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.