Black Sheep (4 page)

“Thanks, man,” I muttered as I tied the bandanna over my forehead. “Where d’you get this from, then?”

Jukkie’s frown disappeared and he flashed a brilliant smile and touched the tip of the switch-blade to his gold tooth. “You know what they say,” he said. “Always be
prepared.”

The two of us practically ran over my younger brother, Jerome, on our way out. My man, Jay, the best little brother in the world – and the mouthiest too.

“Where you lot off to?” he called after us.

“Got some errands to run, bro,” I called back.

“But you promised to take me bowling, man!”

“Later, yeah?”

Trigger was waiting in his bright yellow Lexus Jeep with the tinted windows and alloy wheels, vex’. As much as I would have preferred to go bowling with Jay, he would have to wait.

Trigger didn’t even look at me when I climbed into the car. I mumbled something about being sorry, having overslept. The others all looked at me, screw-face, and Trigger kissed his teeth
before reversing out of the estate car park, leaving black tyre marks on the asphalt.

No one spoke for a long time. I looked around the car and noticed that Kofi, the little runner we all called Lightning, wasn’t in the car. I frowned. Kofi was always with us, standard.
Even when his crazy mum locked their front door and threatened to burn his clothes if he tried to go out, Lightning would find a way out, even if it meant jumping from his window on the second
floor.

I got a weird feeling then, when I saw that Lightning wasn’t there. I was sensing a vibe, a bad vibe. After a long time, Trigger spoke. “So,” he growled, looking at me in the
rear view mirror, “what the hell happened to you last night?”

“Last night?”

“Yeah, fool, last night! We was meant to go see dem man on the other side of the Oval estate, down Larkside. Remember?”

Damn. Only the weekend before, Larkside mans had caused some trouble with Flinthead and Spoonz, two of the youngers in RDS. The story went that one of their boys had grabbed Flinthead’s
new bike and when Flinty challenged him, five or six of them jumped him and started laying into him. Spoonz had stepped in to help Flinty and ended up with a bottle in his face. Friday night, RDS
was meant to have gone over to Larkside, rolling ten man deep, to take care of them.

Trigger had asked Jukkie to bring his collector’s set of knives. Different lengths, different strengths, multi-purpose knives. “I’m in the mood for carving up mandem,” he
said.

I remember my insides starting to cramp up when I heard him say that. And I knew straight away that I wasn’t going to be with them.

I hate knives. I’ve always hated them, y’get me. And from when Trigger said he wanted to carve up those Larkside boys, I knew I wasn’t going to reach, no way. It was just
convenient that Mum and me got into a fight over that dumb phone call and ting.

Don’t get me wrong, I can fight. I can proper take man down, take down three, four of them at once. I ain’t scared of that. But I proper hate knives.

Then Trigger spoke again. “Some mans think that dis is a pick’n’choose ting, yeah. But what they don’t understand is that you’re either in or you’re out. When
I say that RDS gonna roll up in a place, I expect everyone to be there.” He was looking right at me. “Or there’ll be consequences.”

“Ya dun know!” Jukkie glared at me and kissed his teeth. That was Jukkie these days. Ever since Tony had stepped back from the gang life, Jukkie had been trying to get in with
Trigger. It was like he was looking to replace his big brother or something. Either that or he hoped to be first in line when Trigger started sharing some of the food.

I looked out of the window. I missed Tony. He’d always been great for a laugh; we’d had some fun times. But he’d been keeping a low profile lately. Nuff man had been going on
dark about his decision to go straight – I wasn’t even sure it was safe for him on the estate. Although Tony hadn’t been the type to make enemies on purpose, you can’t live
the gang life and keep every man as your friend. It just isn’t possible.

Now, with Trigger in charge, RDS had changed: things had become a lot more serious, darker. It wasn’t about rolling and making money and having a good time any more. It was about keeping
control, making sure others respected us: beef.

Trigger was the kind of black boy people crossed the street to avoid. He had a whole heap of marks on his face from acne when he was younger and he was permanently screw-face. His eyes were
usually red from all the weed he smoked and when he looked at you, proper staring you down, you felt real fear. He was cold, man, stone cold.

