Indies campus, who allowed me on a steamy Kingston night to play whatever reggae I pleased for an hour. One of the best nights of my life.

  …so don’t you forget, no youths, who you are And where you stand in the struggle…

  Bob Marley

  Chapter One

  BRICKY

  My name is Dennis Huggins and I was born in 1983. Right now we are, as my granny would say, in the year of our Most High 2006. I’m in Pentonville Prison in North London. They say there are more black men behind bars and in mental institutions than there is in universities in England but I reckon it was a white man who researched that shit.

  The English tutor said I should write my tale and she offered her help. But burn her help, I don’t need it. Patronising bitch. ’Cos I am black she didn’t think I could write too good, didn’t think I had an academic brain. When she finishes her shifts she probably wants to tell her white friends and family how she’s helping poor, ghettoised black brothers with their English. Burn her! The only way she can help me is leaving me alone so I can get on with my tale.

  So I’m gonna write an honest account of what’s really gone on in my life, the mistakes I’ve made, chances I had and why I ended up in this grimy place. I just hope that my mother doesn’t read it.

  Before all you know-it-all pussies start thinking that this is the story of some young black guy who didn’t know his paps and lived in a Brixton ghetto – you’re wrong. Yeah, I lived in Brixton, or Bricky as we call it. But in a nice street. Leander Road, just behind Tulse Hill estate. Bricky does have decent streets but with all that fuckery stereotyping and media shit, you well-booted living in Berkshire and wherever wouldn’t know that… Actors, bankers, librarians, secretaries, doctors all live in my road. Even gay people or chi chi men as we call them on the road. So I ain’t the product of a grimy sink ghetto. Nor the product of a single mother family…

  Sure, Bricky does have its ghettos. Tulse Hill estate where a trailer load of eastern European people and white trash families live. At night you see their whores stepping for trade on Upper Tulse Hill Road. Myatts Fields estate where all the crack houses used to be; fuck knows where they all are now since the Fed clamp-down. Angel Town where every second brother seems to be packed with a gun. Stockwell, where the rude boys show off their guns in the local youth club and Vauxhall where the Portuguese shottas sell the best hash in London while dodging the moves of the chi chi men who prowl and hang around in those ends. The Camberwell end of Coldharbour Lane where so-called Muslim gangs cruise and jack any shottas and run protection rackets.

  I didn’t start off my life in a three-bedroom terraced house. My family lived in the Palace Road ends just off Streatham Hill until I was five. I don’t remember much about that place save one time when my mum took me to the corner sweet shop for a treat. Mum was taking out her P’s to pay for my crisps and a chocolate bar when two brothers ran into the shop armed with long shanks. I remember the shopkeeper’s reaction. Mum was all upset and by the time we got home she was bawling and shit, hugging me to her chest and asking me if I was alright. I wasn’t really scared, just buzzing to see them two brothers in action. After that, my parents were proper determined to move into a house and away from an estate. Many of my parents’ old friends had moved to Croydon and Thornton Heath, which we now call ‘Little Bricky’. But Mum didn’t want to move too far from her own parents – even though they never approved of her marriage – who live in Elm Park, just a two minute walk away from our gates.

  My mum is now a legal secretary and she works for some solicitor firm in Clapham Junction… When she gets home from the office she’s always bitching about the white people at her workplace and how she has to be better than them just to get equality… Fuck equality my paps would say, he wanted justice. Anyway, I’ve never seen any of Mum’s white colleagues step through our front door nor any of my paps’ work bredrens. Mum earns about twenty-five grand a year but she was always cussing me about wasting the odd potato or a spoonful of rice from my dinner plate. When I was a kid she always checked me from scalp to toe making sure I was neat and shit to go out. She still would if she could find a way to see me every morning in prison. An unwashed mug in the sink was a worse crime than chatting back to my teachers in my mum’s universe. I might have given my mother a world of grief and frustration but I have never sworn at her, not like how those white trash kids swear at their mothers. Got too much respect for her. Despite the life I have chosen to live she’s a good mother and I don’t wanna hear no different.

