The Dirty South

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘How you doing, Dennis?’ she asked.

  Many people had asked me that question since Noel’s death and in reply I was always polite and said, I’m OK. Like fuck I was OK! But I didn’t have to put a gloss on it for Cara. She knew better than anyone the shit I was going through. The lack of motivation to get up the next morning to deal with the living, the “can’t be bothered” shit. I hadn’t brushed my teeth for three days and worse of all, I hadn’t wiped my white Nikes clean for a bitch of a long while.

  ‘Fucked up,’ I finally answered. ‘I feel like a ghost, a duppy… Like I ain’t part of the real world no more. You get me?’

  I dropped myself in an armchair and looked at the TV. Cara was watching the BBC 10 o’clock news and had turned the volume down. Cara laid down on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. ‘I dunno how I feel,’ she said. ‘All I know is that it just hurts. Fucking hurts. People tell me I will feel better. But I don’t wanna feel better. Fuck that! If I’m gonna grieve for the rest of my days then let it be.’

  She closed her eyes and this pained expression she had made me get up out of my chair and go towards her. I squeezed her left shoulder and she opened her eyes and I guess if she had any tears left, she would have cried. Suddenly, she started singing…

  ‘Love and hate can never be friends

  Here I come with love and not hatred

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow I all the days of my life

  There’ll be no one who’d wish to be with no evil man

  Cos there’ll come a day they’ll be whipped by the Father’s hand

  Live up roots children

  Live up rasta children

  My head is anointed and my cup runneth over…’

  Cara trailed off and opened her eyes. ‘I used to love singing in church, Dennis. I used to love singing full stop. But when I had Noel I stopped going church. My mum was so disappointed in me. She’d thought I’d have a white wedding one day, live in a three-bedroom house, have a garden where I’d grow my own greens and cabbages, bake cakes for the church’s day out to Blackpool, you know, all of that fuckery. But it didn’t happen. The song I just sang, Dennis, was a big hit for Dennis Brown back in the day. Did you know you was named after Dennis Brown, Dennis?’

  ‘Yes, Cara.’

  ‘Your mum and everybody else has been brilliant with me, Dennis. So kind. But my reality is that they can’t make me feel better. Only singing does that. My mum’s gonna take me back to the church. It’s where I belong. A lot of my generation has forgotten that and we haven’t passed it on to our children. I’m feeling guilty now ’cos I hardly took Noel to church. I don’t know what went wrong. When I was a little girl I used to be in the choir. I felt like a big star. I could play the piano too. At school me and my friends wanted to be in a lovers’ rock group. Both of my parents warned me that nice Christian girls should stay away from reggae. But I didn’t listen and I used to sneak out to clubs, raves and go bluesing… That was the start of my fallout with my parents. But Mum’s been brilliant over the last few days. She told me to sing whenever I want to. She knows it’s good for me. I bet you didn’t know that old Cara could sing, Dennis…’

  ‘A bit. Mum said something about it a few times. Even Mum sings Dennis Brown tunes in the bath.’

  For the briefest of moments there was a hint of a smile upon Cara’s face. ‘Yeah, your parents loved Dennis Brown. Everyone did,’ she said.

  She trailed off again and this time there were tears in her eyes. For the next five minutes I hugged her and cried with her. Then I dried her tears and said, ‘If you had a chance, Cara, to face Noel’s killers, what would you do? What would you do, Cara?’

  She thought about it for a long time. Then Cara’s sadness turned to anger and I saw her face change from being broken to one that burned for vengeance. ‘I’D KILL THEM BLOODCLAAT! THEM KILL ME FIRST BORN AND ME BORN AND GROW AS A CHRISTIAN GIRL BUT ME COULD NEVER FORGIVE THEM. THEM FUCKING PUSSY’OLE KILL ME FIRST BORN! SO LORD GIVE ME STRENGTH TO KILL THEM TOO!’

  I left Cara’s flat that night knowing what I had to do.

