No one’s little boy (ode to The Raincoats)

I’m no one’s little boy, alright?

Get that inside your head.

I’ll never be in your family tree, Even if you ask me to.

I’m not gonna be, cos I don’t fucking want to be.

No matter what you ask, I’ll turn it down. I won’t mess you around, but I’m just not gonna be.

I promise I won’t fuck you around, but I’m no one’s little boy, I’m not.

No fucking way.

And I’m not gonna be in your family, cos I don’t wanna be, even if you ask me.

I’ll turn you down, but I won’t mess you around.

I won’t fuck you around. Won’t try it on. Oh no, I swear, no way. No trying it on.

I’m no one’s little boy. I’m not gonna be. Cos I don’t wanna be.

I never shall be. Even if you ask me to. I don’t wanna be.

But you can do it. It’s your choice, trying it on. You can do it, if you don’t wanna lose it. Try it on. You could do it, try it on.

I don’t want to be.

No matter fucking what,

I just don’t want to be.

I don’t just want to be.

Hypermarket

 

It was quiet here at this time of night. Whenever I needed space to think I came to this place because it was always open, and nobody paid me too much attention or cared how I looked. It was humid, had been for days now, and the cold sterile air inside provided a refreshing respite from the oppressive city atmosphere.

There were only a dozen or so shoppers browsing the aisles. Mostly nightshift workers on their time off who couldn’t sleep, accustomed to being active in the small hours, unable to adapt to the daylight activities of the majority. The rest were blank-faced automatons with numbered uniforms who stacked the shelves, not deviating their attention from the packets of cereals or the tins of own-brand mulch that needed to face the exact same way.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just browsing the aisles, enjoying the feeling of being lost in the anonymity of brands and the fake smell of freshly baked goods that emanated from unseen vents. It didn’t trigger any buyolological impulse for me, I was beyond that, but somehow it made me feel nostalgic.

It was then that I noticed her, standing in the frozen food section, looking at packets of pizzas and plant based products. It wasn’t the first time I had seen her, but I certainly didn’t expect to encounter her here.

She was facing away from me now, and wasn’t aware of my attention, but I would have recognised her anywhere. She wore no jewellery, and her long dark hair was tied up with a simple black clip, but it was the way she moved that jogged my recognition. We had something in common, both ending up here, but this time it was different. Maybe it was because of the clothes she was wearing, the casual shorts and plain black t-shirt, which accentuated her long limbs and implied a sense of comfort within her body. There was something economical almost feline in her movements, all poise and balance, an awareness that projected confidence.

The last time she had looked radically different, but that was no surprise given our circumstances. Still, she retained an aura of defiance about her that commanded respect. You could just sense the hidden depths to her, even if you had never experienced what I had. She was probably trying to keep a low profile, but the noticeable marks weren’t helping much.

I definitely hadn’t expected so many bruises, but I shouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised. They caught my eye under the glaring lights of the supermarket. They were dark and heavy, circling her wrists and forming blue-black blotches on her pale thighs and shins.

Even though I felt guilty for looking, I was unable to tear my eyes away. As if I was invading her space somehow, peering into a hidden window on her private life, although that hadn’t seemed to matter the last time when I had witnessed her performance in that club. If you could call such activities a performance.

I didn’t want her to notice my staring, so I feigned interest in some containers of frozen kefir whilst keeping an eye on her from a distance. She selected a packet of peas from the freezer, weighing them in her hand first before dropping them into the almost empty trolley. Probably for the swelling I thought.

As she half turned to examine some special offers, I saw what looked like a chain of purple blotches on her cheek. I knew why. A worker passing by with a trolley laden with boxes glanced at her and quickly looked away, pretending he hadn’t noticed those ugly visible marks. I wondered why she hadn’t tried to cover up, but wearing long sleeves and a scarf would probably be too uncomfortable in the cloying heat of the summer, and besides, maybe she wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed by how she looked. It was like some sort of statement of defiance. A badge of honour to show strength and endurance, not that she needed to prove anything. Possibly she was so used to looking like this it just didn’t matter anymore. She wasn’t someone to trifle with, and certainly wasn’t hiding it, even though that too was risky.

