by Kolton Lee
‘You know, you were kind of rude last night, Hilary.’
‘Call me ‘H’. I don’t like Hilary.’
‘I don’t like ‘H’. I’ll call you Hilary.’ That drew his attention. He stopped the crackling and crunching of his jaws to look at Nina in surprise.
‘You’re feisty, you know that, woman!’
She let that go. To deal with it now would have meant a long digression and she had more important seeds to sow.
‘Yeah, whatever. So tell me, what was last night all about?’
‘The kiss? Put it down to your charm and good looks.’
‘So are you involved with anyone at the moment?’
‘I asked you the same thing last night.’
‘Yes, but the question takes on a whole new level of meaning when it’s the woman who asks the man.’
16.
Ade sat in an old Ford Granada. Stolen. It was parked up in front of what looked like a run-down old shed. Ade had his eyes pinned on the shed. He was waiting. And while he was waiting he was thinking. Thinking about what Dunstan had said that morning …
‘It’s globalisation, ennit, you know’t I mean.’
‘No.’ Ade didn’t have a clue what Dunstan was talking about.
‘You don’t know what globalisation is?!’ Dunstan’s voice became shrill. ‘Globalisation is when big companies swallow little companies and the big companies get bigger and bigger.’ He paused, to think through what he’d just said and check that it made sense. ‘It’s like McDonalds, right, dey make deir burgers and den when a nex’ man wants to make his burgers dey run ’im outta town because ’im would take up some a deir burger market, you get me? So das ’ow dey expand ‘till dey’re controllin’ de fast food market all over de world, you get me?’
‘Yeah …’ Ade wasn’t sure that he did. ‘So globalisation is really when dem big-up people afight each udder to keep hold of their market?’ Ade left the questioning tone in his voice just to cover himself.
‘Yes, man! Is so me a tell you! I was reading about dis de udder day. Dey call it globalisation because de bigger companies are now operating worldwide; globally. So when a yout’ in India is dreaming about biggin’ up himself and operating his own chain of burger shops, ’e better t’ink again! McDonalds is coming for his rarse!’
‘Dey got McDonalds in India?’
Dunstan almost whiplashed round to squint at Ade. ‘Dey got McDonalds everywhere, dread! Dat company is cookin’ wid gas, guy! Osama Book Binder is fronting it out wid Bush now, cos America are kicking a McDonalds into Baghdad, Kandahar and all dem Arab places, dread, I’m telling ya!’
‘But I thought dem Muslims don’t eat meat?’ Ade was aware that Dunstan liked to bullshit sometimes, play like he knew more than he really did.
‘Ade, man, you better start read newspaper. Dis is a dangerous world we’re living in, you know’t I mean! Wid all dis globalisation business. It’s not Muslims dat don’t eat meat it’s de Indians. An’ I t’ink it’s just beef dey don’t eat, anyways.’
‘So what dey doing wid a McDonalds den?’ Ade said triumphantly.
‘Ade, Ade, you’re missing de point; de point is globalisation. Dat man Akers vex me up, guy, you know’t I mean! So I’m t’inkin’ how can we deal wid dis man? ‘Bout ’im stan’ up in my face and chattin’ about “fuck all you wogs and niggers”!’
Ade sighed grimly. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to listen to Dunstan fulminating against Akers.
‘’E musta thought he was talkin’ to dem paki boys up in Leeds or somefen! ‘Bout “fuck all you wogs and niggers”! Den dis man chat up in my face, pushing out ’is chest, talkin’ “We do what we want”! I shouldda slap ’im two times in ’is face!’
Ade again inwardly sighed. He knew enough about Dunstan to know he was not about to slap Alan Akers.
‘Anyway. I’m t’inkin’ Akers made ’is money by startin’ a ganja delivery service. Den he expanded; brought in people like me an you. Now we’re running t’ings but insteada workin’ for ourselves, we’re workin’ for ’im! That cunt! Why is it de black man always ends up workin’ for de white man?!’
Ade had a theory about that but he could tell that Dunstan wasn’t looking for an answer.
‘I tell you why, Ade, cos we ain’t got no fuckin’ balls! Me nah like dat man Akers, but fair play to ’im! He took ’is chances and made ’is money. Now it’s our turn. Globalisation. We’re doing all de fuckin’ work anyway, we’re going to take ’im down. And expand. Wha’ d’you think?’