  The following evening I parked my ride on Minet Road. It was about a thirty-second sprint away from the council block where Courtney’s white bitch lived. It was just after 6 p.m. and even though I didn’t expect Courtney for another two hours or so, my shirt was sticking to my skin and my heart was racing.

  I placed the gun in my right jeans pocket. The pockets were deep so no-one would see it… I had already loaded the gun and as I climbed out of my ride I looked at the people on the street going about their everyday business. I realised they could be potential witnesses and in my head I could see Fed blue and white tape all over the damn place.

  Walking over to the tower block where Courtney’s ho lived I kept my eyes on the fourth floor balcony. There was no movement from the front door. I reached the block and I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. There were still people about. Some were waiting for the lift and some were getting out of it. I decided to go on little walks to and from the lift but that made me too nervous. I just felt that everybody was looking at me.

  In between the council blocks there were spaces of greenery. I headed to one of those and just crashed on the grass. I thought I’d relax myself by building a fat-head but I even had trouble doing that. My fingers and thumbs were shaking. Shit! It was only 6.30 p.m.

  Burning the fat-head made me feel better. My hands stopped trembling but I got a sudden attack of the munchies. I had to get something to eat. The nearest shop was on Loughborough Road, about fifty yards away. But if I went inside the shop I might miss Courtney. Fuck it! I had to get something to eat.

  Went to the shop. Bought two packets of chocolate biscuits. Went back to my place on the green, eyes proper checking everything. Finished the biscuits within minutes… Had the munchies bad. Built another big-head and this time I managed to roll it to my liking.

  7 p.m. Felt a bit more relaxed. Thought of good times with Noel and all the pranks we got up to at school. Then I decided I’d better move into position for when Courtney turned up. If he turned up. Do I want him to turn up? Yeah, I do… Of course I do. Don’t pussy out now, Dennis. Do this for Noel and Cara. Let the game begin.

  Near to the lift was an emergency staircase and I sat on the first landing of that. I could see the road because the window on the first floor of the landing was smashed and I could see anybody who walked towards the lift. My only worry was that I couldn’t see people coming out from the lift. I would just have to take the chance.

  7.30 p.m… My hands were proper clammy. Sweat was dripping from my forehead. I couldn’t keep still and I must’ve sat down and stood up about fifty times in the last half an hour. Can I do this? Remember Cara. Her tears, her fury, her need for vengeance. Courtney threatened to merk Akeisha. Remember that too. God! Preparing to kill a man ain’t easy. Granny would think I took a walk with Old Screwface and sold my soul. Whatever happens she must never know. Got to control my fear. Should I wrap another big-head? No, Dennis. Ready or not… Do this shit.

  7.48 p.m… The blue BMW turned into the road of the white tower blocks. I could hear hip hop playing from the car stereo. My gun was in a Sainsbury’s plastic bag and I took it out from my pocket. I crept down the flight of concrete steps. The BMW pulled up. A car door opened and closed. I could recognise Busta Rhymes’ voice on the car stereo but I hadn’t a clue what he was rapping about. Busta’s rap was always too fast for my liking. I didn’t hear Courtney’s steps. He must be wearing trainers. But I sensed him. My eyes were darting everywhere. Beads of sweat dropped on the gun. My breathing accelerated… I heard the BMW pull away. Busta Rhymes faded.

  Then I saw him amble into the entrance of the block. Right in front of me. I pointed the gun at him and he stared at the gun barrel. He stopped walking. Then he stared at me. I slowly walked towards him and he backed off. His head made a movement to his left as if he was looking for an escape. Then his head made a movement to his right. He looked at m
e again. Proper scared he was. Disbelieving he was… His hands were slowly moving upwards to cover his face and then he made a rapid movement. That’s when I shot him. Not sure where I hit him but he dropped to the ground. I’ve never heard a noise so loud. Like a firecracker it was. He was still moving on the ground and I raced up to him. I loomed over him. I held the gun with my two hands and I searched his eyes. The gun was beginning to feel heavy. Courtney’s eyes were pleading, begging. The rest of his face expressed his pain. Severe pain. But he merked Noel and threatened to merk my Akeisha. I couldn’t allow him to get up. I shot him twice again in the chest. There was more blood seeping from his back than his front. His eyes were now half-closing. That’s what I was waiting for. Now I had to move…