I recalled that first time I had set eyes on her. I hadn’t intended to enter that world, known only to a select few, but I joined a colleague who had persuaded me. Right up my street, he had told me. Blow off some steam.  It would be perilous for sure but, being weary of all the regulations and needing my thrills, I was naturally drawn to anything that seemed even remotely clandestine. I had eventually agreed to come along, maybe even to participate. Even then I was surprised at what had transpired.

It wasn’t the coded messages or the secretive location that was most unsettling. Neither was it the shifty and brutish looking security detail, who scanned the bodies arriving at the entrance, although they certainly had some influence on the overall atmosphere. Their uniforms showed off their mirror muscles, while their poker faces were set in a way that left no doubt as to their intentions, should someone step out of line. It was the violence that had occurred within, however, and the small crowd of spectators and participants who reveled in it, that would shock most.

Ordinary civilians would never believe this place actually existed, outside of forbidden movies. The authorities would undoubtedly be aghast if they knew what activities were going on just a few feet below the main thoroughfare of their citadel. Though I suspected many would have had some sort of malicious fantasy about partaking in such an event, especially in times like these.

Although one could be forgiven for thinking that anything goes, subtle undertones of mutual respect permeated the night’s activities. The smell of leather and pheromones wafted through the musky air of the basement. The few women in attendance were extremely popular, and their devotees worshiped them silently with their eyes from outside the circle. The males were stereo-typically macho in their appearance. They all wanted to see someone being dominated, pain being inflicted, maybe even to see blood flow. They took voyeuristic pleasure in observing another human spirit crushed and humiliated, wistfully imagining they were the ones dishing out the punishment. No doubt some of them were turned on by receiving as well as giving, for that was all part of the carnival they were here to witness.

She drew the most attention for her performances which were always merciless, as I would soon find out. Big money changed hands in the shadows outside the well-lit stage, and the cash prizes were huge, reflecting the risks of getting caught by the authorities. There were rules of course, but not too many.

When we were paired without warning she got straight into it, never saying a thing. There were no safe words here, no preludes, just the sound of her heavy breathing in my ear, and the sweat of our bodies mingling as we clinched. Sensing her power, her inner strength, I gave her all I could muster, but I knew even my best shot wasn’t going to be enough for her. Her boundaries seemed limitless. I didn’t last long, my time of reckoning coming more quickly than I had anticipated.

A blur of motion, bright lights in my vision, sudden impact and the sound of my teeth cracking. I crashed to the ground and faded out of consciousness. My limp and battered body was dragged out of the ring by security guards, leaving a slick of bodily fluids in its wake. Her gloves were covered in my blood and sweat, dripping onto the concrete floor as the crowd screamed ecstatically.

Illegal unrestrained combat was rare these days, and rarer still that a woman was the hands down overall winner. She wasn’t just another performer, she was an apex predator. I took one final look at her, then turned back to the ice-cream display, and thanked my lucky stars that I was still alive.

Girl from Jenin (The princess and the pea)

 

They came for Shazad before dawn. No warning, no mercy, just cable ties and a hood. Then the sensation of their boots breaking his ribs.

He was throwing stones at the outpost, they said. They had found a slingshot at his cousins’ house.

They sprayed the house with skunk water. Arab cologne they called it, sneering under their masks as the harsh chemicals burned and blistered anything they touched. The last memory of his home was the sound of his mother and sister screaming.

Shut it you Nablus rat!  We’ll teach you Arab princes not to throw stones. You won’t even remember your name when we’re done, they laughed.

In the back of the van they beat and kicked him until he was barely conscious. He said nothing. The pain in his side was excruciating.

When they were bored of beating him they took turns insulting him in the worst ways possible, before taking him to Megiddo prison and handing him over to the soldiers.

His shoes were taken, and he was thrown roughly into cell 7A. It smelled of piss, and vomit, and the rotting stench of pure fear. Sixteen children, no beds, and one bucket.

The harsh fluorescent lighting never went off, and for hours the white noise blared horrifyingly, masking the sound of distant screams echoing inside the fortress walls.

Somehow, he drifted off but was jolted awake painfully when the soldiers came to take one of the older boys.

When they brought the boy back after two days, his clothes were wet. One of his eyes was closed, and blood was crusted around his nose and mouth. He limped to an empty space and collapsed on the floor, murmuring something about electricity.