  My paps is a librarian at the Lambeth archives. He has to use a walking stick after s
ome accident he had when he was eighteen. He’s never talked about it but I know he was a shotta of some fame back in his day. In Bricky it seems that every black brother between the ages of forty and fifty knows my paps but it always fucks me off when these brothers don’t wanna spill the shit about him. Once, Uncle Royston told me a little when he came around my gates and he had too much to drink. Apparently, Paps’ so-called accident was the result of an encounter with a Bricky crime lord who ended up dead. I thought all this was so heavy and my respect for Paps grew. I wasted no time in telling my school mates. ‘My paps used to be a famous shotta! What did your paps do? Fuck! You don’t even know your paps, you sad pussy!’

  ‘Fuck you!’ they would say. ‘Your paps is Bricky’s version of Stephen Hawking with his fucked-up legs and hop-along shit. I wouldn’t want no paps if he was a spastic.’

  ‘At least I know where I come from,’ I would retaliate. ‘Them fucked-up alcoholic men who hang outside Bricky library and beg old white women for twenty pence could be your paps, you fucking fatherless pussy.’

  My own paps can lecture a bit though. I always preferred Mum’s five minute screaming and then the slamming of doors whenever I did something wrong. Paps would sit my black ass down and talk all calmly and reasonably, making me feel as stupid as a dumb-ass ghetto brother faced with quantum physics. He lectured me for two hours after I jacked this new Kosovan kid’s dinner money at school; the boy couldn’t chat no English so I thought it was an easy jack. I was eleven at the time and I didn’t need the money… It was the buzz, the adrenaline rush. Simple as.

  Behind his back I always call Paps the preacher. Forever going on about what it was like for him when he was seventeen or eighteen, but refusing to chat about his life as a shotta. If he talked about that I would have paid attention like a dick in Destiny’s Child’s dressing room. I was never going to be interested in the numbers of young black unemployed in 19 fucking 80, long forgotten riots, funny-named TV characters like Yosser Hughes, crazy garms like silk flower shirts, fucked up afros and how Margaret Thatcher messed up the country. Burn that shit.

  I didn’t really have a bad argument with my parents until I left school at sixteen. Paps was vex at the time, waving his walking stick in my face telling me ‘education is the key’, trying to convince me to go college. He’s always told me that education is the key phrase as far back as I can remember. I can recall Paps introducing me to this one-eyed rastaman. Jah Nelson his name was, and he tried to give me some extra black history lessons. He was around for over two years in my early days. I can’t remember what he taught me but I definitely remember his face scaring the fuck out of me.

  ‘Education is the key, education is the key’: that was Paps’ mantra. I’m sick to death of it now. I felt like hitting him many a time but how can you strike a man who you have seen almost every day of your life struggling up the stairs? Clump, scrape, clump. Clump, scrape, clump. It was proper embarrassing when friends were around. He’s stubborn too. If you asked him if he needed help he would put on his screw you face. I hate to admit it now but there were a few times when I wished he would fall down those motherfucking stairs. Mind you, we had some deep pile carpet on those steps so that would have cushioned any blows.

  Life was comfortable growing up. I always got the Nike trainers I wanted, which was the important thing and I didn’t have to queue up with the free dinner ghetto kids at school. If there was a film I wanted to see at the cinema I didn’t have to wait outside the side door at the Streatham Odeon with the rest of the ghetto brothers to be let in.

  And we had Sky TV. Schoolmates, whose parents couldn’t even afford a TV licence, would come around to my gates after school and we’d sit on my couch watching Puff Daddy videos on MTV Base and all the fit gyrating chicks in them while we killed out all the crisps Mum bought for the month. We fantasized about wearing heavy gold chains and fur coats and driving them rides that bounce up and down on road. That was the bomb.

  It was about that same time I stopped having white friends. Nothing racial about it. It’s just that we have different musical tastes. Most of them like Oasis, Coldplay and shit like that, you know, music that don’t require getting up and dancing to and instead they’ll do that air guitar fuckery. We like R&B, hip hop and dancehall reggae. One or two other white brothers liked that shit too but it wasn’t cool to hang with them. The fact of the matter is that most white brothers I know can’t dance, just like most black brothers I know can’t swim too good. Simple as. When I left school I might nod to a white brother in the street who I knew from school days but up to the time I was sentenced I didn’t have any white bredrens. So burn the mayor’s theory of a cool London multicultural society. It ain’t real.

  During my growing-up years Paps made me go on family trips to museums, castles, sites of historical interest, all that shit. My paps said it was good for my education… It bored me senseless but my sister, Davinia, lapped it up though. She’s three years younger than me and was a proper Lisa Simpson from the day she was born. I would get excited by a new bike and Davinia would get all overcome like when my parents bought the entire World Book Catalogue. When I had no homework to do my parents would suggest reading through book ‘A’. Burn those books!

