He brightened up, eyes twinkling.
“You think I could sell it? I worked it out. You can get at least 20 wraps out of a single jar.”
The wraps looked like heroin. The powder was dark beige, the colour of sand, wrapped in scraps of cling film, which had been twisted and sealed, by burning the top off.
“Number one – what you talking about? And number two – what is in those bags?”
He smiled, looking pleased with himself. Yusuf could be a charmer when he wanted.
“It’s Horlicks, innit?”
I took a deep breath. He was 12. Horlicks was an old man’s drink. More importantly, how did he even know that’s how they wrapped heroin?
“Yusuf, last time I looked, Roupell Park didn’t have a big problem with addiction to nutritional malted milk drinks.”
Lord have mercy.
He nodded.
“Exactly. Costs £2.49 for one of the big jars. Sell 20 wraps for around £20 a pop, and you’re in the money. Good business, innit.”
“And who the fuck is going to buy it?”
“Cats are desperate, ain’t they? It’s just a one-off.”
“Well, it’ll have to be, innit, unless they’re just wanting a good night’s sleep. Because ain’t no one going to ask again.”
I felt a stab of affection for my little brother at that moment. He wanted to become a mechanic. Just as well, ’cause I knew right there and then that he wouldn’t be making it as Tony Montana.
Selling fucking Horlicks.
I went to my room and put my music up loud. That night I fell asleep wondering if maybe, just maybe, it might just work.
I had my associates at school. But back home, at Roupell Park, my crew was made up of whoever was around. Who’s coming today? Who’s up for it?
There was no recruitment, no initiation. It ain’t no rotary club.
The ones from good homes kept riding with you till their mums or dads shut them down. The rest of us were just along for the ride.
Most days, we were just a loose collective of bored kids from the estate. Jamal, a big-built Ethiopian guy who was only our age, but looked bloody 18; Eddie, another black boy in the same block; and Sizz, the cousin of a friend. Other two-tails would come and go, but these were the main bloods.
They were up for anything. I was the only girl, and as such I occupied a role all to myself.
The trouble with being a brand-name, as I soon learned, was that once you start you can’t back down. It’s like grasping for the rope of a runaway balloon, innit. Your feet leave the ground, and suddenly you’re stoked by the thrill of soaring high above the rest.
By the time you look down, it’s too late to let go. Part-time wasn’t an option.
No, if I was going to be Sour, sour I had to stay.
I wanted to see who could prove themselves. If I was going to have their back, I needed to know who was just talking the talk and who would take a risk. I told them what they could achieve, and I wanted to see who could achieve it.
I was a very callous young woman. Really, it was just that simple.
Besides, shoplifting was getting boring. That was for rugrats. I was 15. I needed to step up. Tiefing threads and popping tags just weren’t my ting. Too quiet, too sneaky. That was low-level stealing. Kids’ stuff. Robbing, though – robbing was different.
I had some rules. Likking a tek, y’know a punter, on the street, or drumming the yard of private houses was not on. My focus was businesses. They had insurance. That was victimless crime, innit.
We called it steaming – rushing a shop en masse, storming the aisles and clearing out the till, likking the shelves for anything we could get our hands on. The key to success was strength in numbers. One form makes many.
My crew knew I would have their back.
Targets were never mapped out. It wasn’t planned like that. Steaming is about being a chancer: you’re either going to get away with it or you’re not. On some level, yeah, I knew that prison could beckon, but how could I be fearful of that? I hadn’t been there yet.
You do the crime, you do the time. The secret was not getting caught. That was what was at stake.
We jumped off the bus a few stops early. Me, Jamal, Eddie and Sizz. Sizz had brought a friend, a short, stocky guy with a shaved eyebrow. When he pushed back his hoodie, I could see a scar running down his temple. He knocked knuckles with the boys. When it came to me, he looked me up and down and grunted hello.
Maybe not a charmer, but I was glad Sizz had brought him along. He looked broader and stronger than the rest. We needed him.
We sauntered along the pavement, not saying much. Sizz and Eddie kicked a chicken bone between them, dribbling it along the pavement, before shooting it across the road, narrowly avoiding a granny on her shopping scooter. The front wheel underneath the basket crunched over the bone as she trundled on, oblivious.
We loitered for a moment by the sandwich board outside, advertising low-cost money transfers to Nigeria. It squeaked with rust.
The automatic doors opened and a tired-looking mum dragged a moaning child behind her.
“You’re getting no more till we get home,” she barked at the little girl, who eventually admitted defeat and sulked along behind her.
I felt my stomach tighten with nerves.
I reminded the boys of the task at hand.
“The focus is to get the money out of the till.” They nodded. “That’s the job, get it done.”
My right arm hung straight and heavy by my side. I liked that feeling. It gave me confidence.
Holding the collar between my teeth, I managed to zip my hoodie up to my neck, one-handed.
I took a deep breath and walked in first, face-straight.
There were no customers. I glanced up, looking for the CCTV cameras, but could see none. It was clean.
I turned to the door, and gave them the sign. We were on. The boys steamed in behind me.
“Get down!”
Jamal was shouting at the shopkeeper. He was big, much bigger than Jamal.
The barrel-chested man behind the counter didn’t look scared. He looked angry. Eddie and the stocky friend jumped over the counter, toppling over the plastic lollipop stand and the lottery ticket board. Nimble hands and trainers vaulted over the confectionary shelves, kicking Tic Tacs and Twixes all over the floor.
They were going for the till.
The shopkeeper ducked down, yelling to a young boy, a son, perhaps, who emerged from the back room.
“Call the police!” he yelped.
The gangly lad stood open-mouthed for a moment before disappearing and locking the door.
Glancing over my shoulder, I did what I was meant to do, and maintained a look-out. No one was coming in. That was good.
Eddie and the cousin had turned their backs on the cowering shopkeeper and opened the till, stuffing their pockets with notes. We would be out of here in a second. The excitement pulsed through every vein in my body.
Jamal and Sizz ransacked the rest of the shop, clearing DVDs from the shelves.
What none of us had anticipated