Slurping coffee from plastic cups, the soldiers mocked and jeered them. A few of the children cried out in their fitful sleep. Many never spoke at all, but the expressions in their eyes screamed out their pain and suffering. They were constantly hungry, and the cold was almost unbearable.

At 14, Shazad was older than most, and knew to keep silent. The boy nearest to him was staring into space, apparently oblivious to the maggots that twisted nauseatingly on his infected foot.

 After six days the soldiers arrived with a girl. Shazad guessed she was about twelve. She was dirty and barefoot, and her lip was split, but she had that look of defiance in her eyes.

At a checkpoint they had found a photo on her phone of a ruined Gaza. That was reason enough to take her. She was Palestinian.

They kicked her into the cell.

This little Jenin bitch will show you boys how to fight, they mocked.

Shazad watched her as she slowly sat down and stared at the wall. For the entire day she didn’t eat or speak.

She didn’t even flinch when the soldiers dragged away two little ones by their necks, and returned them in tears. Blackened, blood encrusted stumps where their nails used to be.

Their agonized cries brought others huddling around them, in an attempt at comfort, until the soldiers hosed them away with filthy water. She continued to stare at the wall as if it was whispering secrets only she could hear.

The soldiers enjoyed playing mind games with their captives. Tormenting them with insults about their very existence. She acted as if they didn’t exist.

Jenin people. You can’t break them, but you can’t trust them either, his mother had always said. Shazad decided he didn’t like her.

The soldiers didn’t like her either. They liked noise. They liked the sound of Arabs in pain.

Two days later they came for her.

You won’t be back anytime soon you little Jenin bitch, they laughed, you’ll be having too much fun.

Two more days passed. Shazad held on. Didn’t say much. Kept a low profile.  Best not to draw attention to himself.

Barely audible whispers.

They’ll break her for sure.

Not even a Jenin girl can withstand them.

Shazad edged towards the bars of the cell where a discarded plastic cup lay. There was still some undissolved sugar in the bottom. Swiftly he scooped it out and wrapped it in a tiny scrap of tissue. He stashed it in his sleeve. It was something special. It was the only thing he had.

It was forbidden to speak in prison. Though his ribs throbbed and his voice was restricted to a whisper, his thoughts were free. He recalled better times, when his world had seemed more civilised.

Four days later they dragged her back to the cell. She had only a few scraps of clothing covering her body.

Amira’s been a bad girl, haven’t you? jeered the soldiers.

Her back was bent at an awkward angle, and her nose was broken. Her entire body was covered in welts and bruises. One of the children threw up at the ugly sight of the wire lashes on her back. Dried bloodstains ran down her thighs. She looked different.

 Shazad tried not to look at her but he couldn’t help himself.

She glanced briefly in his direction before staring once again at the wall.

Had she not been so dehydrated, her tears would have flowed as surely as the Jordan River.

Shazad waited until she fell asleep before placing the tiny parcel of sugar under the bucket.

She found his package the next day and silently pocketed it, looking around the cell puzzled before finally locking eyes with him.

Then she scanned the room again, her eyes resting on the small boy with the infected foot. The stench was appalling now, and the limb was black and red. She crawled over the empty space to reach him and gently placed the packet of sugar on his lips.

That’s it, thought Shazad.

The child’s eyes widened at the sweet memory, and as the grains of sugar dissolved he looked at her with deep gratitude. She had helped him remember his home. That was the most valuable thing to anyone in prison. Slowly, weakly, he reached under his shirt and passed her a piece of stale naan bread that he had been unable to eat.

He died that night, and in the morning after the soldiers came to take his corpse away, Shazad shuffled his way over to where she lay.

Are you okay? They used the chair on you, made you taste electricity, didn’t they? he whispered.

Yes, looking away then back again. I know they broke your ribs, she said. He just nodded.

Amira from Jenin, he thought. He recalled from his mother that the name meant Princess.

My mother said never trust people from Jenin, he said.

What do you say? she whispered.

Shazad half-smiled. Maybe Jenin girls don’t cry, even when they should.

Then.

You didn’t keep it for yourself, he said.

He needed it more, she said hoarsely.

Then she looked at him quizzically for a while, the corners of her mouth twitching, broke the bread in three, and gave him a piece. The other pieces she silently passed to the little ones.