I decided to ignore Jukkie’s foolishness, just to keep the peace. “What happened to Lightning, man? Where is he?”

Jukkie looked up from the knife he had been using to clean his fingernails. “He got beat down, man, badly. Police came and everything, called the ambulance. He’s in Bay Street
Hospital, proper bruck-up.” He shook his head. “Dem Larkside mans are proper psycho.”

DWAYNE

The work we had to do was soon over: just a few packages to deliver, some money to hide in a safe house, nothing too difficult. Trigger parked the Lexus and we went to pick up
chicken and chips and some drinks from our favourite shop in Camberwell.

As we crossed the street, I saw a girl wearing denim shorts with a small red leather backpack, standing waiting for the bus. She was facing away from me and I did a double-take. That was
Misha’s bag. And Misha’s hair, no doubt about it! What was she doing up these sides? But instead of going up to her, I pulled my hood up over my head, hunched my shoulders and began
walking in the opposite direction, behind Jukkie.

I didn’t want her to see me, not with my RDS boys. The less she knew about that, the better.

We all bought drinks, making so much noise in the off-licence that the Indian man behind the counter told us to get out. But we ignored him, of course. When we finally got out of the shop,
Trigger reached out and snatched a new-looking Burberry cap off a white boy’s head. The boy swore and swung round, ready to fight. Then he saw Trigger’s bloodshot eyes and bared teeth
and went red. He quickly got the message and moved on.

When we reached the strip of grass where we had been planning to cotch, we found it covered with dog mess.

“There’s just nowhere to go in this hellhole,” snapped Trigger. His fuse was short today, I could see that.

There were six of us, spread out across the pavement, spilling off the curb and on to the street. We bust some jokes, we spit some rhymes, we hassled some girls who were standing across the
road. We shared a blunt and I felt the buzz start to take effect.

Everyone who saw us, mums on their way home from the hairdresser, kids on their way to football, little girls in plastic sandals with handfuls of sweets, crossed the road to avoid us, we were
that intimidating.

But one woman, tall and slim, with an expensive-looking double buggy and a designer handbag, kept walking on the pavement towards us. I don’t know what got into that chick, why she
didn’t just go round like everybody else.

We were all listening to one of Jukkie’s wild stories and I was the only one who noticed her at first.

“Excuse me,” she said, all posh-sounding. “Could you move out of the way, please?” Something in her voice reminded me of Misha but I pushed it away. Not now. Not
here.

The woman’s face was red – it was turning into a hot day – and her babies were asleep with their mouths open. The curb was high and her buggy was massive. No wonder she wanted
us to move. I looked over at Trigger to see if he had heard the woman. He was staring intently at Jukkie, pulling on his rollup, but I could tell that he had heard her.

The woman raised her voice. “Excuse me, could we get past please?”

Jukkie stopped talking, surprised at her tone, but still Trigger did not look her way. I recognised that look, the slow burn in his eyes and I felt a chill work its way right through me.

‘Move on, man,’ I said inside. ‘Just move on. Go round.’

But the woman didn’t move on. Instead, she leaned forward and shouted, “Do you mind? You don’t own the pavement, you know! I’d like to get past, please!”

“
What
?” Trigger’s voice was thick and rough, but still he did not look at her. Instead, he pointed at her with his thumb and rasped, “Did you hear what that
white bitch said to me?”

‘It’s on now,’ I thought, and I looked away as Trigger turned to the woman, his face all twisted. He shouted, “What did you say to me, bitch?”

The woman’s face turned pale and she started to stutter, trying to get her buggy to move backwards, but Trigger grabbed at her buggy and ripped it out of her hands, shoving it towards the
others. She let out a sharp scream and Trigger slapped her, full in her face.

“Shut up, bitch!” he snapped. “Tell me what you said again! Go on!” Slap, slap. The woman was crying now, blubbering about her babies, reaching out to them. But Jukkie
and the other boys had got hold of the buggy and were shaking it, shaking it, laughing at the terror in the babies’ eyes and their little cries. Trigger was pushing the woman again and again,
shouting at her.

Spoonz bounced over to her and tore her bag from her shoulder, emptying it out on to the ground. He picked out a nice-looking pair of sunglasses, a set of keys and her wallet, checking to see
how much cash she was carrying, how many cards.

