‘Yo’ went to trouble fo’ dis cow.’
‘A little.’
He produced a bag, said, Ts went to trouble too... see...’ And he flourished two of those rubber face masks.
1. Maggie Thatcher,
2. John Major.
‘Dos balaclavas... ain’t no style......dese be cool.’
I said, ‘Don’t tell me, I’m Major... right?’
Danny was well chuffed.
Reed added:
‘See bro’, I be comin at Leon, it be the black nightmare in de flesh, Maggie comin fo his black ass, like she said.’
‘I never heard her say that.’
‘Course, yo’ be white, why fo’ yo’ gonna hear it?’
Made sense.
‘Yo’ gonna be Major, cos yo’ comin up behind. Ain’t no blood ever see dat cat coming.’
‘What about Danny, doesn’t he get to play?’
‘Look at him, he bland and smug... a natural born Tory... dat dude be bred to rule.’
So the Tories went to Brixton, if not in triumph, at least in a van.
We were a little down from the club. Danny at the wheel, me in the death-seat and Reed sitting on the gear box. It was 1.30am. Lots of action on Electric Avenue, even for a Thursday. The radio was playing low, late-night golden oldies.
What is it, the radios getting off on constant reminders of my age? If you remember Woodstock, it’s time for the knacker’s yard.
Oh yeah.
Now they were playing Village People, four clowns in construction and Indian outfits. Hard hats and harder asses. Danny said:
‘Your crowd, yeah!’
‘Sure.’
Unconsciously, we joined in and not a bad little three-part-harmony, culminating correctly each time on:
Y
M
C
A
The Fun Boy Three, armed to the teeth. I was thinking, when I got home I’d watch Death in Venice. Salivate over the blonde guy.
You see some odd sights in Brixton. An old wino passed, with those sandwich-boards strapped on, front and back.
Front: Vengeance is Mine
Back: Jimmy’s Auto Repairs
You don’t see black winos.
Reed said, ‘There go de neighbourhood.’
I made my point about winos.
Danny said, ‘It’s like you don’t get yer black serial killers either, know why?’
We didn’t.
‘Cos they can’t count!’
Silence...
Then: ‘No offence, Reed... okay mate?’
‘Dat what yo’ mutha say when I give her one.’
Where this fandango might have gone, I dunno, because just then the club door opened and out came Leon, Roz and the minder.
I shouted:
‘GO, GO, GO!’
We let them pass the van and Reed went out the back. Pulling on the mask, I opened my door.
Danny said:
‘Make it Major.’
Reed walked right up to Leon, gave him a full CS blast then side-stepped and the same to Roz.
I swung the bat, connecting with the minder’s right knee, heard bone go. Then I stepped round, put a dose of CS in his face. He was roaring like a stuck pig.
I clapped the back of my hand on Roz’s neck and caught her as she fell. Losing the bat, I shouted:
‘Get her bloody legs!’
And we slung her in the van. Leon was fumbling blindly as I went back to get the bat. I up-ended and shot it into his stomach.
That’s all she wrote.
We were burning rubber and on to Camberwell New Road before I could exhale. Procol Harum were doing ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’.
Well, they would, wouldn’t they?
You know how an expression enters the public domain. The Sun shows it on the front page, a Royal is caught flaunting it and bingo, it’s everyday speech.
From Minder we got:
‘ ’Er indoors.’
Dick Emery gave us:
‘Oo, you are awful.’
Larry Grayson:
‘Shut that door.’
Liz the Biz:
‘Annus horribilis.’
Yeah. Like that.
Now Oasis gave us a truly awful one:
‘What’s the story?’
And the yobos answer:
‘Morning Glory.’
The Gallagher Brothers up on stage, giving it large, and finally you thank Christ you’re not young... and have to fake liking those fucks.
We decided to watch Roz in shifts. With three of us, we could break it up comfortably. Reed had the first and I was to relieve him. Masks to be worn. I stopped off at McDonalds, ordered breakfasts to go.
The windows of the warehouse were double sealed. No one was getting in or out. I banged on the door. Reed opened it and I said:
‘Where’s yer bloody mask?’
‘I no be wearing dat shee-hit.’
‘She’ll recognise you.’
‘She be up at de Cambridge... yeah...? How long ’fore she figure who we be?’
I didn’t wear mine either.
Roz was curled up on the bed, but facing forward now. Her eyes looked at me. They were hopping with anger. No signs of her being intimidated.
I said:
‘Sorry for the inconvenience but it’s only for a little while. Here’s breakfast.’ I put it down beside her, said, ‘What’s the story.’
And she slung the breakfast across the room.
It splattered against the cardboard boxes, bits of scrambled eggs beginning a yellow descent. I opened mine, popped a sausage in my mouth, then washed it down with scalding coffee.
Reed said:
‘Dese eggs be good, bro’.’
I had some bacon, nice and crispy and between chews, said:
‘Rosaleen, you probably think being a girl gives you some protection. Like a man won’t beat on a woman...’
I slapped her hard on the face, open-palmed and as her head jerked back, I back slapped her again.
‘You were wrong, lady. Now first thing you do is clean up that mess... then you shower and we start over. You refuse to shower and me and the black boy, we’ll wash you... okay?’
I’ll give her this, she didn’t cry. Then she moved off the bed and headed for the boxes.
I said to Reed:
‘You push off. I’ll catch you later.’
‘Yeah, git me some z-s. Yo’ want I call Leon?’
Roz said, ‘He’ll have your balls on a plate.’
I looked at her.
‘That what they teach you up at Cambridge?’
‘You’ll be sorry, Leon will tear you limb from limb.’
Reed said, ‘I be sorry already.’
After she’d cleaned up the mess, Reed added:
‘When dis be over, yo’ come over mo’ crib, do me some cleanin’... be good for de home-boys, see me got white help.’
And he left.
She took the shower and I left a tracksuit for her. I went to the other end of the warehouse to give an appearance of privacy. Turned on the radio and caught the news. No word on Brixton. Leon hadn’t reported it. Quiet surprise.
She emerged naked, posed... hand on hip, said, ‘What are you staring at?’
‘Fat thighs, you did right skipping breakfast.’
That got her into the tracksuit but she tried for a point, ‘You probably prefer boys.’
‘Moi?’
I made some fresh coffee and she took it, asked, ‘Got any ciggies?’
‘Funny you should ask.’
And took down a box marked ‘sponges.’ Opened it up, pulled out a carton of B&H.
She said, ‘Are they low tar?’
‘They’re hot is what they are.’
I found some matches and she was in business. Drew the smoke deep and exhaled with a satisfied, ‘Ah...’
‘You’re done this before, miss.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Oh hey, save us the coupon, I’m collecting for an electric kettle.’