You passed, said Shazad.

So did you, she said.

First impressions

 

It sounded straightforward. One of the lads from back home told me there’d be no problem, that I should pay him a visit, he’d sort me out for a bit of the black stuff if I wanted it, and whatever else I might need. Just don’t piss him off, he said, he has a bit of a streak in him.

The pressure of living here alone in this megalopolis was starting to take its toll. I could do with something to take the pressure off, but I still wasn’t quite sure. I didn’t know anyone in this city yet, and I certainly wasn’t about to start trusting any strangers, especially when the bombs were still going off and everyone, well, all the men at least, seemed to hate the Paddies. I could feel it everywhere I went.

In the end it was the boredom and repression that got to me. What harm could it do to break the ice, I thought, just give him a call, pay him a visit, talk some shit for a while, don’t start anything, then go home and get stoned in peace. Maybe he’ll be sound. Who knows, maybe it will be an unexpected adventure, seeing a part of London I’d heard about but never had a reason to visit.

He seemed okay on the phone, a gravelly throaty East Irish accent giving me directions to his flat, a high rise in a rough area of North London. I estimated I was about an hour away at least, and started the walk to the nearest train station. Asking for a return ticket to London brought raised eyebrows and unwanted stares and mutterings. Fackin dudgy oirish kants everware dees daze. I didn’t flinch. I was getting used to it.

Train to Waterloo station, busy as fuck, police with dogs roaming around trying to sniff out a bomber, then transfer to the northern line, keep going until the only passengers are immigrants. Africans, Persians, Paddies, Poles, Sikhs, and Jamaicans.  It would all change in the next couple of decades, become gentrified, but for now this was the most interesting and potentially dodgy part of London I had been to.

Exiting the station the first thing I see is a gang of four black crack dealers getting the shakedown from a couple of white plainclothes cops. I’m the only other white person around. Nobody seemed to take any notice. Nobody seemed surprised. Ignoring them all I crossed the street and headed towards the imposing darkness of the high rise tower blocks, silhouetted by the smoggy backlight of the city centre like some sort of imposing futuristic monolith.

Reaching the tower where he lived I could see that the buzzer panel had been vandalised more than once. Graffiti’d, burnt, smashed, and scratched. There was no point in trying to buzz his flat, I couldn’t even make out the numbers. I decided to wait for a bit until someone would enter or leave. It didn’t take long before a hard looking skin head appeared around the corner with a scarred old pit-bull dragging him along towards the doors. He looked at me with a scowl as he used a key card to gain entry. I waited until he had gone in and the door had almost closed before I followed inside. The corridors were covered in graffiti, and there was a smell of beans, and weed, and something else, poverty and fear, percolating from under the hallway doors. The combined odours seemed to fill the building, drifting upwards, like smoke from a crack pipe filling the lungs of an addict, bringing a sort of fear mingled with adrenaline, and the certainty of there being no escape.

I made my way softly along the hallway looking for the lifts, listening to the muffled sounds vibrating through the walls, of television programes, and music, and crying children and shouting adults. There were two small lifts about half way along the corridor. One was completely thrashed, dented in as if by a sledgehammer, or very angry boots. I got into the other one, pressed the button to the floor about three quarters way up, blocked my nose against the stench of piss and tried to read the graffiti until the lift juddered to a halt. Finding the right flat I knocked gently on the metal door, no answer.

Knocked harder this time. Heard some faint movement, shadow over the eye hole, then the heavy sound of bolds being undone and locks being released. A pretty blonde girl in a tank top and combat trousers opened the door. She looked about twenty and had a long spliff in her hand. Not what I was expecting. Come on in, she said in a soft Limerick accent, I’m Tina. Peter won’t be long, he’s just gone out for chips.

She beckoned me in to the living room and I sat down on a timeworn leather couch in front of a low wooden table, dominated by the various paraphernalia expected of a hashish smoker. Trip hop beats pulsed from a sound system next to a large stack of CD’s. Make yourself a joint there, he won’t be long, she said, as she lit up the spliff. Right you are, I said, nice one.

 

 

A couple of hours went by quickly. Peter still wasn’t back. Tina tried calling him a couple of times but got no reply. She left a couple of voicemails for him.