My mind was fuzzy from the alcohol and the spliff, and everything in front of me started swaying and shimmering with light and shadow. I could hear myself laughing, could see myself pointing at
the older baby who was trying to twist around in his chair, trying to find his mum, snot running into his open mouth. But it was as if I was outside myself looking on, staring at this strange boy I
didn’t recognise.

I felt sick, to tell you the truth. When I looked at the woman, I was stunned by the terror in her eyes, and the mad crescendo that grew out of her pleas for help, her babies’ yells and
the jeering and crowing of boys I called my friends. And the fact that no one dared step in.

Then, just as Trigger grabbed the woman by the hair, we heard the sound of sirens. My stomach lurched. 5-0.

Trigger swore and looked around wildly, his hands still holding the woman’s hair. Then he turned back to the woman, drew her face close to his and spat at her. His spit landed on her cheek
and slid down. She cowered and whimpered, shrinking away from him.

“You don’t know this face, y’understand?” he hissed. “You ain’t never seen me. Ever.”

He pushed her to the ground and she crawled along the pavement towards the buggy, blubbing, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Then she looked up at me and our eyes met for a sliver of a second. But
I blinked and looked away. I didn’t feel high any more.

True say, I wanted to help her up. I wanted to say I was sorry for what had happened to her, sorry for her babies.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I turned and ran down the street with the others, jumping the wall to avoid the police car that pulled up next to the woman and her two babies. I just wanted to get out of there.

“Were you in Camberwell today?” Misha asked me at her house later. “I thought I saw someone wearing a bandanna and top like yours...”

“Nah, man,” I replied, as smooth as silk. “Must have been someone else, innit.”

Of course I didn’t tell Misha about the woman with the double buggy. But I washed my face and hands again and again in her downstairs bathroom, using the lemon-scented soap, trying to get
rid of the smell of the greasy chicken and chips, trying to wash the stain of the afternoon from my mind.

Maybe, a few months ago, the same thing could have happened and I would have shrugged it off. Who cared about some posh bitch and her pickney, right? But something had changed.
I
had
changed. And I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time: shame.

MISHA

I woke up late on Sunday morning and stretched luxuriously. Sunlight was flooding in through the net curtains in my room and I could hear the birds singing in the chestnut tree
outside my bedroom window. This was why I slept with my curtains and window open: this exquisite morning symphony, this glorious performance of polyphonic sound and scattered light, filtered
through chestnut leaves. Enough to make me want to write poetry!

I caught the scent of lemons and my thoughts turned to the night before. I smiled and hugged myself. It had been another great evening, full of laughter and interesting conversation, among other
things. That was what was special about Dwayne, unlike some of the halfwits out there. Not to say I always agreed with all his opinions: I definitely didn’t. But it made him different from
other boys I knew. He had a completely different take on life. And he wasn’t afraid to make his views known.

The night before, we had argued again about his use of the ‘n’ word.

“Chill out, man, Misha!” he laughed when I objected for the third time. “It’s just a name, innit. I call my boys all sorts of names: boys, man, niggaz...”

“No, Dwayne, I’m sorry,” I interrupted, cutting him off with a sweep of my hand. “Using the ‘n’ word is totally unacceptable! That name has been used to
insult black people for centuries. Haven’t you read
Roots
? Don’t you know about slavery and civil rights? I don’t see how anyone can justify using a word that is so
steeped in violence and hatred – unless you actually hate yourself as a black person...”

“Ah, come on!” Dwayne laughed, like he always did when I got serious with him. “You’re making it into a big deal. It’s just a word, baby, just a word!”

Then it occurred to me that perhaps he hadn’t read
Roots
or even watched it. Well, if he didn’t know better, it was my job to educate him.

“There’s no such thing as ‘just a word’. Language is power, Dee. As a poet, you should know that!” I sat up on the sofa and looked straight at him. I wanted him to
take me seriously, to let what I was saying really sink in. “It affects the way you think, the way you act. Look at all those gangsta rappers, talking about bitches and hos, carrying guns,
boasting about shooting
other black men
!”