Ade thought for a moment. ‘Where we gonna expand to, Dunstan?’
‘First, London. We eivver join up wiv some uvver crews in de recreational management business or we take dem over. People like Wha Gwan. I hear say he’s running a crew over in North London now. We ‘globalise’. And den when we’re controlling t’ings in London we take on other cities, Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool. We go fuckin’ large man! Me and you!’
Ade couldn’t see it. For two reasons. One, Wha Gwan was a tough customer who ran a crew in North London with an iron discipline. He would not easily bend to the idea of being ‘taken over’. And secondly, Dunstan did have some good ideas, it was true, but he was the kind of brother who, when push comes to shove, didn’t always follow through. Still, Ade thought, no point in stifling a man in the middle of his creative flow.
‘Yeah, yeah, I can see it, why not?’
‘Exactly! Why fuckin’ not! Why not me an’ you?! Dream big, Ade, always dream big!’ Dunstan was so pumped he slapped Ade a high five and then took the afro comb from the tropical growth of his hair and picked at it excitedly. It stood tall and proud. ‘That’s why we take out more of Aker’s people and den, when de time is right, we drop a lash on Akers himself! But only when de time is right. Too early and we won’t have enough people behind us to continue business as usual, you get me?’
‘You think it’s our time, Dunstan? You think it’s really our time?’
‘It is our time, dread; London is changing, you get me? Dem old style gangsta ways is finished. It’s like Akers is always goin’ on about de Krays. De Krays and the Richardsons. Fuck de Krays and fuck de Richardsons! An’ ’e’s talking ’bout “Fuck all you wogs and niggers”!’
This time Ade had to laugh. Dunstan demanded to know what the hell was so funny. But Ade was laughing too hard to answer. Eventually, the two of them were rolling around Dunstan’s bedroom laughing their faces off. “Fuck all you wogs and niggers”. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! “We do what we want.” Hee, hee, hee, huh, huh, huh!
It was only later, sitting in this Ford Granada, while Ade was thinking it all through, that he realised what they were actually laughing at. It was that history was on Ade and Dunstan’s side. Of course Akers would say “Fuck all you wogs and niggers”. What else could he say? He was trying to hold back the march of time, the march of progress. And as Ade’s Yoruba father had told him, on more than one occasion, it was exactly what the white man had tried to do in Africa. Slavery, imperialism, colonialism. But then independence. The white man had tried to hang on to Africa and he’d failed. So why shouldn’t Akers fail now, Ade reasoned to himself? And even if it wasn’t Ade and Dunstan who brought about change, well, Akers was fucked anyway because globalisation was all about change. Akers was all about maintaining the status quo. Sooner or later someone, from somewhere, was going to take him down. If that was the case, Ade reasoned, it might as well be them. And if not them, him. Ade. Because apart from the joy of taking out White Alan, there was also a lot of money at stake here. Cash. Ade liked cash.
He sat back in the front seat with a smile on his face. He could see it now: him and Dunstan, big office, big cigar, running an empire that stretched from London to Edinburgh. Anything you want; smoke, smack, crack, ecstasy, charlie; anything you wanted, they would supply it. It would be like a factory. Like Marks & Spencers. Dunstan & Ade. No, no, Ade & Dunstan.
His pleasant daydream was interrupted as two boxers, one white, one black, exit
ed the old shed. Ade sat up. Moments later, another man came out and followed them. Mark Hodges.
As Hodges picked his way over the wasteland Ade dropped a hand under his seat. He pulled out the black and shiny semi-automatic Desert Eagle, and tucked it under his jacket, and climbed out of the car. He nipped quickly towards Hodges, coming at him from the right and slightly behind his line of vision. The first two boxers were now a little further on but it didn’t matter to Ade. The hood of his sweatshirt covered his head and most of his face. He called out Hodges’ name.