  Running as hard as I could, I got back to my ride. There wasn’t a lot of space to get out of my parking position and as I reversed I hit something. Had to get away. I dropped the gun on the floor of the passenger side. My heart was still racing and the temptation to drive fast was overwhelming but I just about managed to keep control. I headed to Clapham. Tupac’s ‘Tradin War Stories’ was playing. Got on the A3 and passed through Wandsworth and then Putney. Felt a bit calmer. Headed to Richmond and parked my ride on a street there. The gun was back in the plastic bag and in my pocket. I climbed out of my ride and I noticed I had broken the passenger side rear brake light. I walked towards the river as the insides of my stomach felt like Fatboy Slim was mixing it.

  There was a pub located on the river bank and I headed for that. People were enjoying the warm evening and the sight of three black brothers laughing and drinking with white people made me feel like I didn’t stick out too much. There was a path that ran parallel to the river and I walked along that. About a hundred yards away from the pub I hurled the gun into the Thames. I walked on another fifty yards or so, sat down on a grass verge and built a big-head. As I torched it, I realised I had taken away everything Courtney Thompson had. Every potential wok, every child he might father, every pleasure, every Sunday dinner, every joke he might crack, every smile, every laugh and any hot tune he might nod his head to… I took that all away from him. I drove home with guilt seeping into my bones… Tupac was chanting about how Shorty wants to be a thug.

  Akeisha would be safe now. Courtney’s bredrens wouldn’t go after her now that their leader is duppied.

  The next few days I hardly ventured out of my bedroom. I complained of headaches and dizziness but the truth was I didn’t want anyone to see the guilt in my eyes. Mum was still being nice to me and Paps still wanted to know if I could identify Noel’s killers. But it was Davinia who noticed my fucked-up mind.

  ‘Dennis, I think you should go and see a counsellor,’ she said to me one evening as she brought my dinner to me. ‘You’re on the verge of a breakdown.’

  ‘I’m alright, sis,’ I lied. ‘It’s just these headaches.’

  Courtney Thompson’s murder was reported in the local press but there was no sign of it in the national newspapers or television. My mind began to play tricks on me and I started to imagine that every caller to the house was a Fed or that my murder of Thompson would be staged on Crimewatch. I had to get out of this bedroom. But what if Courtney’s crew suspected me of merking him? They might be looking for me, they might start tracking me. I need to defend my black ass. Need to chat to Gloria again. One last favour. I called her when no-one was at home.

  ‘It’s me, Dennis.’

  ‘It certainly is! I never thought you’d do it. How are you?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘Did you get rid of it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Thames.’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘I need another, Gloria.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Self preservation. Shall I say that some fucked-off brothers might be looking for me. If that does happen I want to defend myself.’

  ‘I see your point. Give me four days.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Same rules as before.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You’ll have to pay for it this time.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Gloria killed the call. That evening I told Mum that I wanna get back to some kinda normality and that I would return to work in five days time after I finished my latest set of tablets. She kissed me on the forehead and gave me a hug.

  Five days later I was returning to work. Mum had made me a packed lunch of corned beef sandwiches, crisps and two apples. My sandwich box was sitting on my passenger seat and as I drove to Everton’s garage, the rush of wind that came through my driver-side window felt good. I then stopped at a traffic light and I briefly glanced in my rear-view mirror. Someone was flashing me. It was the Feds. The lights had turned to green but I didn’t see because I closed my eyes momentarily in dread. My heart dropped. I pulled over just a little way beyond the traffic lights and the Fed car parked immediately behind me. A male Fed got out of the car and approached me. For a short second I considered driving off at high speed but I didn’t give it serious thought.

  ‘Your brake light is not working, sir,’ the Fed said. ‘Are you aware of that, sir?’

  ‘No, officer.’

