Their company was refreshing. Keziah and Stace and all that emotion and bitching – too much of a headache, man. I had enough emotion from my mum and all her baseball bat swinging. Emotion, darling, was the one thing I could do without.
These guys, they had bigger concerns. They were focused on making money, and I wanted in. They didn’t have time for tears and feelings and all that shit. It’s just wasn’t in their DNA. Neither did I.
If we had one thing in common, it was the stuff we didn’t speak about: our homes. Each of these youts had it hard in one way or another. I knew not to ask about their details and they knew not to ask about mine.
But when it came to the time to represent, everyone was on the same page.
No one was in charge. One form makes many. The newspapers spoke about street kids wearing different colours – purple for Angell Town; green for Myatt’s Field – or tying their laces in certain ways. Maybe outsiders would have liked that. That way, they’d know when to cross the street. But not with us, not back then. All that mattered was fresh creps and looking sharp.
How dangerous we were, you’d have to judge for yourself.
If I saw Man Dem at Morley’s, the chicken shop, I’d stop and speak. If I saw them cussing with a guy in the street, I’d jump off the bus and get involved. If a delivery boy was being relieved of his Nikes and his Moped, hell yeah, I’d go along and laugh.
Nothing was ever really pre-planned. But if I was with them, when they heard something going down, make no mistake, I’d get stuck in. I had heart.
Tyrone was bemused by the association.
“So you like these guys?” he asked one afternoon after class.
“They alright,” I shrugged.
“They talk about you. You seem to have made an impression.”
I tried to play it cool.
“What?” I said, after he fell silent.
“Just saying, they’re serious characters, yeah?”
“And?”
“Just thought you should know.”
“I know.”
“They asked me if you wanted to meet up tonight.”
“We’re going to yours anyway, ain’t we?”
“Yeah, but just wanted to let you know they’ll probably be around. You in?”
“Course.”
“Cool, come round later and we’ll hang out.”
He disappeared down the corridor into his next class. I didn’t bother going into mine.
I tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. I had to keep it cool.
I didn’t often go round to Tyrone’s. He usually came round to mine, but Mum had lots of people round from the mosque tonight.
The Man Dem were not exactly his friends, just the boys he lived with. They knew he didn’t get involved with the serious shit, that he didn’t like an altercation, but they seemed to respect him all the same.
I wasn’t looking forward to going round and sitting in his flat, so it was a bit of a relief to know there would be some other activity to keep us entertained.
His flat had no furniture for starters, or not much anyway. You know you’ve got some mums who are house proud and some who ain’t? Well, this one just didn’t have no style, man. No ornaments, no cushions, no carpet. Not much. I don’t even think he had a fridge.
That night, we went together to see the crew. Tyrone acted as The Introducer.
It was the end of the summer term – my last term – and the nights were warm and long. The heatwave had boiled over, and the sky glowed pink beyond the jet trails leading to Heathrow.
Hanging on Tyrone’s estate meant interacting with a whole new hierarchy of characters who lived in his blocks. Cars would pull up, business would be done.
That hot evening, it had an LA vibe. Man Dem leaned on their cars, rolling down the windows, and pumping up the stereos. I’m not gonna lie. It was exciting. I felt like I was stepping into a scene from 2 Fast 2 Furious.
Lot of conversations were going, Olders talking transactions, Youngers making deals.
And lots of them were interested in this pretty new face.
“What have you been on for the day then, blood? What you been doing today?”
I recognised Badman. I’d soon learn there was little mystery to the name. Bad influence, bad man. He was the one who had to be talked out of stuff. If ever a yout was going to get you chased unnecessarily across Clapham Common for fear of your life, it was him.
He was brash, abrasive, but I was beginning to like him.
“Ain’t done much, bruv,” replied Tyrone.
“You remember Sour?”
Of course he remembered me, he said, looking me up and down. “Girl got her tings going on. Alright?”
I nodded and smiled. Enough to be friendly, not too much to give him the wrong idea.
Another yout, a good few inches shorter than me, rocked up, knocking knuckles with Badman and pulling Tyrone into an enthusiastic chest hug – though their chests were barely level.
His brand-name was Stimpy.
“Man made some loot today, still,” Badman told him. It felt like he was trying to wind him up. If he was, it worked.
“What? And you couldn’t bring man in? Why couldn’t I get part of it?”
I couldn’t work out whether he was joking or challenging him. Either way, this guy had balls of steel for someone so fat. He was speaking as if, when he looked in the mirror, he saw a 6 ft 3 hunk stare back at him.
“Move, man! Get outta here.”
Badman laughed and shook his head, like a lion batting away the cubs that bit at his ankles. Stimpy was having none of it.
“Nah, come on seriously, bring man in. Give me some.”
Badman moved to him slowly, then, grinning broadly, fastened him in a headlock.
Stimpy fought back – he was tough for a fat motherfucker – and the rest laughed out loud, enjoying the mock scuffle.
The jeering prompted a window to be unlocked two floors above. A woman leaned out.
“What ye boys doing? Wanna keep down the noise?”
Stimpy released his head from the crook of Badman’s arm and wriggled free.
“Sorry, Mum,” he called up.
“That’s his mum?” I whispered to Tyrone. Tyrone shook his head.
“No, Stimpy ain’t got no mum.”
He explained that Man Dem called all the older women on the estate “Mum”. “Sign of respect.”
“Ye alright?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, softening. “Be better if youts were quiet, innit.”
“Man be good, Mum,” Stimpy winked.
She rolled her eyes and closed the window. That was why Stimpy was needed by the Man Dem. As I’d find out, he was just as capable of meanness as any of them, and sneaky with it too, but he didn’t look like no hardass gangster. Better than any of them, Stimpy could win people’s trust. He could go unnoticed better than all the rest. He was the best look-out they had.
Another yout came over to join us. Cyrus didn’t say much, and got on with transactions, counting cash