‘Hey! Mark Hodges!’ Hodges turned. Ade got a good look at him. It wouldn’t do to take out the wrong man. He had a huge bandage over his nose. Apparently some bruiser in a West End shebeen had given him a Glaswegian love bite when he’d tried to collect White Alan’s rent. Yep, it was Hodges all right. Ade opened his jacket and pulled out the Desert Eagle. The fitted silencer made it seem huge. At the sight of it Hodges froze, then backed away. But too late. Ade opened fire, pumping him with a short burst. As the bullets ripped through his chest, Hodges didn’t have time to make a sound. He leapt in the air and then staggered back, finally dropping to the ground, dead.
Without waiting to see who had or hadn’t seen, Ade walked quickly back to the Grenada, started the engine and pulled smoothly away.
17.
Alice sat opposite her daughter, Beverley, on the plastic sheeting which covered her favourite sofa. She was knitting and her needles clacked and clicked at a furious pace. Her daughter’s boyfriend and the father of her grandson, Cyrus, was coming over and she was not looking forward to the visit. Alice sat with a set to her jaw and a scowl on her face that could have been carved with an axe.
The problem for Alice was that once you had a child with somebody you were stuck with that person. That child is a tangible reminder of what once was. And so it was that Beverley was stuck with Hilary. As Alice thought about Hilary she loudly kissed her teeth, ‘schtupsing’ over the sound of her knitting needles. If it was at all possible to remove a person from the face of the planet with the strength of a ‘schtups’, Hilary would have disappeared at that moment.
Beverley sat on an armchair that matched the sofa, the plastic sticking uncomfortably to her bare legs. She was reading, keeping her eyes on the page, out of harm’s way. She had already been told, at some length, about the waste she was making of her life and the danger she was putting Alice’s grandson into.
Alice was nearing sixty. She’d led a hard life but a full and active one. She had few regrets about the shape her life had taken since she’d arrived in England almost forty years before, but the few regrets she had were all to do with men. She’d married twice and both men had no principles, no ambition, and were no damn good. Consequently, Alice had had to make her own way in the world and everything that she had, she’d worked hard for. The three-bedroomed house she and her daughter now sat in – in Hanwell, West London – she paid for it; the little plot of land with the house in Cork Hill in Montserrat – even if it was now in a volcano exclusion zone – she paid for it. These were, she reflected, notable achievements for a black woman coming to England alone at the tender age of twenty. However, to Alice’s mind, one sucess stood head and shoulders above all others. Beverley. Beverley was Alice’s crowning achievement.
Alice had grown up in a poor, rural area of Montserrat, born out of wedlock to a mother who was too young to be a mother. And so Alice had been raised by her grandmother. Alice loved her grandmother but the woman had been a tough disciplinarian. A single woman herself, she supported her family by running a small grocery store – a low, two-roomed, wooden structure with the store in the front room and Alice and her grandmother living in the back.
It was the toughness of this upbringing that Alice brought with her when she came to England. Life had been difficult for her in the early years but she had vowed that if she were to ever have children, life for them would be easier.
Alice’s first husband, Sam, was tall, good-looking, dressed sharp – but was as pig-headed and violent as a man could be. Seven married years and four single years later, Alice’s second husband was as unlike her first as it was possible to be. Charles was caring, he was easy, he was quiet, he was polite. At last, thought Alice, here is a man who I can share my life with. Unfortunately, Charles was as dull as a donkey.
And then Alice, who by that time had given up on the idea of ever having children, became pregnant. Beverley, Alice’s miracle child was born. She was seven pounds, three ounces of joy! Soon after Beverley’s birth Alice finally gave Charles his marching orders.
Alice’s parenting skills, such as they were, were learned at the knee of her grandmother. She was disciplined, hard, sometimes lacking in affection. But her drive for Beverley’s success paid off. Beverley was a good student, she was sociable and had many friends. Alice knew that when her daughter had been at University she’d met one or two boys but none had seemed special to her. When Beverley graduated with a 2:1 and became a Bachelor of Arts in History, Alice was very, very proud.
When Beverley found her first job as a teacher in a comprehensive school, Alice could see her highest hopes for her daughter gradually coming to fruition. She felt that her major mission in life was almost complete.
And then Beverley – Alice’s joy, Alice’s pride, Alice’s masterwork! – met Hilary, a thick-eared, hard-headed boxer.
When Cyrus was born Alice had been forced to admit that Hilary was a devoted father. But then things began to go downhill.
