The till was empty.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Jamal and Sizz were still steaming the back of the shop.
With their pockets full, and hot breath searing their faces beneath their scarves, Eddie and the cousin spun round, ready to make a run for it.
I felt the cold sweat of distant sirens. Were they coming? Was I imagining it? My legs were shaking. “Come on,” I muttered, willing them to leap over the counter as nimbly as they entered. “Come on …”
But the shopkeeper has risen up, shouting something in a language I didn’t understand.
He was brandishing a stepladder he’d been using to stock up. Eddie and his cousin tried to jump back over the counter, but it was much deeper on the other side, with much less room. The shopkeeper had blocked them in. My crew were in trouble.
I knew I needed to do something. He was attacking them.
“Shut your mouf, old man!”
I was the only one left. I had to protect them.
No one had ever tried to fight back before. I felt disrespected. He had disrespected all of us. But more than that, I felt responsible. I had these guys here to do something, and because of this have-a-go hero it’s all gone crazy.
I kept on shouting, until Jamal and Sizz had legged it out the double doors, and Eddie and the cousin had clambered back over the disarray of Snickers and cigarettes and out of the shop.
I kept on throwing cans till all the rest were sprinting down the road, and the street fizzed blue and red with sirens. A bitter, metallic taste flooded my mouth. My lip had been burst in the fight-back. I tripped and fell on to the crumpled man, who was groaning as he pushed himself up off the floor.
The shop fell silent, save for the heaving man on his hands and knees. I dropped the last can and fled.
The boys had bolted. I wanted so desperately to do the same but remembered: I had one advantage they didn’t. Crouching behind some bins, I discarded the baseball cap that had concealed my braids, and rearranged the scarf obscuring my face into a fashionable knot at my neck.
I freed my hands from my gloves, and the bracelets from my sleeves, before unzipping my hoodie and pushing up my bra beneath my vest top.
Then, ignoring every instinct telling me to follow the rest of the crew, I took one step after another and forced myself to walk calmly round the corner and slowly, brazenly down the street.
When the boydem arrived moments later, all they saw was a cute black girl, like any other. Checking my make-up in a hand-mirror, I caught the reflection of the angry shopkeeper waving his hands around for the benefit of two police officers, who nodded into their notepads. Nobody seemed to notice me.
Yeah, in those days I worried my own self. I thought I was invincible. Sometimes, I worried I was actually possessed by the devil.
The boydem caught up with most of the crew eventually. Only Eddie made it back to Dick Shits to tell everyone what happened.
After the glory of that afternoon, my brand-name was bigger than ever. I didn’t have to go recruiting no more. Man Dem came to me. Who was I to argue with that?
Now you might consider all this to be the behaviour of a gang. Truth was, I hadn’t even begun gang life. That was small fry. The real gangs of south London still hovered around the shadows. As for the Man Dem who rolled inside them, I had yet to make their acquaintance.
I had heard of them, of course. Tall tales and whispers loitered round the estates. Many of the darkest rumours led back to the worst estate of them all: Angell Town, less than two miles away.
That’s where Keziah and Stacey lived, and visits to the house enthralled me. They were nice girls, brought up by a single mum, who worked long shifts as a caterer. She wasn’t one of those layabout mums, but she was surrounded by plenty who were.
They lived in a dark labyrinth of walkways and derelict basement garages. The architect’s grand intention behind this concrete maze of high-density council blocks was to create “a community spirit”.
Oh yeah? Wonder where that architect is now? Enjoying community spirit somewhere else, that’s for sure. By the time I learned my way around that labyrinth, the papers were calling it Hell’s Gate. The garages designed for all those aspirational families proved to be nothing more than dark, dingy backdrops for drug deals and worse. The walkways were badly lit and the police presence was heavy and unnerving. Pass by during the day, you’d think the only people living there were thugs and dogs. After dark, it became a riot of sirens and stand-offs. Trust me, there was nothing angelic about this part of town.
Yeah, Angell Town was proper scary. Yet, for all the reputation it had, and the hype it attracted, I remember being disappointed first time I went. After all, I was an aspiring community leader myself.
The Man Dem of Angell Town were untouchable. Everyone knew that. They had fast cars, drug rackets and guns. They answered to no one.
They were the big league, so I’d been expecting something bigger, better, flasher than tame old Roupell Park.
Anyone who was anyone wanted to hang out there. So why did it seem so … poor?
I had taken the 133 bus to Keziah and Stacey’s after school to find a huge commotion raging around their house.
“Over there, innit,” Kez shrugged. Someone was getting chased. She didn’t show much interest.
I opened her bedroom window to get a better look.
I’d spent enough time watching Tiefing Timmy to know that a police chase was hardly rare in SW2.
No, what amazed me about this guy was that he was literally jumping from walkway to walkway.
This was better than watching EastEnders.
I followed the dark shadow race towards the stairwell. He was a black boy in dark clothing and so was difficult to see, despite the flashing lights. But there was no doubt about it. He was putting his life at risk. For a moment the lights lost him, but I could see him. He had ducked, and was now climbing on to the ledge of the stairwell, preparing to jump. I held my breath. There were three storeys between him and the concrete plane below. He swung his arms big and took off.
“Shut the window, Sour, it’s freezing,” complained Kez, who was sizing up her latest “purchases” in the bedroom mirror, to see which would fit, and which to sell.
“What’s the problem? Just seeing wha gwarn …”
“Why you interested in dem man dere anyway?”
I wasn’t listening to her. The boy had just jumped down to the stairwell below and was now hanging off a balcony. Respect.
I watched him, wide-eyed at his nerve, until eventually a pair of Alsatians brought him down at the end of his assault course, and the boydem bundled him away.
He was known. He was the first Older 28 I’d ever seen in action.
His name was Daggers, a fearless character, three or four years my senior, who wouldn’t hesitate to harm police if his back was against the wall. Short and light-skinned, with a strong West Indian accent, he was also, as I’d find out later, the sort of guy who doesn’t take no for an answer.
That wouldn’t be the last I’d be seeing of Daggers. More’s the pity.
“What?”
Kez was staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“You deaf, girl? I said, ‘Which top looks best with