  School was boring. Never had no problem with the work. The teacher would tell the class what to do and I would be finished within ten minutes or so. Then I would have to wait for some of those no-brain ghetto kids who didn’t even know how to spell their own fucking name. They would sit at the back of the class with their stressed-out mentors, wondering what the fuck they let themselves in for while their charges were trying to string a sentence together. Dumb as shit they were. The funny thing was that the parents of the dumb fuckers were the first to come to the school and cuss the headteacher about being a racist and how their little darlings were not getting on ’cos of being black, but the same ignorant parents didn’t give a shit about their little darlings doing homework…

  While I was waiting for the idiots to complete a task, I would create a bit of mischief, start an argument or something, swapping insults about our mothers. Every kid did this to test how far could you go, how much could you tolerate before switching… Now and again, kids switched big time. Geoffrey Allen, a fat West Indian boy in my class, was brushed about his weight by Kole, this African kid. There was always beef between Jamaican kids and Nigerian kids. I didn’t like the way Nigerians would go on all superior.

  ‘Geoffrey, you’re fat like a footballer’s wife shopping bag. How you get so fat, man?’

  ‘ ’Cos every time I fuck your scar-faced, bruised-legged, droopytitty mum she gives me a fried dumpling.’

  Kole proper switched. Leaping on Geoffrey, kicking him, punching him while tears were running down his face. The rest of us collapsed in laughter. Geoffrey always had lyrics but then he had to have lyrics. He was fat and butt ugly.

  The only part all the boys loved was Games. In my first year at secondary school, during the warmer months, our teacher, Ms Trevor, took us in the school van to Tooting Bec Athletic track. We threw the javelin at each other, tried to drop the shot on people’s toes, see if we could piss in the long jump pit from the jumping board, hit each other with hurdles and ripped the shit out of other kids who went to better schools; given half the chance we would jack them too. And it was at Tooting Bec Athletic track where I first saw my life’s obsession. It was like me sitting and chilling watching one of those MTV Base videos and all of a sudden one of the chicks just climbed out of the TV.

  I was strangling a bredren with a tape measure when my MTV video queen burned past us like some rapid shit in a PlayStation game. I relaxed my grip around my friend’s throat and just watched her. She must have done two laps before she rested on the grass near the track. Her hair was in long plaits, decorated with red, gold and green ribbons. She was taking in deep breaths and she was wearing this blue Nike tracksuit. She had this elegance about her, even when she ran. She wasn’t muscular but petite and slim. She was the pr
ettiest girl I had ever seen and I wanted to pack her away in my kit bag and take her home. She’s gonna be my girl, I said to myself.

  So every Friday afternoon for two years I picked a spot near the finishing line of the track just to see her run by. I would pretend I was performing warm-up exercises but really I was watching her every move, every step, every stretch. Even if I didn’t attend school on a Friday I would still make my way down the track just to see her. In all this time she never once noticed me or acknowledged me. I found out from another boy that her name was Akeisha Parris. And that her PE teacher reckoned that one day she would run for her country. And judging by the determination on her face you had to believe it.

  One time, watching Akeisha compete in a 800-metre race, I saw something drop from her wrist… She went straight on to the changing rooms and when I was sure she wouldn’t come out, I went to see what had dropped off her arm. It was a simple wooden bangle, with a gap of about two inches from either end. It was neatly made and carved on it was the head of a lion, a pyramid, a bird with a long tail and the word ‘love’. It was smooth all the way round, warm to the touch… I closed my eyes and imagined Akeisha’s pulse vibrating through it. I then pulled it on. It was tight to my wrist and the gap of two inches was now three.

  I knew I should have waited for Akeisha to come out so I could give it back to her but I wanted it for myself. I may have been too scared to talk to her but at least I had something of hers. So I took the wristlet home, cleaned it and polished it. The next day I even took it to school and instead of paying attention to the teacher in woodwork class, I sandpapered my bangle to make it even more smooth. I then gave it a light varnish and I remember the teacher was all shocked-like to see me fixing up a piece of wood. At home I placed it at the bottom of my wardrobe underneath the sheets and blankets. In private I would take it out now and again to look at it, thinking of her.