One day Alice had a quiet sit-down with her daughter and it all came tumbling out. Amidst the tears came the stories of Hilary’s gambling, his staying out all night, his running around with strange characters, his constantly borrowing money from Beverley. It came out higgledy-piggledy but by the end of their talk Alice had a very clear of what was happening over in Battersea.
Alice had learnt a lot and changed a lot since she first arrived in England as a shy, diffident slip of a thing. She had filled out somewhat and the long limbs and hour-glass figure had been replaced with – what? The thing her body most closely resembled was the side of an upright piano, straight up and down with a bulge in her middle. It may not have been flattering but it made her path through life a little easier. It gave her a certain … authority. In addition to this she had acquired a sharp, cutting edge to her tongue. More than one English workman who had asked for a ‘cuppa tea, darling’ while he fixed the plumbing had felt the lash of it. Yes, Alice had changed since the sixties and could be fierce if she felt the situation warranted it.
And so it was about four months before, when Alice had taken it upon herself to pay Hilary a ‘friendly’ visit. It was not long after her heart-to-heart with Beverley. She tramped into the doorway of the gym on Old Kent Road and paused, looking around for Hilary. Some haaaaard core, west coast gangsta rap blared from the gym’s sound system.
WE BE STACKIN’ CHIPS, PACKIN’ CLIPS, MACKIN’ CHICKS,
LAUGHIN’ TITS, SLAPPIN’ DICKS IN YOUR BITCH …
The lyrics were harsh and Alice’s expression hardened. Her bottom jaw pushed forward. She finally caught sight of Hilary and tramped forward, attracting startled looks in her wake. By the time she reached Hilary almost all activity in the gym had ceased.
Alice stood right in front of him and Hilary was forced to stop skipping. He eyed her warily. He knew why she was there. Someone, no doubt afraid of missing something, turned the music off. Someone else, the gym’s resident wag, helpfully called out to Hilary: ‘Hey, Hilary, your girlfriend’s come to see you!’ Alice span round with the speed of a twitching nerve. A young man tempted to laugh quickly stifled the impulse, the guffaw strangling in his throat. Alice cast her eyes over the crowd of gawking boxers.
‘I don’ want any trouble from any of you all … but if I have to put me han’ on you, I put such a slap on all you faces you wouldn’t be cheeky again!’ The loud ‘schtups’ she gave as she kissed her teeth seemed to make the ropes of the boxing ring vibrate. There was total
silence. She turned to Hilary, raising an index finger and jabbing it harshly and repetitively, inches from his face. ‘And you, you ought to be ashame’ of you’self! Is wha’ kin’ a man you call you’self?! I have to come all de way to dis place dat ssssstinking of sweat because I want to waaaaarn you! Don’t, mess, wid my, daughter! I warning you! If you want to mess wid someone … try me! You t’ink you is de firs’ man I would have to put me han on?!’ At this she looked around the gym at the gawking boxers. Nobody said a word. She turned back to Hilary. ‘And don’ budder start trouble wid Beverley, becau’ she never tell me anyt’ing dat I didn’t work out meself.’ She paused for breath. ‘De bot’ of us know what we talking about! An’ if I hear any more, any more about you foolish attitude and you foolish behaviour … I coming fa you! Das all I want to say: I coming fa you!’
And with that, Alice spun round and tramped back out of the gym. The gawking boxers stepped back as she made her way to the door, parting like the Red Sea before Moses.
In the four months since that visit Alice hadn’t told Beverley about her trip to the gym, but she had gently let it be known that there was always space for her and Cyrus in Hanwell. They could stay as long as they needed to get themselves back on their feet.
Two mornings ago Alice had picked up her telephone to hear her daughter weeping at the other end of the line. Between sobs and chokes she said she’d had enough. She couldn’t take it any more, she wanted out. And now Hilary had telephoned and said he wanted to see Beverley and Cyrus. Alice’s knitting needles clacked manically in anticipation of Hilary’s arrival. She glanced up at the fake wood panelling, the grandmother clock on the wall. Ten minutes past two. Hilary was late. She looked back down at her knitting needles as they flashed through the wool they were working into a small jumper for Cyrus. Just as she was about to say something derisory about Hilary, the doorbell rang. Both she and Beverley looked up. Beverley looked nervous as she rose to open the door.