Tina was chatty, outgoing, and generous with her hash. She was well able to hold her smoke. There was no inclination she was being anything other than friendly, just sound and funny. I wouldn’t have tried anything anyway even if she wanted to. I hadn’t smoked in a while so I was well stoned by now, and just thinking I shouldn’t outstay my welcome, when I heard the door being opened loudly.

Peter entered the room like he owned it, carrying a six pack and a white plastic bag. Tribal tattoos adorned his wiry arms under a black t-shirt. He had a presence to him, smaller in stature than I thought he would be, but an aura to him that was felt instantly. He had a scar running from the corner of his right eye to his ear. His crooked and flattened nose resembled that of a boxer. The swarthy features, and dark eyes that said don’t fuck with me, completed the impression.

He seemed pissed off, really angry, and he hadn’t even opened his mouth yet. I could sense the danger from him. Did you get my chips Peter? asked Tina.

He looked at me, nodded once, and then threw the plastic shopping bag onto the table. It landed with a loud thud. There’s your fuckin chips he said in his gravelly voice, as he cracked open a can of special brew and sat down across from me on an armchair.

He offered me a brew without saying anything. Nodding my thanks I took it and opened it, almost afraid to speak. I could tell now from the whiskey breath that Peter was well oiled, and he seemed fairly unpredictable. He was twitching at some unexpressed frustration. I noticed the knuckles on his right hand were bruised and cut.

What’s this? Tina asked, looking into the bag. Ah for fucks sake Peter, she said, you were gone for ages and you come back with no chips. I’m fuckin’ starving and we’ve nawthin’ to ate.

She pulled out a large briquette sized slab of black hashish wrapped in clear plastic. It was embossed with the word Zico in gold, and what appeared to be two crossed AK-47s. Afghanistan, I thought, making the connection. No wonder Steve said I should give him a shout.

Tina looked at Peter again, was about to say something else, then one look from him and she thought better of it. No half-measures with this lad, I thought.

Alright boy, he said, and stuck out his hand. Friend of Steve’s i’nt it? I nodded, shook his hand.

He started to make a joint. Just had a shitty evening on the horses earlier, he says in a voice the Marlboro man would envy, lost a fuckin’ load of grade. Went in to the Emerald for a couple of pints while I was waiting for the hash, he says, glancing over at Tina who was perched on the other armchair.

I was headin’ to the chipper when a car load a nigs in an XR3i cut me up at the lights. I blew the horn at ‘em and they started givin’ me the finger, so I chased them up towards Kilburn road and caught up with ‘em at the traffic lights there. I got out of the car and went straight up to them, bangin’ on the windows and kickin’ the door. They weren’t so fuckin’ brave then. Not one of ‘em would come out to me, so I keyed the car from the driver’s door to the boot. They did fuck all, the cowardly cunts, he rasped.

He laughed then, but the darkness in his eyes gave a clue as to what might have happened if they had been foolish enough to leave the safety of their motor.

Ah Peter, said Tina, what the fuck were you thinkin’? You’re half-cut and a nine bar on the passenger seat next to you and you chasing fellas around London. Peter ignored her. Took a pull on his joint, finished the beer. Asked me about Steve, and a few of the lads back home who we both knew. He’d done a bit of time with one of them, he said. Things got a bit out of control after that and he came over here, where all the action was, he said, giving me a knowing look. I nodded. Say nothing, I thought, it’s too early to trust anyone yet.

He cut a decent slice of Afghani hash for me before I left. Do you want a bit to sell to your crew on the side like? It’s decent stuff. You can pay me back the next time, he said.

This was a big no no for me, owing anything to a fella like Peter. I don’t know anyone here yet, I said, just a bit for myself is grand.

No bother, he says, cracking open another can. Give me a shout anytime you want. You should come out clubbin’ with us some night. I’ll introduce you to a few of the lads here. It’ll be good craic.

I nodded, sure thing, I says.

Be careful if you’re goin’ back on the tube, says Tina, them dealers at the station are getting’ edgy these days.

I left in a bit of a haze then, hood up, taking the tube and train back to my humble abode, looking suitably wasted to avoid unwanted attention from any cops or street people, and wondering to myself what Zico would make of all of this.