  ‘Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir? Just a routine search.’

  I climbed out of my ride and I asked the officer if it was alright if I called my boss, Everton, at work, for I didn’t think I’d be coming in today. The feeling I had at that point was an empty one, a weird one. As if this was how it was meant to be. I had to pay. The officer looked at me strangely and then he was joined by the other officer and they started to search my ride. The brand new gun that I bought from Gloria only two days ago was in the car glove compartment, bullets and all. If they had asked me to confess to the Courtney Thompson murder I would’ve done. But they didn’t.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DAVINIA

  July 2006

  So here I am in Pentonville prison. They gave me five years bird but I got some of that chopped off for good behaviour. It hasn’t been too bad apart from the start of my sentence. ’Cos I come from the Dirty South, I had east, west and north London brothers trying it on with me. I had a few fights, got mashed a couple of times, pounded head a couple of times and I won some respect. Looking back on my early bird I felt kinda lucky that I didn’t get burst… You might be in prison but there’s still a chance of being shanked and burst by a hot-headed brother.

  There was a bit of beef between rastas, Christians and black Muslims but nowhere near as bad as what we all heard was happening in Belmarsh prison. I only lost privileges once when I pounded the fuck out of this new cell-mate I had. He refused to clean up his shit when he pissed all over the toilet seat and left his scum in the sink… I got two weeks solitary. I didn’t really bitch about my punishment but I always bitched about the fuck all chances I had to visit the prison library… Sometimes the waiting time could be weeks before you had the chance to read another book. In my letters to Akeisha and Paps I asked them to send me certain books but most of what they sent never reached me.

  They’re not interested in making people better inside here. Screws have this power over you and they’re happy to express that shit. It ain’t no surprise that so many guys in here reoffend when they get released and I reckon they return to crime ’cos they’re made to feel like dumb pussies inside prison. Simple as. To survive in the outside world you gotta be strong and be rooted and ignore the fucked-up behaviour of the screws. I was lucky ’cos I never forgot what my parents had drilled into me from an early age. I knew I had something worthwhile to give to society. I had shamed my parents enough by being inside so I had to do something.

  Since doing bird I’ve passed my A-Level history and English literature. Mum and Paps were proper proud about that and when Davinia last came to visit I told her I was now the brains of the family. Davinia is visiting me today and there is only three weeks of my sentence to serve. I write to Akeisha once a week and although she begged w
ith me to send her a visiting letter, I refused. It was bad enough trying to do my bird here but if I saw her in the flesh and then I was escorted back to the cells, it would do my fucking head in. She understood in the end. It took me four months to agree to see Mum and I made Paps promise that he’d never tell Granny about my prison term. I was not at home whenever Granny made a long-distance call from Jamaica.

  In those first months of my sentence I had to admit I felt serious guilt about merking Courtney Thompson. I thought about his younger two sisters and brother and I couldn’t help but remember the times when Courtney’s mother and my granny chatted to each other at church. But it so easily could have been my mum or Akeisha’s mum grieving. Cara was still proper sad and she’ll probably stay that way till the end of her days. I kept on asking myself why life had lost its value with my brothers and myself? How did Courtney and myself get into a state where we wanted to merk a brother or a school colleague?

  At the end of the day though, I know even though I’m only in here for gun possession, I’m a murderer. I guess I’ll have to carry that till they burn my black ass at the crematorium. I thought about death a lot in my cell and the scenes of Noel’s murder and burial were constant visitors to me at night. No way they’ll lower my body into the earth! Fuck that! They can cremate my black ass.

  Davinia had grown into a good-looking woman and as she sat opposite me I had this feeling of pride and nice vibes for her. Inmates around me openly admired her but she was used to that by now. In all my time in prison she had never talked down to me, lectured me or failed to visit when she said she would.

  ‘Hi, Dennis,’ she said. ‘How you keeping?’

  ‘Same shit, different toilets,’ I answered. ‘You’re putting on weight and didn’t I tell you not to come here wearing your fucking crop tops?’